Daddy's little Saint

Serafina's POV 

I placed down my brush and looked at my neatly tied bun in the small mirror. Sister Lucia's voice echoed softly in our shared room and I haphazardly listened. Not until she suddenly sighs and shifts to another topic.

“Do you ever just think about how it would feel if we weren't required to stay pure,” her voice comes out soft as a whisper.

I didn't turn my head to look at her. My eyes still stared blankly at the mirror, as I willed myself to block out her voice once more…but I knew it was impossible. Not when it came to certain topics.

Even my silence didn't deter her from stopping.

“Sometimes … I miss it,” she breathed, her eyes staring at a bird outside the window, like she wished she was as free. I continued to stare at her pale angelic features from the mirror, my hands pinching my undergarment against my thigh. 

“The weight of a man on top of me, his rough hands trailing my hot skin as I fight my breath to stay stable. Don't you miss all of that?” She turned to me, her eyes squinted to look at my slightly shadowed self.

“No,” my voice came out gruff, like it was the first time I was speaking that day. Which wasn't far from the truth. 

“You lie, Serafina,” she chuckled.

I closed my eyes and held my breath. I put my hand on the polished mahogany dressing table, and crossed my leg– maybe a little too tight. It was something I forced myself to do in situations like this.

“It's Sister Seraphina.” I made sure to correct her. Maybe it sounded rude or mean, but to survive these four walls of holiness, you had to constantly scream your identity, even if it meant being stuck up.

“Sometimes I feel like you're the worst of us all. Of course we all came here because we're trying to run from something evil, hoping the Almighty helps us carry our burden…” she smiled, pitifully. “But you come off as someone being the burden other people carry, and now you're trying to pretend that your past identity doesn't exist.”

I don't say anything, but I feel my breath quicken at her words.

“It's been three years since I ran away from Venezuela. Three years without being looked at lustfully by a man. Three years without knowing what being truly relieved feels like. I took my final vows the week after Sister Marianne accepted me, and I still wake up with an overwhelming ache in my core, my undergarment wet from an arousal that never gets satiated,” she sighed, low and ashamed. “Is that blasphemy, Serafina?”

I wanted to ignore her questions. Let her believe that I know nothing of what she's talking about or what she was feeling. 

“Only God can judge,” I say instead.

To everyone in the convent, I'm the only one without a disastrous past. The only one who knocked at the church with a smile on her face.

No one really knew. No one knew my true past no matter what they guessed. No one knew what went through my head at night when I couldn't force my head to sleep. I will always be the quiet one, and no one will know the people I've disappointed back in my home town.

Lucia laid her head on the pillow, facing my end. “Don't you ever wonder? Just for once…what would it feel like to feel stars that start from the sensitive nerves in your core to the most intelligent part of the brain?”

I picked at the thread on my satin nightwear, my eyes glaring at my reflection.

“We chose this life,” I forced out and swallowed.

She gave a sad little hum and turned away.

I stared at the ceiling until her breathing evened out. Then I let myself wonder. Just for a moment.

What would it feel like to be wanted so fiercely that vows didn’t matter?  

To have rough hands slide under my habit, calloused fingers parting my milky thighs, a mouth that tasted like smoke and damnation devouring me until I forgot every prayer I’d ever learned?

I pressed my thighs together, my heated skin touching each other, blooming low and treacherous desire.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned in thought…  

I squeezed my eyes shut and forced the words out, over and over, until the ache dulled.

I chose this life.  

I will not trade my soul for flesh.

I heard the soft snore of Sister Lucia and I turned back to look at her calm face. To anyone who wasn't really acquainted with convent life, Lucia in her sleep looked so peaceful, with no demon to worry about. 

But it was far from the truth. Nights after nights, I would hear her crying in her sleep as she called out on a name, pleading for them to let her breathe. Asking they let her die or just relieve her from the torture. I never bother to wake her. The one time I did, she refused to look me in the eye for more than a week. 

I just played the radio beside her bed, letting the soft voice of the Catholic gospel artist feel the small space we stayed in.

To Lucia, I'm the girl that likes to hide her sins behind my silence and dark forest green eyes. The good girl who never rebels no matter how barbaric the rule sounded. 

And she's almost right. Because no matter how innocent I try to portray myself, no one knows the reason I don't sleep at night is because I tried not to dream about him.

Father Matteo.

Twenty six and the newly ordained priest in the convent. 

Every Sunday when he served the holy communion at mass, I would stand behind the confessional booth as he walked down the passageway to the altar.

My head would go over different things I would have done if I wasn't tied to the white habit.

It was the only day I got to see him up close. Up close enough for me to watch the way his cassock clung to his broad shoulders when he lifted the Eucharist.

The way his voice dropped low and thick with a subtle timbre when he prayed in Latin. When everyone bowed their heads to pray, I would watch from the small peephole, enjoying the way the vibration of his hoarse voice caused a sinful caress on my skin.

I would imagine him behind the altar after compline, his broad and firm body pressing my smaller ones against the cold marble. My habit was raised to my waist, by his thick hands, his lips biting my neck while I held on to his shoulder for my dear life.

He would whisper, “Forgive me father, for I'm about to sin.” And his hands would go under my undergarments, feeling the soft flesh between my legs.

I would throw my head back as his long and thick fingers glide through my fleshy folds, expertly rubbing it until the room smelled nothing but my filthy arousal. It would be a sin I was willing to sacrifice my life to enjoy.

But only in my imagination.

Because in reality I was the 23 years old who doted on her salvation. The 23 years old virgin nymphomaniac who ran to the Lord's refuge to flee from sin.

Well…

That was until a crash a came from the chapel courtyard, followed by a painful cuss.