1969: Righteous

***Author's Note***

This story is a companion piece to my earlier story "1969: Ghost Before the Dawn" and a companion piece to any stories in the "1969" series, and related series.

You don't have to read those to understand this story. They are all meant to make sense individually, as well as together.

* * * * *

It was a cold afternoon in late February of 1969.

Twenty-one-year-old Ginger — a black-haired copper-skinned woman with a tall, hourglass frame — was sprawled over the small bed.

The mattress had a few broken springs and had been stuffed with newspaper and taped up. When she was a kid, it was a game of sorts, pretending she and her brother were robbers hiding expensive paintings or prisoners with contraband, biding their time before they could escape.

It really used to be fun. Used to.

Her mother was working. Her brother and his fiancée were searching for houses and walking their dog along the way. Ginger was alone in the little East Harlem apartment, save for her cat, who was likely resting in a box or the sink or some place that's existence hadn't fully occurred to humans.

Her bedroom wasn't heavily decorated with her own interests, but it did have angel figurines, a painting of Christ, and multiple crucifixes, as per her mother's. It was okay, maybe. Perhaps a little disappointing that she'd directly met her heavenly father as many times as her actual one.

She'd never seen his photo. Heard his voice. He never told her some ridiculous joke that only impresses other fathers.

And her mother certainly didn't talk about him much. As far as Mrs. Gomez was concerned, he might as well be the Devil, and Ginger was the Devil's spawn when her mother was upset.

But God, it was frustrating. Boring. Annoying.

Ugh!

Ginger threw her slipper at the wall, hitting a crucifix and her face on the bounce back.

It was tilted! Shit.

She leapt to straighten him up. Poor little tortured Jesus, hardly covered by His rags. His body spread, muscular. Strong. Taking this torture like... well, like a God, she supposed.

It wasn't right. She knew it wasn't right. But aren't the wrong things the ones that feel the best?

Ginger relaxed on the bed, sliding her cotton bottoms over long, strong legs.

She tied her hair up with her panties and looked again to the picture of Jesus.

"Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God... "

Her mother said the bible verse frequently and Ginger found herself repeating it as she eyed the painting. Perhaps it'd been her mother's way of explaining, or avoiding, why they lived the way they did. Why anything was the way it was. Why she should be grateful. Why she had to obey.

"You know that I love you, don't you God? Even if I feel like I'm talking to myself sometimes. And we're all sinners, aren't we?"

Cold though it was that February day, her sex grew hotter. Wetter.

Better.

She gazed directly into the eyes of Christ as her hand palmed the intimate curls between her thighs.

It was wrong. It was so wrong.

She half expected a fiery fist to shoot out the ground and drag her to the pits of hell.

But His eyes. His face. His light and flowing robes.

Ginger grabbed the two crucifixes from the wall, gliding one over her swollen clit as she stared at God.

She circled it over and over again, pressed tight against her.

Pressure steady. Rhythm just right. Body rising. Breasts heaving.

The slickness of her lust flowed gently out. Her body was blanketed by the warmth within.

She shouldn't be doing this.

The crucifix continued circles over her clit, the very idea of it commanding her senses to life.

Ginger held the other crucifix closer to her sex and slowly — gingerly — guided it inside.

She started long drags in and out of herself, ever steady on that swollen clit, and a little quicker, and a little quicker, and then just a little quicker inside.

Every touch. Every thought. Every sacrilegious desire.

They served her so completely.

She rose against one crucifix, come-hithering herself with the other, and gasping as quietly as she could manage.

Her eyes were locked with the painting's as she muttered a series of breathy, broken yeses.

Legs jerked about in the air. Toes curled. Teeth were clamped tight. Eyes widened, determined not to shut for even a moment, even as they burned and teared.

She couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't take it.

Her body convulsed and trembled. Her sex pulsated. Her eyes fluttered rapidly. Her nose flared and puffed.

She pursed her lips as best as she could, muffling the moans and squeaks then finally gasping for air again and again, so hard she came for Jesus.

Ginger collapsed and gathered her breath, gazing vaguely at the ceiling and having allowed the crucifixes to drop wherever.

"Thank you," she whispered, "in Jesus' name I pray. Ah, men."

The woman giggled, and took little time in falling to a deep, warm, and righteous sleep.

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