Page 15 of Crossed

But even the most loyal of soldiers have their weaknesses.

And right now, I am not a worthy man.

Not when I’m neck deep in black waters, wading through this obsession that’s reached out and wrapped itself around my neck like a noose, choking me until I can’t suck in air.

Esmeralda.

Although I’m sure that’s not her real name.

My slacks are open the second I make it back to my office, my cock in my hand before I can lock the door, and I stroke my length furiously for the first time in years, desperate for relief. It’spainful, this desire. A throbbing in my body, an ache that has my balls heavy and my mind hazy with lust. I’ve always prided myself on being a logical and steady man, but this is far from logic. Before I entered seminary, there were several women, and men as well, but those trysts were inconsequential compared to even a single thought of her.

I’ve never experienced anything like it.

Still, if I don’t take care of the desire, then I won’t be able to function.

I drag my palm upward, twisting my hand at the top of my cock where I’m already leaking cum. I spread it down the length of me, creating lubrication that has my hips thrusting and a groan falling from my lips.

It’s been so long since I’ve felt sexual pleasure.

I had forgotten the way it softens edges and clouds the pain.

My movements speed as I lean over my desk, my free hand slamming down on the oak as a sharp spike of pleasure splices through my core. My fingers tingle at the memory of Esmeralda’s skin, the way her big doe eyes portrayed the perfect mask of innocence. And then I imagine her on her knees, needy and begging at my feet as I grip her chin the way I did at the club, resting my cock on her pouty lips as my cum sprays across the flat of her tongue.

I’d cinch her mouth closed and stroke her throat, feeling the act of her swallowing every drop of me.

The visual makes my sack tighten. More precum drips from my tip and slides down my length, coating the top of my knuckles with arousal.

Another groan escapes my lips and I throw my head back, abs constricting as pleasure, white- hot and blinding, courses through the marrow of my bones and explodes through my pores, my balls pulsating in a steady rhythm as my shaft jerks wildly in my palm.

It’s dirty.

Depraved.

Incredible.

My vision goes black, cum spurting out forcefully, landing across the few papers and the large calendar that marks my responsibilities to the church.

It takes minutes, maybe hours until my breathing regulates and I’m able to relax back into my seat, taking stock of what just happened and how I feel now that I’ve found relief. I had hoped the act would rid me of the temptation, but I can immediately tell that isn’t the case. It’s only burrowed in further, purring like a cat, creating a hum that vibrates through my chest.

I frown at the feeling, that same sense of panic from when she was near reaching up and gripping me tightly, squeezing until my vision blurs.

She’s a problem that I’ll need to take care of as quickly as possible.

I tuck my now- flaccid dick back into my slacks, relieved that at least the tight knot of tension has loosened and a bit of clarity has seeped through the muddled edges of my mind, but it isn’t long until the guilt settles in, coating my tongue until I’m nauseous from the taste.

And there’s only one cure for that.

I jolt forward, ripping the stained calendar from its base and tossing it in the trash before rushing around my desk and making my way out of my office. My hurried footsteps echo through the long hallway and out the back exit that leads to the detached rectory. It’s a small cottage, made of dark wood and a small wraparound porch, and I throw open the front door forcefully, desperate to make amends for my transgressions.

I’m loud as I stomp through the living room, unable to take in my surroundings, but it doesn’t matter. No one else lives here, my curate Father Jeremiah living in the smaller place a few yards away.

My breaths come sharply when I make it to my bedroom, and I slam my hand against my chest, trying to beat my lungs into submission. My fingers tear at the roots of my hair as I pace in front of the modest full- size bed and empty end table.

Il est miséricordieux. He is merciful.

The phrase doesn’t lessen the anxiety because I’m not sure He is when it comes to this type of sin. I’ve reasoned away the violent acts, knowing there’s a purpose behind what I do. But this…this has no reason.

Just a weak man giving in to temptation.