There’s an amazing community of sex bloggers who write delicious smut, post gorgeous pictures, and generally keep the world of hotness turning, and until now I’ve been rubbish at joining in with all the fun weekly memes and story competitions that they run. So my resolution for this month (and next as well if I can keep it up) is to Join In with at least one thing each week – Sinful Sunday, Wicked Wednesday, and others too.
To start I thought I’d have a bash at writing some fiction. The awesome @sexblogofsorts, who I have a huge writers’ crush on because she writes so beautifully, is running a short story competition. The deal is she gives you the name of a lipstick, and you use that as the title for your story. Unfortunately, I’ve not written much fiction before, so I’m a bit ham-fisted with it, and my fiction stories always tend toward the ‘teenage goth’ genre. I was going to try and avoid teenage goth, but then @sexblogofsorts gave me my title, and it was “Sin” so…
The following story is possibly blasphemous, so if you’re super-religious you might not enjoy it. It’s also a dirty sex story, obviously, so best not to read it on the bus.
Contrary to what you might have been told, Purgatory is not a waiting room. You do not measure each sin in decades, serving a lonely sentence that’s proportionate to your crimes.
If it were, she’d have left by now.
Instead, in this place that is not about waiting, she relives her sins.
It starts with theft – the kind that you’d think were forgiveable. A thick, purple lipstick that dazzled her five-year-old self. She reached out, smeared the test stick on her hand, then slipped it into Mum’s handbag. In life it earned her a neat, sharp smack, but here she repeats it more than two dozen times before she has fully atoned. It takes time because the sin is too easy to forgive. At the end of each replay she tried to force remorse, but it was tainted with a wave of self-pity for the child – too young to understand the difference between right and wrong.
When she finally, fully regretted it, she understood what this place was for. Not waiting, but learning. Using your own mistakes as tools to shape you into someone new. Purgatory teaches you to condemn all sins, with no room for excuses or pity.
To make you as merciless as God.
The moment she kicked her sister out of spite: she lived that a hundred times. Each time she saw the blood well red on Anna’s shin, heard her childish cry. Of course, the eight-year-old who’d done it took a lot of teaching. Over and over she kicked, watched the trickle of blood, heard that miserable whimper, and ninety-nine times she could not regret it.
If the replay had stopped at the blood, she could regret quickly and move on to the next. But this place wasn’t designed to be easy. Each time she kicks Anna, Anna’s little-girl mewl of pain is swiftly followed by a calculated scream – one which brings Daddy running. That scream makes it harder, so she repeats the incident over and over, until her sadness outweighs any spite, and she is marked with righteous repentance.
This is a place to feel true regret – the kind the living could never comprehend. If it were just a waiting room, that would mean that God is kind.
He is not.
Both of those atonements happened long ago. In her version of Purgatory, the current scene has been playing for years – decades. As the most recent repetition dissolves, she prepares for the next instalment of the same old sin. The same acts. The same words. The same expression etched on his face. It always starts with her playful request:
“Fuck me before she comes home.”
Perhaps if she’d added a question mark, he would have refused. She hates him for that: for not refusing. That dark-eyed guy with a pressing erection and strong, broad hands. His fault. He shouldn’t have smiled at her. He shouldn’t have stood so close when she brushed past him each night in the hall. He shouldn’t have embraced such a fucking cliché – screwing the au pair while his wife was out. Everyone knows that ends badly, as it inevitably did. A flurry of clothes and accusations and a scream that shattered into a sob as the wife (Jenny, her name was Jenny) came home. She can regret that moment, and of course she does. But that’s not the part she has to relive.
Again, the same sequence. Each detail pulses with raw, bright colour – to help her focus, perhaps. The sound of his moans in the back of his throat as she pulled her knickers to one side. The tremble of his hand as he reached out to squeeze her.
He whispered reluctant words but his hands were eager – thrusting, squeezing, pushing deep into the folds of her cunt as she dripped lust down the back of her thighs.
“I can’t,” he said, as he did.
“You can,” she replied, lifting herself onto tiptoe so she could display herself to him.
She does it again now, because she is compelled to: exactly the same actions, and the same thoughts. Over and over. She played the part of the wicked temptress, although he’d never asked her to. She’d pretended to be less innocent than she was, believing it would make him less guilty. She played the writhing, eager Jezebel who wouldn’t take ‘I can’t’ for an answer. As he fumbled with his fly, and made that guttural, pained sound of guilt and lust, she gripped the countertop and slid back onto his dick.
In Purgatory, you don’t wait: you relive. Until all your sins have been catalogued and replayed. Until you’ve inhabited that same body during all your misdemeanours – both minor and catastrophic.
It is not about whispered repentance, anyone can do that – whisper ‘sorry’ on their deathbed and believe that will be enough.
She knows it will never be enough, because she now understands true regret. It’s not lip-service, or a vague wish that you could change the past: it’s a rush of shame so strong it burns through you, changing you as it goes. Hammering you into a different shape, like a lump of metal at the hand of a blacksmith. Maybe that’s why they talk about hellfire.
After she slipped back onto his cock, she squeezed tightly. She tore open her shirt and half-turned towards him, gazing hotly over her shoulder and into his frowning face. She let the fabric slide down her back the way she’d practised in the mirror, displaying one firm, pink nipple and tempting him to lean forwards and bite.
Each time she does this, over and over and over, she feels the same sensation: lust. Not regret: desire. Need. A powerful, pleasurable kick in the pit of her stomach. A touch of vanity. Greed. She’s driven not by a need to be loved but a need to be fucked.
Every repetition is identical: she squirms with the same urgent desire, each recurrence of the scene makes her nipples harden, aching for the moment she knows is coming, when he reaches his hands round to pinch them. The twitch of his dick inside her as he feels how hard they are. How he nipped them tightly with his fingertips, yanking her backwards into each forward thrust of his cock. Digging his fingernails into her, fucking with deep, angry strokes: as if his fingers and his dick were her punishment for tempting him.
“Fuck me before she comes home.”
That moan. The feeling of his thick cock as she slides back onto it. The rip of her shirt. The hard, pink nipple. The twitch. The pinching.
“Fuck me.” “I can’t.” The thrust. The nipple. The fingernails.
As she shudders and feels her feet go weak, her precarious tiptoe position in danger of collapsing when she comes, she wants to scream that it can’t stop yet: it mustn’t stop yet. She needs, just once, to see it through to the end. To feel the climax that happened in her lifetime, many thousands of replays ago.
But inevitably it doesn’t.
Her face and body make the same movements they always do, jerking back onto his cock to push her orgasm along. And as he starts to speak she knows it’s about to end. Always a second too soon:
“What have you done to me?” he pants, as he shoves his cock harder into her. Then again – one word for each thrust.
One more one more one more please if I can just
It dissolves, and she’s back to the beginning. The roar and rush of pleasure that started in her stomach is gone. Now she’s staring coquettishly at him in the kitchen, slipping knickers to one side and getting ready to start again. Screaming silently in her head even as those words leave her mouth:
“Fuck me before she comes home.”
How many times has she lived this scene – a thousand? A hundred thousand? A million? Truth is, she stopped counting centuries ago. In that time the man, his wife, their children and grandchildren: all have relived their own sins, learned to regret, and long since moved on to the other place. Since she started the replays of that single, simple fuck, every one of them has become a God.
She’s been here longer than you can measure in lifetimes. But Purgatory is not about waiting – she’ll relive that fuck until she truly regrets it.
And she will never, ever regret it.