P-4

Marcus had been communicating with Lola using the signs he half remembered from seminary.

Back then ASL had been a required elective, something he endured without any particular interest, picking up only the most basic phrases like hello, thank you, Mass, peace. Now those fragments felt like a lifeline.

He practiced alone in the rectory late at night, mirror propped against the kitchen wall, hands moving stiffly at first. You. Me. Need. Talk. He mouthed the words as he signed them, watching his own reflection until the shapes began to feel less foreign.

He needed to ask Lola to teach him so communication with her would be more efficient. Then he would teach the congregation too, so she would be able to talk to them easily.

He had initially thought of asking her to teach the classes. But she was a deeply private woman who never liked drawing attention to herself . Standing in front of a room full of people and demonstrating signs would have forced her into a role that made her uncomfortable.

Marcus understood that without her needing to say it. So he took it on himself.

On Sunday he stood in the pulpit after the final blessing and faced the familiar faces. “I want to speak about something that has been on my heart,” he said, voice confident though his pulse was not.

“Our sister Lola has served this parish faithfully for years. Many of you already know her. She cannot hear our words, yet she gives of herself every week. I believe we can do better by her.”

He paused, letting the silence settle. “In the seminary I learned a little Sign Language. I was a poor student of it then.” There was a bit of laughter from the congregation.

He continued. “I intend to become a better one now. And I invite you to join me. We will hold classes here in the parish hall, two evenings a week at no cost. We’re doing this so life and communication is easier for everyone in the community.”

A few heads nodded. Mrs. Halloway raised a hand. “Father, will you teach?”

“I will start,” he answered. “And we will find someone more skilled if the group grows. But yes, I will begin. Lola has enough on her shoulders already. This is something we can offer her.”

By the next Thursday the sign up sheet on the bulletin board held twenty three names. The first class filled the hall with chairs scraped into a circle.

Marcus stood in the center, sleeves rolled, demonstrating the alphabet with deliberate care. “A,” he said, forming the fist. “B. C.” Laughter rose when someone’s fingers tangled. He smiled, patient. “Again. Slow is fine. We are learning together.”

Lola came to the second session and sat near the back. When the hour ended she approached him while the others filed out. Her hands moved with graceful precision. Thank you. This means much.

He signed back, trying his best to recall the shapes. You are welcome. I want… better for you.

Her eyes softened. She signed again, slower so he could follow. Grateful. You did this for me.

That night the rain began before they reached the rectory. It hammered the windows of the study, a consistent rhythm roar against the glass. Marcus locked the door behind them, the only light coming from the pale spill of the streetlamp through the curtains.

Lola’s coat was already wet at the shoulders. He peeled it from her, then the rest, until she stood bare in the dimness. His own clothes followed in a black heap on the floor.

They sank to the rug together. He pushed her thighs apart and sank into her pussy in one long thrust., the wet heat of her gripped his cock tightly.

Rain blurred the world outside. Inside there was only the slick slide of his cock fucking into her, the grit of the carpet against their knees and elbows, the way her legs locked around him as if she could hold the night in place.

He drove deeper, harder, guilt coiling tight beneath the pleasure until the two sensations became indistinguishable. Every thrust felt filthy and necessary.

When she came her body arched and shook, pussy clenching around him in hard pulses; he followed, spilling deep inside her with a broken sound she felt rather than heard.

They stayed joined, trembling, rain still slamming the windows, both of them trying to catch their breaths.

Later, alone in his room, Marcus tried to pray. He knelt beside the bed, rosary cold in his fingers, and forced the words out loud into the dark.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I fucked her on the floor of the study. I put my cock in her mouth and in her pussy and I came inside her knowing it was wrong. I—”

The confession collapsed. He stared at the floorboards.

“I can’t. I don’t want forgiveness. I want her again. God help me, I want to fuck her until neither of us can walk.”

He rose without finishing, the beads still clenched in his fist, the prayer unfinished and useless.

Past midnight he left the rectory. Hooded jumper pulled low, dark trousers, the black of his ordinary clothes transformed by the rain into something anonymous.

He walked the short distance to the edge of town where Lola’s house sat behind a low fence. The side door yielded to the key she had given him weeks earlier. He stepped inside, dripping, and moved through the rooms until he reached her bedroom.

She woke with a start. For a moment her eyes widened in pure fear.

There was a dark hooded figure, the shape of a stranger in her doorway. Her hand flew to the bedside lamp. Light spilled across the room and she saw his face.

The fear drained, replaced by something sharper. She signed, rapid and accusing. You frightened me. Thought robber.

He pushed the hood back. Rain still clung to his hair. Sorry. Needed you.

She stared at him a second longer, then pulled the covers aside. He stripped the wet clothes and climbed into the bed. Their bodies met without hesitation.

He pushed into her again, cock sliding deep into her already wet pussy, slower this time, the mattress creaking under them.

Outside the rain continued. Inside there was only the heat of her, the press of her palms against his back, and the knowledge that every thrust carried them further from safety and closer to each other.