Unholy Conspiracy (Quix and Xana)

“Aisha,” Father Donahue called, peaking his head out of his office as the slender woman tried to sneak past. She froze in her tracks wincing as she heard his heavy footsteps coming behind her. “My child, where have you been? You missed your last counseling session, and you know you can’t stay here unless you agree to receive weekly counseling.”

“I know, Father,” Aisha murmured, rubbing her right shoulder with her left arm, trying to avoid the man’s eyes. She had slept out on the street the last two nights, but the temperatures were dipping into the single digits tonight and she didn’t want to risk freezing. All she wanted was a hot shower and a warm bed, but these things came at a cost.

“Well, if you want to stay, come into my office and we can make up your session now,” he offered, and ushered her in front of him, his grip denying her any real choice in the matter. Once they were both in the room, and the door was locked behind them she felt Donahue take her overcoat off.

“This coat is too ratty to keep,” the priest insisted, folding it over his arm.

“I need that coat,” Aisha insisted. Winters in the Boston were barely tolerable with it but without it she would be nearly confined to the woman’s shelter.

“Nonsense, Aisha. Bishop Manley and several volunteers will be by tomorrow with new clothing donations. I am sure if you meet with him you will get a chance to pick out a new, nicer coat for yourself.” He explained, putting the weather worn garment behind his desk. Aisha had been around long enough to know what that meant.

“Now Aisha, I think we should start our session off with a prayer. Why don’t you kneel so you can join me in praising God, and seeking his guidance,” the way Father Donahue spoke the words, they didn’t come off as suggestions. Despite the curdling in her stomach, she did as she was told, knowing things could always be worst. At least with wasn’t Father Thorpe who found her. He was far more demanding that Father Donahue, and far crueler.

On her knees before the priest, she wasn’t surprised to hear him working to unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants. His flaccid cock came out, thick sausage fingers stroking his meat until it started to fill with blood. His other hand took a firm grasp of her head, bring her closer to his meat, until the bright red head was brushing her lips. “Accept the offering of Christ, my child, and be filled with his glory.”

Holding back her disgust, she opened her mouth, groaning as Father Donahue pushed half his length in with a single stroke. In and out, his filthy meat prodded and probed her throat, long, deep stroked that had her gagging. Still, he didn’t stop or slow down, pendulous balls slapping her chin as he for his shaft all that way in her mouth. “Thank you God,” he moaned heading thrown back as his strokes came faster and harder, gasping as he felt her convulse under the throat fucking, the desperate tensing milking his cock as she shot himself down her throat. “Now, don’t waste a drop, that would be a sin.”

Only once she had swallowed all his semen was she given respite, cough and catching her breath as Father Donahue put his cock away. “Bless you child,” he said, the same mocking way he always said it when he finished with her.

“Hello?” An unfamiliar female voice called from the hallway, “Is someone here, please?” There was a quiet desperation in the voice, and Father Donahue perked up.

“Stay here, “ he instructed, leaving his office in search of the new voice. Aisha peaked through the office window, and saw a young woman, hardly more than a girl with dark blonde hair tied in a messy bun, and bloodshot eyes, tear filled eyes. She overheard the girl explain that her stepfather beat her and she needed a place to stay, away from the abuse. Father Donahue assured her that she would be safe here, and Aisha felt herself cringe at his assertion.

She had a few minutes, while he got the girl’s room setup. He wouldn’t do anything yet, he would wait until she was indebted to the church before making a move. More likely Father Thorne would make the first move. He always liked the young ones.

So Aisha turned on the computer, rifling through the drawers as she waited for it to start. She found one of the things she needed, a fifth of cheap vodka, which she half drained in a single go, just to wash the taste of his exploitation out of her mouth. She hid the bottle within her layers of clothing, turning her attention back to the computer now that it was ready. Opening the search bar, she typed in “Jeffery O’Donnell contact information.”

Among her very few possession, Aisha had three articles written by the man, detailing corruption and abuse scandals that had rocked the city and state. Outing racist police officers (not that she needed a white man to tell her that Boston PD had a racism problem, but she know other white people would only listen to such accusations if a respectable white man were making them) another detailing a bribery scheme involving the previous mayor, and the most recent one revealing an embezzlement scheme with Boston public schools superintendent. If one could bring to light what was happening here, to her and the dozens of other women who had nowhere else to turn, it was this guy.

She found a number, to his work phone at the Boston Herald. Using Father’s Donahue’s phone, she left a quick message: “Mr. O’Donnell, this is Aisha Thomas. You don’t know me, but I may have a story for you to investigate. Meet me at Brothers Deli & Restaurant, tomorrow at 10 am.” Quickly now, she turned off the computer and slumped back against the couch in his office, just before he could come back in. She didn’t meet his eyes when he returned, but could feel his gaze on her skin.

“Well now, Aisha, where were we?”

"Welcome, Child."

Father Damien Thorne, having heard the unfamiliar female voice, departed his office to join Father Donahue, and greeted the new arrival from the entrance-way of the room his compatriot led her to. The girl immediately glanced up, and her eyes widened when she noted the woolen cassock he wore, unlike the civilian clothing Thorne directed his inferiors to attire themselves in. Both to remind them of their place, and the residents of his status as the man of God in the institution.

"Hello." The response was barely audible.

"What's your name?"

"Jana." Still a whisper.

The man approached, and the young woman flinched when his hand met her shoulder and squeezed. "Welcome, Jana. Tell me, how did you find us"

"Father O'Brien sent me."

"I know of Father O'Brien. A good man. Is anyone else aware you came to us to seek help?"

"No." The girl's voice trembled. "He'd kill me if he found me, I ran away."

Thorne could barely contain his smile. "Don't worry, this facility is a secret, as is the identity of our guests. No-one will know you're here."

And that was true. The three-story safe-house, built on the back of community donations, and a small portion of the billions of dollars held in trust by the Catholic Church, was located in a generic Boston suburb, not listed in any directories, and completely anonymous to the general public. It contained twenty-four rooms, each furnished with a double-bed, two side tables, a lamp perched on top of one, and a King-James bible on the other, with a solid wooden crucifix and painting of the Last supper hung on opposing walls. Every girl was assigned her own quarters, ostensibly for privacy and comfort, but in reality, to allow uninterrupted visitations for those shepherds who sought out the comfort of their flock.

Damien's hand drifted down to rub her back, and though his action was outwardly comforting, a gleam of darker intentions was evident in his eyes when they met his colleagues. "Why don't we let her settle in."

The second Priest nodded in agreement, and accompanied his superior to the entrance, before Thorne stopped to peer back at Jana. "If you require assistance, my office is down the Hall to the left, or you can ask any of the staff. In the morning, after prayer, I'll walk you through the rules and expectations of your stay at this Facility. I assume you are Devout?"

"Yes, Father."

"Good."

The isolation of the girl immediately after entering was deliberate, as was the fact that Thorne had removed her handbag, presumably containing the girl's identification and cell-phone, and held it in his hand. Her possessions would be locked in his office safe, and returned at Damien's discretion.

"Very pretty when she's cleaned up, and young. I know just the man who'll enjoy her." He clapped Donahue on the shoulder once he'd shut the door behind them. "Of course, I'll need to test the girl's devotion before I offer her for sale. Now, I have some paperwork to finish up, whilst you resume your duties." The amused tone left no doubt that he hadn't missed Aisha entering Donahue's office, or what those duties entailed.

However, the man had finished with Aisha for the time being, though it was fun to taunt her a touch when he returned, by asking where they'd left off. As if she'd forgotten. He stared for few seconds, with a questioning brow raised, then when she refused to meet his eyes, slipped a hand into the pocket of his trousers, and withdrew a sachet filled with white powder. "As the good book says, praise the Lord, and the Lord will provide."

The sachet flew from his fingers and landed on the floor at her feet, simultaneously as Donahue stepped around her. "Don't forget to kneel for him tonight, and do not speak of my generosity to anyone, otherwise he will surely display his wrath." Falling down into the seat behind his desk, the portly priest mocked the unfortunate woman, and his own vows. "As will Father Thorne. Give thanks that we took you in, rather than left you out on the streets to rot."

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Jeffrey O'Donnelll had built his reputation on hard work and determination. At first glance, he didn't appear to be a man to be reckoned with; 6 foot, two tall, thin and bespectacled, with an open, friendly face, and mussed brown hair, with a tinge of red, due to his Irish Heritage, but the investigative reporter was one of the most feared men in the city. In the past two years, he'd exposed corruption and racism in the police force, resulting in felony charges for eight of Boston's finest, and brought down the mayor.

Currently working on a story involving kick-backs from private developers to Massachusetts state politicians in exchange for the awarding of tenders, he'd arrived at the Boston Herald offices at 8am, and hadn't moved from his desk for the entire day. Except for the purchase of more coffee, and subsequent trips to the bathroom.

It was on his return from one of the latter that O'Donnell noted the red voice-mail light blinking on his phone. He pressed the button to listen, and scratched the details into his notebook before the call abruptly ended. Subsequently slumping back into his chair, the man's expression displayed no emotion or particular interest. Messages such as that were a dime-a-dozen, and generally resulted in nothing but a waste of his time, however, he'd undoubtedly attend the ten o'clock appointment. There was always the remote possibility of striking gold.

Aisha swallowed hard as the baggie fall on the ground with the softest of thuds. It was hard to resist the urge to dive for it, to open the baggie and get that whiff of fine powder inside. Her hands trembled as she bent over with a show of dignity, as if she possessed a modicum of dignity anymore. She was already salivating as she took it in her hand, already imagining how it would feel as it flooded her veins. That quick hit of numbness to forget what Father Donahue had done to her, to forget all the men who had used her over the years, or all the men who would.

She would save this. If she would have to meet with Bishop Manley, and his volunteers to get herself a new coat tomorrow, she might need it then. Or the next time she met with Father Thorne, and he inflicted his cruelty upon her. Besides, she still had half a bottle of vodka to help her sleep tonight.

So she went to the bathrooms to shower, searing water turning her skin nearly red, and yet not nearly hot enough to wash the violation away. Never hot enough to wash the violation away. It was imprinted upon her skin, like an ill-considered tattoo.

She went back to her room, sinking down onto the bed. She might have missed the warmth of sleeping indoors, but she could have gone a lifetime without sleeping in this bedroom again. But if it wasn’t here, it would have just been somewhere else. So she chugged the rest of the vodka, before the memories could catch up to her.

---

Jana sat on the bed, sighing softly, and trying not to cry again. She had left everything behind, not that everything was all that much for her. But now everything she possessed could fit in a backpack.

Breathing deep hurt. Her stepfather had kicked her in the ribs, and bruised them. Maybe even cracked one. The last time it happened, Father O ‘Brien said she would be safe, if she came to a safe house. He had given her the address, and told her to keep it close. She had hidden it, hoping not to need it. Knowing if she left, he would kill her. But now she was afraid he might kill her if she stayed. She could only hope this pace was as secret as Father O’Brien assured her it was.

Laying back onto the bed, she looked up at the crucifix on the wall, and remembered the sacrifice the lord made for his children. Jesus was here now, protecting her. No one would hurt here, here.

---

Aisha left the next morning, taking only a cup of coffee with her. The morning air was brisk, especially without her coat, but as long as she kept moving it wasn’t so bad. Except that she had to panhandle to get enough money to buy a coffee at the restaurant, and nobody wanted to spare change to a junkie whore. But a kind older woman gave her a five, and it was just enough to get herself a coffee and a bagel.

“We don’t want any trouble,” man behind the counter said, as she gave her order.

“Just trying to eat, man,” She pleaded handing over the wrinkled bill.

“This ain’t a place to meet your john, or your dealer,” he accused, taking her money. “You eat, and you leave.”

She settled into a booth in the corner, stirring in a couple packets of sugar and cream. Her hands shivered from the cold and the desire for the drugs in her pocket, but she just gripped her drink, fighting the cravings. She pulled out her articles, rereading them for the thousandth time. The ink had faded in places, but she knew what all the words were.

Sitting there, alone, in her dirty, old clothes, she wondered if Jeffrey would give her the time of day. At least she was clean, her thick braids tied neatly behind her head. She had been pretty, once, not that was any comfort to her. They had done what they wanted to her, because she had been pretty. Now the years on the street had taken their toll on her, and she looked like someone who had lived too long in her 26 years.

What a pathetic creature.

Donahue's eyes glinted with amusement as he watched the Aisha's internal struggle to retain some dignity, as she gathered the package of white powder from the floor. To the Priest, dignity for a woman such as Aisha was a concept left long in the past, never to be recaptured, and he briefly wondered why she even tried. Controlled by drugs, and a victim of her own addictions, the woman's only useful contribution to society now was to act as a source of gratification for others, in service of the Lord's disciples.

He felt not the slightest prick of guilt as his gaze followed the woman out of the room, then picked up the phone. "Hello, Ms Davies? Father Donahue. We're holding a fundraising drive next month for Holy Cross School. The student's desperately require a new gymnasium, and we'd appreciate if you could sacrifice some of your time to co-ordinate the effort?" His tone could not have been sweeter, nor more ingratiating.

No guilt was felt by Thorne, either, as he sat in his office, contemplating their new arrival, who'd garner plenty of attention. None greater than from Damien himself.

As she sobbed, alone in her room, he thanked the Lord for providing such an enticing gift. In the morning, he'd step Jana through the rules and expectations of her stay when, after a night of isolation with nothing but her own thoughts to dwell on, the girl would hopefully be eager for human companionship and comfort. Ready to commence learning her part in God's plan.

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Harried and hurried, O'Donnell glanced at his watch, and bunched the black duffel coat tighter around his torso as the Boston wind chilled him to the bone. Caught up with research on his latest article, he'd departed the office later than intended, and it was five minutes past the 10am scheduled meeting time when he breathlessly pushed open the door of the coffee shop.

With an experienced eye, the Journalist scanned the crowd, discounting each businessman and smartly dressed-couple as his anonymous caller, before his gaze landed on a young woman. Alone, and without a jacket, unusual in this weather, he instinctively knew she was the one who'd left the message. However, as to what potential story she had, he couldn't imagine, for if he was to be honest, the girl looked like a junkie. Not exactly the most reliable of sources, and generally only after money to score, with information that wouldn't interest a junior cadet fresh out of College, let alone a senior man like O'Donnell.

He turned and met the raised eyebrows of the man behind the counter, who'd noted the direction of the Journalist's gaze, held two fingers up to indicate a coffee for each, and approached her. Without bothering to introduce himself or ask permission, he slipped into the seat opposite, stared at the woman momentarily, then leaned forward to rest both elbows on the table. In close proximity, the junkie impression he'd gained earlier was only reinforced, however, he attempted not to let any of the cynicism as to what that might mean for the worth of his time, show in his demeanour or voice. "Jeffrey O'Donnell, you wanted to talk?"

His Irish lilt soft and non-threatening, Jeffrey would wait to see how she responded, before deciding whether he'd have been better off ordering the coffee as take-out.

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Father Thorne had been unable to keep his mind of the young and attractive Jana the entire night, and had used her identification to research what he could about her. That hadn't led to much, however, a subsequent call to Father O'Brien, where he'd learnt the girl's Dad was an abusive drunk, and her life was indeed in danger if he discovered her whereabouts, proved more fruitful. Information that could be used to manipulate her.

Having decided to allow her to forgo the early prayer service, Damien knocked on her door; lockable only by a key held by each staff member; then, with a bundle of cleaned, donated clothing held in his arms, opened it, and stepped, uninvited, into Jana's room. "Morning, child. How was your night, sleep well?"

Aisha’s hands shook as she sipped her coffee, despite the ways she tried to calm herself. The minute hand on the clock lurched forward, almost loud as it clicked into place. 10:05. He wasn’t going to show. Why would he? What did he care what happened to the dregs of society? Literally no one cared what happened to women like her. Druggie whores, who deserved what they got for their weak moral fiber. Aisha was angry at father Thorne, for doing this to her, for turning her into this. Angry at Jeffery for dismissing her, without even meeting her, hearing out what she had to say. Angry at herself, for thinking anyone would listen to her.

Five more minutes. She would wait five more minutes, before ducking out the back and shooting up the heroin she had on her. Maybe she would just shoot it all up in her. Just end it, before anyone else could hurt her again. There was some peace to the idea, enough peace that her hands no longer trembled as she brought up her cup for another sip. By the time she finished that drink, a man was sitting across from her. A nicely dressed, respectable white man, meeting a woman like her in public. She almost felt bad for him, and what everyone must think of him.

"Jeffrey O'Donnell, you wanted to talk?"

Aisha has imagined this moment a few times, since she read his first article about corrupt cops. How she would tell him about what she went through, since turning 18 and aging out of the foster care system. No family, no education and no money, what choice did she have but to seek out a woman’s shelter to house her. How the priests took advantage of her vulnerability to take what they wanted from her, and feed her drugs when the trauma of abuse reared its head. It had helped, considerably to drown the pain of what they took from her, but now she couldn’t hardly get by without it. Still, as she tried to figure how to word it, she felt herself freeze. He would never believe her. She hardly believed herself. It was absurd. Men in charge of running women’s shelters were raping and abusing them?

Instead, she reached in her pocket, feeling the baggie between her fingers. Stealing a quick glance around, she palmed the baggie into his hand, ensuring he had a good grip on it, before moving her hand back. As she watched him examine she put in his hand, she found some words, to explain what she was showing him.

“I got that from a priest, after he finished…” Aisha started, unable to continue meeting his eyes. He was judging her, she knew. She looked like a junkie, and she put a baggie of drugs in his hand. Way to disprove the stereotype. “It ain’t the first time. They…use us and they…pay us, in drugs. They buy our bodies and our silence with a dimebags.” She laughed bitterly, swallowing down that self hate, swallowing down her craving, her need.

“Father Thorne, Damien Thorne. He runs a safe house, offa Woodrow street, near the cemetery. They know we ain’t got no place to go. That’s how they know we ain’t gon talk.” She finished her coffee, and looked up so see if he even half believed anything she told him. “Ain’t no one gon listen to me. But you? A nice respectful white man? People might listen to you. They sure listened when you told everyone Boston PD had a race problem.”

---

Jana sat on her bed, lifting her shirt to get a look at her bruises while she had sun light. They were purple and red, yellowing around the outside. Touching them lightly, she couldn’t help but wince, still aching, though not as bad as last night.

There was a knock and then the door opened before she could even protest. Not that she was doing anything, really, just had her shirt up and her bra exposed. But it came down when he opened the door, and she didn’t think he saw anything. She smiled meekly at the Father, her face slight flushed as he spoke.

“Very well, Father,” she insisted, even though it wasn’t entirely true. They were letting her stay here, after all, no point in being rude. “Umm, I think you think my phone last night. On accident, when you took my things.”

“Yes, my child. I need to make sure you weren’t able to be tracked here. This location is secret, because many of the women here are fleeing from abusive men in their life. I made sure to turn off your location data, and tracking apps, so your step father couldn’t use your phone to find you, and hurt you more,” Father Thorne explained, putting the pile of clothes down on her bed. He came up behind her now, resting his hand on her shoulder. “Is that what he did to you?” His voice was hardly more of a whisper, and she felt his body pressed against hers.

“Yes,” she exhaled, looking down in shame.

“Let me get a look at it, see if we need to get you medical attention,” he instructed, staying close to her. After a moment’s hesitation, she lifted her shirt for him, so he could see the marks on her ribs. He shook his head, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

“Terrible, just terrible my child,” he exclaimed, bringing his hand down to her waist, “just checking to see if any ribs are broken.” He put pressure on her bruises, causing her to wince and groan, but she made no further complaint. “I think you will be okay.”

He stepped back now, “I will take your clothing now, and I brought some clean stuff to you to change into.”

“Thank you Father,” She said, turning towards the clothes he left out for her. She waited for a few moments for him to leave, but he stood fast. “Should I change in the bathroom or…?” She started, feeling his eyes on her now.

“I need to ensure that you are not bringing drugs or weapons into the home, Jana. Many of the women here have drug abuse problems and some even have history in gangs. This is a Christian safe house, and I cannot have these things here. If this isn’t acceptable to you, you can try another shelter. Rosie’s Place is very well known.” Jana cringed at the thought of having to leave, after she was just getting settled. Not to mention his remark about it being well known. Just the kind of place her step father would think to look for her.

“No, I understand, Father,” she assured him, looking down at the wood floors. After a few deep breaths she pulled her shirt up over her head, revealing her upper body to him, clad in only a bra now. She handed the shirt to him and put on the new shirt, a white long sleeve that was tight against her body. After a bit more hesitation she unbuttoned her jeans, slipping them down her hips to puddle on the floor. She was thin, showing the effecting of leaving in poverty for the past decade. Jeans were folded and place in Father’s Thorne’s hands, before she slipped into the sweat pants provided.

“Very good, my child. Breakfast will be served shortly, and then I will go over the rules and expectations, for your stay.” Father Thorne directed, with an arm around her shoulders, ushering her into the hallway.

"Thanks." Jeffrey nodded at the owner, who'd avoid getting too close to the young when he'd placed their coffee's down, and subsequently hovered, obviously interested in what such a diverse couple could be discussing in his cafe. Though, his name was well-known, the Journalist's face was not so much so, and he could see the man attempting to place where he might recognise him from, before Jeff's unwavering gaze sent him scurrying and he returned his focus to Aisha. She still hadn't spoken, and the man felt the frustration that he'd wasted his time beginning to build, readying himself to leave, as her hand dipped into her pocket, and he laid eyes on the bag contained between trembling fingers.

For a moment, he thought she was going to drop it, but somehow she managed to maintain her grip. A definite junkie, the drugs had obviously gotten to her hook, line and sinker, and the Journalist scoffed half his beverage in one gulp, and flexed his legs, preparing to stand. However, there was a sincerity to her tone, when she finally spoke, that caused him to pause and listen to her faltering speech. Father Thorne. Pay us in drugs. Buy our bodies with a Dimebag,"

"What are you telling me?" Keeping his voice low after she'd finished, he leaned closer, glanced at the hand containing the drugs, then back into the eyes of the woman. "That a Father Thorne, is what? Buying girls like you? Swapping drugs for sex?" Jeffrey couldn't hold back the internal thought that junkie whores weren't exactly an attractive option for any man, if they had a choice, and raised a sceptical brow. Even the best Investigative Journalist in the City was unaware of the 'Safe-House' in Woodrow Street, so secret was it, although her words rang a faint bell in his mind, and he found himself caught between curiosity, disbelief, and disinterest.

The woman was obviously troubled, and possibly mentally unstable, but there was also a quality about her, particularly with the mention of his previous articles, that told Jeffrey that she also possessed an intelligence, or awareness, not typical of her type. However, he'd heard it all before, and allegations of sexual abuse by the clergy weren't uncommon. Neither were they any longer a big story.

These days, it was a miracle if they even garnered a mention in the major Metropolitan newspapers, and if they did, were buried in the middle pages between the comics and horoscopes, although Jeffrey knew, that wasn't totally because of the story itself, but the pressure brought to bear by the influential politicians and the Church Hierarchy on supposedly independent editors. The potential pay-off had better damn-well be huge if he was ever going to write about it, or dare take on the Catholic Mafia, and Jeff wasn't feeling it.

"If you want me to investigate, you're going to have to give me a lot more because, no offence, I'm not going to stake my reputation on the word of a drug-addict making accusations that have been made a hundred times before." Harsh, but true, Jeffrey's brutally honest assessment was in part elicited by his own guilt at being unable to help her. What was one junkie whore, whose memories were likely shot, and credibility debatable, in the grand scheme of things, when issues such as political and law enforcement corruption affected the entire community. No matter how much empathy he had for her as an individual. "Sounds like a Police matter to me."

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Father Thorne attempt to keep his lascivious thoughts from creeping into the benign expression on his features, as he watched Jana undress. Thin, and underfed, he felt the girl's ribs poking through her skin, but that could be fixed with three nutritious meals a day. If there was something the Safe-House didn't lack, it was an abundance of food, thanks to the multitude of donations from the devout citizens, who answered the calls from Father Thorne and those of his ilk, to provide for the poor and the needy.

Not to mention Shop-keepers and merchants, who advertised their generosity, seeking to be seen as Pillars of the Community, whilst truly only wanting, from the good publicity, to enhance their profits. Anyone could be a believer, when money was at stake, and why should the Church spend any of its own vast reserves when they could take from the less wealthy.

After fattening up, Jana would be more than pretty, and Damien resisted the temptation to slide his hand up from her ribs, and place a palm on one of the young, perky tits revealed under the bra, that had the man salivating, and hardening under his cassock. Too soon, too soon. The priest admonished himself, and forced his touch away, the care of his tone, and gentleness of his actions retained, before he gave away any of his darker intentions. The man had become too accustomed to the girl's bowing to their superiors, and would need to ensure he remained cautious, and didn't push too far, too quickly. However, his hand remained on her shoulder, as they departed the room. Her soft, silky skin felt good under his touch.

"Down there." He nodded towards the corridor, from the far end of which emanated the sounds of scattered conversation and clicks and clacks of cutlery striking crockery. "Breakfast at 8am, Lunch at 1pm, Dinner at 6pm.' He smiled and issued another reassuring squeeze of her shoulder, eyes this time peeled on her face. "The communal bathrooms are open all day. Might be best if you showered, before you ate. Unfortunately, I'll need to retain your phone, and there's no internet access. You'll also be confined to the house for the first week. All security precautions, as many of the residents when they first arrive are unused to regimen and discipline, and attempt to run off. However, once they become accustomed, find it much easier to survive here than alone in the outside world.

The Priest nodded reassuringly, before his brow furrowed. "Which reminds me, I spoke to Father O'Brien last night. He mentioned that your Dad came seeking you, and threatened violence when my colleague refused to reveal knowledge of your whereabouts. It appears you escaped just in time." A lie, but how was Jana to know, as he turned away, towards his office. "The week will provide an opportunity for you to befriend the other girls."

Including those, the Father didn't say, who occasionally reveled in taking their anger and frustrations of the treatment enforced on them, out on those they perceived as even more vulnerable. "Come when you're ready, Child, and after I've explained the rules, we'll pray for the Lord to keep you safe." Once the door closed behind him, Father Thorne sat behind his desk, eyes shut, and slowly stroked his cock under the robe, contemplating how far he could safely push Jana when she returned for instruction.

“I'm not going to stake my reputation on the word of a drug-addict making accusations that have been made a hundred times before.”

“Naw, ‘course not,” Aisha said, blinking back the tears but not hiding the bitterness of her tone. O’Donnell. That was one of them Irish names. And Irish and Catholic went together like…well, like a junkie and her drugs. “Sorry for wastin’ ya time on my bullshit. Seems the church is buyin’ more than just my silence.” She was up before he could say anything else. Up before he could see her cry and dismiss her as irrational.

Her tears were icy on her face, as she exited the coffee shop, the cold morning even colder after the heat of the diner. Almost as cold as Jeffery’s reception to her claims. She pushed herself to return to the safe house, even as she knew what was waiting for her. Bishop Manley, who would require “worship,” before letting her pick through the donations for new stuff. It was better than freezing to death, she tried to tell herself.

---

“My father?” Jana whispered, horrified, plainly written on her features. But Father Thorne assured her that this place was secret, and it did seem as if they were going to great lengths to kept this place hidden. She just nodded briefly as he explained the rules of this place rules set in place to keep her safe. It seemed a bit severe, but her situation was severe. It was why she was here, after all.

“Thank you, Father,” she said with her eyes downcast. A lifetime of fear and abuse had turned her into this, a girl who could hardly look a grown man in the eye when he spoke to her. She decided the best course of action was to do as he said, and shower before eating.

Breakfast conversation was sparse, and the women seemed to huddle into small groups at each table. Jana smiled weakly at the first group, who gave her four identical icy stares, before returning to their conversation. Swallowing, she continued, until the incident repeated itself at the next table, and Jana knew no one in here would welcome her. She found an empty table, and sat to eat alone, trying not to hear the whispers of the other women.

“Pathetic.”

“She isn’t going to last the month.”

“She already looks half broken.”

Were they talking about her? Why? She had only just arrived. What could she have possibly done to earn their ire? Hearing them joke about how she looked like she would cry almost made her cry, already feeling so alone and vulnerable. Weren’t they supposed to band together? To find common ground in their experiences? Camaderie and sisterhood and whatnot? She ate quickly and left the mess hall, unable to take the stares or whispers any longer.

She headed back to Father Thorne, grateful at least someone was kind here, so far. Just outside his door, she heard him praise God, in a voice that wasn’t so loud, but worshipful. Clearly he was very devout, and the knowledge made her feel safer as she entered his office.

Jeff's expression remained dispassionate as the young woman reacted in a manner not unexpected to his blunt honesty. Trained as a Journalist to keep emotion and personal feelings bottle inside, 'just the facts m'aam', so as not to demonstrate bias, it was only after she stormed out that he released a sigh, massaged his forehead, and allowed a brief wave of guilt to rush over him. Then, he brushed it aside. The poor woman had issues, but what could he do? Junkies and whores, each with their own tale of woe, littered the city, and it wasn't his profession to help them out. That's what the authorities, social workers and drug and alcohol counselors were for.

Justifying his actions, Jeffrey finished his beverage, left a tip on the table, then returned to his office to continue with his research on the graft and corruption article. However, as he sat at his desk, the memory of the look in her eyes, and desperation in her tone continued to nag at his subconscious, and he found his fingers tapping the keyboard, typing the name Father Thorne into the search box on one google tab as he awaited a map of Woodrow Street to load on another.

An hour later, what he'd discovered had piqued his interest enough to pick up the phone to call Patrick McCarthy, the editor of the Herald's Society Pages, and a trusted colleague.

"Pat, it's Jeffrey. What can you tell me about a Father Dominic Thorne?"

A man, Jeff had discovered, who'd been ordained in Philadelphia, moved Parish three times in the decade after he'd commenced preaching, before being transferred to Boston five years previously, and was currently listed, vaguely, as an Administrator, absent contact details or congregation.

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"Come in, Child." Damien smiled at Jana, and gently closed the door behind her. "I hope breakfast was satisfactory, and the other girls welcomed you into the fold?" He asked as he shifted around in front of the young woman. The last sentence contained a touch of sarcasm, as it appeared obvious from her expression and submissive demeanour that she hadn't exactly been comforted by mess-hall conversation. "If not, don't be concerned. As I mentioned before, many of the women have experienced a difficult time, and are suspicious of those who are new, who they may perceive as a threat, real or not. They'll come around, but also at times, they do need to be reminded of who is in charge of this facility."

The Priest shrugged, further closed the distance between them, and lifted a hand to cup the young woman's chin, so that she couldn't avoid his eyes. "Which is why I am required to advise you of the most important rule, if you wish to remain in the shelter, and safe from the retribution of your Father." Pausing, Thorne raised a brow, then quoted, by heart, from Timothy 2:12. "I do not permit a woman to teach or to exercise authority over a man; rather, she is to remain quiet."

Holding her gaze, he smiled. "That is the Word of God, Jana, and it's relevance here is, that to ensure the safety of our wayward flock, I, and my fellow Priests, possess ultimate authority. If rules are broken, or we believe it is for the benefit of all residents, discipline is ours to decide upon and administer. As God's representatives on Earth, we carry out His will. Do you understand?"

Thorne, his tone still gentle, pressed the Bible, its pages having been expertly flipped, into her hand, indicated the passages circled in red pen; Corinthian 11:3, and Corinthian 11:9; and motioned for the girl to assume the position of prayer, where she'd be at direct eye-level with the erection that tented his robe. "If so, please display your comprehension, and oath to acquiesce to our commands without complaint, by reading the highlighted text aloud, then explain what it means to you, and offer your praise to the Lord Saviour for delivering you into our care."

Jana felt far more welcomed alone in the office with Father Thorne than she had in the cafeteria with all the other women. There was something about his countenance. Strong, firm, and yet loving and affectionate. She remembered the gentle hand on her shoulder and back; tender physical touches after what she had been through. He was the epitome of fatherhood, the ideal, which made Jana think that it was unfortunate that he wouldn’t even be a father. Still he seemed a good fit to protect the women here, to guide them. A shepherd.

So Jana dared not look away as he held her face, comforted by the way he looked into her eyes. Even as he spoke the words, a certain hardness to them. She almost spoke, to acknowledge his point, but his point was for her to be quiet, so she merely nodded. Even if the other women were cruel, the priests were in charge, and they wouldn’t let anything happen, to her or the other women. She returned his gentle smile now. So when he asked if she understood, she once again nodded, and spoke this time, “Yes, Father Thorne. I understand.”

Of course, she didn’t hesitate as Father Thorne instructed her to kneel before him. It was perfectly normal, to pray beside a priest, even if she was the only one on her knees. Accepting the bible placed before her, she read the passages aloud, quickly finding a common thread. “But I want you to realize that the head of every man is Christ, and the head of the woman is man,[a] and the head of Christ is God. Neither was man created for woman, but woman for man.” She looked up to him, after reading the verses aloud, swallowing nervously before speaking. “These verses remind me that God has a hierarchy in place for his children. That as long as women submit to men, men will keep them safe and cared for, just as God cares for us when we submit to him.”

Jana wasn’t sure she fully believed what she said to Father Thorne, but she believed that it was what he wanted to hear. After all, she always tried really hard to be a good daughter, and obey, and still, her father beat her. But, just because it didn’t work out this way every time, didn’t mean it wouldn’t work out this way most times. Still, out of the corner of her eye, her eyes caught on to the tent forming in his robe. Quickly she looked away, forcing herself to focus on the bible in front of her. She must have seen wrong. There was no way the good Father had an erection. Still, her eyes swept back towards him, confirming the fact that Father Thorne was indeed male.

It…it didn’t mean anything, Jana decided. It was a physical reaction, and priests were human, subject to the same biological impulses as anyone else. It wasn’t the same as having impure thoughts, like the thoughts Jana had as she tried to figure why he was hard. Surely thinking of a priest as a sexual being was a sin, and Jana didn’t want to sin on her first day in the safe house. So she distracted herself with the Lord’s Prayer, something she could say from rote, because her mind was swarmed with curiosity.

“Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.” Even as she spoke the words, she couldn’t bring herself to look Father Thorne in the eyes.

How appropriate that the position of prayer was on your knees, where as Thorne demonstrated his love for, and submission to, the Holy Father, Jana would demonstrate the same for him and his colleagues. As he'd just quoted, in the unequivocal, infallible words of the bible, subservience was the place of women, and as she obeyed without question, the erection continue to grow under his robe. How many other men, or boys, had she lowered to her knees for? If not the first, he'd definitely not be the last.

Damien's benign countenance concealed those innermost thoughts, as before him, she read aloud, and he reached out to rest a hand on her shoulder to provide encouragement and approval. "God has a hierarchy in place, and it's part of his plan." Smiling, the Priest followed the direction of her eyes to the bulge underneath the fabric of his Cassock, before she averted her gaze. He could almost hear her mind tick over, and squeezed her shoulder when she began to recite the Lords Prayer, then cupped her chin in his palm. Softly, and lovingly, he held her face, savouring the sensation of soft, youthful skin underneath his fingertips as he subtly turned her head back towards that which she'd looked away from, and joined her in the recitation. The confident, masculine, and demure, feminine voices melded together in perfect harmony.

"Amen."

Prayer finished, Thorne moved a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Perfect, and that you know the Lords Prayer by heart. Temptation and the so-called sins of the flesh are such interesting and misunderstood concepts, don't you think, Jana?" The Priest raised a brow, and indicated that she could stand. "Was it not the Lord himself who brought forth Adam and Eve naked into the world, encouraging them to fornicate, so that His children would multiply?"

"Therefore a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and they shall become one flesh. And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed."

Quoting Genesis, Thorne assisted Jana to her feet, shifting close enough so that she'd only need to move an inch to feel the press of his erection against her body, and draped an arm across her shoulder. "Beware those who'd teach you that is a sin, for that is a lie, and leads to many of the issues faced by the girls who seek out our help and comfort. Guilt, self-loathing and shame has led them to experiment with drugs, and self-harm, for feeling and desiring that which is only natural. God created us as we are. It is Satan who attempts to deceive, and turn us away from His word. Take my bible, review the marked passages, and seek the light for yourself."

The priest would allow Jana to read those carefully selected verses in her own time, and leave the verbal gymnastics, explaining that wherever a man was encouraged to lay with his wife, the latter term was used in the sense of the natural Hierarchical order, and that in their obedience, all women were wedded to all men, for after she had. "I need to prepare for Bishop Marley's visitation, who I believe, along with clothing, might possess donated cosmetics for you to choose from." A bright expression lit up Damen's face as he dropped his arm from around Jana, and motioned for her to depart. "To take pride in your appearance is, also, not a sin. Now run along."

Clergy did like their girls pretty.

Jana dusted off her knees as she stood to join Father Throne, smiling politely as he spoke of carnal pleasures. There was something off about the scene, speaking to this holy man about sex, while he sported an erection. Sex outside of marriage was a sin, she understood, like any good Catholic, but he reminded that sex between husband and wife was not. Which she could agree, made sense. And she could even admit to lustful thoughts, from time to time. Whether her curiosity about Father Thorne’s hard on was considered a lustful thought, she wasn’t exactly sure, but it was certainly something she had little control over. And him as well, she supposed.

“Thank you Father, I will indeed read this over and consider your words,” she acknowledged, as he began leading her out of his office. He mentioned the donated clothing, and she nodded, making sure to come off grateful. And then he makeup make up, and her eyes widen in exhilaration. She wouldn’t have expected a priest to encourage her to decorate herself so, but she wasn’t going to argue. Not after the lesson she had just received from him. It was exciting though. Her father never let her wear or keep any make up. Insisting that he didn’t raise a tramp, it was a beating anytime he found her with it.

Bible in hand and anticipation in her stride, Jana returned to her room.

---

Aisha made it back to the safe house just before lunch. Even in the middle of the day, the weather was cold, and she didn’t dare linger outside more than necessary. There were many ways to die, but freezing wasn’t how she wanted to go. She always just assumed it would be an overdose.

As she turned toward her room, hoping to slip in before she was noticed, she saw Father Thorne walking with the new girl. His hand was on her shoulder and his eyes were on her figure as they walked together. Aisha cursed to herself. He saw her, and likely he would engage with her now. Her best bet was to try and discern his mood.

He seemed pleased, smiling big as he walked with the girl. She was also smiling and carrying a bible, so it seemed unlikely he had done anything to her yet. Aisha’s eyes watched him walk, noticing the awkward gait that accompanied an erection, and she began to get an idea what he had been doing. Instructing the new girl on her position, beneath him. It was the discussion he had with her, when she first arrived at the safe house, all those years ago. When she still believe there was a God, and that his servants did his work.

The new girl went into her room, and before Aisha could do the same, Father Thorne had caught up with her. “Aisha, I had heard you returned to us, much like the prodigal son. Join me, in my office, so we can discuss your future here.” Aisha nodded, resigning herself to get it over with, so she could shot up in peace. And, perhaps, finally find some peace in this life.

In with the new, out with the old. That initial thought struck Father Thorne when, after seeing Jana to her room, his gaze alighted on Aisha, and the pleasant smile transformed into one more sinister. The young woman who'd entered had always been his favourite, but times changed, and fresh meat entered the Residence daily. Fresh meat such as Jana, and to accommodate them meant moving on some of the longer-term girls, who'd outlived their usefulness. At times, to similar safe-house, and at others, they were simply returned to the street. However, he'd not rid himself of her just yet.

Despite her sometimes bedraggled appearance, and the effects of heroin, Aisha remained pretty in her own way, and attuned to the Damien's needs. There was no requirement to train, no hesitation in stuffing her cunt or mouth with his cock, and no resistance, or fears she'd attempt to escape. In regards to Aisha, those concerns had passed a long while ago, and with her, he had no need to pretend to be other than the beast his creator had designed him to be, whilst the others serviced his colleagues, or learned their place.

"Where have you been?" Thorne raised a brow as he tightly gripped the flesh of her arm with his fingers, and maneuvered her into his office. His frustrations at the necessity of biding his time with Jana, exacerbated by the lingering vision of her on her knees, mouth and eyes mere inches from his throbbing erection, and imaginings of how her sweet, young lips would feel wrapped around it, had grown, and Aisha was the perfect target to release them on. "Out selling your body? Looking for another place to live? Begging for a fix?"

The Priest's expression darkened as the door slammed, and he roughly shoved Aisha, then released his grip to allow momentum to take over. When she went flying across the carpet, Damien lifted his cassock to stroke the revealed priestly cock, tip glistening with pre-cum, blue veins throbbing, and bulbous head a bright purple, and strode towards her. "You know, this safe-house is becoming more crowded every day. New residents, new girl's requiring salvation, we'll soon run out of room."

Lips curled into an evil smirk, and expression full of intent, Thorne reached the poor woman, and took hold of the hair at the nape of her neck with his free hand. "May have to lose some of those who just don't seem to be getting anywhere with their lives. How long have you been here, Aisha? How much progress have you made? Have we saved you, yet?" Sarcasm obvious in his tone as he stroked himself faster, and with spittle flying from his lips, he jerked Aisha forward, and mockingly shook his head. "Why should I keep you around, tell me?" His eyebrow raised, before he laughed, and stepped back. "No, show me."

Staring at Aisha, he pointed at his desk. "Bend over, and spread your legs. Fulfill your purpose on Earth."

The look in father Thorne’s eyes as she entered, a hateful lust she was well acquainted with by this point in time. She knew what he would want, and immediately she regretted returning. She should have shot up before coming back. She shouldn’t have come back at all. Various regrets flooded her mind as Thorne’s hand tightened on her arm and shoved her into his office. He asked questions, accusatory questions, but he wasn’t really looking for any answers. Just guilt, to shame her. Though, if he knew what she had been doing, her treatment here might be far worse.

There was no longer any guile or ploy. He threw her on the floor and pulled out his cock. Taunting her about her life here, her worth. Submit to what he desired, or back to the streets with her. How she wished she could have told him to fuck off. Wished she could have spit in his face and left him holding his nasty dick in his hands. Not that he would ever suffer frustration. He would just take out his ire on the next girl. Like he said, there were new girls here all the time. Always someone fresh to use and abuse.

She looked over at the desk, hearing his words, understanding his meaning. There was no fight in her eyes, no fire. Just resignation. A silent nod, and she undressed, her thin and violated body exposed to him once more. She might bend over for her, but she promised herself she wouldn’t scream. He would not have that satisfaction from her.

As expected, there was no fight, no denials or hesitation. Not from this one, she was weak, submissive, a lamb to the slaughter. Just as Thorne had trained her to be. Or was that her natural inclination? Whatever, the Priest was content at her immediate acquiescence, for despite the taunting, he was no in mood for 'foreplay'. After spending the morning with the pretty, new girl, and the frustration of being unable to touch her, the Priests cock ached with the need for relief. And that was the sole purpose for Aisha's presence in his office

His arousal evidenced by the precum that dripped off his tip, and the veins of the shaft that throbbed between his fingers as he stroked; there was no embarrassment or shame, nor did the slightest hint of sympathy or remorse cross his features, as he impassively watched her undress. His gaze moved down Jana's body, neither appreciatively, nor otherwise, simply waiting for her to be ready for his use. The Priest remained un-moving, except for the hand stroking his erection, and a slight nod of his head, in return to hers after the clothing had been fully removed.

Whatever expression her eyes contained, or what thoughts were hidden behind them, Damien had had no inkling of, and wasn't not in least curious. In his domain, there was no requirement to pretend to be other than what he was, or to hide his human needs from the misguided, and misinformed public, who refused to comprehend the Lord's true wishes. Moaning softly at the sensations elicited by his self-ministrations, he approached Aisha, and a hoarse voice broke the silence. "Bend over."

Following the order, he gripped her shoulder, and maneuvered her into position. Facing her away from him, he pushed Jana forward, so that the woman's head nearly touched the desk, then grabbed hold of her hips, and pulled them back. Aisha's thin, frail body at his mercy, pink lips of her cunt exposed, Thorne ceased stroking, and placed the tip at her entrance. A second later, he grunted, then groaned, when without a care for the woman, he drove his erection inside her.

What happened next could hardly be called sex, even as rape, for apart from the meat that he relentlessly pistoned in and out of Aisha's dry cunt, and his hands on her hips to keep her in place, there was no touch, fondling or groping, and even less emotion. Simply, the sounds of Damien's exertions, and moans of pleasure and impending relief. Less than two minutes after entering her, he was done.

Eyes clamping shut, and accompanied by a loud gasp, Thorne's body jerked and spasmed, and he spewed a load of hot sticky cum inside her, continuing to thrust and grunt, until his balls had fully emptied. Shortly thereafter, the Priest withdrew, wiped himself clean on Aisha's back, stepped away and, panting, dropped his cassock to cover his nakedness.

"Go shower. Bishop Marley is to arrive soon, and he, too, may have use for you."