Forgiving Rome

by Clay Ferrill

  The plan solidifying now, but honestly, I hadn’t seen this one coming. She’s not allowed to even speak to me and I’m about to take her sexually. I am improvising and taking a very big risk in this, but my desire for her is so strong. I thought I would have to risk her life or health or both, to eliminate the genetically modified offspring she had carried in her womb briefly. Perhaps God himself took them from her for me to do this. For this I am glad that she will be spared pain.

  Her hand fished inside my bathrobe and wrapped around my stiffness. She lowered her head and kissed the tip of it and then laid back and spread her legs, pulling her layers of silk and chiffon up until her naked core was exposed to me. I lowered my hand to cup her there, gently. Rubbing lightly, I allowed my hand to explore her, the soft folds becoming very wet with her arousal. I shrugged the robe from my shoulders as I stood up and positioned myself between her legs, kneeling on the floor. I let my tongue and mouth caress her soft and beautiful folds, her tastes delicious on my tongue. I pressed my face into her center and licked along her swollen moisture and teased my tongue into her. Raising myself from the floor I let my hand over her shoulder support my upper body as I positioned at her wet opening. Drawing a gasp of breath, she sighed in deep pleasure as I entered her fully.

  I began to gently piston my hips into her wetness, my head at the apex of her shoulder and neck, her shoulder in my biting mouth as I gnawed gently on her skin there. Her gasps told me the first time reached her pleasure. I felt her blossom around me and become much more slippery. I increased the power of my thrusts and she bucked back up into me, obviously starved of sexual attention from a man. Her husband certainly isn’t taking her like this, his aim certainly not to bring to her such pleasures.

  She is beautiful, her soft sweet skin, her delicious aromas strong and feminine. My nose lost in the tangles of her hair as it came out of its restraints and flowed down onto the bed next to her head, the curls there soft and shiny. I was close and she could sense it. Wrapping her legs around my waste she bucked back against my thrusts and when my breath caught, she tightened her grip as I emptied inside of her, my thrusts slowing and slowing. The Princess will once again be with child. Guaranteed. I am also a breeding clone with a dominant gene strain. The future child she will bear, a son, will initially have darker skin tone and black hair at birth. But as an adult, it will have sandy blonde hair like mine, and royal blue eyes, also like mine. Further generations will bear my same resemblance. Jihad. Indeed.

  I kissed her cheek and thanked her profusely for allowing me to bring her pleasure. She sat up smiling, panting after having orgasmed three times in less than five minutes. My pheromones are indeed strong. She was quite sated and glowed with it. I waited for the fog to clear from her head to find how she really feels about what just happened. Her smile broadened and her eyes were clear. She stood and came to me then, wrapping her arms around my nakedness. She kissed my chest tenderly and renewed the strength of her hugging. “I will so miss you when you leave, Father. I knew when I first saw you I had so hoped … my mother as well … that you would help us … that I might impose upon you in this way. You have made me very happy.” She cooed against my hairy chest and rested her hands on the globes of my bare ass. Her dress’s fabrics had all flowed down with gravity and aside from her messy hair, she looked nonplussed, almost confused. It had been a long while since she had felt this satisfied. Still beautiful and glowing almost girlishly. She is a very beautiful young woman that has been treated cruelly.

  Reaching up into her volumes of beautiful black hair, she leaned her hair in front of her and dug to retrieve the remaining pins and walked to the bedside table and opened the drawer there. She reached inside and withdrew a hard cover novel she could not read. I saw the book and somehow, I recognized it? Even by name. “The Seven Pillars of Wisdom” by TE Lawrence. Next to it in the drawer a book she did recognize well, The Quran. The book of her religious faith. She set it back down and dropped the pins into the drawer with a rainfall of light clatter. Turning to face me, as I put the robe back over my shoulders and gathered the ends to tie it around my waist, she shook her hair running her fingers through it and then twisted it into a large bun and knotted it.

  Removing the long scarf from around her shoulders, a transparent, rich orange, she wrapped first her face and then covered her head quickly and quite elegantly, covering her head completely except for the eyes, which is her custom. Without a word she walked to the door and left the room then, leaving behind her a wake of the scent of sweet jasmine. Her mother stepped in and closed the door, the look in her eyes showed a smile, but her mouth was fixed with no expression at all.

  I showered quickly and dried my hair at His Vanity. Remembering the book, I went to the nightstand and opened the drawer, retrieving her discarded hairpins with two long strands of her hair. I inspected the ends. Follicles present. Walking back to the closet, I deposited the hairs into my cassock pocket and inspected more closely then, the royal garments that had been dropped for my dinner with the King and his son, my Prince with the voracious appetite for other men who talk dirty. I smiled. Returning to the bedside I picked up the book by TE Lawrence and spoke the title out loud, wondering why I would recognize it. Opening it to the first page, written on the unrolled paper of an unlit cigarette, was something scrawled in black ink, as if from a fountain pen but broader strokes. I recognized the symbol. Akmal. Looking more closely, I now see that it is the blackness of dried human blood. Folding it neatly, I placed it in the pocket with the Princess’s hairs and hair pins.

  Removing the garments one at a time, I pulled off their thin plastic skins and the garments, every one of them, were the finest garments made by mankind. Heavy and richly woven silks and richly woven cotton serwal. They felt wonderfully light against my skin as I dressed, first stepping into the soft serwal and fixing its silk rope firmly at my hip bones. It barely reached the bottom of my ankle and rested perfectly on the top of my bare feet. I stepped back to the large closet for the white silk Thobe, elegantly trimmed with intricate silk and white gold stitching, its thread glistened as real gold should. Tiny crescent moons intertwined in a thin band around the opening of the collar and a loose top button. I examined my image in the mirror as it dropped over my head and down to the floor, my upheld arms. It felt like liquid. I have never felt a garment so fine as this feels on my skin.

  I walked briskly enough to His vanity and studied my reflection as I approached the mirror. Looking through drawers, I found a battery-operated trimmer, plated in real gold, and trimmed along my jawline and neck. I then retrieved His electric razor from its charging dock and clicked it on, adjusting it to the closest shave setting and shaved my face clean. I tucked a large towel around my neck to catch the hair better. This is something no men do in this country it seems. Every male I have seen has had an unkempt beard of black. Faces are beautiful things and should not be covered all the time. Moving over to Her vanity, I opened drawers until I found the lotions and moisturizers and lifted a bottle to my nose to smell it when I opened it. The fragrance was lovely. Not too feminine. It smelled of what I think moonlight smells like in this fragrant desert place.

  I poured a small dab into my hands and rubbed them together, wiping it over my cleanly shaven face and close the drawer and head back to finish dressing. The lotion lightly burns my sensitive skin. Standing at His dressing cabinet, I removed the last hanger and pulled away its thin plastic sheathing. Rolled evenly over a cardboard tube, neatly affixed at one end of the hanger, was a long rectangle cloth and beneath it, a looped and bound thin rope. I removed it from the hanger and it was very long indeed. Perhaps ten feet. I laid the lasso on the bed as I removed the heavy black robe from the hanger. Its trim was a faint pale sand color, the threads woven into the fabric no doubt real yellow gold.

  This is a garment for a king, I thought to myself. I lifted it over my head and let its liquidity heavily hang over my body. It came exactly to floor length. Whoever had measured and made these g
arments knew exactly how tall I am from my shoulder and neck to the bottom of my bare feet on the floor. Exactly how tall I am to the centimeter. I had been watched and measured visually using a computer. Hanging open slightly, the white silk thobe showing, the single button there a platinum-encased yellow diamond of considerable carat weight. Indeed, the garments of a king.

  Going back to the bed for the keffiyeh and long egal rope to figure the shit out, I heard the gentle knock at the door and then a second later the Prince poked his head into the room. He barked back loudly into the hallway at his guards “wait here and do NOT enter!” The angry scowl of his expression disappeared instantly from his face as his smile toward me broadened. Classic psychopath. To see me here as he had suggested was not a surprise. A priest of the Catholic Church, an infidel, dressed in the fine clothes of royalty he had sent to me so thoughtfully.

  I smiled broadly back at him “do you always get to wear such fine garments Your Highness? These are the finest garments I have ever seen or felt in my life, and they fit me so perfectly!” I exclaimed happily, moving him greatly. He had wanted to please me, it was evident. Walking to me without closing the door firmly, he picked up the black and white patterned Royal Keffiyeh and let it unfold as he held his hand down to the floor. “You are very tall Father Cole, please bend forward so I may help you to finish dressing.” Supplicant. See? Forever until he dies he will react this way in my presence now.

  I bent down with my hands folded behind my back, holding my breath, as he placed the long cloth over my head and first evening the sides, he then folded them under expertly and placed the folds resting on my shoulders. He then found the center of the long roped egal and pressed it to my center forehand and asked “please put your finger here Father” and I held it in place. While explaining that it was of the Bedouin of his mighty people, his wife’s tribe, the Egal conveyed power and masculinity. No tassels, so the Egal then of a servant male. I don’t really fucking care. It’s just pretty clothes to me. He whipped it around my head expertly then, stacking the woven cord in opposite directions twice, finishing with a stack of four ropes to hold the keffiyeh to my head. He tied it loosely but securely in the back and let the ends drape down the fabric at the center of my back all the way down to the top of my ass. He rested his hand there and tugged back on the ends playfully, but lightly. Snug fit.

  Holding me by the shoulders he inspected me boyishly, smiling widely, brushing his hand along the tops of my shoulders to more snuggly secure the fabrics there in place. Looking into my eyes and smile, he stood on his tip toes and pressed his lips to mine. Stopping briefly, he kissed me again more urgently and passionately with his tongue.

  A throat cleared at the open door and the man’s stance widened. The King had seen his son kiss me. Fucking Perfect! I stepped back, doing my best to act shocked that the Prince had kissed me so tenderly on the mouth. Without turning around the prince fixed me in the eyes, his anger and embarrassment building powerfully. Wonderful. I hadn’t even dosed him to do that. That was all him. I walked into the bathroom area quickly at the other side of the large bedroom, loving the feel of the fabric brushing over my legs as I walked.

  It was the Prince who first shouted at his father aggressively; defiantly. I heard the crack of his father’s firm slap from the bathroom area where I stood up from leaning to pick up my satchel, then turned to walk back into the room quickly and right past them to the door. I closed it securely, the King’s guard waiting outside with the Prince’s guard, all pretending not to listen. I turned the lock as silently as possible.

  The King was clubbing his son’s face with his balled fist now, already drawing blood. The Prince did not dare strike his father the King in return? What the fuck?! He just took the beating, whimpering like a punished spoiled boy. Weak. He does not fight for his life, he just assumes a claim to it. It was disgusting to watch. Pitiful, these hateful men. I walked up behind His Majesty and quickly positioned my arm around his neck and pushed his head aggressively forward against the tensed muscle of my forearm, snapping it cleanly and instantly. I dropped his lifeless body to the floor and jabbed the tiny needle into the Prince’s chest and introduced the toxin into his bloodstream before the body of the King finished its collapse to the floor. I called the guard “Guard!! Come at once, something horrible has happened.” Something horrible indeed. “Knights of Damascus? A genetic jihad?” I spoke out loud to his face.

  The Prince rose staggering from his place on the floor, his face now bloodied, his hands around his neck grasping, unable to take in breath. His lungs are now paralyzed. “Lie down Your Majesty. You are King for about three more seconds only.” I closed my eyes and genuflected over him. The guard thudded against the locked door loudly as I smiled at him and seconds later it splintered open violently. My eyes never left his. I returned to my expression of recoiled horror as he watched, speechless. The guards rushed into the room and they all went straight to the King lying dead on the floor. Looking at the Prince, I watched as the life left his eyes, his body collapsing first down hard on his knees with an audible crack, and then he fell forward, dead before he hit the floor.

  I feigned vomiting at the site and rushed into the bathroom for my satchel. I shoved my cassock into it. I left the formal garments on and stepped into my soft Italian loafers and flushed His toilet. Re-entering the room now with two more armed guards, rifles drawn, I crumpled next to the King and openly sobbed, my head now covered with the Royal Keffiyeh confusing the hell out of them. I lowered my hands in prayer, reciting the last rights in Latin, as it my duty as a priest.

  The guards all backed up and lowered their heads as I said my prayers over the dead duo. I rose, genuflecting and kissing the cross on my rosary and tucked it into my satchel. I demanded a car back to the Vatican jet to report back to the Pope at once. I insisted again with a slight stomp of my foot as I had seen the Prince do. The image of me in this get up has them all jumping to please me. More slaves of their duty than anything else. What happened here is extremely jarring. The entire dynasty is dead on the floor. I thought to myself His Holiness will be so pleased and then fixed a firm and demanding stare on the man appearing to be in charge.

  The older of the guards spoke into his walkie talkie microphone mounted at his shoulder and demanded my car be brought around to the drive. “The Father” to his jet. Those two words the only words he spoke that I understood. Inside a minute I was in the back of the same car speeding toward the gates and out of this massive fucking compound. Having called ahead, the jet had been prepared and was ready for immediate take-off. Private airstrip. I bounded up the steps and just as I entered the cabin, the young blonde priest pulled the door closed and secured it. He smiled at me as I sat down in my fine garments. He spoke as the engines winded up and began propelling the jet faster forward down the private airstrip’s runway, already cleared for take-off.

  “There is a freshly pressed wool cassock for you Father Cole. I have set out some undergarments for you as well. It is quite cold where we’re headed now. About 10 degrees Fahrenheit last I checked. We’ll need you dressed warmly. The shower is at the rear of the cabin next to the bathroom. It’s a five hour flight to Geneva where we’ll land and meet a private car that will drive us to Prague in the Czech Republic. I will be accompanying you there to assist you. I am your guard, Father Livingston. When we’re ready to leave the jet will pick us up there. This is a Vatican jet with a Vatican call sign, so we don’t dare announce our arrival directly into Prague for security reasons. It’s fine if we depart amidst the chaos though.” I studied him, smiling widely. He had spoken aloud in perfectly annunciated English, with an English accent.

  The jet sped down the runway and minutes later we left the massive, sprawling desert city’s busy airspace, safely. I finally let out a breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding as I pulled the royal Keffiyeh off my head and scrubbed my fingernails across my scalp. I can’t believe they wear all this heavy shit in the fucking desert. I rested back into th
e lounge as the young priest came back into the cabin, with apron on now, and rested a large pitcher of ice water with paper-thin-sliced oranges and lemons in it. He poured a crystal glass full, pinching in a thin slice of orange with his fingers and then putting the fingers in his mouth rested his head as we bumped along faster and faster. Shower first. Then I sleep again and dream of Luigi. I thought to myself, smiling at him, thinking of the warmth of his body.

  I looked up into the priest’s expectant eyes and spoke to him softly “no food. Just the water is great. Grazie.” The jet then pitched straight upward sharply and he braced his hand on the back of my lounge and looked at the pitcher as its contents rolled the rim, spilling over slightly. I reached out and stilled it. “The air here in the desert is very hot and the heat wave rising from the ground forces us to rise quickly from the tarmac. It’ll pass in a second. We’ll have a smooth flight once we get to cooler air.” He nodded his head yes and then drank down my entire glass of water that he’d been holding, refilling it with a smile when he was done and then handed it to me.

  His shirt now a button-down oxford of crisp white with baggy tan cotton trousers. He busied himself placing the containers of pre-prepared food away. No more cassock and collar? Hmph. I followed, only needing to lift the garments over my head, but I wanted privacy and stepped into the small showering compartment as we leveled off. Stepping out of my loafers barefoot because I hadn’t had time to find socks, I lifted the heavy combined mass of the cloth over my head and dropped it to the floor. I pressed my bare feet into it, pushing it into the corner of the small space as best as I could. The hot water felt great until it turned abruptly colder. I was just standing there anyway, having already lathered and rinsed.