by Pam Godwin
The bread.
“You’re hungry.” I looked around for a safe place to feed them.
A few feet away, the base of a huge tree offered all sorts of hiding spots. If I moved them there, I wouldn’t have to worry about a peregrine falcon swooping down and eating them.
“I’ll call you Jaden and Willow.” Slowly lifting their branch, I dragged them to the tree.
The tangled aboveground root system formed a deep recess, perfect for sheltering their tiny bodies from predators and cold.
I made a soft bed out of leaves and added the bread. Then, using another stick, I transferred each opossum into the cavity. They instantly fell upon the bread, tearing off tiny bites.
Fruit or veggies might’ve been better, but I was fairly certain they would eat anything. In Bishop’s Landing, our gardener complained about opossums scavenging through the garbage.
After dinner, I would bring them water and a variety of food. But for now, I lay down on my side, contentedly watching them eat.
Until I fell asleep.
It was a horrible accident. I hadn’t even meant to close my eyes. But when I woke, I knew an hour or two had passed.
I was in deep fucking shit.
Within the shelter of tree roots, Jaden and Willow curled up beside the partially eaten bread. Sound asleep. Safe.
I left them there and raced back to the main building with dread gnawing the lining of my stomach. By the time I reached his classroom, I felt like I was going to be sick.
The door was shut, but according to the clock I’d passed in the hall, I’d missed both of his classes.
My heart thundered as I reached for the handle, my hand hovering, trembling over the latch.
I couldn’t do it. Not like this. I couldn’t go in there all scared and worn down and guilty. Not to mention, I needed to pee something fierce. My bladder felt like it was going to pop.
Curling my fingers, I yanked my hand from the handle and slowly backed away.
Two seconds later, the door opened.
I held my breath as Carrie swept out. She veered in the opposite direction and slumped against the wall with her eyes closed. Her hands went to her heart, and she sighed with nauseating pleasure.
Meanwhile, I stood a few feet away, feeling woefully different about the man in that room. But she wasn’t the one who had destroyed her uniform, violated the fasting rule, fell asleep in church, and missed his two classes.
I’m so dead.
Straightening, Carrie paced off down the corridor and vanished around the corner. She never even saw me standing here.
But he did.
Filling the gap in the doorway, he held his arms at his sides, his expression empty. Unreadable.
His razored gaze dragged over me, and though I was prepared for its sharp edges, a full-body tremor broke free. I locked my legs to keep them from wobbling. I didn’t cringe, didn’t show weakness.
I bit down on a tender part of my lip, the spot I’d been worrying since I left Bishop’s Landing. My teeth scraped it, cutting it open and beading blood on my tongue.
He noticed, his focus zooming in, pupils dilating. His dark lashes lowered like shields over his emotions, and his fingers did that thing with his thumb, rubbing together, cryptic and forbidding.
Whatever was brewing in the interior regions of Father Magnus wasn’t good.
His silent stillness made a ruthless meal out of my nerves until my goosebumps formed goosebumps, and the hairs on my nape jumped away from my skin.
His fingers stopped moving, and his deep blue eyes latched on to mine.
“Close the door behind you.” He delivered the order with terrifying calmness and strode back into the room.
I had no choice but to follow.
CHAPTER 10
TINSLEY
Fear dumped into my bloodstream, shaking my limbs. I closed the door with a resounding click and shrank ten sizes as Father Magnus pivoted, giving me the full force of his glare.
“I went for a walk outside during lunch.” I ran my clammy palms down my skirt. “I fell asleep in the grove. I swear, I didn’t mean to. It’s just… I couldn’t sleep last night and—”
“Shut up.” His harsh tone ricocheted through the classroom, making me gulp.
He sat on the edge of his desk without taking his eyes off me. Mine were glued to him. I didn’t know what he was thinking or what he intended to do, but I’d put myself in this situation. The least I could do was face him like an adult.
“I won’t rehash your violations.” He tapped his finger on the desk. Tap. Tap. Tap. His hand stilled. “In total, you accumulated eighty-seven minutes of punishment.”
“What? I didn’t have that many—”
“Quiet!”
My jaw ached as I held it rigidly shut, wanting more than anything to disappear. Was he going to beat me for eighty-seven minutes? Good fucking God, I wouldn’t survive that.
How many strikes could I withstand before passing out? No one had ever hit me before.
“Hear me loud and clear, Miss Constantine.” He pushed off the desk and stepped to the enormous crucifix on the wall. “You will serve your penance without complaint or sloppiness. Failure to do so will reset the clock and add more time on the end.”
“I need to use the restroom.”
“No.” He crooked a finger. “Come here.”
I held his gaze with each begrudging step. It wasn’t easy. His eye-contact game was far superior to mine, his glare so much more arrogant and threatening. But I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cower. I was a Constantine, and dammit, I would act like one. So I kept my eyes leveled on his and sauntered across the short distance.
“Stand here and face the wall.” He pointed at the spot beneath the morbid cross.
At no time did I want to give him my back. I didn’t see a strap or cane in sight, but he wore a belt. And a frighteningly cruel scowl. He was going to hurt me.
If I didn’t stand where he indicated, he would hurt me worse.
The position put my eyes on the horror show that hung on the wall. The wooden feet of Jesus were life-size, nailed together on a board, and painted as if dripping with blood.
Why would anyone think it was a good idea to put this in a classroom?
I flattened my palms on the brick and tried to measure my breathing as he approached my back. Each menacing step directed the staccato of my pulse. Pressing closer, the length of his body aligned with mine. He dwarfed my smaller frame, saturating my skin with his heat.
No part of him touched me. Except his breath. His hot, invasive exhales stroked my nape and curled around my throat.
Then a huge, unsympathetic hand rested beside mine on the wall as he moved his mouth to my ear. “Touch your lips to his feet.”
“Ew! What?” My gaze flew to the crucifix. “I’m not doing that!”
“Ninety minutes.”
“Oh my God, what is this? Do you have some kind of foot fetish?”
“Ninety-three minutes.”
“You can’t be serious! How many mouths have touched this thing?” My breaths grew wild. “It’s not sanitary.”
“Ninety-six minutes.” He drove his face millimeters from mine. “We can do this all night, Miss Constantine. But you will kiss his feet for the full duration of the time owed.”
He wasn’t fucking around. He wasn’t even crossing any lines. Instead of a physical beating, he wanted me to kiss a crucifix for ninety-six minutes.
Fuck me.
Was this better than bruises and welts? I truly didn’t know. I couldn’t fucking think straight. Not with him so goddamn close, breathing down my neck.
I lifted on my toes, straining against the wall, the heat of him all around me, smothering. No escape. His hard physique blanketed my back, caging me in without touching.
It felt wrong. Sinful. Forbidden. If he were anyone else, maybe my thoughts wouldn’t have gone there. But there was something profoundly sexual about Father Magnus. Not just his virili
ty and strikingly gorgeous features. It was in his bearing, the way he bossed me around, came at me from all directions, and watched me from inches away, breathing roughly, heatedly against my face. Like he wanted to bend me over his desk and fuck me raw.
I didn’t want that. Not with him. But my pussy thought it was a splendid idea.
Losing my virginity was high on my to-do list. Giving it up to a priest, though? This priest? The notion was insane. Petrifying.
And brilliant.
If he rejected my advances, I would get expelled. If he were as corrupt as everyone else in the world and welcomed my advances, I would report his ass and shut down the whole damn school.
But there was an extremely urgent problem.
“My bladder. It hurts so bad. Please…” The aching plea in my voice reached a whimpering pitch, dialed all the way up to engage his sympathy, if he possessed such a thing. “Please, let me run to the bathroom—”
“If you utter one more word about it, I’ll double the length of your punishment.”
Iron sheathed in suede, that voice belonged to a man who bent for no one. His sculpted lips lured victims to the altar with the promise of heavenly salvation before condemning them to eternal hell.
Ninety-six minutes would feel like eternal damnation with my bladder screaming and my mouth pressed to the graven image of a crucified white guy.
“Before we start…” He shifted, releasing my back to lean his shoulder against the wall. The position moved his arresting blue eyes impossibly closer. “Carrie just made me aware of an assembly of girls who gather before Mass to watch me run.”
Carrie had snitched? Because she was the big sister on the third floor? Had she told on herself, too? She’d been pressed up against the window with the rest of them, drooling over the half-naked priest.
“Why do you think someone would watch you run?” I arched a brow, trying to ignore the chiseled planes of his stunningly gorgeous face.
“I take that to mean you didn’t participate this morning.”
“Oh, no. I was creeping right along with your horny fan club.”
“I want the names of everyone in attendance.”
“Um, yeah. This girl”—I aimed a thumb at myself—“isn’t a snitch. But here’s some advice. Put a shirt on. Increase your carbs. Grow a potbelly. Because the washboard, eight-pack thing? That’ll just keep reeling them in. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but every female in this school has a lady boner for you.”
He attempted a stoic expression, but the intensity of his disgust shone through.
“They call it Morning Worship.” I stared at the wall before me, basking in his discomfort. “To think, when the lights go out, all those dutiful prayer hands are petting the kitty in your honor.”
“Enough.”
“Can’t blame a girl for tapping into her potential. Tapping and rubbing—”
“You’re up to ninety-nine minutes. Shall I add more?”
“I’m good.” I ground my teeth.
“Remove your shoes and socks.”
What? I didn’t dare voice the question. Every response added more time. But fucking hell, I didn’t want to endure this with cold feet on the hardwood floors. Not that I had a choice.
As I kicked away the shoes and socks, I assumed this was just another layer of torment.
Until he circled behind me. “Now your underwear.”
I stopped breathing.
Only a few people had ever told me to remove my panties, and they were guys I’d been actively trying to fuck. I didn’t know a lot about priests and their rules, but this was reprehensible. It was too intimate, too pervy. It couldn’t be anything else but sexual.
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop.” His body edged closer to my back, his breath lashing at my neck as he spoke in a deep, scalding voice. “I’m not interested in anything beneath your skirt.”
The words stripped my skin, flaying me with venom, hurting with unmistakable abhorrence.
Prickles of humiliation washed over me, and I wished, God, I wished I hadn’t flinched. Even now, my shoulders bunched around my ears with the sinking realization that I would never be curvy like Nevada or seductive like Carrie or alluring and classy like my mother. I was too small and flat-chested, too mouthy and sarcastic.
As I stood there, shamed to my core, I knew there was no stopping what came next. Not with the displeasure wafting off the priest at my back.
“Take. Them. Off.” The uncompromising command in his voice tightened my chest.
Fuck off battered against my rib cage, begging to launch free.
“Say it, Miss Constantine.” His footsteps scuffed the floor, his proximity taunting. “Use that sharp tongue and double your time.”
I just wanted to get this over with.
Reaching beneath my skirt, I gripped my underwear and shoved. The texture of soft fabric slipped down my thighs and caught on my bare knees. I wriggled my legs. White panties fell around my ankles, and the man in my periphery didn’t so much as twitch.
I quickly snatched the underwear from the floor. When I straightened, his face was waiting, hovering a breath away.
“Obedience is the burial of the will and the resurrection of humility. The words of Saint John Climacus.” He nodded at the nearby desk. “Stack your things there. You have three seconds.”
I doubted Saint John had women’s underwear in mind when he talked about humility. But I kept that to myself and did as ordered.
When I returned to the crucifix, I was hyper-aware of my nudity beneath the skirt. But Father Magnus’s only interest was my face.
He was waiting.
Waiting for me to kiss the statue’s feet.
I flattened my hands on the wall. Behind my breastbone, my heart lunged into a fit of kicking and screaming. Don’t do it. Don’t give in. Run! Run! Run!
I harnessed the anger and glared upward at the effigy of a half-dead god wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. “You might get my mouth, creepy naked Jesus, but that’s all I’ll ever give you. While I’m forced to kiss your feet, I will curse you through every vile minute of it.”
If this wasn’t the Ninth Circle of Hell, I was surely headed there. I waited for Father No-Fun to whack me over the head with more minutes, but all he did was lower his brow to his hand and sigh.
Releasing my own sigh, I put my mouth on the antique toes and tried not to think about germs. The scent of musty wood invaded my nose, and I tried not to think about that, either.
He paced off toward his desk and returned to my line of sight with a Bible in hand. Pulling up a chair, he settled in, cracked open the book, and began reading.
Out loud.
No. Jesus, please, no.
He read story after story about old-timey people doing boring things. Lessons on humility laced each passage, but I didn’t need that shit. My damn lips were attached to a sculpture. I’d removed my underwear in front of a priest. Exhaustion beat against me on all sides, and I couldn’t stop bouncing because my bladder…
Oh fuck, don’t think about it.
I stood as motionless as possible, perspiring. I didn’t know there were sweat glands between my fingers, in my elbows, and under my barely there boobs. But I discovered them while listening to his sensual voice and trying not to pee down my legs.
He turned the page and lifted his head, his attention riveted on me.
Unbearable pressure squeezed inside me, burning, throbbing, threatening to burst. I clenched my thighs together, squirming with desperation, growing frantic by the second.
How many minutes had passed? Thirty? Forty? I wasn’t going to make it.
My lips clung to the row of carved toes as I bobbed and twisted on restless legs. I felt him watching me. He knew exactly what I needed.
The time. Just tell me the time, you fucking bastard.
Without lifting my mouth from its post, I hummed urgently and pointed to my bare wrist.
He turned another page without taking his eyes off me.
I felt the seal breaking between my legs and knew I only had seconds before all the muscles down there gave out.
Please. I whimpered incoherently. He heard my goddamn call for help and did nothing.
Except turn another page.
For a fraction of a moment, I considered taking a doubled punishment and sprinting to the bathroom. But before my brain sent that message to my muscles, I lost the fight with my bladder.
The dam broke in a hot rush of wetness down my legs. Urine sprayed my bare feet and splashed on the wood floors, forming a radius of yellow splatter and errant droplets that reached his chair.
As the trickle continued, it was the most pleasurable, most mortifying sensation I’d ever experienced. A complete loss of control mixed with sublime relief and blistering embarrassment.
My cheeks caught fire. My joints locked up, and every muscle and organ in my body became paralyzed. I couldn’t look him in the eye, but I saw him.
At the edge of my vision, he lowered his head, turned the page in his Bible, and resumed reading aloud.
I didn’t hear a word from his lips. I heard nothing but the thrashing pulse in my ears. As the minutes passed, my entire world narrowed to the pool beneath my feet, the cooling urine along my legs, and the wooden toes against my mouth.
The blow to my pride cut deep. Deeper than a strap or a cane or any other corporal punishment he could’ve inflicted.
He’d planned this.
My eyes closed as the realization hit. The shoes, socks, underwear—all of it would’ve been ruined if I hadn’t removed it. He’d counted on me pissing myself.
What a fucking prick.
I kept my eyes shut and my lips planted on Jesus, simmering in a puddle of shame and vitriol. Fatigue strained my muscles and fucked with my balance. My shoulders and neck ached from craning to hold my mouth in place. But I knew I’d lasted the full ninety-nine minutes when I heard the Bible shut and the chair creak.
“You can step back.” His voice came from behind me, making me shiver.
I didn’t want to move or open my eyes. I was standing in my own piss, for Christ’s sake. But my lips rejoiced in the freedom when I leaned away and worked my jaw.