The Sexorcist
by Anora Lane
Copyright 2012 Anora Lane
Smashwords Edition
All characters, places, and situations in this work are entirely fictional. Any resemblances to real persons living, dead, or undead are entirely coincidental.
* * * *
Dong. Dong. Dong…
The bell-tower clock of the little village rang out the eleventh hour as the man stepped to the front door. Tap. Tap. Tap. Three knocks echoed through the sparse living room, in spite of the doorbell that was available. They startled the harried woman sitting on the sofa, clutching two young children at her sides. The father, a graying farmer with sun-worn skin, moved to the entryway and flicked a switch. The electric porch light hummed to life, revealing a tall silhouette through the small inset window of the front door.
He undid the deadbolt and opened the door. “Greetings, Brother Christopher,” said the man outside. “I understand you’ve had some trouble.”
“Please, come in, Father,” Christopher said, ushering the priest inside. The other obliged, and as he stepped inside, the rest of the family recognized the familiar face of Father Gregory Johnson. At twenty-six, he was the younger of the two priests that ran the local parish. Johnson removed his hat and coat, hanging them by the door. Underneath, his simple black shirt and slacks were draped with ecclesiastical robes. Turning his stern but handsome face to the sitting family, he nodded a greeting.
“It’s my eldest, Regina,” the farmer continued as he shut the door. “She’s been acting… strangely.”
The woman sobbed as a distant moaning sound drifted down into the room from beyond the old wooden central staircase. Father Johnson folded his hands, his ears straining to listen. “I heard a brief explanation of today’s events before I came here. How old is she?” he asked.
“She just turned twenty last week, sir,” said the woman from the couch. She hugged her other children closer.
The priest fixed her with a knowing smile. “She is still newly a woman,” he said, positing an explanation. “Perhaps she just needs to learn prudence?”
“Father!” she admonished, her cheeks growing red. “We are good church-going people. We have raised her well!”
“Her acts go beyond mere curiosity,” the farmer added hoarsely, “She…” He paused, looking at his young children, then drew the churchman nearer so that he could whisper privately into his ear. “She tried to fornicate with my farm-hand Joseph. Right after she served us lunch – me and my other hands were all sittin’ right there! And he ain’t even a good lookin’ boy!”
“Her eyes!” the wife interrupted, nearly shouting in her distress. “Her eyes are hungry, Father! I swear I even saw her bendin’ over to look beneath the male horses in the stable! Lord knows what she might have done if I didn’t stop her, and then…” she broke off in tears.
“She tried to… tried to touch my wife… her own mother!” Christopher whispered, his words thick with scorn.
“We think she’s possessed,” the wife said, weeping. Father Johnson drew a long breath through his nose.
“Possession is, fortunately, a rare occurrence. Do not trouble your hearts, dear ones, by jumping to conclusions. Perhaps it is some other malady which afflicts her.” Father Johnson placed a strong hand on Christopher’s back, offering the rest of the family an encouraging smile. “Come, show me where she is. I shall examine her,” he said.
Christopher led him up the stairs, explaining as they went. “I had to lock her in her room. She was acting too wildly – we had to think of the other children.”
“Relax, brother,” the priest replied. “You’ve done the right thing. We’ll get this sorted out soon enough.”
The men stopped at the bedroom door, their voices growing hushed at the frequent moaning sounds that emanated from within. Cautiously, Christopher reached forward with the keys. They jingled softly in his trembling hand as he slipped the proper key into the lock and turned. The door, thus disengaged, released an unsettling creak as it swung inward on its own weight.
A number of candles illuminated a small bedroom, with wooden floors and a slanted ceiling. Regina sat huddled in shadows in the far corner of the room, clothed only in her nightgown. Her short, blonde hair was tussled, and her pretty face flushed with exertion. Her soft chest heaved as she panted noisily, her nipples visible as her perky breasts pushed against the front of her gown. Her panties were drawn down around her ankles, and her pale ass flashed them alluringly as she rocked back and forth. Her hands rubbed furiously at her crotch – one was pinched tightly, four fingers inserted deep within her to rub at her g-spot. With the door open, the wet sounds of her masturbation joined with her pleasured moans to fill the men’s ears.
Christopher choked back a sob as Father Johnson took a tentative step into the room. The floorboards creaked beneath his weight. Suddenly Regina snapped her head around, the noise alarming her to their presence. With startling speed, she crawled across the floor to kneel before him, her panties slipping from her ankles in the mad scramble. They lay sopping on the floor a few feet away, the musky scent of her fluids reaching to tickle his nose.
Pulling her body against him, Regina’s hands began to claw beneath Father Johnson’s robes, greedily searching for his belt buckle. “GIVE ME YOUR COCK!” she cried, her voice thick and maniacal. Chuckling, the priest drew the garment up past his waist, revealing that instead of a buckle, his belt was locked by an elaborate clasp. The girl pouted and settled for trying to mouth his bulge through his pants instead. Her father stepped forward to stop her. The priest brought his arm up quickly, barring the other man entry to the room.
“Stop, Christopher!” he commanded. “She would just as soon do the same to you! And you have no lock upon your belt to protect you from sin.”
The other man halted, his shoulders falling dejectedly. Tears grew in the corners of his eyes. “Jesus Greg, look at her,” he sobbed. “This must be the work of some devil.”
“Peace, Christopher. This is a good sign,” the priest said, stroking the girl’s hair tenderly. His pants grew wet from her saliva as she continued to gnaw at the material. “She is possessed by no demon; see how she does not fear me? No, your daughter is instead possessed by a hungry ghost.”
“A… hungry ghost?” Christopher stammered, the priest’s assurances having done nothing to calm his nerves. “But she hasn’t tried to eat anything. What do you mean?”
“You misunderstand me,” the priest replied. “Sometimes, when a person dies in the midst of sexual intercourse, their hungry soul seeks the orgasm that they were denied. Such a ghost now occupies your daughter’s vessel: the soul of a desperate man or woman who wants only to find release.” Father Johnson lowered his hand, making the sign of the cross upon the woman’s forehead. She snapped upright, head craned back and mouth agape. Her hands fell to her sides, twitching slightly. Only her eyes shone with the incredible lust of just a few moments prior. “Be calm, Spirit,” the priest intoned, his face full of pity as he met her gaze.
“Amazing,” Christopher cried, his voice suddenly full of hope. “You can speak to it! Command it to leave my daughter alone!”
“I’m afraid that it isn’t that simple,” Father Johnson replied, his eyes still locked in the gaze. “This Spirit will not depart until it has been satisfied.” His voice lowered in volume, taking on a grave tone. “There is only one means to do this. A sexorcism must be performed.”
“A… a what?” Christopher asked. He swallowed audibly.