Mother Superior, Sister Annachelle’s fingers trembled against the rosary beads as she knelt in the confessional, though not from piety. Shoving the devil’s horn, anatomically correct dildo, in her freshy mown cunt. Outside, the cicadas screamed their endless refrain, drowning out the whisper of her prayer, not to God, but to something older, hungrier, on the bayou, in Biloxi, Mississippi. The visiting priest, stroking his cock, listening.”Father forgive me for I have sinned, for fucking a twinkie.” The young scion priest masturbating, speaking in tongue. Looking out the window, her naked lunch of young virgin men and women convorting, playing volleyball unaware of their orgy fate, so said the Ouija.
Outside, Shane, feeling the itch with his eyes focused on a shave young man, uncumcircized and new to the brood. Shane was growing fond of succulent penenises, especially ones with a thick foreskin. The first sin wasn’t lust, it was hunger. That’s what the old leather-bound journal hidden beneath the abbey’s floorboards confessed in faded brown ink that smelled of rust and molasses. Before Sister Annachelle ever learned to pray with her legs spread, before Shane ever tasted salt on another man’s skin, there was just the bayou swallowing the convent whole one humid summer when the river ran black with something thicker than water.
The sisters were depraved agnostic thespians playing upon the flesh, and I was enjoying it, sharing my wife Musette with the coven, and they shared themselves with me. The convent’s foundation stones had been laid over something far older—a moss-slick shrine where Choctaw women once bled into the river under crescent moons. Sister Annachelle’s journal called it the vespertine rite, though none of them knew the words anymore. Only the hunger remained, passed down like a corrupted heirloom through generations of black-habited women who licked communion wine from each other’s thighs. Most of society, misses out on what comes natural.
I have lived it, and now, who can judge me? But if you must know how it began,how the hunger first slithered into our veins, let me tell you of the summer the river spoke.
