Mather hissed and found her hands. Pinned her wrists above her head.
He began to sodomize her.
A fractured hymn of little cries blistered out over the tabletop, and one of the garters snapped loose against the back of her thigh. The Voice of New Covenant burrowed inside her rectum. Dragged himself out. Rooted again.
Again.
Her mouth was open now, but no more sound came. Only the priest’s breathing at the base of her neck. A part of her drifted free, the pain roaring below her tailbone, somewhere distant and hazy.
Why? Why this? Mather thought he could be better than the rest of the clergy? Some weird idea of chastity?
Or did he just want to see her like this? Degraded like he imagined all VT ‘sinners’. Hurting.
The Song didn’t care.
It knew desperation. Knew where it could find cock. Right at the core of suffering.
Buckeye pushed back, and a new, ragged noise abraded the back of her tongue.
No, don’t!
Mather groaned. Humped. She squeezed around bobbing girth, nerves a crackling hysteria. The drugs in her veins demanded the thing she wanted least in all the world.
She tilted her hips like a whore.
NO!
A voice that was hardly her own came through the crook of her elbow. “Will you do penance, Father? Like the others?”
“Yesss.” He was sheathing, pulling out. Burying himself again, the table bruising her bones as he ground her into it.
Could the Song wear off on someone else?
Her eyes rolled back when he began mumbling in Latin. The syllables came like an ancient stream, overflowing her cup. Between her cheeks, violent, male need destroyed everything that remained of the gambler from The Vice.
Elijah Mather held her. Spread her and fucked her, hidden away in his own cathedral. With every jerk of hips, every blue-white flash of revelation, Buckeye responded in the only litany she knew.
“Thank you, Father.”
“… et dimitte nobis debita …”
“Thank you. Father.”
“… ne nos inducas in tentationem …”
“Father.”
“… libera nos a malo …”
“Father!”
She gave and gave.
Come on Bucky.
A sinner in Virtue.
Let’s get Lucky.