Memento
Father Secco paused in his preparation for Sunday’s sermon when the recently-hired cleaning girl appeared in his peripheral vision. “Yes, Carlotta? What is it?” he asked without looking up.
“Please to excuse, padre.” Her voice dropped an octave, “Is this.”
It took him a moment to decipher what sounded like ees dees before lifting just his eyes to discover Carlotta holding a plastic grocery bag at arm’s length from her body as if its contents might suddenly explode. As he met her gaze, a blush crept up her neck and lit upon her full cheeks, making her appear even younger.
Father Secco rose and circled his desk, relieving Carlotta of the bag. Free of its burden, her body immediately relaxed, and her hands clasped one another just below her ample bosom.
“I... I found eet in the confessional,” she stammered, “just like the other.”
He took a quick peek into the bag, nodded once, and thanked Carlotta for bringing it to his attention. “There’s no need to bother anyone else about this,” he cautioned as he herded her toward the door. “I’ll take care of it.”
Carlotta crossed herself and muttered, “Sí, padre. Gracias.”
His heart racing, Father Secco closed the door to his office and pressed the knob’s button to lock it. He placed the bag on his desk and fetched a small key from the compartment of a hollow crucifix—one which once held a small vial of holy water. Taking a deep breath to quell the tremor in his hands, he inserted the key into the upper left desk drawer and slowly pulled it open. Her perfume—the vanilla musk—greeted him, flooding his mind with memories of that Saturday morning when he first heard her confession.
The black patent leather stiletto—never worn, from the look of its sole—had the drawer to itself, which was quite an honor considering the substantial clutter elsewhere. On the instep in flowing red script, a simple query:
Remember me?
Indeed, he did. In fact, he dreamt of her often; his seed soaking the sheets as he slept. How could he possibly forget the whisper rasp of her hands against the fabric of her clothes, the husky guttural sound of her voice as she climaxed, and the overwhelmingly enticing scent of her arousal in the close confines of the confessional? Odd that, in spite of what they’d shared, he wouldn’t recognize her if they passed on the street.
The bag contained the shoe’s mate—with one significant addition. He removed it gingerly, pinched between thumb and forefinger, and held it at eye level. Its message, in the same red ink, sent a shiver through him:
Until next time,
But it was the scent –her scent—which produced an instant erection. The heel glistened with her juices. Still wet. He brought the stiletto nearer his face and inhaled deeply. As he extended his tongue to taste of her, the remainder of her message came into view:
padre.
Copyright © 2006 by Alessia Brio. All rights reserved.
Alessia Brio has been writing erotica and poetry for several years under the oh-so-humble pseudonym of “impressive” at Literotica.com where she has been nominated as 2005’s Most Influential Writer. (Voting is underway, so make sure to visit and cast your vote!). Her winning entry, “Memento,” was inspired by a short story in fine flickering hungers, her single-author anthology from Phaze, entitled It’s Just Sex. In addition to that book, which was just released in November, she has also published Erotique, one of last fall’s six HeatSheet Shivers from Phaze. You can also catch Alessia in the March issue of Toquere Press’ Turn of the Screw with a short homoerotic story entitled “Hallowing Eve” and in February’s edition of Bare Back Magazine with an in-depth interview.
Readers can visit Alessia online via her blog at http://alessiabrio.blogspot.com or in Phaze’s Starlight Lounge at http://www.phaze.com/forum.
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