marcy

When Father Matthews retired last winter due to his failing health, the congregation waited with bated breath to see who would lead their convent. The replacement first showed his face a day before the winter solstice, all smiles and honeyed words. Everyone had welcomed Father Easterman with open hearts and minds, hearing nothing but praise from his peers out east. 

Everyone except you.

Your intuition was better than most, stomach tightening with uncertainty the moment he took your hand and shook it. Your brothers and sisters treated him like an apostle from then on, unquestioning the vast changes he made to the church. Though you remained wary, disobeying his wishes would be to go against the very cloth you wore. So, you followed orders, nodded when he spoke, moved at his will—even when your soul cried for direction and forgiveness from God. The church was soon sculpted to Easterman’s liking, and it was hard to deny the impact he made. Every week, a few more worshippers filled the pews, till the church was filled every Sunday by the time February rolled by. It was unprecedented, the way in which he stood before the mass and laid down his creed with such conviction that it left no choice but for anyone that listened to believe his word as truth. It was as if he could peer into your very spirit and dissect the woven threads of who you were: your fears, your dreams, your sins. Nothing could remain sheltered from him.

Tried as you did, he knew of your skepticism. The first week of his arrival, he could smell the defiance in your blood, the refusal to bow to the unknown; he made it his mission to change that. You didn’t notice at first, the way silver eyes would linger on you during instruction. How that gilded tongue would preach words meant only for you to a nave full of followers. As the weeks went by and the snow softened outside, your guard lowered as you accepted the normalcy of your new routines. Father Easterman had shown no malice or threat to you in the time of his stay, and you had convinced yourself that the gut feeling you felt prior was a blunder, a misjudgement in the wake of change. 

It was the second week of March when the tides changed.

The lingering stares and increasing excuses to corner you amounted to hands too low on your back, whispers too close to your ear. By the time he had lured you to one of the studies, with the promise of dedicated and personal lecture, you didn't even fight the fingers that slid up your legs. It was so sudden, so erroneous, that your brain failed to comprehend an alternative. To disobey was to defy the will of God, but to succumb was an invitation of sin. The dilemma kept you awake with the moon for the next several evenings, unable to shake the memory of how he filled your body with sensations too divine to call unholy. It rattled you to your core, to the point of doubling down on prayer to scrub away the experiences. 

So when he summoned you to the sacristy early Wednesday morning, you obeyed. Instead of slipping on the chasuble for mass, Father Easterman had dropped his trousers and burrowed himself in your warmth. The old wooden table rattled as his hips rutted into your hole with harbored pants, blunt nails imprinting on the back of your thighs for purchase to keep your legs spread.

“Oh, the clarity that the flesh brings,” Easterman moans, hazy eyes looking over his nose at your mewling form. “How could I abandon this? This feeling of wholeness, of completion—when you're so willing to serve and kneel. My little lamb, so helpless…yearning for guidance.”

Father Easterman pulled out before orgasm could shake either of you, a plea in the shape of a moan falling from your mouth. A laugh makes a toothy smile spread on his face, warmed by the complicity of your desire. As he runs a hand down your leg soothingly, palming your ass, he leans forward to peer down at you properly.

“Desperation can lead even the weakest of followers to do even the most difficult of challenges. So eager to find meaning in absolution.”

“Father, the service. We don't have time for–,” you begin to protest weakly, lifting your head to sit up. His other hand whips out to shove you back down to the table, a loud, disapproving puff exhaling from his nose. 

“I’m not done.”

Gray eyes seemed to dim to a charcoal as he stared you down, demanding obedience without words. A wave of fear spiked your heartrate, and you obeyed, lying back down. The room went dead silent for a few breaths before you saw the muscles in his face relax, the violent streak in his glare receding back. Father Easterman sighed quietly and pulled his hand from your chest, running it over his mouth in thought. “Even the sweetest of disciples falter occasionally. I won’t hold this against you. Though, perhaps a lesson in contrition would do you well.”

His eyes slip away from you to a candle at the end of the table, reaching to grab the chamberstick with prudence for the tears of wax. He held it up, focused on the flame as it danced on the wick, before he waved a hand through it. The warmth licked his skin in a way that reminded him of his mortality, making his palm sweat from the heat and sting from the threat of danger. 

“Such fragile things, aren't we? Most shy away from the unpleasant, when Jesus welcomed pain as a display of love and fortitude,” Easterman’s words came out gentle and unhurried, as if speaking to a troubled child. He returned his hand to the candle to watch his skin redden till he dropped it away. The same hand went back to you, thumb brushing over the neglected, slicked hole he had abandoned, and you can see a flicker of something akin to fondness spark on his face as he observes your squirming—captivated and deceivingly tender. 

“And what will you do, my child? How will you respond in the face of peril?”

Before you can respond, the receptors between your thighs switch from a pleasant buzz to the wails of hurt. A choked squeal makes you jerk on the table, trying to wiggle away, only to be pressed into place by his hand again. His other, still in possession of the candle, held the flame to your sex, watching it swell and blush from the heat. The smell of burnt hair and warmed flesh tinged the air, only making Father Easterman smile and lean in closer to observe the defilement. Pain racked the lower half of your body, hips jumping on the table to get away with little success.

“‘The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears, and delivers them out of all their troubles. The Lord is near to those who have a broken heart, and saves such as have a contrite spirit’,” he quotes amongst the chimes of your screams, flitting his eyes up to your distressed face. “You know the book of Psalms well, don’t you?”

The flame sweltered against your flesh, making the skin break and begin to blister. A few more seconds and Easterman finally retracted the chamberstick, setting it back down on the table. Pain makes your vision swim, the scent of your own suffering luring bile up your esophagus before you can swallow it back down. You could feel the lingering sting of the burn radiate down to your knees, an ache that made tears stream steadily down the sides of your face. 

“No more…Please, Father, no–, it hurts,” you mumble out the merciful words as trembling fingers reach out for him, contradicting the way you inched away from him.

Father Easterman catches your hand in his without pause, holding them close and tight as he steps closer. He bows his head to kiss the fingers in place of a spoken apology before he clutches it to his chest. “I’m here, shhh. Feel it through, honey. Surrender to the will of God, and let me lead you. Don’t turn away from it, from me.”

His free hand wipes tears from your face with the utmost gentleness, the warmth of his hand like the sun on a summer’s day and not the scorch of the flame from before. Your head leans into the touch with a lame sob, wet lashes clumping together as you close your eyes to try and breathe through the pain. Pulling away, his hand disappears between your bodies, and you whimper at the brush of his knuckles against your injured sex. The slick sounds of him stroking himself mingled with your sniffles, his eyes getting that hazy look in them once more as he observed your features. Easterman didn’t bother to contain the moans of pleasure that parted his mouth, lids growing heavy as sought relief from the throes of denial. 

It didn’t take long for him to cum, off-white globs of sacred seed spilling onto his hands and between your legs. Unholy curses are muttered under his breath as he just his hips into his closed palm to chase the high, the sweat from his brow dripping onto your cheek. As his vision centers, Father Easterman leans back to examine the excrement, dragging a finger through the mess. His gaze flits to your ruined face before back down to your soiled folds, proceeding to smear his cum into the flesh like a healing salve. The sperm mixed with your slick and the plasma that leaked from the burns, creating a lustful concoction of fluids. His fingers rub into you, alternating between circles and strokes til your bud perked back up and he was able to coax that patiently awaited climax from you. Easterman ignored your moans as he watched the sticky release weep from your cunt, slow strings of the mess dripping down and onto the table.

“Like the sap of a maple in spring,” He mused softly, slowly squatting to be face-level with your flesh. “What sweetness you’ve bore for me. And you tried to shove me away, to beg God for salvation—when I have offered it to you with no expectations in return.”

Your legs shake on the table as his mouth busies itself with slurping up the tangy concoction, his gluttonous streak showing through. He exhales against you as he catches his breath, slithering away with a gleam of pride. Large hands smooth over the skin of your thighs once more to soothe their tremble. After yanking up his pants to conceal his now flaccid member, he produces a rosary from his pocket, seemingly contemplating something as he turns the beads in his fingers. He only looks back up when you push yourself up, brushing down frazzled strands of hair, your gaze already on him. Instead of helping to dress you, he steps to stand between your dangling legs, an eerie silence blanketing over the two of you as he loses himself in his thoughts.

This wasn’t unusual, though most overlooked the contemplative tendencies of the priest. There were moments where you could see him disappear within, scouring the etched walls of his mind for something he couldn’t find as his eyes glassed over and was consumed by uncharacteristic reticence. The tension became too much and you opened your mouth to break it, only to be beaten to the punch by him.

“Don’t you want me?”

The question makes you scrunch your brow in confusion, head cocking at him. “What? What’re you talking about?”

“You look at me like you can’t wait to leave. This…this uncertainty, this lack of faith, has a way of taking over even the strongest of spirits,” Easterman’s eyes danced back and forth between yours, searching for total honesty even after you’ve already bared yourself to his whims. The sudden shift in confidence left you confused, though it reminded you of that initial feeling of wariness you had felt when meeting him, as if you had had a premonition of the smoke and mirrors that concealed his soft innards.

“Father,” you lift a hand to brush the one holding the rosary. “You doubt me? Despite my devotion to you and your cause?”

Instead of answering, Father Easterman stands frightening still, eyes boring into you. With a sharp inhale, he turns the rosary in his hand till the crucifix is between clammy fingers. He stabs the end into the palm of his other hand, digging the gold cross into his skin and puncturing it. Blood blossomed out of the shallow stab wound and he tightened his hand into a fist, squeezing the wound to draw out more from it with a curled lip. 

“‘Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in them’.”

Easterman’s office door slamming shut awoke you, the latch to your cage being flicked open to beckon you out. The man sulked away and slumped down in his worn, leather chair, letting you crawl into the nook under his desk. Sluggish grays examined you over his nose before he sighed, letting his guard down just a smidge.

“Daddy’s not feeling his best today, little one,” Easterman exhales defeatedly as he leans forward to undo the gag over your mouth. You stretch your jaw open and closed, working sore muscles awake. From your position, you already knew what he wanted, and you obliged without a peep.

Inching forward, your scarred hands fumble with his belt and work at the fastenings on his slacks. He could never deny how much he loved the sight of someone on their knees for him—so eager, so devoted. The chair squeaks as his weight shifts back, shoulders relaxing into the cushioned leather as you pull out a half-hard chub. Well-trained, you flit your eyes up for permission, and he only nods in return, thoughts too far away to even pretend to play along with the scene with praise or orders.

Feeling the warm cradle of a mouth around him coaxes him back to the present, though, making his eyes shut in momentary bliss. The cool metal of your fastened goggles against his stomach keeps him alert enough to focus on the pleasure and not the incessant voices in his head. Easterman combs fingers through matted hair as your head bobs steadily, haphazardly untangling strands and scratching blunt nails into the dry scalp. The moan you glottal out around him from the attention makes his own legs tense and tremble, already too worked up. It was unclear who was enjoying this more, between his ragged breaths and the slack of your jaw. Too engrossed, he doesn’t initially notice you shift beneath him, stationing yourself on his foot to grind against the shined leather, accompanied by warmth of his ankle. He only becomes privy when your rhythm gets sloppy, drooling around his cock with whimpers of need while you rut against his leg. 

Easterman has no intention to halt you—not today. In fact, it only rouses him further, finding the depressing act before him all too entertaining. Fingers tighten in your hair as he shoves your head down to the hilt, a groan rattling his smoke-worned throat as he feels you gag a little from the force. He holds you steady, eyes locked on your lame form as you try to breathe around the stubby length. Your own hips rock into him, neglected sex getting off on the smallest bit of friction. Too tired to attempt the long game, he comes with a seedy sigh, globs of tangy sperm dribbling out. Before your throat can gulp it down, Easterman yanks your head off and holds it up.

“Don’t swallow,” He rasps out, trying to sound firm despite the lingering pleasure on his face. “Here—spit.”

Easterman holds out his other hand to your mouth, waiting for you to obey. You don't question it, discharging the mix of salvia and cum into his palm like an offering to a god. His chest rises and falls with a centering breath, watching the act with deceiving adoration, thankful for your docility. He observes the small puddle in his hand before he raises it to his own mouth, lapping up the fluids. The piquant mix makes his salivary glands perk as he swallows it down, returning the holy excrement to his body—musn’t waste a drop of himself. Sated eyes flicker back down to you, lowering the hand back to his lap.

“How rapacious of me,” A laugh that sounded of static and church bells rang out. “Would my puppy like the rest? It was yours, anyways.”

It’s seconds before you lurch forward to lick at his hand, savoring the remnants of essence on his skin. Settling back on your ankles, you hold the palm still with your own tarnished hands, nuzzling feverishly into him. He admires the sight with gratification, legs stretching out beside you with content.

The gleam of something wet on his shoe catches his eye, pulling his attention from you reluctantly. Shifting the leather towards the light of a lamp, he expects to see a satisfying slick from your own release. Instead, he’s greeted with the familiar ruby hue of blood, smeared across the shoe and staining the cuff of his slacks. Repulsion turns his stomach and his hand pulls back sharply, only coming back to smack you away.

“You stupid bitch!”

Abruptly standing, Easterman kicks the soiled foot hard into your side, making you yowl in pain on the tile. A few more stern kicks coil you into a blubbering ball, abdomen aching from impact. Offended curses fall off his lips as he examines his leg with a curled lip, any sign of pleasure wiped from his face. 

“Disgusting fucking mutt, these are Saint Laurents!” He shoves the bloodied shoe into your face, smearing the menstrual blood on your facade. “You animals have no respect for anything. I give, and I give, and you spit in the face of my generosity.”

He doesn’t tell you he didn’t care for the brand or cost of the shoe, doesn’t bother to explain that he only cares because they were a gift from his mother many years ago. That he only wore them because they were given to him when he got his doctorate, and they represented the life he had envisioned for himself—and now you’ve ruined it. Easterman shakes you off and storms to the phone, calling for nurses to come retrieve you. Leaning on the wall for support, he zips up his pants and wipes the shoe clean with tissues while he watches you writhe and cry on the floor. When three nurses push his office door open, he barks orders at them to take you. 

“Clean it up; don’t bring her back until it’s handled,” he mutters frustratedly, not even bothering to look up from the tissue in hand. 

—

The familiar textile of the worn blanket in your cage is the first thing you processed when you came to—something comforting in the unkind facility. Cleaned and changed, your stomach still thrummed with soreness from being assaulted, the skin beneath your shirt already blooming purple rosettes. The smell of cigarette smoke is what tells you he’s there with you, wafting through the wire bars around you. Easterman studies you from the couch several feet away until he rises with clinical silence. His shadow looms over your cage before he lowers to his haunches, flicking open the lock confining you. Though the door opens, neither of you move a muscle, the tension making your limbs weak with anxiety. Finally, his body eases fully to the floor with a weighted sigh, sitting cross-legged.

“C’mere.”

Easterman pats his thighs, taking in your hesitation. Your joints creak stiffly as you creep towards him, eyes wary but wanting. Once you settle into his lap, curled up like the dog he kicked, his hands find you quickly, one resting on your knee and the other rubbing at your back. The silence is too loud with confusing emotions, both of you a mess of thoughts. Easterman breaks the silence first, words hushed and careful.

“I lost my temper, over something so insignificant…It was an accident—the blood. Daddy knows that,” he starts, eyes wandering the room aimlessly. “Can you forgive me?”

He takes your silence as a good sign—no tears, no squirming. The quiet lingers as a warm hand draws circles against your back. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched you so simply, uncomplicated and elementary. It made your eyes heavy, forgetting the aches and pains that troubled your body. Warm, fresh blood leaked onto a pad in your pants, reminding you of the accident. Despite the shame, you had no intention of moving away from him, of depriving yourself of this small grace. Easterman peeks down at you, finding your eyes blinking languidly at nothing.

“I have a sister, y’know.”

The melancholic words come out on their own, spurred from the depths of his mind from the events of today. His hand moves from your back to dance fingers along your shoulder, trailing lingering warmth to your face. Your gaze flits up to him as he speaks, but he quickly averts his own eyes, focusing on a scar on your chin instead.

“She left home when I was young—fifteen, I think. We weren’t all that close, but I always looked up to her. Even after the accident, I still…”

His voice falls away, as does his attention to you, memories firing in his brain as fingers trace your skin for comfort. Easterman recalls the discolored scars on his sister’s face that mocked his adolescent carelessness. She had always been the belle of the family, and he had robbed her of being prom queen with a mindless mistake. He wondered if mother tried to make him prettier to compensate for his sister’s loss; In fairness, he had always longed to be more like her, anyways.

A dry, calloused thumb slides along the slope of your nose, his lashes fanned out as he studies you. He doesn’t understand why God punishes him by having only broken things to love.

“Do you miss her?”

Your voice, weak and tired, almost makes him jump. His hand flexes unconsciously before he comes back with a cleansing inhale, sharp and tense. Focusing his eyes, he meets yours and nods faintly, searching you for something he can’t seem to find.

“All the time,” Easterman answers in a murmur, lips barely moving.