by JR King
I covered my face with both hands. My body shuddered with small sobs. Grandma walked around the table and hugged me, stroking my hair, telling me everything would be all right.
Face slick with tears, I stared up at her. “What if he’s telling the truth? What if he didn’t realize how hard he was squeezing her neck?”
She wiped my tears away. “We’re human, El. This is what happens, like it or not.” Her eyes seemed to have gone opaque, as if she was visually imagining me without really seeing me. “I’ve forgiven him on all fronts.” A sardonic grin draped itself across her face. “He was a quiet, sweet man, and this is what happens to good people who never pour their anger out. I think he needed an outlet for his rage at the world, for injustice and inequality, but he never sought the treatment he needed. He was a great lawyer. Bureaucracy drove him to practice law less and focus on writing. Essentially, he was a blowstack, someone who bottled up a lot of stuff, and one day…wham. He was no threat to society, he deserved to do his time and see you walk down the aisle. I rest my case.”
I can destroy Christopher, I convinced myself. As dull and dreary and insane as it sounded, I could do it. “Michael knows high-up peeps. I’ll ask him to pull some strings and find out if someone else opened the box. Maybe daddy’s alive. Maybe he came back and took the evidence out.”
She touched my jaw. “If he’s alive, then we should find him.”
My chest hurt. I rubbed at it. Pulling my knees up, I wrapped my arms around them and rested my chin, then squeezed my eyes shut. By hook or by crook, I’ll destroy the man who wronged my family, I swore to myself. All bets are off. Prepared to go to the bitter end, the first thing I had to do is find out how much Alexander knew. In my hearts of hearts, I didn’t think he was duping me.
“You okay, kiddo?” asked grandpa.
I waited a beat, then said, “I’m good.” I willed my body back into sereneness. It was only a matter of willpower. I kept talking about the holidays, waving at Alexander as he came in with a few shopping bags containing astronomically-priced gifts.
I could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke, “We went shopping the last days. It was a fun way to cap off the vacation.”
Since it was Sunday, the church became my home for the next hours. I listened to the hiss of the candles being lit, wicks sizzling and popping as they ignited under the flame from another candle. I couldn’t concentrate on the short sermon, and not because it was expository. I stared at the pastor’s hands. They were clasped together, his fingers intertwined with strands of hematite beads, their glossy grey surface evenly reflecting the soft candlelight in the cathedral. I closed my ears to the soft chant that followed.
Church was more like a social gathering than a sign of faith. Just like a professional network, the same cliques abound, entitled groups that’d formed within the gracious, sacred walls in the main to discuss red-state politics. Socializing went as expected. Cougars, housewives, and bachelorettes greeted Alexander, avoiding me. Devout men, regardless of their age and marital status, greeted me rather enthusiastically. A few even kissed the back of my hand, a gesture I’m sure Alexander thought was barbaric. I was cautious, hedging my answers on the subject of the box when he asked me how my grandparents had interpreted all of it. After the fantastically prepared lunch, I thanked grandpa and went upstairs. A nap was my objective. Or…beating Christopher to death. My mind was buzzing, humming like a beehive now that parts of the jigsaw puzzle had locked into their correct locations. Aside from assumptions, I had no proof to speak of. A strong hand caught me around the waist, hitching me up hard against a wall.
Alexander was half-naked, all rippling abs and powerfully veined biceps. He said, “What’s cooking up there? Don’t spare the horses.”
“Going through…the past…,”
“Drained you emotionally,” he finished for me. His questing fingers found the silky edge of my Brazilian brief’s elastic band and eased beneath it, pulling it so it snapped back against my hipbone with a sharp crack sound. “You need to rest. I can wait. Sleep first, fuck later.”
I shook my head, guiding his hand through the moisture that’d already slickened my folds. “Fuck me. I need this. To shut up my brain.”
“Hot and creamy,” he chuckled softly, circling my clit. I jolted against him, my body strung so tight I thought I might snap. “Were you thinking of me when you sat in church? Were you thinking of what I would preach while wearing clerical togs? Did the thought of going to the confessional in the hopes of meeting me turn you on?”
Right then I decided to fuck with his head. I challenged one of his limits. For a very long moment after the nice killing blow, which felt more like an eon, I wondered if I’d made a very bad mistake. Just by seeing the hurt in his eyes when he safeworded, I knew Alexander wasn’t colluding with Christopher.
I can’t possibly write the scene down, though.
Alexander Turner
The Role-Playing Initiation
I was thinking of sealing my mouth over hers before sending her off to bed, but Elena shifted swiftly on her feet, startling me. “I need confession, Father.”
Jesus Christ. This was blatant provocation. I felt the blood pulse thickly in my veins. I role-played in fantasies, never IRL. With you, I’ll be honest, my children. Hot wasn’t a suitable designation for this level of reverence. Hot is the sort of street language that adjusted the brain to a low level activity; you utter it without high regard. Hot chick in a hot outfit with hot little hands and a hot mouth, too reductive, nuances were mottled et al. Crude language was off-putting in this context. Role-playing was an art for me. It had to have finesse. The words simmering and sweltering came closer. It wasn’t the denomination that got to me, it was Elena’s angelic approach and my monastic posturing. It was the positioning and the inference of a centuries-old dynamic: the virginal and the fatherly attitude.
At once I felt dominant, but not the S&M kind, this type of dominance evoked those visceral, ravenous, feral feelings that primates thrived upon. Obviously, this is my alter ego speaking to you. Sex and symbolism came together for the sadist in me. The act of praying, whereby you find yourself on your knees, closely resembles the way a slave would crawl before a master, or a submissive would yield to a dominant. I never said prayers, but the act of saying prayers had great effect on me. Elena quickly learned that saying prayers had a laic meaning in my house, namely, in my playroom. There’s no complex, earthly explanation for liking this setting. In a sense, it’s a bit like rape. The idea might turn you on, but it isn’t applicable in real life.
I hurriedly, devoutly sent a silent prayer for celestial aid in getting through this sans premature ejaculation. Biggest muted sound of a prayer ever! “What,” I paused slightly, recalling priestly deportment, “What can I help you with, my child?”
Elena’s gaze met mine and then she glanced down. Such a shy little Lamb of God.
My voice deepened a bit when I spoke again: “Shall we sit down, Elena?” She nodded coyly. I walked beside her to the bed bench, and gestured her to take a seat before sitting down myself. Not very ecclesial, but then again, it’s not like her grandparents owned a rickety confessional. To better perform my pastoral duties, I put on my white button-down. Elena made no move to confess, the knuckles of her joined fingers became white, and so my voice went sharp. “What can I do for you?”
“Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been one month since my last confession.” Her eyes glistened for a moment, her throat working on a hard swallow. Her nervousness seemed very real.
“I’m listening, my child.”
I heard her breath roughen. “I’ve had impure thoughts about a man, Father.” Already I felt my flesh respond to her words. My stupid dick, which normally obeyed my will, stirred violently. Where’s God when you need a miracle? “These thoughts have turned into fantasies. Filthy imaginings that leave my body warm, and wet, throughout the day. At night I can’t sleep. I think of nothing but him, his hands on me, exploring me, tea
ching me about pleasure, using me as his plaything, fucking me into incoherence. I would do anything for him. I can’t help it.”
“Have you compromised…,” I struggled to find the correct speech again, “Have you acted upon these thoughts?”
“I can’t. That would be…heresy,” she croaked. “He’s unavailable and I’m betrothed. Our desire must remain unrequited, society would scorn us.”
Is she talking about me, or someone else? My teeth gritted. “Do you often see him?”
She shook her head. “Once a week.” She lowered her voice. “Nothing helps when I see him. Prayer doesn’t help. All I want to do is drop to my knees and worship his…cock.”
I coughed then, adjusted myself. “There’s no need to pray when you see him. Physical lust cannot be banished by a spiritual invocation, it will only enhance whatever part of your body is rousing at that moment. Maybe if you spoke to your beloved one about it, he might help you get through this infatuation.”
“I can’t do that,” she whispered.
“You can. And you will.”
She shook her head again. “I cannot do that. He won’t listen. He’s controlling…keeps things from me.”
What now? “Then I urge you to confront him, my child. Perhaps in the presence of a trusting family member.”
Her eyes lifted to mine. Moistening her lips, she leaned closer. “What if he is hiding truths from me? Shall I leave him?”
I felt my breath leave me. “No, Elena. Rather make inquiries as to why he did this.”
“Drinking, drugs, gambling, prostitutes—these are just a few of his sins.”
Hold it right there, Mother Teresa. As if she were innocent. My teeth gritted with rage, and the pulse in my groin throbbed. “And you know of his practices how?”
“He’s done things to me. Things you wouldn’t believe, Father. Sodomy, spanking…and he owns a cross for diabolic purposes. He’s a member of a secular clergy. I get punished for every little thing he disagrees with, right or wrong doesn’t matter. He thinks he’s a god. But we all know there’s only the Lord.”
The discomfort between my legs grew worse. What I wouldn’t give to sodomize her right now. “Quite the predicament you’re in, it seems, my child.”
“That’s why I need…I want this other man. I believe he can help. He’s a man of God.”
“He is? Does he belong to my parish?”
She nodded. “What can I do to make him see me?”
I said nothing and kept staring at her. If I told her to betray her boyfriend, she’d drop to her knees and suck me, and if I told her not to cheat on him—meaning me, I’d have to take care of business myself.
“My child, I think you should listen to your heart. Whom do you love?”
She fell to her knees before me, leaning back on her heels. “It is you, Father. Love me. Help me. I cannot stay with a monster. He’s a demon. The spawn of the devil!”
There was the slightest hint of bitterness in her words, which damn near stopped my heart. I stared down at her for a long moment, realizing my dam of control had a crack. Was she role-playing or was trying to get a message across? Had she been lying? Monster. That’s the word that echoed in my mind. A light sweat broke over my face as I realized how seamlessly everything fell into place. She never complained about my sadism, she just swallowed everything, thinking I was a monster. It hurt like a bitch. No amount of self-flagellation could alter the pain. This is exactly why role-playing was one of my limits. Elena had a strong penchant for it, and now look at me. I felt heartsick. Motherfucker.
“Red.” The word was torn from my throat.
She let out a tremendous gasp, her beautiful features twisting with sadness. A tear rolled down her cheek, a couple more coursing down both cheeks. “No, Alex! No, it’s an act!” Her palms slid lovingly over my thighs. “Please don’t do this. I’ve tried so many things, I’ve listened to you, always! It’s a game of—”
A fresh spurt of relief gave me renewed strength. She stopped when I lifted two fingers to silence her. “I’m your priest, address me as such.” I reached for her face. Brushing her hair aside, I traced her cheek. “Show me why you came here, my child.”
“Yes, Father.” She reached behind the night-like fall of her hair and loosened the clasp that prevented the zipper from going down. Rising, she dropped her dress slowly, deliberately inciting me. Her body was a little flushed and misted with perspiration. “You must help me. Let us feast on each other.” Her mouth descended to mine.
My mouth covered hers almost violently as my hands dug into the buttery soft skin of her hips. There was savage but controlled urgency. My tongue licked across the satiny seam of her parted lips, then dipped inside, teasing. She never saw it coming. I caught her bottom lip between my teeth and bit down, savoring the harsh sound of her cry and the metallic taste of the blood that followed. Then I ate at her mouth as if I had all the time in the world, as if her blood was the sweetest delicacy and I couldn’t get enough. Letting go, I smiled at her. “Are you sure about this, my child? There will be blood and suffering. Do you still want this to happen?”
“Yes, I do, Father.”
“You know what you want.” I stood. My arms encircled her waist as I pulled her closer to me, our gazes meeting. Her breasts pressed against my chest. I bowed my head a little to take in her scent. “You come to me of your own will?”
She nodded, her head resting on my shoulder.
“And what of your beloved one?”
“I don’t care about that swine. He’s not going to matter in about five minutes.”
“You wanted this. You willingly gave yourself to me. Always remember it is you who came to me,” I whispered against her brow. “Say it with me. I give myself to you, Father.”
“I give myself to you, Father.”
“Repeat after me again. I came here to worship your cock, Father.”
“I came here to worship your cock, Father.”
I lost the trousers and underwear. My cock stood arrow straight, and Elena sank to her knees, her eyes glazed. Her lips kissed the twitching member and I groaned loudly. My gaze grew more intense, stinging my eyes as her lips surrounded my cock-head. Her tongue lapped at the slit that oozed evidence of a pending orgasm. I watched inch after inch disappearing into her plump mouth. My hands went to her head. I thrust my cock into her mouth. Her hands cupped my balls, rolling them like they were her rosaries while her mouth suckled and drew on my heavy shaft.
I twined my fingers into her hair, the thick locks feeling like damp silk in my palms. “Such an eager child. Sit and spread your legs for me. Missionary is a very apt position for our first time.”
She pulled back. “Yes, Father.”
I watched her face as I rubbed myself against her. Her breaths grew jagged, her hips moving of their own accord. I slid in a fraction, teasing her delectably, then filled her with a practiced roll of the hips. “Christ, yes,” I hissed, shuddering as I touched the end of the distended channel.
“No, Father,” giggled Elena. “He cannot pleasure you the way I can. He cannot make you come like I can.” I could feel her lips hugging the wide root of my cock.
“You’re right, Elena. Holy hell, you’re burning up. So tight, squeezing me like a fist.” With my gaze riveted to the place where our bodies joined, I pulled my cock from her in a slow, wet glide. I splayed my hands on the backs of her thighs, my grip gentle but unyielding. That’s how I held her as I surged forward again. I fucked her with a slow rhythm, working her tight pussy into a giving muscle so that she took me more easily, and each push and withdrawal became more slick and fluid.
“I’ve set you free. You’re mine now, Elena. There’s no going back.”
“I’m yours, Father.”
“You may call me Alexander, my child.”
Sobbing with pleasure, she spasmed around me, her body stiffening beneath me. She jerked once, twice, softly crying my name as she came. And that sound, that glorious noise of my name blending with oxygen
being sucked into oblivion squared off things.
While her sex still rippled and trembled around my embedded flesh, I grabbed her hips and lifted them. My tempo increased, my hips churning and swiveling, my hard flesh shafting her tender pussy with relentless drives. When my cock swelled against her spongy walls, at once my thrusts came in quick, jabbing movements. I threw my head back. The muscles in my neck strained as I stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Simple, yet as powerful as playroom practices, I thought as I came.
Alexander Turner
The Homecoming Gift
Woken by my internal alarm clock, I stretched, rolled onto the side and slipped stealthily out of the warm bed. It was a dummy click; I was fully awake, the cobweb of sleep blown away even though I’d scarcely credited half of my normal rest. The moment I opened the window, I was overcome with the sounds and smells of the morning. Weston was invariably beautiful in September. Wondering what shape the Saturday morning was going to take, I heard the sheets rustle. I walked back to the bed, reaching out to lift the tangled covers so as to nestle against soft curves and warm skin again. With a contented sigh, I pressed my face deeper into Elena’s chest. It smelled so homey—so fantastically good, like the hyacinths and gardenias and stocks and freesias that grew in the garden outside. I should bottle her scent. A scent that could make a man weak in the knees, I mused.
“Alex?”
Lifting my head, I opened one eye and looked at her.
“Didn’t you say something about making sure I couldn’t leave the bed? You’d fuck me and feed me and that’s it?” She raised an eyebrow at me in challenge. The shell of her robin’s-egg blue eyes glowed. “We wouldn’t need restraints if you make sure I can’t walk away.”
