Preacher Man(3)

By: Jessa Kane


Hello little girl.

That automatic thought makes me look away, mentally commanding myself to put a strangle hold on my sick thoughts.

I’ve never been a good man. But the thoughts I have about Mila go too far.

The life I’ve built in this nowhere town is my safety net. No one from my past would ever think to look for me here. If the guys from my old South Boston neighborhood knew I was lecturing behind a pulpit, they would never believe it. These hands were made for inflicting pain, not for Bible thumping. Which is the exact reason this new identity works so well.

This occupation as town holy roller kind of fell into my lap. I bought a plot of land upon arriving and since my skill sets are limited to firing bullets or swinging a hammer, I decided to build a church, planning to sell it and make a profit. Purely a real estate play, before I moved on to another town. But the locals started asking why I was building a church. Was I a preacher? Did I intend to lead a congregation?

I decided there was no better cover.

Yes, I’m a preacher, I said. Services will begin soon.

And thus, I carved out a place in this world where I’m not constantly anticipating a bullet in the back. However, something tells me if I give into my incessant hunger for Mila, my true identity will be revealed. I’m not a half measures type of man. If I make her mine, I’ll murder anyone who breathes in her direction. I’ll be a possessive, jealous son of a bitch. Worse than that, she’s awoken a new instinct inside of me that I’ve never, ever encountered in my life. When I fantasize about Mila—and it’s an hourly occurrence—I’m being almost…parental toward her. I’m brushing that long, midnight hair while she’s perched on my knee, lecturing her about never leaving the house in short skirts.

Or having an X-rated talk with her about the birds and the bees.

One that usually leads to me lifting the hem of her nightgown and giving her a very detailed demonstration.

Unable to help myself, I reach down and palm my distended cock, my hand blocked from the congregation’s view by the pulpit. Yeah, if I claimed that sweet girl, she’d go screaming to her mama about what I subjected her to. Rightly so. I deserve to have this whole town show up on my doorstep with torches and pitchforks. The man they think walks on water would suddenly be a heathen in their eyes—and their curiosity would be roused. They’d wonder if I’m really who I say I am.

And everything I’ve built could come crashing down.

Yes, beautiful, little Mila could be my downfall. A downfall that becomes more and more dangerously appealing with every passing day. Need her. I need her.

The decreased murmur tells me the congregation is ready for the service to begin and I take one more moment to gather myself, my gaze straying one final time to Mila where she sits in the front row, along with the other people who are scheduled to be baptized this morning. How am I going to touch her without ripping her clothes to shreds? How will I keep myself from mounting her sexy body and rutting her here on the stage?

There’s an intuition prodding me, telling me Mila would welcome my touch. That she needs it. But I know she’s simply at an age where her hormones have kicked in. That’s why she writhes about on the bed, rubbing her innocent pussy on the mattress. She doesn’t know she’s being watched and it’s yet another mark on my black soul that I invade her private moments.

Somehow I must get through the morning without revealing myself.

Somehow I have to put my hands on her for the first time without coming.

One might think a former mafia hit man would have better self control. When it comes to Mila, only Mila, they would be wrong. I slip more and more toward madness with every day that passes without me inside her.

Focus. I tear my attention off the object of my obsession and rest my hands on either side of the podium. “Good morning,” I say to the room, waiting for returned greetings and the echo of my voice to subside before continuing. “Today is very special for three members of our flock. Baptism is not only a cleansing of the soul, it is a testimony to God that you, a believer, will walk in the faith…”

As I go into a long-winded section about John the Baptist, my hands begin to shake with anticipation. Mila’s olive skin looks so soft though her window. What will it feel like against my fingertips? I have to stop several times to clear my throat during the sermon, drinking from the glass of water on my podium to cure my dry mouth, and before I know it, the time has come to baptize Mila and the others, a middle-aged man and wife. Needing more time to compose myself, I call the man and woman on stage one by one, completing the ritual—in which I have no formal training—in minutes, dunking them into the small, in-ground pool that I installed beneath the stage’s floorboards. My loins tighten, everything seeming to move in slow motion, when I turn to Mila and beckon her to the stage.

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