P-6

As the seasons changed and the nights stretched longer, on the days when the rectory stood empty after evening prayer and the housekeeper was nowhere in sight, Marcus left the side door unlatched so Lola would stepped out of the cold, dark night and find her way in easily.

They would undress without the old desperation. Then he would lay her on his bed upstairs and enter her slowly, cock sliding deep into the wet heat of her pussy while her legs locked around his waist. Afterward they would stay tangled under the thin blanket, skin cooling, content in each other’s arms.

On the nights she stayed home, he came to her instead. Hood pulled low, he moved through Greyfen’s empty streets like a criminal. When he reached, he always found the night light left on low and climbed into her bed still smelling of rain.

Sometimes he only held her. Sometimes he pushed her thighs apart and sank into her cunt until she came silent and shaking beneath him. He always left before the first grey of dawn, walking back in time to shower, dress, and stand at the altar for morning Mass as if nothing had changed.

They began to play house like they were an ordinary couple.

One evening the rain hammered the rectory windows while Lola moved around the kitchen in one of his old shirts. She set a plate of stew and thick bread in front of him.

Marcus had once tried to return the favor and ended up burning the pan so thoroughly the kitchen still smelled of scorched metal two days later. She laughed without sound at that memory, shoulders shaking, and signed: Priests are not meant for kitchens.

He signed back, fingers still a little stiff: Never needed to learn. Housekeeper. Seminary before that. Mother’s table before that.

Lola sat across from him. Her eyes softened: You have learned the signs well. Better every week. I notice.

Marcus set the spoon down: You teach me every time we talk. What happened? He gestured to his ears.

She studied his face for a long moment. Then she signed: Fever took my hearing when I was four. One week I could hear, the next… nothing. It become a permanent silence. The couple who adopted me from the county home were quiet people. They learned hello, thank you, good night. Not much else. I grew up with books and the television turned off. I got used to the isolation before I understood it wasn’t the only way.

Marcus reached across the table, took her hands, then released them so she could keep signing: what’s your story?

I grow up on a farm outside the city, with eight siblings and three bedrooms. It was loud as hell but I sometimes find myself missing it. My mom was very religious. Her dream was for one of her sons to become a priest. So I kind of inherited it to make her proud. Besides, I thought the vows would give me purpose.

Lola’s nodded understandably as her gaze held his. Do you ever regret us?

Some days, he signed. Most days I only regret that I can’t keep you without destroying everything. You?

I regret the secrecy. And the endless guilt but not the rest. Her hands paused, then continued. Do you think God will punish us for this?

Marcus stared at the half eaten stew. The rain outside sounded louder.

I already feel punished. Every time I stand at the altar and remember the taste of your cunt. Every time I say the words of consecration with your name still in my mouth from the night before.

She signed back: I feel the same. But I don’t want to stop.

Neither do I.

Later that same night they moved to the study. Marcus locked the door, peeled the shirt from her shoulders, and laid her on the rug. He pushed her thighs open and fucked her in long, deep strokes, watching every flicker of expression cross her face.

When she came, her pussy clenched hard around his cock; he followed with a broken sound she felt through his chest. They stayed joined, trembling, until the heat faded.

She signed against his damp skin: I have never felt more alive than when you are inside me.

He answered with hands that still shook: Love and damnation feel the same now. I can’t tell them apart.

The housekeeper returned early two nights later. Marcus barely got Lola out the side door and into the wet grass before the woman’s key turned in the lock. They stood breathing hard in the dark until the upstairs lights came on. Then he walked her home in silence, making sure no one saw them.

The moment her front door closed he shoved her against it, rucked her skirt up, and drove his cock into her soaked pussy in one hard thrust. She came with her forehead pressed to the wood, silent and shaking. He spilled deep inside her a moment later, forehead to hers, eyes open.

Afterward they sat on the edge of her bed, still half dressed. Lola’s hands moved in the low light:

I love you. And I am damned for it.

Marcus took her hands, kissed the palms, then signed the only truth left: I love you too. And I am ready to go to hell if it comes to it.

He pushed her back onto the mattress, stripped the rest of their clothes, and sank into her again, slow this time, every thrust feeling like a vow and a betrayal at once.