When I get there, the restroom is freezing, but that’s a relief. I need my inner thermostat reset because I’m about to boil over.
I splash my face with some water, check myself in the mirror and steel my nerves to return.
When I walk out of the restroom, there he is and I think he’s taller. Definitely bigger.
“You left this,” Father Martin says, holding my phone out. My phone that is very clearly recording every word we said to each other. It dings with a message, and I can’t read it from here except that it’s from my friend Geri and I don’t want him to read anything she’d be sending me. “Testing, testing,” he says into the microphone with a smile like this is all a game.
Please kill me now.
I draw a deep breath and march forward, trying to act like there’s nothing wrong as I reach out for the phone. “Sorry, I was bursting. I forgot I even brought it.”
Liar. Liar.
He pulls it out of my reach as another message comes through. And this time I’m close enough to read it.
Geri: How’s prison, girl? Are there bars on the windows? Shared showers? Hey, here’s a reminder of you off the chain last night.
Oh, God, no. Please.
“No phones,” Father Martin says. “That’s in the contract you signed, Kitty.”
“Yeah, well I don’t remember what was in the contract. I just—”
“It’s fine. I should have asked for it in the car, but I’ve been remiss.”
My mouth goes wide in horror as a pic comes through, taking up the screen. Then another.
Pictures from last night at the club. Pictures that make me cringe, at the drunken look on my face, at the way my shirt is torn around the neck, the single scratch down my cheek.
Another pops up, with a laughing emoji. Me flashing my boobs.
And there are tears in my eyes. Father Martin hasn’t seen the photos yet but if he just turns the phone right now he will, and I don’t want him to look at me that way. The same way Hoover does. I like the way he looks at me right now, like I’m a person who’s worthy of his time, like somehow I’m not the complete failure I’ve become.
“Please,” I beg, reaching for the phone but missing through the blinding tears.
“Hey,” he says, his brows drawing together. “Hey, no need to cry.” He’s on his feet, and I don’t pull away fast enough before he grabs the back of my upper arm.
And I flinch, tugging away on a loud wince.
“Kitty?” He slides the phone across his desk, closing the space between us. “I barely touched you. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a fucking lie.” The sharp jab of the curse word makes me draw a breath. “Remember, I’m here for you, only you. Now, you will tell me the truth.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
His eyes narrow, nostrils flaring. “Well, you’re going to. And then I’ll make it right.”
“You can’t.”
His hand squeezes lightly at the same spot and I hiss through my teeth. “Kitty, show me your arm.”
I back away. Embarrassment makes me want to shrink into myself. But at the same time? The way he’s talking, demanding, protective… It turns me on. I can’t help it. I want him to tell me what to do and make me do it. I want to feel like I’ll always be safe with him.
“I’m not fucking kidding.” He steps forward, catching me in his arms, and I put up little resistance.
I want to feel his lips on mine. I want to feel his hand on my body. As he starts unzipping my hoodie, my breathing quickens. Is this it? Is he going to strip me and take me?
But instead, he just loosens it enough to pull it over my shoulder, exposing my arm.
“How did you get these bruises?” His voice is a low growl, his eyes spearing mine as the muscle in his jaw works. “Who fucking hurt you?”
Let’s blow some shit up.
He’s not like other priests. This I’m beginning to realize, but I jump at the fury in his voice, at the ease at which he drops the F-bombs. “I don’t…I was drunk. He…he had a knife. I didn’t want to tell anyone. Zip ties. I remember there were zip ties. He tried to get them around my wrists.”
“Did he rape you? Who? Fucking tell me right now.”
“No.” I shake my head. “No. My dad took me to these self-defense classes after this horrible dance in third grade…. Anyway, the guy wasn’t expecting me to fight back. I don’t know who he was. He had a scar on his face, like under his eye. I remember it looked like a question mark, like he was the Riddler or something. And two fingers missing from the knuckle down on his left hand. That’s all I remember. It all happened so fast but I got the knife from him. I zip tied him to the toilet in one stall, then used the other.” I clutch my forehead. “God, I’m so stupid. I ran back to the party… drank some more, pretended it didn’t happen. It almost felt like it didn’t, until now.”
A sob rocks me as I bury my face in his chest, feeling the hardness of his muscles, the firm grip on my shoulders. His hand goes to my head, smoothing my hair, and I draw a deep, shuddering breath, wanting to stay here forever.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“No, I’m sorry. Does having your phone make you feel safer here?”
“Yes. I guess.”
“Okay,” he whispers, still holding me in his arms. “The phone will be kept here. On the table. You can use it when you like, but it will stay here.”
“Doesn’t that go against the contract or the rules or whatever?”
“I make the rules. The contract you signed had a provision that indicated the rules and statutes can be changed at any time by me. You clearly don’t remember what you signed, so we’ll make a point of going over them tomorrow. I want you to feel safe, but I won’t allow this modern obsession with a phone to impede your progress. So, it stays here. We clear?”
I nod. “Clear.” I agree as he steadies me back on my own feet. “You won’t snoop?”
He shrugs, looking at the phone, then me. “Trust, remember? I’ll trust you not to take the phone from here and you’ll trust me not to snoop.”
As he reaches to tuck my hair behind my ear, I lean forward, pressing my body against his, my hand at my hip. I can’t help myself. I reach down, grinning to find him hard.
But he pushes my hand away and takes a step back, staring at me.
“I’ll never take advantage of you, Kitty, not even if you beg,” he says. There’s no denial that he’s turned on. No attempt to put the blame on me. Just a statement of fact. “If I don’t think something is in your best interests, it’s not going to happen. Now, tell me why you were recording us.”
I flinch. He’s not accusing, he’s just asking, but my conscience pricks me in the ass. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. Tell me.”
I meet his eyes. Those strong, deep eyes. Eyes that could anchor me in a storm.
I shrug. “I was hoping to get some leverage on you. I don’t like being helpless.”
“Do you feel helpless?”
“Actually, no, not really. I feel safe. I…” I swallow, forcing myself to go ahead. To cleanse myself of sin. “I’m sorry.”
And my world lights up as he blesses me with a smile. “Good girl.”
Good girl.
Why do those words make me feel like purring? Why do I want so desperately to please him?
“I think we’re done for today. You should go and relax. Shower if you like, change your clothes, do some reading. If you wish to leave the building for a walk or any reason, you must let me know.”
I nod. “Yeah, these clothes need a wash. I didn’t even change this morning. I was mad. These are the clothes from last night—’
“We’re going to burn them,” he says. “You need to wash off that asshole that touched you. Put on your safest, most comfortable clothes and we’re going to order pizza for dinner.”
“Pizza?” I laugh. “Isn’t that like a sin? Gluttony?”
“Only if we eat the whole thing. Even then, what is forgiveness for if not for sinning?” His eyes flash with humor. “What’s your favorite movie, Kitty?”
“Chocolat.”
“Well then, that’s the plan. Pizza and Chocolat. I’ll come get you in an hour. What do you like on your pizza? It’s ladies’ choice.”
I nod. “Ham. And…” I hesitate. What I’m about to say has alienated more people than religion itself. “Pineapple.”
I wait. This is it. This is where the rubber meets the road.
I steel myself for the grimace. For the oratory on how pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza but instead, he blinks, teeth denting his bottom lip on a nod. “You are heavenly, Kitty Tennant. Heavenly.”
I let the laugh I should hold back go in a belly jiggling burst. “Thank you…for being on the right side of the pineapple-on-pizza debate. I trust you more already.” He keeps his focus on me, sniffing as I see his jaw harden, then I add, “Not just for pineapple, but for listening. That’s the first time in ages anyone’s listened to what I said rather than just waiting to speak. Can I ask you for something?”
“Of course. If it’s in my power, I’ll do it.”
“The journal… If trust goes both ways, then you should have one too. I should be able to ask you things as well. Things that you’ll answer without fear of repercussions.”
He freezes, shoulders pulling back as his chest inflates, cheeks hollowing as his lips part and I want to taste them. Especially after eating pineapple pizza.
“For you, Kitty, I’ll grant your request.”
“Great,” I say, the clenching in my chest easing a little even as sorrow tightens my windpipe as I think of how I’ll be sleeping without Baby for the first time in years. “One other thing…since you have my phone, do you have…” I measure my words, but decide he’s in a giving mood and launch my request. “See, I’m sort of a Zelda fanatic. It’s something I do that is fun. Like, simple fun, you know?”
He nods. “I happen to be a fan. I may not look it, but I’ve kicked some pretty high level ass on Zelda Lots of the students that stay here play. But, be warned, I like to win and I won’t throw the game to make you feel better. I’m ruthless.”
I choke on a giggle. The vision of Father Martin, wielding the controller and battling me for first place makes my heart happy.
He points to the door. “Now, off you go. Go get showered and put on your comfiest clothes. I’ll meet you in the common room in an hour.”
I skip and float back to my room.
The heaviness from this morning floats away as I shut the door to my quarters and dive through the bathroom door, twisting the brass handle on the enclosed shower and getting a spray of cold water on my face before I can get out of the way.
“Well, I did need a bit of a cold shower,” I mutter to myself, the slickness between my legs proof that I need a lusty reset when it comes to Father Martin.
“He’s just being kind. Building trust,” I continue, hoping I’ll listen. “That’s all.”
As I wait for the icy flow to warm, I strip off my clothes, throwing them into a pile by the door and heading into the bedroom to retrieve my cosmetic bag from my suitcase.
I rip away the duct tape, the purple people eater falling at my feet, the charge long gone but the cord is still attached. I look over my shoulder at the empty room, the silence swirling around as I spot an outlet on the other side of the bed.
I plug in the cord, then stuff the vibrator under my pillow, tucking the cord behind the bed just in case Sister Nosey decides to toss my room while I’m gone. There’s at least a chance she won’t find it.
Steam billows out of the bathroom door and as I step into the simple white marble bathroom, I do a once over of myself in the mirror.
Curvy? BBW? Chubby? Fat?
Yeah, all of the above. I love food and since I was little, I was ‘healthy’ as my father would say. Then he’d always add ‘and the prettiest girl God ever put on this earth. And the smartest.’.
I miss him.
I drown myself in the hot water. Thoughts of how Baby used to stand outside my shower waiting to lick the water off my toes when I emerged making my heart heavy.
I wash away the sadness the best I can. Shampoo, conditioner, lavender soap. But, shit, I forgot my razor.
Oh well, I’ll be the only one seeing my stubbly legs for the next thirty days, so maybe it’s time to go natural.
I wiggle my toes on the marble floor of the shower. They are long and bony. I’ve always had a love hate relationship with them. I mean, I love them because they let me stand and function. But, they’d never get me a gig as a foot model, that’s for sure.
I keep them painted most of the time. Sort of a polishing a turd mentality or, what is it they say? Dressing up a pig? I don’t know, but I’m sort of sad I didn’t get a chance to get a pedicure before I was shipped off to old Saint Margaret’s.
Was there even a Saint Margaret? Seems sketchy but without a phone or a laptop, I have no way to confirm who this Margaret is or if she was a saint at all.
As I finish rinsing the silky conditioner from my hair, Father Martin’s face flashes behind my closed lids and the throbbing in my core that’s been torturing me since the airport returns.
For a second, I consider if that purple vibe is waterproof, but getting out of the shower, running for it, hoping it’s charged seems like too much fuss. Besides, it’s my first vibrator and I don’t want to risk blowing it up in the shower. Having to explain why I have third degree burns on my hoo-ha and ask nurse-slash-nun Nathalia for some treatment is not on my bucket list.
Which, brings me to my next point.
Masturbating. Like, I must be the worst or I’m just uninspired because…it’s never appealed to me.
Yeah, I’ve tried it, because, I’m supposed to, right?
Nothing. Like, squeeze my eyes shut, get some…I don’t know, soft porn going in my mind, and graze and explore and rub aaaaaaand….
Nothing.
Like flatline.
But, standing in this small, white shower where other girls have washed away their sin, my hormones and pleasure centers have come online and I feel all things are possible.
Through God.
I make the sign of the cross because…I’m not sure. It makes me feel pre-emptively forgiven for what I’m pretty sure I’m about to do.
Do it. Touch it.
It’s just a clitoris.
It won’t bite.
“Ugggg.” I groan, leaning back onto the cool wall, slipping down into the little ledge seat across from the shower head, bend my knees, planting my heels on the edge and…open my legs.
The water hits me in the eye sockets, which is not setting the stage for a successful self-care session. So I hop up, my feet squeaking on the shower floor, adjust the shower head, glancing down where I was sitting, calculating the aim and trajectory for maximum effect…then sit back down and assume the position.
Holy shit.
A single jet targets my clit and I slap my knees closed, splashing water up my nose, my toes curling, heels slipping on the edge of the marble ledge.
Why is this so hard?
Everyone does it, right?
Birds do it. Bees do it.
Do even educated priests do it?
Smoothing the water from my eyes, I traverse my hand over the softness of my belly, wondering if any guy besides half-drunk Hank will every find a generously fluffy girl like me boner worthy.
“Just, breathe,” I mutter into the steam. “Think of something…” I’m not sure if self-talk is the way to go right now, but I already know what’s coming next.
Where my dirty mind is headed.
Yes, Father. I have sinned.
That’s the ticket. A swelling burst of shuddering wonder stutters my breath, flexing whatever muscles that connect to the gathering delight in my core.
That’s it. Right there.
Do all clits look the same? Or, are they like…dicks? Not that I’ve seen any in person, just the pictures my friends would flash at me from their phones and from what I’ve gathered, there is a wide variety. But clits?
I’ve never been a porn girl, and the worst my dad had tucked in his nightstand was an ancient Playboy so there was plenty of bush in the 80’s but none of the inner workings, so to speak, were on display.
I’m working myself out with the tips of my fingers and it’s easy to find. As the pleasure gathers, it gets harder, a little longer, longer than—for whatever reason—I think is normal, but, gah, can I quit critiquing myself right now? I’m the only one here, who the fuck cares what my clit looks like?
That single jet of hot water is dangerously close to the apex of growing tension between my legs and I swivel my butt on the wet marble, making a weird squeak sort of farting sound where I’m stuck until I manage to maneuver myself into the perfect position.
“Oh shit.” The back of my head bounces on the stone wall as I spin my fingers on my slick open folds while the tiny jets of water dance just below.
He’s there in my mind’s eye as clear as if he was standing under the water with me. His darkness surrounded by light. Jawline square as he stares down at me, spread for him. Wide, depraved, a temptress.
“You would tempt Jesus himself into the flames of hell, Kitten? One taste and I’ll fall from grace, is that what you want?”
“Yes.” I answer into the shower spray. “I mean, no.” I mumble, steamy air thick with every breath as I imagine Father Martin’s touch, his lips, lower, down, down… “Maybe?”
“I’ve prayed on my knees many times.” The vision spins, takes flight, his black robe dropping from his shoulders, exposing a torso thick with tension, flat lines of muscle covered with swirls and thick letters.
Sinner is inscribed in the shape of a smile on his upper chest, in ornate script with a crucifix centered on his sternum as his hands come to my knees and he lowers himself in front of me.
“But you, you are the altar upon which I will break my vows. Crush my commitment to God. To the Church. Replace them with my vows and commitment to you, my Kitten. Now, close your eyes, and pray with me…”
“Our father…” I begin, imagining his voice, low and dark, vibrating with mine as we say the words together, my brains turning to scrambled eggs. “Who art in heaven…hallowed—”
Fuck.
My fantasy spins with his tongue lapping at my clit, his prayer muffled by the ministrations of his mouth on my sex. Giving, offering, taking, commanding…
“Finish the prayer, my child.”
“Be.” Oh my God.
“Thy.” Yes, yes, please, there, right there.
“Name.” I scream, this is it. It’s happening, it’s a miracle right here at Saint Margaret’s home for wayward girls…
My body takes flight. Fingers and water and moans and calls for my Father.
Not the one in heaven.
My father.
Father Martin.
Who, without his knowledge or consent, just delivered me from evil.
Or, delivered me into its hands.
