I AM A HOLY MAN, BUT MY MONSTER IS FROM HELL.
Sister Agnes tried for the first seven years of my life to temper that part of me, and her teachings stuck long after I ran away. But no matter how I try to extinguish the disease inside myself the same way as I do for others, I’m weak to its call.
If I don’t feed the beast scraps, it’s ravenous by the time it surfaces. So I give in to the cravings. I listen to the whisperings in my head—the quintessential devil on my shoulder— because it allows me to keep a semblance of control.
When people come for confession, I relate to their plight, and over the years, I’ve come to terms with the fact that my relatability to their failings makes me a better listener. A better priest. I understand darkness because it exists within me.
In my darkest of moments, I wonder if the Lord gave me the world’s sickness so I’d recognize it in others. Living in its shadow while searching for the light. I don’t hate the people I kill, quite the opposite in fact. I sympathize with them. I wish to free them in a way that I’ll never free myself. And then I hope God understands why I must.
Not many men would be strong enough to weather the storm raging within them, and when the disease blankets my mind like a fog, it’s a terrifying place. One where I don’t care for morals. For right and wrong. I only care for my next hit. Adrenaline floods my veins like a drug, scorching everything in its wake, leaving behind nothing except potent satisfaction that warms my insides like a shot of whiskey.
In those moments, I’m a god.
But the crash back down to earth is a stark reminder that it’s only in repentance that I can be temporarily freed. I don’t feel remorse for the murders. I feel guilt that God may not approve.
I first went into seminary because it was easy. The church sheltered me when I was in need, offered me respite from an empty belly and a tortured past. Father Moreau took me under his wing and taught me how to seek forgiveness. How to be a better man. How to let go of the petty crimes and the meaningless sex and find sanctuary in something other than myself.
I wasn’t a religious person growing up. I had been an orphan, and the only adult figure in my life was Sister Agnes. Then I lived on the streets once I escaped her prison the day I turned seven years old.
But despite Sister Agnes being my only experience with religion, the church offered me warmth.
Food.
Purpose.
And I work every day to be what I set out to be.
But even the most loyal of soldiers have their weaknesses.
And right now, I am not a worthy man.
Not when I’m neck deep in black waters, wading through this obsession that’s reached out and wrapped itself around my neck like a noose, choking me until I can’t suck in air.
Esmeralda.
Although I’m sure that’s not her real name.
My slacks are open the second I make it back to my office, my cock in my hand before I can lock the door, and I stroke my length furiously for the first time in years, desperate for relief. It’s painful, this desire. A throbbing in my body, an ache that has my balls heavy and my mind hazy with lust. I’ve always prided myself on being a logical and steady man, but this is far from logic. Before I entered seminary, there were several women, and men as well, but those trysts were inconsequential compared to even a single thought of her.
I’ve never experienced anything like it.
Still, if I don’t take care of the desire, then I won’t be able to function.
I drag my palm upward, twisting my hand at the top of my cock where I’m already leaking cum. I spread it down the length of me, creating lubrication that has my hips thrusting and a groan falling from my lips.
It’s been so long since I’ve felt sexual pleasure.
I had forgotten the way it softens edges and clouds the pain.
My movements speed as I lean over my desk, my free hand slamming down on the oak as a sharp spike of pleasure splices through my core. My fingers tingle at the memory of Esmeralda’s skin, the way her big doe eyes portrayed the perfect mask of innocence. And then I imagine her on her knees, needy and begging at my feet as I grip her chin the way I did at the club, resting my cock on her pouty lips as my cum sprays across the flat of her tongue.
I’d cinch her mouth closed and stroke her throat, feeling the act of her swallowing every drop of me.
The visual makes my sack tighten. More precum drips from my tip and slides down my length, coating the top of my knuckles with arousal.
Another groan escapes my lips and I throw my head back, abs constricting as pleasure, white- hot and blinding, courses through the marrow of my bones and explodes through my pores, my balls pulsating in a steady rhythm as my shaft jerks wildly in my palm.
It’s dirty.
Depraved.
Incredible.
My vision goes black, cum spurting out forcefully, landing across the few papers and the large calendar that marks my responsibilities to the church.
It takes minutes, maybe hours until my breathing regulates and I’m able to relax back into my seat, taking stock of what just happened and how I feel now that I’ve found relief. I had hoped the act would rid me of the temptation, but I can immediately tell that isn’t the case. It’s only burrowed in further, purring like a cat, creating a hum that vibrates through my chest.
I frown at the feeling, that same sense of panic from when she was near reaching up and gripping me tightly, squeezing until my vision blurs.
She’s a problem that I’ll need to take care of as quickly as possible.
I tuck my now- flaccid dick back into my slacks, relieved that at least the tight knot of tension has loosened and a bit of clarity has seeped through the muddled edges of my mind, but it isn’t long until the guilt settles in, coating my tongue until I’m nauseous from the taste.
And there’s only one cure for that.
I jolt forward, ripping the stained calendar from its base and tossing it in the trash before rushing around my desk and making my way out of my office. My hurried footsteps echo through the long hallway and out the back exit that leads to the detached rectory. It’s a small cottage, made of dark wood and a small wraparound porch, and I throw open the front door forcefully, desperate to make amends for my transgressions.
I’m loud as I stomp through the living room, unable to take in my surroundings, but it doesn’t matter. No one else lives here, my curate Father Jeremiah living in the smaller place a few yards away.
My breaths come sharply when I make it to my bedroom, and I slam my hand against my chest, trying to beat my lungs into submission. My fingers tear at the roots of my hair as I pace in front of the modest full- size bed and empty end table.
Il est miséricordieux. He is merciful.
The phrase doesn’t lessen the anxiety because I’m not sure He is when it comes to this type of sin. I’ve reasoned away the violent acts, knowing there’s a purpose behind what I do. But this…this has no reason.
Just a weak man giving in to temptation.
But as long as we repent, He will forgive.
Nodding to myself, I drop my hands and straighten, my vertebrae slotting into place with purpose, the panic ebbing away. I reach down, unbuttoning my dress shirt, the thin layer of sweat coating my body making the fabric stick to my skin. My back stings, the raw and scabbed-over wounds from last night pulling with the motion.
I revel in the pain, using it as a reminder of how weak I truly am.
Once my shirt is off, I lay it down on the mattress, smoothing out the wrinkles before I walk over to the wooden chest that’s pushed into the corner of the room. I open it, the brass hinges creaking, and I bend down and grip the discipline in my hand, running the coarse tassels of rope along my palm.
“It shall be a holy convocation unto you; and ye shall afflict your souls,” I murmur to myself as the knotted rope scratches against my skin.
With a deep breath, I stand, my body stiff and my muscles locked, my fingers tightening around the thick base of the whip. My nostrils flare as I picture her face, a bolt of lust driving through me even now, even when I should be living for only Him.
I bring my arm up high and strike it down over my opposite shoulder, the multiple tassels with knotted ends slicing into the open wounds on my back. I repeat the motion, and my teeth grit against the burn.
For as much then as Christ hath suffered for us in the flesh, arm yourselves likewise with the same mind: for he that hath suffered in the flesh hath ceased from sin.
My movements quicken, my cock shamefully hardening as my mind and body buzz from the pain. I beat myself harder until warm liquid drips down my spine and drops onto the floor in dots of red.
One strike for every impure thought, ten for every sinful stroke.
I continue until I can barely stand, my body wet with blood and my head dizzy from the punishment.
Usually, I feel relief afterward. As though my soul has been cleansed, my purpose brought back into view like a dirty window washed clean. But as I lie in my bed, taking in the sharp stabs of pain radiating through my back and down my limbs, I don’t feel as though I’ve suffered enough. Terror seizes my lungs and steals my breath because I’m unsure if I’ll ever feel cleansed again.
Because even now, she’s already creeping back in.
This stranger.
Ma petite pécheresse.
My little sinner.
