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ADULT CONTENT
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Pridefest 2025 Entry - The Gospel of Flesh
Author:local lesbian commie
Theme by:stormbreath
CSS by:HaydenSaintPascal
My darling, get under the knife.
Denying herself the pleasure of selling her soul felt like blasphemy. Arya needed to quiet those roundworms gnawing inside her somehow; her stomach slapped against the walls of her dripping skin, desperate not to drown itself in its own desires. Her brisk, asymmetrical breath matched the convulsions of her legs — one of feverish rhythm and lovely madness. It incinerated more and more of her spiral tongue, occupied exploring the insides of its cave — as if trying to resurrect her favorite memories of crude, sickening devotion.
Arya could already feel the warmth of her doll. So close. Finally, she could smell the scent of iron, sweet and alive. It was luring her, like a flute woven from veins and broken bones. It had been days since their last "pact" — far too long for the vicious Jezebel she had become. Just before turning the corner, her pupils dilated; it didn't matter if June wasn't real yet. Her body was. And it was breathing. Begging to be reborn once again.
Nose against the wood, breath shallow behind the door, she swallowed thickly. That scarlet ink, still crisp, sank into her heart like a thorn with its imagery. Her ankles collided, and 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, deliberate turn, the gates parted. The house welcomed her as if it were a sacred tomb — and it devoured her whole. Only a few steps now separated Arya from their unholy ritual. Strangely enough, 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 — a guttural fusion of love and anger common to those who crawl among the pests. The air thickened, her perfume growing sharper as she neared their room.
Lights on, and there she was.
Kneeling, silent — like an offering. And that beauty… it was so suffocating and fragile, belonging exclusively to those who were on the edge of shattering. But out of those, 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 — a lexicon of Dionysus. 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 — soft wishes born from starvation — traced slow paths down her freckled cheeks. Arya took a step forward, always reverent, and kneeled in front of her — both were leveled now, face to face, yet it was as clear as the sky who held which role. But none of them rushed. Worship was never rushed. A good prayer is only done by those who recall the names of all angels.
Arya's left hand — the one that bore her wedding ring — rose slowly and touched June's porcelain mask, eager to be rebuilt. It wasn't to claim, nor to grab. Not yet. It was to bless. Still a priestess instead of a predator. Her fingers quivered with self-control, and June let out a vulpine sigh as it traced the tears down her patched jawline.
"Did you bring it?" She moaned softly.
Arya smiled. From her cherry jacket, she drew it carefully — their precious toy. 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. "Please, let me fall."
"Of course." She whispered, leaning in. "Mine to unmake. And then remake. Forever."
June's voice broke. "Until I forget what I was…"
"And until I remember who I am."
June gently brought her hands to the hem of her light, cottony shirt, lifting it until she could hold the fabric between her teeth. Her face flushed deep red as the prophet — the very blade — hesitated before revelation, gliding along her abdomen as if recalling each confession it once etched into that skin. It meandered, cautiously investigating all the options on the menu, while the bruises around it whispered to the dagger: "we love you".
And then, with a pulse of concentration, it all came back home — 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 would repeat itself.
The red cascade flowed immediately to become Arya's gloves. And her hands went deeper. Deeper. Yet deeper. Every moment she stole the organ's heat, it never felt sufficient. Arya remained malnourished — but she was the only one to blame for expecting satisfaction from a mere 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, at least.
"Again." Arya's orders. Absolute.
June nodded, her breath ragged and uneven, before allowing the miracle within herself to ignite its faint, quivering radiance. All at once, yet provocatively slow, both extremities of her loathly incision kissed each other, sealing the wound away with a suffocating embrace that consumed the entire vermillion overflow in a matter of seconds. Cold sweat dripped from her forehead, meeting with the surviving drops of blood on the floor.
She couldn't stop weeping — soft, lonely sobs kidnapped by the cloth clenched tightly between her teeth, biting harder and harder, just to keep from breaking so early.
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 June was ephemeral.
A second, unmatched stab came to announce a cold storm. One that wasn't simply satisfied with going deeper, but higher, too. It carved a gateway to the most intimate depths of June's body. Blood spouted across Arya's face, forging a new vestment: this time, a mask, ripping in vivid and cruel harmony with her emerald eyes.
And June, poor thing — she couldn't stand it. Her knees buckled, her back arched in a mix of pain and excitement, and she collapsed. But Arya followed her surrender, wrapping her free hand around June's neck and being pulled down to the floor alongside her.
Now looming above June, agonizing as blood rose up to her throat, Arya pierced her right arm with the dagger, pinning it to the floor instantly. A sharp cracking sound echoed shortly after, and June's eyes rolled black as her face met deeper shades of red.
Slowly, Arya's hand slithered towards the other arm — like a snake returning to its nest — paralyzing it with ease. She pressed her ankle firmly against June's hips, and at last, there it was: the feast, now complete.
"I'll be gentle, and you'll bloom."
June gave a fragile nod, and Arya smiled again. Her mouth opened to show a pair of crude, serrated canine teeth, which sprouted with untamed impulse. Blood droplets slid from her gums as the canines became fully formed sharp fangs. They forced her mouth to remain open, at first sight, as they threatened to tear skin with the slightest movement. But that, too, was a blessing.
And now, the time had come for the main course.
The dagger was gone; there was no more need for tools. Their flesh was the only stage required for this performance. Arya leaned in quickly, 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 deeper her fangs parted the flesh, the more they tore through the pulsating muscle, the more it revealed something else entirely: an irrevocable act of pure eroticism.
Veins and arteries erupted in a passionate explosion of warmth; the taste was raw, repugnant — like sampling the delicacies of an insect butchery. June gasped as she drowned, her gorgeous corpse twitching with the violence of it, yet not resisting. No, never that.
How could she, when Arya's mouth dragged downward, tearing through tendon and sinew with the same care a poet embraces to choose their words? Flesh separated like silk soaked in wine. The clavicle cracked. Arya moaned against it, choking on her thanks, swallowing in the necrosis of her loved one.
But that was not enough, of course.
Already, the wounds were provoking Arya with their regeneration. New muscle fibers crawled across exposed, fractured bone mimicking thousands of worms hatching from their eggs. So Arya devoured 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 language.
June’s moans had no voice anymore — 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 one of a series of deformations across her misshapen face. Her entire body itched in a burning sensation, so she scratched it with her free hand until she flattened the entire landscape of herself.
And God, it was so, so good.
So wonderful.
So liberating.
The iron taste of sacrifice.
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.
There was no reason to speak.
Arya held her by the neck one more time, and their mouths, wrecked and swollen, 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, brushing soft tendons while she prayed for it to be chewed.
A spiderweb of sin and saliva joined them in a sacred ligament. It tasted like rot. Like stomach acid. Pure digestion.
Between gulps of breath, June whimpered and 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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