by Charity B.
Unlike Benji, Zeb is solid against my lips. I suck the soft tip into my mouth, and open as wide as I can, wanting more than anything to be what he needs me to be in this moment. I fear I will choke, but I continue until I can’t take an inch more.
“Fuck,” he groans. His breathing picks up, and he grips the side of my face, bucking his hips and making me gag. “I am a direct descendant of Zaaron!” he bellows. “His blood burns through my veins!” He says it like he thinks I don’t believe it. Tears stream down my face as I dig my nails into his thighs. Still, I force myself to keep going. In this moment, my only desire is to please him. “Take my holy come in your belly, and be grateful, for this is the closest you will come to sucking the cock of God.”
His blasphemous words shock me, and they don’t really sound like something Zeb would say. I debate pulling away to ask him what’s going on when thick, warm liquid squirts down my throat. He groans, squeezing my head tighter, and his body jolts with the last of his orgasm. I swallow all that I can. It’s odd how it warms me to have these pieces of him inside me.
There’s clearly more than my binding bothering him. His grip releases my face as he softly runs his thumb over my lips, smearing his come across them.
When I’m with him this way, I don’t feel like myself. I become another person, in another life, one that’s free to love. I know this is a sin, but…
I want to sin with him.
Wiping his brow, he nods behind him. “Sit on the altar.” The altar? What has gotten into him? His temperament makes my mind unsure, yet my body is on fire, starving for his touch. I scramble to my feet and obey. “Spread your legs as wide as you can.”
I climb up on the sanctorum with my heart, mind, body, and soul at war.
I love him.
This is wrong.
I want him.
This is evil.
The clanking of metal sounds loud in the meeting hall as he gathers the ritual implements off the floor. Pushing my butt to the edge, I open my legs for him and dig my heels into the corners of the sanctorum.
I am about to ask him what he’s doing when he kneels, as if praying to me, sucking my hardened clit into his mouth. I throw my head back and gasp. My moans are jarring in the otherwise quiet room. His tongue has me writhing against his mouth and the altar.
“Stop moving,” he mutters before he spreads me open with his fingers. Something cold slides into my body causing air to rush into my lungs at the intrusion. I look down to see what he’s doing to me. His tongue licks me along my entrance, and my eyes widen when I realize what’s happening. Slowly, he slides the long, pointed end of the brass Anointed sigil in and out of my body.
“Prophet!” I pull away instantly, though not far enough to get it out of me. The sanctorum altar is bad enough, but to desecrate our holy symbol? What is he thinking? “What are you doing?!”
He doesn’t stop. He continues slowly fucking me with the sacred instrument. “Making Him talk to me.”
“What?” I breathe.
Does he mean Zaaron?
He stands, leaving the sigil inside me as he kisses me and holds up a jar of blessed oil. His movements are almost jagged when he dips his fingers inside.
“My father took your innocence, your husband took your mouth, now I…I’m going to take your ass.” He reaches between us and rubs the oil over my tightened hole. While there’s a tinge of fear, the idea of him claiming that sacred part of me has my body screaming for it. “I need answers. From you and from Him.”
I can’t seem to inhale properly as I watch him pump his fist over his erection. Continuing to fuck me with the sigil, he uses his other hand to push himself into a place that has never been touched. Even with hot pain splitting through my body and my screams at the intrusion, I won’t ask him to stop. I don’t know what he means about Zaaron, and I don’t know what I haven’t answered for him, I just know I’m going to be what he needs me to be in this moment.
Hot tears flow down my face with my sob as my hands grab onto his solid arms. He presses his cheek against mine, shushing me. “Shhhh, listen to my voice.” I take in air through my nose, and my body loosens, alleviating some of the pain. It’s still very uncomfortable, but the agony has become much more bearable. The sigil rubs against my clit, and the feeling that I’m about to burst takes over my body again. The marriage of pleasure and pain has me clawing at his back, his old soul cleansing scars raised beneath my fingers. I can’t stop the sounds of arousal coming from my lips, and I hold him tighter. More tears roll down my cheeks as pleasure overtakes my body, shredding me beneath him. He thrusts into me in a steady movement, a small smile lifting his lips. “Just tell me this: do you love me, Laur?”
I hate that he has to ask, though with the way this has all gone, I can’t blame him for his uncertainty. I steady my breathing after a shock of pain. Reaching for the back of his neck, I put my lips next to his ear. “I’ve always loved you, Zebadiah Fitch.”
His tempo increases, and he leans back, reaching across the altar. The blade of the ceremonial knife glistens in front of my face while he turns it. “You said you didn’t consummate your binding with Benji. Did you take one another’s blood?”
I want to shake my head because I know what he’s thinking. We cannot do this. This is more sacred than intercourse. This is what finalizes spouses being able to be together in the Paradise Star. If we do this without being bound, we may as well rebuke it all.
“No, but Prophet, tell me you aren’t suggesting we take each other’s blood.”
His lip twitches when he draws the blade across his torso; his blood appears black as it drips over the sharp muscles of his abdomen.
“Why not?! I’m the fucking Prophet, and Zaaron refuses to speak to me! I can’t hear Him. He has left me to lead this compound, blind and deaf. If He won’t guide me, then I must guide myself.” He grinds his teeth, and I fear he’s going to break down. “If it’s too late to have you in this life, then I have to do everything in my power to have you in the next.” He presses the palms of his hands against his eyes, still holding the blade. My heart pounds at his words. “I did…sinful things before I became Prophet. They were done to evil men, yet done nonetheless.” He drops his hands, and when he looks at me, I see the boy who gave me flowers because he thought they’d look pretty in my hair. “Is this my penance?”
I feel like I’ve lost him so many times. I don’t know if he’s right or if we’re damning ourselves, but I do know, wherever we go, I want it to be together.
Pressing against his chest, I push him out of me and remove the sigil to slide to my knees. Grabbing his hips, I touch my tongue to the dripping blood and lick up his stomach, feeling his muscles flex at the action. When my lips find the wound, I suck as much of the metallic tasting liquid that I can before kissing his cut.
With the hand not holding the blade, he wraps his arm around my waist and lifts me up until I’m on my tiptoes and our noses are nearly touching.
“I love you, too,” he whispers. A whimper falls from my lips as he rips the knife across the top of my breast. “Not even in death will we part.”
I BRUSH MY FINGERS THROUGH her soft hair as she lays her head on my chest and plays with my sigil pendant. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Anything.”
I hold her tighter because I know we don’t have much time until she’ll need to leave. The lamp lays on the bedside table in the holding room, casting shadows across my chest where she traces with her finger.
“You think Zaaron won’t speak to you because of something you did, right? Will you tell me what it was?”
This is something I planned to tell her eventually. In my mind, she would understand because she loves Benji and had personally suffered at the hands of my father. But now, with my confession on my lips, I fear that after everything this could be what really makes me lose her. I swallow and hold her hand on my chest as if it will help her understand why I did what I did.
“A few years after you left
, I found Benji’s father sodomizing him with the handle of a pitchfork.”
She grips my chest and pushes herself up to face me. Her mouth is turned down in disgust, her eyes holding heartbreak and confusion.
Shaking her head, she chokes, “Why?”
“He caught him in a situation with a man…a sexual situation.”
“Was it Sammy?”
I’ve often wondered the same thing. I rub my hand down her arm because I don’t know if she’ll accept my comfort by the end of this story. “I don’t know. It’s definitely a possibility. Benji would never name him though.” She nods, and I continue, “He was in a bad way. He bled for a long time, and Zeke and I had to look after him for days.” It’s been a while since I’ve confronted this, and I’ve never repeated the story aloud. My emotions stir in my chest, and I’m surprised that after all this time, I’m getting choked up. “I found out later that Brother Jameson had tried to force Benji and his little sister Serah to have sexual intercourse in an attempt to purge his unnatural desires. When he couldn’t perform, Brother Jameson resorted to the pitchfork.”
She covers her mouth and sits next to me, hugging her knees. “Is that why Serah hung herself?”
Pushing myself up to sit next to her, I wrap my arm around her. I’m surprised she’s heard about that, considering speaking her name is forbidden. “You know about Serah?”
She’s suddenly seems nervous as she chews her lip and nods. “Mia told me.”
I definitely want to push this conversation and find out more of what they talked about, but we’re running out of time, and now that I’ve started, I want her to hear my confession.
“I knew she was struggling, and I still said nothing. I had promised Benji I wouldn’t tell anyone what happened, and I didn’t know what the result would be if I did. Maybe if I had, Serah wouldn’t have thought dying was her only escape. She wasn’t even able to be properly buried, and now she’ll spend her eternity in the pit.”
“Zeb, you can’t carry that blame, and I don’t believe Zaaron would keep His voice from you for that.”
I give her a smile and caress her cheek. I wish keeping a secret was my only transgression. “That’s not the end of the story. I confronted Brother Jameson.” I’ve never muttered these words to anyone other than Zaaron, and they feel as heavy as a rock coming up my throat. “And I…I killed him.” Her eyes widen, and she leans slowly forward. Her chest heaves, so I take her hand. Surprisingly, she squeezes back. “I really didn’t mean to. It was never my plan. It just sort of… happened.”
As she sits quietly, I allow her to ponder her thoughts. I don’t release a breath until she looks at me and whispers, “Maybe that was Zaaron’s answer. What if He is speaking to you, Zeb? You expected to hear Him audibly, but what if that’s not how it works? I felt Him the night of the gathering. He was with me, yet He never spoke to me with words.”
I had expected it to be clear, unquestionable, though I can’t help wondering if she’s right. If that’s the case, then my blasphemy last night may have done nothing other than anger Him. I just wanted to push Him so He had to speak to me.
I feel like a child beneath the age of understanding. When a child younger than six breaks spiritual law, they are shunned. Nobody speaks or acknowledges them for however long their punishment ensues. It was a terrifying experience, and that’s how this has felt.
“There’s more.” She swallows and sits up straighter, preparing herself. “I lied to you about my father.” She tilts her head in confusion, and I can’t believe she’s still here with me. I lean forward to kiss her freckles. “Six months ago, I helped Zeke kill him.” At this point, I think it’s best to just tear the scab off. Her mouth falls agape, but she doesn’t pull away from me. “What if that’s why? I ripped the Prophet from his position and stole the spiritual crown.”
She tilts her lips in sorrow as she combs my hair back. “I’ll admit feeling no loss for Hiram. I know the kind of man your father was, and I’m sure you had your reasons.” She climbs onto my lap, wrapping her soft arms around my neck. “I don’t know why you aren’t hearing Him, but I know you, Zebadiah Fitch. You would never do such things for personal gain or selfish desires. That’s not the man you are. Thank you for trusting me.”
There’s a lightness in my chest that hasn’t been present since I became Prophet. Telling Laurel Ann about Zaaron’s silence has dislodged a tightness in my throat, and divulging my darkest secrets has me in high spirits. I’m more confused than ever, yet I feel stronger. With her by my side, even in secret, she will give me the strength I’m not getting from my God. She won’t turn away from me again. She may have gone through with her sham of a binding, but she gave her soul to me.
I suppose if she must be bound to someone else, Benji is the best option by far. She won’t touch him again, that much she promised. I wish I could vow to do the same with my wives. I can’t keep spending my evenings here ‘praying’, and Marybeth is getting angry with me for clearly avoiding to continue our conversation.
Laurel Ann left about an hour ago to go back to Benji, and I need to clean up the mess on the stage before Mia arrives. After I pull on my clothes and make the bed in the last holding room, I walk into the meeting hall, bright with the early morning sun.
The chalice and pestle are on the floor behind the pulpit, and I find the mortar on my way to the altar. Candles are everywhere while the incense censor is open at my feet. The black cloth across the altar is haphazard, so I lift it to straighten it when I see a come stain right in the middle. The sight evokes flashes of the previous night, and my cock twitches at the memory of her body.
Shit. If I’m seen washing it, it will appear suspicious, and even if I’m not, there’s no way to get it cleaned and dry before Mia gets here.
I rip it off to flip it over when I notice something on the floor beneath the sanctorum. It’s odd because all of the ritual objects are accounted for. I crouch down, wrapping my hands around an oak box. A silver lock on the front keeps me from opening it. When I look beneath the altar, a trap door is hanging open from the bottom.
Tracing my fingers over the carved designs in the wood, I can’t help but hope this is a message from Zaaron. I suddenly remember the key I found in the desk the first time I went through the tabernacle office after my father’s death.
Maybe I did get Zaaron’s attention last night.
I hurry to finish setting up the sanctorum, and as I cross the stage to my office, Mia’s voice sounds behind me.
“Zebadiah.” Turning to her, I get nervous at her panicky expression. Her bonnet hangs around her neck, strands of hair sticking all over the place. She’s out of breath as if she’s been running. “There’s a Philistine at the gates…he’s asking for Hiram.”
My stomach drops to the floor of the stage, my mind exploding with questions as to what this man’s intentions are.
“Thank you, Mia. Let me get my jacket, and I will meet him.” She wrings her hands and nods.
Rushing to hide the wooden box, I hurry to my office to place it in the bottom drawer of my desk. I pull my jacket off the back of the chair and grab my hat off the chest. My heartbeat is like a drum in my ears as I hurry back to Mia.
“Did he say why he needed him?”
She shakes her head as she tries to keep up with me. “No, he just announced that he was here to speak to Hiram. Brother Joe left him at the gate and came to the ranch to tell you.” There’s slight spite in her voice, and I know it’s from my failure to come home again last night.
“Very well. I want you to go back to the ranch, staying there until I fetch you. Go get Marybeth out of school, and bring her with you.”
She grabs my hand as we walk into the foyer. “Are we in danger?”
I’ve lied so much to her. The truth is, if my heart hadn’t been given to Laurel Ann, I may have grown to love her. She’s a kind and beautiful woman, and even knowing I will never be able to stay away from Laur, I still hate what I’m doing to her.
&nb
sp; Brushing my hand over her cheek, I’m as honest as I can be. “I truly don’t know, but it’s a definite possibility. Now, go get Marybeth.”
We leave the tabernacle, and she picks up her skirt to run to the school house. As I make my way to the gates, the sound of horse’s feet behind me has me turning. Benji Johnson rides beside me in his buggy, his delivery for the general store clanging around in back.
“I would say blessed morning, Prophet, though from the look on your face, I’m assuming it’s not.”
I look up at his lopsided grin. His buggy will get us there quickly, and he’s always been way too taken by Philistines. Meeting one in the flesh will surely cure his curiosities.
“Take me to the gates, and you can see for yourself.”
“Uh…of course. Get in.”
I climb in next to him as he jerks on the rein, and in a couple short minutes, we arrive at the gates. The man waiting looks younger than I am. By his stance, he doesn’t appear threatening, but Philistines have many tricks. He’s wearing blue jean pants and a short-sleeved shirt with his hands in his pockets.
I step out of the buggy to prepare my interrogation when Benji gasps behind me. “Shayne?”
My head whips around to him. “You know this man?” Benji ignores my question and looks away, giving me my answer. I growl under my breath. I’ll deal with him later.
Walking up to the entrance, I look at the man through the wire of the gates. “It appears your name is Shayne?”
His brown hair flops around with his nod. “Yes, sir. I’m here to speak with Hiram Fitch.”
I slide my hands in my pockets wondering how this boy could possibly know my father. “So I’ve heard. I’m saddened to inform you that Hiram has passed on. Now, I must ask you to leave here and not return.”
His face crumples as if I crushed him. “He’s…dead?”
Curiosity is creeping up my spine. The devastation in his demeanor suggests they were close. I don’t deal with Philistines unless it’s absolutely necessary for the good of the Anointed Land, yet I find myself asking, “May I inquire as to what your business was with my father?”
