Microfiction: Holy Trinity by Jade Sylvan

I don’t know if I should write this, but I don’t think Mother Superior or Mother Esther would pry even if they had the password. Might delete later, but this happened early Sunday morning.

When it started I was in my cell. Everything was as it always is. Dark wood crucifix on the wall. Pale prayer desk. No lights on at all. The white ceiling was the color of ash. I couldn’t sleep. Normal. I was uncomfortable on my back. I rolled over. The metal bed frame creaked and moaned.

I lay facedown. Felt more comfortable for about thirty seconds, then decided to flip onto my back again.

I turned back over. On the end of my bed was a man.

I should have frozen, but I relaxed. Somehow I knew he wasn’t a threat. He was here for me. For my pleasure. I pulled him close and inhaled, expecting to smell sweat. Musk. He kind of smelled like nothing, though. I felt his hand grip my thigh.

“I can’t,” I said.

He pulled away. I could still feel the weight of his body on the bed. My breathing shallow. An electric current ran between us.

Then someone else was there, behind me. Back propped up against the wall. My head in her lap.

She rested one hand on my collarbone. The other reached out for the man’s hand. They clasped hands over me. Static from her fingers near my neck. They were painfully still.

I reached up for the wrist near my chin. I pulled it down so it brushed against my face. Skin soft as silk. Her fingers gliding along my highest ribs, close to my breast.

My breath became urgent. The woman’s hand was almost touching my breast. The man’s other hand was inches from my thigh. I wanted them to touch me. Either of them. Both.

Aching stillness covered us. I realized I was holding my breath, waiting for some change. The air was charged, almost vibrating. Then the two silhouettes on either side of me moved, barely. More of a shift in weight than a deliberate action, but the break in the stillness was too much for me. Breath poured into my lungs and moaned back out. The animal of my body reached for them, two hands to two wrists, and pulled them into me. Her hand cupped my breast. Stopped for a moment, as if to make sure of its placement, then started to caress. His hand slid under my nightgown, around my underwear. This hand wasted no time. Dove in.

The feeling of both of them touching me, watching me as I writhed under them, was enough to make me climax immediately. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to stifle any screams I might release when I lost control. For a moment, I thought it wouldn’t happen. That I’d settle back down and lie there awkwardly between these two strangers before thanking them for trying and sneaking them out.

Then blankness. Neutral light. Pure electricity and love.

I couldn’t help it. I cried out. I was far beyond worrying if anyone heard. I sang one long note of pleasure as the last currents of electricity jolted through me. This was what God wanted. These beings were sent here for me. For this.

I opened my eyes and saw the same two silhouettes for an instant. In another instant, they melted into the normal outline of my cell. Something fundamental was different. I realized that thing was a shift in my state of consciousness. I was awake now. Before, I’d been dreaming.

I was panting and washed in sweat. My right hand was on my breast, my left between my thighs. I was sopping wet. I inhaled deeply, smelling my own musk and a another, floral scent. Dried roses? My hips and calves were tight. Sore. I looked down at my spent lower half and almost choked. Someone was sitting on the end of my bed. Another dream?

No.

A woman.

My hands shot away from my body. The left one was damp and pungent. I shoved it under the covers, wiping it off on the sheets, flushed with embarrassment. The woman sat there unfazed. She radiated calm nonjudgment.

This serenity seemed to emanate, washing over me. I relaxed into it. She was stunning. Strong and slender with medium-dark skin and a powerful mouth. Deep amber-brown eyes. Simple white sleeveless dress. A cross between Beyoncé and photos of my mother when she was young. It was still night, but I could see her clearly. She didn’t glow the way the angel had. More like she was made of light.

“You didn’t trust my Son,” she said. “Thought you might trust me.” None of these guys wasted time.

“It’s not that I didn’t–”

“Lent is only forty days. Then you can go right back to your vow of chastity.”

“How can I possibly give up my vow for that long and still call myself a nun?”

“You have a blessing from your Mother Superior. What else you need? High-five from the Pope?”

“No. I mean, that’d be cool–”

“What are you worried about?” She somehow managed to look stern without furrowing her brow or making much of any expression at all.

“I don’t know. I just never…. There were rules and I didn’t think they could change.”

“Did you enter the Sisterhood to be comfortable?”

“Of course not.”

She shifted so she was farther up the bed. Her face didn’t soften, but her voice did. Just a touch.

“You wanted anticipated discomfort. Poverty. Obedience. Chastity. The script.”

“Doesn’t everyone wish suffering had a script?”

She actually laughed. Smiled.

“Fair enough,” she said.

She scooted up closer so her hip was near my shoulder. I could smell her. The dried rose smell from before plus wood shavings and old wool. My musty fingers were still under the blankets. I draped the other ones across my stomach. Tried to relax it. She reached out with one hand, hovering it inches from my head.

“May I?” she said.

I nodded. She stroked my head gently. The feeling was unbelievably soothing. I could feel my brain relax and rest into the back of my skull. Outside I heard the whistle of freezing wind.

“Is it snowing again?”

“Yes. This should be the last big storm.”

She ran the tips of her fingers lightly across my scalp. It’s been a while since I’ve shaved my head, so there was about a quarter-inch of baby-curls for her to drag her nails through.

“Did you send me that dream just now?”

“No.”

“Did He?”

“We believe straightforward communication works best.”

The muscles around my eyes released, two jelly bulbs sinking back into their sockets. I may have, just slightly, started to purr.

“I don’t understand why you’d ask me to do this.”

“I can’t tell you what you’re supposed to learn from a lesson.”

She shifted so she was lying beside me. Her left arm beneath me, cradling me like a parent as she kept stroking my head. I was getting sleepy.

“Not even a hint?”

She laughed. My eyes were closed but I imagined she was smiling. “Go to sleep, Woodline.”

Her touch became a warm breeze. I drifted off.

Jade Sylvan is the author of Kissing Oscar Wilde and the apocalyptic lesbian sci-fi horror burlesque musical of the century, Spider Cult the Musical (coming summer 2016). http://jadesylvan/com

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