I told Drew so fucking what. Told him we had nothing to hide.

He cut my ropes, threw his clothes on, said he was going to fetch the pickup, we need to get the fuck out of here. He told me to get dressed and wait by the door, then he vanished down the ladder.

My dress and sneakers were somewhere down there. I told Cherry to please stop crying, hugged her tight and kissed her grubby face. The taste of her salty tears made me shrivel up and bloom at the same time. It was horrendous.

I wanted to help her down the ladder, but she took fright at something behind me. I glanced there to see lime-green cock-headed mushrooms walking down the walls like inchworms. Hundreds of them. I looked back to see Cherry scrambling down the ladder, a smear of blood from my tummy on the front of her dress from where I’d hugged her. I could hear her ragged breaths as I followed her, and almost fell from halfway down when my foot missed a rung.

I remember that panic. Blind panic they call it. Blind because you’re not you, you’re somewhere else entirely while your body flaps around in search of survival. A search that was pretty much impossible with those cock-headed mushroom caterpillar things dropping like lemmings from the floor above, splat, splat, splat on the concrete and breaking open to reveal a pulsing foetus in a milky sac.

I sat cross-legged on a haybale and watched myself flapping. Watched myself puking as I was putting my strappy dress on. I puked again as I pushed my feet into my sneakers. It was good the cock-shrooms were dying, but the pulsing sacs spilling from their broken bodies were pulsing faster. I could hear their beating hearts.

I watched myself looking wildly around for Cherry – she was nowhere to be seen. But I knew where she was.

I knew.

I could smell him.

I watched myself run to the locked front doors and peer through the crack. The sunshine was bright, the sky blue, the day calm, apart from the thuka-thuka-thuka of the copper chopper.

I couldn’t see it, but it was close. I couldn’t see Drew, either. The pickup was still parked up outside the other barn. I watched myself burst into tears and my heart broke. It’ll be all right, go find Cherry, I told myself, but I was hesitating at the door, peering through that crack. I was thinking about running for it, because Drew was nowhere to be seen; because the chopper was really close, and because I knew it would be directing cars on the ground; because Colin’s mobile phone was in the fucking pickup. An easy trace. A dumb mistake.

I was going to be famous, was my next thought. Infamous, I corrected my panicky self. Find Cherry, I reminded and picked my way through the pulsating foetuses, calling out to her.

I neared the back of the barn, where a row of cattle stalls led to the gap in the wall. I stopped dead at the sound of his voice. ‘Whore…’

I felt myself shiver and closed my eyes to it. He was here for revenge – and he had my Cherry.

I found myself then. No longer sitting on the haybale. I was back in my trembling body with puke down my front, staring at the row of stalls.

A single sob came from the first stall. A sob that was instantly muffled.

‘Come to me, whore,’ he said. I felt warm piss running down my leg.

The sound of the chopper died away. So did the sound of the pulsing foetuses. It was just me and him, and my sweet Cherry.

I willed myself towards the stall and stepped inside. Father Martin was sitting in an old leather armchair. Cherry was on his lap, her eyes scared. His hand was over her mouth. His robe had ridden up to his bare knees. His deep brown eyes, glossy with tears, stared through me to my bones.

‘Penance, atonement… absolution,’ he said, ‘you, whore, can never know those things.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I held my hands out to Cherry.

He tightened his grip on her mouth, and his other hand went to her little knees. Cherry screwed her eyes shut and tears rolled down her cheeks.

I didn’t care then. Didn’t care about anything but Cherry. I told Father Martin that I would kill him. He laughed at me, said I killed him long ago; said I killed his good heart.

‘You, whore, can only suffer. Your filthy penance is your fun. Atonement means nothing in your world. Absolution is therefore impossible.’

‘Then what?’ I said, as if I didn’t know.

‘An eye for an eye,’ he told me and pulled a crucifix from his robe. The same crucifix I’d stolen. The same crucifix I’d fucked myself with. I looked at his hand squeezing Cherry’s thigh and thought that’s not an eye for an eye.

‘Confess,’ he said and I knew I had no choice.

It happened on the seventeenth visit to St Michael’s. I’d kept a diary. His eyes roved me more each visit. I got to know the look of guilt so well. I heard his thoughts. I heard his blood rushing to his cock when I went braless and my nipples poked. Felt his eyes on me while I kneeled and prayed. I wore my shortest skirt because he liked my legs. He was always stealing glances at my legs.

I knew I had him when he spoke about the devil in our midst. It was Tuesday Mass, only about twenty or so people in the pews. His eyes were fierce as he warned them about the importance of keeping your heart clean. The devil dances near us every day. Let him in and he will steal your heart from Jesus. Talk aloud to keep him out. He’d raised his voice then. Talk aloud to keep the sinner at bay. He was looking at me. I felt the welling tears. He saw them, paused in his preaching. It was beautiful. I so wanted his cock.

My plan was simple. I’d lifted the red velvet curtain and sneaked into the confession box – the side the priest sits in – and loosened the latch on the little window. It could only be undone from his side. While confessing to Father Martin about what a true whore I really was, that I might have accidentally taken my own virginity, and that I needed him to check that out for me, I would take my clothes off. And before he could say no, I was going to pull that window open. His mouth would drop. His brown fringe would flop over his deep brown eyes and I’d cup my tits for him. Tweak my nipples for him. And he wouldn’t be able to resist. But my plan backfired.

I’d remained in my seat as the congregation filtered away into the night, shaking Father Martin’s hand at the door. When the last person was saying goodnight, I made my way to the confessional, stood facing it with my head bowed. I sniffed back the tears and the sound echoed. I almost smiled.

I’d stared at the stone floor with a thumping heart. He was taking his time. Quiet as a mouse. Eventually I heard the doors closing. The key turning in the lock. A good sign. Thank you, God.

Footsteps. His brogue shoes heavy on the stone floor. Hot sizzles between my legs. Instant wetness. This was going to be incredible.

Danielle, is everything all right?

I told him No. The sobbing came easy. I looked at him then. Looked into those deep brown eyes. Scared eyes. Told him I’d done something terrible. Told him I desperately needed God’s forgiveness. I made to open the red velvet curtain to the confessional but a heavy hand found my elbow.

He told me the confessional was no longer used. We encourage talking openly, Danielle. Face to face. Heart to heart. We prefer a light approach to life at St Michael’s. Forgiveness comes so much easier that way.

I had to think on my feet. Here? I said. You want me to blurt it out right here?

He’d glanced back to the doors that he’d locked and I remembered that. Made me smile. Told myself to stop fretting, that I had him.

Please, Father. Please help me.

He hesitated, just a little, maybe for effect, then said we should go to the vestry. On the way, he stopped and made the sign of the cross before the crucified Jesus. I did the same and thanked Our Lord for delivering.

The vestry was a small stone-cold room. Stone walls and stone floor. There was a rail for hanging clothes. A khaki shirt along with brown trousers hung on hangers. I noticed the hint of paisley-patterned fabric tucked under the curve of the trousers – underpants. He was naked under his robe.

There was a tiny desk and two chairs and a small electric heater. He switched the heater on and asked me to sit. He sat opposite with the desk between us. I didn’t like that at first – until I realised it was perfect.

He sat back in his seat, fingers interlaced on his chest. His smile was nervous. It excited me.

Tell me how I can help, he said.

I wiped my eyes, took a shuddering breath, and then I told him. Told him in whispers so he had to strain to listen. Told him that I was ashamed. Told him that I’d touched myself down there.

Ah, he said.

I think I may have broken my virginity, Father. Please may God forgive me.

I heard him swallow. How old are you, Danielle?

I asked why that mattered. His look said I don’t believe for one minute you’re a virgin. You’ve been around the block a few times and then some.

I’m pure, I told him. And then I layered it on thick about Mother. How she would beat me if she found out. I sobbed, told him I was desperate.

Tell me how you touched yourself, he said, just like that, all deep and throaty and my cunt ached so nicely.

I looked him in the eye. I pushed a finger all the way in, Father.

He’d swallowed at that. His cheeks were blushing. And was there blood?

Blood, Father?

On your finger.

I… I don’t know. I can’t remember.

I’m sure you would have remembered that, Danielle. If there was no blood, then I am certain you are intact. Besides, Danielle, one cannot truly lose one’s virginity in that way.

No?

He shook his head. Sexual intercourse needs to take place before one’s virginity can be taken. You have not yet had sexual intercourse?

No, Father, I lied, and boy did he know it.

Then trust that you are fine.

But my mother, Father. She’ll hurt me real bad.

He looked confused. And I could see he wanted to ask but couldn’t. So I helped him out. She checks me once a week, Father. And if she finds I’m broken, she says, well, I don’t want to repeat it here, but she will hurt me. I’m scared, Father. I’m scared to go home.

My child, he said, your mother should not be doing these things. I know someone who can help in matters such as this.

Matters, Father?

Abuse, Danielle. Your mother, despite your adult years, is abusing you.

She’s always gentle, Father, when she checks.

He shook his head. Or maybe it was more of a shudder. Come back tomorrow, Danielle. I’ll contact my friend, set up a meeting.

I sobbed again, told him tomorrow was too late. Tonight, she would check me, and I needed desperately to know that I hadn’t broken myself.

You should have gone to your doctor, not your priest, he said, and that threw me, because he was right. I thought it was over, that he had me sussed and wasn’t going to be tempted. But then something magical happened – I caught a whiff of manly musk.

I breathed him in. Held my nose up and breathed him in. He wiped his brow, said it was getting too hot, got up and took the one step to the electric heater and bent down to turn it off.

I just did it. I just sat forward in my chair, pulled up my skirt, leaned back and planted the heels of my pumps on his desk. When he straightened up from turning the heater off, I opened my legs as far as the little desk would allow my heels to travel.

Save me, Father.

And there he was. Still as a statue. Eyes on my hairy bush. Trapped.

I moved my hands to my inner thighs, stroked them, and I was certain I could see the slightest suggestion of a hard cock behind that robe. Just a little bump that he was trying to hide by sucking his stomach in, but my God he stunk. Stunk like a horny skunk and it made my cunt dribble.

Just do it, I told him.

He looked at me, his face was burning up. Do what?

I realised that I’d have to take him by the hand. I hitched my ass forward just that little bit more, tensed my ass cheeks and forced my legs as wide as they’d go without my feet falling from the desk and I touched my fingers to my cunt, slid them through my hairy bush and gave a soft little moan. Are you a virgin, Father?

He didn’t answer. He looked away, said he needed to get changed, that I should go now.

I sprang to my feet and he glanced at me. Watched me as I took off my coat. Watched as I opened my blouse, his eyes on my naked tits as the blouse hit the floor. My nipples puckered under his stare. Then I dropped my skirt, kicked it away, stood before him in just my pumps.

He was no longer trying to hide his erection, the generous bulge in his robe made my mouth water.

Are you, Father?

His eyes met mine. Jittery eyes. Am I what?

A virgin. I stepped up to him, the smell of him so pungent in the small room. Hold me, Father.

He did. He folded me into his hard body. He was shaking. The heat coming off him was incredible. I touched the palm of my hand to the bulge in his robe, gave it a gentle stroke. His chin came to rest on the top of my head. Will you check me now, Father?

He broke away from me, told me in a trembling voice that he needed some air. He moved quickly and went out the door, left me standing naked in the little vestry.

I ran after him, into the cold church. He was kneeling by the altar, muttering stuff to God. The altar! The altar and the silver crucifix that stood on it. It shone to me – a gift from God. I was up there in a heartbeat, touching myself with the crucifix. I squeezed at a tit and slapped the cross at my clit and my moans echoed high. He was standing at my side then, eyes blazing.

This is a test, he said. But that’s all he said. His lip was quivering. He’d already fucking failed.

It was easy to let my arm fall to his robe, to free his cock, his nice hard cock.

Forgive me, he said.

Fuck me, I said and squeezed his nice cock.

Oh God, he said.

I worked his cock a little. He told me to stop, backed away. I got a look at it then. It was pale, almost white, the foreskin a cowl.

Fuck me!

No!

Fuck me! I slapped the crucifix off my cunt.

I can’t do that. I can’t.

I swung my ass from that altar and went to him, tore open his robe at the collar then lifted it high. He didn’t resist, allowed his arms to come free. I pushed it over his head and it dropped to the floor behind him. His cock was at the perfect height to slip through the gap in my thighs. I held it there against my hot cunt and pulled myself to him.

I asked him when was the last time he’d spunked up. He said he never had. I told him he was a filthy liar, that he was going to come for me. I can’t, he said again. I thought maybe he couldn’t fuck my cunt, but surely the Good Lord would let him fuck my throat.

I eased myself slowly down his body. His stiff cock pressing hard against my cunt, then my tummy, my tits as I lowered myself – he moaned when his cock pressed into my tits – and then I was on my knees and I had him in my mouth, sucking him nice and slow.

His breaths were loud. I looked up at him. He was staring straight ahead, his breaths fogging the cold air. And then he surprised me, said something I wasn’t at all expecting, I can taste it.

I pulled his cock from my mouth. What?

That thing… between your legs. I will check it for you. And… taste it. I can do that. A taste.

My cunt flooded with fire at his words, I almost bit his cock. Good, I said and took his hands, guided his naked body to the floor until he was flat on his back. He was toned, just nice, and the flickering light from the nearby rack of candles made him look delicious. I straddled his shoulders, went down on my knees, took his cock in my hand, sucked the end a little, then lowered my dripping cunt to his face.

Check me, Father.

Shaking fingers touched to my thighs. Touched lightly to my bush, stroked there, and I moaned for him, squeezed his cock. He was stroking so gently. I told him to open me up. Told him it was okay to be rough. Told him it was nice. He parted my lips then. A good grip with both hands and he parted my lips with a squelch of wetness, held them open and I felt his stare burning me.

Check me, Father.

His finger went in slow. Nice and slow all the way in. I moved my hips back and forth a little. He got the message and started moving his finger in and out. I told him it was good, told him to put another finger in.

He gave a little sob and two fingers pushed into me. I told him it was so good, told him to taste me. Suck my cunt, Father.

His hands came to my hips and I lowered myself to his face. He cried as he lapped at me. Lapped like a dog would. I told him to suck. Told him to suck hard as I dropped my mouth over his cock and sunk all the way down to his balls and clenched my throat. He cried out, his cock pulsing in my throat as he came. I sucked him dry and he groaned for forgiveness. I told him he was forgiven already and pressed my needy cunt to his mouth.

Suck me hard, Father. I’m going to come on your face.

His fingers dug into my hips and he sucked hard, grazed me with his teeth, pushed his tongue in and flicked it about. I squirmed on him, told him he was fucking divine, then I rode him, fast, the sharp stubble on his chin sending needles of pleasure through me and I was coming. So wet and so hard I was coming and I was crying out for sweet mercy when Father Martin screamed, pushed me off him and scrambled to his feet.

I smelled it then and almost puked. The rotten smell of period blood. It was all over his horror-struck face. A dark clot of blood hung from his lip. Blood on his neck, his chest, his fingers.

I was dumbstruck. He was sobbing, splashing his hands in the font, scrubbing at his face. I went to him, told him it was okay. Told him I’d help him clean up. But the fucker slapped me. Slapped me and grabbed up his robe and vanished towards the vestry.

I ran after him only to see my clothes fly through the doorway and the door slam shut. The key turned in the lock. He bellowed through the door that I was an evil demon whore, that he never wanted to set eyes on me again. That’s when I stole the crucifix. Slept with it for weeks after. Slept with it up my cunt.

‘An eye for an eye,’ he said.

Cherry looked terrified, there on his lap, her dress ridden high, his arm clamped around her middle. That crucifix in his hand.

‘Let her go.’

He shook his head. ‘Get down on your knees, whore. I’m going to check her. And you can watch.’

I heard the foetuses then. The pulsating foetuses behind me in the barn. I told him it was okay, because he wasn’t real. He wasn’t really there. But he looked so real. I could smell him. Smell his pungent musk. And he had a hard on. I couldn’t see it but I knew.

He stroked the rounded top of the crucifix on Cherry’s thigh. I denied her as well. Told him she wasn’t real either.

I know, he said, but I tasted her.

Cherry cried. My heart broke. I begged him for forgiveness, but he said no, to get down on my knees.

I did something then I’d never done before in my life. I dropped to my knees, brought my hands together and prayed. Prayed for Divine intervention. Promised the Almighty that I’d never sin again, if only he would save my poor Cherry.

I heard lowered voices outside the stall, movement, scuffling of heavy boots.

‘Anyone in there? This is the police. Show yourself.’