Sex Cult

I don’t know how to categorize this. It’s a stroker, but it’s also psychological? Very niche. Very fetish. Freud would have a field day with this one. Buttstuff. Buttstuff everywhere. But, also not?

Also, I very much want to clarify: This is in no way endorsing fucked up cult shit, and this is a very fucked up cult being portrayed, even though it’s presented through the eyes of the indoctrinated. It definitely touches on non-consent, and that’s part of the kink, so be forewarned.

The cult’s just a vehicle for the fetish, nothing more. This should never be real life. And if it is, GTFO out. And that’s not just a disclaimer of responsibility. I literally mean that. If you want to do this, just sidestep the cult and hire a very open minded sex worker.

Part One:

Oh my Lord, have mercy! For the last time, it’s NOT a cult. It’s a fellowship. And all these personal attacks are more telling of who YOU are as a person, of all your own personal biases, than a criticism of the Fellowship itself. I swear, even after nineteen years of marriage, nineteen years of Fellowship, you were never able to see through to the heart of it all. And really, Dear, it’s such a small part of the doctrine, anyway. Truly, out of all the good, out of all the love and compassion present here, you laser in on such a minor piece of it, all the buttsex, that is.

–Mother to Father last Tuesday.

I was eighteen years, two months, and three days old. Finally a man, finally beholden to the doctrines. And at my first taste of responsibility, what’d I do? I mucked it all up.

Penance:

Mom rested her hands on my shoulders and led me into the living room. Please, don’t. I looked behind me, and through the connected archway, back into the kitchen, I saw Maggie pursing her lips, reproachful eyes. She pushed a limp wedge of toast around her plate.

The corners of my eyes burned and drained into my sinuses. I sniffled.

Mom long nails grazed up and down my spine, relaxing me–and worse. “Mommy, tickle scratch!” I used to say that to her when I was little. I’d reach up, clamming my fingers together, and she’d set me on her knee. Relaxing.

But today it was worse. “Would you rather some privacy…” Mom indicated first to her bedroom. The door was half closed, and a crimson glow pulsed around the threshold. I knew it was her lava lamp bubbling on her nightstand, splashing color in an otherwise dark room. You know, in there, no one would see what would happen next. It really would be a private affair.

“Or?” Mom left that last question leading, and indicated to the stiff couch right at the heart of the living room, in full view of the painted glass windows, the main threshold, and even the kitchen, where my sister stabbed at her eggs, casting glances my way.

The couch was just the opposite: White walls and sun blaring through the bay windows overlooking the neighbor’s front lawn and the rest of normal suburbia. It was blindingly bright on the couch. There, all would be revealed.

I stopped in the center of the living room, Dad’s extra long pajamas, the pair I’d stolen, all bunched around my feet. The sudden halt bumped mother into my back, but she collected herself, tried to collect me, and began tickle-scratching the nape of my neck.

Dad’s place was intimacy with Mom. Mine was…this was punishment. I’d forgotten my prayers, completely failed under God; as such, I pointed to the couch. In here was the truer penance. Right as I did so, I heard a sharp gasp from the kitchen, Maggie’s, but tried to tune her out.

Mom squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll get a blanket to cover the cushions.” A quick peck on the head, and she added, “I’m proud of your decision,” and with that, she was gliding off to the laundry room, no doubt to get the dingy and often abused nylon covers.

As soon as she left, I heard a fork clank back in the kitchen, and little footsteps padded into the living room, ending up right behind me. I forced myself to stare at a crack in the wall.

“So,” Maggie, my twin, said, having crept up behind me, “my perfect brother finally screwed up, huh?”

Ignore her, ignore her.

…that drywall crack rose about two inches, then kinda cantered off to the left before jogging back to the right…

From the corner of my eye, I saw Maggie rise on the tips of her toes and peek around under my chin. “Are you ready? You know it’s going to hurt.”

Snap! Snap. She tried to get my attention. Then she sighed, “Uh, whatever,” and left me with a final parting shot, “you know, when it goes in, make sure to clench up really tight!”

I gasp in this weird almost hiccup kind of thing.

She patted me on the back, “do lots of that, too. And moan. God likes that, they said.”

Maggie tried to get one final rise out of me, “Oh, by the way, I think Mom’s gonna have me be the one to do it. Yeah, huh, she said so.”

I think that was the moment when reality swallowed my soul. I can’t even recall staring at the crack in the wall. My eyes unfocused, but not in a blurry kind of way. The world was so bright, so sharp, so clear, and I slipped out of myself beyond it. All the tension melted from my neck, released its grip on my spine. I slouched, disconnected.

Somewhere along that time, Mom had come back into the room. She held me by the elbow and led me across the floor. “Huh?” I looked right through her as she sat me on the couch.

The texture of the cushions didn’t feel like normal. Oh, that’s right, Mom had draped some nylon sheets over the couch. Huh. I felt her hand on my chest. She pushed me onto my back, pulled my feet up onto the couch, slipped off my shoes, jerked off my socks, tossed them God knows where.

My mind drifted up toward the ceiling, and there, I began to count the popcorn fluffs hanging down. 1, 2, 3…

Fingertips, someone else’s, fiddled with my belt buckle, gentle tuggings at my britches, knees got one hell of a draft all of a sudden. Popcorn fluffs, popcorn…39, 40, 41…The waistband of my undies snapped against my flesh…47, 48, 49, 50 popcorn fluffs…my undies were slid down, too, and I was almost bare…59, 60, 61, 62, Snap, Snap! Maggie’s head drifted wholly into my vision. I wiggled to the side, trying to see back to my popcorn fluffs…63, 64…She leaned over farther, and her damn head blocked my escape again.

“Mom wants me to take off your shirt,” she said–snap, snap–. “Hey! Mom wants me to take off your shirt.” I tried to ignore her, but then the brat wailed, “Mo-om!”

Christ on a condom! That bitch shriek was enough to snap anyone’s soul back into their body, and just like that, I was acutely aware that I was laying on the couch, on a stark white sheet of nylon, buck naked from the waist down. Sweat slopped about between my backside and the sterile white exam-room-esque cloth. On the front side, icy bursts of A/C wafted down on my body. My flacid little weiner tipped off to one side, resting its head on a pillow of dark pubes. Mom was kneeled down by my waist. She was the one who’d pulled off my bottom half, and she wasn’t staring at my shame, instead, she was looking me right in the eyes, rubbing her thumb on my forearm. “There, there, it’s alright, boo” was the impression I got from her.

Sister’s face was blush red, and her expression was twisted, doing its damndest to appear indignant. Seeing me snap back to this reality, she tried to huff, to roll her eyes, but for a skosh, her pupils lingered right on my bare nethers, drafty as they were, and she clenched her jaw and huffed out her nose.

“Hey, boo, why don’t you let your sister help you?” Mom asked. “Raise your arms.” I did as she said. Her lips pursed into a smile. “Maggie.” One word, that was her instruction to Sister, but immediately, I felt Sister’s thumbs graze down along my happy trail, curl around the hem of my shirt, and I shuddered, frigid sopping sweat. As I did, my penis rolled over and rested its head on the other side of the pillow.

Surely, this was my demise. This was an experience of Hell.

I raised my arms high up over my head, involuntarily pointed my toes, clear up until both sides of me were slapped against either armrest of the couch, and fully stretched bare before my Mother, who kneeled over my bare waist, and Sister, who slid my shirt off my bare chest, sight lingering on, what should have been, my privates.

This was the first time probably either of them had seen me naked since I was five years old and splashing about in a bathtub. This was my whole shame.

My sinuses dribbled. I sniffled when my shirt was halfway up.

Right as she heard the sound of my sniffle, Maggie gasped, and hesitated stripping me naked. Her big brown eyes opened wide, tugging apart the freckles on her cheeks, wrinkling her button nose. I ripped my gaze from the popcorn ceiling and looked into her deep pupils. They contracted, cat-like.

I opened my mouth to speak, but all I did was rasp out a tiny eek.

Mom’s thumb rubbed the inside of my thigh, far higher than a mother should touch. “It’s okay, boo.” Pat. Pat.

Suddenly, I felt a slender forefinger graze along the trench of my smooshed butt cheeks. I whimpered and sniffled back some tears once again. The backside of her nails scratched my trench on the downstroke. Mommy, mommy, tickle-scratch! She tickled my intimacies on up again, then back down. Up, down. Up, down. Comforting. Soothing. Then prodding. Pushing my cheeks apart with a wiggly worm. Her fingertip poked between my hills.

Sister leaned forward, eyes still locked on my own, her hands still clenched around the hem of my shirt that she’d pulled halfway up my chest. Her forehead rested against mine. She leaned up, kissed my nose. This was a soft Sister. She kissed my cheek, let her plump lips linger there as she nibbled, specks of saliva wet that union. This was a tender Sister.

I was confused. What happened to the brat? This wasn’t the Maggie I knew.

Mom scissored her finger between my thighs, just not quite there yet, until, I felt the tip of her finger graze over my clenching bud. Mother felt me. She knows what that part of me feels like now.