Short Story, Erotica

The Lotus Principle

It’s warm, and it’s wet, and it would welcome your touch. Can you picture it?

My husband and I aren’t religious, but we are spiritual. We feel uplifted by the energy and intimacy of communal worship, so we sometimes attend services of faiths we don’t follow.

Paul heard about a new community, The Disciples of Joy, who are supposed to be very informal and welcoming, and he was keen for us to try them out, so he’s brought me to the old St Mary Magdalene on Duke Street.

It’s more popular now than when it was a Catholic church. There’s a small queue outside — mostly students from the nearby residences — and a number of crop tops and miniskirts in the line makes it look more like a nightclub than a place of worship. I suspect all that bare skin might be the reason my husband was so keen we attend: if the service is boring at least he’ll have nubile bodies to keep him interested.

The ‘bouncer’ for this venue is a tall man with long, dark hair and blue eyes as intense as his smile. He’s standing in the vestibule, greeting everyone as they enter. He’ll be the priest, I suppose, or minister, or whatever this faith calls its preachers. That’s nice: I get eye candy too, but mine is dressed more appropriately, a rainbow-striped surplice hanging loosely from his broad shoulders.

When we reach the door the preacher shakes my hand, holding it in a firm but gentle grip, and asks if this is my first time.

“Yes, hi. I’m Lorraine, this is my husband, Paul. We’ve heard good things about your church, but I don’t know quite… Are you Methodists?”

He smiles at me, and suddenly I don’t care what faith he is. He explains anyway: “We’re nondenominational. We follow the ten commandments of the Old Testament, and the only commandment of the New: to love one another. The Lord is Love, and our bodies are made in His image, so our services celebrate that image and all the ways it can be loved. We believe in the Lotus Principle: everything which is not forbidden is allowed; whatever is permitted is permissible.”

It takes me a second to interpret his words, then I understand why Paul was so keen we attend. “Do you mean, um, orgies?”

“I mean worship. In this church everyone is permitted to touch, in a worshipful way, any part of the Lord’s image that they can see. So, for example, I might kiss you here…”

He dips his head and his soft lips brush my neck.

“…or touch your arm…”

He finally releases my hand, but only so his own can travel up my forearm, his fingertips barely touching me, stroking my downy hairs erect as my skin shivers and prickles into gooseflesh.

“…but if you were to take off your t-shirt I could praise your shoulders, or the feminine swell of your stomach, but I couldn’t worship your breasts, not unless you also removed your bra. If you chose to do that I could honour your nipples by using them as the Lord intended. Likewise, I could stroke your calves, but if you lifted your skirt I might kiss your inner thighs.”

Yes. Yes, he might. I might like that.

I look to Paul for confirmation, but he’s still ogling the thighs of the young woman who went in ahead of us. I guess we’re following her, then.

The inside doesn’t look like a church: there are no pews, or ordered rows of chairs, only couches around the edges, with rugs and cushions scattered between them. The altar is still there, but a neon sign hangs above it displaying this faith’s interpretation of God’s message: “I love people.”

Paul sits cross-legged on a rug, next to one of the female students, but I’d feel like an intruder if I took centre stage so I sit on a couch at the back, where I can observe until I feel comfortable.

I watch others file in. Paul must be disappointed to find out they’re not all potential cheerleaders: about a hundred men and women — mostly young, but many our age, and some older — fill the hall by the time the preacher bars the outer doors, and then the inner. With our privacy ensured, he picks his way through his congregation to stand in front of the altar.

I’m expecting a sermon, but he simply proclaims, “The Lord is Love,” then pulls off his cassock to reveal the fullness of God’s glorious design, which he’s honed with many hours in the gym.

All around me, others disrobe: some partially, some completely. Paul stands and drops his trousers and pants, no doubt hoping his neighbour will suck his dick.

To my astonishment, she does. The young woman kneeling beside him, an Insta-worthy blonde with a bubble butt, who can’t be older than twenty and would surely be creeped out by him if he approached her in a club, turns to kiss and stroke his cock; when he’s hard, she takes the tip into her mouth and sucks it with a beatific smile. Much less surprisingly, Paul does nothing except hold onto her head and enjoy her worship.

I stand, briefly considering taking my own clothes off, but I can’t do it. Everywhere skin is adoring skin, flesh praising flesh, and I want to be part of that, but why would anyone worship me when there are so many beautiful people here?

Then one of the beautiful people answers my question. The preacher approaches, takes my hands in his, and kisses my cheek. “Each of us is made in His image, Lorraine. We are all worthy of praise.”

I’m not sure my body is praiseworthy, but neither is my husband’s and he’s getting a blowjob from Princess Peach. Seeing her treat his cock like a holy relic adds sincerity to the preacher’s words, and it’s enough to make me a believer.

The preacher rewards me with a dazzling smile when I pull my t-shirt off, then I’m rewarded again when he bows to kiss my chest, his chin lost in my cleavage. That’s good, but it’s not what he promised. I unfasten my skirt, ease it over my hips, and let it fall. For a second I think he’s kneeling to pick it up so I can cover myself, but he kisses my knee then works his way up my thigh, his hands following his lips.

When he reaches my hip he looks at me, one questioning eyebrow raised. I sit on the edge of the couch and spread my legs, wide, so he can finally kiss my inner thighs… and anything else he finds glorious enough to worship.

He strokes and kisses, kisses and strokes, and kisses, and kisses, and goddamn kisses, constantly and frustratingly switching from thigh to thigh but never stopping between them. I don’t know why; surely if any part of my body is made in the image of divine love it’s my vulva, but no, he’s not interested.

I shouldn’t need to look, because the room is full of the sounds of slurping and sucking , but I do quickly check whether I can see anyone getting eaten out, and I find every possible permutation of oral sex, so I guess I’m just out of luck.

My voyeurism must make me appear in need of someone to worship, because a giant of a man comes to stand beside the preacher. The Lord has blessed my new friend with both prodigious height and the biggest dick I’ve ever seen in real life. If I lean forward I could be in touching distance of it, so I open wide and plant a sloppy kiss halfway down his shaft. I’m sinfully proud of being a more zealous worshipper than Princess Peach: when I scanned the room she was still restricting her praise to my husband’s knob.

I would cheerfully worship this man’s miracle until he baptised me with cum, but he steps back, out of range, with an apologetic, “Forgive me, I want to share my love.”

He walks away, and I can only wince as I watch him approach my husband from behind; I don’t need to be a prophet to know what’s likely to happen. Sure enough, he rubs his hefty cock between Paul’s buttocks, and as I expected my husband responds with a startled “Jesus Christ!” and jerks his hips forward, choking the poor girl who’s been blowing him.

The church falls almost silent: everyone freezes except for Princess Peach, who’s on her hands and knees, retching.

The giant grasps my husband’s shoulder and stoops to speak quietly to him. Paul is led, shuffling, his trousers round his ankles, towards the altar.

The preacher abandons my thighs to reassure me. “Your husband has broken the third commandment: he took the name of the Lord in vain. Deacon Rafa will apply loving discipline to help him atone. Our service can continue.”

I’ve always felt it important, as a guest at other people’s acts of worship, to respect their rules and traditions, so I nod understandingly and spread my legs a little wider.

Around us the soft sounds of oral sex resume, punctuated by the sharper noises of the deacon’s spanking and my husband’s squeals. Perhaps if the preacher insists on ignoring my pussy I should be rude about my mother, then the deacon could discipline me too.

The vision of being bent over the alter, Daddy Goliath’s huge hands tearing off my panties so he can blister my behind, is a revelation: it reminds me I’m still wearing panties. The preacher isn’t ignoring my needs at all, he just won’t touch what he hasn’t been shown.

I tug my moist gusset aside to discover it’s me that’s been teasing the preacher, not the other way round. Now he can finally see my pussy he doesn’t hesitate, licking from slit to clit before focusing on the holy of holies, his tongue circling like a Buddhist prayer.

It’s good, but I want more. “Please, I need your fingers inside me!”

“I’m sorry, Lorraine, but I can’t do that. We do not praise what we cannot see.”

“Then how do the blind worship? Close your eyes, I’ll give you an audio description of my vagina: it’s warm, and it’s wet, and it would welcome your touch. Can you picture it?”

He considers my logic then slides two fingers inside me, confirming he can see my need. I didn’t describe my G-spot, but lord knows stroking it makes me praise God, so surely He’ll forgive the preacher’s sinful stimulation.

I am rapidly filling with the holy spirit, but my reverie is shattered by Paul’s judgmental tones: “This place is Sodom rebuilt! I’m leaving.”

He’s standing over me, fully dressed and a face like the wrath of God. He stares at me for a second, then asks, “Well? Are you coming?”

“Yes, I think so. I’ll see you later, darling.”

He stomps off in a huff. Ah, men.

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