Possessed Pussy (4)

Possessed Pussy (4)
~ Father Martins ~

Seeing a handful of women lingering in the pews after Sunday Mass puts me on edge.

It’s the same people who looked at me with open suspicion on my first day here.

Unable to keep up appearances any longer, I had to excuse myself.

The indoor lavatory is filthy, so I head toward the outdoor toilets, only to find a man in jeans and a wrinkled button-down standing over a girl on the cobblestones, gripping her wrists as she hides her face in distress.

It’s Calista, the flower girl.

Only two people had welcomed me with a smile that morning: the catechist and her.

I still remember the way she looked at me. She hadn’t seemed frightened by the rumors surrounding me. If anything, she had looked relieved to see me.

Up close, that same strange intensity is still there. She holds my gaze for a moment too long, as though she’s waiting for me to understand something I haven’t been told.

“Forgive me, Father,” the man stammers, backing away with both hands raised. “I wasn't hurting her. She got dizzy... I was only trying to keep her on her feet.”

I narrow my eyes. “Get out of my sight.”

He nods frantically and scampers off into the courtyard.

Calista rises slowly, her fingers tightly wrapped around something small.

“Are you alright, child?” I ask, softening my posture.

She lowers her hands. Her eyes flick toward the man, then back to me.

“Yes. Thank you, Father.”

“What did he want with you?”

She keeps her eyes fixed on the dust beneath her shoes. “Nothing.”

I let out a slow, reassuring breath. “If you say so.”

She steps forward and buries her face against my chest, wrapping her arms tightly around my waist.

The sudden contact catches me off guard. I shift the crucifix into my left hand and bring my right arm around her back, gently patting her shoulder.

Then my fingers slip down her spine.

I don't expect much—she's just a young parishioner, after all. But my hand hits an abrupt, soft curve.

I let my palm glide down over the swell of her hip before tracing its way back up.

She doesn't pull away. Instead, she hugs me tighter.

At first, I don't move.

Then the reality of it hits me. Anyone could see a young woman clinging to the new priest.

I gently loosen her arms and step back, creating a careful distance between us.

She follows my movement with a confused look before offering another polite bow, her fingers briefly brushing against my cassock.

“Thank you, Father,” she says softly.

I trace the sign of the cross in the air. “May the Lord keep you, my daughter.”

She turns and walks away.

I force my attention away from her.

Two Masses into my new assignment, and already this parish is testing the discipline I’ve been trying so hard to build.

I head into the latrine, finish my business, and head back toward the sanctuary. I don’t realize she left something behind until my fingers brush against the inside of my cassock.

I glance toward the courtyard.

She’s already gone.

The nave is quiet now. The catechist has finally cleared out, leaving the altar shrouded in soft, filtered stained-glass light.

I gesture to the first woman in line—the one the catechist said was the statesman’s widow.

She glides up the altar steps, her posture rigid, her eyes bright with expectation. I dip my fingers into the holy water font and sprinkle it over her forehead.

She crosses herself while I mumble a short Latin blessing under my breath.

“You're blessed, my child,” I whisper, offering her a warm smile.

“I would love to invite you to my house, Father,” she says, her voice low and intimate. “There are... personal matters I would like to discuss with you. And I assure you, I'm a very generous host.”

I know that look. They don’t just want absolution. They want someone to listen, someone who makes them feel seen and understood. And I know how dangerous that kind of loneliness can be.

I fold my hands inside my sleeves. “How far is your house from the parish?”

“Not far at all.” She slips a card into my palm. “Come whenever you wish.”

“Thank you, Mrs...”

“Monroe,” she completes smoothly. She takes my hand and presses her lips to the back of my knuckles, her eyes locking onto mine. “I’ll be waiting, handsome.”

She turns and struts down the aisle, her black gown clinging tightly to her body.

I watch her leave, a dark smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

This town is vulnerable.

She has no idea what she’s inviting into her life.

I look back toward the pews. The second woman—the catechist’s wife—stands up.

She possesses a lethal beauty. Unlike Mrs. Monroe, she doesn’t seem interested in playing the obvious game. There’s something beneath that composed exterior, something that tells me she has far more to offer.

“Meet me in my office,” I tell her softly and leave.

A few minutes later, there’s a quiet knock on my office door.

“Come in.”

She steps inside.

“Please, sit,” I say, gesturing to the leather chair across from me.

She sits, her eyes resting on me with an unsettling calm. She bows slightly. “Good morning, Father.”

“The catechist mentioned you're his wife,” I begin, leaning forward to lay my hands flat on the desk.

“Yes, Father,” she says, her tone smooth and far too comfortable. “I'm also the mother of the girl who brought you flowers on your first day. And my son, Jason, is one of the manservants.”

Too much information.

I blink, picking up a silver pen just to give my hands something to do. “A faithful family. Do you require prayers today, my dear?”

She shakes her head slowly. “No.”

I raise an eyebrow. “No?”

“I was very close to Father Romanus,” she says.

Something in her voice catches my attention.

Not grief.

Familiarity.

“He visited our home often. He shared his life with us. Ever since he passed, there has been a terrible void in my heart.”

She presses a delicate hand to her chest, tears welling in the corners of her eyes.

I retrieve a linen handkerchief from my drawer and slide it across the desk.

She takes it, dabbing softly at her cheeks.

God. This woman is gorgeous. But I know better than to rush things.

I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.

“Father Romanus is resting in the arms of the Almighty,” I reply, making the sign of the cross over my heart. “I pray for his soul night and day.”

She freezes. The sadness on her face suddenly disappears, replaced by a sharp, confused look.

“You pray for his soul?” she asks, her voice suddenly crisp. “Father Romanus was a saint. He was free of sin. Why would a saint need atonement?”

Holy Mother.

She must be a devout believer to think the late priest was incapable of sin.

What she doesn't know is that the archdiocese has his official death certificate.

And the autopsy report attached to it.