You Will Become Nothing [erotic story, blasphemy]

Mother and daughter perform a series of blasphemous and sexual rituals

In the heart of an enormous brutalist house built entirely of raw gray concrete, without a single touch of warmth or ornament, stretched a vast living room on the second floor. The walls were monolithic blocks of reinforced concrete, marked with visible traces of the molds and small imperfections that accentuated their rawness. Through the large rectangular openings that served as windows, only the absolute darkness of the exterior could be seen.

In the center of the room, on a thick dark rug that contrasted with the polished concrete floor, sat a fifty-year-old mother and her nineteen-year-old daughter. Both were dressed in strict black: the mother wore a long black dress that fell with austere elegance to the floor, while the daughter wore a long black skirt combined with a dark blouse. Neither wore shoes; their bare feet rested on the rug, pale against the deep fabric.

They sat close to each other, legs tucked or slightly extended, in a calm but heavy posture. The only source of light came from several tall black candelabras placed strategically around them. Long black candles burned with flickering flames, casting a warm yet somber illumination that danced across their faces and over the concrete walls. The shadows were long and dramatic, accentuating the reliefs of the concrete and creating a powerful contrast between the golden candlelight and the cold gray of the brutalism.

The mother, her face marked by the years but still beautiful in its severity, looked at her daughter with tired eyes. After a long silence, she spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper:

“Life is empty, my daughter. Empty and unfair. Everything they promise us ends up being a cruel illusion. In the end, nothing has any true meaning. It is only justified in pleasure. In those brief moments when we feel pleasure, when the body and mind surrender to desire without thinking of anything else. That is the only real thing. The only thing worth anything.”

The nineteen-year-old daughter, barefoot, with her black skirt spread over the rug, raised her gaze to her mother. The candlelight illuminated her young face, where innocence and an emerging darkness mingled. She did not respond immediately. She simply listened, as the black flames continued to consume themselves slowly in the gloom of the enormous concrete room.

“Mother… I feel it too. There is a deep emptiness in my chest that never goes away. It is like a cold hollow that grows larger every day. No matter what I do, nothing fills it. Lately I have been thinking a lot about death. About how easy it would be to simply… stop existing. About how everything would finally end. That emptiness hurts so much that sometimes the idea of death seems kinder than continuing to live with it.”

Her words hung heavy in the air of the brutalist room. The flickering light of the black candles cast long shadows on the raw concrete walls, accentuating the contrast between the daughter’s youth and the mother’s weary resignation.

The mother stared at her for several long seconds. Then, without saying anything yet, she slowly extended her hand and gently lifted her daughter’s black skirt, sliding it up her thighs until her bare legs were exposed to the flickering candlelight. Her fingers paused on the young woman’s warm skin in a slow, possessive gesture.

In a low, hoarse, and strangely serene voice, the mother said:

“Do not fear the void, my daughter. Make that void your home. Be the void.”

The daughter’s leg was long, pale, and softly shaped, with the delicacy of youth that has not yet been hardened by time. Her skin was smooth, almost luminous under the dim light, with a subtle silky sheen that contrasted with the rawness of the surroundings.

The light from the black candles fell obliquely upon it, creating a dramatic play of chiaroscuro. The flickering flames cast a golden-orange glow that caressed the outer curve of the thigh, while the inner side remained submerged in a deep, velvety shadow. With every flicker of the flame, a line of warm light slid slowly across the skin like a liquid caress.

The mother’s hands, thinner and showing the first signs of age in their subtle veins and slightly rougher texture, moved with deliberate slowness up her daughter’s thighs. Her fingers moved calmly, barely parting the black fabric of the already lifted skirt. Her right hand advanced along the more sensitive and warmer inner thigh, while her left hand traveled the upper part with greater possession, feeling the young flesh yield slightly beneath her touch.

“Mother… sometimes I feel so lost in this world. I wish I were dead and could live with the spirits. At least there is nothing to pretend. No expectations, no useless pain, no future to deceive us. Only the eternal nothing, cold and honest.”

As she spoke, the daughter slowly extended her hands toward her mother. With delicacy but without hesitation, she began to lift her mother’s long black skirt.

Her voice continued, lower and more nihilistic, almost a ritual whisper:

“Everything is useless. Love, suffering, dreams… they are only distractions to keep us from looking the abyss in the face. Nothing matters. We are only flesh.”

The mother’s legs were surprisingly youthful for her fifty years: long, well-formed, with soft but firm lines. Her skin was pale and smooth, with a creamy tone that contrasted with the rawness of the concrete around her. Her thighs were full and rounded, retaining a mature voluptuousness that was still attractive. Her feet were long and beautiful, almost aristocratic in their elegance: long straight toes, naturally pink nails, a pronounced arch, and a soft, clean sole. They rested barefoot on the dark rug, slightly flexed, with the golden candlelight caressing the instep and creating soft shadows between the toes.

On the far wall of the brutalist room, imposing and cold, hung an enormous black cross carved from polished jade. The dark stone absorbed the candlelight and returned it with an almost malignant greenish-black glow, casting a cruciform shadow across the gray concrete.

The mother rose slowly from the rug. Without haste, she removed her long black dress, letting the fabric fall at her feet. She stood completely naked before her daughter and before the cross. Her body was attractive, slender, and well-formed. She stood upright, barefoot, facing the enormous jade cross.

“Christ suffered so much on the cross,” she said in a low, grave voice. “The decay of his body is the spirit of the West. His agony is our inheritance.”

The daughter observed her for a few seconds. Then she stood up and, with the same ritual slowness, undressed completely. Her body was very similar to her mother’s, but younger and fresher. She stood naked beside her mother, both barefoot on the dark rug, facing the black jade cross.

“It is impossible to be Western and ignore the cross,” the daughter murmured, her voice filled with an almost ecstatic nihilism. “The body of Christ covered in wounds on the cross is so beautiful… That pale torn flesh, the blood running down his ribs, suffering turned into supreme art. Only the West could turn torture into something so sublime.”

The two women remained naked, side by side, illuminated only by the black candles. Their bodies — mature and youthful — contrasted with the rawness of the concrete and the imposing presence of the enormous black jade cross that seemed to watch them from the wall.

The mother slowly turned her head and looked her daughter directly in the eyes. Both remained completely naked under the flickering light of the black candles. Their faces shared a profound melancholy: bright but sad eyes, slightly parted lips, a serenity heavy with resignation and dark beauty.

The mother spoke in a low, almost whispering voice, yet full of intensity:

“Daughter, you are beginning to understand the mystical mystery of Christ: the recognition of the decay of our flesh is what opens the heart to its metaphysical dimension.”

The daughter held her mother’s gaze. Her young face also reflected that same deep melancholy. After a brief silence, she replied in a soft but nihilistic voice:

“You are nothing… and into nothing you shall become.”

Her words fell heavily in the vast concrete room. The enormous black jade cross glowed faintly behind them, absorbing the candlelight and casting its dark shadow over the two naked women.

Without saying anything more, the mother gently took her daughter’s hand. Together they lowered themselves to the floor, first kneeling on the dark rug and then lying down upon it. The cold concrete of the brutalist room felt even more inhospitable beneath their naked bodies.

The mother approached her daughter with ritual slowness. Their lips met in a deep, melancholic kiss, while their hands began to explore each other’s skin with a mixture of tenderness and desperation. The daughter responded with equal intensity. Soon their bodies intertwined in a slow, meaningful act of lesbian sex. They kissed each other’s necks and breasts, descending with their mouths, licking and sucking with devotion mixed with sadness. Their soft moans blended with the crackling of the black candles, while the enormous black jade cross watched them silently from the wall like an impassive witness.

After the first orgasm, which shook them with a deep melancholic intensity, they remained embraced for a few moments, breathing heavily. Their naked bodies glistened with a thin layer of sweat under the flickering candlelight.

They changed positions. The mother sat back slightly, legs spread wide. The daughter positioned herself between her thighs, lifting one of her mother’s long, beautiful legs onto her shoulder. Their sexes aligned perfectly. They began to move slowly, rubbing their wet, swollen clitorises together in deep, rhythmic circles. The pleasure grew denser until a second orgasm overtook them almost simultaneously, leaving their bodies trembling and exhausted.

When they separated, they sat naked on the rug, legs slightly open, facing the enormous black jade cross.

“We are like Mary…” the daughter said, her voice reverent. “We committed the sexual act without the need for a man. Flesh with flesh. Woman with woman. An inverted miracle. A conception without man, but not of life… but of emptiness.”

The mother smiled with dark sadness, her hand resting on her daughter’s bare thigh.

“Yes… but we were visited by nothingness itself. There is no Holy Spirit here. Only the Spirit of Decay.”

Their conversation grew darker, blending nihilism, Catholic symbolism, and lesbian desire. They spoke of sin turned into sacrament, of licking Christ’s wound with the tongue between another woman’s legs, of communing with nothingness through pleasure.

Finally, the mother stood up and walked to the opposite side of the room. There hung a photorealistic black-and-white portrait of the Virgin Mary, one meter by one meter. Beneath it stood a hard, ancient wooden sofa.

The mother sat down and opened her legs.

“Come,” she said in a hoarse voice.

The daughter approached and sat beside her. The mother told her that this sofa came from the convent where she had lived at nineteen, where she had sworn chastity before that very image of the Virgin.

The daughter looked at her mother, her eyes filled with dark devotion.

“Will you allow me to honor you, Mother?”

The mother smiled slowly.

“Honor me.”

The daughter stood up and went to the ancient bathroom, impeccably clean yet perfectly preserved. She sat on the old toilet, urinated, carefully rinsed her vagina, and prepared a metal bowl with warm water and thick lather.

She returned barefoot to the room, knelt before her mother, and placed the bowl aside.

With absolute devotion, she took both of her mother’s feet and submerged them together in the warm lather. She washed them slowly, rubbing heels, arches, and soles, sliding her fingers between each toe. Then she rinsed them with clean water and dried them with a white, rough towel, with deliberate and erotic movements.

When the feet were completely dry, the daughter brought the first one to her face and began to lick it from the heel. One by one, she took the long, beautiful toes into her hot mouth, sucking them greedily, licking the sensitive skin between them, moaning against the flesh.

The mother moaned deeply and placed both feet on her daughter’s face, slowly rubbing them against her cheeks, nose, and lips, while reciting biblical passages about the washing of feet, turning the sacred words into a lust-filled blasphemy.

Later, the daughter stood up and climbed onto the wooden sofa, standing over it. Her sex was directly in front of her mother’s face. The mother leaned forward and began to lick her with hunger, using her tongue and fingers while the daughter, her face directly before the portrait of the Virgin Mary, moaned and recited fragments of the Hail Mary, mixing the sacred prayer with profane pleasure.

Afterward, the daughter knelt at her mother’s feet.

“I feel blessed, Mother…” she whispered.

“And I feel honored,” the mother replied in a hoarse voice.

The mother stood up, left for a moment, and returned with two long white cloths. She placed one over her daughter’s head and the other over her own, emulating the headdress of the Virgin Mary. Both knelt before the enormous black jade cross, naked beneath the white veils.

They took each other’s hands and, in low, synchronized voices, recited the Lord’s Prayer. Their tone was grave, laden with eroticism and nihilism, while the black jade cross watched them impassively under the flickering light of the black candles.