Priest_by_Sierra_Simone 3

I felt it building, taut electricity in my pelvis, and I was thrusting into my
hand now, wishing I was fucking Poppy Danforth—her mouth or her cunt or
her ass, I didn’t care—and then I shot all over my desk, pulsing and spurting
and imagining that each and every drop of myself was being spilled onto her
white skin.
My hand stilled and my breathing slowed and reality came crashing back
down. Here I was, dick in hand, cum all over my liturgical desk calendar, and
a picture of St. Augustine looking at me reproachfully from the wall.
Shit.
Shit.
Numb, I zipped up my jeans and tore off the top sheet of the calendar and
threw it away, the crinkling of the thick paper loud and almost accusatory,
and fuck, what the hell had I done?
I sat in the chair and stared at St. Augustine.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what it’s like,” I mumbled. I braced my
elbows on the desk and ground the heels of my palms into my eyes.
Poppy Danforth was not going to go away. She lived here. She was going
to come back, and I had no doubt that we’d only scratched the surface of her
“carnal” confessions. And I would have to listen to it without getting aroused
like a teenage boy. More than listen, I would have to respond with grace and
empathy and compassion when all I would be able to think about was that
mouth with those slightly imperfect teeth.
Stars were now dancing behind my eyelids but I didn’t move my hands. I
didn’t want to see this office right now or St. Augustine. I didn’t want to see
the newly ragged edges of my calendar or my newly filled wastebasket.
I wanted to pray in complete darkness. I wanted nothing in between my
thoughts and God, in between this woman and my vocation. I wanted
everything but my sin and these starbursts in my eyes stripped away.
I’m sorry, I prayed. I’m so sorry.
I was sorry that I’d betrayed the trust of one of God’s flock. I was sorry
that I’d betrayed the holiness of this place and this vocation by lusting after
someone seeking solace and guidance. I was sorry that I hadn’t even
controlled my desire long enough to step into a cold shower or go for a run or
any of the other tricks I’d learned over the past three years to stifle my urges.
Mostly…
Mostly, I’m sorry that I’m not sorry.