by Ava Lore
He wore plain underwear, serviceable cotton. Gently she worked her fingertips past the tight elastic, feeling the soft, springy texture of his pubic hair. Just as thick and luxurious as the hair on his head, she thought and she had to laugh at her own little joke. The laughter died quickly, though, because she found the base of his cock, and he moaned, collapsing into her, only the doors behind her holding the two of them up.
Tentatively, she let her finger wander over the base, feeling the velvety skin there sliding over the steel beneath. He was hard as a diamond and big. What a waste it was on a priest...
Dipping her hand farther into his trousers, she pulled the skin of his cock back, toward his pelvis, giving him the tiniest taste of what she could make him feel, and he shuddered against her.
“I can't... I shouldn't... this isn't right...”
His shoulders were stiffening, though he didn't pull away.
She lifted her face to his. Desire-drugged green eyes gazed down, his lips parted as he panted in time with her.
“Don't let me go back out there,” she whispered. “Don't let me remember myself...”
And that was it. She didn't want to remember the person she had been. He was her unfinished business. She needed to do this, needed him to give this one night to her, and then, maybe, it could all be behind her.
For a moment he hesitated, his body trembling as inside, he warred between his vows and his desires.
She licked her lips.
“Save me, Michael,” she said.
He groaned and gave in.
His fingers dug into her back as he dragged his hands down, down past her hips to her ass, scooping her against him, cradling his body in hers as his ravenous, unpracticed mouth traced over her throat, down to her collarbone, and she reached around and pulled him to her. Angling her pelvis, she pushed his erection into the space between her legs, feeling the hard steel swell and press against the hollow of her pussy. She was empty, needy. She needed him.
His mouth grazed the swell of her breasts beneath her shirt, and she retreated from him for a moment to undo the buttons of her blouse. Her fingers stumbled over each other as, shaking, she pushed each button through its hole, pop pop pop, until her breasts, constrained by a lacy bra, were exposed to the cool air. Goosebumps pebbled over her skin, and she felt her nipples harden as Michael placed frantic kisses over her flesh. The heat of his mouth was an erotic contrast to the winter night, and she shivered and squirmed beneath his onslaught as his fingers, buried in the abundant swell of her ass, tightened on her almost painfully. He was like a river unleashed, all his longing and desire held back by the dam of denial, and now at last he was freed. His body moved against hers restlessly, aimlessly, as though he wanted to press every inch of flesh against her at the same time.
"Michael," she said, and then he scooped her up, slamming her into the door, hitching her legs around his waist as he thrust, fully clothed, into her pussy. His erection ground against her clit, sending her flying, her head spinning as he thrust against her. His mouth was on her breast, the dark, wet heat of his mouth devouring her nipple through the lace of her bra, and she clung to his broad shoulders, helpless. Behind him, the statue of Mary watched them, and she closed her eyes as he slammed her against the door again, the strength of his need surging violently.
"I need you in me," she whispered. "Please, Michael, I need you inside me."
"Tara," he groaned. "You can't say such things..." But it his arms, clamping her torso to his, shifted, and he tore her bra from her breasts. They bounced from their cups, and at last his mouth was on her, sucking one nipple into the hot darkness of his mouth. She mewled and squirmed as he swirled his tongue against her skin, and then they were sliding down the hard wood of the door, sinking to the floor of the vestibule.
Cold tile bit into her back as he covered her body with his, his fingers at her waistband, struggling to undo her jeans. She wished she'd worn a skirt, but it was too late now. Her hands tangled with his as she undid the button of her jeans and ripped the zipper down. Then he was working her jeans down over her hips and the cold floor hit the skin of her ass with a shock that made her gasp.
"We can go..." he started to say, but she didn't want to go anywhere. She pulled him to her in a kiss that seared through her, jolting straight through her body like a bolt of lightning, grounding in her pussy, sending warmth out over her limbs, and then the cold didn't matter so much any more.
He pulled back. "Turn over," he said, and his voice was so rough and hoarse that it almost didn't sound like his any longer. If it had been substantial, she could have rubbed it over her clit and come from it alone. Wordlessly she turned over, and he pulled her back until she was on her knees, her bare ass in the air, the tile biting into her knees through her jeans. Her coat bunched over her head, and the sound of their shared breath filled the vestibule.
The calloused pads of his fingers slid against her slick lips, teasing her quivering channel with the promise of more. It was going to happen. She'd dreamed of this moment. She'd dreamed of him for years. And now it was coming true.
In her chest, her heart clenched, and she forced herself to concentrate on his fingers as they dipped and retreated, tried to memorize every move he made, every detail, from the smell of incense and snow to the way the tile stuck to her cheek, to the sound of her tiny cries echoing in the vestibule as he slowly explored her most secret spaces.
This is it, she thought. This is the night. After tonight, they would never be together again, and the knowledge was a lump in her throat, a weight in her stomach.
Then the heat of his mouth grazed against her pussy and she squeezed her eyes shut, choking down a sob of pleasure, a sob of pain and loss and need.
Slowly, his tongue skimmed over her pussy, exploring, probing, and the tip of his nose ghosted against the puckered entrance of her ass, his breath heating her flesh. She bit her lips so hard she tasted blood. She heard him fumbling with his pants, and then he was rising up, straddling her legs, and the tip of his cock touched her pussy.
The pain inside her was white hot, only matched by the pleasure of his hot hand running up her back as he pressed forward, guiding himself into her. Slowly, painfully, he pushed forward, parting her inner walls.
He was big, but she arched her back and forced herself to relax as he moved into her. She imagined she could feel every vein and ridge of his cock as it slid past her outer lips and slipped inside her slick, aching channel. It felt every bit as good as she had dreamed, a hot, forbidden invasion, stretching her out, opening her up, filling her to the brim.
"Oh," he said behind her, and then at last he was seated inside her, his hips flush with her ass, and she wanted to cry, wanted to die where she knelt so that her life could end in this perfect moment.
Slowly he curled over her, until his body covered hers, his arms around her waist, hand on her breast. He was tall enough that she could feel his face pressed into the back of her neck. Together they knelt in the vestibule of his church beneath the statue of Mary, his cock buried to the hilt inside her.
He'd found her on the street, lifted her up, saved her. She didn't know how to thank him, didn't know how to love him without giving everything to him. Perhaps she was being selfish, but in that moment she couldn't have cared less. She wanted to stay forever, him inside her, the cold of the tiles on her skin, the thick smell of incense in her nose.
Then Father Michael pulled out and thrust forward, and Tara gave a little shriek. Her voice, buried beneath her need for so many years, under so much pressure, came out high and shrill, and behind her he grunted, his hips thrusting again, then again and again, picking up a frantic pace.
"Tara," he said, "Tara, my love, Tara, my girl, my poor broken girl—"
She pushed back as his pelvis pistoned into her, and his thrusts took on a painful edge as he pounded against her ass. "Fuck me, Father," she moaned. "Fuck me, Michael."
"Sweet God in heaven," he cried, and then they were fucking, raw and ha
rd and frantic, pain and pleasure and sadness and care all grating together, generating a heat she had never felt before, so sweet and aching she felt impaled through the heart by her own impossible love.
Her body tightened around the rhythmic stab of his cock, and she strained, pushing back, squirming, writhing. "Father, fuck me, Michael, fuck me, harder, harder—"
"Tara, Tara, Tara," he said, and her name was a profane prayer on his lips as she felt his cock hitch inside her. His hands reached out, tangling in her long blonde hair, pulling until her head could go no further, and he was riding her, her back arched, her pussy quivering and squeezing around him. Her mouth was open, raw, animal sounds escaping from her throat, and she stared at the alcove across from her, where some saint or other stared down at them, watching Father Michael take her on the floor.
Go ahead and watch, she thought fiercely, and then Michael shifted, angling his cock deeper into her, and her building orgasm suddenly crested and crashed over her, flooding her, her whole body clenching and writhing, and she screamed. The sound echoed in the vestibule, and behind her Michael's ragged cries grew desperate as her slick, clenching passage suddenly grasped his cock and milked it. Then he, too, was shuddering with climax, and he came inside her, his hot, thick seed spurting against her womb, filling her pussy, over and over and over again, until it was running down her thighs, spilling onto her jeans, spattering the floor.
As the pleasure receded, Tara listened to their breathing slow, and Michael pressed his face into her back.
"Tara," he said, and she heard regret in his voice.
"Shh," she told him. Slowly she pushed herself back, with him still seated inside her, until they were sitting back, his cock in her pussy as she sat in his lap on the floor. Turning, she looked him in the eye. His face, so handsome, was haggard. His lips pressed together unhappily as he stared at her, and her heart twisted. Leaning back, she kissed him. After a moment, he responded, and slowly, languorously, she teased the tension from him, her lips softening his mouth until she felt him relax against her. She pulled away and pressed her forehead to his face.
"Be with me tonight," she murmured. "Just tonight."
For a moment she thought he would refuse, but then he nodded.
"Tonight," he promised. "Just for tonight."
*
They fucked all night. Moving from the vestibule floor, she took him by the hand into the sanctuary, and he followed her. He bent her over the railing of the altar and had her there, in full defiance of the crucifix on the wall, and she came twice around him. In the confessional box, she sucked his cock into her mouth and milked him until he moaned and pushed her away, falling to his knees before her like a supplicant, pushing his face between her thighs and licking her to climax.
He took her home, then, to his little apartment, a spare two room affair, and they made love there, over and over. Pushing him into his bedroom, she slowly disrobed him, casting aside the trappings of his calling, until he was just a man standing naked before her. Her man. The man she owed so much. The man she loved so fiercely. Wedded to the church, but she had him for the night, and she intended to make it count.
He liked her twisted and tied up. The rosary he had given her at the beginning of the night—a lifetime ago—ended around her wrists, a thin tether that she could have broken easily, and yet she didn't. She let him lay her down and tie her up and plow her body, wringing pain and pleasure from her in equal measure. His mouth spilled profane prayers against her skin as he fucked her, and she cried and sighed with each thrust of his hips. Outside the snow fell, obscuring sound and sight, hiding them from the world as they broke his vows again and again until at last they were spent and fell asleep, his cock still inside her.
In the early morning hours she woke to find him kissing her, his fingers in her pussy, and she dozed as he roamed her body with his hands, sleepily responding to encourage him.
He spent his seed inside her over and over. It would have been a sin to spill it.
"Kiss me," she murmured in the dark, the cold of the snow filled night lapping at the small, hot universe they created together. "Love me."
"I do," he whispered back, and together they came apart in the darkness.
*
Morning hit, cold and bleak. She'd slept little, but when she opened her eyes, Tara knew it was over. Next to her, Michael slept, his face peaceful in repose, sweet and beloved. His hair fell over his forehead, soft and inviting, and his lips were slack and plump.
She wanted to lean over and kiss him awake, but she feared what would happen if she did. Would he yell? Would he cry? Would he weep with regret and anger? She couldn't stand the thought.
Slowly, carefully, she slipped out from between the sheets. Chill air hit her, and she shivered as she gathered her clothes, her heart in turmoil as she retreated from the room and dressed hastily. The whole apartment spoke of a man who lived alone, sparse and sad, and she wished she could tidy it up, give it a few soft touches. That was impossible, though, and she knew it was. Between her legs, she felt the soreness left behind by their frantic couplings. She wished she could stay. She wished she never had to leave. But it was better if she did.
He would hate her when he woke up. Guilt would come between them, and she couldn't stand that. There should be no guilt for what they had done—shame should only be for those things that harmed, not those that brought only pleasure.
Don't look at him, she thought. It was the only way she could go.
Moving to the door, Tara let herself out. Outside the world was shrouded in snow, and the sky hung heavy and gray above her.
In silence, she walked back to the church, then climbed into her car and drove home.
*
They said when God closes a door, he opens a window, but it didn't feel like that at all. Instead, she was trapped, darkness around, the air stifling. The door slammed shut, and no window opened for her.
Tara became a sleep walker. She moved from class to class, dreaming. The snow receded, then came again, and when she slept at night, she dreamed of Michael, the memories of their bodies straining in time to the beat of their hearts obliterating the nightmares that plagued her. Again and again, they came together in her dreams, and when she woke the reality that she couldn't see him again hit her anew.
Why did she go back to the church? Why did she think seeing him again would help her break with her past? Why did she think sleeping with him would satisfy her hunger? One night... it wasn't enough for a lifetime. Not nearly enough.
*
Her dorm phone was ringing and Tara blinked, realizing she had been lost in thought, again. Danielle, her roommate, sighed as she slipped out of bed and crossed the room to the telephone, which was only a few feet away from Tara.
"Hello?" she said. She listened for a second, then held the phone out to Tara. "For you," she said.
Licking her lips, Tara took the receiver from Danielle and pressed it to her ear. "Yes?" she asked.
"There's a visitor for you in the lobby," the student manning the front desk said. "A... Father MacEnroe?"
The blood drained from her face. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I'll be right down."
Two weeks. She knew it had been two weeks because she had kept track. Each night without him had been endless until she fell asleep, and the days were interminable. Her work suffered, and finals were almost over. She had no idea how she had done in any of her classes, and she didn't care. All she could think about was him.
And now he was here.
Numbly, Tara hung up the phone and stood. Should she do her hair? Put on makeup? No. No, he'd seen her at her worst. She didn't have to hide from him.
On trembling knees, she exited her dorm room, walked down the hall, and descended the stairs.
He stood in the lobby. At first he didn't see her, and she took the opportunity to study him.
Exhaustion lined his face, but he was just as beautiful as ever. His shoulders were drawn up and tense, and she longed to reach out and massage
them.
Had he been as rocked by their encounter as she had? She knew he must be torn, deep inside, but why had he come to her instead of seeking to be shriven? It didn't make sense.
She reached the lobby and crossed the floor.
“Father?” she said. Her voice cracked on the word. She had no right to call him that.
He turned and when his eyes fell on her, his face was transformed.
“Tara,” he said, reaching for her, and she found herself being folded into his embrace.
Shocked, she forced herself to hug him back. He pulled away and regarded her.
“Let's go for a walk,” he said.
Mouth dry, she nodded. “Just let me get a coat,” she said.
*
They walked in silence for a long time. It had snowed again, and the campus was blanketed in white, dotted with footprints and snowmen and furrowed hills where drunk students had held snowball fights.
Tara didn't know what to say. She wanted to kiss him, to hold him. He had looked so tired when he'd seen her, but now when she sneaked little glances at his face, he was almost tranquil.
He was here to tell her that he was going away. He had requested transfer. To some war-torn hellhole, far away from here, or to a monastery from which he would never return. He had broken his vows, and he had to pay the price.
Why else would he be here?
They passed the library, and Michael turned toward it, making a beeline for a snow-covered bench. Without brushing it off, he sat down. After a moment's hesitation, she joined him.
For a while, they watched their breath curl in the air. Finals were almost over and no one was around, but they wouldn't have drawn attention even if the campus was turned out in full force: with his coat covering his priestly garb, they just looked like a young woman and an older man enjoying the fading light of the late afternoon.
“I'm going back out tonight,” he said suddenly.