14. In Gods Hands
Chapter fourteen
In God's Hands
Cassian
When I returned to my bedroom, the servants had already scrubbed up all the blood and cum off the marble floor. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, mingling with the cool breeze wafting in from the partially open window.
They’d still been making my bed when I walked in, and their faces betrayed no judgment, no curiosity—only the quiet professionalism the cathedral paid them for.
The bedding was fresh, crisp, and stark white, as though the sinful dream that had happened there had been wiped away with bleach and water. The soft shuffle of their feet was the only sound as they moved about, completing their tasks with the precision of people trained to erase evidence without leaving a trace.
Yet, as I stood there, watching them finish their work, I couldn’t help but feel the taint still lingered.
Not on the floor.
Not on the linens.
But in me.
I have touched her. Licked her. And now. . .I am forever changed.
Consumed with thoughts of Celeste, I said nothing to the staff.
Could they smell the evidence of her cum on my shirt?
On my face?
Did they see it?
I hadn’t cleaned it off.
Instead, I let it dry on my skin.
I tilted my head back, inhaling deeply. The seductive perfume of her lust was still embedded in my shirt.
My tongue darted across my lips, tasting the faint residue she’d left behind.
I stepped toward the center of the room and let my gaze drift upward to the ceiling.
Silent, Christ stared down from His gilded domain while the cherubs in the corners watched me with their innocent smiles.
I am not the man that left this room, Lord. Can you see the difference?
A part of me wanted to fall to my knees and beg for absolution, but another part—darker, wilder—refused. It reveled in this newfound hunger; in the primal connection I had forged with Celeste.
I touched my face, tracing the dried remnants of her passion.
Had she left more than her scent on me?
Could her essence, her DNA, somehow have merged with mine?
I laughed softly at the thought, grabbing one of the cleaners attention.
I must’ve looked completely out of sorts to them today.
And it made sense why this would be the case.
I was no longer the same man I had been. Celeste had marked me—not just my skin but my very being. I could feel her inside me, coursing through my veins, altering the very fabric of who I was.
The cleaning staff finished, quickly bowed their heads, and quietly filed out of the room.
The door closed behind them with a soft click.
Who am I? What am I now?
I headed for the shower, and stripped off my clothes with quick, rough movements.
Once in, the water roared as it cascaded from the showerhead, and I stepped under the heated spray, letting it scorch my skin.
I still want her. I still crave her so bad that my body hums for her. Maybe. . .I should just get control of myself. . .
The lustful evidence of the night washed away easily, but the hunger inside me was more stubborn.
I scrubbed harder, dragging my hands over my face and through my hair, trying to exorcise her touch, her scent, her taste.
But it was futile.
Her image burned behind my closed eyelids. The memory of her voice—a mix of soft whimpers and delicious moans—echoed in my mind.
It was a siren song I couldn’t silence.
My cock stirred against my will. The tip throbbed with the unspent tension that still coursed through me.
I’m going to taste her again. I know this. I can’t lie to myself or even God.
I clenched my fists, pressing them against the tiled wall as the water continued to beat down on me.
But I knew. . .I shouldn’t taste her again.
I’d done enough.
Now that I was out of her presence. . .perhaps my mind would be clearer. In fact, there was this small part of me that said I could just go back to my vows. That God would forgive me as long as I didn’t betray him again.
Get control of yourself. Enough sinning. Enough betraying the collar that marked you as God’s servant.
Yet, temptation clawed at me, relentless.
The shower was supposed to be cleansing, but it became a baptism in guilt and desire.
When the water finally began to cool, I shut it off abruptly and stepped out, drying off with a towel as though that simple act could erase the thoughts that plagued me.
God made her so perfect. How could He ever think that I could ignore that divine creation?
I dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of loose sweats and a tank top.
My muscles ached for release, for something to drown out the sting of my guilt.
I can work this out enough so that my head is clear to make a real decision on what to do next.
I got to the gym in minutes.
This space in the cathedral was unlike anything one would imagine for a building of worship. Most would picture a modest gym, maybe a few rusted weights and a squeaky treadmill tucked into a forgotten corner of the grounds.
But no.
This was not that.
The cathedral gym was a temple in its own right—a sanctuary of marble and steel.
The moment I entered, the scent of fresh eucalyptus mingled with the faint tang of polished iron, and it struck me how opulent this place truly was.
Vaulted ceilings stretched above, their arched beams carved from mahogany, with stained-glass windows letting in streams of colored light.
During the day, those windows painted the gym in hues of sapphire, emerald, and ruby, as if even God wanted to bless this space with His artistry.
The equipment was state-of-the-art, sleek and gleaming, imported from Italy with brands I’d only ever seen in high-end magazines.
Treadmills lined one wall, their interfaces glowing softly with touchscreens that could stream music, TV, or even a simulated run through the streets of Paris.
Rows of weights were set against another wall, neatly organized.
Even the dumbbells seemed too pristine to touch, their handles wrapped in supple leather that fit perfectly in my palm.
At the center of the gym was the crown jewel—a custom hydraulic lifting platform inlaid with intricate gold filigree. Around its edges were hand-carved patterns of vines and crosses, subtle reminders that even here, in this temple of sweat and strength, faith was still the foundation.
The floors were a smooth black marble, veined with gold, and so perfectly polished that I could see my reflection in them as I headed over to work out.
To one side, there was a juice bar, stocked with fresh fruits, pre-packaged protein shakes, and crystal decanters of water infused with mint and cucumber.
In the back, there were locker rooms with cedar benches, private showers that had rainfall heads, and pristine white towels embroidered with the cathedral’s crest.
Not wanting to waste any more time, I grabbed a pair of dumbbells and began my routine.
What will I do now? What’s the solution?
The mirrored walls reflected my movement.
Celeste. . .why do you taste so good?
The thought lingered as I pushed myself harder and my muscles burned.
Not satisfied, I put those dumbbells down and got even heavier ones.
Come on. Let’s go harder.
With these new reps, a delirious burn ripped through me. It felt like penance—a punishment for my weakness, yet still I knew that wouldn’t stop me from tasting her again.
She was in my mind.
My skin.
My heart.
My soul.
Celeste. Damn it. I want you.
Unfortunately, I was starting to realize that no amount of weight or exercise could crush her image.
I growled under my breath. “There’s no way I will stop myself from being with her again. . .so what should I do now?”
That question hung over me like a specter, refusing to be ignored.
Could I still stand before my congregation after what I had done?
Could I look them in the eyes and preach about faith and morality when I had so completely abandoned both?
Was I even still a priest?
My chest tightened in terror.
Am I. . .no longer a. . .man of God now?
My grip on the dumbbells faltered, forcing me to drop them.
They landed heavily on the black marble floor.
What am I now?
I began to pace the length of the gym.
Should I go to the Bishop and confess my sins? Leave my future in his hands and trust in God’s judgment?
I clenched my jaw.
The answer eluded me as though it were hidden behind some veil I couldn’t pierce.
If I confessed, I risked everything—my position, my reputation, my very identity and she might receive backlash. Granted, I would do everything in my power to make sure no problems came her way. I would make sure to take the brunt of all scrutiny.
But what if I didn’t go to the bishop and confess?
If I carried on as though nothing had happened, what kind of man would that make me?
What kind of priest?
I ran a hand through my damp hair.
What have I done?
I looked within my soul and. . .to my shock. . .beneath all my guilt. . .there was another truth—a darker, quieter one. A large part of me didn’t regret it.
I stopped pacing. “God, what am I supposed to do? Not only am I not willing to repent for what I’ve done. . .I’m pretty sure I will do it again. What is your judgement?”
The room remained silent.
I thought about last night.
When her mother came to the cathedral, I believed it was a sign from God. Mrs. Jackson had even told me that I was to take care of her daughter.
Was it a true sign, God? Or did I simply make it an excuse to rush over to Celeste’s house and taste her?
Sweat dripped down my face.
I turned to the mirror and gazed at my image.
I didn’t know if I wanted God’s forgiveness or if I just wanted her again.
Maybe I wanted both.
And maybe that was the worst sin of all.
Twenty years ago, I had taken my vows believing discipline could subdue any temptation.
But now, every rep, every burning muscle, all the self-flagellation, only reminded me of the desires I couldn’t control.
In that moment, I knew without a doubt that the gym wasn’t where I would find my answer. The burn of my muscles and the clang of iron hadn’t silenced the war within me. If anything, they had amplified it. My reflection mocked me—drenched in doubt, shadowed by guilt, consumed with a longing I couldn’t shake.
I needed something else.
Something deeper.
Something divine.
Okay. This is what I will do.
I straightened, and my hands fell to my sides as a thought crept into my mind.
Pray. Look for guidance. Seek God’s signs.
I turned away from the mirror, grabbed a towel, and dabbed at my damp forehead.
“That’s it,” I muttered under my breath. “Let’s try this Your way, God. Let’s look to you for a sign or message.”
It had worked for others before, hadn’t it?
My mind went to Abraham, who waited for God’s guidance before climbing Mount Moriah with his son Isaac. His faith was unshakable, even as he raised the knife to kill his son, trusting that God’s plan—no matter how incomprehensible—would reveal itself in the end.
God stopped him.
He sent an angel—a voice so sharp and clear it must have cut through Abraham’s fear like a blade. Do not lay a hand on the boy. And then, as though to emphasize His mercy, God provided a ram, caught in the thicket by its horns.
The sacrifice was made, but it was not Isaac.
It was never meant to be Isaac.
God had wanted obedience, yes, but more than that, He had wanted trust.
Was this my Mount Moriah?
Was Celeste the knife I held, poised to sever my connection with God?
Or was she the ram, the sacrifice I was meant to make?
I let out a long breath.
And then there was Gideon.
Oh, how I related to Gideon.
A man who doubted himself, doubted his calling, and yet yearned for confirmation.
Gideon’s request was almost childish in its simplicity.
He asked God for proof—something tangible, something that would confirm he wasn’t imagining the divine call he felt in his heart. He wanted to be sure that the Lord’s hand was truly guiding him.
He placed a fleece of wool on the ground one night and prayed, asking God to make the fleece damp with dew by morning, while keeping the ground around it completely dry.
It was a strange request, but it came from a place of desperation. Gideon needed assurance that he wasn’t stepping into the unknown alone, that God truly was with him.
And God answered.
The next morning, Gideon went to the fleece and found it saturated with dew. It was so wet he could wring out enough water to fill a bowl.
Yet the ground all around the fleece was dry as dust.
The miracle was undeniable, and it should have been enough.
But Gideon’s faith was fragile.
He hesitated, unsure if it was real or just some coincidence.
So, he asked for another sign.
Gideon prayed again, this time reversing the conditions. He asked God to keep the fleece dry overnight while covering the ground around it with dew.
It was a bold request, almost testing God’s patience.
But Gideon needed the reassurance. He needed to know, beyond any doubt, that he was being led by something greater than himself.
And God answered again.
The following morning, the ground glistened with moisture, heavy with dew, while the fleece remained bone-dry.
No natural explanation could account for it.
The proof was irrefutable.
God had met Gideon in his uncertainty, not with wrath or frustration, but with compassion.
Twice.
And then there was Jonah.
A man who tried to outrun God.
Imagine being called to do something you fear, something you don’t want to do, and instead of facing it, you turn and run as far and as fast as you can in the opposite direction.
That was Jonah.
God gave him a task, but it wasn’t an easy one. He was told to go to a city full of wickedness and corruption and deliver a warning from God Himself.
Jonah didn’t want to do it.
Maybe he was afraid and just didn’t think he was the right person for the job. Whatever his reasons, he refused.
He boarded a ship heading far away, hoping to leave the burden of God’s call behind him.
But running from God didn’t work.
A violent storm overtook the ship, threatening to sink it. Jonah knew the storm wasn’t just bad weather—it was a sign.
A consequence.
In his guilt, he confessed to the sailors that he was the cause of their peril.
Desperate to save themselves, they threw him overboard, and the storm ceased.
But Jonah didn’t drown.
Instead, something extraordinary happened.
He was swallowed whole by a whale.
And, in the suffocating darkness of its belly, surrounded by the stench of the sea, Jonah had no choice but to pray, to cry out to God, pouring out his fear, regret, and desperation.
And God answered him.
The whale spat Jonah out onto dry land, alive and unharmed.
God had given him a second chance, a chance to fulfill his mission.
Was I in my own whale’s belly?
Surely, if I had been trapped inside of Celeste’s pussy, I would never pray to get out.
These stories had been my touchstones for years, tales of faith and redemption that I’d preached to countless congregants.
Yet now, standing here, they took on a new meaning.
I had preached them, yes.
But had I ever truly lived them?
I dropped the towel onto the nearest bench and turned back toward the mirror, forcing myself to meet my own eyes.
I knew what the Church would say.
It was clear on this matter.
There was no gray area.
No room for negotiation.
A priest’s vow of celibacy was sacred—a commitment to forsake earthly attachments and desires, to devote oneself fully to God and His flock. It wasn’t just a rule; it was a cornerstone of the priesthood.
A symbol of sacrifice.
Of discipline.
Of purity.
And I had shattered it.
By taking Celeste into my arms, by indulgently lapping her up, I had not only betrayed the vows I made to God but also violated the trust of the Church, my congregation, and the sanctity of my position.
The consequences of this betrayal loomed large in my mind. Excommunication was a possibility—not just removal from my position, but a formal severance from the Church itself. I could be declared unfit, stripped of my collar, my title, my very identity as a priest.
And what of Celeste?
What would they say about her?
The Church might cast her as a temptress, a Jezebel leading a man of God astray. The whispers around Obsidian Bay would be cruel, relentless.
Even if I took all the blame—and I would—they probably wouldn’t truly shield her from the scorn.
I thought of the people who came to Mass every Sunday, who knelt in the pews and looked to me as a shepherd of their faith.
Would they feel betrayed?
Disgusted?
Hurt?
Parents might pull their children from catechism classes. Parishioners might leave altogether, unwilling to take guidance from a priest who couldn’t follow his own vows. My actions could ripple outward, wounding not just myself but the community I had sworn to serve.
Still. . .I was now questioning the very foundation of my vows.
Had God truly demanded celibacy of me?
Or was it the Church that had imposed this restriction, using my body as a symbol of purity without understanding the full pressure of that burden?
What if my love for Celeste wasn’t a betrayal of God, but an affirmation of the divine design?
She was beautiful, her body a testament to creation itself. Her laughter, her passion, her very existence felt like a gift, not a sin.
The Pope, the bishops, the priests—they were men.
Fallible men.
Men who had built a structure of rules around God’s word, sometimes to protect it, sometimes to control it.
Was my vow to celibacy truly divine?
Or was it a man-made construct, designed to separate me from a life the Church deemed too distracting?
Man had constructed the cathedral I now served, shaped its rules, its dogmas.
Man had decided what was holy and what was profane.
But could man understand the depths of what I felt for Celeste?
Could they grasp the divine beauty I saw in her, the way she seemed to embody creation itself in her every breath, her every movement?
“I will not let man-made doctrine dictate my soul. Only You, Lord, can judge me. Only You can show me the path forward.” I clenched my fists. “Therefore. . .I will let God guide the day. Let Him speak through the moments, the people, the signs.”
I had to let go of my attempts to control this, to fix this mess with my own flawed understanding.
Instead, I would watch.
Listen.
Wait.
If there was ever a day for divine intervention, this was it.
Speak to me God in any way you deem fit.
I lowered to my knees, closed my eyes, and prayed.
“God,” I kept my voice low. “I need You now more than I’ve ever needed You. I’ve lost my way. I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know if I’m still Your servant, or if I’ve fallen too far to ever return.”
My throat tightened, but I forced myself to continue.
“Celeste is. . .so divine. I want her. Did you make her for me? Did you form her beauty so that I can find your divine power within her curves, her flesh, her scent?”
A shiver of lust ran through me.
“You’ve given signs to others before. Abraham. Gideon. Jonah. Show me, Lord. Show me what I’m meant to do with my feelings for Celeste, with my vows to You. God. . .let me see You in the moments of this day, in the faces of those I serve, in the quiet places where only You dwell. Let me feel Your will because I can’t trust my own.”
I stayed there for a long moment, and let the silence fill the space around me.
Yes. This is the plan.
When I finally rose, my heart felt no lighter, but a new determination steadied my steps.
I would not plan the day.
I would not strategize or seek control.
Instead, I would let it unfold and pay attention to what I might otherwise ignore.
Maybe the answer would come in the form of a child’s laughter in the courtyard.
Maybe it would be the words of one of the sisters, spoken casually but carrying a deeper meaning that I hadn’t expected.
Maybe it would be in the eyes of Celeste herself, should I see her again.
I didn’t know, but that was the point.
I would wait.
For a sign.
For Him.
For something that would tell me who I was meant to be.
And until then, I would endure the hunger, the torment, the unrelenting yearning of Celeste’s name carved into my soul.
Sighing, I left the gym and made my way back into the corridors of the cathedral.
Sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows casting patterns of light and shadow on the stone walls.
My footsteps echoed softly.
This day wasn’t mine anymore.
It was His.
And I prayed, with every ounce of faith I could still muster, that He would show me the way.
I let out a long breath and kept my voice low. “Guide me, Lord.”