Indiscretions of a God

by Sunniva Dee

  “He’s not getting it! Gianni wants the newbie in the—”

  “Belen!” I bark. Offended, she presses her lips together and turns toward the window.

  “What’s the problem?” I ask my director.

  “I want to try Wendy out in the first act. I think she’ll do well with John. Their style is similar, and it’s just missionary, one-on-one, no DP. I wanted to save Belen for the anal at the end of act three, but I guess—”

  “You’re making shit up, asshole!”

  Three strides, and I’ve got Belen by the arm. For a second, I stop and bob my head to the new girl. “Wendy. It’s nice to meet you. Gianni, I’ll be back.”

  “But Isaias!” Belen cries as I haul her with me out the door. God, I love the clatter of nine-inch stilettos when the owner has no control over their direction. “Please. I’m sorry.”

  I don’t answer. I just pull her into Studio 2. Two exit signs constitute the only lights in here at the moment, and I mean to keep it that way. I leave us in the eerie red glow. “Undress. Now.”

  She gasps and obeys immediately, stare widening with excitement.

  I’ve been hard since I heard her yell through the door in makeup. Now, I cross my arms, watching her work; my cock and I are about to find relief. “Stop. Leave your shoes on. The garters too.”

  She does, chest heaving with fear and heat. Control, control, control; this is how you get rid of a bad mood.

  “You forgot something.” I lift a finger and wave it over her bra. It’s sexy as hell, but I want her nipples on display.

  The girl needs an equal to keep her on a tight leash. I can’t even imagine the damage she must have caused in her little town before she moved to the porn capital of the U.S.

  She emits an aroused huff while she wiggles out of her bra. Oh, she can wiggle out of anything in ways that leave a guy groaning.

  “I swear, I wouldn’t have insisted if it wasn’t for...”

  “Shh.” I point to the wall by the sound desk. She scurries to it like a good girl, and I unzip my slacks. “Spread your legs.”

  She’s a complete bitch, impossible to deal with for my staff. But she’s a damn good face for the business with her perfectly angelic features and goddamn evil eyes. The combo is fucking star material.

  She moans as I push her against the wall. I reposition her with a quick tug and angle her ass out. “Baby,” I hiss, “you think you know how to run my business?” I spit into my hand and run it between her cheeks.

  “No, no! But Isaias, I swear to you. Gianni doesn’t understand. He needs to—”

  “You. Need to shut up when your superiors make decisions.” I shove inside that tight hole of hers, feeling her quiver around me. It’s where she likes us, the queen of anal. It might be punishment for others, but for her, my size is a thrill.

  “God! Oh my god.”

  “That’s right. You got me?”

  “Yeah...” Her hands claw against the wall as she takes me.

  “Yes. ‘Sir,’” I grunt. I push hard, hitting her to the hilt, and even Belen whines at that.

  “Yes— Fuck!”

  “What is it?” I repeat. “Tell me what you’ll do in the future.”

  “Yes. Sir... I’ll listen.”

  I don’t want her to get any satisfaction from this. That’s not easy with Belen, though, because this kind of sex is what gets her off, and I’m not going to hold back on my own climax; with Il Lince’s demand hanging over me, I need to release tension.

  After seconds’ deliberation, my fingers squeezing her nipples into unrecognizable nubs against the dark glass of the sound booth, I speed up and shoot my load free and clear into her ass.

  “Stop,” I command, but I’m too late. Her fingers are already on her pussy, rubbing out a thigh-shaking orgasm I can’t help enjoying the feel of.

  Okay, so I failed on one of my missions. That doesn’t happen often. Her punishment didn’t pan out as planned, but at least I feel better myself.

  “Mr. Nascimbeni?” One of the producers sticks his head into my office. “The drummer of Clown Irruption is on the line for you.”

  I perk up. Clown Irruption is an international headliner I chatted with at an outdoor rock concert in San Francisco a month ago. Their songs have been hovering on the top hundred lists over the last year and a half, and I’ve been wanting a phone meeting since I met them.

  Their stage presence is formidable. They’ve got that seductive roll that sucks the audience in and doesn’t let go until the last note dies out. My producer coordinated with their agent, and finally, here we are. “Transfer the call.”

  I lean back and stare out the window while I wait. The lawn below is too lush for the dry climate of Southern California. Water is scarce and expensive in the Valley. I make a note of changing it to a desert garden.

  “Hello. Troy?”

  “Hey. Yes, is this Isaias?”

  “Damn straight.” I rock back in my chair and smile. “Good of you to call. How’s the music scene?”

  “You know, the shiznits—no complaints. What’s going on?”

  “Oh nothing much, nothing much. I had a blast the last time, at the S.F. concert. You got some good songs, there, man. You have a new CD in the making too, right?”

  “We do.” His voice is deep and sensual.

  “Wonderful. Can’t wait to give it a listen.” I give him room to chuckle and let out a few pleasantries. “We should get together next time you’re in L.A.” They’re scheduled for a concert at the Greek Theatre in a few weeks.

  “Sure, man. We’re playing the Greek at the end of the month.”

  “Oh, really? I’d be happy to tack on some rock-star treatment for you. Or maybe you’ve got after-show plans already?”

  “I don’t think we do, actually. I have family in L.A., though.”

  “Cool.” I give a lighthearted exhale. “Lucid’s famous for our all-out parties. I’d give you guys a tour of the studios and we’d hit the roof after.”

  “That sounds dangerous,” he murmurs, intrigue in his voice.

  “Hey, we can keep it PG. Up to you,” I say. We both laugh at that; as far as my intel suggests, Troy’s flying solo with no woman at his side. It’s why I wanted a chat with him and not the band leader. According to rumors, Troy has a few sordid secrets up his sleeve too. I’ll be digging deeper into that if it turns out to be worth my attention.

  By the time we hang up, it’s solidifying. After the Greek, Clown Irruption has a few interviews, but then they can be mine. I’ll get formal invites sent out. If this pans out, they’ll be heading to Lucid after the show, and I’ll be giving them the lap dance of their lives.

  I’m not happy when I drive down to the Valley. I’d prefer rolling back to my place with a talent to make some last-minute phone calls, before taking the girl for a test drive. But here I am, heading to church instead.

  My phone overpowers “Wait and Bleed” on the speakers. “What’s up.”

  “Stefano here. We just parked on the backside of the St. Tatiana.”

  I’ve done this too many times to count, and it easily gets messy. There's a fifty-fifty chance you have to take someone down. Needless to say, my father’s crap doesn’t mesh well with my own business plan.

  “All right. I’ll be there in five, but know that I’m not sticking around if this self-destructs.”

  “Nothing’s gonna go wrong, Cucciolo. All you gotta do is keep an eye on Pater Altermatt and give us a heads-up if he’s breaching our trust.”

  “I’m not Il Cucciolo. Don’t call me that.”

  I park down the street and lumber up to the church; I have no urge to be associated with Johnny and Stefano—I’m not Il Lince’s henchman. When you’re building your own empire and you don’t need la famiglia, all you need is for la famiglia to stop needing you.

  The front door
is unlocked. I push at the wood, making it groan. Beyond, it’s sparsely lit, and at first glance, I see no one. Then, the silhouettes of three men walking quickly toward the back catch my attention.

  I call Stefano. “They’re on their way downstairs. Three guys.”

  “Okay. We’re already here.”

  I click the phone off.

  Something moves at the back of the altar. I hone in on it and walk up between the bench rows. Is it Pater Altermatt? No. He’s emerging from the sacristy.

  He takes aim at the crypt, and I speed up; the priest knows of the meet, but Il Lince doesn’t want him to be in on the details. Then again, whoever’s at the back of the altar could be a bigger threat.

  My father doesn’t trust Pater Altermatt, and his hunches are usually right. If the priest squealed, siccing the feds on Nascimbeni operations, it’d be destructive for everyone’s business.

  I make my decision. “Father?”

  The priest stills. When he swings to me, his features are in meek folds. “My son.” He bows out a little greeting and makes a cross in the air over me. I tuck my chin in illusory worship, the way I used to as a kid.

  “I was about to close, but God’s house always has time for His lambs.”

  Oh geez.

  “How can I serve, young man?”

  “Father, I have a few confessions to make.”

  His eyes wander, going toward the corner where the Russians disappeared. Mine flick to the back of the altar and catch the shift of someone in the dark hallway.

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” Pater Altermatt murmurs.

  “Not that I’d want to impose if the good father was on his way home...” I trail off politely.

  Might not’ve been a bad idea to get some of the crap I’ve done off my chest. It’d be quite the spa for the soul, I’m sure. As he waves me toward the confessional, the shadow behind the altar slinks out of view.

  “It’s been a while since I confessed, and it’s making me nervous,” I say. “I need the restroom first.” Not waiting for his reply, I stalk toward the back of the church.

  “Son, the bathroom is to the left, by the exit.”

  The shift of a robe appears by the altar and flows into the back. I follow. Elusive, the slight figure moves out of view. I catch up with it just as it kneels, opening a cabinet. Small, white hands form around a large candelabra, pulling it out and pushing it forward on the floor.

  “Excuse me.” My jaw clenches as I press my hand around the gun in my pocket.

  She gasps and wobbles to her feet. A nun? The robe tells me she is, but when she turns to me, the delicate features of her face, the high cheekbones, the clear blue eyes, perfectly shaped and shining in the low light, are completely wrong for her calling.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispers.

  “I’m sorry. I was just looking for the bathroom.” I ransack her with my stare. “Who are you?”

  Slowly, her gaze slides downward. Then, she begins to move her head, side to side, side to side. A coil of hair, the color of unpolished brass, snakes its way between her headpiece and the top of her robe. It’s different for someone like her, and goddamn if it isn’t fucking hot.

  I let my attention rove over her shape. She tries to hide her perfect body under that tent, but she can’t, not from me.

  “Sister Tatiana. Or soon, I will be, once my novice period is over.”

  Her lips are dark, bursting with blood against alabaster skin that’s out of place in sunny California. What a waste with such a beautiful being in this place.

  She forgets herself and licks her lip. She shouldn’t have. I’ve dated beauty before. Fucked beauty. Hired beauty in so many capacities of my jobs. But this here is straight-up perfection of the kind that won’t let you sleep at night if you can’t own it.

  “The bathroom.” She lifts that small perfect hand again, unfurling and pointing toward the exit. “It’s on your way out. Do you see the sign?”

  I nod, not taking my eyes off her while Pater Altermatt closes in on us.

  “There you are. Tatiana, if you don’t mind locking the back door?”

  “Of course, Pater.”

  I follow him down from the sacristy. I can’t help swinging for a last eyeful of the apparition of a woman behind me. Her pale face seems to shine under the dim light, a stark contrast to her dark clothing.

  Tatiana’s gaze is mild, fearful, even. But it’s on me now, instead of meekly on the floor. I blow my cheeks up and let out a puff of air, forcing myself to return to business. All seems under control downstairs if I’m to judge by the lack of gunshots. There’s nothing out of the ordinary going on at my level either.

  “Do you always have nuns here?” I ask the priest conversationally.

  “Actually, I don’t. She was sent to me by the higher-ups a few weeks ago.” Pater Altermatt breaks his priestly performance by pointing upward. “They’ve blessed me with additional assistance.” He doesn’t look entirely happy about this.

  “Because of an increase in churchgoers?” I ask.

  He starts on a chuckle but wipes it off his mouth with his hand. “Not quite, no. As you can see, St. Tatiana is a small church, and our following hasn’t changed much over the last decade. But my new assistant is a wonderful girl. A great help, really.”

  We stop in front of the restroom. “Here we are. I’ll be at the confessional when you’re ready.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  I stay long enough to see the Russians leave with dark coats and hooded eyes through the main door. Johnny and Stefano follow a minute later. They don’t acknowledge me but walk close enough for Stefano to bump into my shoulder and mutter, “See you for dinner Sunday.”

  I grunt my response.

  Hands in my pockets, I saunter toward the door after them. Pater Altermatt is still in shock after my honesty in the confessional. Mainly, I focused on group sex and forced orgasms. It was an experimental phase in my late teens, but he doesn’t need to know that.

  “Son, I hope to see you back at the St. Tatiana soon. God’s forgiveness is infinite,” he murmurs.

  “You can count on it.” It might not be for another confession, but I’ll be back.

  The copper-orange tint of my Flying Spur gleams from a block away. Good thing I’m not Il Lince’s errand boy very often anymore, or I’d have to go for a less flashy car. Relieved, I sink into the driver’s seat, jack the stereo to high on “Psychosocial.” The song’s damn near perfect and just what I need.

  It’s midnight. Pater Altermatt sure had a long day. So did the beautiful Tatiana. Like a teenager, I loop by the church on my way home. I laugh to myself, because it’s obvious what I’m doing; it’s the novice I’m looking for.

  The bass thunders through me.

  A slight figure moves down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. It’s a woman. A petite one. Not a nun, though, because she’s wearing what looks like hot pants.

  Curious, I follow. A backpack is hooked over her shoulders. Bright pink jogging shoes tap the asphalt while she speeds forward, but what catches my attention is the long hair gathered in a ponytail.

  She hits a streetlight just as I’m at her side, and I take in the brass color of the long coil escaping her ponytail. It frames her face on one side.

  I slow the Flying Spur to a crawl, knowing full well she’s going to be spooked. There’s no one else around, and I’m a stranger who’s stalking her in his car. This is the kind of perverted prick I can be. I haven’t decided if I’m going to offer her a ride or just scare her so she remembers for the future: don’t fucking walk alone in the dark at night.

  I hum my window open, driving at her jogging pace.

  “Hey, gorgeous.” I don’t use her name on purpose. Guess that decides what I want to do—scare her shitless so she’ll learn once and for all. She’s too beautiful to be taken advant
age of by a lesser man than me.

  In situations like this, you get one of three reactions: a) the woman acts like she can’t see you and keeps doing her thing, thinking you’ll leave; b) she panics and tries to escape; or c) —

  No. That’s it. No one does what Tatiana’s doing right now. She stops. Turns toward me. Then, she steps in close to the car window, pierces me with her stare, and says, “What kind of asshole move is this?”

  I’m so surprised I can’t even speak. Instead, I stop the car and just sit there like an idiot.

  “Cat got your tongue? Got nothing better to do than waste gas, or are you planning to ‘make a move?’” she asks, tone so full of contempt I blink.

  I clear my throat. “I was actually about to offer you a ride—”

  “And what ride are we talking about here? In your car, or...?”

  “Okay, you don’t talk like a nun,” I say.

  She swallows, eyes widening. Wait, is she cursing under her breath?

  “Tatiana, right? Sister Tatiana?”

  She draws in a breath. “You’re the guy from the church.”

  “I am. I’m not sure your Mother Superior or what-have-you would be happy with you running around after midnight with your little tushy showing in those short-short shorts.”

  Tatiana lifts her hands in front of her, and I steel myself for anything from a smack in the face to a verbal outpouring. What I don’t expect is her delicate hands steepling in prayer while she murmurs, “Please, please don’t say anything to Pater Altermatt. He doesn’t want me at the St. Tatiana in the first place, and he could embellish this and get me thrown out. I need this program.”

  I shake my head quickly enough for any loose screws to fall back into place. It can’t be working, because those absolutely incredible eyes are still on me, begging. Begging so hard I get hard and instantly picture her beneath me in bed. Oh, hell, that’s how she’d look under me. “Please, Isaias. Harder. More!”

  “Let me drive you home.”

  “Nope. I don’t know you.”

  “Yeah? Don’t you think that if I’d wanted to hurt you, I’d have plucked you off the sidewalk already? Where do you live?”