BTB Chapel

As I drove towards the cottage I was more convinced than ever that we didn't have a real story, or at least not one that was worth the long deception effort we had produced to gain membership of the BTB Chapel.

I was excited. Why? It certainly wasn't because of the story about the BTB Chapel. That looked like a total waste of our time. I was excited because I was going to see Paul and spend a night with him. In my handbag I had a large supply of condoms, enough for tonight and many more nights together. But we had to be careful. If we were to maintain the deception going away together was a risk, every time.

The risk added spice to our encounter. Of course we would discuss the BTB Chapel, but what I really wanted was Paul in bed with me, tonight and for many more nights.

I also wanted to stop the lies. I wanted to tell anybody, everybody, that I loved Paul and he loved me. The staged arguments had become harder to do. I didn't want to shout at Paul, to slap his face in public. I wanted to hug and kiss him, frequently and wherever I could.

When I arrived at the cottage we jumped into each other's arms as I crossed the threshold. I dropped my overnight bag in the hallway. We ended up in a tangle of limbs on the settee. We couldn't keep our hands off each other until we had kissed and cuddled for at least half an hour.

We would have continued if my bladder hadn't insisted that I do something about it. I rushed to the bathroom. Paul shouted through the door that he was making tea and would see me in the kitchen.

I was surprised to find that my bladder wasn't as full as I thought it was. In my excitement at meeting Paul I hadn't appreciated just how aroused I was. I had never felt this strength of sexual desire before, and had misinterpreted my body's signals.

As I left the bathroom I collected my overnight bag and my handbag. I shouted to Paul:

"Bring the tea to the bedroom!"

"Bedroom?" he queried.

"Bedroom." I repeated. "I want you. Now!"

Paul got the message from my tone. He put the tea tray down on the dressing table and joined a naked Sandra in the bed. I grabbed a condom and pushed his cock into it. Almost before he could become erect I had rolled on top of him and was riding him mercilessly. I experienced the fastest orgasm I had ever had, and more followed in wave after wave. Paul was hanging on as I pounded up and down on him.

As I slowed down I could see Paul looking up at me in wonder. I had never been this demanding. I supported myself with one hand and pulled one of his hands to my breast. I squeezed his erection gently a few times. It didn't take much of my effort to make him come into the condom.

I slumped against his chest. We lay together for about a quarter of an hour before I let him go to pour the slightly stewed tea.

We sat up in bed drinking tea. I asked him how the service had been.

"Odd," he said. "They started with a hymn which had 'Burn the Bitch' as part of the chorus. Deacon R then went to the rostrum. His speech or sermon was on respect and forgiveness for our partner's failings. That didn't seem to fit the hymn. The next hymn was more like a Rugby song, about faithless women fucking everybody. A few men came to the rostrum to complaining about their wives' recent behaviour, with no names mentioned. The next hymn was again about cheating spouses. Two more men said their piece and the service ended with a shorter repeat of the 'Burn The Bitch' hymn. We all went to the bar and had a few beers. Or they did. I said I was driving. When I left some of them were on their fifth or sixth pint."

"But?" I asked. Paul hadn't sounded definite about the service.

"But? Yes. There is a but. It wasn't convincing. I felt that it was a staged performance. The men's complaints had no passion, no real sense of grievance. The 'Burn the Bitch' hymns were sung almost mechanically, unlike the other ruder hymns. The whole thing was over in twenty minutes and there seemed to be a relief at completing a boring task. And there was one very odd thing as I left early."

"Odd?" I prompted.

"Yes. In the foyer there was a notice board showing Chapel events. Every notice seemed to be very new even though some covered several months' activities, some three or four months ago. I noticed that one had covered something underneath. I lifted it."

Paul paused. He was grinning.

"It was a flyer for a strip club which offered discounts for Chapel members."

"A strip club?"

"A strip club. I didn't look under the other notices but I was sure that the notice board had been changed just for me. If so, perhaps the whole service was a farce because I was there. I think it was. They really wanted to get to the bar as soon as they could."

"But why would they do that, Paul?"

"Perhaps they thought I was there as a journalist and they wanted to appear as a genuine religious organisation?"

"That's a lot of effort to mislead you, Paul."

"Or to mislead us, Sandra. If what we have been shown is all fake, maybe there is a story after all. But what is the Chapel for, if it isn't what we have seen?"

We left that question hanging. I told Paul about my meeting with Mrs Owen, Deaconess J, that was very similar to his version of meeting Mr Owen as Deacon R.

The rest of the evening we forgot all about the BTB Chapel. We had our evening meal with a bottle of wine and went back to bed.

Paul used his lips to explore my whole body, ending between my legs. I was screaming loudly as he used his tongue inside my lower lips. I pulled him up my body so that his condom-covered prick could thrust inside me. Later, much later, I used my lips on him. He was writhing about as I teased his erection before taking as much as I could inside my mouth. I need practice before I can take it all. By the morning I had managed slightly more than at my first attempt. I rode Paul one last time before breakfast. It could be the last time for a couple of weeks because my cousin was going to be using her cottage next weekend, and we couldn't be seen together around town. If I went to Paul's apartment, or he came to mine, our long deception would be exposed.

At work, the Editor's secretary had left notes on both our desks. We had an appointment with the Editor at a quarter to two o'clock. Paul went out to buy sandwiches for our lunch because we were working through. We didn't feel that we could produce yet another argument in public. We were in love, and wanted to feel that love, not pretend hatred we hadn't got.

Just before the appointment time Paul came over to my desk. After I had checked that there was no one around, I pecked him on the cheek briefly. We walked into the Editor's office at the correct time. He had coffee for us, and a thermos with more empty cups as if he was expecting others.

"Sandra, Paul," he said, "the critical point in your story about the BTB Chapel is now. Mr and Mrs Owen will be joining us at two o'clock."

He held up a hand to stop our questions.

"You've got nothing to worry about. This will be a friendly encounter and after it you'll soon be able to stop pretending that you're not in love with each other. You and we will have a story, not the one we expected, but a good one. Tell me, quickly, what you have found out so far."

I let Paul give a summary of the meetings and the service, including his doubts.

"OK," The Editor said, "It's a story but not much of one and certainly not worth the effort you two have put into it. But Mr and Mrs Owen will tell us the real story, and that will be worth printing. We wouldn't have had the story except for your work."

We were intrigued. We asked questions that the Editor didn't answer except to repeat that the Owens would enlighten all of us.

At two o'clock the Editor's Secretary showed the Owens in the office. I stared. They were holding hands. Mrs Owen noticed my look, and held up their linked hands.

"We'll explain, Sandra," She said.

The Editor asked them to sit down and poured coffee for them. Mr Owen sipped his coffee, put the cup down, leant back in his chair and smiled.

"Sandra, Paul? You're frauds. You aren't an arguing couple. You're a couple in love. How do we know? Mr Editor?"

"I didn't know," the Editor said, "but their niece works here as a compositor. She has seen you two around the office and noticed that you are very good friends here. She told Mrs Owen before Paul went to the Chapel the first time."

"And while you two are frauds," Mrs Owen said, "so are we. We aren't arguing with each other. I haven't got more money than my husband has. We've even got a joint bank account."

"And we own and run the Chapel," Mr Owen said. "There are no more Deacons or Deaconesses, just we two."

"So why?" I couldn't help blurting out.

"Why? A Chapel is a religious establishment." Mr Owen said "No one really cares what happens there. A man, or a woman, could go to a Chapel and their partner wouldn't object. That was our starting point."

"You are aware of equality legislation?" Mrs Owen asked.

Paul and I nodded.

"If I wanted to set up a women only club, I might run into difficulties with that legislation..."

"As would I with a men-only club," Mr Owen added.

"But if there was a women only place, a husband would assume that his wife wouldn't be flirting with other men, nor a man be flirting with other women if where he was going was men only." Mrs Owen continued. "But a Chapel that had separate events for men and women? No problem. Equality legislation doesn't apply and if the authorities tried it they would get loud complaints from some religious groups."

"Some of our friends were in damaged or fractured relationships," Mr Owen went on, "and both wanted somewhere comfortable to have a break from the arguments. A segregated chapel that was actually two separate clubs for men and women could give them a refuge, somewhere to moan about each other without recriminations, and could help to mend their relationship. Or if it was beyond mending, provide resources for a mutually agreed separation or divorce.

We set up the Chapel as 'Burn The Bitch' or 'Burn the Bastard' because that's how some of our friends felt. We underestimated the cathartic effect of being able to have a break, to talk about what was wrong, and just to yell and scream about the other. We had created safe environments, comfortable drinking dens, and displacement activities. Originally we had dart boards on both sides, and darts could be thrown at pictures of the other half."

Mrs Owen held up a hand to stop her husband.

"The original members really wanted to hurt their partners, but wouldn't. The dart boards soon became just dart boards. The relationships benefitted from a break once or twice a week with neither partner feeling guilty about it. But we, perhaps stupidly, had provided a real way to express that anger. We set up an apparently real 'Burn the Bitch' scenario. It was a fraud, a realistic fraud, and very convincing. Unfortunately for us, some members really believe it is true."

"And that's where Paul and Sandra can help us," Mr Owen said. "We want to expose ourselves, to admit that the Chapel isn't a Chapel but men's and women's clubs, and that our 'Burn the Bitch' drama isn't and never was real.

Our special services feature 'Burn the Bitch'. The carpet down the central aisle slides apart to show a transparent topped tunnel. Originally that was a long inspection pit when the Chapel was a car servicing centre. We just cleaned it up and adapted it. It cost us too much but it was a believable scenario. The 'Bitch'..."

"...or 'Bastard' sometimes," Mrs Owen interjected.

"...is chained and gagged with a scold's bridle. She walks down the tunnel followed by one of the large rolls of Hay. She can't retreat. The hay weighs half a ton and is pushed behind her by a hydraulic ram. At the far end, the rostrum panelling has been removed to show real flames roaring up the large chimney. The 'Bitch' is pushed underneath the raised dais and the flames change colour as she is burned alive while the congregation sing 'Burn the Bitch'.

The 'Bitch' is supposed to be from a twinned Chapel a couple of hundred miles away. There, she will have disappeared, and her partner will report her disappearance to the Police. But she will never be found because she has been cremated and her ashes thrown away. Her partner can rebuild his life without her."

"But it's a lie, a fraud, for which we charge the members twenty pounds each to help to fund the abduction of the Bitch. We say that members can pay to have their 'Bitch' burned alive at the other Chapel. The fee is fifty thousand pounds for a successful Bitch Burning." Mrs Owen said.

"So far, no member has been stupid enough, or rich enough, to pay us that much." Mr Owen said. "But some day, someone might. We need to stop the whole thing now. It's got out of hand. The 'Bitch' is an actress who makes herself look different each time. She even plays 'The Bastard'. She just walks under the dais, exits through a side door and is never anywhere near the flames. The roll of hay stops under the dais and is used later.

If she is a 'Bitch' I read out from the rostrum the reasons why she is being burned. If she's a 'Bastard' Mrs Owen does the reading. Whichever of us isn't reading prepares the actress for her entrance as the sacrifice.

We need to reveal the truth, that it is just an act, not the real thing. A few of our members get really excited about the burning. It's like a gladiatorial contest. They want someone to die. We have to stop now.

We also need to tell the town what the Chapel is, just a club house. Our services? Sorry, Paul, the one you saw was a fake. We have strippers for the men's services, and male strippers for the women. That's why our normal services are popular."

"What we want you two to do," the Editor said, "is to be the apparent sacrifice next Sunday. You'll walk through the tunnel and then appear on stage unharmed. The actress will join you. You will expose the sacrifice as a charade."

"And you'll have a news story," Mrs Owen added.

"Are you sure we won't get hurt?" Paul asked.

"Yes," Mr Owen said, reaching into his briefcase. "This is the scold's bridle".

In his hands it looked real and scary. He passed it to Paul.

"It's plastic," he said. "lightweight flexible plastic."

He put it on his head with the gag in his mouth. It seemed very real.

"I can even talk with it on," Paul said, only slightly muffled, before he took the bridle off.

"And these are the chains you'll wear."

They were also light plastic but seemed like forged iron. I took them. They seemed heavy but were flimsy. I snapped the cuffs around my wrists. I pulled them apart easily.

"What we would like," Mr Owen said, "is for you two to come to the Chapel this afternoon and do a walk through with the actress demonstrating how the illusion works. You'll see that you come nowhere near the flames. They are real but are projected onto the rostrum support from a distance. The changing colour is produced by throwing iron filings into the furnace. Will you?"

I looked at Paul. He looked at me and nodded slightly.

"Yes," I said. "We'll do it."

"And after Sunday you can stop pretending to hate each other," the Editor added.

+++

We drove to the chapel. The actress, who still wants to remain anonymous, was there to meet us. Mr Owen lit the furnace while we walked through the tunnel several times. The glass above wasn't wholly clear. We couldn't identify Mrs Owen who was watching us from above except by the shape and colour of her clothes. We tried with the scold's bridles and chains, the two of us and the actress apparently gagged and restrained. Finally we did it again with the big roll of hay chasing us. We had to shuffle fast to avoid being in contact with it. If the chains had been real we might have been propelled along the tunnel by the hay. At the end of the tunnel under the dais flooring the hay bale stopped dead where it couldn't be seen. We left by a side door, climbed some stairs, and reached the wing of the stage. We could enter stage left or by walking behind the backdrop arrive on stage right .

Mr Owen was right. We came nowhere near the flames. We didn't even feel heat from them.

The actress took pictures for us on Paul's digital camera, showing us apparently chained and gagged, shuffling ahead of the bale of hay, and the flames under the rostrum. Paul took pictures of Mr and Mrs Owen at the rostrum in their robes as Deacon R and Deaconess J. He added a few more shots of the interior and exterior of the Chapel. We could use some of them to illustrate our story.

We were impatient to get to Sunday. We couldn't appear to be lovers and we couldn't get away to the cottage.

+++

On Sunday we arrived long before the service to meet Mr and Mrs Owen and the unnamed actress. She was already in costume and make-up as a hard looking 'bitch'. We waited, downstairs at the base of the ramp leading to the tunnel as the congregation arrived. Mr Owen had blind copied us the Chapel's email inviting the entire congregation to a free BTB special service. The wording indicated that every member, male and female, was expected to attend, or else.

Even where we were we could hear Mr Owen as Deacon R starting the service. After the 'Burn the Bitch' hymn he read out the misdemeanours of the latest 'Bitch' to be burned. Apparently she had been trying to get her husband to disown and disinherit his own children from a deceased wife so that her children could inherit it all. Her husband had employed a private detective. His wife had been arranging for her husband to die in a fake car accident almost as soon as he had changed his will.

The congregation began to chant 'Burn the Bitch', 'Burn the Bitch'. The sound was very different from the hymn. It seemed like real hatred.

Mr Owen called for quiet. His voice changed.

"We have a real problem, chapel members," he said. "Two reporters from our local paper have been investigating the Chapel. They have been pretending to hate each other, and that's why they have joined us as temporary members. You know them as M215 and F897 but they are really here as reporters Paul and Sandra. I don't think they have found out too much yet, but they are getting too close to the truth. What I should do is send them to the other chapel to disappear. I can't. That chapel's furnace needs repair. The two of them are chained and gagged below. Shall we disappear them?"

There was a silence.

"Shall we burn them before it's too late?"

There were a few faint cries of 'Burn them', but little conviction unlike the strong chanting there had been before.

"We can't let them go now they are chained. They must die," Mr Owen said.

"Burn them" was heard slightly stronger but there were also cries of 'No'.

"The process has started. I can't stop it now." Mr Owen said.

Behind us the hay bale began to move. The three of us emerged under the glass flooring and began to move forward, the hay bale at our heels. We took our cue from the actress who tried to stop the hay bale. All three of us pushed in vain, gradually giving ground backwards.

"Stop it!" someone cried from the congregation. A few more joined in. "Stop it!"

Above us we could see men on one side and women on the other peering down at us.

The cries of "Stop it!" became louder. Some of the congregation rushed towards Mr Owen perched above the visible flames. They wanted the process to end.

He reached under his rostrum to flick a switch. The flames vanished leaving a black space under his feet.

"It's stopped. The flames are out. Do you know what you have done? Our secrets are revealed. Everyone will know what happens here. Is that what you want?"

There were a few shouts of "Yes!". They became louder.

We had reached the blank space under the dais. The hay bale stopped. The actress led us through the door and up the stairs, still apparently gagged and chained. We stood in the wings waiting for our cue.