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{i. Lust}((warning: religious twist on sex and violence ok))

She knew a man whose lips intoned a faith that made hearts quiver. The litanies eased from his lips like ribbons, giving song to the stained-glass colors that dappled on the floor. For a man of a voice that moved the masses, young Father Adam was shy and soft-spoken when he’s away from the altar. His hands were always tucked away, conscious in its' exposure as something bare, true and naked. After mass, he stood clad in black like a silhouette, the clerical collar hugging his neck, the sleeves locking his wrists. Although he greeted and smiled, he was distant, with hands to himself, hidden like secrets.

They had met in a confessional, where a wall with a slotted lattice window was set in between them. In the somber darkness, the Romanian woman was a black veiled widow, her sins rolling down her cheeks. And so he did his duty, and forgave in His name, yet stumbled on the penitence rites when he met her gaze. Hazel eyes, flecked with gold, and tainted with green—the green of a viper. In that moment he felt a tingle, a thrum of the heart, a frustration of the fingers. A longing commenced, in form of the compassion to touch the troubled spirit, to send down the flame on her tongue. She tempted him with a holy desire: he wrought to save her, this woman damned by circumstance.

Each Sunday they met in the confessional, and her words became whispers, whispers became breaths, became moans for salvation, painting fantasies of the Promised Land she held victim between her teeth. By the powdered words and perfumed frankincense, he became entranced by her sorrow, to ease her sorrow, to reach out to her sorrow. Desire, he gasped. Mercy. His hand trembled on his lap, as he choked on the thought of her communion on his tongue. He gave her blessings and bid her to leave. That night, he clasped his hands tight in prayer, sweating contrition.

The lull of her words played over and over, seducing him, breaking concentration, sundering through hymns and sermons. Her sorrow was sad beauty, a harrowing example of the Lord’s abandonment. Father Adam plucked away his feathers at night, as he could not keep his hands to himself; he had his hand all over himself, of her words that twisted deep in his stigmata. He bled with desire and pain, for retribution and forgiveness.

After her next confession, he told her to pray with him. She did, pressing her prayers against his lips, to which he did not deny. Sin from sin, begotten not made. Mercy, she gasped, yet he bit for more. Those fingers that followed the bible were slender and thin, once so precise were now so clumsy and faltering. He sanctified her body with the exploration of a touch, forsaking his god to worship her, the shape of Eve. Drifting downward from heaven, he spelled out scriptures against her with his tongue. Father Adam groped for more, yet she whispered, “Not here. A better place.” He blushed, cheeks pink and florid with shame.

She led him down the stone stairs, the step that were slightly depressed by decades of use. Blind and inspired, he followed her in prospects of the bodily covenant. In a dim area, he then seized her with a kiss and she returned by marking blasphemies with her nails. They shed their worldly possessions for the pleasure of knowing they could. Muffled hisses, snarls and growls. Heat and damnation, curses and swears.

The pleasure sent ribbons down his neck, shaking, convoluting, twisting. With a whicker, her knife sent ribbons from his neck, and his body shook, convoluted, and twisted. Petals of color dappled the floor, in drops and in splatters. The flickering candles made the frozen face of Maria more solemn, shifting the contours of her disapproval.

She was baptized in his original sin, it burning warm against her flesh. Yet she still fucked him, pushing his dying body to the ground to ride what life was left. Nicoleta went to the cadence of a hymn, on and on until she laughed the Lord’s name. When she was done, she removed herself with a wicked smile. Mercy.

Back in Romania, young Father Adam had not always keep his hands to himself.

{nico}