Sweet Miranda, with her practical clothing and simplicity. I’m glad to have her silent strength with me. She never imposes, but her calm demeanor always brings me peace. She accompanies me on visits to members of my congregation because my wife has never been interested in these things. Maureen, Mo, has never been keen on being a typical pastor’s wife. I wonder if some part of Mo is still unhappy with my decision to become a Minister. She’s always known it was something I wanted to do.
The Whittaker sisters are polar opposites. My wife Maureen, is a feisty, independent woman with strong opinions on everything from religion to politics. Miranda Mayflower, a gentle soul, was quiet even before she lost her voice.
Miranda looks up at me, as if sensing I’ve been watching her, and I smile, a thankful smile that earns me a brief frown. It’s such a fleeting display of emotion, I wonder if I’m imagining things. I wish I could reach her, but no matter how much affection my wife and I pour on her or the amount of prayers I say, Miranda is lost to us. Lost to me. The thought jolts me, and I look away, a lump forming in my throat.
She stands and makes her way into the kitchen to where the children sit. I shouldn’t look at the way her small hips sway, the way her breasts press against her shirt, but I do. I’m her brother-in-law, a man of God, but a man nonetheless. I clear my throat, tearing away my gaze, and use the time to talk to Lisa.
“Have you heard any news, Mrs. Walker?” I ask.
“Nothing more than what the cops told me yesterday.” She twists her wedding ring on her finger, and doesn’t meet my gaze.
“I’m sure they’re doing all they can to bring the perpetrators to justice.” I offer.
Her eyes pierce into me, and then she laughs mirthlessly. “Perpetrators? Is that what they are?”
My eyes meet Mike’s as he makes his way toward us. She bursts into hysterical sobs as Miranda reappears, placing her a hand comfortingly on Lisa’s shoulder.
“I -” I have no idea what triggered such a response, so it renders me speechless. Miranda motions for me to leave, and Mike places a hand on my arm, leading me away. I know that grief is different for everyone, but this woman seems to be manic.
I walk into the kitchen and sit at the table with the children.
“She’s just in a state.” Mike tells me as he busies himself at the kitchen sink, getting a glass of water.
“Yeah, I get that. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.” Mike sets the glass down in front of me, and I take a sip.
“Look, let me go see if she’s alright. You chat with the kids, yeah?” I nod and watch him exit the small kitchen with its cherry wood cupboards and gas stove. The fridge is covered in a whole array of pictures and drawings which I assume the kids must have done.
The older girl, who Mike said is thirteen, runs her hands through her younger sister’s hair. She holds my gaze, unsmiling. “Are you okay?” I venture.
She says nothing, just continues to stroke the girl’s hair. I notice bruises on her pale arms.
“They won’t talk to strangers,” The boy pipes up.
I nod. “How are they? How are you?”
His jaw tics, the same way his mother’s did. After a few seconds he looks up at me, his gaze hard. “Is he really gone?” Mike hadn’t mentioned his age, but he looks about fifteen.
“He is, Son.”
“Good.” That one word is his only response, his voice laced with relief instead of devastation. I swallow down the bile that threatens, noting the hatred in his eyes. .
“Steven.” The older girl hisses he abruptly stands, sending the chair he was sitting on flying.
“Still protecting your monster, baby sis?” He asks calmly before he turns and leaves the room. I look between his retreating back and his sister.
“Is there something you want to talk about?” I offer in a soft voice, yet she stiffens, grabs her sister’s hand and exits the room. I blow out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and run my hands through my hair. He called their father a monster. Was he abusive? I stand and look around the room once more. I should talk to Mike. Maybe Lisa knows, but if she did, would she simply remain silent. Let her husband hurt her kids?
This is the part I dislike most. What comes after and what happens to those left behind. We can spend our lives hiding the filth, all those dark desires that feed our depraved souls, but it all resurfaces eventually.
I walk into the living room, and I’m ashamed when I look at Miranda because every one of my darkest desires center around her. Everything about the woman draws me in, her pouty lips, her porcelain skin, the way her chest rises and falls. The curve of her ass.
I excuse myself saying I need to use the restroom as a distraction. I am not a good man, not by a long shot. Looking in the mirror, I barely recognize the man staring back at me. I sigh and wash my hands. I catch Mike in the small hallway.
“There you are, you okay?” He asks when I’m standing next to him.
I shake my head. “ I have this bad feeling, Mike, especially after talking to Lisa, the way she reacted,”
“It’s the grief, Fynn. Hits people hard at times.”
“It’s more than that.” I whisper. “Their son, he said he was glad the father was gone.”
“He’s a teenager. That’s his way of dealing with things like this.”
I run my hands through my hair in frustration. “I think he abused the kids, Mike.”
His eyes widened and a frown creased his forehead.
“That’s a serious acquisition to make.”
“Just talk to Lisa, that’s all I’m asking. It could be nothing, but I just have this nagging feeling inside.”
He nodded and squeezed my shoulder.
“I should get going.” I tell him and we shake hands. Mike would do the right thing. I could count on that.
She sits with her hands bunching her skirt in her lap. I want to reach out and take them, offer her some kind of comfort.
“Thank you for what helping out at the Walkers.” I offer, and she nods, still not looking at me.
“Are you okay?” She doesn’t react.
“Miranda.” I sigh. What did I want her to say? She refuses to use her voice. “I - just.” I place a hand on her thigh, and she freezes for a moment before she hits it off. “I’m sorry. I just want things to be the way they were, before this - this mess, Miranda. Before I messed up.”
When we pull up outside my house, she doesn’t wait for me, barrelling up the pathway and into the house. I slam my fist on the steering wheel. This is all my fault. I broke her heart, married her sister, and now… what did I expect? For everything to just be okay? It’s been years, but the weight of my betrayal is still as fresh as if it happened yesterday.
I see the light in the bedroom come on, and I see her silhouette. I shouldn’t watch as she strips out of her clothing, but I do, and I hate myself for how hard she makes me.
Rubbing my hands over my face, I settle in to my wingback chair. I’ve been trying to put together a sermon for the last hour, but nothing inspiring comes to mind. This is usually the easy part, but the events of the day, the visit to the Walkers, all remind me that as much as I try to show people the way, I too have a lot of demons to fight off.
I look at the pictures on my desk. There’s one of Mo, Miranda and I that we took just after we met. The two girls look so much alike, smiling at the camera, my arms draped over their shoulders. I miss that time and those people. I lean forward, elbows on my desk as I run my fingers through my hair. I have to get a handle on this. I’ve changed, I’ve made peace with the past and the mistakes I have made.
A knock at the door startles me.
“Come in.” I shout.
Mo walks in, a skimpy night dress hugging every part of her curvaceous body. My wife is a goddess, and I am one lucky man, but I feel unworthy of her, and with good reason. There are secrets between us, secrets that could destroy us. Secrets that could destroy me.
Her hair falls in loose waves and she flicks
it aside, a mischievous glint in her eyes. When she walks over and places her hands on my shoulders, kneading gently, I almost combust. She still drives me crazy. I’m a shit, but I do love my wife. Mo has been distant lately, and no matter what I have tried, I’ve been unable to reach her. It’s like a part of her just faded away over time, so when I get this side of her, I take it with open arms. I lean back, letting out a breath.
“Want to come to bed?” Her voice is low and seductive. She rubs her hands over my chest, and I suck in a breath. I hold her wrist gently and pull her around my chair to stand between my legs. Her eyes flutter as her teeth graze her plump bottom lip.
“I can’t wait that long.” I kiss her wrist.
I knew I wanted Maureen Whitaker from the moment I first saw her. She was a spitfire. Hard around the edges, but when she was with me, she was different. She’d called me “her home”, and I knew then that I would always be that to her, no matter the cost. Losing her was not an option.
Nose scrunched she says, “We should take this upstairs.” I shake my head, wrapping my hands around her thighs and dragging her closer. The scent of her soft, floral perfume and the smoothness of her skin are a heady combination. I have everything I need right here in my arms. I won’t fuck this up.
“I want you right here.” I start to caress the back of her thighs the way she likes, all the way up to her ass cheeks. “I want to fuck you right here, on my desk.”
“She’s in the living room.” Mo giggles.
“So.” The mention of Miranda always frustrates me. The fact that she’s here every weekend infuriates me, but not because she crowds us. No. She does the exact opposite. She just fades into the background. My wallflower. Fuck this. I have to stop thinking about Miranda.
I use a thumb to pull aside Maureen’s already soaked panties and she moans, gripping onto my shoulders. She’s flustered, her eyes wide as I dip a finger into her wet heat. She throws her head back and a sigh leaves her lips. I torture her clit with my thumb and forefinger, knowing she’s losing her inhibitions, her legs widening. Mo’s always so easy, so pliable. She molds to my will and loves every minute of it. She’s all need and desire, she glows, yet there is also a layer of darkness beneath the surface. Something I could not quite understand
“Sit on the desk and open up for me.” I command.
She does as I say, and I lean closer, the smell of her arousal intoxicating me by the second. “You’re perfect.” I lick my lips as I loop my fingers on the sides of the thin lace panties, ripping them in one smooth motion. She’s a loud girl, but she’ll have to behave now. “I’ll stuff these in your mouth if you make a sound.” I threaten as I kiss her inner thigh.
“You’re a filthy man, Pastor.” She teases, knowing that her calling me that is a turn on.
“Ssh.” I warn, a finger on my lip, and she smirks. I grab her thighs, spreading them apart, and gently trace my fingers up them until I reach her pussy. She leans back on my desk, her legs widening further as I kiss a trail from her knee all the way to her glistening apex. Peeling back her folds only makes me harder, and in a second my tongue is lapping up her sweetness. Incoherent cries leave her lips, so she places a fist to her mouth to stifle them.
“Oh, you taste good, baby.” I tell her when I come up for air. She moans, her fingers in my hair as she pulls me back to her needy core, her hips bucking as she fucks my face. Such a good little wife my Mo is tonight. I gently bite her clit and reach up to cover her mouth with one hand as she screams out her orgasm.
I don’t hear her approach, but when I lift my gaze, Miranda is standing at the door, her cheeks pink, as she watches me get her sister off. She doesn’t move an inch, and neither do I. I keep lapping at Mo who is still riding her high. A minute later I stand and unbutton my pants, letting my erection spring forward. I fist my length and watch as Miranda’s eyes move to my cock. I can see that she’s trembling. I know how wrong it is to let her watch, to like it as much as I do. But I want to crack the facade she’s put up.
I dive into Mo in one fluid motion. Miranda’s eyes lock with mine, her chest heaving at the scene in front of her. She likes it. We both know it. Wrapping a hand around Mo’s neck, I make sure she stays in place. I never take my eyes off Miranda as I thrust into my wife, losing myself in those dark, soulless orbs that burn with a desire so strong my knees buckle. “Oh, fuck.” I groan.
Her pretty pink lips twitch, and it isn’t my wife’s welcoming folds that undo me, but the image of me fucking those pretty, quivering lips again. When she flees the room, the guilt eats at me as I look down into Mo’s confused expression. “You okay?” I whimper, and she nods. She’s angry that I didn’t wait. “I’m sorry, baby.”
“It’s fine.” She snaps. “What the fuck is going on with you?”
“Nothing. I’ll make it up to you. She pushes against my chest, so I step back, readjusting myself. She pulls down her nightdress and storms out of my office, leaving me feeling like the piece of shit I am. I should check on Miranda. I make a move to do just that but decide that it isn’t the best idea.
I am hurting the two women I care for more than anything in this world, but it’s like I have no control over my impulses. I fall to my knees, my head bowed, saying a prayer for my damned soul. If I don’t get a handle on this, I’ll fall. All I’ve ever wanted to do was serve God, be a good pastor and help my community, but I’m sliding further down into an abyss I fear there’ll be no salvation from.
5
Miranda Mayflower
Now
Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed are thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.
Amen.
I’m not catholic, but the prayer brings me comfort, especially after what I just saw. After I did what I did. I violated Mo’s privacy. Why would he let me see that? Why would he cause me to sin and betray Maureen, his Mo. My sister isn’t perfect, she’s actually completely crazy, but that’s nothing compared to what we just did. I am sick woman, desiring my sister’s husband. Wanting to be her.
My legs shake all the way to the guest bedroom. Once I finally make it inside the room, I bolt the door. My breathing is unstable as I place my forehead on the cool, wooden door. I can’t seem to stop trembling. I make my way over to the bed, switching the lamp on as I lay back on the cool sheets, my face burning in embarrassment My chest is rising and falling frantically, my nipples aching as they press against my shirt. I should have walked away, but I couldn’t. So, now I must punish myself. Sinners must be punished. But not before I soothe the ache between my thighs. I lift my skirt and slip off my cotton panties before spreading my legs wide. I reach around my neck for my rosary. I hold it between my hands and drag it in a rhythmic motion against me. The repeated cool friction of the beads against my clit and the image of the hunger in Fynn’s eyes when he looked at me, cause the pressure in my stomach to increase. I imagine his mouth on me, him whispering filthy words as he takes me. I lose the beads and pick up the pace with my fingers, thoughts of him blurring my vision and it is all it takes to have me shuddering in ecstasy, my ass lifting off the bed. I turn my head into the pillow to mask a cry that escapes my lips. Once my heartbeat returns to normal, I lock myself in the bathroom and press a blade to my inner thigh. Watching the blood trickle down my leg, I feel better. I say to you: but unless you shall do penance, you shall all likewise perish. The verse from Luke is my mantra as I continue to press the blade deeper. They make me sin. Mo and her sins, seducing a man of God. Fynn giving in to the desires of the flesh. And me, I sin by merely existing.
***
It’s been a few days since the incident, and I’m feeling a lot better about everything. It was a lapse in judgement on both our parts, and it will not happen again. I’ve avoided Fynn as best but the weekend is nearing. To make up for my bad behaviour, even if she knows nothing about it, I decide to pay Maury a lunchtime visi
t. I ride my bicycle since it’s too close to drive yet too far to walk.
I live in a small, one-bedroom apartment close to the church, above the community center I work in. The woman who runs it thinks I’m a nutjob and only hired me because she has it bad for Fynn. Who doesn’t? Still, I am grateful to have an income and a place of my own. I work as the cook, so there isn’t a need to talk to anyone. It’s perfect.
I park on the side of their two-story house, a mansion compared to where I live. The lawn is well manicured, the house in mint condition. Nothing less for Maury. Leaning my bike against the wall, I walk around to the back where she leaves a spare key. To think we came from such humble beginnings and here she is, a successful writer. She doesn’t know it, but I’ve read her work, her sick obsessions and horrid thoughts. I wonder how she’d feel to know that I know. What if I told Fynn everything?
I open the kitchen door and let myself in, making my way to the living room. The walls in the corridor are covered in pictures of us. I hate and love that she includes me in her family. She doesn't want children. Never has, and it’s a rule Fynn seems to have resolved himself to. I round the corner and am startled to find Fynn sitting on the couch, a book in hand. He’s supposed to be at the church, I wouldn’t have come over otherwise. He looks up when I approach, his eyes reflecting the same surprise I feel. My face flushes, and I look away.
“Miranda.” He says, setting the book he was reading down. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you here to see Mo? She’s out for the day.”
I nod. Heat pools between my thighs, and my stomach lurches when he stands and walks toward me. I step back, wanting nothing more than to leave. Turning on my heel, I step into the hallway.
I don’t get far before he grips my arm and forces me to turn to him. “Don’t leave. Is everything okay?” He looks slightly panicked. He must think I’m here to bust him. He should know I’d never do that.
Leave Me Breathless: The Black Rose Collection Page 62
