My Weakness Page 22
Angling his head on a slight tilt, he locks me in his captivating stare and I have to force myself to look away for my own sanity.
Heat pools in my cheeks and if my parents see, it’s off to Antarctica.
I feel so innocent standing in front him. Is that stupid? From a distance he makes me feel wild. He makes me feel like every bit of the sexually perverse woman that I am, but up close…well…he makes me feel like a virgin. I feel vulnerable knowing he can tear me apart at any second. If anyone asked, I’d deny it, but God knows just how bad I want him to bare his teeth against my skin…so I’m doomed right from the beginning, really.
Chapter Four
A sexy, sinful blush spreads up her neck and pools in her cheeks as she tears her eyes from mine.
I glance at her father as he engages mine in conversation. His chubby, nail—bitten hand is planted firmly on her slender shoulder, his fingers gripping tighter than necessary. I’ve been in the presence of a lot of religious families and it’s all the same.
My muscles coil with a feeling I haven’t experienced in a long time…real excitement. Has someone been naughty?
I look down at her hands. She clenches a small, black Bible and nervously flicks one corner with her index finger. I imagine bending her over a pew and spanking her bare ass with it, leaving Bible shaped marks on her flesh. I wonder, if I hit her hard enough, would the little gold words on the front imprint on her milky white skin?
My cock stirs as I imagine her full, pink lips parted and wet with my pre-cum as she reads passages on sin. When she reaches the sections on sodomy, I will push my way into her tight ass and fuck her like she so desperately and so obviously wants to be fucked.
I glance back to her father and smirk. If he was a smarter man, he’d keep his daughter away from men like me.
“We can talk more after the service.” My father says, pulling me from my thoughts. “Are you busy?”
Marcus shakes his head. “After the service is fine.”
Dad waves them off and re-enters the church. I follow him, scanning the crowd as we walk down the left aisle.
Towards the front, I spot Natalie’s family, but no Natalie. After what happened last week I had a feeling she wouldn’t be here today. The muscles in my shoulders relax from the tight coil I didn’t know I had them in. I’m glad she’s not here. The thought of answering to her hurt feelings makes me uncomfortable. Out of curiosity, I wonder what she told her parents to get out of attending church this morning.
I stalk up the varnished, wooden stairs and onto the altar. Behind me, my father crosses the floor to the podium where he gives his sermon. Today’s lesson is temptation—just like last week. With divorce on the rise he wants to spend a little extra time on adultery. I’m not going to lie. It makes me feel guilty…because I’m an unsympathetic, adulterous manwhore and if that ever gets out…well…I can’t imagine I’d be welcome around here anymore.
I take my seat six feet to the right of the podium. I hate sitting up here. I hate knowing that so many pairs of eyes could be on me at any one time. What if they see me for who I really am? What if someone looks at me long enough to realize something isn’t quite right? There’s a few women in this room who’d love to see my balls in a vice, but then again, exposing me would expose them for the sinning, lust-filled women they are and I don’t think their father’s—or their husbands, in some instances—would appreciate that.
I lift my gaze from my black, leather shoes and it locks with blue irises. She sees me. I know she does.
Cassia drops her stare to her lap and strands of her long, wavy blonde hair fall to cover her face. I watch her, curiously, as her father leans across the mother to talk to the girl. His mouth opens and shuts quickly, showing white flashes of bone as he bares his teeth. With a swift hand, she pulls the curtain of hair out of her face and turns her sights on the large, stained glass window to her left. She looks uncomfortable, like she’s aware I’m still looking at her. Her father mutters something to her mother and she nods her head, agreeing with whatever he’s saying.
I don’t like him. I don’t like his receding hairline or his stern, uptight face. I don’t like the crisp suits he wears, or the fact the buttons don’t do up at the front. He’s not a morbidly obese man, but he’s fat enough to notice, and the tight leash he has his daughter on unnerves me. Granted, I’d love to put a collar on Cassia and tighten the leash too, but only for her pleasure. I’d do it only to enhance her happiness—her excitement—not make her fucking miserable.
I see it all the time. I see the way parents oppress their grown ass children, restricting them from being who they were born to be because it doesn’t fit in with their beliefs. That’s why a lot of people become closet deviants and develop some pretty fucked up fetishes, you know. Instead of talking about it, the parents sweep it under the rug and force their kid to pray harder. Fuck no.
I drag my sight from Cassia to the floor at my feet. My father’s voice rings throughout the church as he begins the service. Like always, I drown it out until his preaching becomes a deep hum in my ears. There’s no point in listening because I’m never going to change who I am. I can’t. I’ve been this way for far too long.
I’m a man drowning in lies, booze and sex. I’m a lost cause suffocated by sin.
****
“Amen.” I say, gripping the edges of the podium in my hands, ending the prayer.
I always say the closing prayer. Dad thinks it’ll inspire the younger kids to want to be more involved in the faith. Granted, there has been an increase of sign-ups for Bible studies and the camps we host, but for a different reason entirely.
I lift my gaze to the sheep sitting before me. Maybe I’ll become a priest. It feels good having so many people sitting before you, hanging on your every word—words they follow religiously without any solid proof if it’s real or not.
If I became a priest, oh, the fun I would have…
The trouble I’d get into…
The damage I’d cause…
In front of me, heads are bowed, their chins almost touching their chest. Except for one.
Cassia.
A tingle as fast and as fierce as lightning shoots down my spine. Her eyes are piercing, her cheeks painted with the subtlest blush. She drops her stare to her lap, but it’s too late. I’ve made my choice. I wonder how long it’d take to get her underneath me. The overprotective father might be a problem, but with the right amount of reassurance I’m sure he’d leave me alone with his daughter long enough to seal the deal. I can imagine her pussy now, bare and pink—like the heat in her cheeks.
Excitement bubbles in my veins and surges through my body.
I need to have her.
*Cassia*
Fuck.
I force my gaze to my lap and clench the solid Bible in my hands, pressing it firmly against my thighs. He caught me looking at him for the one millionth time. I don’t know what’s more unnerving, the fact he catches me looking at him or the knowing, burning stare he reciprocates with.
Father Andrews speaks, but I keep my eyes downcast in fear of them flicking back to Caleb.
The wooden bench under my ass moves, pulling me from my thoughts, as people lift themselves off of it.
That’s it.
Church is finished until next Sunday which means I’m in for another long week of violent masturbation.
Yay.
By next week my fingers will look like they belong to a Mr. Olympia contestant and not a nineteen year old girl.
I rise to my feet and follow my parents as they file out from between the wooden pews. I keep my eyes on my cute, cream ballet flats, taking only five steps before I notice other shoes going in the opposite direction.
Oh.
No.
I look up.
Oh, no.
Up ahead, the intimidating altar slips closer with every step I take. It looms menacingly, making me feel guilty…making me feel like God is going to blast the roof off the church and zap me to f
uck knows where.
I swallow hard and lower my eyes from the towering altar only to see Father Andrews and Caleb making their way toward us. A tingle sweeps up the back of my neck and across my face. What’s the saying? When it rains, it pours? Yeah, that.
For weeks I’ve watched Caleb from afar and the day I finally meet him (with my very serious Catholic parents as company, might I add) he’s being relentlessly shoved in my face—and not in the way I’ve been fantasizing it. No torn clothes. No dirty, nasty name calling.
No orgasms.
Just me…and my parents.
“A great service as always, Father Andrews.” My mother announces, clasping her long fingered hands at her chest.
He smiles, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black slacks as he and Caleb close the distance between us. “Thank you, Linda.”
Father Andrews’ friendly green eyes flicker past my parents and onto the Bible in my hands. Please don’t bring attention to me. Please don’t bring attent—
“What a beautiful Bible.” He announces, slipping a hand from his pocket and reaching out for it.
Damn it.
Mustering a polite smile, I slip my leather bound book into his hand and he pulls it close to his face to admire the unique Bible.
“The leather work is lovely.” He states, appreciating the intricate binds on the spine.
“Thank you.” I say, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “I made it myself.”
He looks at me, his expression smoothing over in an impressed gawk. “Really? You must be good with your hands.”
Ha! I fight the urge to cringe. Great choice of words, you innocuous old man.
My brows smooth out from the furrow I didn’t realize I had them in and a damning smile tries to force itself onto my lips. Father Andrews’ face doesn’t change…and I realize it’s because I’m the only one here who has a mind dirtier than a dollar bill tucked into a sweaty stripper’s ass crack.
Unintentionally, my gaze flicks to Caleb and butterflies materialize in my stomach. Jesus. I wish he wouldn’t look at me with his head tilted to the side like that. Amusement swirls in his eyes and he doesn’t even attempt to hide his sinister leer. Then again, why would he? All three sets of confused, adult eyes are on me. No one is paying attention to what he’s doing.
“I…uh…I,” A giggle bubbles up my throat and I choke on it.
Dear God, this is not happening.
I slap my hand over my mouth and Father Andrews smiles patiently, his skin pinching around his kind, green eyes. Like his son, he tips his head to the side, his stare more curious than amused. Oh, hell. Can I make this any worse?
Dad glares at me, his beady brown eyes barely visible between the thin slits of his lids. I swallow the rest of my laugh, catching my bottom lip between my teeth in an attempt to buy time and regain my composure. In a couple of seconds, I manage to contain my inappropriate, sporadic giggle under a thin veil of equanimity. Clearing my throat, I release my lip.
“I guess I’m okay…with my hands.”
“I’ll say.” Father Andrews pulls the Bible open and flicks through the old pages. “What’s your favorite passage? Do you have one?”
“Uh…of course.” Shit. When was the last time I even opened that thing? “My favorite passage is…the one that stands out to me the most is…” I swallow hard. “Ooh, so many good ones to choose from.”
This is not going well.
“I admit Cassia doesn’t know her Bible as well as I’d like her to.” Dad chimes in, pulling his brown jacket further around his stomach. “If she spent more time reading and practicing her faith than she does with the T.V. it’d be a different story.”
Caleb grins and I, well…I die a little inside.
Father Andrews glance between my father and I. "Then allow me to take this opportunity to mention Caleb’s Bible study class. He does one on one tutoring and has had impeccable results.”
My heart races, the friction of it causing heat to rise up my throat and settle in my cheeks. I look at Caleb. His eyes flare and I see things in his lively green irises I know I shouldn’t.
I see fire and brimstone…
I see naughty promises…
I see a single man ruining me for all others.
Dad rubs the back of his neck. “You don’t have any female taught Bible classes?”
I roll my eyes. Juuust great.
Now Father Andrews will ask why and Dad will tell him what a naughty little whore I am and the disturbed Father will suggest I be sent off to some convent, become celibate, and repent all my sins. I don’t know what this says about me, but becoming celibate is the most terrifying thing on the planet. How can any human with fully functioning genitalia vow to not feel pleasure—true pleasure? Why do we feel it if it’s wrong? Why can’t we fuck for fun? Why can’t we fuck when we feel the need for it? It’s a need as valid as tiredness and as strong as hunger. It’s an important human state, a state that affects us mentally if it’s not sated. If we’re not supposed to bang out of wedlock, then will somebody please tell me why it feels so good? And it’s not just the thrusting part that feels good. It’s the feel of smooth, foreign skin as it slides against yours and the sound of heavy breaths as they clash together. It’s the taste of clean perspiration and excitement on the tip of your tongue. It’s the rush of adrenaline that floods your body when you make the other person groan and come…
It’s something I need.
It’s something I crave.
Maybe the answers are obvious. Maybe the answers are in my little black book of holiness and my sight is too skewered by sin and sex for me to see them.
Handing back my Bible, Father Andrews smiles, not offended in the slightest that my dad just questioned the integrity of his “angelic” son.
“I can assure you I am one hundred percent trustworthy, Mr. Claire.” Caleb responds before Father Andrews gets the chance.
A tremor ripples over my skin and down my spine at the sound of his voice.
How does he do that? How does he lie to someone’s face so casually? I’d be hyperventilating.
I look at Dad as he sizes Caleb up. I can’t tell if this is the best thing to ever happen to me or the worst. I didn’t see the girl Caleb was with last Sunday, but I saw her family so I’m banking my money on this turning out to be the worst thing to happen to me.
“Caleb can take care of your daughter, Marcus. I have faith that he can reacquaint her with Our Lord and Savior.”
If by “reacquaint” he means I’ll be screaming out to ‘God’ while his son fucks me from behind then sure, I’ll be reacquainted with God real nice.
Oh my G—listen to me. I’m ranting on and on about sex like I’m some kind of desperate nympho going through a dry spell. Can I fall any further from grace?
“Well…” Dad murmurs.
My heart thunders and my lips part. Please, no. I don’t want attend a Bible studies class—especially one run by him.
“Fine.” Dad says, causing my stomach to churn. “When is it?”
“Every Friday.” Caleb answers. “Late evening.”
Dad frowns. “Late?”
“I’m a busy man.” Caleb responds, his lips curving ever so slightly.
“Fair enough.” Dad steps toward Father Andrews. “Can we have that private conversation now?”
Father Andrews clasps his hands together. “Absolutely. My office is free.”
He starts forward and Dad follows as Father Andrews leads him to the back room—the room Caleb took that girl last Sunday. I glance from the office to Caleb. Really? His father’s office? His balls are bigger than I thought.
Mom, Caleb, and I look at each other and the awkwardness is more than I can stand. If I don’t get fresh air soon I’ll faint.
“I’m going to wait outside.” I mutter to Mom.
She nods, shifting her eyes to the colorful stain glass windows. Church windows are my mother’s favorite thing in the whole world. The brighter the better.
I step outside and inhale the fresh air. It swirls in my lungs, breaking down the anxiety and stress that has accumulated over the last hour or so. The bright morning sun kisses my skin, melting away my goosebumps and warming my blood. I saunter over to the wooden bench on my left and, with a huff, I drop onto it. In front of me, men, women, and children, dressed in their best Sunday clothes, shuffle down the stone steps, and litter the parking lot. They move with ease, unburdened by humiliation.
Unlike me.
There’s a dull ache in my spine as I slump my shoulders and slap my Bible against my forehead. What am I going to do?
“It’s not surprising, for Satan himself emulates as an angel of light.”
I jump, whipping my head in the direction of the husky voice, slapping my Bible against my thighs. My stomach tucks and rolls at the sight of him and his tall, lean body as he rests against the stone wall of the church. A shiver rolls down my spine as he tightly folds his arms across the wide expanse of his chest and smiles, flicking a thin, white lollipop stick to the right side of his lips.
I swallow.
Have you ever seen something you absolutely need to have, but know you shouldn’t? It’s fucking agonizing, like lusting over a triple-choc cupcake when your four days into a fast.
“It’s my go to passage.” He says, swallowing.
Somehow, he even manages to that do with tummy-tightening arrogance.
“O—Oh.” Heat blooms in my cheeks as a soft breeze pushes a thick wave of hair into my face.
I use the split second it gives me to suck in an inhale and beg God for help. If you love me, you won’t let me make an ass out of myself.
“Your go to passage?”
I brush my hair out of my face and watch my pointy knees, unable to bring my gaze to his. He doesn’t answer so, out of curiosity, I turn my head to look at him. When our eyes lock—blue to green—he speaks.
“It’s my response to anyone that asks what my favorite passage is. You don’t know any passages? Not even one?”