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Kitty
This is awkward.
The priest, or headmaster, orwhatever, is hot AF.
Second, he’s feeling me up. Like palm on tit. Fingers brushing my bullet hard nipple and I swear, his black eyes flash with desire.
Aren’t priests sort of above it all? Sex, I mean.
Which makes no sense because this man?
He’s built for all things unholy.
Tall, dark, broody and the poster child for triple-X temptation. Dark ink laps at the sides of his neck just above the hard line of his clergy collar. Is it called a priest’s collar? I have no idea. I’m not Catholic or Anglican or whatever it is my mother andstepfather told me was the religious bend to where they were sending me.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Dry as a bone. But that’s certainly not true about what’s happening down in my southern hemisphere.
After I froze for a split second, memories of last night flooding back at the feel of his hand on my tit, the floodgates opened. I freeze as he unknowingly gropes me, my roller bags forgotten on the horrible purple carpet as the hum of the baggage claim area disappears behind the rushing of blood in my ears.
I slide my hands down the solid planes of his chest, desperate to find my balance as I realize I’ve just gone to second base for my first time with a priest. All my thoughts about where I’m going to live after doing my time wherever it was my mom and her new husband were sending me, evaporate.
Where am I going to go after? What will I do with my life? I have no scholarship; my cat is gone and I’m broke.
Who cares?
Not me. Not right now.
Except, about my cat. I’d do anything to find her.
The endless well of his black eyes connect to mine and the dance of a million lusty fingers tickle in my center as I take in his stone-carved face. The thick waves of his black hair are slicked back, curling behind his ears and never, never did I imagine the headmaster of the school that is supposed to reform me would look like this.
I expected a rotund, bald, oily faced, puffy lipped old white guy with bad breath and body odor because somewhere in my mind, priests don’t wear deodorant.
Clearly, that was misguided. This guy smells like Jesus if he just took a shot of whiskey then bathed in some black-bottled body wash called Soak her Panties.
A hundred tiny hammers are trying to poke holes in my cranium. My belly rolls and the nausea from this morning has turned into a gnawing hunger but not for the puny pack of peanuts I ate on the plane.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter as I right myself.
His hand retreats from under my shirt, his face a mask as I let my eyes fall from where they’ve been superglued to his perfect lips to my bag laying on its side on the floor. The way the TSA re-taped it shut after breaking the zipper has left a clear view of the purple silicone dildo inside.
Which is vibrating.
Shoot me now.
Hank knocked on my window at 4:30 am, still drunk and looking to shatter my V card which had become pretty much his narrow focus in our times together. In my still half-intoxicated state, I blathered on about being sent away. I was still sobbing, unable to sleep after finding out I might never see my cat again and he offered to take my virginity for me as a parting gift.
Or a consolation prize.
Yeah, Hank is an asshole.
But, at least he knew what ‘no’ meant.
He was no prince charming, but he paid attention to me and I was primed for working out my daddy issues with a truck driver that got off on buying booze and weed for his underage sister’s friends. When I told him it was a no go on sneaking into my bedroom, he ran back to his beat-up Ford sedan, returning with ‘something to get me warmed up for when I came home’.
Yeah. Asshole. But, what was I going to do? Leave the purple hymen destroyer at home for old Hoover to find and use on my mother?
I can’t even.
