Chapter 14
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
BLAKE
“Did you bring me to church?” Imani asks when I lead her to the stone tiles that surround a white marble gothic cathedral done in the delicate and ornate style of the Italian Renaissance.
“I didn’t bring you to mass. This is a famous landmark.
Welcome to the Duomo di Milan, the biggest cathedral in Italy.
” I make an exaggerated gesture a la Vanna, laughing at the surprise I’ve brought her to.
Did I tell her to dress nicely for an outing?
I did, and gave her no clues. I’m not going to walk into a holy place without dressing for it.
She’s in a pink plaid skirt and white blouse with a big bow on it, her permed hair still up in that characteristic bun.
I finally changed out of my everyday track pants look and put on a nice pair of black linen pants, a cerulean blue button-up, black loafers, and left the snapback off my free-flowing blond hair.
“You’ve gotta be shitting on my dick. I’m sorry, what? Mass?” She scoffs. “I’m not going in there. I’m a Jamaican lesbian. If I don’t burn on entry, all the stuffy little Italian Catholics will murder me with their eyes.”
“Like you didn’t almost make a reporter cry earlier today,” I laugh and begin walking backward into the church. “Come on, this butch needs you to protect her.” I accent my statement with what I hope are puppy dog eyes.
“Oh my god, you didn’t just call me out like that!” Imani squeaks.
“It’s your duty as a femme,” I goad her.
“Fuck you so much,” she returns, stomping toward me, finally ready to follow me into the sacred building.
We enter the marble structure under the watchful eyes of all the spires and flying buttresses, trading the lightness of the outer facade for the reverent deep tones of the interior.
Scant light comes through the heavily decorated stained glass that allows just enough light to make out the stonework walls, the vaulted ceilings, and the columns on either side of us as we make our way to the center of the cathedral, where, beyond the pews, a large altar sits.
The expanse is solemn but buzzes with the soft conversation of the busy crowd.
“Blake–” Imani begins to whine, but I place a finger on her lips to quiet her as I dip my middle finger into a holy water font, then, to Imani’s obvious horror, I make the sign of the cross. “Do I have to do that?” She whispers.
“No,” I explain in a low voice. “But if you want to, you can do what I do.”
Imani nods at me with wide eyes, clearly not knowing what to do with this aspect of my personality. She dips her forefinger into the blessed water and then slowly touches her forehead, her chest, her left shoulder, then her right.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” I whisper on behalf of her. “Good work, Cupcake.”
Imani screws up her face. “I’m still Cupcake here?”
“You’re Cupcake everywhere,” I assure her.
“But not a good girl?” She cocks her head.
“You are a good girl, too, but I don’t want you to associate “good girl” with a religion that you should choose of your own free will, and not because I’ve trained you to,” I gently explain, still whispering.
Imani makes a little “o” of surprise, but then nods, not objecting further.
I gesture for her to walk in front of me, and she does, continuing to look back in curiosity until she reaches a red rope blocking us from the altar area.
“Now what?” Imani asks, turning toward me, red rope at her back.
“Now, if you’ll join me, I’d like to pray. You absolutely don’t have to, but I’d like for you to keep me company. Would you do that for me?” I ask her.
“I don’t have to?” She double-checks hesitantly.
“Of course not,” I affirm.
“Then, yes, I will join you,” Imani nods decidedly.
I give her a small smile, then I bend on one knee, genuflecting as I make another sign of the cross, looking upon the crucifix up ahead, loath to tear myself away from Imani’s beautiful face for even one second.
Then I walk into the pew, get as cozy as possible on the kneeler, place my hands in prayer, and close my eyes.
When I’m done, I look back at her.
“All done praying to someone who doesn’t exist?” Imani huffs.
“While I’m down here…” I trail off, smirking at her.
“Wait, really?” She leans forward excitedly.
I stifle a loud laugh, squeezing both my eyes and lips together. “No, but very cute. It’s busy as fuck in here.”
“Ugh. Then what the fuck am I even doing in a church?” Imani wails, her voice beginning to rise.
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh. So you just want me to Dom you? You don’t want to learn anything about me in the process?”
She squeaks. “That’s not what I––Fuck. No. I want to know you. I’m being a brat.”
I grin at her. “Definitely not the way to get fucked in a church.”
“No, Sir. It’s not,” Imani agrees and folds her hands demurely in her lap. “I’ll be good. Are you Catholic, then?”
“A C&E Catholic, probably,” I tell her, and then read her confused expression.
“Christmas & Easter. Like I’ll go for those days, and I go to confession once a year for Easter, and I do the praying, the calisthenics, the singing, and the candle lighting.
I think there’s a god up there, but I sure as fuck don’t think it’s a man.
And I don’t believe in the dogma.” I shrug.
“So, like, you don’t think you’re a sinner for being trans and gay?” Imani questions me, her face open to my answer.
“Not anymore. I was raised in a really Catholic city, I grew up in the church, going to Catholic school, and my family is C&E but brainwashed about the dogma. It took a long time, but I’m not going to apologize for who God made me.
If I’m in Their image, then They must be a bad bitch, yeah?
” I elaborate, finally sitting next to her in the pew, taking her hand in mine.
“You think God is nonbinary?” Her pulse, for once when I’m touching her, is steady.
“I think They’re pangender—every gender possible. It makes the most sense to me. Angels are hermaphroditic, you know. Doesn’t that sound like they have a maker who understands some gender fluidity?” I smile at her calm face.
“So why still come when the whole church thinks you’re some kind of abomination?” Imani puts her other hand over ours, as if she can protect me from this truth.
“They don’t have anything to do with my relationship to God.
I come here because it feels like home, and no one gets to take that away from me.
I know a lot of people come to church to be seen, and to prove something to their community, but, as you know, the queer community by and large doesn’t go in for this sort of thing.
” I take my hand away from her palm sandwich and tap her on the nose. “Come on, off to dinner for you.”
“What? That wasn’t part of the deal. First, you put my life in danger by dragging me to a church, and now you’re trying to feed me over-buttered and over-cheesed Italian nonsense?” Imani blusters.
“I don’t think it’s butter here. I think it’s olive oil, mostly,” I muse, standing and holding my hand out for her to take.
I’m surprised when, without thinking about it, Imani’s hand slips easily into mine, and she allows me to bring her to standing. I reward the act by pulling her knuckles up to my mouth and laying a kiss on them.
I watch her pulse go erratic in her throat and smirk. “I think you’ll find you’ll like the positive reinforcement I have in mind,” I tell her, rapidly sliding my fingers down her arm to make room for a quick bite into her wrist.
She whimpers, and loudly, causing the people nearby to glance warily at us, or in some cases, outright glare.
I ignore every bigoted look as I follow Imani out of the cathedral and across the plaza to a rooftop restaurant where we can look upon the architectural majesty that is the Cathedral of Milan.
Once again, when I take Imani to dinner, she tries to order nothing. And I take it upon myself to order her a pappardelle bolognese.
“I’m not going to eat that.” She glares at me and crosses her arms.
Ah, fine, just as I suspected. “What would it take to get you to eat it?” I inquire, tossing my arms behind my head and reclining into my hands.
“There’s nothing you could say to make me eat it, Blake,” Imani insists as her pulse ratchets up like I’m making her whimper, not questioning her about eating habits.
“What are you intending to eat for dinner?” I try to question as casually as possible, realizing this might be bigger than just a touchy subject.
“I––I’ll go to the dining hall,” She tries to put me off.
“Tsk tsk. Wrong answer. The dining hall will definitely be closed by the time I get you back. Try again.” I look straight at her, but she avoids my eyes. If this is what I think it is, I’m not really sure how to handle it, but I’m certainly not going to accept her blatant lies.
“Fine. I’ll have a protein bar,” Imani defers again, narrowing her eyes as if that could ever make me back down.
“Not enough calories for an athlete’s dinner. Wrong answer again.” I’m praying she doesn’t offer me another lie. Sure, she’s bratting, but I think she’s trying to make this seem normal when her behavior around food is anything but.
“I–” She looks around wildly. “I’ll figure it out. You’re not my keeper.”
I raise an eyebrow, then move my arms down to lean on the table.
“Oh, but Cupcake, I literally am. You wanted a D/s experience. It’s my job to make sure you’re taking care of yourself.
” And sure, if I’m right about this issue, it’s not really my job to manage her food intake.
If I were her Dominant long term, I’d insist she get a therapist and a nutritionist—better than whatever crackpot she has now.
“I do take care of myself,” Imani bites out.
“I’ve yet to see you eat anything nutritious.
I see you eat as little as possible. So you’re going to sit here and eat this pasta, which has carbs and fat and protein, and if you eat two-thirds of it––which is pretty fuckin generous of me considering that the portions in this country are tiny––you’ll get a reward from me. ” I smile broadly.
Am I about to bribe this woman to eat a fucking meal?
You’re Goddamn right I am. Making sure a submissive eats and drinks is part of the day job…
I’ve just never encountered one who was this obstinate about eating.
I’m ADHD—I forget to eat sometimes, too.
But what Imani has been doing isn’t forgetting.
I’m almost positive she’s not eating on purpose.
The jury is still out on whose idea that is, how it’s affecting her performance, and just how much of a deficit she’s working with.
Unfortunately, I’m not around her enough to monitor if she’s in full-on starvation mode, but guess who is about to be much more involved?
Moi (I would say it in Italian, but boringly, it’s just “me.”).
If she’s willing to lie to me about what she’s eating at this point in our relationship, she’s definitely hiding something.
I care about her enough to make her eat and to figure out what’s going on underneath the surface.
Imani glares at me, but flops back in her seat. “What kind of a reward?”
I lower my voice to a deadly tone, look her straight in her eyes, and inform her, “I’ll take you right back to that cathedral and fuck you in the pews.”
Her gasp is audible, her pulse is haywire, and I am 100% certain her face would be hot to the touch.
Hook, line, sinker.
She might still be lying to me, but at least I can get her to where we both want her to be if I bribe her with sex. I have no reservations about fucking her for the first time in a Catholic church. Kind of gets me going, honestly. Do I have a religion kink? Hm.
The food comes, and she picks up her fork.
I watch her take a bite of the dish, and nod approvingly. “Good girl. You can finish the rest of your meal without your panties.”
Imani gasps and looks up at me from her plate. “Sir?”
Smirking, I push my palm over the table in demand. “Now, about those limits…” I begin, waiting for the lacy linen to be dropped into my hand.
After all, anticipation is foreplay.