Audacity (Seraph)

This risk I’m taking isn’t merely ill-advised.

It’s quite possibly a sackable offence.

The unofficial, unspoken mandate I’ve assumed is that I’m here not merely as a vessel into which this good, devout man can pour his baser urges but as a siren. A corrupter. Someone to help him cross that chasm between where he stands, suspended in a kind of spiritual no-man’s land, and that carnal, flesh-loving kingdom that the rest of us inhabit so freely.

It’s not that I want him to forsake his beliefs. It’s already clear to me that his faith, his moral code, is what sets him markedly apart from all the other powerful men I’ve ever served. It’s that I want him to commit to the path he’s taken. I want him to revel in the lushness of this sensual playground; I want him to behave like a free man, a joyful sinner, and not a saint who’s lost his way.

But there’s holding Gabriel’s hand as he takes those first cautious steps onto what must still feel like the least convincing of bridges, cobbled together from rope and planks and knots, and there’s disrespecting his faith and using my body to profane the very things he holds dearest.

He reminded me yesterday evening as we left that he had an early breakfast meeting today but that he hoped to be back in time for Terce, which is apparently the 9am prayer to the Holy Spirit.

God knows, he’ll need him this morning.

As I wait, I gaze down at the horae, or Book of Hours. I’ve seen a couple before in the flesh, most notably at the Biblioteca Nazionale in Florence. I may not have a religious bone in my body, but my entire skeletal system is artistic, and this ancient manuscript awakens in me that rapture that I’m privileged enough to call familiar. The sense of awe, of disbelief, is there, as is the kick at being alone to commune with a truly great piece of art. The still-vivid illuminations may not move me to prayer, but they make my soul sing.

I shake my head slightly so my waves tumble silkily down my back. I took even more care with my appearance this morning than I did yesterday, tonging my hair before applying a scented oil that I know brings out my natural auburn highlights and achieves a rich gloss. The primping routine doesn’t come from a place of insecurity—I have no doubt how attracted Gabriel is to me—but from a desire to delight him. Entrance him. Remind him that I’m the most dazzling prize of all and that he’s the man who deserves me.

I’ve knelt on harder surfaces than the leather of this prie-dieu, worn smooth by the knees of a century or two of sinners. Still, it’s not the most comfortable of positions, and I’m a little on the cold side. This temperature-controlled room is not the ideal place to be naked.

On the plus side, my nipples are perfectly tight little peaks and the multi-million pound view in the display case in front of me as I wait could be far worse. I may have accused Catholicism of being over-engineered yesterday, but this intricate manuscript has me delighting in the bells and whistles the Church has seen fit to weave into the fabric of the belief system it promotes. The page is already turned to Hora Tertia—the third hour. Gabriel allowed me the pleasure of donning the nitrile gloves yesterday and turning the pages of this fragile manuscript in readiness for his morning prayers.

As the modest wall clock in here shows eight-fifty-five, there comes the distinctive click of Gabriel’s office door opening, and my heart rate kicks up right on cue. He’s unlikely to miss the way my dress and lingerie are laid across his sofa—the most intimate kind of invitation. I roll back my shoulders and assume my position of prayer, my palms and fingertips kissing chastely before me.

I can hear the muffled sounds of him moving about in his office, and then he’s opening the door. There’s a harsh intake of breath, and then my favourite kind of curse from this man’s lips: blasphemy.

‘Jesus Christ, Athena.’

I turn to look up at him, quite aware of the timeless contradiction this image must portray: the whore on her knees in front of a priceless religious artefact, and seemingly in prayer, for once. It also strikes me that, in here, I’m not the most expensive of his possessions. Nor am I the most recherché.

He’s removed his coat, but a camel cashmere scarf still hangs around his neck. His eyes are glittering, his nose red-tipped from the cold, and there’s something about the loose-hanging scarf and the neat punctuation of his tie below his Adam’s apple that evokes his former priestly self in whatever his vestments are called.

But there is nothing priestly about the way he’s taking in my naked body.

Nothing priestly at all.

‘If it’s too much, tell me and I’ll go get dressed. I don’t want to offend you.’ My voice is assured. Unhurried. I have no intention of making myself feel as though I’m on the back foot here. This is a calculated move on my part, after all.

He doesn’t reply, merely takes a step towards me, reaching blindly for the door handle and pulling the door closed behind him. From this angle, he looks huge. Hulking. His presence looms over me, and I feel alone with him in a way I haven’t yet—not yesterday morning, and not in that vast hotel suite, certainly. That was a playground and this is a priest’s cell, confronting in its compactness.

There’s nowhere to run in here.

‘It seems we have very different ideas about our morning practices,’ he deadpans, strolling over to the small sofa that takes up the entire length of the far wall. My eyes follow him as he whips off his scarf and peels off his suit jacket. After his initial profanity, his voice now gives little away—less than his actions, certainly.

‘I thought perhaps we could combine them.’

A small bark of a laugh. ‘You thought I should bury myself deep inside my beautiful, beautiful whore while I pray to the Holy Spirit for fortitude.’

He’s turned to me and is unbuttoning his cufflinks. Very promising.

I hold firm. ‘I thought it might be a novel way to elevate the act of prayer.’

‘Elevate. Not desecrate?’

‘Sometimes they can feel very alike.’

‘Don’t I know it.’ He takes a few steps towards me, tossing a cufflink down on the table. ‘You filled my water jug.’

‘Yes.’ Yesterday, when he showed me the the horae, he explained to me how he washes his hands before praying, a practice harking back to his former Lavabo ritual.

‘Thank you,’ he says softly, dropping the other cufflink so it clinks against the wood of the tabletop, just next to the trio of condom packets I’ve laid out. ‘It’s always important to wash one’s hands before touching anything this exquisite, isn’t it?’

I stare up at him wordlessly as he stands beside me and rolls up his cuffs. Their snowy whiteness is the perfect frame for the architecture of his body: that olive skin and soft, dark hair; the pleasing substance of his wrist bones and the taut flex of muscle in his forearms. I haven’t seen him naked for over a month, which is probably why his little performance feels as erotic as a Victorian damsel unbuttoning her glove so that her suitor can kiss her wrist and a damn sight more ominous.

Perhaps he’s not prepared to admit verbally that he’s on board with fucking me here in his sacred space. Maybe he’ll just show me instead. Besides, if I’m not mistaken, there’s a definitive bulge growing beneath that flat stomach and shiny belt buckle.

I watch as he pours the water in a steady arc, as it sluices cleanly into the metal bowl, as he sets down the jug and proceeds to wash his hands. Slowly. Methodically. He’s not ignoring me so much as silently accepting my presence, it seems. There’s something pleasingly austere about the juxtaposition of his beautiful hands and this cold, clean water. No soap. No bubbles. This isn’t an indulgence—it’s an act of service.

I observe the whole thing like an adoring puppy who’s hypervigilant of her master’s needs. It’s only after he’s reached for the pressed linen cloth and dried his hands with efficient strokes that he glances up at the clock before looking me in the eye again.

‘Time to pray, I think.’

I suspect other women may have grown increasingly uncomfortable during this encounter. I, on the other hand, am perfectly content. Gabriel hasn’t kicked me out, which means he’s happy with—if taken aback by—my presence. My nakedness. I have visual proof that I’m affecting him. If anything, the past few minutes have felt like foreplay, if foreplay was a game of chess.

I’ve made my move.

He’s had his deliberation time.

Now it’s time for him to make his move.