Father White paused. He tapped the
cursor back, added a word, and went on.
The only sex you may lawfully have is vaginal intercourse, with your
husbands, that is open to the transmission of life.
He thought that over.
Satisfied, he continued:
That
means none of you should
experience sex until far in the future, after high school, after college. Some
of you will experience really good sex only three or four times in your life,
when you are most receptive to conception. A few of you will never experience
sex at all.
Tough shit.
Crude, but he could clean it up on
delivery. Or he might go with it, just to keep the sluts’ attention.
I know for most of you that will not be
good enough. You will sin with boys you do not love, and who do not love you,
who want only one thing. You will sin with your hands. You will sin with an
abominable toy that some greedy devil has manufactured just for the purpose.
He had seen those toys with his own eyes, at the shop inside the strip club. What kind of society tolerated things like that?
The current generation of young women
is too sexualized, and it is up to you to stop the trend, to learn chastity, to
submit to your husbands. You think your sexuality is power, but it is a trap.
Your music is obscene, the pop stars
you idolize are no better than prostitutes, and too many of you emulate them in
your dress.
He moved the cursor
back again.
immodest
dress. Even in the uniform of Saint Agnes, you wear your skirts too short,
flaunting your legs at unsuspecting men.
Once more, the cursor
went back:
weak,
unsuspecting men.
He had watched them moments ago, as school was letting out, through the
doorway to his office. The halls were full of fresh young skin — white, most of
it, white and privileged, seasoned with black and yellow and brown, an
interracial stew of burgeoning sexuality. The girls chattered like sparrows,
ignoring him — not even a “Happy Easter, Father” as they passed his door — but
what enraged him was that they had no idea of the effect they had on him. Or
they knew and didn’t care. They were probably sitting on their buses right now,
laughing at him: “Hey, did you see creepy old Father White staring at us? We
are so fucking hot!”
You little sluts. Amen.
He leaned back in his
red-leather chair, but it didn’t go far before it hit the windowsill: the
office was tiny. It wasn’t even an office. It had been used to store books
before Mother Claire, Saint Agnes’ principal and president, insisted he have
his own space in which to counsel the girls, as if they’d ever honestly confess
their filthy secrets to him.
He had objected. He
was only here two days a week,
he said, spying for the diocese, but Mother Claire’s ostentatious humility
would not be denied. She called on student volunteers to clear the place out,
and she tacked a crucifix to the scuffed bare walls. She had even insisted he
take her antique maple desk, which wouldn’t fit through the doorway. It had to
be dismantled and carried in piece by piece. It was absurdly large, blocking
off the end of the narrow ex-closet, a vast desert of a desk that held nothing
all week but Father’s laptop. The drawers were empty, except for his bottle and
a stack of plastic cups.
He saved his sermon as
“Retreat,” with the date, and, clicking on “My Photos,” began scrolling through
the pictures he had downloaded of young girls marching around a pool somewhere
on the Riviera. They were contestants in some kind of junior beauty pageant.
Each girl carried a placard with a large number on it. Father White was
especially fond of No. 2.
They were naked, but they knew no
shame.
He rubbed himself
through his pants. He couldn’t take out his dick with the door open, but he
preferred not to wank, anyway. He liked the rough feel of his hand through the
fabric, the deliberate buildup of pressure, like a looming judgment.
The knock was so
tentative he dismissed it. No one ever came to see him, and he didn’t want to
be interrupted. But it came again, louder, and he glanced up, suppressing his
annoyance.
The Irish pixie was standing in the
doorway.
“Sister Patrice.”
“I’m not interrupting,
am I, Father?”
“Not
at all. I was just finishing my sermon for your retreat
tomorrow. What may I do for you?”
“This is Miss Susan
Nguyen.”
She stood to one side
and pushed a tiny student toward him —a bronze oriental, with hair down to her
ass, who made him want to finish his business right
then. He closed his computer top.
“And what is Miss
Nguyen’s issue?”
“Miss Nguyen has an
off-color sense of humor,” Sister said, “and she has been passing notes in
class.”
She handed him the
offending paper over the desk. He reached for it, anxiously aware of his
erection. The slightest move made it throb.
“This is outrageous,”
he said. “More than outrageous. It is sacrilege. To
speak about a nun — a nun — as a sexual object this way. It’s a
disgrace. Do you think this is funny?
… Well?”
“I don’t know,” the
dumb thing said.
“You bad ones never
know anything when you are caught. What shall we do with her, Sister?”
“I was hoping you
could work this end,” Sister said. “I have her compatriot waiting for me back
in the classroom.”
“You take care of
her,” Father said. “Leave this one to me.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Close the door on
your way out.”
Father White knew how
this would go. A few pointed questions, and the child
would weep in a touching display of remorse. He would be understanding,
but firm, rebuilding her chastened ego in the image of the Church. She would
accept, gratefully, every penance he imposed. He would end the session with a
gentle joke, and she would smile at him through her tears, redeemed.
“You may place your
books on my desk.”
But he did not invite
her to sit. She stood reflected in the polished maple plane, her arms at her
sides.
“Now, Miss—”
“Nguyen.”
“What is that?”
“My name,” she said.
“Don’t be smart. I
meant what nationality.”
“Vietnamese.”
“Interesting.
Your family were refugees, then.”
“Uh
huh.”
“Do you like it here
in our country?”
“I was born here,” she
said.
“Yes, yes, of course.
Now, then, Miss, uh —”
“Nuh-win.”
“Nguyen. How do you spell that? Never
mind — you seem unaware of the seriousness of what you’ve done. I will have to
call your parents.”
“It’s just my mom.”
“All right, your mother. How do you
think she’ll react when she sees this? How embarrassed will she be?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know much, do you? A single
mother, she must work very hard. Do you think she has saved and sacrificed to
send you here, to this excellent school, just so you can disrespect your teachers
in such a prurient fashion?”
“Uh
uh.”
“Speak properly when a priest addresses
you. The correct response is, ‘No, Father.’”
“No, Father.”
How had he lost control of this
situation? The girl’s defenses were impenetrable. She was either stupid, or
hopelessly corrupt. And she didn’t look stupid. A foretaste of tomorrow’s
sermon would be just the thing.
“You young women today, your whole generation, are too highly sexualized,” he began. “The music
you listen to is obscene, and the singers are no better than prostitutes. You
emulate them in your dress, flaunting your bodies at weak, unsuspecting men.
You — you, right now, wearing the uniform of this great school, your skirt is
too short, flaunting your legs — Wipe that smirk off your face.”
The girl sighed impatiently, and the
smirk flattened into a bored pout as she lifted up her skirt. He had guessed
right about one thing, at least: her underwear was indecent. It was nothing but
an eye-patch, of Easter purple, skin-tight and cloven like the devil’s hoof at
the point where it vanished between her legs.
“Lower your skirt immediately.”
But she kept it up, and he kept
looking.
“You are a brazen whore,” he said
without much conviction.
“What’s it gonna take to get me out of
here?”
“What are you offering?”
She gave him a full-on smile and
crawled across his desk like a kitten.
“Hey, what have you been doing?” she
said, looking over the beaded edge at the unmistakable roll in his pants, which
was slightly out of alignment with fly, pointed at one o’clock. She turned
about, and, sweeping the computer aside, sat facing him on the desk, her skirt
in a broad bow across her hips. Pads of goose skin bulged around the vertical
purple strap. Hairless. She shaved. One of her shoes
hit the floor. She brought up a white-stockinged foot and pressed it to the end
of his dick. Her tongue glimmered against her lower lip — an expression of
minute concentration — as she flexed her toes.
“Like that?” she said.
“Huh—”
“Speak properly when a brazen whore
addresses you,” she said. “The proper response is, ‘Yes, Ma’am.’”
“Yes,
Ma’am.”
“I like it when guys get stupid.”
She ground in, as though stepping on a
worm, but he found the strength not to come — not yet, not before he had
touched and tasted her. With an effort he pried her foot away and reached for
her with both arms. The strings that held the eye-patch in place were tight and
snapped at her hips as he tried to grip them. She raised her butt, and the back
strap rolled out of the crack of her ass. The thong came off one foot and hung
from the toes of the other, which she brought to his face.
Worshipfully, he gripped the heel and
instep and kissed the high arch. His hand went up her raised leg. He lingered
at border of her stocking and thigh, charmed by the contrast of white and dusky
amber, but soon moved on to the bald patch over her cunt. There was something
there — a bright blemish. He pushed her skirt back. It was a yellow butterfly,
meticulous in detail, with veins and spots, but so small that when she grew her
hair back, it would disappear. The wings were spread symmetrically over the end
of her slit.
“I didn’t think girls your age could
get tattoos.”
“I didn’t want it,” she said. “But my
uncle brought a guy over. They held me down and shaved me, and the guy drilled
me with that gun.”
“Why would your uncle do that?”
“He started molesting me when I was
six.”
“You
poor thing! Did it hurt?”
“It hurt like fuck,” she said. “It’s OK
now. Guys think it’s hot.”
So, she was beyond redemption. He could
do as he pleased with a clear conscience.
He knelt in front of her. Her outer
lips formed a compact circle, no bigger than the mouth of a spice jar, bursting
with the swollen spirals of cinnamon-colored leaves. He separated them with two
fingers, and a pearly grain emerged, thick with mucus. He blew on it softly.
She tensed up with a low laugh. Now she was the one being teased. He felt in
control again.
At the touch of his tongue, her
clitoris withdrew into its nest. He knew where it had to be, but he couldn’t
pick it out through the wet maze of skin. No matter. He licked everywhere, and
she responded with her whole body, leaning back on the desktop, supporting
herself with her hands behind her. Her long hair spread like an oil slick
across the polished surface. He jammed his face hard between her legs.
“Fuh-uck—” she breathed.
Not
so smart now, are you, you little bitch? Tamed and docile
under the touch of God’s representative on Earth. Fucking
whore. Come for Father.
Her back
arched, and her little tits stood up. She threw her legs out and her head back
and chuffed: “Huh! Huh! Huh!”
Straight
to fucking hell. But if not for me,
then for someone else. Someone who can’t absolve you
afterward.
“Wow,” she said. “You’re good at that,
for an old guy.”
“Don’t underestimate old guys.”
Standing up, he pulled her top from her
skirt ran his hands up over her titties. Her bra felt soft and glossy. He
raised the shirt, so it rested on her tits, and saw: the bra the same
shimmering purple as her thong. Slut underwear. There
should be a rule against it. The girls should be required to wear only plain
white cotton, and he would be only too happy to perform inspections.
She resisted his kiss, clamping her
mouth shut as he tried to force in his tongue. That was OK: he was being too
rough with her, and he probably needed to shave.
He reached back to undo her bra, but he
was helpless in such matters.
“It doesn’t have a hook,” she said.
She pulled it up for him, and her brown
breasts peeped out beneath her shirt. They were hardly worthy of the name,
barely big enough to get his mouth around, with wide, black areolas that made
think of pumpernickel communion wafers. But the nipples stood up invitingly,
and the dark circles wrinkled and hardened as he chewed and sucked on each in
turn.
She reached down and undid his pants,
which fell halfway down his thighs. His dick flopped out through the fly of his
boxers. To get them off, he had to flip the damned thing back into the slot and
out again over the waistband. It was God’s joke, long and awkward and always
getting in the way. But the way it felt —
“Ooo,” the
girl said.
She took him gently in hand. Her loose
fingers whispered along his shaft, and when she reached the end, she gave him a
squeeze and a tug.
“Ooo,” he
said.
He had to sit down. The girl slid off
the desk and sat on her heels below him, one shoe off and one shoe on. She
jerked his pants off his knees. He was afraid to ask for the obvious, but this
schoolgirl, more sexually experienced than he, knew what he wanted. She gripped
his cock at the base, and, rising on her knees, levered it toward her parted
lips.
Then the office door opened, and Sister
Patrice stumbled in.
“Chuck, I have to talk to you—”
‘Hey! Don’t you knock!?”
“You’re alone.”
And he realized that, over the broad
desktop, she could see nothing — not his exposed lower half, and not the
crouching 14-year-old who was about to make this the happiest day of his life.
God
bless Mother Claire.
“Sorry I snapped,” he said. “But you startled
me. And it’s only polite. I could have been hearing the girl’s confession.”
“Where is she?”
“I sent her home.”
“She left her books.”
They were still on the corner of the
desk.
“Yes,” he said,
his mind in a whirl. “Yes, she did. Well … she was upset. Remorseful
and all that.”
“That doesn’t sound like her.”
“I have a way of getting through to
young people.”
He brought his chair forward, bottling
the girl up in the spacious kneehole below the desk.
“Sit down,” he said. “What can I do for
you?”
She fell into one of two scuffed
chairs.
“I have done a wicked thing,” she said.
“Would this be in the nature of a
confession?”
“Yes. Give me a shot.”
“You want a drink?”
“Oh,
dear God, yes.”
“What makes you think—”
“Please don’t play games.”
He brought out the bottle and cups and
poured them each a tall one. The problem was how to pass it to her getting up.
He bent low, sliding the cup toward her, almost touching the desk with his nose
as he extended his arm.
“I haven’t had good whiskey since high
school,” she said.
She took a desperate swallow.
“Ugh — and I still haven’t.”
He sipped his and cradled the cup at
his stomach.
“Your confession?” he prompted her.
The nun crossed herself.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
It has been four days since my last
confession. In that time, I have sinned with a young girl in my class.”
Is
this what I hope it is?
“Sinned how?”
“Physically.”
“Sexually?”
She nodded in shame.
Bingo.
“When did this happen?”
“Just
now. Minutes ago. In
the classroom.”
“And who—”
“I don’t know if you know her. She’s a
tall girl—”
“The one with the long legs, yes. You
have good taste.”
“It’s not funny.”
“No,
of course not.”
“You know my demons,” she said. “And
she is such a damned heartbreaker, with those big doe eyes and that pert
bottom. I’ve been resisting her all year. — What’s
wrong?”
He had started in his chair, a reaction
to a misty tickling at the end of his dick.
“Cramp,” he said. “I’ve been sitting a
long time.”
He batted furtively at the girl’s head,
but she wasn’t going anywhere. She had him firmly in hand. Below the border of
black hair, the golden forehead and the flattish nose, her tongue flickered
like a flame at the end of his wick.
“Tell me,” he said, “exactly what you
did.”
“What’s to tell?” she said. “I told her
her friend was a bad influence. She started to cry,
and I—”
“Comforted
her.”
“She was frightened, and I took
advantage of it.”
The girl’s lips closed around his
penis. Her tongue flattened against the underside, wet and warm, with the
subtlest texture. He could feel every tiny papilla on his sweet spot.
“It was crazy,” the nun went on. “She
was crying, and I was holding her, and before I knew it, I was kissing her on
the mouth and putting my hand up her skirt. And I gave her some bullshit story
about testing her willpower, for a fookin’ vocation.
— What was that?”
The girl’s head had bumped the top
drawer. But she kept on, wrenching him down for easier access. She began
jacking him, slowly, lubing him with spit. It was a miracle he didn’t pass out.
“Just uncrossing my legs,” he said.
“Now, how did she react to this?”
“What difference does that make?”
“If she encouraged you, you’re less
guilty, in the eyes of God. Was she frightened? Did she resist?”
“She came in my hand. Is that what you
wanted to hear? My fingers reek of her.”
“I was wondering why you keep sniffing
them,” he said.
Caught, she lowered her hand and
gripped the armrest.
“What am I going to do? … Chuck?”
“Hmm?
“Is something wrong?”
“Just
thinking.”
The slick hand pulled at his swollen
glans, retreated, and the watering mouth took its place. The slick hand pulled
at his swollen glans, retreated, and the watering mouth took its place. The
slick hand pulled at his swollen glans …
“Prayer,” he said. “We need to pray. Hard. Very hard. So hard … Almighty
God ... We beseech Thee…”
“Chuck?”
His cock twitched, shuddered, spat. Bolts of his being shot into the void. His mind darkened an
instant, and in the blackness he saw the outstretched arm of the Creator, the
stars and planets and galaxies gushing from His fingertips.
All at once, his head cleared.
“I want you to forget about this,” he
said. “Say the rosary this evening, as many times as you can. Do any other
penance you wish. It was an isolated incident, a lapse. I see no reason for it ruin anyone’s life.”
“And if she mentions it to anyone—?”
“Then we’ll face it together. I wouldn’t
worry. If she enjoyed it as you say, she’s probably too ashamed to speak up.
Pray with me.”
They recited the Our Father, the Hail
Mary, the Glory Be. He blessed her, and they tossed
off their drinks.
“Feel better?” he asked.
“Some. Thank you.”
“Get
some rest. Pray.”
And the instant she was gone, he
slammed his chair back against the wall.
“God damn you!”
She was curled on her back, her head
propped against the blank inner wall of the desk, flashing him her pussy and
asshole. With his chair no longer blocking her, she unfurled her legs and
stretched out at his feet.
“What
in the hell! She … We could have—”
She beamed smugly at his sputtering
rage. No shame. His come spotted her
shirt, and drops of it clung like opals to her tits, her face. She plucked a
gob from her hair and raised it to her lips.
“Oh, Father,” she cooed, “I hafta go to confession, too!”