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By Raziel Moore
Invisible Lines (Novella)

In The Name Of The Father
by Michael Michele © 2005

Every Sunday Isabella came to see Michael, and after her visits the lingering scent of her haunted him—sandalwood, jasmine, and something else elusively female. He wanted to ask her what it was. Truthfully, he wanted to buy it, and dribble it on his pillows so he could sleep with her, if only in his dreams.

But that was impossible, so he struggled to banish his fantasies and concentrate on other things; he tried to do his job. His cock throbbed though, each time she was near. He couldn’t do a thing about that.

Sometimes, he could see only bits of her face; in here she was shadowed and mysterious. He’d summon images of her dark beauty in other settings, and place them over the veiled person actually in front of him on Sundays. He liked to think of her in the sunshine, outside—he’d never seen her that way—her brown hair shining, her full mouth smiling and laughing. He liked to imagine her happy, and not like she was when she spent time with him.

“Antonio had him killed. I heard them talking about it. They didn’t know I was in the kitchen, and they laughed. They laughed,” Isabella said.

“You must go to the police.” Michael knew she wouldn’t, even as he said it; they’d had similar conversations before.

He’d also talked with several of the women Isabella’s husband kept on the side. They all feared Antonio Moretti too though, unlike Isabella, they also craved what his power, his influence, and his money could do for them.

Isabella wasn’t like them. She’d actually loved Tony when they’d married, years ago. Now, all she wanted was to escape him.

“You know I can’t do that.”

Michael sighed, curling his fingers around his cross. Surely this was a test. Only trouble was he had no desire to pass it. What he wanted was to take Isabella away from anything that hurt her. He wanted to rescue her. He wanted to fuck her.

God help him.

He’d been a priest for only a few months, and had never fallen in the face of enticement, even as a typical, randy teenager. There’d been a lot of temptation; he’d grown up in Southern California, surrounded by girls in bikinis and suntan oil. One of the first things he had to confess was almost wearing his palms out jerking off. Of course, he’d been forgiven, and since taking the sacrament he’d kept his promise to God.

He was a twenty-five year old virgin, by choice.

Since Isabella had walked into his confessional, Michael had started to regret his decision not to walk on the wild side before becoming a servant of the Lord. A lot of the other men had made “sure” of the calling by fucking anything that moved in the weeks before making it final, but Michael had remained devout. Now he questioned the wisdom of that choice, and toyed almost daily with the idea of giving in to the overwhelming temptations Isabella offered.

Surely Eve herself couldn’t have been more enticing than Isabella. Though she was old enough to be his mother, there was something ripe about her, something fresh and sensual. Her figure was rounded, yet firm-looking. Her legs were elegant and slinky in the expensive looking skirts and dresses she always wore. She was lady-like in her heels, with her long hair usually pulled back into a twist. Michael wondered what it would look like down—he imagined it caressing the curves of her bare hips. He imagined her in white, cotton underwear.

There was something almost Madonna-like in Isabella’s sad brown eyes but, more and more, the things she said told Michael she was more Magdalene than Mary.

He ached to save her.

At first, they’d spoken only of Isabella’s “normal” sins—bad thoughts, little white lies (she really was a good Catholic). During Mass she always ignored Michael completely, but over time, in the shadowed privacy of the confessional, she told him of her life, her hopes, her horrors and her desires.

She asked too about his life, how he'd come to be here, where he'd come from. No one else had ever stopped talking about themselves long enough to ask about him. He was surprised to find he had a lot to say. Each week he cared for her a little more. It became difficult, listening to her talk about her private hell.

Everyone in the parish knew Tony beat her; the dark glasses and makeup didn’t hide much, but no one knew the things Isabella shared with Michael—about the vile behavior she suffered in the bedroom, or the turmoil she lived with every day—knowing exactly what Tony’s “business” was, but powerless to change anything.

“Just once, I want to know what it’s like to have someone hold me with love…to touch me like a woman. Is that so wrong Father? Is it?”

“No, Isabella, it’s human,” Michael said, a sickening feeling in his gut as he imagined anyone touching her.

He had a crazy fantasy—in the split second it took for her to speak again—of leaving the confessional, grabbing her by the hand and running far away. Mexico maybe. No way could he kill Tony, no way could they turn him in, but if they could disappear surely they’d be safe. He’d make love to Isabella in the warm, white sand. He’d make her happy. God would understand.

“I want it to be you,” she said, not for the first time. She pressed her cheek to the partition that separated them.

Michael leaning forward, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath on his mouth. He wanted her too.

They pushed the partition open together, and linked hands. She leaned into the narrow opening and lay her head on his chest, right atop the cross he wore.

“Isabella…I can’t,” Michael said, even as his hands slipped down the abundant curve of her ass. It felt just the way he’d imagined it would—supple and lush under his squeezing fingers.

His cock was so hard. Even through his vestments, he could feel it driving into her belly. He never wore anything underneath. It was too hot; the old Brooklyn church didn’t have air conditioning. Michael’s prick rose, velvet-steel brushing his belly, the tip weeping already. He’d not come in years. The blood pounded in his ears, gathered in his balls, and in his thickening shaft.

Isabella kissed him, her lips grazing the pulse raging in his neck. Her hands found him in his flowing garment. Clasping him, surrounding him, she began to move her fingers up and down.

“I know you want to, Michael.”

‘Just once,’ he thought. So many sins were greater. Caught up in his heady lust for her, he plunged his hands into her midnight hair, dragging it from its pins, sending glossy locks down her back.

“Let me,” she whispered, searching through folds of heavy black fabric, until his hands stopped her and fumbled with the hidden zipper, parting it so she could touch his naked flesh.

She held her rosary in her hand; the black beads were cold and hard as she wrapped them around and around the base of his penis.

‘Oh my god,’ he thought. He was going to come.

She bent over, and he closed his eyes, clenching his fingers, and dropping his hands to her breasts. They filled his palms with sweet softness, pliant under the restraint of her bra. It felt like lace. Her nipples were hard points his thumbs were drawn to, over and over again.

“I want…” he said, before he was hushed by her tongue on his cock, licking at the pearled drops oozing from him, sliding over the veins and swollen head.

Michael couldn’t remember what he wanted anymore; he just reached for her, his knees banging into the lower part of the confessional wall. He tangled his fingers in her hair, drawing her forward through the opening. Her hot mouth engulfed him, her nose brushed the curls on his belly, and he shuddered.

Her hands stroked him, as her mouth loved him. The rosary beads held his prick in a noose, and kept him from gushing immediately into her mouth. His cock grew and grew, and he experienced it all with a sense of awe. He was doing it, she was doing him, and it was fucking amazing.

Her cock-wet mouth glistened in the dim light as she let his throbbing penis go, her spit-slick hand sliding up and down. She rolled her palm over the head, tickling that little gather of flesh on the underside where he’d been circumcised. His legs shook.

She took him between her lips again and groaned. That was his undoing, he couldn’t hold it; he flooded her mouth, jetting deep into her throat. He felt her gag, and swallow. It only made it better, the squeeze clamping down on his cock, milking it. He shoved himself into her, his fingers clutching her hair. It was all he could do not to scream.

She looked up at him, and licked him clean, sloe-eyed. She dropped her rosary beads into her pocket and stood up, wrapping him in a hug.

“You taste like the sea,” she whispered.

His head spun. He clung to her until she pulled away and left the confessional.

*             *             *

The next time Michael saw Isabella was the following Sunday in church. She came to Mass with her husband.

She moved slowly, and wore a black veil over her face. Tony held her arm for support, and though to some the gesture might have looked loving, Michael knew otherwise.

He smiled at the older parish ladies, kissed the new babies, and almost ran into the confessional the moment he could escape. He knew Isabella would come; she always did.

He listened to Mona De Leon tell him about stealing a dress from the Woolworth’s and told her to take it back, say she was sorry, and do ten Hail Mary’s.

Johnny Campo had lusted after his sister-in-law, again. Michael suggested a vacation with his wife, and gave him passages of the bible to read about faithfulness.

Heather Cooper wanted someone to whip her, and then fuck her silly. She wondered if that was a sin in God’s eyes. Michael told her no, as long as she did those things with someone decent and kind, who’d not take advantage of her. It’d help if he was her husband, but Michael wasn’t in the mood to be too picky today.

Antonio Moretti was next. He carried with him his wife’s scent, and Michael’s insides tightened.

Tony had never come into Michael’s confessional before. He was one of the group who seemed to think absolution was preferable when doled out by the more experienced Priest, Father Murphy.

Michael’s mind raced. He barely heard Tony’s beginning, but did manage to respond with the appropriate, “Bless you.”

Tony was a big man with a booming voice and jovial manner, prone to slapping other men on their backs, and winking when he spoke, as if everyone was sharing in some big joke. Today, he spoke in hushed tones. Michael had to lean forward to hear him.

“I gotta problem, and I don’t want nobody to know ‘bout it,” Tony said.

“Your confession is sacred,” Michael answered. His hands were clenched so tightly, he felt his fingernails bite into his palms.

“See, ok…it’s my wife.”

Michael listened, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

“This is shameful Father.” Tony sighed, and for a long while there was nothing but the sound of his breathing.

Michael waited him out.

“OK see, I try to be a good husband, to treat her right you know, in God’s way, but thing is, it’s not always so easy.”

“Marriage is a challenge,” Michael said, wanting to add, “You fucking asshole,” but he didn’t.

“Well see yeah, that’s the thing of it Father. I try to fuc…uh, have relations with her, you know like missionaries, but she wants it rough and sometimes like a boy, capiche? Now I know the bible says she’s a sinful woman, but I kinda like her that way, and figure what happens in our house can’t be bad in God’s eyes if the bitch wants it, right? So, my problem is, well a couple things really, but first I gotta know if I am gonna burn for her, you know, in hell?”

Michael wanted to smash his hand through the partition separating them, and slam it into Tony’s face. Instead, he took a deep breath and said, very calmly under the circumstances he thought, “No.”

“That’s it?” Tony laughed—a nasty slithery sound. “You sure are easier than Father Murphy. I shoulda come to you long time ago. So ok, here’s the other thing. See, I think there might be somebody else, and if I find out for sure, I’m gonna kill him with my bare hands. Rip the fucker’s heart out. Then I’m gonna make her pay. So like if I did that, it’d be one a them eye for an eye things right? I could confess, and be right with God?”

“No, that would be murder in the Lord’s eyes.”

“But, the Lord forgives his flock all sins. I only gotta confess it right?”

“Confession is only a part of it.” Had it been anyone else, Michael would have explained forethought, intent, contrition and forgiveness. He’d have talked about the rules of repenting, and the wisdom of tolerance. Instead, he just left it at that, praying Tony would leave.

“Ok Father. I think I got it. You really been a help.”

Michael didn’t say another word. He just sat until the door closed behind Tony. Then he listened to all the other confessions, knowing now Isabella wouldn’t be in line today.

When Mass was over, he walked home. He fed his cat, and lie on his bed until it was night.

Tony knew.

Somehow that was so much worse than God knowing—which of course he did too. Tony’s logic was childish but correct; Michael knew the Lord would forgive him his sin.

He was just as sure Tony never would.

*             *             *

When the knock came, Michael was surprised; he hadn’t thought they’d be so polite.

When he looked though the peephole, he was shocked to see her standing there.


She was in his arms as soon as he opened the door.

“I had to come.” She was pale and trembling.

Michael noticed, for the first time, the fine lines around her eyes. He saw the fading bruise on her cheekbone, and his heart flooded with sadness and anger.

“You shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous; he’s probably having you watched.”

“No Michael.” Isabella shook her head, smoothing the frown from his forehead with her fingertips. “He can’t know. He just suspects. You didn’t tell him anything did you?”

“Of course not!”

He closed the door behind her, watching her move into his apartment. It was surreal, her being here—like a dream he’d had many times.

Having grown up surrounded by others though always a loner, Michael had always longed for a place of his own. He was grateful he’d been allowed his private space here, away from the church. He thought Isabella probably lived in a huge, grand house and, for a moment, he wondered what she thought about his shabby, walkup studio with its garage-sale furnishings.

‘Get a grip,’ he told himself, forgetting all about how grungy his place looked—it looked fine now, with her standing in the middle of it.

She was wearing a soft-looking gray dress that wrapped around her body. It clung to her curves, dipping where she did, hugging her Italian, earth-mother shape. In these days of girls walking around with belly-buttons bared, and skin tight clothes that left nothing to the imagination, there was something so much more enticing to Michael about the way Isabella always looked so refined—like a lady.

She bent and slid a finger behind each of her heels, loosening her sandals, and then kicking them off. The deep V of her dress’s front gaped, and Michael’s mouth went dry. It didn’t look like she was wearing anything at all underneath her clothes.

A long time ago someone had told him sex was like potato chips—if you had it once, you had to have it again and again. Now, he knew they were right; despite all of the reasons he shouldn’t, Michael wanted to make love to her.

As if she could see right into him, Isabella slowly untied the bow that held her dress closed over one hip. With a shrug of her shoulders, it slid off her body and—yes, yes, yes—she was naked underneath.

“Even if it only happens this once Michael…” She didn’t even finish before he was there, his hands scooping up the succulent flesh of her ass, pressing her to him.

He kissed her, and moaned. Her mouth was warm and inviting, and made him think immediately of how she’d sucked him in the church. His cock throbbed and jerked with the memory.

She took him by the hand, and led him to his bed. She lay down in the middle of it, her hair loose and dark against the stark white of his sheets.

Michael wanted to worship her, to lick every inch of her body, to love her until she wept.

He shed his clothes. He might not have ever done this, but he’d thought about it a million times.

“You’re so beautiful,” he told her, curling his arm under her head and sweeping a hand over her luscious body.

It was stunning, this feeling of pressing his bare flesh to hers. He’d never once imagined that such a simple thing could feel so good.

Her skin was cool under his palm, but she was hot between her legs. He dipped a finger into her, parting the shallow covering of dark hair there, finding a wet center.

Isabella whimpered, curling her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer.

Michael learned from her. When she spread her thighs and lifted her hips to his touch, he did what he was doing some more. When she frowned or drew back slightly, pressing herself into his mattress, he shifted and moved from circling his fingers to flicking them, until he found just what pleased her.

He kissed her, and suckled at her decadent mouth. He tasted her nipples and marveled at the way they transformed from soft smooth flesh to pebbled hardness on his tongue.

He sighed when she turned enough so her hand could slide over his penis. It slicked her palm with its need. He watched, fascinated, as the pupils of her dark eyes dilated with desire.

They moved in slow motion, every caress achingly tender. He touched her with love; he realized he did love her, and almost cried right in the middle of it all.

She rolled him over onto his back, and tangled her fingers with his as she straddled him. Her long hair trailed like black silk ribbons over his chest. He closed his eyes, trying to capture the vision of her just like this, and keep it forever.

Her body accepted him into her hot, snug depths as if she had always been there, waiting only for him to remember where he belonged. She sheathed him in a velvet grip, rocking back and forth.

It was incredible—this was actually happening, and it was so much more than he’d ever imagined it could be.

His cock bumped deep inside of her, the tip kissed by something there. She moved against it, nudging him, until it felt like her tongue had on the slitted tip of his penis. He shivered, his hands falling to her hips, his fingers gripping, urging her to do it more, faster, harder.

He felt the moment when it changed for her too—her body grew looser somehow, slicker. Her movements were more fluid. She found a rhythm, and curled her toes next to his thighs as she thrust onto him.

He dragged her down, kissing her as they came together silently, as if afraid any noise might shatter the pleasure they’d created together. Or maybe they were quiet because they were both scared to death, Michael thought later.

He watched Isabella’s smile form, and his heart lurched in his chest. There it was, the one thing he’d wanted more than anything—he’d made her smile.

“Come away with me Bella,” he said.

She sat next to him, looking like a young girl suddenly, her hips swathed in his snowy sheets, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. She brushed her fingers over his mouth.

“You know that’s impossible Michael. He’d kill us both.”

“Not if we got far enough away. Mexico maybe, some sleepy little town by the sea.”

“If this was a movie, and we were different people, I’d ask you to kill him. But, it’s not.” She rose from the bed.

Michael watched her get dressed, slip her shoes on, and put her hair back up into its neat little twist.

He didn’t talk anymore. What could he say? She was right.

She sat on the edge of the bed. “I’ll think about it Michael. I promise, and I’ll see you soon.”

‘I love you,’ he thought.

“I’ll understand if you can’t,” he lied.

“I love you,” she whispered, and then she was gone.

*             *             *

Isabella didn’t come to church the following Sunday, or the one after that.

Michael realized he didn’t even know where she lived. He couldn’t think of a way to ask people about her without it seeming odd.

He thought about going to the police, and imagined what he’d say: “I’m a priest who fucked the wife of a very bad man and now, I’m worried he’s killed her and may be coming after me next.” Yeah that’d go over real well.

He could still smell the perfume of their sex on his sheets. Memories of Isabella haunted him. She was an innocent woman lost to a terrible life. She’d reached Michael in ways he’d not even realized until after she was gone. She’d helped him figure himself out. He wanted to repay her, to keep her safe from harm, to love her.

He spent more time in the church, even though it had become the last place he wanted to be, hoping she’d come back.

One day, when he returned from lunch, he found a large white envelope stuffed under his door. Inside, was a one-way plane ticket to Ixtapa, Mexico and a map. On it, a tiny x was circled—an address on the shoreline just south of a town called Barra de Potosi. Nestled in the bottom of the envelope was a familiar strand of black rosary beads.

“You wanted to see me Michael?” Father Murphy poked his head through the doorway.

Michael’s hand shook as he put the envelope down. “Yeah Father, we need to talk.”

“Sure thing Mike, what’s up?”

Robert Murphy liked to think he was “cool”, and in some ways he was. Michael had a feeling his coolness wouldn’t extend quite this far.

He decided to make it simple. “I screwed up…bad. I’ve got to revoke my vows, quit. I’m sorry Bob.”

“Well gosh Michael, whatever it is can’t be that terrible. I know you. You’re a good boy. We can work it out, surely. Please talk with me.”

Father Murphy looked as confused on the outside as Michael had once felt on the inside. He knew this was the right thing to do, and though he meant it when he’d said he was sorry for what he’d done to the church, his “mistake” had given him Isabella, and she’d changed his life. The God Michael loved wouldn’t condemn him for taking a little long to figure himself out. He’d not expect him to stay either, feeling what he did now.

Michael fingered the edge of the plane ticket on his desk, and shook his head. “No Father Murphy, the only way this can be worked out is if I go, right now.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with uh, boys…does it Michael?” Murphy’s expression was pained.

“No, nothing like that.  I promise.” Michael put a hand out, and shook Father Murphy’s when he offered it.

“Why don’t you just take a few days off Mike, think about it, and come see me Sunday. You can’t just give up a lifetime’s work like this.”

“Ok, Father.” It was easier to agree than explain.

Michael gathered his few belongings and left. He’d never liked long goodbyes.

*             *             *

The flight to Ixtapa was pleasant. Michael read the Spanish for Gringos booklet from Mexicana Airlines on the way down, and learned the important things—de baño, playa, no mas, gracias, Te amo and cerveza.

He hitched a ride out of town in the back of a beat-up, yellow Ford pick-up.

Driving through the little town of Barra de Potosi, with its colorful covered marketplace, and throngs of tourists, Michael forgot everything for a while, except the pleasure of being someplace new.

He smiled, hearing the musical notes a traveling knife-sharpener's whistle made as he wheeled his odd sharpening contraption through the streets. He admired the small girls doing brisk business selling fresh tamales from spotless stainless-steel pails stacked in the baskets of their rusty bicycles.

As the old truck meandered down the scalloped coastline, he saw fishermen pulling their wooden boats onto the beaches, and watched several dolphins move quickly through the bay, as if they too had somewhere important to get to.

They made it almost all the way to the place where the x marked Michael’s map, when the driver—a wizened old man—pulled off at a fork in the road. He pointed at the map, and then up one branch of dusty lane. The message was clear when he tossed Michael’s duffle out of the truck-bed.

Gracias amigo,” Michael said.

Buena suerte.”

The house was easy to find. It was the only one at the end of the road, perched high on a cliff overlooking the sea. Even up here the gusty wind blew sand over Michael’s boots, and he could smell the ocean’s salted, fresh-fish scent.

Dropping his bag, he rechecked the safety on the snub-nosed .38 he’d bought in Ixtapa before hitching his ride.

Sheer, white curtains billowed through an open window of the inviting house, waving him closer it seemed. An old rocker painted sky blue moved a ghostly to and fro on the porch. Everything else was still. The only sound was the crashing of waves far below.

As Michael started walking again, he prayed Isabella was waiting.

© 2005 Michael Michele. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio:  Read Michael Michele's bio on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website.

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Buy Me Something
Forest for the Trees
Great Notion
Kiss Me And Then...
Political Asylum
Port Said
Stranger in the Bonfire
Swap Meet
Switch Back
Twisted Faith

Screen Play
by A.F. Waddell

A Filing Fling
by Addison Long

Menage A Cart
by Adhara Law

Elevator Shaft
by Alana James

Torn in Two
by Alicia Night Orchid

by Angela Caperton

The Lady-killer
by BJ Franklin

The Vacation
by Beth Vox

Frostbite the Ice Pimp
by Chuck Lovepoe

The Accidental Fetish
by Corvidae

So Much in Common
by Daphne Dubonet

Unjust Rewards
by Delores Swallows

The Hand & I.
by EllaRegina

Safari Tuesday
by G. Gregory

The Puss Hater
by Inna Spice

One for the Road
by J. Corvo

Full Serviced
by J.D. Coltrane

Naked Over New York
by J.Z. Sharpe

The Chocolate Wife
by James Robert Sands

Once Shy
by Jamie Smithe

by Jean Roberta

Caitlin Comes Clean
by Jerry Rightson

Something To Make...
by Jim Parr

Melanie and Jay Go...
by jtallen

Peeping George
by Jude Mason

It's Lovely. It's Horrible.
by Kathleen Bradean

The Temp
by Kaye Heche

A Husband's Lesson
by Kim Bax

Better Than a Blow...
by Lauren Mills

Page 12 - No. F
by LilyOrchid

In The Name Of...
by Michael Michele

The Classics
by Nettie Kestler

The Wounded Healer
by Nicholas M.

by Nick Santa Rosa

The Cabin
by P. E. Brink

Post Mortem
by Riccardo Berra

Newly Reformed Woman...
by Seneca Mayfair

by Sybil Rush

by Teresa Lamai

Alter Christus
by Teresa Wymore

Shadows of De La Rosa
by Tori Diaz
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