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.
“Mercy,” I say, searching her sweet blue eyes. “What you said back there… Did you mean it? Or was it born from your desire in the moment?”
“What did I say?”
“That your body is mine.”
We stare at each other a long moment. At last, she nods shyly.
“If you want it,” she whispers, her gaze hopeful now and so painfully innocent. She doesn’t know the things she’s promising, the dark desires that lurk in my heart.
“Lamb,” I say, linking my hand with hers and pressing it to my chest. “Any man would be lying if he said he didn’t. Your body is a sacred temple. It would bring any man to his knees. But if you meant those words, I want you to know what you’re promising.”
“What about you?” she asks timidly. “Would you go to your knees?”
“Only for God,” I say. “I took a vow, when I joined the priesthood. Not to the church, but to myself.”
“Could I?” she asks, looking up at me through her lashes with a look that is far more temptress than lamb. “For you?”
I smile down at her, stroking her hair across the pillow. “Not for me,” I say with regret. “But you’ve been such an obedient lamb. Maybe you could kneel for your brother again.”
“It’s not a sin?” she asks.
“No, child.”
“Is it a sin to want you?” she asks, casting her gaze down.
“Your desire is a gift, but it’s not a gift for me,” I say gently.
That may be the deepest regret of my life, especially when she squirms over on the bed and looks up at me with those big, imploring eyes. “Will you stay? Just until I fall asleep?”
It’s all I can do not to let my imagination run wild again. But I keep it in check and nod, then rein in my impulses as I set my shoes next to hers. I lie on the bed facing her, our faces inches apart, and link my fingers through hers, holding them between our chests, so we can’t press in too close.
“Will you sing to me, Father?”
I murmur a hymn to her, and after a time, her lids flutter closed, and she sleeps like only the innocent can. I would envy her that if she wasn’t so deserving.
*
The next day, I step out the back door of the church and pause, taking in the grey day before me. When I need solace and peace, I walk out into the graveyard and beyond, into the garden. Growing up, I didn’t have many green spaces around, and my knowledge doesn’t extend beyond the basics of the plants around me, but I’ve learned to enjoy the view from the front windows of the rectory. When I’m up early, before anyone else rises, kneading dough or sitting down to prayer, I often spot birds and animals out the kitchen windows. This time of year, it’s quiet, though, as if the wildlife has fled campus along with the students.
Still, I like taking stock of the garden, walking the labyrinth while in contemplation, watching the world change before my eyes from one season to the next. Even now, when the earth lies dormant, my feet on the solid ground remind me of my foundation, the one I’ve made here, in this new life. The cold, wet wind in my face reminds me that I’m far from home, from the demons that haunted my life before this one. In New York, we would have snow, biting cold, but despite the warmer temperatures here, the wetness in the air creeps in like a chill that never goes away. I don’t mind so much. There are worse things.
I descend the steps and walk through the graveyard with its greying stones, the oldest crumbling, the newest looming stark against the blur of fog under the grey sky. I spot a young woman from our congregation at her father’s grave, on a square of sod that hasn’t taken root and won’t until spring. Her head is bent, and her shoulders shake. I think of my own father’s unremarkable headstone in an endless cemetery back home, one of the many departed souls in a city that doesn’t so much as blink at death, even when it’s a respected priest.
No tears were shed on his grave, and none will be.
I offer comfort, but the woman asks for solitude, so I leave her and make my way out further, to the fence, and through the gate to the garden. I’d like to bury my hands in the soil, as if they are roots, ties that can anchor me to this plot of earth. But for now, I only stroll the circular design, trying to find my way to some kind of clarity that hasn’t been offered to me in a long time.
I’m already thinking ahead, thinking about the warm dough waiting for me in the small, simple rectory where I live behind the church. I’m imagining how I will use it to work out my frustrations, how I will smooth my hands over the ball of warm dough, dust it with flour, and slide it into the oven. How I will wrap it in a cloth when it’s done baking, how it will warm me as I carry it across campus. How she’ll smile when I deliver it into her waiting hands, still warm and fragrant. I picture us sitting together in her room, tearing off pieces with our hands, breaking bread together in our own private communion.
I hurry through the rest of the garden and go inside to check if the dough has risen.
Later, I cross the campus toward the dormitory, my steps increasing in speed as I approach. Is she sitting at the window, and will she see me coming? Will she be as eager to see me as I am her? Suddenly, I’m convinced I am nothing but a fool.
I slow my pace, and just then, I spot a lone, still figure standing under a barren tree just a few paces from the entrance. A momentary flicker passes through me, as if I’m still a child, one being caught sneaking into a place where he doesn’t belong. Fear and guilt twist together into a braid of defensive self-righteousness, the kind which my father loved nothing more than to beat out of me, relishing each stroke like the sweetest morsel.
We stare at each other for a few seconds, each of us debating the next step, the next word. I must tread carefully. I am the guardian of these children, the guide, however misguided. I should not be here. But he should not be the one to tell me that.
“Hello, Saint,” I say. “You do know campus closed yesterday, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he says, scowling at me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my tone measured, inviting his confidence.
“I came to see if Mercy wanted to go home for the holiday,” he says. “But that’s stupid. Of course she doesn’t want to spend Christmas with the family that rehomed her like an unwanted puppy. If she wanted to be part of our family, she wouldn’t have fucked us over.”
“Is that really what you imagine happened?” I ask.
He works his jaw back and forth, glowering at me like a petulant child. I know better. I’ve known Saint Soules as long as I’ve known this town. He was one of the first students I worked with individually. I know his story well—and now I know the other side of that story.
“I guess not,” he admits.
“I think you should speak to her,” I say. “Come. I’ll go with you. It’s time you put all this behind you.”
“All of what?” he asks, but he follows me into her dorm.
“This attachment you both have to your shame,” I say, leading him up the stairs.
I meant to visit her alone, to talk with her again, but now another idea is forming in my mind. I remember her words in the church, as she held onto me and let go of everything else, what she said she’d do for me.
Anything.
Maybe it’s time to put her word to the test.
It’s pushing a limit I have no right to push, crossing a line that I can’t go back from. Maybe it’s something I’ve been suppressing too long, longer than this pair has held onto their shame, their lust for each other. Maybe it’s this damned holiday, the memories it brings. But whatever it is, I’ve reached my limit on the topic, and if I need to be a bit more assertive in my mediation, so be it.
I knock on Mercy’s door while Saint stands back, a troubled frown on his brow. After a minute, Mercy opens the door wearing a pair of flannel reindeer pajamas. Her eyes widen when she sees me, lighting up with a joy that should be reserved for kids on Christmas morning.
“Hi!” she says, then sees Saint. Her expression falters, her smile slipping away, replaced by confusion and an edge of suspicion. “What is this?”
“A peace offering,” I say, handing her the loaf, still warm inside its towel.
“Oh,” she says faintly, stepping back. “Thank you. Come in.”
I smile at her politeness, the manners her mother surely instilled in her. She couldn’t tell us to leave after bringing her a gift even if she wanted to. And I know that under the hurt and fear, she wants us to be here. To stay, so she’s not alone, however misguided that notion.
“Why are you here?” she asks Saint when we’re inside her cozy little nest of domesticity, and he’s seated in her desk chair. “Shouldn’t you be home for Christmas? The midnight service is tonight.”
“He’s here to clear the air,” I say. “In fact, you both are. As an advisor to you both, I think it’s past time for you to sit down and talk this out. You’re family, and nothing should come between a brother and sister, especially not the anger that is separating you now. I’ve heard both of your confessions. Now I think it’s time for you to confess to each other.”
Saint glances at me and then at Mercy. He swallows, and I can tell this is hard for him. But he’s going to do it. He will obey because I ordered him to.
The familiar swell of power rises inside me, the one that lead me to the priesthood. Holding and protecting people’s darkest secrets, the ones that could destroy them, is its own kind of power. At first, that’s what I was drawn to. But later, I saw the depth of my power. A shepherd not only protects his flock, he guides it. When I don the collar, people obey, sometimes against their baser desires, sometimes giving in to them with relief.
The swell of power I feel when they surrender to me is a high like no other, worth far more than the worldly pleasures I’ve given up as penance for this exultation. I’m playing God, but when they bow down to me, I can’t resist. It’s my one weakness, and if it costs me my eternal soul, then it was never really mine at all. The calm, peaceful radiance of a moment of complete control over another person is the closest a man like me will get to heaven. It’s my nirvana, my absolution, and one day, it will be my undoing.
That’s part of the exhilaration.
“What should I confess?” Mercy asks, looking almost as uneasy as her brother.
“The truth.”
“I… I love you,” she whispers, sinking onto the edge of her bed and facing him. “That’s the truth, Saint. I always loved you.”
He snorts. “Funny way of showing it.”
“I did what I thought was right,” she says. “I told the judge exactly what I saw. Maybe if you’d told me what really happened, I would have understood.”
“I fucked her,” he says. “We all fucked her. Is that what you want to hear?”
Mercy winces. “I know. There were three sets of DNA in her—clothes.”
“Her underwear,” he says flatly.
She nods, twisting her fingers in her lap.
“We didn’t rape her,” he says. “She wanted to. She planned it. But she didn’t want us to tell you, so we respected that.”
“But… why?” Mercy asks, looking so wounded I want to go to her, to take her in my arms. I won’t interfere, though. This is something between brother and sister.
“Because you’re so damn pious and sanctimonious, she knew you wouldn’t understand,” Saint says, throwing up his hands.
Mercy gives the slightest nod, biting down on her lip when it starts quivering.
“Tell her why she asked you to do that,” I prompt.
Saint frowns. “That’s not really something you talk about.”
“Mercy is your sister,” I remind him. “She’s not a stranger. It won’t endanger anyone for her to know.”
Saint hesitates, then crosses his arms and leans back, his gaze shuttered. “She was swearing into the Skull and Crossbones. Her initiation was coming up, she didn’t know exactly when. They don’t give you a fucking appointment. She asked a couple guys to break her in so she wouldn’t go in a virgin. You know. For the gang bang.”
I can tell he’s enjoying the shock on Mercy’s face, choosing the crudest way to explain it and relishing her reaction. I let him have it. It’s not just for her sake. It’s for him too. I know this is harder for him to talk about than he wants her to know, than he wants anyone to know. Telling it in rough terms is easier for him than showing vulnerability, admitting his grief and hurt.
“Good job, son,” I murmur.
He scowls at me. “We done here?”
“Does that satisfy your curiosity, lamb?” I ask.
She nods.
“You told your brother you loved him,” I say. “That was brave. Saint. You have not finished your confession. Do you feel the same?”
“I protected her, didn’t I?”
“From what?”
“From… From the others,” he says, gesturing vaguely with one hand.
“Why?” she asks, watching him intently.
“Because you’re my sister.”
“And?” I press.
“And she’s innocent,” he snaps. “You know what they’re like. What we’re like.”
“You protected her from your own baser urges as well as theirs?”
“Yes,” he grits out.
“Is that because you want her innocence for yourself?” I ask.
He glares at me, gritting his teeth. He doesn’t want to say it, just as she didn’t want to admit what she was doing in the church. But naming our demons strips them of their power.
“If you admitted it, would that rid you of this attachment to shame you’ve developed?” I ask, clasping my hands behind my back. “Or would you have to take her innocence to find relief?”
He glances sideways at Mercy.
“She will let you,” I say gently. “If you ask that of her.”
I turn to her to make sure, and she nods eagerly. “I will, Father.”
“Do you want him to?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, her cheeks coloring and her fingers wrapping around the cross she uses as her own form of self-flagellation.
“I don’t fucking want you,” Saint snaps, shoving up from the chair and pacing in agitation. “What’s wrong with you? You’re my sister. And you’re fucking pathetic if you’d let me. I’ve done nothing but disrespect you since the day you got here. If you’d spread your legs for me after the way I’ve treated you, you’re a desperate slut, and I don’t fuck desperate sluts. Especially not my ugly stepsister.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “You’ve suffered long enough, Saint. You’ve earned her submission, if you choose to accept it. She has given it to you to do with as you see fit. Will you accept this gift from her as penance for the harm she’s caused you?”
Saint wheels on me. “No,” he growls. “I told you. She’s fucking hideous. She dresses like a little girl. She doesn’t even shave her cunt.”
“I want you to be certain before you refuse.” I turn to Mercy. “Show him what he’s turning down. He will have to live with the fact that someone else will accept the gift he didn’t, if he can’t admit the truth, that he wants this as much as you do.”
“Show… Him?” she asks, chewing at her lip in anxiety. “How?”
“Like you showed me,” I say, nodding to her pants. “But without those. Can you do that, lamb? For me?”
Her breath hitches, but after a second, she nods. She stands slowly, stripping off her pants and panties together. She steps out of her fat Santa slippers and slides her bottom back onto the bed.
“Scoot back,” I order. “Put your feet on the edge of the bed and spread your legs.”
She obeys, then hesitantly brings her fingers to her exposed cunt. “Like this, Father?”
“Yes, lamb,” I assure her. “Just like that. Now show your brother how wet you get for him.”
The sense of heady power rises in me, amazement and awe filling me when she obeys without question. After a minute of touching herself for us, her flesh glistens with arousal, and she starts breathing harder, her cheeks pinkening.
“You too,” I tell Saint, unable to tear my gaze from Mercy’s perfect, pink cunt.
Her brother stands beside me, equally transfixed, as he unzips and pulls himself out. He’s already hard, his cock springing free and standing thick and straight. He grips it, jerking himself in rough, angry strokes.
“Doesn’t she look divine?” I ask as her head falls back, her hips moving in slow circles to match her finger as she smears it over her drenched flesh, opening herself, offering herself to him.
“Divinely desperate,” he grunts, jerking harder, his cock stiff in his hand. After only a minute, it throbs out a spurt, then another. It falls in ropey strands to the floor, leaving creamy loops and splatters on the tile.
“Oh,” Mercy cries, her eyes rounding as she watches her brother unload his cum shot while watching her pleasure herself.
“There,” he grunts out. “Now you know how I feel. I already know how you feel. You’d get on the floor and drag your ass in my cum like a dog if it meant you’d get some in your pussy.”
“Would you?” I ask Mercy.
Hurt pools in her blue eyes, but after a second, she bites her lip and nods, looking guilty.
“Show him,” Saint snarls, shoving his dick back into his jeans. “Show him what a pathetic, desperate, horny little slut you are.”
She turns her gaze to mine, imploring.
I nod. “Show me, lamb.”
She hesitates a moment, then slides gingerly from the edge of her bed to the floor. I watch in awe as she lowers herself onto the splatters her brother left, sliding in small circles in it, coating her bottom. The sense of power that swells in me is more than a tide, it’s a tsunami.
“You can do better than that,” Saint taunts. “Show me how much you want me, little sister. Show Father how much you love my cum. Scoop it up and stick it in your dirty cunt. You know you want to.”
Her shoulders shake with sobs, but she smears her fingers in his mess, scooping it up. Trembling globs of white coat her finger, and she sucks in a shuddering breath as she pushes it inside herself. With a mewling cry of surrender, her head falls back. Her hips jerk, bucking, riding her hand. She drives her delicate finger into her hungry cunt over and over, stabbing her brother’s cum into it with startling violence. She goes up on her knees, back arched, and rides out her orgasm with silent sobs wracking her body. At last, she collapses into a heap in the smears of Saint’s release that coat her floor, curling into a ball.
“Disgusting,” Saint says, but he sounds gratified. He leans forward and spits, the glob dropping onto her tear-stained cheek before he turns and walks out the door, leaving me alone with the greatest temptation I’ve ever known.