22. The Last Supper
Chapter twenty-two
The Last Supper
Cassian
I stood in the center of my bedroom.
Outside, a storm raged. Lightning sliced through the sky in jagged flashes. The steady rhythm of the rain drumming against the glass was almost hypnotic.
My gaze fell to Celeste’s red rosary beads on my nightstand. She’d left them in the confessional, and one of the sisters had grabbed them.
Then, I moved my gaze to the whip resting atop its pristine white silk pillow on the nightstand.
We’re here again, my old friend.
Even in the dim, shifting light, the knotted leather gleamed with an almost sentient menace. Its dark surface glistened as though it had absorbed the sins it was meant to purge.
The tiny golden studs punctuated the knots along its length, each cross etched into the metal so finely that one might overlook them at a glance.
But I knew their purpose.
I knew how they could bite, how they could cut, how they could punish.
I deserve it after that dream.
My fingers hovered over the handle and then lowered to touch the etchings of thorns and roses.
Lightning flashed again, bathing the room in a harsh white glow, before darkening again.
Yet, with that flash, I saw my reflection in the window—a man undone, a shadow of control clinging to a veneer of faith.
Was it not enough to have her suck you off in the confessional? Now you have that dream. . .
My hair was damp with sweat, my chest heaving with uneven breaths, and my body still thrumming with the remnants of the dream that had dragged me to this precipice.
I reached out and gripped the whip’s handle.
I’ve tasted her and I will taste her again, but. . .I must have some sense of limits, especially when I dream about God.
Thunder rolled in the distance.
Celeste.
The dream clung to me—vivid and unrelenting—refusing to release its grip no matter how much I tried to shake it off.
It started as this dreamlike landscape of the Last Supper. But it was a sinful depiction, nothing ever discussed in the Bible.
A twisted reimagining.
The table stretched endlessly. Rich, crimson fabric draped its surface.
Candlelight flickered.
The air ran thick with the scent of wine and incense mingling with an unmistakably dark, carnal fragrance.
The space pulsed with erotic heat.
Plates of bread and fruit spilled over, glistening, coated in honey, wine, and blood.
The disciples sat around the table, no longer bearing the solemn reverence of apostles.
Instead, they were primal.
Stripped of grace.
Animals overcome with base hunger.
Their robes hung loose on their bodies, their hands trembled as they reached not for the bread or the wine, but for her .
Celeste.
There, she lay sprawled across the center of the table like a naked offering—a goddess draped in sin. Her dark brown skin glowed with an unholy light. Her breasts rose and fell—soft and topped with stiff nipples.
And all of the disciples had their way with Celeste as if she was truly the Last Supper.
Peter sat closest to her head, and his hands cradled her face as though she were a sacred relic. His fingers traced her jawline, then dipped lower to brush her throat. And when he did so, his eyes went wide and his lips murmured incoherent prayers that sounded like pleas for forgiveness.
Thomas knelt at her feet with his head bowed in penance, yet his hands betrayed him. They skimmed the curves of her calves as his breath came out in ragged gasps.
Judas leaned over Celeste’s midsection with his hands pressed flat against her stomach and his lips hovered near her navel, whispering words too low for me to hear. I could see the tension in his jaw, the way his lips trembled. The lines between worship and hunger blurred on his face until they no longer existed.
James and John hovered at her sides in synchronized worship. James's hands cupped her breasts while John brushed his thumbs over her nipples, drawing sensual circles.
Each stroke elicited a faint gasp from Celeste.
But that wasn’t it.
Andrew sat at the far end of the table with half-lidded eyes, but even from his distance, he couldn’t resist. His hand reached for the goblet of wine, dipping his fingers into the dark liquid before trailing them along her inner thigh, leaving glistening streaks in his wake.
Next, there was Matthew, who knelt by her head, his face buried in her curly afro, simply satisfied in breathing her in.
I wanted to scream at them to not touch her.
To rush over there and stop them.
But I couldn’t.
I was frozen in place with only the ability to watch, yet not participate.
My gaze locked onto her face. Her eyes fluttered open, and for a fleeting moment, they met mine. There was no shame in them, no fear. Instead, they held a dark invitation, a challenge that sent a jolt straight through me.
Then, Celeste moaned. The sound was low and breathy, rolling through the room like a wave.
My cock swelled.
I clenched my fists at my sides as I tried to pull my gaze away, but it was impossible.
And then He appeared.
Jesus stood at the head of the table. His figure was bathed in a light so pure it hurt to look at Him. His face was both serene and sorrowful.
And to my surprise, He swept His gaze over the scene before Him without judgment, without condemnation.
And still it was difficult for me to breathe.
Jesus gestured to her. “This is My body.”
Celeste writhed and moaned under all the disciples’ hands.
Jesus licked his lips. “This is My blood.”
I shook my head as my cock throbbed. “Stop them, Jesus. Please! They can’t have her! She’s mine!”
“No, Cassian.” Jesus slowly disrobed. His robe fell away from him, revealing a slim, yet sculpted body. “She is ours, and we all get a turn.”
“No. No.” I shook my head.
Without a word, Jesus climbed onto the table.
The crimson fabric beneath him bunched as his knees pressed into its softness.
Around them, the disciples began to move again.
Thomas, still on his knees at her feet, groaned low in his throat, and slipped his hand beneath his robe. Obscene sounds filled the air as he began to jack himself off.
James and John mirrored each other on either side of her, touching their cocks too.
Peter and Judas had already been working their cocks over her body.
Before Jesus arrived, Judas gasped and released warm cum onto her stomach.
And the whole time, Celeste writhed and moaned.
Then, the dream shattered like glass, fragmenting and slicing through my mind.
It was so jarring, I had bolted upright in bed, covered in sweat.
And now I stood, holding the whip in my hand and more than ready to punish myself for that sacrilegious dream.
There must be limits.
My stomach twisted.
My cock throbbed.
Rain lashed against the glass, and the lightning illuminated the space in brief, blinding bursts.
My reflection stared back at me—a man undone, my face pale and drawn, my eyes shadowed with darkness.
I wanted to scream, to tear at my skin, to claw the dream out of my mind, but it clung to me, its tendrils burrowing deep.
Why would I ever conjure something like that, even in my slumber?
I had always considered dreams sacred—a domain where the divine whispered truths too great to bear in waking life.
The Bible was filled with dreams, wasn’t it?
God had used them to warn.
To guide.
To reveal.
Joseph dreamt of his rise to power—a path he could never have imagined.
The Magi dreamt of Herod’s treachery, and their warning saved the Christ child’s life.
And then there was Jacob, wrestling with the angel in his sleep, a dream so graphic it left him limping in reality.
Are my dreams no different?
The thought rattled through me.
Or. . .is this dream a warning? A condemnation of my weakness, of the unholy desire that pulses through me even now? Or is it something else?
I gripped the whip tighter until my knuckles whitened.
What does this dream mean?
Joseph had been visited by an angel in his dreams, hadn’t he? Told to take Mary as his wife despite what the world might say. His dreams had been filled with both clarity and torment his path dictated by visions that defied human reason.
Is this my Joseph moment? Or am I being tested, the way Job had been tested, stripped of everything to prove his faith?
My jaw clenched.
Or maybe I’m thinking too deeply. It was a Last Supper orgy. What is wrong with me?
I went over to my spot where I always disciplined myself, but this time I didn’t even gaze up at Jesus.
I felt too much shame.
Instead, I sank to my knees and let the cold marble bite into my skin.
There must be limits. I’ve already gone too far. I will not begin to even be blasphemous to His image too.
I raised the whip before me.
Pain—that’s what I needed.
Pain to drive out the unholy thoughts.
Pain to give me clear boundaries.
Yet, suddenly, my phone’s ringing cut through the silence.
I widened my eyes.
Who is that calling?
I lowered the whip, rose from the marble floor, and walked over to my nightstand.
It’s almost four in the morning.
I didn’t want to even pick it up, but the rational part of me knew I had to answer.
Being a priest wasn’t a vocation one could compartmentalize or leave at the door. It followed me everywhere, even into the dead of night, even after I had woken from dreams that made me question everything I believed in.
I set the whip down on the nightstand.
The screen glowed faintly in the dark room.
The storm still battled on outside.
My thumb hovered over the answer button as I let out a long, unsteady breath.
I don’t need some emergency tonight.
This wasn’t the first time I’d been woken in the middle of the night, summoned from restless sleep to tend to someone’s crisis.
Once, it had been Sister Eleanor at 2 a.m., calling to tell me that Mr. Cartwright, a longtime parishioner, was on his deathbed and asking for me. I’d raced through the streets, my cassock barely fastened and arrived to find the old man gripping his rosary beads with trembling hands.
His family surrounded him with tear-streaked faces.
“Father,” he had whispered. “I’m ready to go home.”
I’d given him the Last Rites.
Other calls had been less. . .traditional.
There was the time Mrs. Ellington, a wealthy socialite and patron of the parish, had summoned me to her mansion to exorcise a demon from her teenage daughter.
I had arrived expecting chaos, only to find the girl sitting cross-legged on her canopy bed, scrolling through her phone with an expression of complete disinterest.
Mrs. Ellington had clutched my arm. “She’s possessed, Father. She screamed at me during dinner and called me the b word and said I needed. . .the d word and to leave her alone.”
Either way, that supposed demonic possession turned out to be little more than teenage rebellion, exacerbated by a mother with a flair for melodrama.
I had offered a prayer and some holy water for good measure, but mostly I’d counseled the girl to respect her parents and advised Mrs. Ellington to give her daughter some space .
And then there was the time the fire department had called me—of all people—at midnight because a man was threatening to jump off the roof of an apartment building.
“Why me?” I’d asked the fire chief, who was still groggy from sleep.
“You’re his priest,” he’d replied, as if that explained everything.
I’d arrived to find the man teetering on the edge of the roof, his arms spread wide as he shouted something about the futility of life.
“Don’t do this!” I had called out. “God has a plan for you!”
“You think God’s plan involves me losing my job and my girlfriend in the same week?” he’d shot back.
I’d spent over an hour talking him down, quoting scripture, sharing stories of redemption, and promising that he wasn’t alone. When he finally stepped back from the edge, the relief that washed over me was almost as overwhelming as the exhaustion that followed.
Now, as the phone continued to ring, I wondered what fresh emergency awaited me this time.
I’ll have to discipline myself later.
Sighing, I picked up the phone and swiped to answer. “This is Father Cassian.”
“It’s me. . .Celeste.” Her voice—soft, trembling, and far too familiar—slid over me like a forbidden caress, reaching into places in my body no one else had ever touched.
Celeste. . .
My pulse quickened my blood roared in my veins.
I gripped the phone so hard it creaked. “Is. . .everything okay?”
“Oh. Yes. Sorry. I should have said that first. It’s just that the reason I’m calling is strange.”
I could hear the storm loud and raging on her side of the line like she was standing on the porch of her house. “Celeste, you can call anytime, even if it is strange. How are you feeling? Did something happen?”
“Yes.”
“Your mother?”
“Oh no.” A sad chuckle left her. “No. Not my mother.”
“Then, what is wrong?”
“You have to. . .promise to not think I’m crazy.”
Nothing naughty had even came out of her mouth, however, my cock began to rise.
She shouldn’t have this power over me.
But she did.
God forgive me, but I want her pussy so bad. I want her like the devil wants souls—ravenously, insatiably.
My eyes flicked to the whip on the night stand.
And now I remembered that no amount of self-punishment could cleanse me of this. Her hold on me was too strong.
“So. . .” Celeste began. “I had this dream.”
I blinked.
“And Jesus was in it.”
I stumbled back.
“It was. . .well. . .interesting. Anyway at the end He told me to go to you because you were about to hurt yourself.”
I dropped the phone.
It slammed to the floor.
What?!
In the stunned silence that followed, I could only hear the storm raging outside and the frantic beating of my heart.
Then, I glanced back at the whip.
Jesus sent her to stop me from hurting myself?
A shiver ran through me.
Celeste’s voice rose in the space. “Father Cassian?! Can you hear me? What happened?!”
Oh no.
Fast, I bent down to retrieve the fallen device and placed it against my ear. “Jesus told you to come to me?”
“Yes. He was naked too and said pleasure was good and all that but—”
“He was naked?”
“Yes, but he was all talking about how—”
“Did you have sex with him?”
“Really, Cassian? That’s the question. I feel like we should probe deeper into the spiritual relevance of what this could mean—”
“Still. . .did you have sex with him?”
She laughed. “No. I didn’t.”
“But he was naked?”
“Yes.”
“And nothing happened?”
“Are we really doing this?” She laughed again. “I know you’re not getting jealous over naked Jesus.”
“Yes. I am. Because. . .not even He can have you.”
Her breath hitched on the line, the faintest sound of a gasp, and it was enough to set me on fire.
I growled. "You’re mine, Celeste—body, heart, and soul."
She cleared her throat. “Well. . .usually people date and have a conversation before declaring all of that—”
“This is the conversation.” My cock throbbed as if responding directly to her. I could feel the heat radiating from my skin, the slickness pooling at the tip, a bead of pre-cum sliding down the length like a taunt.
“Uh. . .” She cleared her throat again. “Were you about to hurt yourself?”
Lust blazed through my body. “Where are you?”
“Well. . .I’m outside of the cathedral.”
Shock slammed into me. “What?”
“Yes. When Jesus says go to you, I go. Am I crazy?”
“Stay right there.” I slung the phone on my bed, grabbed her rosary beads, and rushed away, not putting on a shirt or shoes. Not fixing the position of my cock pushing the fabric of my pants. Not even wondering who could be up and possibly hear.