Page 57 of Of Angels & Absolution

“Father,” I gasp, gripping the priest’s hand, staring into his eyes that burn with a hunger so deep it steals my breath, my soul.

My core trembles as I stare back at him, into the mirror of my own longing. I understand then that even if he can’t say it, can’t let himself have this, he wants it with the same maddening desperation that I do. Since he can’t let himself take me, though, he’s giving me to someone else, taking whatever small, vicarious pleasure he can derive from watching someone else take what he can never have, touch me in ways he is not allowed, glut himself on something of which he will only ever have the barest taste.

“Give him your body,” he says, his voice low and husky. “Surrender it completely.”

I open my mouth to say I can’t, but suddenly, Angel’s mouth retreats, and his hands snake behind me, stretching me so far open pain ripples into me. Cool air shocks my drenched, fevered flesh for one second as he looks at me, stretched to the point of pain, engorged, throbbing and dripping with need. Then, his tongue spears deep inside me. The hunger I’ve felt building, the clenching, sucking need, is suddenly stuffed full.My entire body convulses, writhing in the sudden fulfillment, the ecstasy that courses through me as if I’m being electrocuted. I cry out in breathless, wordless abandon as wave after wave crashes through me, stealing all control, all thought, all sin from me as it washes me clean.

seventeen

The Salvation

I carry my lamb across campus, her body limp but trembling occasionally against mine as I cradle her in my arms. Her forehead is dewy with sweat even in the cold, her cheeks flushed with high color, as if she’s running a fever. I know it’s a dangerous thing to do, even in the dark that falls so early this time of year. Someone could see us, and this would be very hard to explain away.

Still, it’s all worth it when she lays her head on my chest, trusting me completely. I’d throw it all away for her, my life’s work, my position, my church. She is without her flock, and she needs me right now. That matters more than the arbitrary rules the university puts in place. I’m certain in my convictions, in the God I serve, far more than the rules I bend.

In her room, I lay her on the bed, removing her shoes and setting them neatly under the edge. Her room is both cozy and sparse, without decoration but adorned with knickknacks that appear to be homemade and an old, threadbare stuffed animal on her bed. A grey cat is curled in a ball on her windowsill, almost unnoticeable between her tea kettle and a tiny toaster oven. He spares us only a glance before going back to watching the blue twilight outside the window.

“I presume you already know pets aren’t allowed on campus,” I say. “Nor are toaster ovens in dorm rooms.”

“I know,” she says. “I’ll get rid of it. I just wanted to make cookies one time, for Christmas.”

“In a toaster oven?” I ask, drawing her skirt down over her legs. Her white cotton panties are soaked, stained with her release. I momentarily lose my train of thought as I stare at them, the wet spot between her smooth, plump thighs.

“I tried making them in the oven in the kitchen downstairs,” she says, as if wholly unaware of the sight of her body and what it does to a man, even a supposed holy man. “But when I went to take them out, they were gone.”

“Someone stole your cookies?” I ask, frowning as my attention returns to her. I quickly strip her skirt away and search through her dresser for clean panties and pajamas.

“Twice,” she says. “I gave up and got the toaster oven. It works fine, but I can only make a few at a time.”

“What kind do you make?” I ask, returning to her bed, where she lies as I left her, for once unashamed. I swallow hard and tear my gaze from her sex before I can become transfixed. I look at the corner of the ceiling as I work her panties down, then quickly tug up another pair before my own lustful desires can overtake me. I’m tempted to push one finger into her slick cunt, just to see how wet she is, how hot, how eager.

“All kinds,” she says. “I like to bake.”

“Me too,” I say, my voice husky. I barely hear myself over the raging in my blood when she lifts her hips to allow me to pull the pajama pants over them.

“You bake?” she asks, her eyes widening as she stares up at me with the complete trust of an innocent who has never considered that damning thoughts plague me as constantly as they do her.

“Uh—yes,” I say, giving my head a small shake to clear it. It’s unlike me to be overcome by desire for young flesh. I don’t allow myself to look at students, to think of them, in this way. But Mercy is not just any student. “Mostly bread.”

“I make bread too,” she says, her blue eyes lighting up, seeming not to notice as she lifts her arms for me to pull her shirt off over them. Her breasts are full, the pale globes swollen over the cups of her white cotton bra. She’s talking about banana bread and pumpkin bread, but I don’t hear a word as she reaches behind her to undo the clasp of her bra, then lifts her arms for me to draw it off. Her nipples are delicate pink rosebuds, peaks standing stiff in the cool room. I can almost feel their weight in my palms, the whimpering gasps of pleasure that would fall from her lips when I tweaked them, the silent ecstasy on her face when I took them into my mouth and slowly sucked until she was rocking her hips in that unconscious way she does, yearning, seeking…

“What kind of bread do you make?”

The question jars me back to reality, and I pull on the pajama shirt that matches her pants, my heart hammering, my cock stiff against my leg, where it’s trapped by my boxer briefs.

“Yeasted bread,” I say, covering her with her blankets. “For communion and general consumption. It’s soothing for me, like a ritual. The rising and kneading, the smell of it… In a way, it’s its own type of prayer, a communion with God before the communion with the congregation.”

“I love that,” she says, her gaze full of naked, open admiration that pierces my sternum. “It sounds much more meaningful than adding nuts to banana bread.” She gives a small, self-deprecating laugh and snuggles into her pillows.

“Maybe I’ll make you some,” I hear myself saying.

“I’d like that,” she says, smiling up at me, looking sleepy and satisfied. “Thank you.”

I sink onto the edge of the bed and stroke her hair back from her forehead. “How do you feel, Mercy?”

“Good,” she says. “Cleansed.”

It’s as if she knew exactly what I wanted to hear before I knew it, like her words in the church. I will never be able to forget those words, those promises that fell from her lips like a benediction.

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