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Pridefest 2025 Entry - The Gospel of Flesh
Author:local lesbian commie
Theme by:stormbreath
CSS by:HaydenSaintPascal
local lesbian commie's author page
My darling, get under the knife.
Denying herself the pleasure of selling her soul felt like blasphemy. Arya needed to quiet the roundworms gnawing inside her somehow.
Her stomach slapped against the walls of her skin, desperate not to drown itself in desires. Her asymmetrical breath matched the convulsions of her legs, one of feverish rhythm and lovely madness. All incinerated more and more of her tongue, occupied exploring the insides of its cave.
Arya could feel the warmth of her doll. So close. It was luring her in a flute woven from veins and broken bones.
It had been days since their last pact. Far too long.
Nose against the wood, breath shallow behind the door, she swallowed thickly. That scarlet ink, still crisp, sank into her heart like a thorn. Her twitching hand wrapped around the doorknob. A line from Dante's Divina Commedia whispered inside her: "abandon all hope, ye who enter here". But that did not scare her. It thrilled her. It was an invitation. Nine circles of sin, ready to be unleashed.
With a slow turn, the gates parted. The house devoured her whole.
Everything was so polished, so in place. It felt brand new. The thought that June had prepared it all sent a shiver down her spine, and the air thickened as her perfume grew sharper as Arya neared their room.
Lights on, and there she was.
Kneeling, silent. Like an offering. And that beauty — so suffocating and fragile, of those on the edge of shattering. Although, in that regard, her girl was unique.
She was not meant to be discarded after being used, no.
Her pieces could always be put back together, over and over again. Her scars were scriptures of fondness, with each shape evoking a different language: piercing, contusion, cleaving. Her skin was as pale as a white canvas, which could only gain a specific color — the color of love. Of rage. Of violence.
Their color.
June's eyes fluttered open, tinged with dark, smudged makeup. Tears traced slow paths down her freckled cheeks.
Arya took a step forward, always reverent, and kneeled in front of her. They were leveled now, face to face, yet it was as clear as the sky who held which role. But none of them rushed yet. Worship was never rushed.
Arya's left hand — the one that bore her wedding ring — rose and touched June's face. It wasn't to claim, nor to grab. It was to bless. Her fingers quivered with self-control, and June let out a vulpine sigh.
"Did you bring it?" She moaned.
Arya smiled.
From her cherry jacket, she drew it carefully. It was a withered, sharp dagger, darkened by time but polished by love. It had no name, but it knew theirs.
Her fingers brushed the frosted metal tenderly as if caressing a cheek, and the glow in June's pupils became the brightest star in their night.
"You remember where to begin, don't you?" Arya asked in a husky, low tone.
She nodded, slowly, while bringing her hands to the hem of her cottony shirt, lifting it to hold the fabric between her teeth.
Her face flushed deep red as Arya glided along her abdomen, cautiously investigating all the options on the menu. And then, with a pulse of concentration, it was hurried enough to not provoke a fuss, yet meticulous enough to make it last.
June's knees gave in, but she held her position; an altar should not move. But it wailed. An excruciating, muffled screech that carried the everlasting weight of torment, no matter how many times it had repeated itself.
The red cascade flowed immediately. And Arya's hands went deeper. Deeper. Yet deeper. Every moment didn't feel sufficient. She remained malnourished — but was the only one to blame for expecting satisfaction from a starter.
The blade retracted. Another screech, another crimson cascade. June hovered at the edge of consciousness — but Arya would never let her slip away. Not so easily, that is.
"Again."
June nodded, and the miracle within herself to ignited its faint radiance.
All at once, but provocatively slow, both extremities of her incision kissed each other, sealing the wound away with an embrace that consumed the vermillion overflow in a matter of seconds. She couldn't stop weeping — soft, lonely sobs kidnapped by the cloth clenched tightly between her teeth, biting harder and harder.
Meanwhile Arya approached, her fingers sliding across the newborn flesh in awe — as if it were a child of her own. But the warmth that briefly came to comfort was ephemeral. A second stab came to announce a cold storm. One that wasn't simply satisfied with going deeper, but higher, too. Blood spouted across Arya's face, forging a mask, ripping in vivid and cruel harmony with her emerald eyes.
June couldn't stand it. Her knees buckled, her back arched in a mix of pain and excitement, and she collapsed. But Arya quickly wrapped her free hand around her neck to be pulled down to the floor alongside her.
Now looming above June, she pierced her right arm with the dagger, pinning it to the floor.
Slowly, Arya's hand slithered towards the other arm, paralyzing it with ease. Then she pressed her ankle firmly against June's hips, and at last, there it was: the table, finally set. The time had come for the main course.
Her mouth opened to show a pair of crude, serrated canine teeth, which sprouted with untamed impulse. Blood droplets slid from her gums as they became sharp fangs, threatening to tear her skin with the slightest movement.
There was no more need for toys, and Arya leaned in with her mouth crying saliva. The moment her lips met the curve of June’s neck, her jaw locked. Forever.
At first, it resembled a kiss — shallow, enveloped in tenderness. But the further her fangs parted the flesh, the more they tore through the screaming muscle, the more it revealed something else entirely.
Veins and arteries erupted in a passionate explosion of warmth. Flesh separated like silk soaked in wine. The taste was raw, repugnant — like sampling the delicacies of an insect butchery. June gasped as she drowned. Her gorgeous corpse twitched, yet it didn't resist. No, never that. How could she, when Arya's mouth dragged downward, tearing through tendon and nerves with so much care?
June's clavicle cracked. Arya moaned against it, choking on the necrosis of her loved one.
But that was not enough. The wounds were provoking Arya with regeneration. New muscle fibers crawled across exposed, fractured bone, mimicking thousands of worms hatching from their eggs.
Arya had to devour June again.
And again.
And again.
Christ the Lord, her heart begged to burst from her blossom when June's healing came in once more only for death to be called afresh.
And if her heart was in her hands, she would've fed on it, too. There was no time for caution, no thought worth more than a second. If the result was devouring, then it was the right decision.
"Stop" was a word from the old world. It never meant anything in their love language.
June’s moans had no voice anymore — they were only moist, vacillating breath behind mangled lips. She slowed her healing down just to feel the nauseating, abysmal discomfort of her very existence to its peak.
Arya's blood-coated teeth were now merely one of a series of deformations across a misshapen face. Her entire body itched in a burning sensation, so she scratched it until she flattened the entire landscape of herself.
And God, it was so, so good.
Her jaw trembled and finally paused, mutilated flesh splattered across her dental arch — pink, fibrous, dangling like bait on the hook. She exhaled, and the steam of her raw, fetid breath made June shiver.
Arya held her by the neck one more time, and their mouths found each other through instinct alone. Her lips smeared blood and cartilage across June’s mouth, and June's tongue slid against the inner wall of Arya’s cheek. It tasted like rot. Like stomach acid. Pure digestion.
Between gulps of exquisite breath, June smiled. Smiled with every shred of what remained of her. And calmly, Arya pressed closer.
It was time for their dessert.
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