Calvinist Erotica

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He sits in the study, quietly composing tweet storms.  Fire gently crackling in the fireplace.  Casting Crowns playing in the background.

She enters, pulling the door shut behind her.  She is dressed in her Good Sweatpants.

“The kids are asleep,” she announces, but his eyes do not leave the screen.

“Even Malachi?” he asks.


“What about Isaac and Barnabas?”


“And Noah and Levi, they’re asleep too?”


“What about the girls?” he asks.  “Miriam?  Lydia?  What about Esth–”

She walks over to his chair and drags her finger over his lips.  His words die in his throat.

“They’re all asleep,” she says softly.  “And I’d like to know you…in the biblical sense.”

He sets down his phone and commands Alexa to turn off the music.

“What exactly do you have in mind?” he asks, stroking his beard.

“I’m going to make you feel things,” she whispers, and she wasn’t talking about like butts or whatever, she was talking about literal feelings.

“Oh, I can feel all sorts of emotions,” he growls, taking off his faux-nerd glasses very slowly, for effect.

“Like anger…and righteous anger…and extra-righteous anger–”

“No,” she interrupts.  “…the other emotions.”

He gasps.  What devilry, what carnality is this.  What charismatic ribaldry is afoot.  He stands to his feet.

She walks behind him and wraps her arms around his chest.  She pulls their bodies together, squeezing so tight that he can almost feel her lady blessings through his dress shirt, sweater, fleece pullover, and second sweater.

“Talk penal substitution to me,” she whispers into his ear with hot breath.

I have your penal substitution right here,” he says, reaching into his pants.  He produces a key: he turns to a glass bookcase, where he keeps his theology books, locked, lest they be seen by the reprobate, or by Methodists.

He unlocks the bookcase, opens it, and selects several theology tomes.

“Daddy’s got a Grudem,” he says as he turns back to her.

She slaps the theology books out of his hands and they tumble to the floor.  She leans back over the pool table–which they keep in the study but only use when hosting church small group functions–and straddles the corner pocket.

“I’m in the mood for something naughty,” she moans.

He narrows his eyes.

“I suppose I could read you something from the Babylon Bee,” he offers.

“Alexa, read Song of Solomon,” she calls out to their Echo.

Waves of red-hot lust wash over him as their virtual assistant begins to speak the verses.

“Alexa, read it in the NIV,” the woman says suddenly.

Wait, what? Beads of sweat form on his forehead.  Alexa abandons the ESV and begins to read it in the–ugh–what even is this?  It sounds so…so dirty.  What is his wife doing?

“Alexa, read it in the New Living Translation!

No, stop. Safe word–what is the safe word? This role play has gone too far, he thinks to himself.  But it is too late; the sugary-sweet words of this plebeian translation intoxicate him.  He is overcome.  Given over to the flesh.

He leaps onto the pool table, more animal than man now, and kisses her, like with an open mouth and everything.

“I’m going to give you an unconditional election,” she says coyly, digging her fingernails into his outer sweater.

His mind races, thinking of something edgy that rhymes with “unconditional election.”

“More like fun-conditional election,” he whispers into her ear, sexily.


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