7. Sacred Ruin
Chapter seven
Sacred Ruin
Cassian
I lowered my gaze.
My breath hitched as my trembling fingers reached for the jar of ointment.
Its crystal surface gleamed under the pale moonlight.
The lid came off with a soft pop, releasing a faint, sacred scent—holy water and crushed myrrh, with a hint of something floral and fleeting, like roses after a storm. The fragrance floated in the air—pure and divine.
Next, I scooped out a generous glob of the ointment. The texture was rich and silken, gliding over my fingertips like some heavenly balm. It shimmered with a strange, otherworldly light—opalescent hues swirling like liquid starlight.
But my hands were shaking too much from the pain possibly, from the. . .inevitable surrender. . .
My grip failed me, and the jar slipped from my grasp and tumbled to the floor. It landed with a thud.
I didn’t reach for it.
I must do this. . .
I looked down at the floor beneath me and saw the small, glistening puddle of blood that had pooled around my feet.
My blood.
Deep crimson over polished marble white.
It shimmered faintly in the dim light.
It reflected my failure.
My sin.
My head fell into a daze.
My hand moved of its own accord, trembling as it reached out to touch the puddle. When my fingers met it, the warmth of the blood startled me.
It was slick and viscous, staining my skin.
A soft, bitter laugh escaped me as I gazed at the mess now coating my fingers.
Celeste, look what you’ve done to me.
I raised my hand and smeared the blood across my other palm, mixing it with the divine ointment still clinging to my fingers.
The shimmer of the sacred balm dulled as it absorbed the dark stain of sin, the two substances merging into something profane.
Blood swirled into the ointment, creating patterns that looked like the veins of a dying leaf, each line branching out, tainted and corrupted.
The scent shifted, too.
Where before the ointment smelled pure, the metallic tang of blood mixed into it, creating a cloying aroma that made my stomach churn.
I stared at the mixture in my hand.
The holy and the sinful, united in my palm.
It felt like blasphemy, as though I’d taken the sanctity of God’s grace and sullied it with the filth of my own desires.
And yet, wasn’t that my truth?
A man torn between devotion and depravity, seeking salvation but unwilling to abandon the sin that ensnared me.
The metaphor was not lost on me.
This was no longer a balm to heal. This was a new creation—a sacrilege in physical form. My blood, the evidence of my wickedness, and the ointment, the promise of divine forgiveness, combined into something entirely different.
Is this not who I am now? A creature half-devoted to God, half-consumed by my own desires? A sinner and a penitent in equal measure?
I smeared the mixture over my palm, the warmth of the blood and the coolness of the ointment blending into a sensation that sent a shiver through me.
Was this not the story of mankind itself? Blood and sacrifice, sin and grace, always intertwined, forever at war.
The thought made my chest ache, and I let out a shaky breath.
The small puddle on the floor reflected me now, a broken man caught between two worlds, neither fully belonging to the light nor the dark.
“God forgive me,” I whispered as I pressed my hands together, the mixture oozing between my fingers like a benediction turned curse.
And as I lowered my hands to my cock, I wondered that. . .when I touched myself with this mixture. . .if I would be healing myself—or damning my soul to hell.
Surely, the Pope hadn’t intended the ointment for this.
Her face flashed in my mind—Celeste, her lips parted, her body trembling beneath me as it had in my dream.
My cock twitched violently.
I want to fuck you so bad, I’m willing to risk salvation. I’m. . .willing to go to Hell for it.
I clenched my jaw.
My faith had failed me tonight, just as I had failed it.
Damn it all to Hell!!
I wrapped my bloodied hands around my thick, hard cock for the first time in decades, and the moment was electric—raw, unrestrained, and utterly depraved. The slippery warmth of my blood mixed with the cool, silky ointment created a sensation that was both alien and unbearably exquisite.
It sent a shiver racing through me, leaving every nerve in my body raw and trembling.
A hiss escaped my lips, sharp and low, as my grip tightened.
And there was so much overwhelming lust.
I loudly groaned.
The sound echoed in the empty room, and it was an intimate confession to the shadows that seemed to stretch closer as if they, too, were entranced by this moment of surrender.
I began to stroke slowly, deliberately, savoring the forbidden thrill coursing through me.
Each glide of my blood-slicked hands over my throbbing shaft was a jolt of lightning, igniting fires in places I thought had long since been extinguished.
The thick veins pulsed beneath my touch felt alive; a living testament to the desires I had denied for so long.
It was intoxicating.
And yet, it was wrong.
So very wrong.
But I couldn’t stop.
The slickness of my own blood and the sacred ointment added a sinful texture to the act.
There was this macabre poetry in every stroke.
A fusion of the divine and the damned.
A blending of sacred purity and human filth.
The room came alive with the heat of my torment, the smell of sweat and blood mingling with the faint incense-like fragrance of the ointment. It all clung to the air—heavy and oppressive—like the weight of the sins I was committing.
On the ceiling, Jesus and the angels watched me slowly stroke my cock.
And her image burned in my mind.
“Celeste.” Her name slipped from my lips in a guttural rasp, part hymn, part curse.
It was worship, but not of God—of her.
The very thought of her was a knife twisting in my soul, and yet, I welcomed the pain. Her breathless moans from the dream played on a loop, tantalizing and haunting, pulling me deeper into the abyss.
I rocked my hips with the movement, sending my cock through my blood-ointment covered hands at faster pace.
I could see her so clearly now—the softness of her skin, the fullness of those breasts glowing in the candlelight.
Do you know how much I want to fuck you?
The way her lips parted in that dream. . .the way she told me how much she wanted me. It had been the sound of an erotic melody that made me ache in places I hadn’t realized could still feel.
Her eyes.
God, her eyes full of heated lust.
They pleaded with me even as they promised damnation, dragging me into a hell I was no longer sure I wanted to escape.
“Celeste,” I groaned again, her name shifting to a prayer.
A confession.
A newly formed vow.
My hand quickened its pace, sliding along the fat length of my cock with a rhythm that matched the frenzied beat of my heart.
I would fuck you so hard. I’d made you scream my name, not God’s. Mine.
I closed my eyes and imagined her hands on my cock instead, delicate but demanding, her touch igniting fires I couldn’t hope to extinguish.
I could almost feel her nails raking down my chest, her teeth grazing my skin as she moaned sinful promises against my ear.
I bet your pussy tastes as good as in the dream. I bet it would get so wet for me. I bet you know what to do with it.
Groaning, I opened my eyes.
The shadows in the room shifted, darkening and deepening as though they, too, were complicit in this act of desecration.
My breaths came faster, harsher, each one a ragged plea for release, even as I fought to prolong the torment.
The room spun, the tension in my body coiling tighter and tighter, like a bowstring stretched to its limit.
Pleasure and pain blurred into something indistinguishable.
Something glorious.
The slick, obscene sounds of my blood-streaked hands working over my cock filled the room, mingling with my low, guttural groans.
Groaning, I gazed down at my cock as I worked it.
My hands left streaks of red all along my shaft, turning this act into something maddeningly wild.
Something dark and savage.
“Celeste!” Her name tore from my throat again, this time louder, more desperate, as I felt myself nearing the point of no return.
And I didn’t care.
Not about the blood on my hands, not about the shame I should have felt.
Not about the God I was supposed to serve.
In this moment, there was only her.
Only Celeste.
And I was hers.
The pace quickened.
My strokes became frantic, desperate, each one dragging me closer to the edge of oblivion.
The pain in my back flared with every motion, but it only seemed to heighten the intensity, the juxtaposition of intense agony and mind-numbing pleasure driving me to the brink.
The room spun around me further.
The moonlight swirled with shadows as my breaths turned into guttural groans.
And I focused on my dream—the wine dripping down her skin and over her breasts.
Her nipples.
My hips bucked uncontrollably into my hand, driven by the relentless torment of my desire. My breath hitched, ragged and desperate, as my body tensed, every nerve alight with wicked fire.
"Yes, Celeste. Yes," I groaned, my voice echoing off the cold marble walls, raw with need.
My movements grew desperate, erratic, as if my entire being was consumed by the singular need for release.
And then it hit—a violent, all-consuming storm that tore through me, shredding every last vestige of control.
The climax surged like a dam breaking.
Unstoppable!
Merciless!
My back arched, the pain from my self-inflicted wounds colliding with the overwhelming pleasure in a twisted symphony of agony and bliss.
"Celeste!" Her name was a cry, a confession, a prayer, as my body convulsed with the force of my release.
Thick, hot streams of white cum erupted from me, spilling over my trembling hand and cascading down in glistening streaks onto the blood-pooled marble floor, creating a macabre cocktail of sin and surrender.
Pleasure surged uncontrollably through me.
And my cock was not even close to done.
The throbbing tip—swollen and slick—pulsed beneath my frantic strokes, and with each motion, more of the dam broke.
"Celeste, I wish you were here to take this all over your beautiful face," I hissed through gritted teeth, and bucked my hips wildly against my hand.
Another hot, thick stream shot from the tip, splattering onto the cold marble floor with an audible splat.
The sound echoed through the vast moonlit space.
The whiteness of it gleamed under the silvery light, stark and obscene against the pristine stone.
“Oh, yes. I would cum all over you.”
Another spurt followed.
And then another.
And another.
Each one more intense.
More uncontrollable.
Jets of cum painted the floor in messy, tangled patterns, streaking across the smooth surface in chaotic lines, pooling in uneven puddles, and merging with the faint crimson smears of my blood that had already stained the marble.
“Take it all, you wicked temptress.” I groaned louder, the guttural sound torn from my throat as even more ungodly streams erupted from me.
They were thick ropes of white spilling in every direction!
The sheer volume overwhelmed me.
Dripping down my shaft.
Coating my hand in slick, white sticky heat.
Dribbling onto my thighs, warm and viscous.
Leaving trails that glistened like molten silver under the moonlight.
Dear God!
Yet, my cock throbbed relentlessly, refusing to stop, even as the mess around me grew.
More jets of cum shot out.
The floor was a disaster—a carnal battlefield of blood and cum, the two mingling in twisted harmony.
The air was thick with the heady, unmistakable scent of sex and sin, clinging to my skin, saturating the room.
So much pleasure!
Panting, I swiped my hand across my cock again, smearing the remnants across my fingers, feeling the hot, sticky mess clinging to my flesh.
More streams of cum continued to ooze from the tip, but at least now it was slow and less thick, yet it still dripped down to join the growing puddle beneath me.
She’s made a mess of me.
I should have frowned. . .but I smiled so wickedly. . .
I glanced up at the ceiling wondering if the image of Jesus had disappeared due to the act or had He at least closed his eyes.
However, there the angels and He continued to witness it all.
I looked back down.
The marble floor reflected the chaotic scene—a landscape of glistening white streaks and smears, interspersed with darker patches of crimson. The mess was everywhere, spreading outward like the aftermath of some unholy explosion. My knees were slick with it, sliding slightly as I shifted, my body still trembling from the force of it all.
The moonlight bore witness to my ruin, illuminating every sordid detail, every sticky stream, every shining drop.
And yet, even surrounded by the mess, my cock still twitched, half-hard, as if mocking me for the insatiable hunger that still burned within.
Because the release—God, the release—was a cruel ecstasy.
It hadn’t satiated my hunger.
It sharpened it!
It fanned the flames higher!
My cock still pulsed for her.
Panting, I tried to steady my breaths.
Sweat dripped down my skin.
More blood streamed down my shredded back.
I still want to fuck her, but now. . .I MUST fuck her.
“What have I done?” My legs gave out, and I collapsed onto the cold stone covered in my blood and cum, dirtying my body even more.
My chest heaved with labored breaths.
It felt so good, but I bet her pussy would be even better. So much better.
I lay there, broken, shattered by the force of my own desires.
Instantly, my father’s words hit me.
“You’ll come crawling back. God is good, but you’ll want pussy! You’re a man and pussy is the true religion!”
I stared up at the painted ceiling above. “Was he right all this time?”
Christ’s serene gaze looked down on me, unflinching, but for a moment, I swore the painted angels wept for me.
“Celeste,” I whispered hoarsely over the pounding of my heart.
Her name tasted dangerously sweet on my tongue, like honey dripping over a razor’s edge.
The marble beneath me seemed to shift under the weight of what I’d done, of what I wanted—needed—to do. My body still ached for her, my cock throbbing faintly, refusing to be satisfied even after its betrayal.
And I knew.
This wasn’t the end.
No.
This was just the beginning of my descent.
My torment.
My undoing.
How could this be happening to me?
Tears burned in my eyes as I stared up at the painting of Christ above me.
His gaze seemed to pierce through the darkness, and I swore it was full of sorrow.
Do You understand? You must. You made her! Is this not your fault?!
“No.” I closed my eyes and whispered, "I’m sorry."
And then suddenly, out of nowhere, someone knocked on the door.
What?!
Thank God that after Sister Lucia and the panties incident, I’d made it a habit to always keep my door locked, even when I went to sleep.
Because if they had walked in on me now. . .they would see their Godly priest in a blasphemous mess.
But why was someone at the door?
Had they heard my moaning and groaning?
My splattering and spurting cum all over the floor?
I hope not.
I opened my eyes and did my best to steady myself. “Who is it?”
Sister Tyson’s pleasant voice filled the space. “We have a problem, Father.”
I checked the clock.
It was three in the morning.
And then I slowly sat up, exhausted and dirty. “What is the problem?”
“It appears that Mrs. Mary Jackson our past organist.”
Celeste’s mother.
I blinked.
“Well. . .” Sister Tyson let out a long breath. “It appears that the poor woman has somehow snuck out from her home and is now in the Cathedral playing the organ as if it is the morning of Sunday Service.”
“Dear God.” I did my best to rise from the floor, knowing I had to clean myself up fast and help.
“We did not want to wake you—”
“That is fine. Anything dealing with Mrs. Jackson you must wake me—”
“Well, even though we did not want to wake you, we still had to because. . .she has refused to let any of us near her. When we get close, she hisses or bats out her hands. And she just keeps saying that the Lord said she must play until Father Cassian arrives. She says. . .that she has a message for you.”
I widened my eyes. “Give me a few minutes, I have to. . .”
I looked down at my bloodied, cum-streaked body. “Well. . .I have to take a very quick shower—”
“A shower, Father?”
“I will be there. Just give me. . .a few minutes.”