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38: His Desk (2)

Author: Chris Muna
last update Petsa ng paglalathala: 2026-03-23 19:49:52

Julian Thorne's touch wasn't gentle. It was possessive, instructional. His hand came down on my right buttock in a firm, stinging slap.

I gasped, the sound loud in the quiet room.

"That is a correction," he said calmly. "A reminder of focus." Another slap, on the other side. Heat bloomed on my skin. "You belong to this desk tonight. To my will."

Then his fingers were between my legs, probing, testing. I was already wet, shamefully so. He made a sound of approval. "Your body submits more honestl
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    The following week was a study in exquisite tension. I attended Mass, kneeling in the front pew, my eyes locked on Father Michael as he performed the liturgy. Every "Body of Christ" he uttered felt like a secret promise, a filthy echo of the night his body had joined with mine on the sacristy table. His hands, steady as they raised the chalice, would tremble almost imperceptibly when his gaze snagged on mine. The church, once a place of quiet boredom, was now a theater of our silent, screaming desire. Our confessions became a twisted, scheduled addiction. Every Tuesday at 3:15, I would enter the booth. The conversations were no longer about sin, but about planning. "Tell me where you want me next," I'd whisper, my fingers tracing the lattice. "The baptismal font? The altar itself?" "Quiet," he'd growl, but it was a plea, not an order. "The janitor… he cleans the vestry on Thursdays after nine. It will be empty." And so it went. Thursday, in the vestry, amidst racks of choir robes

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