Page 2 of Of Angels & Absolution

I tense, and he scoffs quietly in my ear. “I’m not going to touch you. You’re the pervert who wants to fuck her own brother.”

My cheeks burn, and I reach down and hike up my ankle-length jean skirt. I have to lift up from Saint’s lap, but I manage to work my underwear down over my thighs, my knees, my clumsy clogs. At last, I pull them off and hand them to my brother.

He leans away. “Put those away, you sicko. You think I want your used panties?”

I swallow past the lump in my throat, stung by his harsh words, the hate in his tone. I ball up the panties and shove them into the pocket of the cardigan I crocheted for myself last winter while sitting under a blanket with my aunt, marathon watchingGilmore Girlsand sipping hot cocoa from one of her old, chipped mugs.

The thought of that simpler time stabs deep into my heart. Everything was easy then—easy and lonely and filled with a sadness so deep and cold I’m not sure I can bring myself to miss it, even now.

Saint releases my mouth and roots around in the pocket of his wool peacoat that probably cost as much as Aunt Lucy’s entire house, old and falling apart as it was. It was home, though, and every wobbly chair and creaking door added to the charm.

He pulls out a crumpled wad of fabric. “Put these on.”

I take it tentatively, only recognizing my own panties when they unfurl from my fingers. It’s the pair I was wearing on HAVOC night, the pair he took off me as I was held in place by the plague doctor, dragged into sin while all twelve of theHellhounds watched, apostles to the evil prophet who forced pleasure into my body until I couldn’t hold it anymore.

I bend to put them on, only then pulling them open to see that the gusset is filled with a sticky, whitish substance that resembles glue.

“What is that?” I whisper, recoiling.

Saint’s arm tightens around my midsection, where he’s holding me to him. “What do you think, little sister?”

I swallow hard. “I—I don’t know.”

“What do you think three men would do with a pair of smelly panties? Use your imagination, little lamb.”

I shake my head in silent embarrassment.

When I don’t produce a further answer, he makes a quiet scoff of derision. “You don’t have to say it. But you do have to put them on.”

Gritting my teeth, I gingerly draw them to my knees, then stare into the pool of stringy, half-dried cream. “I can’t.”

“Oh, I think you can,” Saint croons. “I believe in you, little sister. Now pull them all the way up, so your dirty pussy is buried in the filth, where it belongs.”

On the other side of the screen, I hear a priest arrive. For one second, my heart stops, and I’m afraid it’s someone else. I made the appointment with Father Salvatore because he knows about my sins already, but maybe it’s too much for him. Maybe he sent another priest, and a stranger will sit on the other side of the screen and ask for my confession. I can only see motion through the tiny holes, and then he settles in, and his familiar, enticing scent of sandalwood and leather wraps around me.

I shiver with both relief and dread as his warm, velvet voice pours through the screen, wrapping around my body, gripping my trembling thighs.

“Are you there, lamb?”

“Yes,” I say, and I pull the panties up in one swift motion, lifting my hips at the same time. I suck in a breath when the cold moisture hits my warm skin, and Saint drags me back down onto his lap, his other hand wrapping around my throat.

“Don’t say a word,” he breathes into my ear. “I want to hear you lie to a man of God who thinks you’re an innocent little lamb while you sit in my cum. We both know what you really are.”

“Forgive me, Father,” I choke out, my words a rush. “It’s been—I don’t know—it’s been a few days since my last confession, I—I think. I really don’t remember. The sins are so many, it feels like weeks. How can I do so much to stray from God in a single day?”

“Take a deep breath, lamb,” he says. “Why don’t you tell me what’s happened since we last spoke?”

So, I do. The words pour out of me like a dam broke, unstoppable and chaotic. I don’t even falter in my embarrassment—maybe the hard heat of Saint’s body under mine provides enough distraction that I don’t stumble the way I did in my first confession, or maybe I’ve gotten used to unburdening myself this way. For years, I held it all bottled up inside, but now, I have someone to listen, to hear me and support me. Someone who at least tries not to judge and condemn me to hell for the weakness of my flesh and the wantonness of my mind.

“I just want it to go away,” I beg the priest, my voice trembling with desperation. “Please, Father. I sacrificed myself to them, but it didn’t cleanse me of my sins or rid me of my desires. Tell me how to get this wickedness out.”

“Did it help?” he asks, his tone gentle and even.

“Help with what?”

“When you found your release, did it help, even for a short time? Or did your desire remain constant even then?”

“I—It did help,” I admit, remembering my determination when I was alone in my room again. For once, I wasn’t tempted to slide my hand between my thighs, to ease the ache. They left me with a different kind of ache, one from being well used and spent. My mind was clear for the moment, a clarity I find so seldom.

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