Blasphemy at the Altar

Evelyn’s Sinful Church Fantasy of Desecration and Lust

The chapel smelled of incense and candle wax, but all I could smell was sin. The pews were empty, the choir long gone, and the only sound was the echo of my heels on stone as I walked toward the altar.

I should have been on my knees in prayer. Instead, I was on my knees for something far filthier.

They came in shadows, faceless, nameless, just bodies pulled into my orbit. Sinners who wanted to worship me in ways no holy book would ever allow. My lace clung to my skin, black against pale, already damp with anticipation.

I leaned against the altar, fingers spread across carved wood, while the first pair of hands gripped my hips. My moan rose up toward the stained glass, shattering the silence like a hymn gone wrong. The statues watched. The saints stayed silent. And I let myself be taken.

One after another, they filled me, leaving their marks as I clutched the altar to stay upright. I begged for more, begged to be ruined in the very place meant to keep me pure. My cries echoed louder than any sermon.

By the time they left me, I was trembling, dripping down my thighs. The candles still flickered. The altar still stood. But I had claimed it, defiled it, made it mine. I looked up at the cross, lips swollen, body aching, and whispered with a smile: Forgive me, Father, for I will sin again.