BleuHydr4nge4/bleu_rp_training

[ { "source": "https://archiveofourown.org/works/53922808", "text": "Your head hung heavy as 'amen' tumbled from your lips, weighed down by shame and the burden of confession. Your chest was tight with it, your tongue sour from it, and you would hold back the admission if you could, but it was nigh as much a bother to suppress the truth as it was to speak it.

Thus, it spilled out onto the cold stones of the chapel's floor. Twisting around your body like fog, insinuating around you like arms, tightening about your shoulders as if to wrench them down in penance.

Each time you uttered it – the truth – the ropes of guilt that bound you drew taut...

...you should have swallowed it.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.” The words felt clumsy and overly articulated upon your tongue. Thick like grease, coated with bile. “I have known temptation.” They stuck to the back of your throat. “I have failed to resist.” Like flies in the heat, they squirmed. “I have broken the commandments—” They peeled off like paper and scattered in a foul haze about you. “—in thought.”

“...How so, child?”

His voice came slowly, ponderously, from the other side of the lattice. It coiled around the cold confessional, as if he might emerge from the shadows and place his cold, clammy hand upon yours where they trembled in your lap. Where they clenched your dress.

“I-I have wicked intents.” You paused. Licked your lips. “And...and done unmentionable deeds.”

“It is not wholly uncommon to be guilty of such. Tell me what has come about,” he implored, and the faint trickle of skin-on-skin told you he interlinked his hands.

Trembling and gripping your thighs, you relented, "I have dreamt foul things. I have thought sinful thoughts.” Blasphemous. Monstrous. Weeks and weeks and weeks. “I-I have sullied my flesh in darkness.” The nightmares were so terribly lucid, they'd spill you from sleep, soaked and hot and — you clenched your legs together. “I have roused myself to impure pleasures.” Shamefully, each time in succession.

“And in your unconscious moments, how do these thoughts manifest?” His voice did not rise. He did not shun you. At that point, your terror took on a new dimension when you considered that he already knew the answer.

Your next confession came a whimper, no louder than a mew, and the priest shifted in his seat. “There is a man. I see him in my sleep, but he is not real.” You hesitated. “O-Or rather, this version of him isn't.”

“This version?”

“He looks like someone I know.” Your nails sunk into your inner thigh. “He acts like him, too. He talks, walks, and even smells like him." A shudder wracked through you. "But it is not him. He would never...”

“Ah.” Is all the priest could manage. There's a grunt, then silence. But a silence so, so full.

Then, quietly he spoke, and the soft inflection of sympathy he allowed to colour his tone caused your grip on your flesh to loosen in surprise.

“Lust is no foreign notion, Child. At the very eve of creation, mankind was driven by it. What man is not?” You knot your hands together. “It is part of the human experience, the human consequence, and acknowledging it is the first step towards redemption.”

“This is not mere lust, Father,” you said, or whispered perhaps.

“Sin never is.”

You swallowed hard, relieved by his understanding, yet the sting of shame lingered. “I am aware, Father, but it feels... overwhelming. It consumes my thoughts, my prayers. I fear that it is all that I am.”

“Lust?”

You nodded, a gesture unseen. “Lust. It all but runs through my veins.”

“Well, the path to-”

“-Father, you do not understand!” you interrupted, your voice bordering on a whine. It carried far louder than you'd intended, rattling the rafters, and the volume frightened you. Your eyes darted to the stained windows.

“...And why might that be?”

“I cannot help but act on it…I...I touch myself," you admit, this time with your voice much softer. “My fingers meet my warmth most days than not, an insatiable craving that haunts my waking hours. I find release as the sun rises, and again as it falls, the same man haunting my thoughts each night.”

“I- see…” the priest murmured, and silence descended once more.

You assumed that he was coming up with a satisfying response…something to quell your worry and to ease your mind.

However, unbeknownst to you, on the other side of the confessional booth, a naughty priest was breathing raggedly into the palm of his hand as a tent grew in his breeches.

“Father…?” you called out, panicked, nerves betraying your curiosity in a shrill whine. Silence was, after all, often never a good thing.

But this silence? No, he couldn't tell you of it; how he was clamping a hand to the source of his torture to still the throbbing. He couldn't tell you how his mind was flying, like a bird darting this way and that in flight, from blasphemy, to Hell, to gluttony, and all of the many awful sins this would lead him to committing.

He gulped, and tried his hand at speaking.

But he needed a second to compose himself. That was the truth. A selfish moment to collect his thoughts, in which he could keep his voice from hitching under the strain of his excitement. This was sin, most definitely, but the things that he was thinking-

He opened his mouth with a swift exhalation then, and in his breath a serpent was coiled. Subdued, but coiled. “F-Forgive me, pray continue.” He said with a crack in his voice. “For there is no surer way to be washed anew than to unburden oneself of everything.”

His sentence petered out, and you heard him gulp. It must not just be yourself, then, who was nervous.

Somewhat calmed, you continued,

“...I-It is not only that...I wish to touch him too. I envision it. Oh, I do, I do. I imagine him taking me, Father, in as many ways as there are stars in heaven, whispering devotion into my ear the same way that the Devil does in the late of the night. Oh, Father, I know that not even God can absolve me of such an offense. As much as I pray for forgiveness, I know he will not grant it. Will refuse to."

The priest audibly swallowed. Was it just him or had the temperature risen? He licked his lips, his breath suddenly seeming stuck within him. Why was he breathing so heavily? He wanted to exhale softly through his mouth, his shoulders rising slightly in his bid for air but… He could not.

“It is all just indecent up here, Father. Indecent, obscene, and vile. How can God find affection for one with a mind as corrupt as mine?”

“Child,” he said, in that strained voice once again, “how can He extend His love to any among us? We are all stained, all guilty of transgressions; it is His mercy that distinguishes Him.”

A shaky laugh fled your lips, and it rattled throughout the wooden panel of the confessional. “But Father, do you, too, grapple with such earthly desires? Could you possibly understand my plight?”

The question slipped from your lips before you could keep it, and the immediate silence in the still air made your heart pound. You wanted to retract it, swallow it down—

But before you could open your mouth, the answer came.

“...I am, after all, a man of flesh and blood.”

Your gut twinged, a sudden rush of warmth flooding your body like hot water had been spilt, because the priest's voice was husky, and quiet as it was, it was rough with an emotion you had never heard from his tongue before.

Something rawer, something far less pure.

You swallowed thickly.

“W-Well how do you expel such thoughts, Father? I have yet to learn, so if you, too, carry heavy sins such as I...”

Again, the priest let out an unsettling noise. A sound from his lungs of forced expulsion.

“With discipline,” he said firmly. “And with prayer. A shepherd is no use to his sheep unless he possesses a rod. The mind is not so unlike the flock, oh child. We must bring it under control, lest it wander into damnation. If you say that you are a beast, if your mind is a slave to flesh, then tame it, child.”

You pressed your lips together. Tightly so, that your chin began to tremble. “...And what if it does not work, Father? That is what I fear most. What if the carnal urge is far too potent, that not even the Lord himself can tame it…that not even the Holy Trinity, in all their might, can dominate it in its entirety?”

A silence settled between the two of you. A kind, eerie and silent as it was—a pit of sorts, hollowed out into the chapel's stone floor—that left you with the sense that you could fall into it. Or be sunk by it, should the tension prove too much.

“...Do you want to be saved?” The priest asked, his voice dropping considerably in its volume. Perhaps he had inched forward. Perhaps he was all but a breathing shadow, here but a spectre, as half as solid as he was in the eyes of his parish.

“Yes…” you whispered, because though you had not said it out loud, that was, indeed, the singular purpose for your visit. Saving yourself from whatever horrible, deadly thing preyed on you in the night, whenever it found you.

“Then simply have faith.”

“I am trying but…”

“But what?” came harshly.

You lowered your eyes, staring at your feet once again. The cool, worn surface of the confessional's wooden bench pressed against your palms. “Nothing, Father.”

And he said not a word in return. Not for a long while, at least.

It was a silence that stretched on and on and on, a silence that threatened to engulf you, a silence punctuated only by a shaky exhale from beyond the lattice. “Tell me… are- are you a virgin still, child?”

The inquiry was soft, fraught, more intimate than his last, and your head snapped up. A beat or two passed before the gravity of his question properly hit you. When it did, you felt the flurry of a blush bloom across the flush that already coloured your cheeks.

“Yes, I…” you faltered. “I have never given over to temptation. Not yet, Father.”

The last part was stated slowly. Deliberately. Delicately.

He sighed, a sound laden with relief. “Then your temptation shall be greater than any others’, for the Devil desires to rob you of your innocence and purity.” He could see your hand rise to your mouth. “You must resist him, my child. You must counter your lewd thoughts with two prayers and quell your desire with two verses.”

“Father,” you whimpered, and his cock throbbed and pulsated.

His chest heaved as he reclined against the bench, trying his hardest not to palm his crotch, though it was proving more difficult by the second.

He found it repulsive and vile that he was growing aroused at a penitent’s vulnerability, at their struggles. But your whines and your fantasies had gotten the best of him.

He had spent so long under the thumb of cold celibacy, and it had taken merely fifteen minutes to undo that resolve. But now, nothing was as abhorrent as his indecency. Nothing except how much he now desperately wanted to seek his own release.

He too, needed to repent.

“It must be done, lest you wish to be defiled.”

You felt a surge of heat in your veins, a fire that burned your flesh. You knew not what to do, for you were torn between obedience and curiosity.

What was this strange feeling that stirred within you, this longing that you could not name?

“Father,” you whispered pitifully, “please, have mercy on me. I do not understand what is happening to me. I do not want to sin, but I cannot help myself.”

To this the priest spoke sternly, as if to scold you. “My child, you are under the influence of a dark and powerful force. A force that preys on the weak and the innocent. A force that lurks in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike. A force that you must resist at all costs.”

And it was then that you realised what this longing was. This longing that you could not name.

“Father…”

You wished to be defiled. To be ruined by a darkness that you could not see, could not touch, but could very well touch you. You wished for it to slither into your room in the dead of night, to use you, corrupt you, until your legs could not hold you up any longer.

“Let us pray,” the priest declared, and rustling sounded.

You bowed your head.

“God the Father of mercies,” he began, “through the death and resurrection of His Son…”

Your breast heaved, and your breaths grew short and sharp as a heat bloomed within you.

“...has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins.”

Your hand crept from the bench to the lap of your gown, slowly and without your registering it.

“Through the ministry of the Chapel, may God give you pardon and peace.”

Your palm glided across your thigh and to your clothed crotch.

“I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father…”

Your breath caught as a lone finger swiped against your slit, and you repeated the motion to re-experience the blissful feeling.

“...and of the Son…”

You threw your head back as your fingers picked up pace.

“... and of the Holy Spirit.”

Distracted by the heavy breathing that he assumed was a result of weeping, the priest opened his eyes with concern and peered through the wooden partition, through a small hole, scarcely large enough for a finger.

Through that hole he saw you, a vision of sin, splayed across the bench with your legs spread and your mouth ajar like a harlot who knew no better.

He knew it. He knew it well, then, that his fears had come to pass. You could not be saved, never, for you were-

“Amen,” you moaned.

The priest closely watched as your eyes widened and your fingers slowed, and as you hastened to compose yourself, even though you thought none could see you.

You crossed your legs, concealing the dark stain on your gown’s crotch, before smoothing your hair and clearing your throat.

He caught only a fleeting glimpse of your expression as you straightened and looked up. Shock and astonishment did he see dancing in the depth of your gaze. As though in the midst of your passion, you had quite forgotten where you were, and your surroundings, and everything else besides.

Had you not known yourself? Were you unaware of your actions? Had you lost yourself in your rapture, the darkness so seductive? How easy it was to succumb!

When finally, you opened your mouth but could not speak, and so the priest said:

“And... I absolve you of your sins.” Though his voice shook, stricken with rage. "God has heard you! Go forth in peace.”

His stomach twisted, his mind blanking, his soul shrieking, cursing your damned whorish nature as you timidly murmured ‘thank you, Father’, and rose with the shuffling of fabric.

He could smell your arousal from even where he sat. It was a stench that filled the box, a poison that seeped into his nostrils. The urge to burst out and grab you by the hair in an unsolicited liaison became staggering as that rancid smell embedded itself onto the insides of his cheeks. Mercy, he could not wait to be rid of you.

He quickly drew the Sign of the Cross, his hand lingering on his right shoulder to ward off lingering evil. “You have confessed and sought forgiveness,” he grunted.

He gathered his belongings, a Bible and rosary, and prepared to leave. “As penance, you must recite ten Ave Marias, five Pater Nosters, and one Actus Contritionis.”

“Yes, Father.”

You bowed your head and kept it low, lifting it only to exit the booth when you felt it shake with the momentum of being closed.

Only then, did you rise from the bench, your soaked underwear rubbing against your thighs, before you turned the latch on the weathered, wooden door.

Once you emerged from the confessional, you were surprised to be met with a dim chapel. Just how much time had passed?

Your eyes flitted through the pews in search of another, only to realise the chapel was deserted, save for the priest whom you bared your soul to.

You looked for him then, head pivoting left and right until you caught sight of him upon the pulpit, blowing out the candles that adorned where he stood one by one.

You strained your eyes trying to recognise who he was, following him in his graceful pursuit to each candle. It was only when he turned his profile that you recognised him. Father Levi.

Warmth spread across your face as you recounted everything you confessed.

In your yearning, you had hoped the confessor would be an elder figure, someone who you cared little for and someone certainly not the object of your desires.

Father Levi must have known that it was him you spoke of - that it was he whom you wished would take you. He had to have known.

The countless times he caught you gazing at him, fixating on the movement of his rosy lips, or that one instance when your gaze lingered a moment too long on his—

His eyes found yours over his shoulder, piercing through the shadows. You quickly averted your gaze to the floor. Christ, you thought, nibbling on your lips, had he caught you yet again?

With your head down, you scurried to the nearest pew and knelt, facing the altar. You shut your eyes and began to recite your prayers, your voice wavering slightly as your mind strayed to being alone with the mid-aged priest. He was so near - so within your reach, so alone. Was this fate?

On the fourth prayer, you heard a faint shuffling in front of you. Footsteps. But you ignored them. Alas, a cold hand on your shoulder is what drew you from your prayer, causing you to flinch.

“Be not afraid. Pray, go on,” Father Levi urged, his handsome face smiling down at you. You remained at his waist-level as you recited them.

But how could you go on with him standing right in front of you? All you had to do was move your head, the slightest of the slightest, and you’d be kissing the fabric over his groin.

Through the veil of your eyelashes, you peered up at the priest, who regarded you with a stern expression - as though he heard every filthy word you’d just thought.

He frowned. “It is alright, my child. God rejoices in your penitence.”

You held his gaze as your prayer poured from your lips.

After a while, his austere demeanour softened, surrendering to something less severe as you reached your seventh Ave Maria. Your breath hitched as he began to rub your shoulder.

“That is it, you’ve but three more.”

“Yes, Father,” you whispered breathily, relishing in the tender pressure of his thumb gliding along the curve of your neck.

With closed eyes, you surrendered to the caress, a moment of long-desired fulfilment. And with every completed prayer and every completed verse that emitted from your lips, his thumb climbed higher.

Father Levi thumbed the soft expanse of your throat, his eyes darkening as your pulse fluttered under his touch. You seemed so innocent, so pure, so chaste. But your actions belied that image; the things you had told him, the things you had revealed…

You tilted your head ever so slightly and your mouth parted. Through half-lidded eyes, you stared at him unabashed, your sultry lips appearing like a most obscene invitation. He could not hold your gaze.

Unable to endure your wantonness, he made the Sign of the Cross with his free hand.

Then, in an instant, his touch transformed, slender fingers encircling your throat with a sudden ferocity that left you gasping for breath.

“I know what you are,” he snarled, bending over so his angular face was mere inches above yours.

“Father, what are you doing?”

You tried to free yourself from his vice-like grip, to rise to your feet and gain some advantage, but he was too strong, and he forced you back down onto your knees. With a wicked smile playing on his lips, he leaned closer to your ear.

“Did you take me for a fool, child? Did you think I would not notice how you have poisoned me? Tainted me?”

A shiver coursed through you as his breath brushed your cheek.

“Please, Father, have mercy,” you begged. “Whatever I have done, please have mercy.”

“Mercy? You do not know the meaning of mercy. You’ve never even seen her, spawn of Lucifer.”

“P-Pardon?”

In a tone that resonated with an otherworldly chill, he hissed, “Confess, child, for the devil has taken up residence within you. Your sins are a stench that even the hounds of hell recoil from.”

Then, fear gripped you tighter than Father Levi ever could. “Father, please, I am not what you think. I know not what you speak of!”

“You lie! I am not as weak as Adam. I shall not be so easily deceived by Satan and his marionette. For what other would be stirred by lust within the sacred sanctuary of a chapel, worse still, at the hands of a priest?"

“Father…please…” You writhed against his hold. “Release me.”

“For 7,000 years our kind has been at war, and one such as you shall not be the cause of my corruption.” His free hand rose, fingers twisting into his dark hair. “I must root you out. Dig into your core. Take a chunk out of your heart.”

A wave of desperation tore through you at the sharp sound of his breathing, and you begged, “Please, Father. I am not your enemy. What can I do to prove my intentions to you? By God-”

“Do not speak of God!” he roared, spit flying from his lips. “Do not profane Him. Those who have sinned cannot speak His holy name.”

“Father-”

He cocked his head to the side, jaw clenching, the hollows of his cheeks stretching his skin taut. “Do not grovel, so. It is a pathetic sight. What worth is a demon if he is feeble?”

“So then I am no-”

The priest’s fingers dug deeper into your flesh. “Quiet with your nonsense,” was forced through clenched teeth. “I’ve grown tired of your excuses. You are but a demon, sent to tempt me, to test my faith, to make me fall.”

“Faith,” you breathed, the word a defiance, and you tried with all your might to steady the tremor in your voice, “is it so delicate that I, mere flesh and bone, could fracture it? Have you strayed so far that a mere nudge would send you plummeting?”

“Enough.”

“Is this the strength of your faith, Father?”

“Enough!” he bellowed, releasing your throat and shoving you into the pew as if eager to relinquish you from his grasp. Like you were nothing more than vermin in his hold.

“You shall not make me falter. You shall not sow seeds of doubt within me, you cursed creature!” His face twisted into something so uncharacteristically grotesque, marred with a rage so fierce it could cast angels from their heavenly perch.

With trembling hands, you instinctively sought your throat, quickly drawing in air that your lungs so desperately yearned for. Each breath a gasp that tasted of dust. Through your blurred vision, you could see Father Levi’s figure retreating.

“Father, where are you going?” you managed to croak.

“I am going to fetch the whip,” he said. “You need more than words to atone for your sins. You need agony. You need blood. You need God's wrath.”

You watched through lidded eyes as he ascended the steps to the pulpit and vanished behind the heavy drapery. You trembled against the cool floor and rasped the remaining of your ten Ave Marias.

As you lay in your heap, something dawned upon you: You could have fled. You could have escaped and hidden within the refuge of your own abode. You could have condemned him. But instead, you remained, awaiting the lash upon your flesh.

Is this what you desired? Were you indeed…corrupted? A vessel for Satan? There was no other answer, for why else would you harbour such thoughts… and why else would your underwear be dripping?

You heard his footsteps echoing in the corridor, growing near’r and near’r, no doubt with the instrument of your punishment in hand.

You watched as he slowly descended the steps, brandishing a braided whip with a handle adorned with symbols of crosses and saints. The silver metal of the whip glinted in the dim candlelight as he held it aloft, but none shone brighter than his cruel smile.

He seized you by the hair and thrust your face into the cold floor where many had trodden, your arse high in the air. “Are you ready, child? Are you ready to feel the wrath of the Almighty?” he asked.

The flickering light from the remaining candles cast long shadows, gracing you with the ability to see his arm rise. You heard him murmur, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit...”

And then, you felt the whip strike your back, tearing your flesh, drawing forth a crimson tide. You screamed, a sound driven by sheer ecstasy, and he struck again. And again. And again.

You lost count of how many times he lashed you, how many times you cried out, how many times you begged for mercy only to appease to his iniquity.

“Oh, God!” you cried out at one point.

“How humorous. You are turning to the wrong Father for refuge. My God has forsaken you, little demon. He is unresponsive to your pleas.”

You buried your face into the crook of your sweaty arm, stifling a sob behind the prison of your teeth.

“Your resilience is admirable,” he snarled, his voice a low growl. “But futile. You are mine, little demon. And I will break you.”

As the whip found its mark on your arse again, the sting faint now, he fisted your hair and wrenched your head back to face the vaulted ceiling. “Now, tell me, just how did you do it? How did you poison me? How did you breach the sanctum of my mind?”

You parted your parched lips to answer, but he interrupted. “Do you comprehend the extent of the erection I endured tonight? No? Allow me to enlighten you, then. It hurt to sit. To think. All that consumed my thoughts was the desire to relieve myself within that confessional—” Your breath caught in your throat.

“—Which was unlike me. Unlike what I stand for…yet it was all I craved. I wanted nothing more than to pump my shaft until I had given my all. Until I was worn and spent upon that bench, and until you had finished in the room over.”

A strangled noise escaped your throat. He had seen you?

“Yes, I saw you,” he admitted, a flicker of regret crossing his features as he realised his slip of the tongue. All he could do now was deflect. "Not only did I see you, but God saw you as well. Have you no sense of shame?”

Without thinking, you ground your hips back into his crotch, his bulge grazing against your clit. You both moaned before you could suppress it, and he quickly released your hair, his hand shifting to your hips.

“Sex-crazed beast. Sex-crazed demon.”

He ceased in his lashing, dropping the whip to the ground, and brought his newly freed hand to your other hip as you continued to grind against him. “You satisfy yourself during prayer and you satisfy yourself even now. Is that all that you are?”

“I told you, Father!” you moaned.

“You did,” he murmured, his grip growing tighter. “You did. You are a paradox. A sinner who revels in sin.”

“Yes!”

“But when I am done with you, you shall become something holy.”

You only let out a whimper, one of which was laden with anticipation.

With your face still pressed against the floor, you shivered as the chill of the air unexpectedly met your skin as your gown rode up. It rose from your ankles to your knees, before the priest bunched it up over your waist.

“Your smell is so potent I can taste you on my tongue.” He hooked a finger around your underwear, slowly revealing your tight pussy to the chapel.

“You’re sodden,” he declared. “You’re filthy. It is only right that I, the vessel of sanctity, be the first to take you, to taste you, to fill you with my sacred essence to your brim.”

You licked your lips, salt coated in its cracks. Your tongue lingered momentarily at the corner of your mouth, a fleeting contemplation. With all the desperation you could muster you whispered, “Purify me then, Father.”

The priest needed no more from you. He began to undo his cassock, slowly freeing each button as he watched your puffy pussy clench around nothing.

“Are you certain that you’re untouched?” he asked.

“I am certain. I have allowed no other to touch me, Father. Pleasure has only been derived by my own hand.”

“And now, my own.”

Father Levi, with the speed of a starving man, unzipped his trousers and lowered his underwear, his cassock at his sides, before he freed his fat cock and held it in his hand.

It was a burning red, far too long neglected, and bubbling with beads of precum at the tip. He rubbed his thumb across his slit before dragging it down his shaft, lubricating it before he’d press into you. For your sake.

“Try to still in your excitement, harlot,” he grunted as your hips swayed. As your bosom heaved. You reached an arm behind your back, fingers hoping to revel in the touch of another, but the priest swatted your limb away.

“We are not making love. Do not reach for me.”

His pale skin stretched taut over the hardness of his cock, the veins pulsing as he stroked himself with his calloused hands. He stole a glance upwards and feasted on the sight of you laid bare before him, his eyes round with greed. Oh, how you glistened in the candlelight.

He situated himself between your parted legs, leaning his weight forward against you.

The warmth of his chest bore down upon you, his breath hot as it escaped his parted lips. He rubbed the tip of his cock against your folds, your pussy practically drooling, before he dragged it down to your opening and your thighs tightened around him.

“Father!” you panted, but it was not enough. Not for either of you. The feeling of him bare was enough to send you over the edge, but if you finished, then you knew there would be no more of this.

“Worry not, little sinner,” he rubbed your lower back with his thumb, “The pain shall only be brief.”

The priest spat on the crown of his cock, anointing himself. Then, without warning, he shoved his cock into your tight, virgin little cunt, a gravelly groan slipping past his lips at your warmth. He could hear a small wail from beneath him, from you, but it was muffled by the floor, by his breaths, and by the sound of skin slapping against skin.

Your cunt eagerly swallowed him, your walls gripping him so tightly that all the priest could do was groan. He relished in the pleasure of it all, his cock finally wrapped in the embrace of another, celibacy broken and ethics aside. Far aside. Granting him the freedom of animalistic grunts as he pumped in and out of you with a wild abandon.

But eventually, your pleasure gave way to pain and you let out a second wail. “Father, it hurts!”

A virgin’s first is scarcely easy, so Levi paid little mind to your suffering. To the feeling of your hymen tearing around the tip of his cock as he slid against your walls.

Perhaps, he should’ve prepped you first — softened your impending agony. But you were a demon. Demons needed no sympathy. Demons needed no mercy.

Instead, he rutted his pelvis into your plentiful, supple backside and said, “Your screams are a symphony, a hymn to the fallen. Let your cries reach the ears of the devil, for even he shrinks at the price you pay for salvation."

“Yes, Father! Yes, Father,” you chanted, toes curling at the sweet agony of his fullness.

“Do you sense it?” The nails of his fingers pierced into the soft skin of your round hips, leaving crescent moons in their wake. “Do you sense the ebbing of the darkness?”

You only nodded.

His grip tightened, the coldness of his touch a stark contrast to the burgeoning warmth that spread throughout your being. With hasty hands he shoved the skirt of your gown to your shoulder blades. “That is the Lord’s will. With every thrust I draw out evil, and with every moan it escapes through your breaths. Yield to it, my child.”

“I am, Father. Make me clean. Make me sacred — something the Lord can cherish.”

He leaned over and licked the contours of the welts on your back, born from the numerous lashes you endured.

As you felt the warmth of his tongue against your even warmer skin, you mewled, and he pounded into you even harder, fucking you into the floor. “You shall be purified.” A shaky moan slipped past his lips, “Christ, you shall be purified.”

“Fuck, I…need you, Father Levi!”

“You do need me. For whom else could save you?” A vulgar squelching echoed throughout the chapel, a product of your bodies and your pleasure.

“Only you, Father.”

“Only I,” he affirmed.

The priest watched with a slight frown as you took his cock, sucking it in with fervour and clenching around him until all he wanted to do was come inside of you. To fill your womb with him and watch as your stomach bloated. He was miserable.

Above all, he yearned to rub your swollen clit, to grasp your erect nipples, to fuck your mouth until his seed was all that remained. Until eventually, you’d have to swallow all of him. But he had to remind himself that this was not the pursuit of pleasure. That he could not act on his mortal impulses.

But as you writhed beneath him, your moans blessed to his ears and your juices dripping onto the floor, Levi felt that the Devil, too, might have made his mind his living-quarters.

“Stop that,” he whispered harshly, eyeing the sheen of your sweat, trying to focus on something else.

“Ah-” you whimpered, your throat hoarse. “Stop what?”

“Tempting me.”

“It is not by my will, Father. I do not know how to.”

“It is by your will, vixen. Break the connection you have on my mind.”

By now, your thighs had begun to burn and your knees began to ache. You couldn't hold yourself up any longer. But as your form began to collapse, the conflicted priest seized your hips tighter and rammed into you from an entirely new angle.

You let out a surprised cry. "Yes, Father! Fill me up."

Your words were met with a grunt. You could feel his cock twitching and pulsing, ready to burst. And you too, were ready. With a shaky arm, you weaved it beneath your torso in search of your clit. The lack of stimulation was almost too much to bear.

But as your fingertips ghosted your mound, a mere stretch away, the priest caught your wrist in his grasp and pulled your arm back roughly.

“Look at you now. How can you claim to not be a demon and yet act as you do?”

“Father, you’re hurting me.”

“For the wages of sin is death. But the gift of God is eternal life. You will not rob that from me.” His eyes, twin pools of righteous fury, bore into you, unrelenting. “Your pleas for mercy are but the siren’s song of the damned.”

Releasing your arm, he seized your chin once more, his fingers clutching your face as if fearing you'd vanish before him. “Beg for forgiveness.”

When you said nothing, he pressed himself further into you, kissing your cervix. “Beg. Beg loud enough so that the angels above can thread through your words.”

“Father,” you began, your frustration getting the better of you. “Perhaps you are just weak.”

You heard a growl before a rough slap marked your arse. “I should just strangle you right here,” he hissed.

“Then do it, Father,” you challenged, you begged, and the words cascaded from your tongue without a second thought.

The priest pressed his nose to the back of your ear and drew in a sharp breath. For how long could he steel himself in his duty? “You are so…”

He dared not say more, afraid of what might come out. ‘Deliciously sinful’ died on his lips, and he exhaled softly as if to blow the remnants away.

He then rolled his hips against you, heavy balls, aching for release, slapping against your backside rhythmically as he needily whimpered in your ear.

He had lost control. You could feel it in the way he clung to you, in the way he fucked you, in the way he moaned. It may have begun with the intent of purification…but it morphed into something else. Something more vulnerable.

Such vulnerability, such honesty of the flesh…such deviance would require not only holy water, not only cleansing, not only the embrace of silence, but total extermination. He had tasted of the fruit of Eve, of Hell, and now there was no one who could absolve him.

The obscene, choppy whimpers and whines that leapt from his throat were all the noise he could manage — all the noise you could manage. The two of you, bound by your own sins, were unable to utter anything else.

As you arched your back to feel more of him, his breathing grew irregular and curt, and a low, guttural groan was all the warning you received before the warmth of his seed splashed inside of you, coating your walls and dripping onto the floor.

You clenched around him, milking him for all he was worth as his thighs quivered and his nails split your skin.

Through his haze, he leaned over and growled in your ear, voice tight, cock pulsing as he emptied everything into you. “And he that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh: the Lord shall have them in derision,"

He was referring to the damned, to you, before he added with a grunt, “and doeth his pleasure on them.”

Father Levi buried himself within you one last time, watching through half-lidded eyes as his seed spilled from your well-fucked cunt. His abdomen seized and his thoughts floated elsewhere, bliss flooding his senses, carrying him off somewhere far beyond, to a place he'd yet to be.

And with each tremor that coursed through his being, each throb of his cock, the priest spilt more and more of himself into you. It was...quite a lot, some of it dribbling down your leg with the consistency of his cum, painting your skin.

From where your faces were beside one another, you could not hold his gaze. Instead, you opted to breathe through your parted lips, focusing on the way the tip of his cock quivered inside of you, a ghost of a smile dancing along the corner of your mouth at the prospect of having sated him.

And once all was said and done, Father Levi pulled out of you slowly, the curve of his tip dragging along your walls, parting from your folds with an almost sullen-like reluctance. His semen followed shortly after, oozing down his shaft and glistening against his bare skin, and he watched as it left you, thick and heavy.

Levi was breathing raggedly, and his weight against you was bearable, until suddenly it was nothing.

He withdrew his hands from your hips, and as his touch relinquished its hold, your body crumbled to the unforgiving ground, spent and bereft of support. A pallor of exhaustion clung to your form as you lay there, chest heaving in tandem with the rugged breaths from behind you.

You looked over your shoulder to see him kneeling above you, tucking himself into his pants. You then faced forward. “Is it done, Father?”

“It is done.”

The sudden heat of his palm burned your shoulder blade, and it was with a great sense of repulsion, a great sense of loathing that the priest gently ran his thumb along one of the welts, sending a light sensation down to your core, leaving you wondering, “Father?”

There was a lull in which only the crackling of the candles and a faint wind filtered through your ears. But then Father Levi stood to his full height, taking a step back, his cassock whispering as it fell back into place.

Without uttering a single word to you, he rounded the pews, reaching up to extinguish the last of the candles as he walked. All at once, he engulfed the room in darkness, leaving only the pale moonlight to illuminate your heaving form.

“Cleanse yourself and then depart,” came harshly from the priest, who began to head towards the entrance of the chapel, his feet dragging against the floorboards, the grooves from centuries worth of stepping echoing softly.

“But it is dark, Father,” you explained meekly.

He halted.

“Surely, you cannot mean for me to walk home in this darkness?”

“I cannot control the hands of fate. Not the hour and certainly not the dark.” He chided.

“You...you would abandon me, Father?”

His form was illuminated by the pale light outside, a mere silhouette now, an entity that was neither completely one of flesh and blood nor one of in-humanity. Something more ambiguous.

It was nearly impossible to distinguish between dark and light. Was it skin that hung from his bones, stretched from muscle? Or was it the clothes he wore that skewed everything, that marked the sins upon his figure, the stains of the day?

You shivered, curling in on yourself.

Perhaps it was both. Perhaps he was both.

Your fingers dragged across the marble floor; numb, paling, fingers curling into claws. But it was as though you did not possess such extremities. Your arm ached at the exertion, heavy and burdensome as you attempted to rise to your feet.

Meanwhile, the priest stood unmoving in the doorway. Merely leaning against its door frame as his palm lazed at the side, head bowed.

Perhaps he was trying to gather his thoughts, recollecting the entire hour that had long since been. His mind must have been racing, perhaps. Or perhaps it was sluggish and slow.

His breath was heavy against the silence, and it seemed that his lungs had decided to operate at maximum capacity despite his efforts to even them out, exhaling deeply.

“So it is done,” Levi reiterated, head turned so that you may not see the paleness in his face.

A gleam of perspiration still lingered and did not seem eager to leave any time soon. He wiped at the slight sheen and looked down at his clean palm, brows creasing.

“Dried already.” His murmur was for the wind only, but you caught every bit of it, heard every breath; from the sharp inhales to the soft curses, and it brought you a sense of fear.

The air held a thickness, you were aware, from the incense and the embers and the musk of bodies, but mostly from him—the perspiration. It pooled in the crevices of his skin, the nooks and folds and every pore that delved too deep.

You rose unsteadily, grunting as a searing pain rippled through your abdomen and back. You winced and cupped the flesh, feeling the soreness.

But such thoughts of pain were fleeting when he decided he'd had enough of the air and your fidgeting, turning around to address you once more.

“If you fear the night then stay in the confession booth and reflect upon your deeds. For surely your demon will protect you.”

And then a gust of wind rushed in, the sheer force knocking what little was left of your dress downwards.

Your breasts peaked out from the fabric and your nipples perked due to the cold. And yet, despite the humiliation, and despite the filth, it felt good when Father Levi's eye flitted over you, longingly and with loathing.

From where he stood, far from where you were, the only thing in sight were the peaks of breasts, drenched in a film of perspiration and semen. He gripped the handle as his eyes landed on a bead of seed glistening on the skin above your bruised breast, and he exhaled shakily as he watched it run slowly downward.

It delved in the curve of the skin, and he felt something inside him prick with desire, a hunger pang, and his grip on the door threatened to bend the metal.

It was as if your skin was reaching out to him, beckoning him once again.

“Tsk,” his lip curled, and he spat the bitter taste in his mouth onto the floor. His face contorted in pure disgust.

He looked you straight in the eye. “The decision rests solely with you.”

“But Father…”

“But what? Is this not enough for you? The door is open, my child. Go, lest Satan returns to his infernal torment of my soul.

“Torment?”

“For I am weak and powerless in his presence. As I was in yours.”

With a frown, he pushed through the door, shutting it with a resounding thud, severing the icy gusts of wind and leaving you alone in the chapel.

He would not succumb to temptation again.." }, { "source": "https://www.wattpad.com/story/273573392", "text": "Another example of text content sourced from Wattpad for training." }, { "source": "https://archiveofourown.org/works/15760902", "text": "“Runtling, start the fire.”

“Runtling, this cloak needs mending.”

“The canvas, runtling. Pack it. Tomorrow is market day.”

Thor does not know how a thing of peach skin came to be buried in the snows of Jotunheim. When Thor found him in the ice, the clothes he wore were strange. Thor cut him from his bloody leathers and ripped his cape from his back. The Aesir was a terrible sight, pale as a winter moon. A ring of bruises circled his neck like a noose.

“Runtling, the roots on the other side of the moor require tending.”

“Runtling, more wood.”

“My axe, runtling - clean it and ready my load. I set out in the morrow.”

The Aesir known as Loki does not speak. He no longer can, Thor assumes. Loki’s sounds are rare. Voiceless exhales of laughter or sharp, startled gasps. Soft, hissed pain and whispered moans of sickness. Thor learns his name through mouthed syllables alone.

Loki’s silence is the main reason why he still lives. Thor relishes the solitude of a mountain life. Words are an accessory to Thor, an unnecessary burden. The Asgardian race, on the other hand, indulges in grand, flowery speeches. So much talk to prove themselves mighty!

But Thor's charge, it seems, has had his voice stolen. His silence is welcome, as is his labor.

“Runtling, prepare the traps. We will set them at nightfall.”

“More wine, runtling.”

“Runtling.”

The hearth has been lit, Thor’s favor to his Aesir. A hood is drawn over midnight hair, and flames dance across Loki’s face. Around his neck, the bruises remain, a blossoming field of purples and reds.

Loki stares into the darkness at ghosts Thor cannot see. He travels long distances as the midnight winds howl. There is pain in him that Thor has no way of knowing. For one of few times in Thor's life, the silence has become stifling.

“Runtling,” Thor repeats, and Loki raises his head. How odd and white he is, how delicate his skin. “Prepare my bath.”

The Cave of Ragnir, dwelling of the frost giant Thor, houses one of the freshest springs in all of Jotunheim. Its waters are clear blue, pure as the rivers of Vimur. Before this spring, Thor sheds his loincloth. Loki waits, two feet his lesser, to relieve Thor of his garments.

The spring embraces Thor like a lover’s kiss. He dips under and reemerges, blond hair soaked and horns dripping.

Thor holds out a hand. “Come,” he says. Loki’s flush of surprise makes Thor chuckle. “Do you fear me?”

Loki shakes his head, and Thor knows it is true. Whatever the reason, the runtling does not fear Thor. Perhaps Loki does not recognize the dangers this realm presents. An Asgardian in Jotunheim - the things Thor’s brethren would do to a creature like Loki!

Thor baits his charge with low, patient eyes. “Show yourself then,” he says.

Loki is a mountain of obstruction - furs, boots, tunic, leggings. When he finally removes all, he stands in stark contrast to Thor. Loki is white and long, lithe and unruned. Only the bruises on his neck blemish him, a collar of unspoken claim. Thor bares pointed teeth at the sight. “Come,” he says.

Loki steps into the spring, greeting its temperature with a wince.

Thor crosses to Loki in three wide steps. Freshwater spills from the deep lines of his chest. "Warm it to your liking,” he allows. “I will bear it.” Thor prepares himself for pain, but the pool’s temperature only rises to a tepid cool. Loki smiles in the aftermath of his odd magic.

Thor gathers him in an arm and devours his scent. Loki’s skin feels strange on Thor's even after all this time. So warm, a prickling that stops short of painful. Loki’s cock is small, but it is pleasant to provoke. A voiceless moan heats Thor’s chest. “I would kiss you,” Thor murmurs. Loki nods permission.

His mouth is so slight, it becomes caged between Thor's lips. Loki’s thighs stretch to fit the girth of Thor’s waist as they sit. Thor scrubs Loki’s hair. Loki tips his head and gasps.

Thor traces Loki’s damaged throat with a large but gentle finger. “I will kill him,” he growls. “Show him to me.” Loki’s face drains of color, but Thor is not deterred. “Tell me his name, runtling. I will run new rivers with his blood.” Loki lowers wet eyes. He says nothing.

Thor nuzzles until Loki must lift his head. He catches Loki’s ear with sharp teeth and leaves soft pink scratches on his spine. Loki’s little cock becomes full, tickling Thor’s belly.

“You are not his,” Thor tells him. “You are mine.” A nod. “You have sworn yourself to me, don’t forget. Undying fidelity. You have sworn.” Another nod. Thor tastes the salt of tears on Loki’s face.

He tightens his arms and ruts against Loki’s belly. “How tiny you are,” Thor admires. “How soft.” Loki’s teeth scrape Thor’s jaw like a baby’s scratch.

Thor laughs and cups large hands on Loki’s thighs. Loki bucks, and his eyes lose their focus. “Look at you,” Thor purrs. “What can I give that will not cause you pain? My hands will break you, my cock will split you.”

Loki wheezes, “Thor.” The shape of Thor’s name on Loki’s mouth tantalizes. Thor juts against Loki’s stomach, and Loki trembles like a pulled bowstring.

“If only you were larger! Gods, I would fuck you, runtling, and you would find your voice to scream.” Loki’s eyes narrow. A slight taken, it seems. Thor grins. “Tell me then. What can I give you?”

Loki drapes arms over Thor’s broad shoulders. He hesitates, spread wide, Thor’s large cock at his backside.

Thor’s mouth curls with interest. He grinds forward just enough to make Loki gasp. “Come, stop this,” Thor says, smiling. “Give me your hands, or wrap your legs around me. Let me fuck your thighs, Loki; how firm and smooth they are.”

Loki digs restless fingers into Thor’s shoulders. With a forceful breath, he lowers himself.

By Mimir’s all-seeing wisdom, he is tight! Thor barely enters; he barely can. It is not the coiled pressure alone that seizes Thor, it is the heat. As ill-equipped as Loki is for Thor’s girth, Thor is ill-equipped for Loki’s warmth. Strange shivers of sensation nibble at Thor’s shaft.

So little of Thor fills Loki, yet Loki’s face is overcome. His cheeks blister red, eyes glassy and drifting. He stammers unsteady breaths and crunches desperate fingers in Thor’s hair.

Thor feels strong in this moment, and he craves, he hungers. He wraps thick arms around Loki’s waist and snarls into his hair. “You belong to me. You know this?” A nod. Thor drags a thumb across his fevered face. “And I am yours. You know this too?"

Loki looks at him, blinking slowly. After a moment, he nods again.

Thor rocks forward, but he can only fill to the head. Loki envelops Thor like a too-tight glove. There is no give, only a voiceless moan. The scent of Loki's arousal could induce madness.

With a hum, Thor takes the neglected base of his own cock in hand. He fists, fucking Loki with grinds of his knuckles. Loki’s little prick snags the deepest runes on Thor’s stomach. His eyes shine like stars, wide and wet at the corners.

Thor chuckles hoarsely. “By the gods, you please me.” Thor sees Loki’s smile though he cannot reply in words.

Eye catching as his mirth is, Thor craves more. As he hands himself, he touches Loki as well. Loki froths against him like a pot come to boil. Such a slight cock, but so needy! Thor plucks him between pinched thumb and forefinger. Soundless breaths stutter from Loki’s lips.

Thor nibbles his jaw and sucks under his ear. Loki’s gaze is all eyelash, a fence of green desire.

His orgasm comes with a coughed cry, a painful sounding rasp from his damaged throat. Loki turns to stone in Thor’s arms, perfectly arched hips and knees hooked to Thor’s body. His little prick milks generously between Thor’s fingers.

Thor fists himself through Loki's orgasm and smiles lazily at Loki’s spent face. Loki is barely upright, yet Thor’s cockhead is still inside him. So sensitive now! Every twitch of Thor’s shaft spills desperate gasps down Thor’s neck. He urges Loki's thighs wider.

With a groan of satisfaction, Thor brings himself off. Loki’s body swallows for him as his legs go lax. Thor fingers Loki’s wet hair. It is a marvel how an Aesir fits so sweetly to his chest.

Thor rubs a cheek to Loki’s brow. Affection warms his voice. “What twist of fate carried you to me, runtling?" he murmurs. "Who must I thank for you?”

One word is mouthed against Thor's neck. In Thor’s pleasure, he does not dwell on it. He likely felt wrong, or it is an odd joke of the Aesir.

Death, is Loki's reply. His hands shake in Thor’s hair." }, { "source": "https://www.wattpad.com/story/355227380", "text": "A Wattpad story that provides creative text data for training." }, { "source": "https://www.wattpad.com/story/370566702", "text": "Another Wattpad fanfic snippet to add to the dataset." } { "source": "https://www.tumblr.com/rollercoasterwords/713768493142753280", "text": "I'm literally the priest's favorite sacrificial lamb because I am so docile and sweet, and I hold very still when they put the rope around my neck. I trot along so happily while they lead me to the altar, and they do not even have to tie me down because I lie so very still and only bleat once or twice in my lovely lamb voice. When the knife comes down, it cuts through me like butter, and I offer no resistance. I bleed so prettily all over my new white wool, and my guts unspool like the most beautiful, shining yarn. My eyes are animal and dumb and hold no accusation. Every time I die, I come right back as another little lamb because the priest loves me so, so much, and he always chooses me for the sacrifice every time. He always places one hand on my small and twitching nose to calm me while he lifts the knife, and he doesn't do it for the other lambs—only me—because I'm his favorite." } { "source": "https://archiveofourown.org/works/45345772", "text": "Her sock feet quietly padded down the hall of the Lane house. The auburn hadn't expected to be totally unsupervised, but Jane had told her about her parents' hands off approach to parenting. It was fortunate for Daria that her mother hadn't asked whether Jane's parents would be around.

After answering the call to go to the bathroom, she exited, but then heard a set of footsteps slowly making their way up the stairs. She bit her lip, wondering if Jane had forgotten to lock the front or back door. She then saw the figure, a tall lanky male, whose clothes weren't the clothes of a robber. She tried to keep out of sight, but he saw her.

"Mmmmm, so, Janie met someone at that hellhole known as Lawndale High," he said slightly slurred.

'He's drunk,' she thought, "Uh,"

"I'm Jane's older brother, Trent," he introduced and came to stand closer to her. He examined her and Daria flushed a little from his scrutiny. "You remind me of some girls I dated when I was in that hellhole," he said and stroked her cheek. She jumped back in shock and Trent laughed.

"You're drunk."

"Yeah, but I'm one of those drunks that can't lie when he is drunk. I didn't drink enough to pass out though," he said and chuckled.

"That's obvious."

Trent laughed again and came closer, "And a cool sense of humor," he said and went back to stroking her cheek. He smiled to himself as he felt the skin there heat.

"Uh... I need to get back to bed."

"Hmmm, it is late isn't it?" he asked and then wrapped his arms around her and rubbed his face into her hair. "I like this shade of red."

"Umm, thanks," she said, not used to this. "Are you sure you're telling the truth?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Y'know, there's enough room on my bed..." he began and Daria sprang away from him and ran back to Jane's room. Trent smiled and laughed for a moment before making his way to his room.

'She's sixteen, but I can wait two years, it's not like I'm going back with that bitch Monique.' he mused before his head laid on his pillow and he fell asleep.

Ep 102: The Invitation (1)

"So, care to crash with me?" Jane asks Trent who gives her a look that clearly says 'did you just ask me that?'

"A high school party? Don't you think I'm...," but before he could finish his stomach protests for food. "Oh man, please tell me there's going to be food there." "Ah ha, looks like you didn't forget Jessie's lesson about free food." Jane says, smirking.

"Yeah, never turn down the chance of getting free food." Trent then sees the security guard checking the guest list. Trent leans out the window and shouts, "Luigi sent me!" The guard turns white for a moment and lets Trent's car go through.

---

Of course, Trent didn't realize that this party was thrown by a cheerleader. 'Nothing's changed since I graduated.' he ponders as he sits beside Daria on the couch. He had loaded up on chips while the girls had taken the tour of the house with some red-headed kid. Then Jane had disappeared and Trent watched as Daria tormented her little sister. "You're a quiet one aren't you?" he asks with a half grin on his face. She slightly goes pink in the cheeks.

"You know you didn't have to crash with Jane." Daria says, turning her head away from him.

"Didn't have the money on me for a pizza." He says scooting closer to her. "Why have you suddenly found me such an interesting person to talk to?" Daria asks.

"Like any of these sheep are interesting. However...," Trent says and puts an arm around her, "you and Janie are friends. I'd like to know who's cool enough to befriend my sister." She blushes red from his arm around her.

---

"Gawd Daria, if we have to ride in that dirty car again I'll just die." Quinn says as the two sisters come into the house.

"You could've walked home, you know." Daria retorts.

"And what was up with that guy? He was more interested in you than me. I don't know why he'd be so interested in a brain like you."

"Probably because you're a sheep." She retorts back and heads into her room.

102: Invitation (2)

"He looks... dead."

"He may look dead, but he's alive."

"Then, how do you propose to wake him up?"

"Hmmmm, Trent!"

"That worked brilliantly," Daria commented, and at that moment, the figure that was lying on the futon in the basement of the Lane house opened his eyes and yawned. He took stock of where he was and saw that Jane was down here and she had a girl he'd never seen before standing beside her.

"Hey Janie, what did you wake me for?"

"We need a ride... Daria here was invited to a cheerleader's party because she was unpopular enough," Jane answered.

Trent looked the auburn up and down. He tried to think whether he'd met her before. "I don't think we've..."

"She just moved to Lawndale, don't worry Trent, you didn't forget someone's name," Jane reassured.

"Cool, I was wondering if I'd been practicing too much. I was in the middle of a ten-hour practice session..."

"And sleeping with a guitar counts as practice? Hey Daria, would you say sleeping with a guitar counts as practice?" Jane asked, hoping to get her friend to speak.

"It is, just as long as you don't drop it," Trent quipped and Daria gave a twitch of a smile.

"Well c'mon, we need to get going,"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, be patient," Trent grunted at Jane. The three left the basement and left the Lane compound for the Taylors'.

888

"You sure you won't crash with me, there will be food," Jane offered.

"Nah, I'll pick up..." Trent began while reaching into his pocket but found no money., "On the other hand... you think we can get past the guard?"

"If I can't get him by faking a name, I'll wow him with my drawings," Jane replied and Trent nodded.

'Why does he keep checking me out? It's just a black pleated skirt, nothing to gawk at,' Daria thought. she knew Trent had been looking at her, but she couldn't decide whether it annoyed her or if she liked it. So that she wouldn't say anything stupid in front of him, she stayed silent as Jane talked her and Trent's way into the party.

888

Trent stood off to the side listening in on Daria as she told an embarrassing story about her sister. Trent had gotten a look at Daria's sister and decided that he wasn't all that impressed with her. He was definitely more interested in the older Morgendorffer sister. The party was a drag, he'd been to too many of these parties in his time, but the auburn-haired girl sure knew how to point out the stupidity of the popular crowd. Of course, back in his day at LHS, they invited the Spiral to play at every single party. And, as his first bass player Daric would say, 'A gig's a gig'.

"Enjoying making your sister's life hell?" Trent questioned.

"It's one of the few pleasures in life," Daria replied.

"I don't see what's so damn appealing about her."

"Huh?"

"I prefer my girls wearing pleated skirts, black pleated skirts," he said while coming closer to her and began lightly running his hand through her thick mane of hair. Daria's brain was disconnected from her body from his touch and his words. Seeing Jane coming towards he stopped what he was doing to spare Daria from any teasing by his sister.

"Ok, I think I've had enough party for one night, let's go.," Jane suggested.

"Yeah, this is starting to remind me of when I was in high school," Trent remarked and then proceeded to leave.

"Enjoy spending time...?" Jane began to quietly ask.

"I hate you," Daria replied and Jane smirked. The pink flush on Daria's cheeks amused Jane.

'Ok, I'm going to get these two together, no matter how hard I don't have to work at it,' the younger Lane thought, and the three got back into Trent's car and drove off." } ]