in English
Indulgence
When consciousness returned, they were lying on that same playful oval rug.
His cock was still inside her. Or perhaps she simply hadn’t allowed him to leave.
For a long while neither of them moved.
Eventually he withdrew slowly, and she felt the warm spill she could no longer hold. About fifteen minutes later, after her hurried escape to the bathroom and a shower that felt almost ceremonial, she came back utterly clean and strangely luminous.
She settled onto his lap, careful, holding her backside slightly suspended in the air. Sitting properly would not be comfortable for at least two days.
He didn’t comment.
He stroked her hair and shoulders with slow, absent tenderness.
She lifted the cup from the small table and sipped the same unfortunate, now completely cold morning coffee.
It tasted different.
Not better.
Just different.
She drank it like nectar.
Her body felt hollowed and filled at once. Emptied of noise. Of restless appetite. Of secret rebellion.
The room was quiet.
The “Confessional” had returned to being just a storage room with a sofa, rough walls, and a single dull bulb.
And yet something had been burned away there.
She tilted her head back and looked at him from below, eyes still faintly swollen, a mischievous glint returning.
“Your Reverence… will you hear my confession again next week?”
From above came a deliberately theatrical bass:
“The care of lost sheep is the shepherd’s sacred duty, my child. But confession may be taken more frequently.”
She laughed first.
Then he did.
It wasn’t triumphant laughter.
It wasn’t cruel.
It was the sound of something reset.
They were together.
The world, somewhere beyond the thin walls and the staircase and the quiet house, continued its slow, indifferent rotation.
But it could not interfere.
Not with this.
Not now.