Sex and Murder Magazine

By Diana Trees

Jesus wept.

As I hung from his body and licked the blood from his face and neck, he moaned through broken teeth and bruised lips. A whining, piteous cry. Mumbling from a mad prophet. Or a stupid one. Not what I’d expected from a so-called king. Not who I’d traveled so far to see.

To devour.

I expected more.

Strength. Not this strange, haunted little man, eyes slit, wild with pain and fear.

I dug my claws deep into his shoulders and wrapped my legs around his waist. I was naked. I’d shed my robe and sandals, dumped them over the guard who lay stunned at the foot of the cross.

Even at night, the heat in Jerusalem was vicious. I didn’t feel it directly, but I knew from Christ’s blurred thoughts that he did. Like a cloud of stinging gnats, the heat gnawed at his skin, at the sun-burnt cracks in his flesh, at the gaping wounds made by the crowd with whips and rods. He felt it, and through him, I tasted his humanity.

Not godhood. Not what I’d come to savor. Not a god. Not even a man who believed he was a god. But Jesus, a man whose followers swore to all that he was the son of Jehovah, then abandoned him to his bloody crucifixion.

Simple dust. Humanity.

I was slick against Christ’s body and had to loop my arms behind the “T” of the cross to keep my weight from jerking the spikes through his hands. Then, reaching behind him and over the cross to his shoulders, I dug my claws into his ruined flesh.

Even though he was not a god, I found Christ irresistible: stringy, blood-matted hair; his dark face nearly black with bruises; the rich, meaty scent of death. I moved against him, pushing my vagina against his belly, licking the sweat from the hollow of his throat, dragging my tongue up over his bearded chin, pulling with my claws and thrusting with my cunt. And even as he hung on that rough, wooden cross -- nailed hand and foot, a jagged crown of thorns jammed down over his brow, open wounds covering his body -- his cock rose beneath my buttocks.

I smiled at that; his strength was in the gods I knew after all. Pan would be proud that one so near death could still think about fucking.

Not that it surprised me. I knew by looking through his slitted eyes to the thoughts beyond that Christ felt desire. I was like something moving under the ice of his thoughts. A leviathan surging in the black depths of his pain. His manhood rose to meet the challenge.

I am not unattractive. Black eyes, slender with white, nearly translucent skin, hair dark as what Jesus would call sin: I am beautiful to a certain kind of man.

Christ was such a man. He stared into my black eyes, and through his cloud of pain, he murmured, “My god, my god.” I slid back and forth on his cock, then unwrapped one arm from his shoulder and jammed the free hand into the wound in his belly. Christ screamed, and even though he was secured to the cross, he arched into me. I let his cock slide into my body and rode it while raking my claws along the inside of his ribcage.

I throbbed with his agony. Each time I strummed his rib bones he hunched out, screaming. I remember the words: “Why have you forsaken me?”

I rode him -- Christ's cock hard and throbbing inside of me -- with one of my hands jammed into the wound in his belly, the other looped around cross and shoulder.
I rode him to his orgasm, and eventually, to mine.

Spent, exhausted, his cock shriveling inside of me, his seed swimming to a dead womb, Christ raised his face. “God will never forgive you.”

I smiled full, baring my teeth. Christ gasped. He knew. “I don’t expect forgiveness," I said. "I don’t want it. The old time religion is good enough for me.”

Christ grimaced. I took my hand out of his belly and again looped it around behind him and over the cross to dig my claws into his shoulder. He wouldn’t live much longer. “What do you know of eternal life?” he demanded. “Of God’s face?”

I threw my head back and laughed. The cross rocked under our weight. “I haven’t seen a dawn in a thousand years,” I told him. “But I remember God’s face.” I leaned into him, allowing my breasts to brush against his face. Though Jesus flinched, he didn’t pull away; his cock, still inside me, stiffened. I licked the sweat off his neck, tasted blood in his hair, dragged my tongue along the crown of thorns and whispered into his ear: “His eyes were dark, like yours.”

He gasped at that, then coughed up blood. I put my mouth over Christ’s, driving my tongue deep into his mouth. His teeth were ragged; his torturers had broken them. Sweet, dark blood. Arterial. He was nearly dead, and yet his cock rose again. Stiff inside me. I ground my pelvis down hard, pushing my pubic bone against the root of his cock. His muscle raged inside me.

I pulled my mouth away and bit through his bottom lip. He cried, but didn’t jerk back. “Maybe you are a god,” I said, gasping from the effort of holding myself up and fucking him at the same time. I rocked against Christ, using the cross to pull myself up, then letting my weight pull me down, jamming his cock deep inside of me. “Or maybe you want to be.”

Christ moaned again. The new wound I'd made to his mouth made it difficult for him to speak clearly: “I will rise,” he said. “God’s will be done. I will rise.”

“And so you have,” I said, still pulling myself up and down on his cock. Slower now, I wanted to prolong the thin rage of blood that kept his cock pulsing. “You’ve risen nicely.” I pulled myself tight to Christ, his body slick with sweat and blood. He groaned and thrust hard. I could feel the sperm’s release. It was hot, and once again, tiny life sought purchase inside my dead body.

Christ sagged forward, unconscious. But his cock was still inside me, throbbing painfully. It was as if the blood that remained in his body found in my vagina a focus point, a place of beginning and end. It seemed to want to rush out of the tip of his cock and into me.

I probed his mind. With his eyes closed it was difficult, but not impossible. Our intimacy made it easier. I forced my mind to swim through the murkiness of his, now the leviathan that he had imagined me to be earlier. His memories, his past, clear, but disjointed.


He was no god.

Just a man with a mother, no father, and siblings with whom he fought for the attention of his single parent.

She was god.

His god.

In her blood, Jesus found god.


That startled me, and I was nearly forced out of Christ’s mind. “Blood fetish?” I thought. “Rare among Jews. Even the magicians.” I smiled to myself and delved deeper, swimming against the current of his resistance. “Maybe there’s more to Christ than I thought.”


When it was his mother’s blood time, she left the village, as was the custom among her people. Christ accompanied his mother into the desert when it was her time to flow. If the holy men of the village had known, Christ would have been flogged, perhaps even burned; no man was permitted to be with a woman during her unclean time.

But the holy men didn’t care what happened to the bastard son of a presumed whore, or the mother who claimed to have known God; they barely tolerated the presence of the family.


I pulled back from his mind and savored his memories for a moment. I could almost taste his mother’s blood. So many women had fallen over the years -- easy prey, alone in the desert.
And the scent of their blood. Menstrual. Rich with life unspent.

God, I loved the Jews.


Sitting in the desert with his mother for a week each month, Christ listened to her ravings about his father. He was white -- pure, nearly translucent -- not brown-skinned like the rest of the Jews. He’d descended from the skies one hot and moonless night, and had taken Christ’s mother while she slept beneath a rock in the desert, wrapped in rags and her own menstrual blood.

Christ's father, she told him, was wise beyond the understanding of the priests. His father knew the secrets of eternal life.

Blood.

The body.

And as he listened to her quiet, though raw words of godliness and his father, Christ lay with his head in his mother's lap and took in her rich scent.


I gasped at that memory. Through him, I could taste his mother. Her menstrual flow, choked with bits of flesh, soaked through the rags that she used to staunch the blood. He would mouth her rough skirt and inhale the blood fragrance.

Perhaps this bastard son of my kind was a god after all. Perhaps he understood.

"You will burn," he mumbled through broken teeth, rousing himself from his sex and pain-induced stupor. "God will burn you for this si--."

Perhaps not.

As Christ spoke the final word of his sentence, I bit into his tongue, then threw my head backward. The resulting fount of blood was weak; Christ had already spent both seed and life. But still, after swallowing this bit of his body, I pressed my lips to his own, and drank from his mouth.

And again, the memories flowed.


I am his first woman! He seems so good at fucking not to have had a woman before. But I can see that he's turned down several over the years; none of them were his mother.

But, oh, the boys!

Twelve of them. In one grand evening, he took twelve of them.

No wonder these men wanted him dead. One man fucking another man is a crime under Jehovah’s laws. But fucking twelve men? That goes beyond the laws. Likely, he’d have been burned as a heretic had any priests known that he allowed himself to be fucked by his disciples.


I took my lips away from Christ's mouth and put my mouth close to his ear: "I can be a boy, too," I murmured. I raised myself off of Christ's cock. Though softening, it was still hard enough for me to arch forward, jamming my pubis into belly, and slide his blood and semen slick cock into my ass.

It burned as I pushed myself down onto his rod for the third time. And I felt my own blood begin to flow as the force of my thrusts tore the tissues inside of me.

Mute, Christ looked at me, his tongue a ragged stump, his cock once again fully erect and throbbing painfully.

"Soon," I said to him, "you will be a god. Just as your cock has risen three times tonight, on the third night after your death, you will rise. And you will know that the blood is the life.

"But this time, you won't talk so much."