Bah humbug, God! You’re kidding, right?  

Like, I’ve confessed. Done my penance. On my knees daily, the whole nine yards.

You, however? Christ, you’re an all-knowing hard arse. You’ve heard me constantly praying: Lead us not into temptation. Foresaw the Midnight Mass choir’s opening hymn, O come all ye faithful, messing with my mind. Knickers too.

For God’s sake, you’re like she was last Christmas. Getting your jollies spotting temptation putting the X into Xmas. My sodden snatch is your fault, you’re an all-teasing fuckwit. Forgive my French, is three Hail Marys the right bloody tariff?  

I get it, I really do. For regular folks, words like sticky and humid lubricate social intercourse: summer weather is the safest conversation topic at Aussie Christmas functions.  

Vagina dialogue, however, is a no-go zone in my circle of acquaintances. Pussy never means pussy; always means cat. Even at our church-based women’s group, allusions to private parts are more verboten than politics.

Last year Sara didn’t play safe, and tested the waters with an accidental-on-purpose double entendre. Game-on after she’d perceived my bittersweet embarrassment. In Sara’s Thesaurus, humid and sticky are the desirable state for one’s snatch. And much to my discomfort, Miss Public-Virtue-Private-Vice had a dab hand, repeatedly sliding through my defences with clever teases of my nether regions.

Once I realized the pious didn’t get the risqué reality of her innuendo, I relaxed. Big mistake: the titillating fun of risk-free naughtiness is a bloody gateway drug.

Seriously, God, O cum all ye faithful, was one of her earworms. Now I’m slipping from my tightened innuendo-free moorings; smirking and dripping at the congregation singing about fucking orgasms. Pardon my French.

Got to regroup, God; actions speak louder than words. Focus on the Christmas carol sheet. Clench my jaw, don’t smile. No distractions, totally ignore Sara’s smoking hot derrière two pews ahead.

My iPhone vibrating with incoming text shreds that resolve.

Last year’s Christmas pandemonium demanded a New Year’s resolution. Bless me Father for I have sinned. Dammit, Sara knows I’m reconciled to the penance for unnatural fornication: cold turkey on temptations of the flesh, especially her flesh.

So, the text shouldn’t be Sara’s. Nor hopefully about my hospitalized gran. My husband’s eyebrow rises on seeing my iPhone in hand.

“Gran!” I whisper. An incoming text is like Schrodinger’s cat: a probability function until it’s read.

O cum all ye unfaithful: the ghost of Christmas past.

Fucking Sara, witty, literary and risqué. Pardon my French. I’ll recite additional Hail Marys after Mass. Your indifference, God, has temptation constructing a base camp in my mind, preparing to salaciously rappel down to my pussy.

Hubby smiles supportively at my faux sigh of relief. I’m good, learnt everything about the art of faking from him. That’s another thing, God; if unfaithfulness is sinful, why not include a Dummies Guide to Pussy in the Good Book?

My phone vibrates again. My breath catches.

On the first day of Christmas, my lover gave to me …?

Fucking hell. Unable to forget, always bound by regret, my Waterloo was midnight Mass last year.

Two hours earlier I’d emerged from between Sara’s legs, my mouth filled with a second yummy cum gush, the surplus dripping off my chin and splattering onto engorged nipples. A small package lay on the pillow.

“We agreed no gifts.”

She smirked, mischief was afoot. “Couldn’t resist; one each.”

I’d confidently asserted that good girls don’t do anal, she’d bought us matching glass butt plugs. “Must clean up. Dress appropriately, Miss. We’re reading from the bible tonight.”

“You’ll be a good girl; this plug sans knickers, baby.”

At church she’d bagsed the First Reading, “Miss cums first … to the lectern.”

I waited behind her while she read Isaiah. Just as I’d twigged the solid oak lectern prevented anyone else from seeing more than Sara’s head and shoulders, her hand slid down her dress.

Her voice authoritative, her hand tugged the hem of the dress towards her waist. “They shall rejoice before thee as conquerors rejoice after taking prey.”

And flashed this prey with the Christmas plug tightly embedded in her dominant peachy derriere. Her snatch sparkled in the candlelight. I’d promised myself to lick her cleaner in the New Year.

“Your turn,” she whispered. I’d nervously approached the lectern, dripping. Focused on reading Titus, “…Live soberly, and godly in this world.”

‘And flash your lover,’ I mentally added. Hiking my skirt, I wantonly flashed my Miss with an achingly plugged virgin arse.

Funny thing about probability, God. Spin the roulette wheel often enough and your number comes up. A little used door behind us had opened.

Nun-in-training, Amanda, the decade’s only Parish vocation, was bringing additional communion wafers. She gasped. Dropped the chalice. The un-consecrated body of Christ slid across the marble floor.

Pandemonium ensued.

All’s well that ends well, though. On Boxing Day Amanda shyly sought my spiritual guidance. “I’m also having inappropriate thoughts about women.”  

Prayer and empathy were called for, confession the right thing to do. Amanda’s penance was light; rightly Father slammed me with a fornicator’s stiff tariff.

My phone vibrates, jolting me from reliving the past. Jesus fucking Christ; gobsmacking.

Private prayer after Mass. Amanda’s room, old convent behind the church.

“Going to pray,” I say, rosary in hand, to my husband as the congregation disperses.

Three times I stumble over, Lead us not into temptation. Somewhere a cock crows. Fuck, the flesh is weak. Dammit just lead, God.

In the silence, zombie-like, I’m opening Amanda’s cell door.

Reclining on the bed, their perky nipples betray ungodly lusts. Sara smirks. Spreads Amanda’s legs, that cunning stunt a flash of stunning cunt.  

Whimpering, I fall to my knees, robotically, worshipfully. The nun-in-training, whispers, “Oscar Wilde said the only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.”

One long heavenly lick through the parish’s most pious pussy and I’m adrift. “Going to hell.”

She presses my now willing mouth against her gooey slit. “At least you’ll be amongst friends.”