The pews were rammed. There was not an empty seat to be found in Saint Lidwina's. Who would want to miss this one?
For the first year since he'd arrived in the parish, Parson Camenzind Ivermectin was promising something new. The big white letters on the black board outside the village church made that promise clearly.
This Sunday he would not be talking about
BE LIKE UNTO MISTER JESUS, IE DON'T RAPE MY WIFE SO MUCH
or
THE PATH TO SALVATION STARTS WITH STOPPING RAPING MY WIFE
or
RAPE TRAUMA SYNDROME: AN INTRODUCTION (AND INVITATION TO EMPATHY)
or
SHE NO LONGER OWNS A SINGLE PAIR OF UNRIPPED PANTIES
This Sunday he would, finally, be taking a break from his humourless obsession with the villagers' silly fuck pranks and preaching on a new topic.
This Sunday the Parson would tell the village why
THE PROBLEM WITH THE WORLD TODAY IS MINOTAUR DICK
and Spetlamu's faithful couldn't be more curious to find out. After a year of being petulantly scolded like schoolboys for a fun activity they were doing with their own dicks, they figured it was time someone else's wanger was put on blast.
Madame Sausages, the Fungible Fortuneteller, was present. Advising her friends to sit a little way back from the aisles because she knew how this was going to work out.
Tatiana Lever, the Minotaur's Milkmaid was present. As far as she was concerned the problem with the world today was not enough Minotaur dick, seeing as how her bf had been away for a couple of days. So she was curious to see how the priest could possibly stand there and argue the opposite.
Joanna Bolliger, Tatiana's Loving Girlfriend and the Innkeeper's Ill-Reputed Tomboy Daughter, was present. She broadly disliked the one Minotaur she knew but was neutral on his dick so hoped to learn something today. It was also nice to be seen out in public with Tatiana for the first time in public since they became gfs. They sat at the front making out. It was getting pretty hot and heavy.
The Multitalented Miller was present, chatting away with the Innkeeper.
"Yes, the triptych's almost finished," he said. The Miller knew his friend was very interested in his painting. They went to a class together that the cis Mrs Mulberry taught, but the Miller was far more advanced than the Innkeeper.
"The triptych. Yes. What was the theme again?"
"The three times I assfucked your daughter."
"That's right!" remembered the Innkeeper. "What was it again? Once clumsily, once considerately, and once cruelly? So smart. What a satisfying contrast. I look forward to seeing the piece, Henri."
"Can't quite get the composition to work to be honest. It demands that the time I fucked her considerately be in the centre panel, and I don't want that image as the focal point because I enjoyed it far less."
"Quite the artistic quandary! Perhaps bring it along to the class and the group can workshop a solution?"
"Eh, maybe," said the Miller, "I don't know if the cis Mrs Mulberry would like that. She's kind of not keen on coercing teenage girls into unwanted sexual acts."
"To many of the parsons' sermons on 'Building a Consent Culture', I'll warrant!" the Innkeeper laughed.
The Mulberrys were, themselves, present. Chatting about what a lovely wholesome young couple Tatiana and Joanna looked and what a terrible shame it was that Joanna was actually a disgusting slut.
The words "disgusting slut" were also on the lips of Irene Ivermectin, the Parson's Traumatised Wife.
She was just muttering them to herself, over and over.
"I'm a disgusting slut who deserves what happens to her. Yes. Yes. I see that now. I see it and I like it. It's good. It's good that I'm a disgusting slutty rapemeat cunt. I love it. I fucking love it. Yes, Yes. It's all that I am and can ever be. Rape me good, boys, I'm a disgusting slut."
The Heartbroken, Careworn Dairy Farmer had, in the packed out church, ended up sat next to her and all that kind of jibber-jabber wasn't helping his bleak mood one little bit.
Conversely, the Tyrannical Cook was sat on Irene's other side and thought she was being hilarious.
But whether her monologue was darkly funny or just horribly depressing, it came to an end when her husband rose to begin his.
Parson Ivermectin took to the pulpit.
To give his congregation something they'd never heard before. Something fresh. Something new.
"Earlier this week," he began, "My wife was raped..."
There was a massive groan from the assemblage. At least a third rose to walk out.
"Wait!" he called after them, "This one was different! She liked this one!"
Some of the parishioners retook their seats. Especially the ones who'd been involved in her most recent defilement. It was always wonderful to hear positive feedback.
"Yes!" thundered the preacher, "Every previous rape she has loathed and abhorred with the outraged chastity of a virtuous maid! But this assault, this perfidious molestation she suffered while trying to enjoy a simple meal of bratwurst..."
"I reckon you enjoyed my bratwurst plenty, didn't you bitch?" the cook whispered to Irene.
She nodded enthusiastically.
He husband continued oblivious.
"...this latest indignity heaped upon this blameless angel... this one was unlike the others. She described this one as 'the time of her life' and 'like all her Christmases had come at once!"
There was whooping from the pews. The Innkeeper and the Miller gave each other a thumbs up.
Skeggy Regins shouted out something distasteful and unrepeatable. He always took things too far.
Parson Camenzind Ivermectin slammed his hands down on the pulpit, leant forward and demanded of his flock, "So what changed?"
He paused dramatically for an answer to the rhetorical question and tried not to cry while ignoring the answers that filled the pause.
"What changed," he continued, "Was that, earlier that very day, she had been exposed to a sight so appalling and unholy that it warped and corrupted her good character and destroyed the innocent mind of the sweet, pure girl I married."
Mumbles and mutters of enthusiastic curiosity rumbled around the nave. This was pretty exciting stuff.
"What turned my darling wife into nothing but a dirty, horny rapeslut... was the merest sight of minotaur cock!"
There was a thrilled gasp. Obviously they'd known that was what he was going to say from the title of the sermon, but a well told narrative is gripping even if you've seen spoilers.
The gasp died down, and the parson readied himself to resume...
But then there was a creak. A wooden creak from the back of the church.
The doors aragorned open.
Rutt the Minotaur walked slowly up the central aisle, twirling his massive, meaty schlong like a propeller.
"What?" he said, "This little thing?"
It was Sunday. The Minotaur had returned.
"Your willy is evil!" screamed the priest.
Rutt had reached the pew where Dabney, Irene and the Tyrannical Cook were sat. He rubbed his meat aggressively on each of their faces.
"You good folks think this cum canon is evil?" he asked them.
"I am still processing my feelings from my last exposure to it," said the Careworn Dairy Farmer.
"I have just turned gay," said the Tyrannical Cook, repeating the Careworn Dairy Farmer's earlier error of rushing to judgement.
"It is goodness itself, the holiest of holies" said Irene Ivermectin, "Absolute perfection and the guarantor of absolute meaning. It supersedes all that exists around it and must therefore precede it in terms of signification. It is the true north in humanity's search for truth and beauty. To learn what anything truly is, what it truly means, what constitutes its true purpose, one must consider its meaning in relation to your penis. For the meaning of your penis is fixed, unmovable and locked in its certainty and surety. All other significatory systems are contextual, provisional... but your colossal tallywacker, by dint of its impossible reconciliation of the transcendent and immanent, provides a locus point by which we can reach true knowledge and understanding of our relation to the divine."
The Parson had a flash of doubt. Maybe Minotaur dick wasn't the problem. Maybe he just shouldn't have left his stupid theology books lying around the Rectory.
Over on the other side of the church, Joanna whispered, "Damn, I think she's even more into that dong than you are!"
"Yeah, bitch better back off," joked the Milkmaid, "I can't believe you're not obsessed with its impossible reconciliation of the transcendent and immanent."
"Eh. It's okay."
"Joanna," Tatiana asked her tomboy girlfriend the question that had suddenly just come to her mind, "Do you think you might be a lesbian?"
"I guess about 70 percent?"
Behind them, Madame Sausages chuckled at the girlies' naïve conversation. She knew it was 73% exactly. T'was writ in the heavens.
"Now I don't understand any of that fancy talk," lied the Minotaur. While he was no philosopher, there's no way he could have made it out of the Idea Wars alive without having that shit down, "But what I think you're telling me is that you look at my big fat dick and it tells you what you are and what you're for. That about right?"
"Yes," said Irene.
"Then take a good long look," he was holding it right in front of her eyes, "And tell me what you are."
"I'm a cunt," said Irene.
"Yeah, you are. Good girlie. Are what are cunts for?"
"We're for raping," said Irene.
"I'm so uncomfortable," whispered Joanna.
"I'm so wet," whispered Tatiana.
"FUCKING RIGHT!" roared the Minotaur and rammed his erection into the Traumatised Wife's mouth. It didn't make it into her oral cavity, but it smashed out a good few of her teeth.
Rutt thrust again. And again. Slamming his massive blunt weapon into her head. Her face was a bruise now, mild concussion was setting in and all but her molars were scattered on the floor. His meat was falling on Irene's face like a hammer. But it still hadn't entered her mouth. It was just too small to take it.
Rutt reached his burly fingers between her lips. He seized her jaw and snapped it loose. Her mouth hung wide and open now, her lower jaw flapping about uselessly and irreparably.
It would be easiest to list the people in the church who weren't screaming in horror. That was just Madame Sausages who'd seen this coming and Ahegao the Christmas Kitten who was watching from the rafters and totally would have screamed in horror if that was something cats did.
"What the fuck are you doing, man?" wailed the Innkeeper, "What the fuck are you fucking doing?"
"What's it look like?" asked the Minotaur, "I'm raping a cunt."
And he pounded his dick into the sickening aperture that had once been Irene Ivermectin's mouth.
"Not like this! Not like that!" The Miller was openly sobbing. "We just do it for fun! We just do it for jokes!"
"Yeah? Well I'm doing it because I wanna cum."
With his hands tight around her skull, he gave it a herculean slam. His dick smashed out the back of her head, obliterating her brainstem and killing her instantly. Her last thought had been, "This is in no way sexy and I don't want this at all" and her last thought before that had been, "Maybe I misread those theology books. Complex academic work is often best approached within academia where its meaning can be explored and not assumed."
The corpse of Irene Ivermectin dangled from Rutt's big hard dick. It hung there limply. His shaft entered through what had been her mouth and exited through the back of her neck. He swung round to face the congregation and the corpse swung with him.
Rutt roared.
"You've gone to far!" accused Skeggy Regins.
Tatiana stepped forward. She understood the situation. Her lover was all fired up, probably from a few lonely days on the road, and unless someone took matters in hand and calmed him down, that dick was going to tear through every poor soul in the village.
That someone was her.
Tatiana Lever was the hero Spetlamu needed and deserved.
Walking to the centre of the aisle, she approached the rampaging, hollering monster.
"Hush now, big boy," she said lovingly, "Your maid is here. Your slave. Your love. Let's milk that big nasty cock."
She put her hands to it, tried to ignore the cadaver of the ruined woman who hung from it, and began to pump.
What happened in that church that day was so grotesque, so traumatic, that not all would or could remember it clearly. But everyone in the village remembered and understood one thing clear enough.
Tatiana Lever, and her amazing handjob skills, saved all their lives that day.
Days later, when most screaming had stopped, a group of Irene's tormentors met with the Parson in The Willowish Grinigog to say what needed to be said.
"I don't need to tell you," said the Innkeeper. "That the drinks are on the house."
"Nobody wanted that," said the Miller, "What happened there, in that church. What that monster did. Nobody wanted that for you or for her."
"She was a good woman," said the Cook, "Loyal. Resilient. Supple. Determined. Always put up a good fight. Never just relaxed into it like most girlies do. No, Parson. Your wife was a good woman and she deserved better."
"She did," agreed the Widower Parson Camenzind Ivermectin. "She deserved so much better than all of this. Than everything she went through in this village."
The men looked a little uncomfortable. They shuffled their feet and gazed into their ales.
"Parson," said the Innkeeper, "You know all what we ever did to her weren't like what that Minotaur did? You know all we ever did was just in fun?"
"In play, if you like. Pulling your leg, we were," said the Miller.
"Did Irene ever find it funny, do you think?"
"Well, no. No I don't suppose as she did. But then the joke was on you. T'was you we were pranking. You we wanted to lighten up a bit and see the funny side"
"The funny side," repeated the priest.
"Aye, well. Tis too late for that now. It's a fucking tragedy what that Minotaur did to her and, well, if anything we done did anything to contribute to the situation..." said the Miller.
"Yeah," agreed the Stonemason, "If our actions in any small way helped create the horrorshow that played out that terrible Sunday...then we want you to know..."
"We need you to know..." stressed the Miller.
"We need you to know that we're sorry," said the Innkeeper. "We're truly sorry."
The Priest was taken aback. He didn't know what to say.
"We're sorry and, look, we know you don't earn much as a parish priest and we know they've been some drains on your finances recently that mean you might not be able to memorialise your wife as you'd want."
It was true. There was no way the Parson could afford a headstone. He sobbed a little as he thought about how an unmarked grave was the final indignity that awaited his beloved wife.
"Now, now," said the Stonemason Skeggy Reggins, "The Innkeeper here has offered his wares on the house. Can I do any less? My finest craftsmanship and my most lavish stone have given that dear, goodly woman the headstone she so richly deserves. Come walk, with us to yon churchyard."
And the men of the village walked the Parson from the inn, across the green, and to the beautiful spot in the graveyard where Irene lay buried.
A fine new headstone adorned it. And the Stonemason had told no lie. The craftsmanship was fine and the stone was lavish. It was a rich gift indeed.
The words upon it read "HERE LIES IRENE 'RAPESLUT' IVERMECTIN - SHE DIED AS SHE LIVED: BEING FUCKED LIKE A WHORE"
The priest fell to the ground and gave up on everything ever. He never washed or fed himself from that moment forth, and never even spoke again until Nikola's wedding. It was over for him.
"Fucking hell," said the Stonemason, "Even now the guy still can't take a joke."
The Parish Council wrote to the Church of Mister Jesus at the Capital to ask them to send a new priest, but there weren't any spare so they sent three sexy nuns instead.
