The Merciful
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” I take a breath, trying not to notice the scent of sandalwood that makes me almost as dizzy as my brother’s body pressed to mine. “It’s been… Over a month since my last confession.”
“What is on your mind today, lamb?”
“It hasn’t gotten better,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “If anything, it’s gotten worse.”
“Did you follow my orders?”
I pause, remembering his eyes on me in the library, the flicker of something I saw when I was too deep in shame and pleasure and humiliation to read it. He was disappointed in me. That’s what that look has to have meant.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “I can’t bring myself to do it at night, by myself.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“What if… What if once I do it, I can’t stop?” I ask. “It’s gone beyond lustful thoughts. The things I’ve done… Let people do to me…”
“What things have you done?”
My heart skips, and my breath catches. I remember his rich voice guiding me, a seductive rumble of smoke and velvet that lured me to the hell I’ve tried to resist.
“You know what,” I whisper, my eyes stinging with shame when I remember him standing there, watching.
I hear him shifting on the other side of the partition, his robes rustling. “Is that all?”
“Is… Is that all?” I choke out on an incredulous laugh.
“Yes,” he says blandly. “I’ve told you, your body’s pleasure is not a sin, lamb.”
I grip the cross on my necklace, rubbing my thumb over the back of it hard enough to make my skin burn. “No,” I admit at last. “It’s not all. There’s a lot more.”
“What’s weighing on you today?” he asks gently.
“I… I want to find my friend,” I say. “The other girl I told you about, from the Quint. I thought she died, but now I’m not so sure.”
“That sounds like a noble goal.”
“Yeah,” I say, letting my head thump back on the wall. I can’t admit how terrible I am with my eyes open, as if closing them can hide the bleak nature of my true, craven self even from me. “And I still want that, don’t get me wrong. It’s just… My brother said he’d help me.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“He said he’d help me because he loves her too,” I whisper. “How can I be jealous of a dead girl?”
“Emotions often defy logic.”
“But the worst part is,” I say, drawing a shaky breath. “If we find her, and he loves her, then he’ll never love me.”
“We cannot know the future,” he says. “Only He can know what lies ahead.”
“I know,” I say, squeezing harder, until the cross breaks the skin between my fingers. “But how can I think that, Father? I’m a monster!”
“Will you stop looking because of this fear?”
“No,” I admit. “I’ll never stop. Not until I find the truth.”
“Feeling is not sin,” he says. “In fact, it’s what makes us human—the perfect humans that God intended. A sin would be acting in a way you knew was wrong, so that you could gain something for yourself, against the welfare of another. Is that what you’re doing?”
“No.”
“Is it what you want to do?”
“No,” I concede. “I wouldn’t even consider it. But some tiny, mean part of me does, even though I try to pretend it isn’t there. Who even has a thought like that? It’s sick.”
“You do, lamb,” he says, his voice lowered in a way that sends heat rolling across my body like thunder across an open plain.
“I just want… I want him,” I whisper.
“In what way?”
A hot tear squeezes from between my lashes and tracks down my face. “In every way.”
“And what do you want him to do?”
“I want him to love me.”
“Everyone wants to be loved, lamb.”
Hearing him say those words makes me feel valid in a way I’m not sure I’ve ever felt. It’s okay to want what I want. It’s okay to need what I need. A rush of gratitude fills me, so warm it creates an ache that feels like love when it settles in my chest.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my throat tight.
“Do you want anything else from your brother?”
“Yes,” I admit, emboldened by his confirmation. “I want him to want me back. To do… To do things to me like Angel did. How can I want that? He’s my brother.”
“Perhaps it’s a harmless fantasy,” he says. “Do you really want that? Or do you simply find the thought tantalizing because it is forbidden?”
Those words, spoken in that smoky sin of a voice, makes my insides quake with need. I remember what he had me do last time, and the yearning demands my attention. I squeeze my fingers around my knees, so I won’t move them higher. “I want it.”
“What else do you want?” he asks, his voice drenched in sin itself.
You.
The word springs into my mind instantly, without a moment’s contemplation, stark in its simplicity. But I don’t let it past my lips. I don’t tell him what I pictured that day when I saw him watching, the sacrilege of imagining a priest defiling me in the lewdest way, and that the image is what finally shattered me. It’s what made me come undone in Angel’s arms, and it’s what has kept me from confession for the past month.
How can I want not only this sin, but to wallow in it with my own brother? How can I want to drag a man of God into the pit of this hell with me?
“I want to stop feeling like there’s something wrong with me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you, lamb,” he says, his tone both reassuring and so, so sexy that I can’t help my hands from moving up my thighs, toward the place that damns me every single time. “Haven’t I told you that?”
“Will you tell me again? Tell me what to do, Father,” I say breathlessly. “Please. Like last time.”
There’s a long pause, and I can hear him breathing on the other side of the partition. I tell myself his breathing is labored too, but I can’t tell for sure.
“You liked that?” he asks at last.
“Yes,” I whisper, sinking a hand between my legs.
“What did you like about it?”
“I liked you giving me permission,” I say, pressing my fingers against the fabric covering my soft flesh. “I liked hearing you say those words, hearing my innermost desires spoken aloud. And I liked the way you commanded it, and listening to your voice while I did what you told me to do.”
“What did I tell you to do?” he asks.
I swallow hard, my thighs clenching around my hand. “You told me to touch myself,” I whisper.
Before he can answer, a rush of cool air bathes my feverish skin. My eyes fly open, and I yank my hand away. My brother is standing in the door of the confessional, staring at me. My face burns even hotter than before, and by the cruel smirk twisting his mouth, I know he saw what I was doing before I could jerk my hand back. With only a moment’s hesitation, he steps inside and pulls the door closed.
We’re so close I could lean forward and press my lips to the front of his pants; the place he never lets me touch. Shamefully, my mouth waters at the thought, and my knees squeeze together.
Saint pulls me up, slides onto the narrow bench, and pulls me back down, so I’m sitting in his lap. In my state of heightened arousal, it’s all I can do not to whimper and press my bottom deeper into him, seeking the curious ridge of his desire I felt on the stairs that night.
“Lamb?” Father Salvatore asks from his side of the booth. “Are you still here?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice breathy with desire.
“She’s here,” Saint says, his voice laced with derision. “Fingering her cunt in the confessional.”
“Don’t,” I hiss, but it’s too late. He’s already told on me, the way I told on him, the way I told the judge that he went under the bridge with Eternity, and she never came out.
I hear the groan of wood in the other side of the booth, and then the door opens again, and I’m staring up at Father Salvatore. He looms over us, his face inscrutable, his dark eyes burning with intensity behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
I try to rise, but Saint clamps his arm around my middle like he did the last time.
“Show him,” he says harshly.
“No,” I gasp out, wanting nothing more than to flee back to my dorm and never return.
His arm tightens around my ribs even further, crushing the breath from me. “Show him,” he growls again, dragging my skirt up my thighs. They’re flushed red from my arousal, and my panties between them are soaked through in the center. I’m sure he can see the wet spot, and I want to expire.
“Let me see,” Father says, his voice gentle but firm. “What were you doing, lamb?”
“N—nothing,” I stammer.
“Lying is a sin,” my brother taunts in my ear. “Now pull aside your panties and show him that glistening, wet pussy, or I will.”
I swallow hard, my finger trembling as I obey, drowning in humiliation, unable to breathe as Father Salvatore watches. I spread my knees, and I pull aside the wet fabric, and I let Father Salvatore see the depth of my shame. Unlike when he saw me in the library, this time it’s up close and personal, with just the three of us. The secret coils inside me like a snake, like victory and defiance twined with my shame. Some sick part of me wants him to see, just as it wanted him to be as excited by our time in the confessional as I am. Just as part of me was always sick, sick enough to like what Heath did to me on Eternity’s bedroom floor that day six years ago.
“Look at that disgusting display,” Saint says with scorn. “Her pussy is drenched. She would fuck anything right now. You, a goddamn priest. Me, her own brother.”
“How do you feel about that?” Father Salvatore asks gently.
“What?” Saint demands.
“Does that make you feel good, that she wants you?” Father asks. “Do you feel ashamed that you want her too?”
“You do?” I whisper, looking up at my brother with so much hope it rends my heart in two.
“Of course not,” Saint snaps. “I’m not a freak like you.”
“Your desires are not a sin,” Father says. “Nor are hers. They are a natural expression of the body God gave you.”
Saint huffs out a breath. “You want me to fuck my sister?”
“I want you to listen to God when He speaks to you,” Father says. “We know what she wants. What do you want, my son? You would not have come to this confession if you didn’t also have something to confess. Perhaps you share her forbidden desire?”
“I don’t,” Saint snaps, dumping me off his lap.
I tumble to the floor on all fours, my skirt in disarray, my hair coming askew and sliding down the side of my face.
“Do you believe what you’re saying?” Father asks. “Do you think she believes it? Who are you lying for?”
“For—for the sake of decency,” my brother says.
“Who told you deceit was decent?” Father asks. “Look at your sister there, on her knees. What gave you the desire you feel for her, if not God?”
A troubled frown knits Saint’s fine brow as he studies me.
“Lamb, tell your brother what you told me,” Father says. “Let there be no deceit between you. You may lay yourself bare before him, as you have me.”
“Don’t tell me,” Saint says, glancing from me to the priest.
He was always so good, too good. And it strikes me now that he’s not the one leading me into sin, the one destroying and defiling me one encounter at a time. I am the temptress, Eve with her apple, promising him the sweetest bite.
“You,” I say simply, sitting back on my heels. “I want you, Saint. We both know it’s a sin, but we don’t have to pretend we don’t feel it.”
They both stare at me a second, and then Father Salvatore nods, his lips tight.
I know then that I said the right thing. Pride swells inside me. I pleased him, and he’s proud of me. I told the truth, and that’s always right. This time, I don’t have to tell it alone. I have someone on my side, someone who supports me the way a father should.
“Kneel before your brother,” Father commands.
I obey his command eagerly, wanting to see him nod his approval again, for him to say I did something right. It’s an urgent need, one that has me crawling on my knees to Saint’s feet, kneeling as I do every Sunday when the priests tell me to.
“This is sick,” Saint says. “She’s my sister.”
“Mercy?” Father says, raising a brow at me. “Do you have something to say to your brother?”
“It’s okay,” I say, touching Saint’s thigh gently. “I want you to.”
“Nothing you desire is sinful,” Father says. “You were given these cravings of the flesh for a reason. Don’t fight them. Give them over to God.”
“I don’t want to touch her,” Saint says, stepping back, his lip curled in disgust.
“It’s your choice,” the priest says, his eyes kind behind his glasses. “I am here to guide you. Listen to God, my children. What is He telling you?”
Saint looks from me to the father, and back to me where I wait on my knees, desperate to obey.
“Take off your panties,” he says flatly.
I gulp, my eyes widening, then look to Father Salvatore. He nods once, and relief pours into me. He will tell me what’s right, so I don’t have to guess anymore, don’t have to be punished for years for something I didn’t know was wrong.
I drag my dress from under my knees, lifting it while both men stand watching. I am anchored firmly in my body, unusually present, as if my mind has completely disengaged, leaving my body raw and exposed. My heart is hammering erratically, and a pulsing need is throbbing through me, and every cell in body sizzles with electricity. I can feel the fabric of my skirt dragging against my skin as if the sensation is magnified, can feel the cold air hit my wet, hot flesh when it reaches my cotton panties. I slide a hand under my skirt and draw them down my thighs, lifting one knee and then the other before tugging them over my feet.
“Give them to me,” Saint orders, and I obey as I would obey the priest.
Saint balls the fabric in his fist, then presses it to his nose. His eyes drop closed, and he inhales slowly, dragging in the breath as if it’s painful. I know it is. Breaking that barrier, turning away from the path you’ve always known so that you can follow the righteous path that this father lays out, trusting him to lead the way, is both a relief and a ripping away of all we knew before.
A total surrender.
Saint unzips and shoves his hand into his pants. His forearm flexes as he pumps up and down, up and down. The hunger inside me twists, urgent, seething. I want to see what he’s doing the way he saw me, but I can only see the extensive length that his arm moves with each pull.
It must be long.
My core trembles with fear and excitement at the thought of seeing him for the first time. Will he be pierced like Heath?
Father slides his thumb along my plump lower lip, and I part for him in a gasp of pleasure as sensation rolls over my body, nestling between my flushed thighs. I can feel slickness beading my skin like dew, the full ache of the place he had me strip bare. It feels like something too big to be contained, a tsunami of churning, burning need that can only be filled by them.
“Open for your brother, my lamb,” Father says, sliding his thumb between my lips.
My eyes meet his, and I see the heat shimmering there like a mirage. My lips close around his thumb, and I suck gently. His eyes blaze, and he slides it deep before drawing it slowly from between my lips. He rolls my lower lip down, his gaze rapturous. When his thumb is almost fully withdrawn, he hooks it over my bottom teeth, urging my mouth open.
I obey wordlessly, breathlessly, my tongue searching for a taste of him on the air.
“Bless her for her obedience,” he commands Saint.
Saint steps forward, and at last, he draws himself free. His cock is thick and smooth, his fingers barely able to close around the girth, with a bell-shaped tip that he drags his hand up and over.
“Receive this communion,” Father says in the same low, worshipful tone he uses when he breaks bread.
I wait, open as I do each Sunday for the sacrament. Saint grips his thick, hard shaft and brings it to my lips. I fight the urge to open wider, to lean in and take him in. Instead, I timidly reach my tongue out barely past my lips, just enough to lick the glistening pearl collected in the tiny slit on his tip.
Saint groans, grabbing my hair in his fist to jerk my head back as his hips jerk forward, as if involuntarily. Thick, warm liquid spurts over my face. I open wider, welcoming the benediction in his sacred essence. He curses under his breath, the next ropes of salty slime shooting onto the roof of my mouth. Another jet erupts, coating my tongue, spreading over it and pooling in the back of my throat. I fight not to gag, my throat closing up, so it doesn’t slide down.
“Very good,” Father says, leaning in to see into my mouth, where the cream is pooled while the rest of it drips is gooey blobs from my chin. Saint’s fingers are still buried in my hair, his member hovering just above my lips. He rubs his thumb over the crown, milking out another drop. It falls onto my lower lip, sliding off the bottom and slowly trickling down my chin. Both men stare down at it, captivated, their eyes dark and unreadable past the blazing of fire I can see in both sets.
“Swallow your brother’s blessing,” Father Salvatore orders, that sinful depth of his voice making my thighs quiver as I obey.
Both men stand over me and watch with rapt focus as the warm, salty puddle in my mouth goes down my throat. I shiver again, the pulsing between my thighs coming quicker at the thought of what we just did. That same stuff that Heath wasted on my belly is now inside it, but it belongs to my brother, not his friend. I have my brother inside me, not in the way I fantasized, but in a deeper, more intimate way.
The secret sits warm as the hot coal of his seed nestled there, and I know I’ll go home and lie in my bed with my hand on my belly, imagining I can feel its hot glow through my skin. He is part of me now, in a way I never even imagined in my deepest, darkest desires. His essence is inside me. Without even touching, we are one in a way I never knew we could be.
We are one, and yet, I suddenly understand that we are condemned to the deepest pits of hell together for what we’ve done here today. My shame returns as the fog begins to clear, ad I realize what we’ve done.
“Release her,” Father says, and Saint obeys as automatically as I do.
I sit back on my heels, my core throbbing with a heavy, unfulfilled need, my head spinning, my heart imploding with the knowledge of what we just did. The fact that I wanted it, encouraged it, instead of Saint pushing me into it fills me with the deepest shame I’ve ever felt. I can’t say that I was forced to do it, that I was protecting someone else. It was me who crawled on my knees to him and begged for his sin.
I am the sinner here, not him. Is this how Eve felt when she swallowed the bite of apple, when she realized what she had done and that it had condemned her to a terrible fate that she could never undo?
“You may go,” Father says to me.
My eyes, my throat, my core ache at the callous dismissal. “Now?” I whisper. “I’m supposed to walk out of here like nothing happened?”
“No,” he says. “Crawl on your knees.”