The Father
Sunday evenings were quiet at the compound. Good thing his house in the back corner was set apart from the communal bunkhouses and the small love shack he allowed the married couples to use for their scheduled weekly conjugal visits. He didn’t want anyone to hear the moaning and groaning and squeals of pleasure emanating from the fifty-five-inch television mounted on his bedroom wall. Peace, love, and harmony were the primary tenets of their sect. But of the three, it was the “love” that the Father liked best. Sure, it was a sin for others to watch people fornicate on TV. But how could he preach about the sins of the flesh if he didn’t see what all the fuss was about? For him, watching this show wasn’t debauchery. It was research.
Even though he realized the actresses on his screen were embellishing things for their audience, it made no difference. Real or not, his cock was hard as a rock.
Knock-knock-knock.
He muttered some choice words to himself. Who the hell can that be?
He grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. Standing, he pushed down on his groin, willing his erection to disappear. The last thing he needed was one of his flock noting the tent in his robe. The people who lived here believed he was pure at heart, above all earthly desires. What a bunch of idiots.
But they were his idiots.
He walked out of his bedroom, making sure to close the door behind him. Though the rest of the compound had no access to the Internet or television, it was only right that their leader kept a pulse on the outside world, right? And keep a pulse he did. Hell, his dick throbbed so hard it was a wonder it didn’t explode.
“Coming!” he called. Or at least he would have been if whoever was at the door hadn’t interrupted his evening’s entertainment.
He passed through his small kitchen and into his living room, stopping at the door to peek out the peephole. Standing on the porch of his modest frame home was a lanky woman with stringy gray hair, a beaklike nose, and dark peach fuzz at each corner of her upper lips, forming furry quotation marks around her mouth.
Margaret.
Ugh.
At least he didn’t have to worry about his boner any longer. If anyone could make a man soft in an instant, it was her. Ironic, because she was most certainly a virgin, and virgins generally had a special sort of sexual appeal. Doubly ironic because she served as the compound’s midwife, delivering the babies other women had conceived, though Margaret would likely never bear a child herself. None of the men in the compound had expressed any interest in marrying and bedding her whatsoever.
The Father took a breath, worked up a smile, and opened the door. “Hello, Sister Margaret. What takes you away from your time of rest and personal reflection, and brings you to my door this evening?”
Her expression sheepish, she performed a curtsy in her loose-fitting, homemade dress before looking up at him. “So sorry to bother you, Father Emmanuel. I was wondering about Sister Juliette. She wasn’t at the service this morning. I stopped by the infirmary to check on her, but she wasn’t there. Is she all right?”
“So kind of you to think of others, as always.” You damn busybody. He offered a placating smile. “Sister Juliette asked to have some time alone in a private place. She needs a chance to grieve and to seek God’s forgiveness for her sins. You understand, of course.”
She bowed her head. “Yes, Father.”
Good thing he’d had some time to think things through on the drive home from the fire station Friday night, come up with some reasonable explanations. Dropping off the baby had been an impulsive move, something quite unusual for him. But when Juliette had refused to let him touch the newborn child, she’d pushed him too far. He reigned over this dominion, and it was high time the obstinate little bitch accepted that fact.
Margaret’s mouth began to open again, but the Father was already tired of her and her questions. He raised a palm to stop her. “No need to worry, Sister Margaret. Sister Juliette will be back with the flock very soon.”
She nodded, but tears rimmed her eyes. “It’s just so heartbreaking about the baby.”
“Heartbreaking, indeed. But Sister Juliette is barely twenty and unmarried. The father did not step up to claim the child as his own or offer any type of support—”
“A sin in itself!” she cried. “Perhaps he should be called to account.”
It took everything in him not to shove the woman backward down the steps to his door. He stared at her intently. “Surely you are not forgetting that God calls upon us to forgive, Sister Margaret.”
He let his words hang in the air for a moment, and she responded by hanging her head.
“You speak the truth,” she said in a voice barely louder than a whisper.
“My point,” the Father said, “is that the circumstances would have been less than ideal. The baby’s father might have insisted on visitation, or even sued for custody. What might it have done to Juliette’s child if she were taken outside our walls? The last thing any of us need is someone from the outside meddling in the life we’ve worked so hard to build here. We must trust that God knows best. We must respect His will. To do otherwise would be prideful.”
This ugly bitch can’t argue with that, can she?
Before she had a chance to try, he said, “Thank you for coming by, Sister Margaret. Please tell Sister Abigail that I have some time for her now. She mentioned she’d like me to join her in prayer.”
They’d join all right, but it wouldn’t be in prayer. Unlike Margaret, Abigail was one sister he enjoyed seeing down on her knees.