Excerpt: Taking The Toll by Kiki DeLovely, Page 2

continued from page 1

“I—I…what?” Fuckin’ stammering—it’s my tell. “No…”

“Yes. Yes, you are. You’re fucking getting off on those church bells tolling.” I see an explosion of thought as her eyes light up with a wildness, her brain going crazy with where she wants to take this.

This. My…secret.

Ever since the first time I faked sick (when I was not quite yet done with my morning session, my mother walked in on me, saw my face flushed, my forehead sweaty and hot, and, lucky for me, immediately decided that I must be coming down with something), I’ve eroticized those bells. In my bed, alone again at last (“We’ll be home soon,” my mother said, as she closed the door behind her), I started over what had previously been interrupted. It wasn’t long before I heard those church bells tolling from several blocks away and I was coming harder than ever…Ridden with Catholic guilt, I thought of all the parishioners entering the church, dipping fingertips into the holy water, making themselves pure with the sign of the cross, finishing it off with a besito, first finger crossed over the thumb…all the while I was here, my hand down my panties, doing extremely impure things to myself.

I learned two lessons that morning: 1) Being made to wait (no matter the reason) for my orgasm made me come all the harder; 2) I was a very dirty girl. (I would discover later in life just how dirty I was, gain language and lovers to assist in the process and fully submit to my filthy role-­‐playing desires. But I’d never before allowed any of said lovers access to this particular, very peculiar turn-­‐on.)

11:01. Normally I’m coming right now, thrashing about in the sheets, my body a creature of habit; after so many years it’s more than difficult to control. My lover is staring down at me, grinning wickedly as she reads it all over me—witnessing just how hard it is for me to stave off that orgasm. I’m her own personal open-­‐fuckin’-­‐ book and she’s enjoying the read just a little too much.

“Go put on your uniform.” Before I can even protest, drop to my knees, do anything to distract her (she’s getting to know me a little too well), she gives me that stern look that always makes me weak (obedient) and raises her eyebrows with the Am-­‐I-­‐ really-­‐going-­‐to-­‐have-­‐to-­‐say-­‐it-­‐again? look and I’m up, heading toward the closet. She’s creative as hell when it comes to this stuff and quick as fuck, I can tell her mind has taken off into a full sprint as she leaves the room to collect whatever props she can find that will help bring the swiftly mounting fantasy in her head to life. She looked into my mind through my body’s divulgences, revealed my secret and immediately ran with it, didn’t even hesitate for a second. If she had, I would have feared judgment; instead I feel completely at ease, protected and cherished. Her presence and demeanor make this place safe for me. Of course she wants to go there with me.

Wondering just what she’ll come up with, I finish pulling off my red lacy thong (definitely not part of the uniform) and I’m about to switch it out with the white cotton panties when it hits me and I slide the more scandalous version back on. Sure, we’ve played around with the naughty schoolgirl fantasy plenty…but never before have we done any specifically Catholic play…and I have a feeling this defiance might just bring it to another level.

When my lover reenters the room, dressed in head-­‐to-­‐toe black with a white “collar”—Where the hell did she get that?— I’m taken aback and only slightly scandalized that with her short, dark hair slicked back like that and her confident, broad-­‐shouldered stance, she takes on a surprising resemblance to Padre José Manuel, the priest of my childhood who insisted that we all call him Padre Manolo. This role-­‐play wouldn’t work for me if it weren’t for the queer masculinity she brings to it. Never once had I thought of Padre Manolo in an erotic way, but because
it is my lover playing at this, the role of priest is suddenly turned on its head, queered, and hence, exciting. Since she already looks the part, I decide to go with it, excitedly running up to her, calling out, “Padre Manolo! Padre Manolo!” I’m met with a sinister grin. “No, my child. Your beloved Manolito is not here today. I will have to be the one who hears your confession.”

“My…?”

“Yes, my dear, your confession. I noted your absence at Mass this morning and yet, here you are, standing before me in good health. I presume you have much to confess.”

Dumbfounded and delighted, I struggle to find the words. “Uhh…yes…um, yes, Father,” I answer finally, bowing my head, my face hot with shame. I can tell that for her this is surface-­‐level fun, but it strikes a deeper chord with me. She knows her way around the traditions from her studies, whereas with me, this was part of my culture growing up. It’s weighty and charged. And her detachment makes it all the hotter.

“Well, it’s good that you came.” She lays one hand firmly on my shoulder. “Let’s go into my private study.” I’m led into the office where she has created the desired scene, having cleared my desk completely. Suddenly changed, the room seems quite sparse. He closes the door, turns the lock and answers my questioning look, “So that we won’t be disturbed. Have a seat.” His tone, presence, his very nature contribute to how he queers gender, or any role he takes on, so delectably.

I sit opposite the desk and he pulls the bigger chair around, sitting down right at my side, such that he can look closely into my face. “Now tell me, my child, why you weren’t at Mass this morning.”

“Umm…well…my mom…she, um…she thought I was sick.”

“And why would she think that? You appear to be a vision of health.”
“Uhh…I don’t know…” I mumble.

More forcefully he continues, gaining momentum with each word, “Now, that simply cannot be the case. Clearly there must have been a reason. She wouldn’t just make up an illness to keep her daughter from going to church. Your mother is a devout Catholic woman, certainly she doesn’t want her daughter to go to hell!”

Seeing that I’m practically cowering in fear by this point, he takes a breath and starts over, more calmly, “My dear, I know that you are a good, Catholic girl at heart and you wouldn’t ever want to do anything to jeopardize your place in the Eternal Kingdom of Heaven with Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Savior, now would you?” I shake my head slowly. So he continues in a soothing tone, “Good. That’s very good. And so you know, as a good girl, that you must confess to me, right?” While I nod my head shyly, he goes on, “And that means you must tell me everything. All of your sins. No matter how bad you think they are.” I lower my eyes, certain he can read it all over my face. My mother did always call me a sinvergüenza—if only she could see me and my shame now. “And I promise you, no matter how bad, no matter how filthy dirty those sins are, I won’t be mad at you. Okay?” Barely nodding now, he takes my chin in his hand, raising it deliberately so that I’m forced to meet his gaze. And ever-­‐so-­‐ gently he repeats, “Okay?”

“Okay.” I manage, barely audible. My eyes wide and sweet, I can tell he likes this innocent, slightly scared, little-­‐girl look on my face.

“That’s a good girl.” And he gently rubs the back of his first two fingers across my cheek. “Okay then. We’ll have a formal confession and then I’m going to do everything in my power to free your soul of these impurities. And you must not be scared, you must trust me with all your heart. You must know that everything I do is in your best interest. Do you trust me?”

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