Page 17 of The Reaper

I was salivating, and if I didn’t calm down, this would be over way too soon. I paced myself with long drawn-out strokes. He walked to the dresser near the window; my eyes followed his every move. He grabbed his phone and tapped it to life, its backlight illuminating his face. He swiped and tapped, before bringing the phone to his ear, presumably to check his voice mail. He frowned, his grip on his phone tightening. His lips drew into a line, agitation evident in his features. After a couple of minutes, he tossed the device on the top of the wooden dresser before walking toward his bed, where he relaxed on the comforter, staring at the ceiling, deep in thought.

My attention was divided between the specimen of a man lying on the bed naked and the phone sitting on his dresser. It buzzed, the accompanying light brightening the corner of the dim room. He ignored it, and I wondered why.

I shook my head and focused on the naked priest. Come on, play with your cock, I prayed, then realized just how fucked up that was. Here I was, praying for a priest to jack his meat while I jerked off in sync with his rhythm. That alone should be enough to stop me—but then again, it was me. Call me sick, but who wasn’t these days?

Father Saint James closed his eyes, running his hand from his chest to his navel down to his semi-chub. He gripped his dick, stroking it until its head was swollen, angry, and red. The tip was slick. Two pumps later, he stopped. He opened his eyes, confusion written all over them. Glints of heat and guilt flashed alternately. My fascination for the priest grew watching him battle an internal war, but in the end the urge for pleasure won, as his left hand cupped and played with his balls while the other stroked his dick in a frenzy.

I matched his moves. My eyes trained on his face, watching his eyes roll into his head, his toes curling. His heavy breathing reverberated through the room, fighting with the sounds of slapping flesh.

I double-fisted my cock, my palms dragging from base to tip.

“Oh my …” Father Saint James muttered. His hips thrust into his balled hand, his leg muscles flexing as he moved up and down. The wooden headboard rapped the wall, rattling the hanging artwork. Inaudible words came out of his wide-open mouth. His whole body trembled until one last thrust. Thick white cum jetted out of his cock, pulse by pulse, lasting for thirty seconds. When I thought the waves of pleasure had run its course, his dick continued to eject semen, soaking his abs.

The carnal sounds, the vision of his euphoria, was a million times better than porn. I came so hard I saw spots. I jacked off until the last drop of cum dripped onto the floor. When my breathing steadied, I looked down at the mess I’d made and grabbed an item of clothing from the hamper to erase the evidence of my demented display.

Father Saint James hopped off the bed, hands on his stomach, preventing his wad from dripping onto the floor. He walked briskly to the bathroom and, when I heard him enter the shower and start the water, I waited a couple of seconds before coming out of the closet.

I stopped and glanced at his cell. What had upset him? “Damn it,” I whispered when it asked for a passcode. The running water stopped and I was out of his room in seconds.

Back at my car, I found him looking out the window. It was hard to tell, but I could swear he was staring in my direction. I was certain he couldn’t see me. It was dark and the pouring rain had started again. I waited for a minute and, when his light turned off, I pressed the ignition button and drove off.

There was a line where obsession ended and insanity began. I was not a betting man, but if I was, I’d wager I had just crossed that line ten times. Does that make me crazy?

Eleven: The Priest

Sunday came, which meant my first homily at the Cathedral of Holy Cross. It should be precisely like any other sermon I’d given, but this one carried a heavier weight. I checked my reflection in the mirror one last time before heading out of my bedroom, ignoring the open laptop and secured file mocking me from the office. My chance to make a good impression relied on this mass.

Last night, Jessica had asked for a preview, but aside from the scriptures and verses we were using for the mass, I’d given her nothing about the liturgy. The truth was, I hadn’t made up my mind yet. The last couple of days had been a blur and I had yet to have a full night’s sleep. Living on three to four hours of rest would soon catch up with me. Besides, my experience had given me a few available sermons to deploy. I would decide which one to use once I had the pulse of the assembly.

We were lined up by the door of the church for the entrance procession to commence the beginning of the mass when the man with no name walked by. His blazing gaze bored a hole in my already fragile self-control. He bumped into a couple of people as he made his way inside, giving them a death glare when they looked back at him. They were reduced to shaking their heads. This was church, after all, on Sunday no less. Unaffected by the disapproving glances, he made his way inside. I watched him enter a pew near the back, standing until one of the parishioners already seated acknowledged his presence. The parishioner didn’t move. Mr. No Name scowled at the older man until he scooted toward the middle, giving him room. He must’ve been intimidated by the man in black as he conceded considerable space, enough for three people.

“Ready?” Jessica asked.

I returned my focus, took a deep breath, and nodded. “Yeah.” Here goes nothing.

It went well. The final moments of the mass closed in and the congregation was yet to show any signs of approval or disdain for my presence. All eyes were on me. Are they even paying attention? I thought when I combed the standing-room-only crowd. I doubted they were. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were waiting for a slip-up to fuel their narrative that I was too young to lead them. If there was one thing I’d learned these past few days from meeting parishioners, Father Oller was beloved by everyone. Here I was thinking the only big shoes I had to fill were those of my family.

The choir standing in front of the balcony housing the brass organ sang the final hymn of the mass. Everyone rose to their feet, joining the chorus. Jessica clapped her hands, looking around, beaming. Tim, the church courier, followed, urging more people to join until everyone accompanied them.

The explosion of applause was deafening. Finally, I could breathe.

Everyone was on their feet except for the man in the black hoodie, similar to what he was wearing when I met him during his confession. You couldn’t miss the scar that slashed through his left eyebrow, dangerously close to his eye. An imperfection that could have easily been labeled a flaw, but somehow it made him appear remarkable. The angry puckered skin was a stunning feature, giving him an aura of fierceness. He was looking straight at me with an intensity that matched his strong square jaw and cheekbones. The chill in his gaze overwhelmed the warmth in his eyes.

“Father,” the sacristan called. His soft voice and the hymn of the choir, ushering the congregation to the communion, brought my attention back to the mass.

The giant organ played louder, filling the church with calls of angels.

I glanced back in the man’s direction, only to find the pew vacated. He was gone.

He’d be back. I saw it in his eyes.

Lines formed for the communion toward the center and both sides of the church. The throng of churchgoers heading to the middle to receive their communion from me was longer than to the ministers to my sides, handling and feeding the congregation with thin white wafers. Today had been a success judging by the applause and friendly smiles around.

“That was a great sermon, Father,” an older lady said before opening her mouth to accept the body of Christ.

I nodded. “Thank you.”

A dozen more of the same remarks followed, and for the first time in days, I could finally relax. The notion was short-lived as the Callahans made their way toward the front of the line, behind three other people. Their blank expressions gave nothing away. I held my breath when Mrs. Callahan stood before me. “The body of Christ,” I said, placing the wafer on her opened palm.

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