Scab and The Virgin (Part 3)
It had been raining for twenty-four hours when we got home, footsore, still clasping our trainers in shivering fingers. We walked all through the night. We hatched a plan, a hysterical, freaky, Scab-style plan.
In St Andrew’s, by the time we got there, it was light, a thin, grey light and a small Mass was going on. We sat at the back and listened to the prayers. The front two rows sufficed to hold all the worshippers and by the time the words travelled the long aisle down to us at the back they sounded like the bass on a Flechette track. Scab put his head in my lap for while, making a hiding place of dark wood. As the air around him heated up I could smell his unwashed clothes and the furniture polish. He slipped a hand under his head, which meant it was over my crotch, thin fingers again, massaging. Eventually, as I swelled in damp denim he slipped the zip, cold fingers wrapped me up, plied the spongy underside of my cock, slipped the skin back. Then it was his hot mouth and it seemed like a perfect blasphemy, Scab’s phone rang: the polyphonic theme from some kids TV show.
Heads turned at the front of the church but he was down below the pew and I just shrugged at them. Scab didn’t move so I hooked it out of his back pocket and flipped it.
“Hi mum.”
“You both together then?” she said, sounding pretty slurred, “where’ve you two been honey. I’ve been missing you.”
“What do you want mum?”
“I don’t feel so good honey. I want you home. Come home for a while eh?”
“Mum I’m busy.”
“Oh, it’s like that is it…” and it went downhill from there till Scab’s battery died.
I don’t know exactly what they do at Mass, but they were all at the rail eating and drinking at the same time that I was spilling into Scab’s mouth. We grabbed her when the service looked like it was ending. They barely noticed until we cracked her head off on the pillar and the first yells came as we sped through the doorway and into the rain.
In St George’s we had to climb carefully over the broken glass of the vestry window, kick through the door into the church. Scab found a statue with the dragon writhing under George’s meaty thighs. For a moment I thought Scab would change the plan, his hand strayed over those thighs and then up to the pecs under their moulded breastplate, all the while rubbing the flat of his other hand over his groin. Both grinning, which made it difficult but funny, we kissed and rubbed, didn’t even bother to hook our cocks out. Rough cloth and pressed crotches got us off and we took her head without any trouble out of the same vestry window. Dead painted eyes and tope skin and the remnants of a blue headscarf, she looked happy to be coming with us into the rain.
In St Anne’s we almost got the wrong girl…
In St Francis’ there were no statues at all.
“Shit,” said Scab looking at my crotch. But the game had made its own rules now and Scab seemed reluctant to break them so we moved on.
In the Market Street church with no name outside…
And still the rain kept coming like a shower of forgiveness and still we were barefoot like it gave us something to feel the wet grit underfoot and by the time it had been raining forty-eight hours both our cocks were sore and red, and our eyes were red round the rims and I was grinning sometimes as madly as Scab…
On the afternoon of the third day we rested. Naked on our bed, spooning, my arms wrapped round his shoulder and my cock thick but limp in the valley between his cheeks. I didn’t sleep but I could hear and feel his purring snore and snuffling noises. Every now and again I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror across the room: pale and looking pretty wasted. Mum looked in at one point and I kept my eyes closed. I don’t expect what she was grumbling as she stepped back out of the room was very kind but I couldn’t hear the words, only the sound. When we left again, into gathering shadows, I knew for sure we were never going back.
We made the evening papers. In the neon spill from the QuikStop they’ve got those bill boards with the crossed wires. We were there in damp newsprint: vandalism, blasphemy, sicko kids, desecration.
The strange thing was, that even though we now needed a bag to carry all her heads, it didn’t feel like desecration or any of those bad things. It felt like stepping out into warm sunshine in a never-ending field of tall grass.
“Hey, look at that,” said Scab grinning.
“Yeah. Might make tonight a bit tougher.”
Then fuck me, it was the priest walking down the road towards the shop. He saw us but there was nowhere to go. He had the white collar on too. We passed in the same pool of light where we first met up. He slowed down some, wary.
“No trouble now lads. Right?”
We didn’t say anything but Scab stuck his tongue out and waggled it like he was licking something obscene. An old lady came out of the shop right then and saw, she made a noise like, ‘awww’, and hurried away. I was sorry she saw that.
We passed. Father Dominic disappeared into the night. We still had things to do. It was Scab who’d decided on twelve, I don’t know why but I guess it was one of those ‘significant number’ things. If I’d thought about it I could have made a guess. So we were only half-way. There were some cop cars about but nothing serious – how many churches in a city this size? I guess too, no one thought the sicko kids would go at it again.
In Saint Agatha’s everything was gold and mosaic and we had a hard time telling which one was Mary. When we got her head off and tucked her away in the bag Scab got a bit agitated again. For the first time since St Aiden’s, to calm him down, I got us both naked. We got silly then and chased each other round the aisles like kids, cocks bouncing, balls like weights on springs. When we finally collided with a crack of wood at the corner of a pew I hooked my fingers into his hip bones and pulled him down. Scab looked like he did when I used to tickle him till he couldn’t speak. I straddled his snaky waist and held his arms down, bent down and licked a long line up his chest. Flat tongue pressed nipples like small beads and he tasted of salt and biscuits. His cock – long, thing, brittle – was under my ass. Just because, I reached back and pointed it up and then sat on it. I’d never been fucked before and it hurt, like stomach cramps, but I didn’t mind. I stayed on top and didn’t let him do any of the fucking. I knew I’d never be able to take it like he could but there was something satisfying about proving that we could plug in this way round if necessary. There was a hot tug somewhere down by his balls and something coiled and released and suddenly his eyes were closed on his smile and he lay still. Inside one of us there was a gurgling noise. I knelt up, wincing, drawing off his cock. It was only a small move from there to lean and angle mine right into his mouth. Maybe I was overcompensating but I fucked his head so hard it banged the floor.
What you need to know about Scab and getting sucked off by him is that, although he’s nothing but sharp angles and lumps of bone, he’s got lips like Botoxed cherries, they’re the only fleshy part of him. Feeling them grab at the base of your cock while the head end is buried in the wet mess of his tonsils is better than anything I ever called a blow-job before.
When we got up, there was an oblong of sweat and rain and sperm on the tiles.
St Nicholas’…
St Mark’s…
St Mary’s… of course, St Mary’s. I don’t know why we didn’t think of that sooner. Three heads tumbled into the bag there and between us we managed three orgasms, but mostly dry now and chaffed skin was beginning to weave a rawness into the pleasure.
The rain had been solid for three days until the streets were rainforest thick. It was the third day (maybe). The roof of the multi-storey was a shallow, painfully bright mirror of water. Steam rose across the concrete pan. Everything was light and rising. The heads of twelve beautiful women fell out of the bag and made cracking noises as they hit the ground.
“Shit,” I said, “what’ve we done?”
Scab grinned…
We took six each, bundled into crossed arms. The car park was on the dockside. From the top, up there, we could get a clear shot. Each one took a different trajectory; each flew through surprised seagulls in a different way, some spun others flew straight. Some splashed lightly as they disappeared beneath the gunmetal swell, others made deep, deep plopping sounds.
And when the last one was gone I looked up and nudged Scab to do the same. There was a rainbow. And I laughed because I knew that story and it was too perfect.
“Time to go?” said Scab, grinning…
The End
In St Andrew’s, by the time we got there, it was light, a thin, grey light and a small Mass was going on. We sat at the back and listened to the prayers. The front two rows sufficed to hold all the worshippers and by the time the words travelled the long aisle down to us at the back they sounded like the bass on a Flechette track. Scab put his head in my lap for while, making a hiding place of dark wood. As the air around him heated up I could smell his unwashed clothes and the furniture polish. He slipped a hand under his head, which meant it was over my crotch, thin fingers again, massaging. Eventually, as I swelled in damp denim he slipped the zip, cold fingers wrapped me up, plied the spongy underside of my cock, slipped the skin back. Then it was his hot mouth and it seemed like a perfect blasphemy, Scab’s phone rang: the polyphonic theme from some kids TV show.
Heads turned at the front of the church but he was down below the pew and I just shrugged at them. Scab didn’t move so I hooked it out of his back pocket and flipped it.
“Hi mum.”
“You both together then?” she said, sounding pretty slurred, “where’ve you two been honey. I’ve been missing you.”
“What do you want mum?”
“I don’t feel so good honey. I want you home. Come home for a while eh?”
“Mum I’m busy.”
“Oh, it’s like that is it…” and it went downhill from there till Scab’s battery died.
I don’t know exactly what they do at Mass, but they were all at the rail eating and drinking at the same time that I was spilling into Scab’s mouth. We grabbed her when the service looked like it was ending. They barely noticed until we cracked her head off on the pillar and the first yells came as we sped through the doorway and into the rain.
In St George’s we had to climb carefully over the broken glass of the vestry window, kick through the door into the church. Scab found a statue with the dragon writhing under George’s meaty thighs. For a moment I thought Scab would change the plan, his hand strayed over those thighs and then up to the pecs under their moulded breastplate, all the while rubbing the flat of his other hand over his groin. Both grinning, which made it difficult but funny, we kissed and rubbed, didn’t even bother to hook our cocks out. Rough cloth and pressed crotches got us off and we took her head without any trouble out of the same vestry window. Dead painted eyes and tope skin and the remnants of a blue headscarf, she looked happy to be coming with us into the rain.
In St Anne’s we almost got the wrong girl…
In St Francis’ there were no statues at all.
“Shit,” said Scab looking at my crotch. But the game had made its own rules now and Scab seemed reluctant to break them so we moved on.
In the Market Street church with no name outside…
And still the rain kept coming like a shower of forgiveness and still we were barefoot like it gave us something to feel the wet grit underfoot and by the time it had been raining forty-eight hours both our cocks were sore and red, and our eyes were red round the rims and I was grinning sometimes as madly as Scab…
On the afternoon of the third day we rested. Naked on our bed, spooning, my arms wrapped round his shoulder and my cock thick but limp in the valley between his cheeks. I didn’t sleep but I could hear and feel his purring snore and snuffling noises. Every now and again I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror across the room: pale and looking pretty wasted. Mum looked in at one point and I kept my eyes closed. I don’t expect what she was grumbling as she stepped back out of the room was very kind but I couldn’t hear the words, only the sound. When we left again, into gathering shadows, I knew for sure we were never going back.
We made the evening papers. In the neon spill from the QuikStop they’ve got those bill boards with the crossed wires. We were there in damp newsprint: vandalism, blasphemy, sicko kids, desecration.
The strange thing was, that even though we now needed a bag to carry all her heads, it didn’t feel like desecration or any of those bad things. It felt like stepping out into warm sunshine in a never-ending field of tall grass.
“Hey, look at that,” said Scab grinning.
“Yeah. Might make tonight a bit tougher.”
Then fuck me, it was the priest walking down the road towards the shop. He saw us but there was nowhere to go. He had the white collar on too. We passed in the same pool of light where we first met up. He slowed down some, wary.
“No trouble now lads. Right?”
We didn’t say anything but Scab stuck his tongue out and waggled it like he was licking something obscene. An old lady came out of the shop right then and saw, she made a noise like, ‘awww’, and hurried away. I was sorry she saw that.
We passed. Father Dominic disappeared into the night. We still had things to do. It was Scab who’d decided on twelve, I don’t know why but I guess it was one of those ‘significant number’ things. If I’d thought about it I could have made a guess. So we were only half-way. There were some cop cars about but nothing serious – how many churches in a city this size? I guess too, no one thought the sicko kids would go at it again.
In Saint Agatha’s everything was gold and mosaic and we had a hard time telling which one was Mary. When we got her head off and tucked her away in the bag Scab got a bit agitated again. For the first time since St Aiden’s, to calm him down, I got us both naked. We got silly then and chased each other round the aisles like kids, cocks bouncing, balls like weights on springs. When we finally collided with a crack of wood at the corner of a pew I hooked my fingers into his hip bones and pulled him down. Scab looked like he did when I used to tickle him till he couldn’t speak. I straddled his snaky waist and held his arms down, bent down and licked a long line up his chest. Flat tongue pressed nipples like small beads and he tasted of salt and biscuits. His cock – long, thing, brittle – was under my ass. Just because, I reached back and pointed it up and then sat on it. I’d never been fucked before and it hurt, like stomach cramps, but I didn’t mind. I stayed on top and didn’t let him do any of the fucking. I knew I’d never be able to take it like he could but there was something satisfying about proving that we could plug in this way round if necessary. There was a hot tug somewhere down by his balls and something coiled and released and suddenly his eyes were closed on his smile and he lay still. Inside one of us there was a gurgling noise. I knelt up, wincing, drawing off his cock. It was only a small move from there to lean and angle mine right into his mouth. Maybe I was overcompensating but I fucked his head so hard it banged the floor.
What you need to know about Scab and getting sucked off by him is that, although he’s nothing but sharp angles and lumps of bone, he’s got lips like Botoxed cherries, they’re the only fleshy part of him. Feeling them grab at the base of your cock while the head end is buried in the wet mess of his tonsils is better than anything I ever called a blow-job before.
When we got up, there was an oblong of sweat and rain and sperm on the tiles.
St Nicholas’…
St Mark’s…
St Mary’s… of course, St Mary’s. I don’t know why we didn’t think of that sooner. Three heads tumbled into the bag there and between us we managed three orgasms, but mostly dry now and chaffed skin was beginning to weave a rawness into the pleasure.
The rain had been solid for three days until the streets were rainforest thick. It was the third day (maybe). The roof of the multi-storey was a shallow, painfully bright mirror of water. Steam rose across the concrete pan. Everything was light and rising. The heads of twelve beautiful women fell out of the bag and made cracking noises as they hit the ground.
“Shit,” I said, “what’ve we done?”
Scab grinned…
We took six each, bundled into crossed arms. The car park was on the dockside. From the top, up there, we could get a clear shot. Each one took a different trajectory; each flew through surprised seagulls in a different way, some spun others flew straight. Some splashed lightly as they disappeared beneath the gunmetal swell, others made deep, deep plopping sounds.
And when the last one was gone I looked up and nudged Scab to do the same. There was a rainbow. And I laughed because I knew that story and it was too perfect.
“Time to go?” said Scab, grinning…
The End
posted by Callum at 9:13 AM
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