Epilogue - Lorcan
Epilogue
The black limo navigates the South Boston waterfront as I watch from my bedroom window, still stripped bare from the shower I took in preparation for her arrival.
My skin's still damp, droplets tricklin' down my spine, and I haven't bothered with clothes because what's the fuckin' point?
She's naked underneath that yellow coat I know she's wearin'—Giovanni's particular brand of psychological theater—and just the thought of how I'll spend the next eighteen hours with her is enough to make my cock thick and hard against my thigh.
I make the most of every minute with Emmaleen. Every second. Every heartbeat. Because I'm not in charge of when she comes next, am I?
Giovanni is.
He's in charge of the schedule, the timetable, the whole bloody operation. Mr. I-get-to-tell-ya-when-ya-can-see-her-and-when-ya-can't. Mr. I-own-her-time-and-you're-just-borrowin'-it.
Control freak bastard, whispers Father Patrick in my head.
Aye, Father. That he is.
And let me tell ya—Giovanni's rather stingy with these visits. Territorial. Guards his assets like a dragon hoardin' gold.
Once a month is standard protocol—if he's out of town on business, maybe twice if the stars align and he's feelin' generous.
And I've got a better chance of winnin' the fuckin' Powerball, claimin' the jackpot, and retirin' to the Cayman Islands than gettin' this girl all to myself three times in a single month.
So I plan our visits like I'm a goddamned cruise director. Every activity scheduled. Every moment choreographed. Maximum efficiency, maximum impact, maximum—
The limo stops in front of my gate.
I walk to the security panel at the top of the stairs, press the button to open the gate, then make my way to the front door, my cock bobbin' against my thigh as I descend the stairs.
I watch on the security screen as she gets out of the limo.
I would not call Emmaleen graceful in most situations.
Most of the time she's a goddamned catastrophe.
But when she's in character—when she's in scene—she moves like a fuckin' gazelle.
It's Jino's trainin'. When that shit kicks in, it kicks in hard.
So I'm watching her unfold out of this limo with the grace of a damn butterfly emergin' from a chrysalis, burnin' with desire to get this girl in my chapel so I can wreck it.
Shatter that fuckin' polish Jino put on her and replace it with sweat, and welts, and handprints.
I take photos after every session, just before Giovanni picks her up. I put the best one in a journal I'm keepin'. I don't have many pages—yet. The stingy fuckin' mobster's ta blame for that. But little by little, my collection is growin'.
And Emmaleen—the slutty little word collector who can't help herself—documents our time here with a few lines of poetry. Sometimes just fragments. Pieces of verse that capture what her body's learned in ways her mind won't admit.
She dictates them in that thoroughly fucked, exhausted voice while I write them down on the page in me own hand. Her words in me best, most perfect St Augustine's penmanship.
It's like me own personal Book of Kells.
If the Book of Kells was a wrecked woman's body illuminated by the sun rising up over the Boston Harbor instead of Celtic mythology in gold leaf.
Our own private liturgy, each session together preserved with a photo, a bit of verse, and ink.
We've made it through nine Stations of the Saint since she started comin' here.
Tonight, we go all the way to ten.
Decimatio.
I reach for the door, pullin' it open just before she reaches my threshold. And there she is, smilin' that smile, eyes cast down, cute fuckin' freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose like constellations.
"My Saint," Emmaleen whispers, entering my home with a small bow.
I don't respond. Just close the door and extend my hand.
She places the notebook in my palm—Jino's meticulous record of the week's trainin', Giovanni's notes on her performance, her own confessions written in the margins that come with doodles, and pieces of poetry, and colors.
Like her demerits notebook is a dark romance she plans on reviewin' on BookTalk.
She drops the coat, letting it pool at her feet on the floor. Then looks up at me with a barely-hidden smirk. No shame at all in that look, even though her nipples are so peeked and tight, they could cut glass.
I circle her slowly, obsessin' over every line and curve. "Beautiful," I murmur.
And she is. God, she is.
The monster in me wants to drag her to the windows immediately, skip the ritual entirely and just press her face first against the glass and fuck her until she forgets every prayer.
But that's not how this works. That's not what she came for.
I gesture toward the chapel's curtained alcove. "Ya know where to go, a stór."
She happily skips her way across my great room, disappearin' from view.
I don't follow immediately. Instead I stand in the threshold holdin' her performance notebook, flippin' to the transgression section, each demerit cataloged with clinical precision.
Right, so here's the thing about Giovanni's demerit system—it's bollocks, isn't it? Complete theater. She could probably breathe wrong and he'd find a reason to add another tally.
But that's not the point. The point is the performance.
Giovanni sends Emmaleen to my chapel when he wants to make her happy. Not because she did somethin' wrong, just… to make her happy.
Because she likes my chapel, demandin' and fucked up as it is.
She's in to it.
And there's no way in fuckin' hell that Giovani Bavga is ever gonna bend her over a prayer desk and make her pray to him.
He's just… not that guy.
This visit he's cataloged twelve demerits for me to clear, which is a good number.
I close the notebook and enter the chapel.
She's already in Position Prima—kneelin' at the prie-dieu, forehead pressed to the prayer desk, hands clasped like she's beggin' salvation from a God who abandoned her the moment she signed Giovanni's contract.
Which is just another bit of theatre.
She loves that damn mobster. Monster and all. All three of us know that he's the glue. He's what holds this arrangement together.
"Saint Lorcan, deliver me," she's whisperin'. "Saint Lorcan, guide me. Saint Lorcan, hold me. Saint Lorcan, free me."
I stand behind her, close enough that my robe brushes her bare shoulder, and open the notebook.
"Twelve demerits this week," I read aloud. "Ya've been bad, a stór. Bratty. Testin' boundaries ya know better than to cross."
"Yes, my Saint," she breathes.
"Spoke without permission. Incorrect posture.
Multiple instances of lookin' up when ya should've kept you're eyes down.
" I flip the page. "Self-touch at two in the mornin' when ya knew full well your body belongs to yer King, not to your own wanderin' hands.
And the worst transgression—" I lean down, mouth near her ear, "—ya smiled during punishment.
Like yer King's discipline was entertainment instead of instruction. "
"Yes, my Saint," she whispers again, voice thick with arousal.
She's not afraid of me.
She's not afraid of any of this.
Oh, she struggles. She cries, and sobs, and begs sometimes. To keep goin', to push harder, to give in to me own monster.
But there are cameras in here. Mine, obviously. But every fuckin' second is recorded for Giovanni to observe later. Not a live feed, though I could do that if I wanted. He just didn't ask for it so I didn't offer.
He doesn't really want to know what happens here. He just wants the option.
I straighten, closin' the notebook with deliberate finality. "Twelve votives. Light them. Confess each sin as the flame catches."
Emmaleen rises with fluid grace and crosses to the bank of red candles linin' the chapel wall. I watch her select the first taper, hands steady despite the tremor I know is buildin' in her core.
One by one she lights the candles, confessin' each demerit in that quiet voice, illuminatin' the space with symbols of her failures. When the twelfth candle flickers to life, she turns back to me, eyes downcast, waitin'.
The rest of the ritual has been done and done again. All the stations but one. The last one.
Some, like Position Secunda, are for punishment.
Others, like Tertia through Sextus, are for edging. Making her beg. Driving her insane with her own arousal.
The later ones—Septima, Octavo, Nonus—are mostly check-ins. Hydration, hand feeding, petting. I edge her still, but only enough to make her writhe, never enough to make her fail.
We do all of them.
It takes hours.
Hours of eating her out, commanding her to hold her orgasms.
Hours of promising her my cock, but never giving it to her.
When I first introduced her to the chapel, her absolution was bestowed quickly in Secunda.
That's not how we do it now.
She gets nothing but edging until Decimatio.
By the time we finish Nonus, the sun is just startin' to rise and she's barely able to keep her eyes open. But she's still wet as fuck. And she hasn't orgasmed in almost eight hours.
She's desperate for it.
But Decimatio is demandin'. It's the final release for both of us.
The one time in this whole ritual where I take more than I give.
So she gets a choice.
She's lying on my stone altar, face up, legs spread, pussy dripping with her own arousal, when I lean down into her ear and whisper, "Would ya like to bathe now, lass? Call it a night? Get some sleep?"
"Noooo," she moans softly. "No, my Saint. I want to finish." She opens her eyes, her pupils are wide as fuck, and looks at me. "Please. Please let me finish. Please give me more."
"Mmmm," I hum. "Then let's go."
I grab her body, pull it off the slab of stone, and set her feet on the floor with such quick precision, she doesn't even have time to command her legs to stand.
Emmaleen's knees buckle, nearly collapsin' before I catch her, and she wobbles for a moment, desperately tryna get herself together.