Pulp Fiction Prayer Novels & Stories

as We say in pigin After that, i decided to pray GOD to ask for a miracle, for my father to live. I will never forget that famouse day. I went on my knees under my aunt table i didn’t ask i beg, made promise to my GOD to think about my sisters and my mom, mom don’t work. he should cure our father, that i was going to give my life to the church by preaching his way, power and empathy if he just cure my dad.

Zen says calmly, pulling me from my thoughts “Let’s wrap things up then.” I nod, and even though we can just step out and say I’ve prayed, I don’t think that would be right. Not after we’ve trespassed into two deceased people’s home. I interlock my fingers, and put my hands near my mouth. I remember a prayer from the Memoir of Fernando, one he scribbled over many pages during his stay in the other world. ‘O creator of lives, have mercy on your tortured souls. Bring them peace and appraise their virtue, for they have now passed into a world unknown.’

Love you too. Footsteps. Papa. He sat beside Chino—far enough not to touch, close enough to feel. Long silence. “I watch that video sometimes,” Papa said finally. “The one for roadblock. You kiss that boy. You tell me you no lost.” Chino looked at him. “I no lost then. I no lost now.” Papa exhaled slow. “I think say devil take you. I pray every night—hard prayer. But God no answer the way I want. Then I see your sister happy. Your mama smile again when Adanna talk about you. And I think… maybe God answer different.”

The white shirts buttons straining… “You want me to approve of your idea for free. I’m going to need a lot more than that…” Slurping sounds echoes throughout the car. The girl on the floor of the car on her knees giving the man head. “You’ve got to be kidding me…” he snaps. “Those fucking Priests they want to come after me and I’ll let that slide? They think we’ll let them off because they have a little power?” the anger in his voice bounces around the car.

Muscle coiled under my skin, my fingers flexing involuntarily against the coffin’s edge. For a flash of a second, I wasn’t standing at Padrino’s funeral. I was back in my room with her beneath me, her body trembling against mine. Fuck. I shoved the memory down, forced myself back into the now, just as the priest lifted his hands. “In nomine Patris[In the name of the Father]…..” The men around me crossed themselves, heads bowed in unison, and slowly they rose. The service ended, and the procession moved. Everyone turned to the entrance for the final rites.

Nothing came. The silence stretched, thick and terrible. The congregation shifted again, unease rippling outward. Malachor’s presence pressed closer still, his attention a weight she could barely bear. Tears pricked her eyes, not from shame but from the overwhelming need surging through her. Her faith cracked under the onslaught, the ritual words blurring into nonsense as her core pulsed, on the edge of release. She pressed her forehead to the stone, whispering hoarsely, "Forgive me... please..." The plea hung ambiguous, directed at the altar but meant for the shadow devouring her from within. The licking intensified, tongue fucking her hole now, stretching her with ethereal thrusts while su

Carlo tucked it behind the mirror and we left, neither of us ordering coffee because we couldn't afford to be memorable, just two more people passing through a city that was waking up to news of violence and death that would be blamed on gang warfare and forgotten by tomorrow. "Now what?" I asked as we walked aimlessly because we had six hours to kill before checking if Damien had responded. "Now we wait." Carlo said and his dead eyes were the only honest thing in a world that had proven overnight that hope was a luxury and survival was all that mattered. "And we pray that your priest is as hard to kill as his reputation suggests." I touched the gun hidden under my sweater and thought about

“Bones of saints. Fingers of martyrs. Tongues of virgins. Sealed in 1893 after a scandal the Church buried deeper than the dead. Now it’s mine.” He entered me slow, thick, and bare. No condom. No hesitation. Just heat, stretch, and fullness. I arched, cried out, and the rope biting my wrists, the velvet slick beneath me. He fucked me like a prayer—deep, deliberate, and each thrust a syllable of Latin I didn’t know but felt in my bones: “Dominus vobiscum… et cum spiritu tuo…” The cameras rolled. The candles burned lower, wax dripping onto the stone like tears of the damned.

Her skirt rides up, exposing her round, perfect and trembling ass. “Now,” I say, voice dark, “you’re going to recite Hail Marys while I fuck this dripping cunt. And if you stop praying, I stop fucking. Understand?” She nods, bracing her hands on the bench, arching her back to present herself. “Yes, Father Joseph,” she breathes. “Please… punish me.” I line up and drive into her in one brutal thrust. She screams, then starts praying, voice broken and desperate. “Hail Mary, full of grace…” I grip her hips and pound into her, the confessional shaking with every slam.

i passed by him and grab the prayer mat from the side table and placed it and started reciting my prayer that i missed from last night. i totally forgot about him and focus on my prayer . when my prayer finished i raise my hand for prayer . i heared a click when i opened my eyes xavier was sitting right infront of me on the floor having his phone in his hand . he took my picture . i didn,t said anything i was getting up from prayer mat when he held my hand . "why you pray to him after what happened to you ?" i was shocked wih his question . "because allah is my creater and i need allah everytime no matter what happens "