HAIL, MARY

Prologue

Preston was a sinner. Of course he was—all of his kind were. That is the nature of man: from before his first breath, doomed to a life of imperfection, condemnation, and atonement. Or, so the stories go.

Sometimes I wonder why He plays games like that– tell them they are born in sin and will die that way, then tell them they should strive to be blameless anyways. Tell them no man is worthy, “No, not one.” Tell them suicide is a mortal sin, but martyrdom gains you sainthood. Is knowingly allowing others to kill you when you could have saved yourself suicide, then, or martyrdom? And why is killing other people in the name of God, or because they worship Him differently, somehow different? My God, my God. It is all a bit of a farce, in my opinion—and I think I am fairly well equipped to comment.

But for all my centuries of misty musing, I was once one of them. For all I am held in history’s highest esteem, to Him, I am still human. Still fatally flawed. What I think about His brand of logic is not particularly important to Him.

Not that He is uncaring. Far from it, in fact. Just… preoccupied, perhaps, with trying to organize the workings of the universe of His own design. And the little problem of the giraffe. He doesn’t make mistakes, but between you and me, I think He’s a little embarrassed about that beastie. But I digress; this story is not about Him. This story is about me. And, of course, Preston.

Preston, though a sinner, was about as close to sinless as a man in his world could get. The Ultimate Secular Catholic, you could say. Confession, Communion, Lent, Mass—all the little laws made up by fellow sinners to keep him on the straight and narrow, Preston adhered to with complete devotion. But it was Preston, faithful, priestly Preston who would eventually bring about The End.

First, though, let me tell you about the beginning.

xxxxx
I’ll never forget the day our paths crossed– Preston’s and mine, I mean. It had been a few decades since I bothered to visit a church; men didn’t seem to care anymore whether they could actually feel my presence, or just pretend they could. But He had suggested that despite evidence to the contrary, men had begun to at least feel my absence, and that knowledge soothed my pride sufficiently. So I revisited one of my favorite old churches, a quaint and modest one in the middle of New England, and found Preston, kneeling solitary at the alter.

Hail, Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.

I smiled faintly. It had been a while since I heard the words, and although it was vain of me to bask in this idolatry, I allowed myself a small glow of pleasure. Here was a man with good timing, at least.

Blessed art thou among women…

The richness of his voice, his prayer, made me curious. Familiar the words and comfortable the phrases, yet he used them in a… different way.

And blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.

Ah, fruit. I rested my hand briefly over my long-empty womb, channeling warmth to it as though mere wishing could fill it again. As is the way with most Catholic buildings, there were likenesses of my First Fruit, my beautiful Son, everywhere—but none reflected the likeness I kept closest to my heart. If I were to paint Him, for one thing, He’d be alive. Say what you like about Sacrificial Lambs; to me, He was still my boy, my baby. I held Him in my arms, bloody, bawling and innocent. Innocent, no matter what the stories have to say about sin. I was Mother in every way to His physical body, and I missed Him. I always will.

Holy Mary… Mother of God…

The man lingered over the words, made them almost a crooning song. His hands slid softly against each other as he prayed. The way he said my name– words like “holy” and “mother of God” were simple soft adornments. Mary… Another man had called me Mary, more lifetimes ago than memory usually serves, but I could recall how that other man had groaned that name, gasped it, cried it as he loved me deep and strong. Why did a man in a church centuries later remind me so strongly of those primal times?

Pray for us sinners… now, and at the hour of our death.

Yes. They had all sinned, and they all knew it– but not a lot of them truly cared. I let my mind wander during Preston’s next few prayers, perplexed by the trembling within me. Then, suddenly–

My Queen! My Mother!

I blushed as only one worthy of the title “virgin” can, and my breath caught. The Consecration? I reached slowly to lay a hand on his heart, feeling his soul. It beat earnest, rich and rippling like a pool of living wine.

I give you… all of myself.

My body pulsed with his urgent sincerity. The words were promises, swarming over me like fiery hands, teasing… touching. Holy waters simmered deep inside me, and a slight moan parted my lips.

And, to show my devotion to you, I consecrate to you my eyes…

I passed my quivering hand over his face. As if sensing it, he closed those eyes and leaned imperceptibly towards my ethereal touch. I held my breath and watched, captivated and giddy at his unknowing sensitivity.

My ears… my mouth… my heart. My entire self.

I touched each part as he named it, then breathlessly touched his face again. My body tingled, almost sizzled with desire and need, and I poured my energies into him, willing him to feel what he had done to me.

Therefore, O loving Mother…

I sighed. It hadn’t worked. I settled softly by his side to wait out this storm of passion. But even as my loneliness congealed, my hope was renewed; Preston paused suddenly, and half-glanced to where I sat.

As… as I am your own, keep me…

His eyes locked undeniably on mine, and I stared aghast, terrified and exhilarated. A wondering smile flickered on his thin lips, and he reached a hand towards my hair as he whispered the last few words of the prayer.

Defend me, as your property… and possession.

He drew back with a jolt, less than an inch from where I hovered in delighted distress, then leapt to his feet without another word and fled the church, leaving me confused– and aroused– but patient. He would be back. I knew he would be back… to finish what he had begun.

xxxxx

I had often come to the church on Main Street to pray after work. It’s always open, being in a small town and not overly stuffed with valuables, and I took pleasure in a few minutes to myself in the peaceful hush. Though not given to grand spiritualist escapades or extravagant displays of faith, I considered myself a pretty godly guy.

I liked especially to pray to the Virgin Mary– I had always thought of her as a Mother, helping her children in their hours of need and caring for us all. She was an icon from ancient history, through which to channel our supplications and receive back a sense of completion and worth.

Holy thoughts aside, however, what had just happened inside that church was nothing short of… sexual. Hormones were screaming lusty things unbidden in my ears, from glands still burning with a sort of ferocious spiritual carnality. Hastily, I climbed into my car, slamming the door tight after me and gripping the steering wheel, just to have something solid to hold onto. What was wrong with me? I closed my eyes; I could still feel her beside me, touching me– wanting me so strongly that my body could only react in tune.

This was ridiculous. A raging erection for the most esteemed saint in all of Catholicism?

“Get a hold of yourself, Pres,” I said bracingly.

“It’s just your imagination.” I glanced down at my distended pants and frowned.

Just my imagination. Maybe it had just been a while. Yeah, that was it. I started the car and drove home, ignoring the throbbing from below.

“Mary?” I called, stepping through the doorway and dropping my keys on the kitchen counter.

“Here!” my wife yelled back from the living room. “I’m in here– almost got it– almost… oh NO!”

I walked in just in time to see my diminutive spouse lean over a bit too far for a hammer while supporting the frame of the flat-pack bookshelf she was trying to assemble, and lose her balance. The shelves she was wrestling with teetered once, then toppled with blatant disdain. Mary collapsed dramatically in the middle of the wreckage with a muffled scream of disgust.

“Yikes, honey! So close, and yet so far!” I reached down to help her out of the jungle of planks.

“That thing is cursed!” Mary kicked at a board and sniffed, her wounded ego soothed somewhat by my sympathetic kiss. “You’re home a little early. What’s the occasion?”

I gave her a look of mock hurt. “Aren’t I welcome?”

Mary squeezed me tight. “Of course you’re welcome, silly. I’m glad you’re here.” I could feel the underwire of her bra digging into my ribs, and wondered how women could tolerate it on theirs.

“Good. I don’t know why I even go to work, with a hot chick like you waiting for me.” I said with a lopsided smile, trying to subtly work my hand up her shirt to unfasten that blasted bra.

“Uh-huh,” she smirked knowingly, wriggling her shoulders.

My fingers were a bit out of practice, but I managed to pinch the clasp just right, and the garment sprang apart. Mary sighed contentedly as it fell off, her green eyes holding mine with their gaze.

“Got something in mind, I take it?”

I felt my erection returning with a vengeance. My wife unbuttoned my shirt with a few short, expert tugs and untucked it from my pants in the same manner. I had removed my tie in the car, after the unsettling experience in the church… but time to think about that later.

“Mary…” Her name felt odd on my lips for an instant, but that was drowned quickly by the sensation of her wet kisses, sucking sensuously at my neck.

“Ohh, Mary!” I groaned, and her waist ground firmly against my hardened cock.

She reached up—at a petite five foot, two inches, she had to stretch quite a ways to twine her arms around my neck, and it left her naked breasts beautifully displayed beneath her turtleneck blouse.

“All right, sexy. Hey, I saved a bottle of wine for a special occasion! I’ll go get it.” Mary kissed me once more, gave my bulge a squeeze, then stepped smartly away. She paused impishly in the doorway and glanced over her shoulder, then stepped right out of her skirt, giving me a brief view of bright pink panties before she disappeared with a giggle.

I tugged hurriedly at my own clothes, hopping ridiculously on one foot in a desperate attempt to get out of my shoes and pants. With a fleeting thought of gratitude that she had already unbuttoned it, I flung my shirt onto the dead bookshelf and practically ran after my wife. She was standing at the table, topless now, breasts hanging like small ripe oranges as she lit some candles. Glancing up, she surveyed me in my white socks and blue boxers, fidgeting with horniness in the middle of the kitchen.

God bless her, she didn’t laugh.

“Don’t singe those, sweetheart!” I quipped, and joined her at the table. She smiled demurely as I stepped close behind her and cupped my hands over her tits, feeling the nipples contract against my fingers. My cock jumped eagerly between us.

“I think you’ll keep them safe enough,” she replied, grasping me tightly in both hands behind her.

“But just in case…” I said, feigning deep concern. With a quick puff of air, I put the candles out. Her hands were driving me crazy, every tug bringing me closer to losing control, and I didn’t want to be interrupted by smoke alarms.

Mary stretched backwards, tipping her head all the way up and regarding me upside-down. “So thoughtful, Pres. You gonna protect me all night, or fuck me?”

I needed no second bidding. I grabbed her shoulders and spun her around to face me. She hooked her fingers around the band of her panties and slid them off, standing naked and wriggling in my arms– so alive, so goddamned sexy it made me weak. The wine crashed over the side of the table unnoticed, and the cooling candles were next to go as I pushed her back onto the rickety table.

With no more patience for romance, I jerked off my boxers and unceremoniously stuffed my cock between Mary’s short, slender legs. The table creaked in protest, but Mary was all in favor; though she arched with surprise at my lack of preamble, her embrace was deliciously slick.

Already I was breathing hard, trying to keep control. She clenched my hardened flesh inside her and crooned my name, tugging insistently on the hair on my chest, urging me deeper. I grabbed her knees, thrusting my aching cock back and forth so fiercely that droplets of her wetness spattered up to my stomach. My gorgeous wife squealed with shock and pleasure, the sound jarred out of her in short cries with each stroke while she squeezed my arms so tightly they bled under her biting little nails.

My vision was blurring. I couldn’t see her flushed, wide-eyed face any more as I drove into her again and again, calling her name. “Mary! Mary! Ohh, Mary!” My Mary was there, alive but almost certainly bruised beneath this uncivilized embrace– but for a heartbeat, Mary was also there, a wistful spirit with lonely eyes, touching my face as she heard my heated prayers.

I gasped, swept along in the uncontrollable throes of release, even as I choked on the name.

“Mar— uhh-ahhh!” My body contorted, straining as I stared wildly around me.

The spirit — Mary — was gone, as quickly as she had come. My thoroughly fucked wife remained, spasming with me as I poured my essence inside her and collapsed, quaking, on top of her.

“Oh, my God. Mary…”

But which one did I mean?

THE END