12. Back At Church For Our Third Session
BACK AT CHURCH FOR OUR THIRD SESSION
Lachlan
The thing no one tells you about clergy is that the longer you do it, the less you believe in anything but repetition.
The ritual of it, the performance, the lockstep of confessions and catechisms and commiseration.
I sit behind my desk, inhaling the blue-grey spiral of Nag Champa incense as it slips up toward the stained glass and fragments in the morning light.
Amber and violet crosshatch the oak paneling, sketch my silhouette across the wall.
The legal pad in front of me is blank, because I already know what’s coming.
This is session three with Stella Moreland and her step-uncle, and I have never, not once, needed a legal pad for this job.
But here I am, the inked header—“Trinity Church, Couples Counseling, Moreland/Roberts”—bleeding through the yellow sheet like an accusation.
Should I even include include the sub-title “Couples Counseling,” seeing that’s gone so far beyond that already? Who the fuck knows.
I hear them before I see them. The slow, predatory click of Hunter’s shoes on the tile, and Stella’s softer footfalls, hesitant at first, then purposeful. The pause at my threshold is long enough to suggest argument, or foreplay, or both. The door swings open.
Stella steps in first. Her blonde hair is up, twisted up in a sexy way with tendrils that trail along her shoulders.
She’s wearing a dress again—pale blue, not the same one as last week, but showing off her big bust to an advantage, nonetheless.
Her cerulean eyes flick up, catch mine, and drop; it’s the tell of a poker player with a shit hand.
She smiles anyway. I catch the faintest shimmer of gloss at the corner of her mouth, like she’s just licked her lips.
Hunter follows, filling the doorway and most of the oxygen in the room. His suit is black, no tie, the first two buttons of his shirt open. He rests a hand on Stella’s hip as if it belongs there. He doesn’t bother with a smile.
“Good morning,” I say, keeping my tone even.
Stella perches on the chair closest to the desk. Hunter takes the one beside her, but drags it a little closer, not quite touching but close enough to trespass the line of professional decorum. It’s the same move as last time, only now it feels like a dare.
“Morning, Pastor O’Toole,” Stella murmurs, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “Thank you for seeing us.”
Hunter says nothing. He just watches me, arms crossed, an appraisal more than a greeting.
The incense is strong today, a sharp line through the undercurrent of vanilla that clings to Stella’s skin. For a moment, I watch the way the smoke twists above the burner, trying to find a thread of detachment.
I open the folder, uncap my pen. “So, what’s the agenda for today?”
Hunter answers first, as always. “We want to know your thoughts,” he says, voice like a warm stone skipping the surface of a pond. “On our relationship. Stella’s got reservations. I don’t.” He looks over at her, not unkindly. “But she’s got the questions, and we want to get them answered.”
Stella flushes, her hand curling into the hem of her skirt.
“I’m sorry about Hunter’s brisk tone,” she says with a reproving glance his way.
“It’s just that… well, it’s still weird,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.
“I don’t know if what we’re doing is wrong, or if it’s just that everyone says it’s wrong. ”
I nod, tapping the pen against the legal pad. “You want permission,” I say. “Or at least a ruling from someone in an authority position.”
Her eyes dart to me, hopeful and terrified in equal measure.
“Yes? Maybe?”
Hunter’s mouth twitches. “We’re not asking for forgiveness, Pastor. We just want to know if we’re the only ones this fucked up.”
I smile, but it’s a tired smile. “You’d be surprised,” I say.
Stella lets out a shaky laugh, relief and disbelief braided together.
I lean back, fingers steepled. “A lot of different people make up the world, and to be honest, it’s not up to me to pass judgment.
Even if you were polyamorous, which is officially frowned upon by our denomination, I’m not sure that I’d say anything, much less condemn it.
Times change quickly, and what was taboo yesterday may be accepted sooner than you think. ”
“Yes,” Stella muses thoughtfully. “I felt like the Catholic Church underwent a seismic shift when Pope Francis said he wasn’t in a place to judge LGBTQ people. He was a modern man.”
I nod.
“If even the Pontiff himself refuses to judge someone’s intimate and familial choices, then I don’t think any of us can rightfully say that we’re an arbiter of what’s morally wrong or right.
Of course, there are a few black and white cases, but without abuse or some kind of heinous crime, I’m not sure I can give you the certainty you’re looking for. ”
Hunter harrumphs.
“So we’re here for nothing.”
“No, that’s not true,” Stella says quickly, shooting him another reproving glance. “It’s just … well, it feels wrong.”
“Let’s dive into that,” I say in a slow tone. “When you say it feels wrong, does that mean you like how it feels, or that you don’t like it? Does the taboo aspect add excitement to what you do together, or does it make you feel disgusted inside?”
Stella hesitates, blushing, but then she bends her heads and whispers, “I like it. That’s part of why we’re here. I know I shouldn’t, but I adore the taboo aspect.”
Hunter takes her hand.
“There’s nothing wrong with that, sweetheart. We’re all fucked up and I just want you to know that you’re fucked up in exactly the way I like.”
Her head comes up quickly then.
“Is that supposed to reassure me?” she demands. “Because it doesn’t make me feel better to hear that I’m fucked up. Or that we’re fucked up the same way.”
I can see that this session is devolving quickly, so I interrupt.
“Have there been any changes since last time? Any progression?”
Stella starts to answer, then stalls. Her cheeks bloom pink, a rush that creeps up her throat.
Hunter fills the void. “Yeah,” he says, voice even. “I’m not sure what you mean by progression, but we tried something new.”
Stella shoots him a look that’s pure betrayal. “You weren’t supposed to—” she starts, then clamps her mouth shut.
He shrugs, not sorry. “He’s the counselor, star girl. Isn’t that what he’s here for?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Stella’s lips press into a thin, reluctant line. She looks at me, then at the floor, then at me again. “Hunter introduced me to something I’d never done before,” she says, every word a stone she’s forced to swallow.
Hunter’s eyes flash, and he smirks slightly. “I fucked her in the ass,” he says, voice flat. “It was Stella’s first time experiencing anal sex.”
The words hang in the incense-thick air.
Stella’s face goes scarlet, her eyes fixed on her knees. “You weren’t supposed to say it like that,” she hisses.
I don’t blink. “Was it consensual?” I ask, soft.
Hunter nods. “Of course.”
Stella swallows hard. “It was intense,” she concedes. “But I liked it.” The last part comes out in a rush, as if she can’t believe it herself.
I rest my hands on the desk. “You’re exploring boundaries,” I say. “That’s not unusual in exposure therapy.”
Stella glances up, hope flickering. “Is that what this is? Are we doing the right thing by exposing ourselves to the taboo so it stops feeling so bad? Does it even matter? Or should we just stop altogether?”
I let the silence expand before answering. “Sometimes, yes, it will feel strange. Sometimes you have to see what’s on the other side of the shame, and the only way is through, not around.”
Hunter’s smile is slow, predatory. “You want to try it again, Stella?”
She shivers, the movement so small it could be missed, then nods, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.
I watch the exchange. I watch them both. My own pulse is a hammer behind my ribs, but I force the detachment. “Would you like to try exposure therapy again?” I reiterate, the words coming out smoother than I feel.
Hunter’s gaze snaps to mine, and for a beat, I see something raw and unguarded. He nods, once. “Yeah. Why the fuck not?”
I stand, walk to the door, and turn the brass lock with a click that sounds like the end of a prayer.
When I turn back, Stella is already standing. Hunter moves behind her, his hands at her waist, his mouth at her ear. The light from the stained glass fractures across the floor in streaks of color, painting Stella’s pale skin in ribbons of gold and purple.
He undresses her sensually, his big hands peeling away the dress, unclasping the bra, leaving her in nothing but a tiny pair of panties that are so thin they might as well be absent.
Her big breasts shake, the nipples a hard pink, as she leans back and moans a bit.
He kisses the hollow of her neck, his hands finding her hips, his fingers digging in with enough force to bruise.
“You can do this,” he murmurs in her ear. “Show the good pastor what you’ve learned, star girl.”
I stay by the desk, hands folded. I watch her, watch him, the two of them locked together in a rhythm that is equal parts dance and duel.
Hunter guides her to the chair, seats himself, and then pulls her down onto his lap, facing away from him. His hands splay across her thighs, then up to her breasts, cupping them, squeezing, pinching the nipples until she gasps. He spreads her legs wide, leaving her open to me.
“Show him,” Hunter says, low and rough. “Show the pastor how you take it.”
Stella’s eyes flutter shut, but she doesn’t hesitate.
She lifts her knees so that her feet are flat on the sides of the seat, fully exposing her crotch.
Then, Hunter rips her panties off and her pussy’s revealed, pink and gleaming and swollen.
Her asshole winks flirtatiously, like it’s begging for a massive cock inside.
“Shit,” I breathe. “You’re fucking gorgeous, Stella.”