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Invisible Lines (Novella)

The Central Registry
by Remittance Girl © 2006

Due to the previous night's overindulgence I couldn't make a proper fist. That was why I was lowering my face over the coffee mug that sat steaming on the kitchen table, carefully attempting to make lip contact with the ceramic rim. Then the doorbell rang.

"Motherfucker." The brew was scalding. The bell was cruel.

I took a slurp of coffee, then another, and let its bitterness slither down my throat, taking the aspirin on my tongue with it.  It was only a matter of time, I promised myself, before the combination of painkillers and caffeine kicked in. Then I wouldn't be wishing for death anymore.

The dumb, miniature replica of Big Ben sounded again. Ignoring it, I bowed low before the coffee God and sucked. Just a couple more minutes and life would be good again.

The bell rang a third time. I moaned and shifted off the dinette chair. Whoever it was, they weren't going away. There were only two ways to stop the torture: one was to rip out the electrical wires that snaked their way to the bell's button and the other was to answer the door. I measured my present inclination for destruction, and my inability to make a fist, shuffled down the hallway and opened the door.


"Excuse me, Ma'am. It's a fine morning, and we're just wondering if we could take a moment of your time. We're from the Church of S" There were two of them, dressed like the Bobsy twins in white shirts, flannel trousers and burgundy ties.

"Jesus Fucking Christ!"

"... Jehovah's Witnesses."

"You've got to be joking!" I moaned. It's not like I hadn't sent enough of these idiots away from my door; you'd think they'd be smart enough to pool their resources and have a central registry somewhere with a list of houses that just weren't buying.

The duo looked too damn preppy to live. It there was any justice in the world they'd both get malignant melanoma.

"Oh, it's no joke. Ma'am. We have extremely good news for you." The one doing the talking was nauseatingly focused, but his silent partner was staring at my toes.

I pushed the mass of blue-black, teased-to-death hair out of my face so they could see me glower, and get a good look at my eyebrow piercing. "Do I look remotely like someone who wants your fucking good news, asshole?"

"God wants all his children to hear the good news, Ma'am."

The coffee was kicking in, or maybe it was the aspirin hitting my bloodstream, but I could feel the rage rising in my throat. "What kind of sadists are you, anyway, ringing doorbells at nine o'clock on a Saturday morning? Get the fuck off my doorstep before I puke on you."

That seemed to do the trick. The talker apologized, turned and started to walk back down the stone path. The other one seemed to be stuck; he was still staring at my feet.

"Do you want to lick them?"

He spun and fled, catching up with his buddy at the sidewalk.

*                *                *

Usually, I'm not a vengeful person and, ask anyone, I seldom hold a grudge. But the incident with the parsimonious pricks of Kingdom Hall wormed its way under my skin and started to fester. It was blatantly uncivilized, I thought, to brandish fire and brimstone the morning after a night of partying.

I crawled back into bed, hoping to return to painless oblivion, but the anger had my adrenalin pumping. I tossed and turned a bit, trying to get into a snuggly, sleep-friendly position, to no avail. Frustrated, I pulled my oversized t-shirt off, wriggled out of my panties, and settled on a long, soothing wank.

At first I wasn't really thinking of anything. I went through my usual routine of lying on my back with my legs spread, teasing the tip of my middle finger around the outside of my hooded clit. (I have one of those barely hooded ones, so I have to start off gently.)

Once I could feel my juices flowing, I began to take long, slow strokes through the valley of my inner labia, spreading the slipperiness around. That's when I started to fantasize, and how I evolved my plan.

By the time I'd brought myself close to orgasm, the scenario was intricately detailed and developed and all the contingencies were accounted for. I plunged two fingers deep into my cunt and groaned as the muscles convulsed around them.

If those two little fuckers ever rang my doorbell again, vengeance would be mine.

*                *                *

Not a day went by without masturbating my way to further elaborations of my sick little plan. By the following Friday, my fantasy had developed a life of its own and turned rather obsessive; so much so that, while out clubbing on Friday night, I purposefully moderated my alcohol intake. I wanted to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next morning.

And that's how I woke up—at eight A.M., no less.

I had a shower, pulled my hair back into some semblance of normalness, changed my eyebrow barbell for a tiny, demure silver ring, and applied as little eyeliner as it was possible to use without triggering withdrawal symptoms. I crowned the effect with a coat of five-year old taupe lipstick, which I found at the back of the bathroom cabinet. I looked at myself in the mirror and almost fainted.

Fuck, did I ever look nice.

Finding the right clothes wasn't easy. I had to rummage through an old suitcase for something appropriate: a floral print dress I'd worn only once, to my aunt's second wedding. I tried it on without a bra, but it looked odd, so I compromised and went for nipple-less black net. The matching panties, however, I declined, along with any footwear.

I sat at the kitchen table, looking like Mary Anne, from Gilligan's Island (well, sort of), sipping coffee and watching the clock.

At ten past nine, I started to worry that they weren't going to show. Perhaps I'd been just a little too forceful the week before. Maybe, somewhere, there actually was a central registry. One by one, all my beautifully crafted plans started curling at the edges, and only when I was seriously considering rolling myself a cheer-up joint did the bell ring.

*                *                *

I flung the door open and smiled pleasantly. As a consequence of the weather having warmed a little, they had traded their grey flannel trousers for chinos, and caution, it seemed, had been thrown to the wind; both of them had their shirtsleeves neatly rolled up.

"Good morning, Ma'am. It's a lovely day and we're just wondering if we could take a moment of your time. We're from Kingdom"

"Yes. We met last week, remember?"

"... Hall, and have come to bring you some good ... "

"Snarling bitch? Ring any bells?"

They glanced nervously at each other. I'd obviously put them off their stride. The smaller, quiet one looked down at my feet again. He was my favorite.

The talker swallowed hard, adjusted the fake smile and looked me in the eye. "People aren't always ready to hear the good news, Ma'am." He was a little taller than his buddy, a bit thicker-set and a fairer-skinned. Frankly, he looked like a jock—not my type, really.

"So true," I gushed. "But I've given what you said last week some thought, and I think I'm ready to hear the good news now. Would you like to come in?" I smiled back, showing teeth.

The jock's jaw fell slack, and he elbowed the little cutie. I stepped aside and pulled the door open wider. "Please, come sit down and have a juice or something. At least give me the opportunity to apologize for last week. Then, maybe, you can explain how all this saving stuff works."

They obviously had some sort of secret signals, because something passed between them and the jock nodded. "That would be wonderful, Ma'am, if you have the time."

"Oh, I think the time is probably nigh," I muttered, leading them into my living room.

At that point, I did wonder whether they weren't going to balk. I had forgotten that my interior décor wasn't all that conducive to revelation. For one thing, I have a massive Marilyn Manson poster from his 'Antichrist Superstar' tour on the wall. Then, there was the bookshelf full of voodoo-barbies I'd acquired diligently over the years. My favorite was the Malibu Barbie with the head cleaved in two with a razor blade, naked but for a miniature dog collar.

"See?" My hand swept over the room. "I really do need saving in the worst way. Can I get you some apple juice?"

They both refused politely and sat down: the jock on the couch, and the quiet one in my battered armchair. They gave each other nervous looks.

"I'm Candice, by the way." I walked up to the armchair and held out my hand. The quiet one shook it and mumbled, "John."

"As in 'the Baptist'? Too cool! I promise not to do any dancing with seven veils." I guess it went over his head because he just grinned.

The jock stood as I offered him my hand. "I'm Brian," he said, and reseated himself.

"Nice to meet you both." I knelt down on the carpet about midway between them, folded my hands in my lap and looked at each of them expectantly. "So, where do we start?"

"Well, first of all, you have to accept Jesus into your heart," said the jock.

I smiled. "Brian, I'll be happy to accept Jesus anywhere you want to put him."

He gave me a little nod and continued. "Then, of course, you have to acknowledge that you're a sinner, in need of redemption, as we all are, Candice."

"Oh, that's easy. I'm a huge sinner. Heaps of sin. I'm just drippin' with it." I looked over at John the Baptist. "But I can hardly believe you're a sinner, John. You don't look like you've committed a sin in your entire life!"

He perked up a little. "Oh, but I am. We all are! But God loves us anyway. Isn't that wonderful?"

I slid my eyelids half shut. "It is, John! It certainly is. Because you have no idea what dark, hot, wet, thoroughly disgusting sins I've committed."

I switched my attention over to Brian. "Would you like to know, Brian?" Moving closer to where he was sitting, I balanced my crossed arms on his knees and perched my chin on top of them. "Should I confess them to you?" I felt his legs go rigid.

"N-no. We're not Catholic, Candice. We don't have that kind of confession. God, our father, knows all your sins already."

"Really?" I slowly began to pull his knees apart and move between them. "I'm not convinced that God-the-Father could forgive them, Brian. I've done some really terrible things. Awful, carnal stuff—sin's of the flesh, you know? Sometimes with other people, sometimes just by myself. Coveting my neighbor's wife and his ass and generally worshiping a lot of false idols, taking the Lord's name in vain when I come really hard. Stuff like that."

I had to admit a certain flush of pride and a feeling of vindication as I spotted a definite bulge in his crotch. I looked up into his face and then down at his hard-on, making quite sure he saw me do it. Then, I licked my lips slowly.

"And, Brian?"

"Yes?" His response was little more than a whisper.

"I'm not so sure I can stop committing them. They're awful fun and ... " I gripped the zipper on his chinos between my thumb and forefinger, "they feel so damn good."

I heard a quick intake of breath as I eased his fly down. By the time I popped the press-stud on his pants, and pulled the sides apart to reveal a blindingly white pair of boxers, he wasn't breathing at all. I reached through the breach and pulled out a throbbing cock. "Temptation is terrible thing, Brian. It's so hard to resist."

My fingers curled around the thick, veiny cock in my hand and stroked it. Meanwhile, I glanced over at John the Baptist to see how he was taking all this. He looked like someone had strapped him to the chair and stapled his eyes open.

"Don't you find sin hard to resist, John?" I eyed him while I grazed he's buddy's cock with my lips. "Well?"

"It's ...  it's ... very hard," John stuttered back.

"I'll bet it is," I whispered, before engulfing Brian's cockhead with my mouth.

I don't mind saying that I gave him much better than he deserved. At first he just sat there and made little whiny noises, but after a while I guess you could say that the spirit moved him, or at least his hips. Before long, I had a full-blown moaner on my hands.

It never occurred to me that irony could get me wet, but apparently it does.

"Oh, sweet Jesus!" he yelled, pumping his cock upwards.

I did consider submitting to a little laying-on of hands, but I didn't want Brian to lose it down my throat and then get all remorseful, so I stopped.

I gave him a big grin as I pulled off him. "Still in the grip of temptation, Brian?"

He nodded, panting.

"I need you to hold that thought while I find out if John here is as prone to sinning as the rest of us. I bet you¹d like to know too, huh?" He nodded again, eyes glazed.

I did actually feel a little sorry for John the Baptist, as I walked over to him, unbuttoning the top of my dress. He looked scared.

"John? Are you a big bad sinner?" I cooed.

He wasn't paying attention. His eyes were glued to my tits. I straddled him on the chair and heard him groan. "Mmm, I think you are."

I ground my crotch into his lap, rubbing myself on his bulge and generally making a mess of his nice, pressed chinos. "Oh, I know you are."

"I am," he whimpered. John the Baptist buried his face between my breasts, kissing and licking them with endearing, puppy-like enthusiasm.

Glancing back at Brian, I was pleased to see he'd taken up where I'd left off and had his dick in his hand, stroking.  "He's just as bad as the rest of us." I grinned and rolled my hips.

The truth was, this whole thing was turning me on a lot more than I cared to admit. It was all very well pretending to be the whore of Babylon, but it didn't help when John the Baptist burrowed under my dress and slid his clever little fingers into my cunt.

"God, Candice! You aren't wearing any ... "

"I believe that is what's commonly known as the gates of hell, John. Are you sure you want to go there?"

"Oh, yeah."

Oh, yeah, indeed. He was very good with his fingers, but I didn't want to get too carried away with my back to poor old Brian. I climbed off the Baptist, and caught my breath.

"Gentlemen, I think this calls for some serious soul searching, and this just isn't the right place to do it. Follow me."

And they did, like lambs to the slaughter, straight into my all-black bedroom.

"I know what you both thought, the first time you came to visit," I teased, shrugging off my dress. "And I can assure you, you were absolutely right."

Funnily enough, it was Brian who was tearing his clothes off while I was talking. "I knew what you were, Candice."

"Did you know, too?" I unbuttoned John's shirt. He shook his head like a little boy. It was impossible to resist; I kissed him and felt him shudder. "Mm-m, I bet you always think the best of people, don't you?"

"John's only been with us a short time. He doesn't know what real sin is." It was Brian, coming up to me from behind. He pressing his dick against my ass and kneading my tits.

My concentration was slipping. "Oh, I don't know ... " I undid John's chinos and slid my hand down the front of his boxers (coordinated undies—who would have guessed!), "I'd say John is worldlier than you give him credit for."

"Is he hard, Candice?' The voice was a hiss, slithering past my ear as its owner rubbed his cock between my cheeks.

Now that was a new twist, I thought. Brian was full of surprises. "Why don't you find out for yourself?"

I took one of his hands off my tit and dragged it down to John's cock. He wrapped his hand around it immediately.

John's eyes flew open and he gasped. "No, Brian ...  no." He wrapped his arms around my neck.

"Sh-h, Mister Baptist." I kissed him again and licked his lips. "There's really no point in doing things by half, is there?"

I got a series of little moans in response. John was thrusting his cock upwards, into Brian's fist. The pre-cum was smearing my stomach. It was messy, but hot, very hot. I cupped my hands over John's nice, taut ass, and felt his muscles flex as he bucked.

It was Brian who pushed us onto the bed—John underneath me and Brian on top. These boys were very close to the edge. I could tell by the way they were panting and moving. It pained me to think it was all going to end in a harmless little scrimmage; that would have been way too easy to dismiss as accidental. I wanted them steeped in viscous, gooey transgression.

"There isn't nearly enough real sin going on here," I protested. "Brian, get off me for a sec."

He slid off to one side, obediently. I rummaged for lube in the mess on my beside table.

I looked down at John the Baptist and grinned. "I feel like sinning real bad, don't you?"

"Yeah, real bad."

"Mmm, good," I purred and eased my slick cunt onto him. Oh, you have no idea how good a real, honest-to-goodness bible-thumping Christian feels sliding in. My pussy wrapped around his dick, swallowing it, clutching it. "Now you're really going to burn in hell, John."

"I know," he moaned and started to move.

I turned my head and pushed the tube of lube at Brian. "Know what to do with that?"

He smiled and nodded. Why wasn't I surprised?

The head of his cock was cool and slick as he got behind me and teased my hole with his cockhead. He pushed slowly, and I gasped as the tip popped inside my ass. He pumped further into me with each stroke, opposing every thrust from John. I could hear Brian over my shoulder, whispering every dirty word ever invented. It was truly delicious, being sandwiched between the faithful. In fact, it was altogether too good.

Then, I was screaming, coming, in a blind fury of pleasure, and I felt John shudder, jerk, and flood me. A moment later, Brian roared and thrust deep, twitching as he filled my ass.

We lay in a panting heap for a while. I think we were all just reveling in so much yummy sin. Finally, we fell apart.

"So, am I saved?"

"I don't think so, Candice," said John, nuzzling my nipple. "With certain people, it can take a long time."

Brian stretched and rolled onto his side. "Souls as black as yours, Candice, can take years."

*                *                *

It was odd. After that, they never really left; they just kind of moved in. The Witnesses did send a few more people around to see what had befallen their brethren, but there was a hushed conversation at the front door and we never heard from them again.

That's what convinced me I was right. Somewhere, there is a central registry of sinners.

© 2006 Remittance Girl.  All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Remittance Girl lives in and works in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam.

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