Page 3 of Of Angels & Absolution

“And you enjoyed it?” he asks, his voice a seductive rumble, as if it would lead me down a path of temptation I can never unfollow.

“Yes,” I whisper, a tear of pure, hot shame rolling down my cheek.

“And what would you do for penance?” he asks. “God put this desire in you, lamb. I cannot rid you of it. I can only offer a suggestion.”

“Please,” I cry, the tears coming faster. “I’ll do anything. Help me, Father.”

“Do you trust me?” the father asks, and I hear his robes rustle as he shifts, across the partition and out of sight.

“Of course,” I say without hesitation. Pathetic as it makes me, the priest is the closest thing to a friend I have here, the closest thing the Hellhounds will allow. I am their sacrifice, here for one purpose only—in their eyes, at least.

I know my true purpose, why I won’t leave this holy place and its unholy inhabitants. I need the truth. I won’t leave until I know what happened to Eternity that day, why I lost not only my best friend but all my friends. She was murdered, and if they did it, then they were no more my friends than hers. Friends can’t be counted on, but maybe Fathers can.

But if I can’t tell him the deepest truth, can I really be absolved? If I’m not ridding myself of the sin, maybe it’s because some part of me doesn’t want to let it go. Some part of me likes it. Not just what they did to me, but the pleasure of my own body. That’s the addiction. That’s the disease. Saying a thousand HailMarys can only stifle it, like a painkiller can soothe a toothache. But the root is still festering, and without digging down into the darkest, dirtiest, most rotten core of it, it will never go away.

I tell myself that the reason I don’t do it is because my brother is here, and it was shameful enough to admit I enjoyed his fingers inside me last night. I can’t say that I enjoyed more than that, that I enjoyed being bound, unable to escape, so I was powerless to live out the fantasy I’ve had of him all along.

“I want you to try something for me,” Father Salvatore says, his voice as dark and sultry as sin itself. “I want you to put your hand on the place from which your perceived sin stems.”

I take a shallow breath, then close my eyes, a tremor running through me. Slowly, I slide a hand under my skirt.

“Yes, Father,” I whisper, my lips cold and stiff, barely moving.

“How does that feel?” he asks.

“Good.” My fingers brush the damp fabric of the panties I’m wearing, and instead of being disgusted by the knowledge of what’s inside them, a hot throb of hot desire ripples through me.

Saint grips my hair, pulling my head back on his shoulder, his other arm still banded around my middle. “Don’t be shy, little sister,” he whispers into my ear, so softly only I can hear it. “Finger your cunt the way you do at home when you think about your big brother watching.”

I shudder against him, desire pooling heavy in my center.

“Are you touching yourself?” the father asks, his voice soft and deep as a caress to my hungry flesh.

“Forgive me, Father,” I say, my voice trembling as I move my fingers harder, working the grimy, slick fabric into my slit.

“I want you to continue until you find the same relief you did last night,” he says.

My breath catches, and my chest heaves. It’s too good to be true. I must be dreaming, that he’s allowing me this sin, telling me it’s permitted. Slowly, I begin to knead my flesh.

Saint’s breath becomes shallower, and his fingers tighten in the sides of my skirt, drawing it up my thighs. The brush of fabric over my fevered skin makes me shiver with longing, my mind racing ahead, to when he’ll slide his hand between my legs, help me. I bite my lip to keep from whimpering as I picture his long, thick fingers tugging aside my panties, pushing into me slow and deep, like they did last night.

“Oh,” I gasp, feeling my panties grow suddenly wet.

“What is it, lamb?” Father Salvatore asks, and maybe it’s my imagination, but I think his voice sounds a little rougher than usual.

“It’s—it’s nothing,” I whisper, my cheeks flushing. I drop my gaze just in time to see Saint pause with my skirt just at the apex of my thighs. His fingers clench again, knotting in the fabric, and my skirt slides up to reveal my small hand between. He sucks in a slow breath, and I feel something hard move under me. I gasp, somehow knowing what it is without having to be told. My shame heightens to an unbearable level, and I want to get up from him, to run from the booth and never stop running.

“Go on,” Saint whispers against my neck. “Show your big brother how you finger your tight little cunt for him.”

“I—I don’t know how,” I admit. “I’ve never done this before.”

I realize a second too late that I spoke aloud, that Father Salvatore doesn’t know I have company. If I could die of humiliation, I would.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” he commands.

“I’m—I’m touching myself.”

“Tell me what you see.”

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