Father Roth
***BRRRRRING***
"Bloody hell! What time is it?"
My usually immaculate clerical shirt sports a mysterious stain—raspberry jam or dried blood? With a five-year-old in the house, it could honestly be either.
"Michael! Sara needs glitter for the final touches on her planet project!"
The community outreach meeting starts at 8:30, and I look like I'd been dragged through a hedge backwards.
"Not now, love!" I shout back, wrestling into a fresh shirt and nearly strangling myself with the collar. "Running late!"
Trust Cornwall to deliver a typical assault of dampness and grey on one's morning. The mist clings to the narrow streets of our little town like an unwelcome houseguest. I burst out of the house, car door swinging with the kind of reckless abandon that would make my congregation question my priestly composure.
"Watch o—!"
The cyclist appears as if conjured from the morning mist. One moment the street is clear; the next, a blur of movement, a flash of dark hair, and the sickening crunch of metal and flesh.
Time seems to slow as I realize I'd just hit someone with my door.
"Christ!" The blasphemy escapes her mouth.
"Are you alright, miss?" I ask, helping her up.
"Never been better," she says, slowly rising to her feet.
"Impressive dismount. Shall I rate it for the gymnastics committee?"
A sardonic smile played across her lips.
"I'll take a perfect 10, Father," she responds.
No tears. No hysteria. Just pure, calculated annoyance.
Brushing the gravel from her sleeve, I notice the expensive cut of her jacket. Not your typical local cyclist. Her scent was unusual—something sharp and unexpected. Exotic.
"I'm Father Roth," I offer, my professional persona sliding into place. "And you are?"
"Hel."
Just Hel. No surname. No softening. Like the mythological underworld compressed into three letters.
"Unusual name," I remark.
A flicker of something—pain? darkness?—crosses her face.
"Then I'd say highly appropriate since most people find me...unusual."
The community park event reveals itself as my salvation as I invite her to join in our festivities to put an end to this torturous encounter. Plus, it's a perfect opportunity to make amends and show community spirit.
"You should come," I proceed. "Community gathering. Good food. Music. And the best part: no religious pressure."
Her face contorts to an involuntary frown, and she scratches her head.
"Not really a church person these days. Let's just say my faith took a bit of a battering."
You don't have to be a wizard to know there's a story here. Years of pastoral work has given me an instinct for hidden narratives.
"Well then, it's a good thing it's not being held at church, innit? The event's in the park," I press. "Completely secular. Father's honour."
Another sardonic smile surfaces.
"Persistent, aren't you? For a man of the cloth."
"Meh, I try."
"Maybe," she says, hopping back onto her bike and riding off.
∗∗∗
"Ah, Ms. Hel. I thought you might not make it."
"Well, it's only midday. Is it too late for salvation, Father, or am I welcome to stay?"
Her little joke catches the ears of some of the elders and a worried look washes over them. The Gossip Grandmas almost instantaneously spring into action.
"She's just joking," I assure, taking her by the shoulder and guiding her away. "You have to be careful of the things you say out loud. These are servants of God, and the last thing you want is to make a spectacle of yourself."
"Ah, I see. So fun is yet another commodity servants of God are not afforded."
"Okay, that's enough."
Agreeing to be more mindful of her words, she wanders into the crowd speaking to everyone and anyone who crosses her path.
"There you are!" Elaine says, running over to me. "Where have you been, love? I haven't seen or heard from you since you stormed out of the house like a madman. Come and meet the newest addition to our little community; be warned she has a very provocative name."
"Yes, Hel," I say, moving closer to the group. "We've met. So, how come we've never seen you around before, dear?"
"Just moved here. I got a job as a PA over at Elliot & Goldman's. Bit of a career change, really."
Interesting; her tone is open yet concealing, and though I want to know more, I fear prying might do more harm than good.
As evening descends, and the volunteers begin cleaning up, she remains. Helpful and efficient. The last to leave, in fact.
"Let me drop you home," I offer. "This area is not safe for a young woman all by herself."
"I'd like that," she says, sheepishly. "I don't live too far."
Our drive to her apartment is short, but she appears to be far away for its entirety. The apartment is a study in contradictions. Modest and neat. Almost too perfect.
"Quaint," I say.
"Thank you. I try not to hoard worldly possessions. There are more appetising things in life than material possessions, don't you think?"
I agree with her words, but the undertones of her message suggest a deeper, perhaps even sinister, meaning. Walking her to the door, something electric sparks between us. She turns swiftly and stares. Suddenly, she caresses my arm and smiles.
"Do you want to join me for some tea?"
Our eyes lock, and my heart races as my desire for her boils to the surface. I've never felt a surge like this before. One moment we're standing professionally apart; the next, we're pressed together, her lips hungry and demanding. My hands explore her body as I indulge in the lushness of her strawberry lips.
For a breathless moment, I surrender. Her fingers, grip my hair, and she slowly releases it, running her long nails over my scalp like a hypnotic claw. The heat from her sweet slit sends my knob into a frenzy.
I can't hear anything over the soft exhales she releases across my ear. Sliding my hand up her dress, I shift her knickers to the side. Good God. So wet; so soft. My fingers dance across her clit before I slip one in.
"Ah," she moans as she throws her head back and perks her tits up against me. My cock throbs violently, clasped firmly in her hand.
"No!" I pull away, hands firmly on her shoulders. "I'm a married man. A priest. This—this can't happen."
"Oh c'mon Father, f####ck me…" she whispers, still pushing into me and licking my neck. "I can feel you pulsing to taste the velvety insides of my dripping wet p#ss—"
"Hel! Please. I said I can't do this, okay. I love my wife."
Shocked at my abrupt rejection, she stands back for a moment, staring at me while I attempt to gather myself. Her transformation is instantaneous. Vulnerable and apologetic.
"I'm so, so, so sorry, Father," she says, grabbing her head with both hands. "I—I have no idea what came over me."
"No, I'm sorry. I should never have allowed this to happen."
She stares blankly at the ground beneath her feet and begins to sob.
"I think I might have a problem. I have shameful fantasies sometimes, Father, but this is the first time I've surrendered to them. Am I—a sex addict?"
Dumbstruck, I find myself frozen and unable to speak.
"Father, please tell me! Is something wrong with me?"
The professional in me emerges.
"Look, if you find yourself struggling, I host group therapy sessions for those facing similar struggles. Tuesdays and Fridays. Come join us."
Her innocent gaze compels me to ensure she's okay before leaving, and even though she hasn't given me a straight answer, I feel confident that she'll do the right thing.
Driving home, one thought relentlessly nags me: Something about her feels profoundly and inexplicably wrong.