The Making of "A Little Heresy"

"I still don't know what came over me yesterday," Greg said through clenched teeth, overtaking another car. "Honest."

"Okay, from the beginning then. Why were you hammered in the middle of the day anyway?"

Silence.

"Greg?" Grace asked again. Greg was about to terminate the call, but reconsidered. He took a deep breath.

"Okay, listen. And no word to anyone about that. I've been fired. Holsten & Newman, the place where I worked? It's shutting down. No one wants to use stock brokerage any more. Our clients are leaving. And ... I made some wrong calls when trying to save as much of our fortune as possible. The deals backfired."

"My god," Grace whispered. "And then?"

"I went to have a few drinks with colleagues of mine, to take the edge off."

"A few? Amanda said you were barely coherent when you hit her."

"A few too many. Grace, I don't know what happened, and since then I'm trying to apologize to Amanda, but she won't hear me out."

The road sign announcing he was "Entering Greenbury" zipped past.

"Maybe when you catch up with her you can tell her what you just told me. Show you have balls. And if push comes to shove, Jake and I will help as best as we can. We're family, after all."

"Thanks, Gracie. And yes, I will. She deserves that much, even if she wants to rip my head off. Bye."

Greg terminated the call and took a deep breath. That was easier than he feared. He had tormented himself the whole drive from New York to Greenbury on what to say, but going for the unaltered truth, no matter how bad it was, seemed to be the best solution. He hoped that Amanda would let him talk this time. At least face to face there was no way she could terminate the call. He slowed down his car and looked around. It was already pretty late in the evening and he had been to Greenbury only on occasion, so he needed a bit to get his bearings. Only a few minutes later, he parked in front of the Passenger Hotel.

* * * *

The chapel seemed to glow when Amanda climbed out of the cab. Soft light spilled from every window. She felt odd, somewhat naked. Charles had her leave her phone at the hotel, to avoid unnecessary distractions. She paid the driver, then made her way towards the old stone building. The door handle was missing, leaving an irregular hole in the door. She pushed it inwards, causing the hinges to squeal in protest.

The chapel's interior had been rearranged. Most of the pews had been moved to the right side, leaving only three on the left. Those three were placed in a square pattern with one side open. One of the benches had been shoved directly against the wall, and several large candle holders were placed next to it, bathing the space underneath the stained-glass windows in golden radiance. A crucifix had been mounted right above the bench, the wooden Jesus figurine looking down upon it. An easel stood near the aisle. Next to that, a folding table, its top cluttered with several paint jars and a pot of brushes. Several boxes were stuffed under it. Charles, back turned her way, was working on his palette.

Amanda harrumphed softly. There was no way he couldn't have heard the door hinges. Charles straightened up. He wore a loose smock stained with paint spatters and a red bandana to keep hair out of his face.

"You made it," he said by way of greeting. "Ready for the show?"

"Kinda. I'm actually pretty nervous," Amanda said, putting her purse and coat onto one of the pews on the right side. "What next?"

"Time for you to change into your costume," Charles said with a little grin. He pulled a bundle of black fabric from one of his boxes and tossed it her way.

Amanda caught and unfurled it. It was a nun's wimple, a white hood with black outer cloth.

"That's all?"

"Of course not." Charles held up a fine gold chain with an ornate crucifix. "I'll put this on you once you've changed."

Amanda hesitated. You wanted this, a small voice in her head whispered. To get back at Greg. Or maybe to find out who you truly are.

"Scared?" Charles asked her, tucking a brush behind his ear. "I won't bite. Unless you ask me to, that is."

"How—" Amanda began, but stopped. Charles had been very clear about not asking questions.

"You do as I say, no questions asked. And now I'm just asking you to get into that costume. I'll even turn my back if it makes you feel better."

Amanda chuckled at that. It would be a futile gesture, since he'd be staring at her naked body all evening anyway.

"It's okay. I have to get used to you looking at me at one time or another. Why not now?" Hesitantly, she unbuttoned her blouse and shrugged out of it, tossing the garment onto her coat. Charles pulled a folding stool from one of his boxes, shook it open and sat down, all the while looking at Amanda. She swayed her hips as she reached behind her back and unhooked her bra.

"Want me to clap?" Charles softly asked her.

"No, thank you. Don't make this any harder than it already is," Amanda said, a little quaver in her voice. She flicked the bra onto the steadily growing pile of clothes. Next, she kicked off her shoes, congratulating herself on wearing low profile shoes instead of her usual high-heels. The last thing she needed now was a sprained ankle. She looked up, directly into Charles' gaze. His smile somehow gave her confidence, and a small part of her even felt turned on when his gaze swept over her breasts. She slowly turned, undoing her belt, button and fly.

"You're doing very well so far," Charles congratulated her. "I'm proud of you."

Emboldened by his approval, Amanda decided to kick things up a notch. She swayed her hips, feeling his gaze linger on her firm behind as she pushed down her jeans inch by teasing inch, feeling goosebumps erupt on her legs as more and more skin was revealed. She kicked out of her pants, then, flicking Charles a scorching look over her shoulder, she bent forward, presenting Charles a clear view between her thighs as she slid off her socks.

Only wearing her panties, she turned to face him again, trying not to cross her arms in front of her breasts.

"Almost done," he said, motioning at her hips. "It will be a full-size painting, so you'll have to bare it all."

"All right," Amanda whispered, locking her gaze with his. Her hands slid down the sides of her body until her fingertips reached the lacy elastic. She pushed her fingertips underneath and brushed that final piece of clothing off her hips. Charles' gaze seemed like a hot caress as it followed her panties. Amanda was proud she managed to cram in a quick shave before leaving the hotel that evening.

"All to your liking, Charles?" Amanda asked, claiming the wimple off a pew and putting it over her head.

"You're beautiful. Like a sinful angel. Rest assured, I will paint you as such. Turn around, please."

She did as he asked, turning her back on him. Charles stepped into her, the cool fabric of his smock caressing her back and butt. His hands reached around her, placing the crucifix on its chain right between her breasts. His breath was warm on her skin, raising the little hairs on her neck. She wasn't quite sure, but she imagined the sensation of a hard bulge brushing her backside.

"Horny, Charles?" Amanda whispered, a cocky smile playing at the edges of her mouth.

"Very much," he breathed into her ear, his hands caressing down her sides. Amanda inhaled sharply at the sensation. His hands felt so good on her skin! Once on her hips, he pulled her into him, confirming her suspicion. He sported a sizable bulge under his smock. "But we're here to create art, not to behave like animals. Besides, you're married."

Amanda turned to face him and pulled her wedding ring off her finger. "A nun isn't."

"Good thinking," Charles said, taking the ring off her. He placed it next to her other belongings on the pew. "Doesn't change the fact that I want to paint you."

First, Amanda thought. That was a 'first' if ever I heard one. She shuddered, surprised at the thoughts whirling through her head. She was this close to dropping down and ripping the smock of Charles' body, only to see how hard he really was.

Charles however seemed to have other plans. He took her hand and guided her to the bench underneath the windows. The heat from the candle holders was palpable here, creating a zone of warmth within the otherwise chilly chapel.

"How do you want me?" Amanda asked.

"Lay down on the pew. Head to the right, feet to the left. Place your head on the arm rest."

Amanda did as he asked and slid onto the bench. It was wide enough to lay comfortably on it. "Like this?" she asked, throwing him a sultry look.

"Not quite there yet. Spread your legs. Put one foot on the ground and pull up the other, until your heel touches your butt."

Amanda followed his instructions. The pose left her sex wide open, utterly exposed. She looked up, directly at the wooden Jesus figurine. "What are we doing here, Charles?" she whispered. She wasn't much of a believer, but she felt at odds displaying herself like that under the cross.

"We're making A little Heresy, Amanda. Be a good, Christ-loving nun and play with yourself," Charles ordered, moving his easel down the aisle for a better angle.

Amanda placed a hand over her sex, startled at the amount of wetness her fingers felt. The other hand she placed atop a breast, caressing her nipple with a fingertip.

"Like this?" she asked over the hectic scratches of Charles' carbon pen on canvas.

"You're pretending," the painter snapped. "I want the real thing. Come on, a few moments ago you wanted to blow me. Already forgotten?"

"How—?"

"No questions, Amanda. Aren't you horny, dear?" He looked past his easel, directly into her eyes. Then his gaze traveled down her body, caressing her. No, it was almost like he was devouring her, sucking up every little detail and Amanda felt heat well up from within, a desire she had to quench. She spread herself even wider, using two fingers of her hand to open herself up. She pushed her ass off the bench, trying to shove her sex into Charles' face.

"Good enough? Your horny little nun dirty enough for you?" she gasped. Her other hand flew down her body, caressing her clit. No, that wasn't enough. She thrust two fingers deep into herself, amazed at the wet sounds she made when she moved them.

"Yes, keep at it, dear," Charles murmured. He shoved the carbon pen into a jar and picked up a brush, dipping it into the gold color on his palette.

Amanda whimpered as she finger-fucked herself, desperate for release. No matter what she did, how cunningly she manipulated her clit or tweaked her nipples, how hard she impaled herself onto her fingers, she couldn't reach the relieving climax. She rocked on the bench, not minding if she ruined the picture. Was he even drawing one? She barely heard the gentle swooshing of his strokes on the canvas over her own helpless gasps and moans.

"Charles ... help me!" Amanda cried, tears of despair running down her cheeks.

"Just a little longer, dear," Charles said, not even bothering to look past the easel. "I'm almost done."

"No, I- I can't take much more of this," Amanda whimpered, bucking her hips against her hand, her index and middle finger deep inside her, her thumb ravaging her clit.

Charles exhaled slowly, then stepped back from the easel. "Yes. That's it. Look at what we have created, Amanda!" Triumphantly, he turned the easel.

Amanda stared open-mouthed, her own torment forgotten. There was no picture of her. The mad rush of colors puked onto the canvas could hardly be called a picture at all. Crude runes were spattered around a gold-and-red-and-flesh colored swirl which seemed to move out of its own accord, turning and pulsing in a life of its own. Someone, something, stood near the easel, a shriveled, grey husk of a man, wearing Charles's attire. The skin was pulled taut over its face, turning it into a skull-like abomination. Where Charles's expressive grey eyes had been, lifeless white orbs glared. The thing held itself up by holding on the easel and sputtered alien words, words Amanda couldn't comprehend, harsh syllables which shook the glass in each window.

"Who ... what are you? Is this some sick joke?" Amanda shouted, trying to sit up. She had to flee. Her body wouldn't heed her orders though. Her hands were still wedged between her thighs, trying unsuccessfully to arouse her.

"Oh no, this is all I have been working for ever since I have laid eyes on you," the thing hissed. "You are such a troubled soul, dear Amanda. No self-esteem, so much jealousy of your sister's perfect marriage and then that little thing with your husband. You are my perfect choice, and now I will make you immortal!"

The thing flicked its free hand and the swirl of color jumped off the canvas, elongating and expanding impossibly. Like some glistening, half-melted worm it slithered across the chapel's old stone tiles.

Amanda tried to scramble up the bench, to get as far away from the encroaching horror as possible, but the only thing she could do was scream helplessly, her screams taking up an inhuman quality as the color-worm swallowed her feet, slowly ingesting her naked, helplessly writhing form. The screams were cut off when it finally swallowed her with a wet noise not unlike a sickening, slobbery kiss.

Eldritch energies erupted from the throbbing, pulsating mass of color on the pew where just a moment ago, a beautiful woman had been, strokes of sickly green and purple lightning connecting the colors, the easel and the husk together. The thing at the easel arced its back, an inhuman scream tearing itself from its lungs as immense amounts of energy poured through it, the kind of energy only a ripe, troubled human soul could provide.

As suddenly as it began, the horror ended. The thing which called itself Charles Redburn straightened and pulled off the bandana, shaking loose its hair. Then it went around the easel, marveling at its work.

It would sustain its form for the next thirty years or so, and if it played its cards right, it could make a tidy profit off the picture too. Or maybe it should leave it here, for Amanda's husband to enjoy.

* * * *

Greg stood in front of the picture, stunned. It was obviously Amanda, his Amanda, who was depicted spread-legged, desperately clawing at her pussy. She wore a nun's wimple and not much more, only a slender crucifix between her breasts as she fervently tried to pleasure herself. The light of two large candle holders painted her skin a sensual gold, reflecting off each tiny bead of sweat on her body. But most of all her eyes caught his gaze, the look of utter, insane desire. She had never looked at him like that, not even while they were dating. And where was she now? The chapel was empty, except for the easel with that incredible, lifelike picture on it. Had it not been for Amanda's phone and the notes she had made on it, he would have never found out where she had gone to. "Black Lake Chapel, 8pm." If he had only been faster. If only he would have found the courage to face her earlier.

A gust of wind brushed through the open doorway, causing a sheet of white dust to cascade off one of the benches, the one pushed back against a wall.

Greg shook his head, again looking at the picture. And for a brief moment, he thought the picture would look back at him.

The End

I hope you enjoyed this twisted fantasy of mine. If you did, let me know. Vote and/or comment. It's the only way for me to know if and how you liked this. Thanks for your time.

Blind_Justice