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Back Margery Kempe Save as PDF
Chapters (69)
  1. Cover
  2. Biographical Notes
  3. Title Page
  4. INTRODUCTION
  5. MARGERY KEMPE
  6. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  7. Dedication
  8. Front
  9. PART ONE
  10. 1
  11. 2
  12. 3
  13. 4
  14. 5
  15. 6
  16. 7
  17. 8
  18. 9
  19. 10
  20. 11
  21. 12
  22. 13
  23. 14
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. PART TWO
  27. 17
  28. 18
  29. 19
  30. 20
  31. 21
  32. 22
  33. 23
  34. 24
  35. 25
  36. 26
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. PART THREE
  43. 32
  44. 33
  45. 34
  46. 35
  47. 36
  48. 37
  49. 38
  50. 39
  51. 40
  52. 41
  53. 42
  54. 43
  55. 44
  56. 45
  57. 46
  58. PART FOUR
  59. 47
  60. 48
  61. 49
  62. 50
  63. 51
  64. 52
  65. 53
  66. 54
  67. 55
  68. 56
  69. MY MARGERY, MARGERY’S BOB

Satan ordered her to come; flames jumped up and down her groin and thighs and through her asshole; she wriggled and jerked against her will like a manic puppet, her muscles tugging the man’s cock so hard it passed the point of no return. When his straining body also reached the breaking point, his helpless cries began and Satan made her moan, “It’s heaven!”

She laughed with shame yet excitement made everything arousing seem normal. Out of sheer spite a demon did a backflip. Satan’s voice almost ripped her ears off: AS HIS DAUGHTER YOU DISAPPOINT, AS HIS MOTHER YOU EXASPERATE, AS HIS SISTER YOU ARE BULLIED, AS HIS WIFE YOU ARE ABANDONED—so deafening it killed the world.

A cuckoo echoed far off, then near. Satan’s furnace-mouth gaped wide and the terror of being swallowed drew her on a conveyer towards his jaws as her feet whirred in front like a clown on ice.

“Jesus, you said you would never abandon me!” Margery felt like a balloon full of water, easily punctured, webbed with a tangle of charged nerve endings, prickly in the slightest breeze—an unbelievable pressure inside that wanted to slosh and disrupt. A demon thrust a squirming naked man down the devil’s throat; the roar of fire drowned his cries. Margery covered her breasts in an attempt to hold herself together; the dark tips ached as invisible fingers pinched them. Another demon helped push in the man’s flapping leg with a pitchfork. She felt terrified of collision, bloated as a cow’s udder, tit pink and squinting.

Jesus sat with his elbows on a table. “I’m not angry with you,” he said, “although I allow you to feel pain.” Margery felt like she was visiting a childhood home, smaller than remembered. Satan had mauled her for twelve days.

“And I, I—” She shook her head, unable to go on; she sat down and hid her face in her hands. Margery owned little of the world but felt responsible for that portion and more. How strange that the owner of everything felt no responsibility. She was bone weary; the thought rose: How can I get rid of him? He walked away, but slowly. His broad ass was hairless as an egg. She discerned a blindspot behind the clarity of events, an obscurity that jumped and shifted.

44

Jesus perched on the three legged stool in the corner, drinking a glass of wine. His face was softly masculine, almost overdone, eyesockets delicate, nose polished down. He was satisfied with the light falling through the half-open shutters and the wedge of view by now familiar, the neighbor’s roof and the hexagonal well. He said mildly, “What will you do now? There can be no more against you but the moon and seven stars. There is scarcely anyone on your side.”

“Then we will live together?” There was hatred in her question. Her fading posture and her anger put her in the wrong.