My blood runs cold— colder than I've ever been— and I pause for a second halfway up the steps, afraid to turn around and come face-to-face with a monster that's going to feast on my flesh.
Nick.
I decide to ignore it, walking faster up the steps and pushing the manger through the door before diving through it myself, into the relative safety of the light. I turn to slam the door shut, searching the darkness for anything— a strange glow, movement, eyes blinking in the darkness. But there's nothing.
It doesn't stop me from turning the tumbler on the lock before shutting the door, as if that will stop whatever the hell sort of creature would know my name.
I'm not an idiot. It's obvious that my imagination is running wild with the stress of getting caught and the lack of sleep.
It's all in your head,I remind myself as I begin to transfer the boxes to the nave.
With each trip back and forth, my nerves relax more and more, until I carry the last one up the steps and set it down on the altar, scanning the room thoughtfully.
My dad started the Christmas music, which plays softly from the speakers around the church. The ambient glow of the Christmas lights and the candles I light in their sconces sets me at ease as I check my watch and see the notification from Peanut that they called off the search for tonight and will resume it on Monday, since Christmas is tomorrow and there's a big snowstorm coming. A stroke of luck for me, I guess.
The central heat is on high enough that I eventually strip off all my outer clothes and roll up my sleeves as I move around placing little fake poinsettia arrangements at the end of every pew. As I relax, my mind wonders, going back to last night, before everything went wrong... before she left, when she'd let me fuck her.
My head echoes with the sound of her pleas, those soft little gasps, her saying my name... and suddenly I'm pressing the heel of my palm against my pants to hide my erection.
Fuck Brant for ruining everything last night. If he'd just kept his mouth shut about what happened the night Noah died, she wouldn't have tried to kill me, and I wouldn't have had to act in self-defense.
We could have been so good together; she would have realized that we were perfect for each other the whole time, that I made her feel things no one else ever did. I don't know if I would have married her, but I would have fucked her again. Now that's not an option, and my hard-on is especially frustrated about it.
Her death is a waste, but at least I have the memory of last night. No need to let this boner go to waste too.
A quick glance around the church assures me my dad is in the AV booth, preparing his sound for tonight's service. He won't miss me, and it won't take long.
There's a bathroom, of course, but it's on the other side of the church. It doesn't make sense to walk all the way there for a quick little self-service.
My eyes catch on the confessionals.
In less than an hour, they'll be open to men and women trying to cleanse their guilt by giving eleventh hour confessions so they can enjoy the holiday. I've sat on the other side of the box more than a time or two when my father was otherwise occupied— by which I mean he was busy with one of the female parishioners somewhere.
People's confessions are seriously unhinged.
Forgive me father, for I cheated on my diet.
Forgive me father, for I stole nail polish from the local supermarket.
Forgive me father, for I never returned the pen my waitress left for me to sign my check.
It's no wonder people say nothing bad ever happens in Church and Lakes. The people here have a fucked-up view of what's considered a sin, and they're willing to look the other way if it appeases their guilt.
"Forgive me father, for I'm about to bash the bishop." I sigh, drawing the door shut behind me and relaxing into the comfortable confines of the darkness.
The confessionals have a different sort of darkness from the cellar, and they're not as harshly lit as the altar. I've taken a nap in here a few times while waiting for my dad to finish up whatever he was working on.
My cock is rock hard by the time I get a hand around it, breathing a sigh of relief as the pressure counteracts the need building inside of me. I wish I had some lube or something, but all I've got is my hand... and the pair of panties in my pocket.
As I bring them to my nose and breathe in her musky scent, which still clings to the fabric, I feel myself stiffen further, and decide it doesn't matter. I'll deal with chafing if I have to; I just need release.
I close my eyes and replay the whole thing, remembering how the anticipation built in me by the second, how she let me peel her clothes off of her, the way her soft body felt beneath mine, how her tits bounced as I drove into her.
I've fucked a lot of women, some of them more aware than others. No one has ever made it as easy on me as she did... like she wanted it. Like she's been wanting it but was too scared to take it for herself.
I'm driving myself to climax fast, reliving every delicious second of being inside of her, feeling her body giving in beneath me, and the climax promises to fucking destroy me. I lick the seat of her panties, trying to gather what remains of her essence, but it mostly just tastes like cotton. Instead, I wrap them around the head of my cock, using them to pump myself once, twice,three times... and then I'm falling over the edge, my toes curled and my hand braced against the confessional as a head rush from the power of the orgasm washes over me.
It was almost as good as the original.Almost.
