Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
Cisco
I’m not sure how I make it out of the changeroom, let alone the abbey.
I don’t see the walls or feel the gentle rain in the courtyard.
I don’t even care if anyone sees me in my torn shirt, stumbling along the path to the church.
All I care about is getting out of Mercy’s orbit before I lose every shred of control.
Even now, I smell her, feel her soft yet unyielding body against mine.
Hear her husky moan into my mouth, taste her lips.
My skin is burning.
I cut across the slick gravel, through the sweet-smelling wet trees, and up to the church’s side door that no one uses.
My fingers tremble on the handle, and I think of how her hand trembled on the knife at my throat.
Then I think about the freckles at her throat, at how I wanted to taste every one of them, but never had the chance.
Now I crave it more. I’ve opened a lid on a bottle, and Mercy is the drink.
This is not how it’s supposed to go. I’m supposed to be the one who contains the evil, starves the monster, keeps the hunger on a leash.
But I kissed her, I wanted more, and my cock is still hard.
Pathetic. It aches and throbs with every pulse.
Usually, when this happens, I find ways to get rid of it.
The gym, a run outside, or a prayer. Sometimes, a nice quiet meditation on the floor, arms outstretched.
Even routine preparation for Mass can have a soothing effect on me.
But I don’t want that. I want her.
Growling, I enter the church, dripping water with every step. The scent of beeswax and incense fills my nose. Prayer candles are lit, and fresh flowers are by the holy water font. I dip my hand, look at the cross over the altar, and mumble, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”
Whether God hears, I don’t know, but relief shudders through me on my exhalation. For a moment, I consider heading to the front, kneeling, and praying beneath the crucifix.
Instead, I stalk toward the oratory and find it not the mess I left two days ago.
The bright, overcast light filters through the stained-glass window behind the desk.
The nuns have cleaned the room and replenished stock and supplies.
The desk is polished, the stuffy velvet couch is dusted, and this evening’s cassock is out for confession. I don’t deserve their kindness.
I stagger into the small bathroom and flick on the light.
The face in the mirror isn’t mine, but some hybrid thing. It’s bruised along the cheek from her grip, lips cut from her slap, and swollen from her kiss. My eyes are dark and wild, but not black. The white collar hangs slack, and the skin beneath my jaw has a thin, raw wound from the dagger.
Her mark, not God’s, not the devil’s.
I lick my thumb and swipe the red line so hard that it burns just like her knife did.
The pain conjures her scent, the feel of her body against mine.
I swipe harder. My cock jerks against my trousers, sending a bolt of white-hot pleasure through my lower abdomen.
An agonized groan wrenches from my lips.
This is wrong.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I try not to think about her, try to think about what sin means to me instead. It is my appetite unleashed. That’s the short version, the only one that’s ever made sense to me.
When penitents come into my booth, my identity ceases to exist. In there, I am the office. I bow my head, listen, and assign Hail Marys. A heavier sin, a graver one, requires contrition. But whatever they bring in stays in, and whatever they take out is forgiveness.
In the seminary, we learn that mortal sin requires grave matter, full knowledge, and deliberate consent. Tick, tick, tick. We learn that thoughts can damn you just as much as deeds if you let them root. Tick.
But for me? For a priest with vows? It’s worse.
I gave up the right to a wife, to a bed, and to have my own children. Lust isn’t just lust for me, the way it is for a married man tempted by his secretary. Lust for me is breaking a promise I made on my knees in front of the bishop, with my hands in his, swearing in the sight of God.
Sin, for me, is the moment the leash slips.
Is your curse your reason there is no us?
She said “us.”
Instead of denying her bullshit, she tossed me a deflecting question. She didn’t say no.
I fumble at the ruined buttons of my shirt and tear it off. Trousers and boxers are next, rosary falling to the floor, and then I’m in the shower, cranking the faucet to cold. I palm my erection and jerk hard enough to hurt. Another shuddering groan rips from somewhere deep in my lungs.
I forgot to lock the church doors. Someone could walk in. Someone could hear. The fleeting thoughts evaporate when I stroke again, summoning her in my mind.
Red hair.
Luscious body.
Soft skin.
That face, that smirk—beautiful, defiant, mischievous.
I should stop.
I should kneel on the tile until my knees split. I should pray a rosary on the slick floor and let the cold water freeze the want out of me. I should remember that I am a priest sworn to celibacy and that this hardness is the devil testing the hinges of his cage.
I brace my forearm against the shower wall, drop my head, and stroke again, from root to tip, imagining it’s her hand, not mine. And again. And again. Dio, she feels so good.
She’s working me fast and then slow, teasing me and taunting me. She makes me suffer, but then I make her pay for it. I teach her exactly how I like it, the angle with which to hold my cock, the force, and speed.
I praise her when she gets it right. She returns a wanton smile, and I savor it.
It’s not enough.
Nothing is enough.
She rises, hair falling over her creamy tits, nipples hard and flushed as she spins to straddle me in reverse. I have her hands behind her back—no, bound by my collar, wrists pinned together in white by my fist. She’s riding me, fleshy ass cheeks wobbling, moaning my name.
Cisco.
Father.
Fucking Padre.
My fist chokes my shaft, pumping faster. The cold water turns scalding in my mind. I want it all, and I want it savagely. I want to hear her cry out. Want to break her on my cock, make her weep, make her laugh through the tears because she knows I can’t stay away.
The Fathers wrote about this—Augustine knew. Aquinas knew. The body is not the enemy, but when the will obeys it instead of God? That’s the fall. That’s every fall.
Just stop.
Just—
Are you going to spank me, Father?
I come so hard my vision goes white. Cum spatters the tile, and I gasp, pant, whimper. My cheeks are on fire, shame already rolling in before the spasms stop. But I keep stroking, desperate for relief, until there is nothing. The ache returns bigger, hungrier, and scratching at my insides.
I lean my head against my arm, still braced on the tiles.
Cold water runs over me, freezing out the last of the tremors.
Every tattoo in my vision stands out against the chill.
Underneath the ink, shadows writhe. Spiked horns move.
The strange, living hunger beneath them is still waiting for its next meal. A meal Mercy cheated it out of.
Do you want more?
I sink to sit on the floor, back to the cold tile, water pounding my head.
You’ll always want more, and you’ll never deserve it.
When the last remnants of pleasure leave, and I can breathe again, that’s when it really starts to hurt. A great void opens in my chest and expands.
I touch my throat, tracing fingers along the raw wound she marked me with. The stinging pain lasts a second, and then I scrub my face to shake myself out of this embarrassing stupor.
Forcing myself up, I turn off the faucet, grab a towel, and dry off as best I can.
When I return to the oratory, the sunlight has dimmed dramatically. Night is falling fast, or maybe the gentle rain is becoming a thunderstorm.
I flick on the light and put on the cassock that the nuns pressed.
It’s a little official for day-to-day attire, but it’s the best I have, given that everything else is in the wash or ruined.
I rip out the wet collar from my torn shirt and slide it through the cassock’s collar, pinning it in place.
Pants are on next, beneath the robe. It’s not until I’m hunting around the floor for my spare shoes that I notice shadows moving over the rug.
That’s odd. Hand on a loafer, I grow still and extend my awareness.
Something feels wrong. Nearby.
Slowly, I look behind me and scour every corner of the room.
Nothing appears amiss.
Rising, I slip on my shoes, gaze still searching, drifting to the clock on the wall. It’s only mid-afternoon. Then why was it so dark before I turned on the light?
Tingling ants crawl up my spine. Shadows ripple on my face.
It’s not from me, but on me. My attention snaps to the lancet window above the desk, and I see flies.
Thousands cling, hump, and shift in waves over the colored panes, blocking out the light.
They move like a swarm of bees, all with one mind.
For a fleeting moment, I think I see the outline of a face, or maybe a mouth.
I shove my rosary and prayer book into the cassock pockets. On second thought, since the pockets are deep, I stow more items from my exorcist’s travel kit—holy water, spell book, cross. Then I wrap another cross in doused fabric from the lavabo and grab a cigarette lighter from the desk drawer.
The flies are watching me work. They can’t enter this sanctified building, but it is still creepy. With one last glance at the window, at their unblinking eyes, I walk out of the room and then the church.
Outside, the rain has stopped. The setting sun appears to peek through gaps in clouds above the branches.
Steeling my resolve, I position the lighter behind the wrapped cross and walk down the side of the church.
Every footstep on the gravel and mulch is too loud.
I’m about to start praying in Latin when I catch sight of the oratory window.
They’re gone.