Page 3 of Forgive Me, Father

Two

Gabriel

I’m horrified at what Olivia’s going to do.

My cock, however, is hard as steel.

I wrap my fingers around the edge of the confessional bench, squeezing so hard that my knuckles go white.

I throb in my pants, straining against the zipper. She’s so pure. So sweet and innocent. So achingly lovely. She is light, and beauty, and kindness.

How would she react if she knew those sexual thoughts I have are always about her? They have been since she walked into my church a year ago.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw her. She’d come early to mass and was sitting in a pew not far from the front. The sun was shining, streaming in through the stained-glass windows and bathing her in golden light.

She’d looked like an angel. My angel.

And then, as I’d gotten to know her, my interest—my obsession—had only grown. And for months, I tried to deny it. Tried to ignore what I felt, how my body responded to being around her. How my heart would slam against my ribs every time I laid eyes on her.

I’m a priest who’s in love with his parishioner.

It’s my deepest, darkest secret, one I haven’t shared with anyone, not even my confessor. I’ve kept my attraction to Olivia, my utter devotion to her between me and God.

I lean back against the bench and rake a hand through my hair, trying to get myself together. I’m alone for the time being, and I need to collect my thoughts. The church is quiet, save for the distant, murmured conversation between two older men and the rain on the roof.

My cock is still throbbing. It’s a relentless, aching pulse I can’t ignore.

Olivia. Her name seems to hum through my blood.

I can’t stop myself from closing my eyes and picturing her face.

Her huge, innocent, gray eyes, her small upturned nose, her full lips.

The way she goes from pretty to stunning when she smiles.

Her flawless olive skin. She’s short—at least a foot shorter than me—and built with curves that make my palms tingle.

Full, round breasts. Flared hips. A peachy ass I’d die to sink my teeth into.

I’m going to hell.

I’m hard thinking about her. I’m hard for her. At the idea of touching her. Having her.

I can see it in my mind, clear as day. Olivia, in my bedroom, looking up at me with adoration and lust. I undress her slowly.

Reverently. I unbutton her blouse, one tiny button at a time, revealing more of that olive skin that haunts my dreams and rules my fantasies.

I slide the fabric off her shoulders, down her arms, and let it fall to the floor.

Her breasts are full, spilling over the top of her white bra.

I reach around her, unhook it, and let it drop.

Her nipples are dark, hardened peaks, begging for my fingers. For my mouth.

I cup her breasts, feeling the weight of them in my hands.

I lean down, take a nipple into my mouth and suck gently.

She gasps, her hands coming up to grip my hair as I teach her about pleasure.

About the beauty, the holiness of what can happen between a man and a woman.

I lavish attention on one breast, then the other, until she’s squirming against me, her breath coming in harsh pants.

I whisper sweet, filthy words in her ear. “You’re so beautiful, Olivia. So perfect. I want to taste every inch of you. I want to make you feel so good.”

I drop to my knees in front of her, ready to worship her the way she deserves.

I unbutton her jeans and slide them down her legs, revealing her thick thighs.

Her panties are white cotton, innocent and pure, just like the rest of her.

I press my face against her, inhale her scent.

She’s aroused. I can smell it. I can see the damp spot on her panties.

I hook my fingers in the waistband, pulling them down so she can step out of them.

She’s naked before me, her body a landscape of curves and smooth skin.

I run my hands up her thighs, feeling her tremble at my touch.

I lean in, press a soft kiss to the curls on her mound, then another, and another, moving lower and lower until I’m tasting her, my tongue sliding against her slit, licking over her clit.

She moans, her hands gripping my shoulders for support.

She’s going to do all of this with another man. A man who paid for the privilege.

The thought shatters my fantasy and wrenches me back to the here and now.

She’s going to give this priceless gift to a man who doesn’t know her. Who doesn’t care about her. A man who won’t worship her the way she deserves.

My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat. The thought of Olivia with someone else, giving her virginity to a stranger, is unbearable.

I can’t let it happen.

I know I can’t have her. My feelings for her, my lust, my adoration, my obsession, are my cross to bear. I accept that.

But I can try to save her. I can at least do that.

The door on the other side of the confessional booth opens, and I scrub a hand over my face, needing to get it together. I have other confessions to hear. Other parishioners to support and encourage.

I don’t know how I get through the next forty-five minutes, but I do. I listen, I make gentle jokes, I murmur sympathetically, I give out penances. I try to be present, but I fail. My mind is still very much on Olivia, and what she’s going to do. On what I can do to save her.

Once confession is over, I rush from the booth to my office, hoping no one stops me on the way.

When I reach the small office just off the vestibule, I close the door behind me, sealing myself away in the small, wood-paneled room.

My heart is galloping again, my neck and shoulders tense.

I lean against the closed door and take several deep breaths.

I know I should let Olivia go. I should try to forget these feelings I have for her. I should cut them out, metaphorically speaking, get rid of the sweet sickness of my lust for her.

It’s more than lust. I know it is.

But it’s still wrong for me to want her the way I do. It’s wrong in so many ways.

I open my eyes and make accidental eye contact with the painting of Jesus hanging on the wall behind my desk.

This Jesus isn’t your typical blond-haired blue-eyed man.

It’s a painting I bought myself, a historically accurate rendering portraying the Son of God with short, dark hair, olive skin, brown eyes and a thick, short beard.

The painting’s eyes seem to bore into me. I swallow thickly and tug at my collar, which suddenly feels too tight. I should pray. I should beg for forgiveness. I should beg for God to take this lust out of my heart. I should ask for guidance. For more self-control.

I don’t do any of that.

No, what I do is sit down at my desk and flip open my laptop, my mind whirling with how I’m going to find this website.

My old chair creaks under my weight as my laptop flickers to life. I drum my fingers on the desk, weighing my options.

I decide the most obvious one is the best. I don’t know how much time I’m working with here. What if the auction’s tonight?

I open my email—my private Gmail, not my church one—my fingers hovering over the keys for a moment before I start typing. I’m really doing this.

I put my brother’s email in the “to” field. Matt’s a detective with the Toronto Police Service. If anyone can find this website, it’s him. I doubt very much I’ll be able to find it with a simple Google search.

Hey Matt,

I need your help. I need you to track down a website for me. It’s a site where women can auction off sexual encounters, based here in the city. It’s urgent. And before you ask, no, it’s not for me. I’m trying to help a parishioner who’s in trouble.

Gabe

I hit send and then lean back in my chair, raking my hand through my hair. I try to busy myself with other work. It’s a half-hearted effort, at best.

I see it the moment Matt’s email hits my inbox. My eyes scan the response.

He can help me find the website. We make plans to meet up tonight to go over what he’s found.

And over the next few hours, a plan crystallizes in my mind. I know how I can save Olivia and her brother. I know what I need to do.

If Olivia’s going to auction herself off to someone, it’s going to be me.