The Spring Sacrament
Where contradiction of faith meets blasphemous flesh.
Their fingers intertwined the moment a distant plane scarred the infinity of the cloudless sky. She felt the erratic, thudding skip of his heart.
“Where do you think it’s heading?” she asked, tilting her head to catch the light in his brown eyes.
He was prettier than he had any right to be. It wasn’t just his features, but the aura of intelligence and strange goodness. Looking at him made her feel like a cynic or a fool. She knew he wasn’t a saint, which left her the fool—and at that moment, she found herself wishing he were just as slow-witted as she felt.
“It’s heading somewhere neither of us has been,” he said, his voice a low vibration. “Somewhere we’ll go one day. Together.”
“You really think so, Romeo?”
His hand slid from hers, dropping to the heat of her exposed thigh. His fingertips grazed the pale skin at the hem of her short dress. She knew she should pull away—his reputation preceded him like a long shadow. Yet, she didn’t flinch. She simply couldn’t.
“It’s demoralizing to dress like this for church,” he murmured. His eyes locked onto hers as his fingers began a slow, deliberate journey upward.
“Didn’t you ask me to wear it?”
“I did.”
“You might have mentioned the chapel was on the itinerary.”
“I asked you out to enjoy the first day of Spring,” he countered, his thumb tracing small, burning circles. “Birds, fresh air, snowdrops, resurrection. All that holy nonsense.”
“You’re terrible. I hate you.”
“And you’re a miserable liar.” He leaned closer. “Did you do the other thing I asked?” he whispered like a boy doubting that a wrapped birthday gift holds exactly what he wished for.
“Maybe.”
Their soft laughter, mingled with the frantic beating of their hearts and the rustle of the wind through the budding trees, sounded like the most blasphemous joke. They lay back in the grass, watching the white trail of the plane fade into the heavens.
“Do you really believe we’ll fly away one day?” she asked.
“I do.” His eyes flicked to the spot between her thighs, wondering what was waiting for him.
“Would you like to see that ‘other thing’ now?” She flashed a tempting smile, watching the involuntary tightening of his jaw. “Why don’t you test your luck, handsome?”
He rose on one elbow, his breath hitching. She cast a quick glance at the path—ignoring the distant shapes of people—and slightly hitched her dress.
“You thought I’d wear silk to a date with the devil?”
She revealed her mound, precisely groomed and adorned with tiny, shimmering star stickers.
He gasped, his composure falling apart like a house of cards.
“It’s not a date. And why would you... we just met.”
“Just met? We’re circling each other like starving predators for over a month.”
“Exactly. We just met.”
She laughed, while he reached out, plucking a daisy from the grass and brushing the petals against her inner knee, trailing it slowly toward her groin.
“So you’re not a natural redhead,” he noted, visibly content.
“Redheads are sluts or witches. You taught me that.”
“So you dyed it to prove the point?”
“To prove I’m exactly the kind of trouble you’ve been looking for.” She paused, her breath hitching as the flower reached its destination.
“Open your legs. I want to see.”
She obeyed instinctively.
“Do you like it?” she whispered, her face burning with a fever that always feels like shame until desire triumphs.
He swallowed hard, unable to look away.
“Yes. You’re so beautiful. And so wet.”
“You’ve been teasing me since I opened my eyes today. And the evening before. I woke up like that—fought off the urge to touch myself just to deny you the satisfaction of owning my thoughts.”
“Yes.”
“I thought it can’t be any worse, and then you wrote me that fucking poem.”
“Yes.”
“This whole anticipation...”
“It’s unbearable, isn’t it?”
“It is. Want to check if I know what you like?”
She didn’t wait for another ‘Yes’. She lunged, pinning him to the grass and straddling his hips. One hand found his throat, a gentle, commanding weight. He groaned, a sound of collapsing resistance, as her spell swallowed him whole. Her other hand disappeared between her thighs, fingers dipping into her heat.
“Open up, pretty boy.”
The world vanished. The young nun crossing herself and trying to look away. The older lady who didn’t, blushing at the memory of her dead husband. The student who punched her boyfriend’s arm when he stared for too long. They were nothing but hungry, jealous ghosts.
There was only the synchronized thud of their hearts and the sound of him drawing her salt and scent from her fingers.
“You taste even better than you look,” he gasped, avidly biting his lips.
“Are you still taking me to church?”
“Of course.”
He suddenly flipped her, pinning her to the earth. One hand tangled in her hair, the other replacing her fingers between her thighs with a heavy, invading heat.
“Tell me you want this.”
“I want this.”
“Not enough.”
“I fucking want this, Chris!”
“Still not enough.”
“I’m going to die if you don’t do this,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. “Please!”
He thrusted two fingers deeper inside her but held her still, refusing her the rhythm she craved.
“Ngh… FUCK! Please... Chris, fucking please...”
“No. You’ve been a bad girl. Apologize.”
She fought it for two seconds before her body betrayed her, arching against him.
“For what? I… AH!… I didn’t do anything!”
“Apologize!”
Tears of frustration and heat streaked her cheeks.
“No! For what?”
“APOLOGIZE!”
“I... I’m sorry! I… Ngh...F-fuck, I’m sorry!”
“Good girl.” He shifted his focus, his thumb finding her clit with agonizing precision. He slowed his movements, a calculated torture. “Now tell me what you’re sorry for.”
“I don’t know! For f-fuck’s sake… I’m just sorry!”
He stopped completely. The silence felt like a knee to the stomach. She tried to pull him back, desperate for the friction, but he held her off.
“You know.”
“I’m sorry for... for doing this to you,” she sobbed out. “For.. Ngh... making you want me so much it hurts. For the late-night texts. For making you lose your mind.”
“Good girl.”
“Ngh... Fuck you! I hate you.”
“I hate you too.”
He sealed her lips with a searing kiss, sliding his fingers in and out with a slow, rhythmic mercy long after she’d lost the ability to distinguish between begging him to stop and begging him to continue.
Later, they lay on their backs as the sky bruised into purple. Her neck marked with hickeys. Her thighs slick with her passion.
“Are we really going, Chris?”
“We are. We’ll cleanse our fingers in holy water. We’ll shake hands with the neighbors. You’ll sit there in that sacrilegious dress—bruised, sticky, and hollow. We will take communion. And before that, we confess.”
“You’re insane,” she breathed. “You want to go to confession an hour after fingering me? Do you even feel guilty?”
“No.”
“It makes no sense.”
“It makes more sense than anything else,” he said, staring at the early stars in the deepening twilight. “The priest knows me. I go to him after every girl. But this time... this time I’ll tell him I regret only that I regret nothing. And when he asks if there’s a chance for a future with the ‘poor soul’ of yours...”
“Don’t say it, Chris.”
“I’m going to tell him yes.”
She closed her eyes, a shuddering breath escaping her.
“Ngh... Fuck.”
Great piece, bro! I love the airplane dialogue, great work!
Such a good opening.