Least of all, angry with him.
I felt my blood boil and the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. And it felt good.
Nothing had felt this good in a long time. It was beyond love. Love I saved for God and Christ and for Miguel, when I allowed myself to love him. God wouldn't strike me down for love.
I knew what love felt like and it wasn't this. Jesus loved and God had still shone down on his son.
This was lust. I recognized it.
Seven deadly sins of his cock, tense like the vein in his neck, smooth marble skin tasting like flames down the back of my throat and his hands clutching hard to the back of my head and twisting my hair around his fingers.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. (In loco pascuae ibi me conlocavit super aquam refectionis educavit me.)
And he opens my vestments and hurls my collar into those waters, my eyes following it, watching as it sinks to the bottom. As I sink to my knees and let him fuck my mouth until his breath comes in laconic gasps and he says my name over and over and there is no father attached. The elegy from deep in my throat as I taste him come and I don't think of God.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake. (Animam meam convertit deduxit me super semitas iustitiae propter nomen suum.)
My soul cannot be restored as I flatten myself further into the floor at her feet. Sweat courses my face burning my eyes.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. (Nam et si ambulavero in medio umbrae mortis non timebo mala quoniam tu mecum es virga tua et baculus tuus ipsa me consolata sunt.)
Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
His rod and his staff, they comfort me. Es virga tua et baculus tuus ipsa me consolata sunt.
And I need comfort now, my cock grinding against the stone floor and matching its hardness. My cock that I have pretended does not exist tight against my pants as I drive it against the floor pretending he is beneath me. Pretending my cock is his cock as I shamefully bring my hand beneath my body and adjust the ache between my legs. Tasting his words in the hole of my throat and noticing its emptiness.
Es virga tua et baculus tuus ipsa me consolata sunt.
Harder I press against the ground forgetting where I am, forgetting my prayers, forgetting everything but the holocaust in his eyes when I refused God's exoneration. And how close he had stood, the scrape of his chair against the floor as he kicked it aside. The fear in my chest when I thought he might touch me with his fury.
I wanted him to touch me.
I wanted him.
Blaring in my eardrums, the dead silence of the cold chapel walls, the pounding behind my temples. The vision of his soft lips spreading into a sneer. My heart refluxing in my chest, in my throat, behind my ribs. I imagined his hands curling into fists and plunging inside me.
I wanted him inside me.
Grinding into me like I grind into the chapel floor. His cock as hard as mine. My cock pressuring me towards eruption. The white light filling my eyes. My cock throbbing rhythmically. My body undulating at the Virgin's feet. My testicles constricting. My orgasm bathing me, bathing my pants, my robes, staining the chapel floor with my shame.
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.
* * * * *