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A mere diary was never enough to satisfy the vacuous abyss that was lust.
Sentenced to Wrath, the Ferryman oft wondered whether the higher layer would have been a more appropriate place of damnation. She buried herself in blankets. Laying flat on her back wasn’t the most comfortable position, but she couldn’t bare look around her room in this state. The murals of Gabriel that decorated the place were mocking her. She could do nothing but count the boards above, praying that this affliction would be over soon.
Her bones shivered. They clacked against each other almost comedically, as if in anticipation. Despite the lack of flesh, the desire swirled in the Ferryman’s mind. Although everything she did was to please God, to have a chance at salvation… She knew deep down that this was the reason she had not ascended to the Heavens. Never would she touch the gates, lest she taint them with her sinful soul.
Carpals clasped over her skull in a futile attempt to purge the whimpers that threatened to pour out, the Ferryman rutted against a worn-down pillow from years of using it for her own pleasure. Soft mewls would escape into the air, littered with praise to an angel who would not hear her. These words were to never reach his immaculate image.
“Ggh… Gabriel, please— your touch is… so holy, so divine…”
This was becoming ritualistic. Every moment of the Ferryman’s primal want from the past, week? Month? She had not the time frame for when she last allowed herself to lose to lust. Every time, she swore it would be the last time she ever used Gabriel’s name for her own sickened desires. Every time, it would be a lie.
She pressed the pillow harder into her pelvis, desperate for anything to cure this feeling. It’s nights like this where she silently wonders if picking her bones clean was the right choice. It seemed hours passed without any semblance of reprieve, having no real flesh to satisfy. The Ferryman wrapped her frail legs around the pillow. It was trapped between her thighs as she continued rubbing against it. Shy, quiet moans were quickly drowned out by the sound of creaking floorboards. Her fantasy spoke aloud only ever witnessed by the images crafted in Gabriel’s design.
“Ah… S-sire, please—! I n.. never knew angels were so…”
Her voice trailed off back into nondescript whimpers as she silenced the thought. Guilt was too tame of a word to describe the wretched feeling that she experienced every time she indulged in sin. It destroyed what little was left of her; it fueled the desire to ascend.
The Ferryman got the idea in her head that angels could not feel such sinful, hedonistic desires. If only they would allow her to ascend, she thought. Then, truly, she would be divine. She never allowed herself to admit the fatal flaw in her logic; the fact that she could not ascend as a sinner partaking in lust, and the selfishness that damned her further down into Hell.
Her thoughts were wandering away from her imagination, as it typically does when she goes so long trying to please herself. Soon she would realize how disgusting her actions were. How Heaven would cast her to her second death. It was the same tango every time. She would imagine a fantasy, one where her savior Gabriel would save her from her heat. Then, guilt would rip and stab into her, leaving gaping wounds to bleed, until she stopped trying to service herself.
She wasn’t ready to stop just yet. The guilt would have to wait. The Ferryman was in the middle of one of her favorite fantasies to play out, but she never did find a good ending for it. Maybe tonight, she thought, she could finish the story.
The hand clasped around her skull was removed, finding its way under her jaw. She wrapped her bony fingers around her throat, imagining a hand that would never be there.
“Mmf— Oh, Gabriel—! S.. So rough… Please, ah… I-I need you…”
She wished she needed to breathe. The pressure around her neck from her hands hardly replaced what she truly desired. The Ferryman sought true suffocation, brought about by the one angel who ever laid eyes on her sinful figure. So soft was he when he saved her; so harsh was he in her deepest fantasies. True salvation would be asphyxiation by his holy hand.
Imitation was all she had, so the Ferryman gasped, trying to catch the breath she didn’t need. She squirmed, imagining herself trapped under Gabriel, his holy being pressed up so lovingly against her. Her thrusts were getting frantic now, as the fire in her soul raged on.
“Ah— Please, please, pleaase… I… I’m so… Ahn, I’m close, Gabriel, please…”
She was not close. In reality, the Ferryman never truly got to finish what she started. Internally, she knew it was possible. Despite the lack of fluids that would come out, she felt an emotional and otherwise physical climax may be achievable. But she never allowed herself enough time to explore this possibility. The one time she tried, it dragged on for hours. The guilt killed her.
So instead, she pretends. Her hands grasp at the pillow, thrusting harsh and fast. Her back arched into the air, letting out cries of pleasure. The hand around her neck now gripped onto the sheets below as she shuddered and cried out to the Heavens.
“Ah! G-gabriel, I love you—!”
Nothing would ever be enough for her. She weakly collapsed back onto the bed, staring up and shuddering. She was not satisfied, but at least her fantasy had an ending now. The lust was worse than it was when she started. A common result of her attempting to relieve herself of the eternal torture. She would not ever be satisfied until she felt the hands of her savior truly there. How she longed for his holy length sliding against her, his ragged breathing in her ears. How she longed for Gabriel.
The Ferryman would never deserve the ascension she sought.