The doorbell echoes deep from within the two story brick house.
"Come in, Lori, how are you?"
What am I supposed to say? We both know why I'm here, and having an affair with a priest under the guise of marital counseling isn't anything to write home about.
I want to say that I'm scared, that I feel terribly guilty, that this is wrong but that I can't not do this, and as I look up into his blue eyes, trying to form my reply, even though I am the one with sexual experience, albeit minimal, I feel suddenly shy, skittish. Maybe it's the forbidden lure of the taboo. Maybe it's his overwhelming presence. Maybe I'm just horny as hell, but he never gets his answer.
Father Mike seems confident enough; he's wearing old tight faded jeans, a 38 or 40, I'd guess, and a St. Louis Cardinals (from back when they WERE the Cardinals) t-shirt. His red hair is wet, combed neatly and smells wonderfully sexy, even from this distance.
Stepping aside, holding the heavy oak door open for me, he says in a low voice, "Come in, Lori. Now."
Unable to maintain eye contact, I look down and step inside the darkened foyer, lit only by a single votive on the side table, staring at the dark green marble floor clutching my purse tightly with both hands. He's awfully aggressive tonight, I think to myself.
"The maid's gone home for the night and Monsignor Eager's at a conference in Springfield. I thought our...meeting would be more comfortable in the den rather than my office."
Several scenarios and thoughts flow heterogeneously through my mind without my actually forming the words and thinking them. Ok. He wants to go ahead with this, he wants me, I can see that, but I can also see that he's going to have to go through some sort of off-the-wall ritual in order to justify this to himself, and to me, also. This can't be easy for him; it sure as hell isn't easy for me.
Father Mike's eyes are tender, his hand gentle yet firm as he takes me by the elbow and guides me down the hall through a door on the right, into what I can only assume is the den, where a fire is casting undulating shadows across the booklined walls from the fireplace.
Gracing the only free wall above the fireplace hang antique weapons and instruments of torture from hundreds of years ago. What odd decor for a den in a priest's house, I think to myself. Compelled to acquire a better look at these old iron devices, I move away from Mike. He watches as I walk toward the fireplace, my upturned eyes staring in fascination, unable to tear my gaze away.
Facing the fire, my eyes glued to the wall above the mantle, the front of my body is warmed delightfully, chasing away the chill of the autumn evening air.
It had taken me two months to screw up the courage to phone for another appointment with Mike, and I'd been grateful that I hadn't had to speak directly with him when I called, talking rather with Bunny, the Church secretary who had been there for over fifty years I'd heard. When I'd given her my name she hesitated, no doubt trying to recall the specifics of my last visit to his office, when she'd nearly caught Father Mike and I on his desk...
"Fascinating, aren't they?"
My backside is equally warmed as he stands close behind me looking over the top of my head at the vile apparatus.
"Father Eager never uses this room, so he allowed me to hang my collection in here." He laughs. "He was a bit startled, I think, at my choice of decor, but had no objections since they're obviously antiques. What do you think of them?"
His hand rests on my shoulder, sending a shiver through my body. I peer at the pieces, unable to name most of them, but knowing instinctively what they are, and what they were used for. One item in particular catches my eye, and I can't believe what it is I'm seeing, it turns my stomach but I am unable to look away. A rusty metal ring about an inch and a half wide, yet long enough to encircle a human neck when bent at the hinge in the middle, flat triangular spikes protruding from the inside around the whole strip hangs on the wall front and center, as if considered a trophy of some sort. It could be nothing other than an old slave collar, and as I looked at it, a wave of horror washed over me; I couldn't believe this sort of thing still existed in our modern world, and I was sickened at the very sight of such wickedness.
My body, however, was reacting in a totally opposite manner. I imagined myself inside that collar, with a heavy chain attached to it as a phantom guard led me nude and helpless to my master's chambers where he awaited, planning all sorts of devious methods with which to use my aching body...my mind retreats to my favorite, and very first sexual fantasy. Bound tightly, spread eagle on a big fluffy bed, blindfolded, and gagged, a ruggedly handsome stranger, a Scottish laird, perhaps, boldly and roughly fondles my body from head to toe and back again, nibbles, even bites my secret places, tonguing my swollen pink clit to the brink of orgasm when he finally plunges deep into my quivering pussy taking me over and over until I scream through my gag, a multitude of orgasms producing wave after wave of convulsions throughout my entire being. That fantasy got me through a lot of sleepless nights as I watched, helpless, while my marriage went down the tubes...
Mike's broad hand squeezes my shoulder, returning me to the present and I shudder in an attempt to cast off the conflicting emotions coursing through my body and mind. Ashamed at myself for even thinking such thoughts in the presence of a priest, I nevertheless lean slightly back against his warm body, closing my eyes against the overwhelming desire I feel for him.
Sensing my reaction to the wall of torture, his arms encircle my upper torso from behind, pinning my arms to my sides as his head dips down allowing him to run his tongue lightly up the nape of my neck to my hairline, causing me to shudder violently. His arms tighten, rendering me immobile as his tender tongue disappears and is replaced by teeth, biting down hard on my neck akin to a stallion overcoming a mare in heat.
Mindless now, throwing all caution into the fireplace, my head involuntarily throws itself back, affording him instant access to my entire neck, where, completely out of character, his arms squeeze until I can barely breathe and his mouth devours my neck, licking, sucking and biting as I gasp aloud in startled pleasure.
O God! Forgive me! This cannot be wrong, can it? Is such bliss only reserved for saints and martyrs? Why is it right for a husband and wife to own such happiness and not a man of the cloth, one who serves Him day in and day out? Where is the justice in that?
Roughly grasping my shoulders now, Father Mike turns me to face him and reflected in his eyes I see the fire burning, flames licking at his irises, seemingly reaching out for me.
