Anissa’s

You’re in a cathedral, echoing with the chants of an unseen choir, scented with incense, draped in shadows, glittering lights stretching out down the nave. Anissa is there, standing at the entrance, dressed in a simple white shift, that covers everything but leaves little to imagination. She’s barefoot and bareheaded. There are others around her, but they are blurred into anonymity, the white of their shifts just a colour, the figures only just identifying their sex.

You remain in the shadows, watching as she walks down the nave. She’s lifted her hands in prayer and with each step she mutters. The words are whispered but the acoustics carry each one to you. The limited French you remember tells you these are words of praise, passages from the bible, exhortations from the Catholic prayer book, deprecations of modesty and simplicity.

Her passage takes forever. The cathedral stretches out before her into eternity. The door she had entered through is lost in the distance. The transept before her gets no nearer. Yet she does not tire, nor does she speed up, nor does she slow down. Each step is deliberate. Some of the crowd gathered in the doorway comes with her but more remain behind. Those anonymous figures that walk by her side are slower, more burdened. She leaves them resting in the pews. Only you keep pace with her, walking down the aisle, the infinite lines of pews between you and her.

There’s a man waiting for her, dressed in the same white shift as everyone else, his beard white, his eyes kind, his face darkened by the sun. A lectern stands before him, on which rests a book, as large as a man, and as thick as the plumpest mattress. It lies forever open, for there is no way this book could ever shut, and on the open pages you see an infinite number of lines, written so small nobody could read them. But the old man looks down, nods to himself and then turns to look at Anissa.

“Welcome Anissa De Gaulle”

“St Peter, is this heaven?”

“No, this is just Heaven’s Gate.”

“It’s beautiful.”

They’re speaking French, but you understand them perfectly.

“And Heaven is more beautiful. It is just that way.”

Now is your moment. You reach out and feel the dream meld to your thoughts.

“But first you must divest yourself of all earthly things.”

“I have.”

“No, you have not.” Anissa looks around confused. “You still wear earthly clothes. In heaven we walk around as God intended, naked and proud.”

It’s only a dream but Anissa blushes at the very thought of nakedness. She shakes her head.

“Are you ashamed of the body God gave you?” St Peter asks. “Are you embarrassed by God’s gift to you? Hiding what God gave you was your greatest sin. You should be proud of it. You should let the world see it.”

It still takes a while as Anissa dithers with her fear. But her yearning for heaven is greater than her fear of nakedness. She slowly, carefully lifts her shift, and as she lifts it the garment fades into light and then into nothing.

She’s naked. This is your first sight of her pendulous breasts. The first sight of her flat stomach. The first sight of the dark bush that leads down to her sex. She’s trimmed it, interesting. No, this is not reality, this is how she sees herself. The breasts are larger than they are in real life. Her skin is duskier.

“Now you may enter,” and St Peter directs her forward. Carefully, nakedly, she steps forward, and the chanting grows in volume. It’s a song greeting her, a hymn overlaid with childhood nursery rhymes, epic orchestras interlaid with French folk tunes.

The cathedral falls away with each step, opening into a garden of lush grass, verdant foliage, large, colourful flowers, fat grapes dangling from vines, plump apples and pears and peaches and nectarines and figs hanging from trees.

She’s greeted by naked angels, plucked from your favourite porn actresses and adult models, each one fat titted, and round assed, and smooth skinned. At first sight of them Anissa tries to cover up her own nakedness, but the angels laugh and greet her with kisses and with strokes across her dusky skin, that part her arms so they can cup her breasts and run their fingers along her slit.

From behind a bush you step out, naked and erect. Anissa is too concerned by the angels to notice you at first. When she does see you, her eyes widen with fear. They can’t help but look down where your curved, solid penis juts out to greet her. This is a dream, you could have made it as big as you wanted, but it’s now a monster in real life, so you might as well keep it that way in this dream.

“Monsieur Smith,” she breathes. Her eyes can’t help returning to your penis, although she keeps dragging it to your face.

“Anissa, I knew you’d get to Heaven.” You lean in and you kiss her. She recoils. She shudders when your hand reaches out and cups her breast.

“You’re not Catholic. How did you get to Heaven?”

“I was admitted to Heaven because I brought so much joy to the world. Well, this brought so much joy to the world.” You reach down and you pull on your erect cock.

“But that’s… that’s…. a sin.”

“No, sex is not a sin. Would God give us something and it make it pleasurable if it was sinful? No. No. Sex is God’s gift to mankind. In Heaven, we greet each other with sex.”

And you push your cock through her pubic hair, and along her slit. She shudders and moans. And the world shatters. There’s darkness where once there’d been light. There’s meaninglessness where once there was reason. There is no Anissa.

You’re in your bed. The feel of the cap on your head, the painful erection, the only residue of what you had seen.