P-2

Lola had been watching Father Marcus for weeks.

She could not hear the soft cadence of his voice during Mass, but she watched his mouth form the words. She had grown skilled at reading lips. She studied the precise shape of his lips when he spoke the prayers, the way his throat moved, the small crease that appeared between his brows when he was concentrating.

She watched his hands most of all. He had long fingered hands that turned the pages of the missal or lifted the chalice with reverence. Those hands haunted her.

At night, alone in her house at the edge of town, the silence that always surrounded her became somehow denser. She would undress slowly, climb into bed, and let her mind fill with him. One hand would slide down her stomach and then between her legs.

She was always already wet by the time her fingers found her clit. She rubbed slow, firm circles, imagining those priestly hands instead of her own. She would push two fingers into her pussy and fuck herself with them, hips rolling up to meet each thrust.

Sometimes she bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper so she wouldn’t make any sound, even though there was no one to hear her.

When she came, her thighs shook and her free hand gripped the sheets. Afterward she would lie there breathing hard, still thinking of Father Marcus’s eyes, the way they sometimes lingered on her a second longer than necessary.

She arrived early one Tuesday afternoon to prepare the altar for the mid week Mass. The church was empty, the late light falling through the stained glass windows in soft bands of color across the pews.

She moved through the pews with the ease of long practice, heading to the door to sacristy. She pushed it open without knocking. She had never really thought of it. It really wasn’t a private room.

Father Marcus stood with his back half-turned to her. His black cassock was shoved up around his waist. One hand was wrapped tightly around his cock. He was stroking it in long, urgent pulls, the head flushed dark and shiny with pre-come. His eyes were closed. His lips were moving.

Lola froze.

She could not hear whatever he was saying, but she could see the shape of the word on his mouth. The same shape again and again.

Her name, Lola.

Her pulse slammed in her throat. She must have made some small movement probably while shifting her weight, or the soft scrape of her shoe on the floor, because his eyes opened. They locked on hers.

He did not stop.

His fist kept working his cock, slower now, as if the sight of her only made him harder.

A thick bead of pre come welled at the tip and rolled down the shaft. His chest rose and fell in sharp, visible breaths.

Lola’s own breathing had gone shallow. Heat flooded her face and settled low in her belly. She was already wet, like she was last night alone in her bed.

Something in her broke open.

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The latch clicked. She crossed the small room on unsteady legs and dropped to her knees on the worn rug in front of him.

Up close she could smell the clean soap of his skin and the sharper, saltier scent of his arousal.

She reached up, brushed his hand aside, and wrapped her fingers around the hot, heavy length of his cock. It jumped in her grip. She felt the pulse of it against her palm.

His lips formed her name again.

She leaned in and took him into her mouth.

The taste of him flooded her tongue. He tasted of skin and salt and the faint bitterness of pre come. She sank down until the head nudged the back of her throat, then pulled back, lips tight, tongue working the underside.

His hands found her hair, holding on without force. She could feel the fine tremor running through his fingers.

She sucked him harder, wetter. The soft, filthy sounds of her mouth would have filled the room if she could have heard them; instead she felt the vibration of her own throat, the slick slide of him against her tongue, the way his hips gave small, involuntary thrusts.

She hollowed her cheeks and took him deeper. One hand stroked what her lips could not reach. The other braced against his thigh, feeling the hard muscle jump beneath the fabric of his trousers.

He was close; she could feel it in the way his cock twitched, in the tightening of his fingers in her hair, in the way his lips kept shaping her name over and over without sound.

She did not stop.

She sucked him through it, swallowing around the thick pulses as he came hard down her throat. His body jerked. A low, shattered sound must have left him because she felt the vibration of it travel down through his chest and into the hand she still had on his thigh.

She stayed on her knees until the last tremor passed, then slowly pulled off. Her lips were shiny. A thin strand of spit connected her mouth to the head of his cock for a second before it broke.

They stared at each other in the dim sacristy light.

His cassock was still rucked up around his waist. His cock, wet from her mouth, was beginning to soften. Her knees ached against the floor. Her own pussy was throbbing, soaked through her underwear, but she did not touch herself.

Not yet.

The air between them felt charged and irreversible. She could see the knowledge of it in his eyes.

Neither of them spoke.