5 comments/ 10133 views/ 1 favorites Absolution By: Assignation He was a Jesuit priest wannabe. Appropriately named Joseph. As catholic as they come. And so intense, serious, bookish, and with all the pent up sexual tension of a 21 year old who had always believed he would be celibate for life. I don't like to think I was either his downfall or his salvation, but perhaps I was at least his epiphany. We had been friends for a while, but I wanted more. I wasn't really that much more experienced than him, I'd only had a couple of boyfriends and a few fumbling exploratory sexual forays myself, but to him I think I must almost have seemed like a scarlet woman. Perhaps that was my attraction to him. Perhaps he wanted to reform me, though of course the odds were always in my favor. He was immersed in his studies that year, but I knew that he noticed me in class. Sidelong glances and nervous shuffling of his feet whenever I was in his line of sight. And he blushed like a girl if ever I was close to him, and I made sure that I was as often as possible. I loved that flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes would dart around, looking everywhere but at my breasts, and definitely avoiding the shy longing that must have blazed at him from my own eyes. I'm not really sure why I wanted him so much, I just did. He was tall, almost lanky, but with a strong frame, muscles wiry and hard from playing football, but not the average jock by any means, He was much too shy, and it was no secret that he would soon be a priest and wanted nothing to do with women. His spiritual single-mindedness seemed to be a barrier to everyone but me. Even then I knew a challenge when I saw one, and I wanted him. I wouldn't have called myself predatory at the time, but looking back I did lay some traps that would have been hard for him to avoid, and fall into them he did... with enthusiasm and eagerness and oh my, such energy. He was living in an apartment and seemingly totally absorbed with work, possibly to take his mind off the distractions of college life, but our friendship developed innocently enough over our Psychology books in the library, over cups of coffee at the local student cafe, and eventually over simple meals we concocted at his apartment. I would go there after school and we would make dinner together, then clean up and sit down to study. It didn't take too long before studying was the last thing on our minds, and I helped his fumbling hands to relieve us of our clothes. Such slender gentle fingers that remembering their inexperienced yet eager touch on my skin, their frantic struggling with unfamiliar hooks and buttons and fastenings, even now makes me tremble. His apartment had a brass bed that folded up into a special closet behind double doors. We would pull down the bed and I would sit on it, by now partially or totally naked and wait for him. He always made me wait. Even though he knew by now that the power and unstoppability of the acts we would commit, he still held back for a while. This was a 'sin of the flesh' and his anxiety over commuting such a sin tore him apart until he was finally able to reach some kind of personal detente with such conflicts of body and soul. His solution was ritual, and as I sat, naked and waiting, my arms crossed, bare feet tapping on the cool wood floor, he would kneel at the foot of the bed and say the rosary. Somehow he rationalized that what we were doing was communication, the highest form of communication there was, in fact so high that it was close to God. Almost praying. And so every time before we made love he would kneel and say the rosary. I have never been Catholic, but even so I knew that the pace at which he was able to reel off this prayer was impressive. Usually I would simply sit and wait. Once, with a smile I said quietly, "Joe, I am not upset with what you are doing. If that's what you want to do, it is ok with me, but I just want to make sure you realize one thing. That you are making a big ass out of yourself?" He looked up at me and simply replied, "Please, just a moment more. I am praying." He seemed to pray a little faster that day, and then, like every time he hung his rosary over the end of the bed, and throughout the acts that followed we would hear the beads clacking against the brass with every movement, a metronome to mark the pace of our now sanctified lust. That simple ritual never failed to ease his soul and allowed him to throw himself with guiltless abandon into the delicious communion of our bodies. Even with his youth and inexperience he was the perfect lover, with just the right combination of enthusiasm and restraint, a true disciple of the female body. And for those hours in which I was the sole object of his adoration I repaid his devotions with prayer after prayer, beggings and entreatings, submitting with near religious fervor to each worshipful touch. And often, as he cried out his acknowledgment of his maker's absolution of this act, the strangled 'oh god, oh god, oh god', offered from his lips to heaven as he climaxed, his shuddering body collapsing onto mine, I would utter my own litany of thanks to the deity who had absolved him. Absolution Note: This story may be offensive to Catholics. It messes with convention and blatantly contradicts and challenges the Catholic Church. It also presents a Priest as a masochist and a sinner. If any of these things offend you I urge you not to read this story Special Thanks to SimonBrooke (found through the volunteer editor program) for being my editor on this story. I couldn't help it. I wanted to just let him be my friend. We have good conversations about intellectually engaging topics. But I have a need for confession and punishment, and I find myself so often wanting to tell him my sins. I'm paranoid he'll find out, so I monitor myself. If I start talking about bad things I've done I stop myself as soon as I realize it. It comes out of me so easily; my subconscious mind does what it thinks will earn me his merciful correction. I long to go down on my knees and unburden my heart, that's part of why I'm not Catholic: because I know I'd use confession to avoid facing the severity of my sins. He says I could be Catholic because I guilt well. I guilt well; I'm a guilt magnet, so I know how to dish it. I suspect he is a guilt magnet too, and a bit of a masochist as well. He continued to apologize to me for a minor slight even after I told him I forgave him: gave a full acknowledgment of missing the mark, a confession. When I said again that it was ok he said "good," but I knew it was flat. I think he wanted to suffer first. And I so want to give him what he wants. Does he long to go down on his knees too? And if so, for another Priest? For another man? For his eroticized God? Or maybe for me? I would gladly hear his confession and offer him absolution. Does he objectify me too? Size me up, figure I like giving pain to people who truly want it? Objectification: a huge sin. I committed it against him. He's sinned against me. ...Lord help us to forgive those who have trespassed before us. "Bless me father": my trembling voice, humbled by the power I've just handed over to him. It's a guilt that can only be cleansed by his stern voice and his punishment: by a gift of pain I long to receive from him. Drink my blood, father, scorch my flesh with the Lord's justice. Please--I beg of you! And if you would be so kind as to unburden your heart to me--to let me help you feel forgiven--let me give you pleasure that you've denied yourself--bless you with my sin. Let me hurt you; hear you moan in pain and pleasure and gratitude, absolved or somewhere closer to it. In this way, am I still Catholic? Still beating the pagans? Still longing for a perverse experience of the confession? Still needed the blood of the lamb and to give and know the base pleasure of punishment? Still longing to suck the Priest's cock? Still laying down for the patriarchy to trample all over me? This is another of my sins. My body is not a temple. I am so ready to have it tortured. I am so ready to give it to you, knowing it's just for a moment; knowing it's a sin against my self-image, and committing it anyway, turning my back on the Lord. Can you save me? Or offer me a way by which to achieve salvation: right now? Bless me Father, I have sinned, I will sin again. I long to sin and I love to sin. Bless me Father, for you have sinned, you will sin again. You long to sin, I can see that quite clearly just now. Bless me father, I am about to sin. I am about to unzip your pants, and you are not going to stop me. I know you won't. I've always known. His knees aching from the floor I make him kneel and wait on until needles shoot through those knees. He is not allowed to look at me: must keep his eyes downcast. "Bless me father." He's trying to conceal the fact that he's shaking, but I can hear it in his voice. I can feel those words have come from all throughout his body and mind. He gasps at the shock of my hand hitting his face. Did he not imagine I'd hit a Priest? Well he's not a Priest. He's a scared little boy in need of correction. "Bless me Mother," he quickly corrects himself, "for I have sinned." This last word so low I can hardly hear it. "What?" "I've sinned." "Louder!" "Bless me, Mother," he trembles, "for I have sinned." He's practically had to shout to obey me. He hears himself say it loud and clear, and it shames him. I'm going to make him face his own words. "It's been--" "I don't care how long it's been since your last confession," I cut him off abruptly. "Don't be in your last confession, be here before me." "Yes Mother." "Tell me your sins, child" This command is meant to humiliate him, he's older than I am, and he's a man: he's supposed to have power over me in the church, though we both know that's wrong; he knows he is not above me. "I lust in my heart," he says, finally. "I know I am...am so close...oh God, I'm so weak." "We're all weak," I answer. "None of us is without sin." "Then why?" he asks. "Why confess to you, Mother? I'll just sin again." He knows I'm just mirroring back the words he's used with me. He just wants someone else to say it. "To let your sin go. So that you don't repeat the sin in your mind." "But...please Mother. I don't want to let it go. It's just been too long. I can only stand so much!" Finally the real confession: not just wandering thoughts of sin, but intentions, knowledge of the sin. He's fighting to hold on to that part of him that doesn't want to break his vows but his grip is slipping and he knows it. This is why we're here. This is what he hopes I can give him: faith in himself, faith in his faith and faith in his God. What I know and he doesn't is that he is going to commit this sin. He is going to be back in confession. He is going to lose his faith. And God and I are going to bring him back, as he's done for so many others. "I know", this is where he's asking me to take control and be strong and sure in the face of his doubt, "but your sin is still wrong in the eyes of the Lord." "You have to serve penance. Lie down on the floor on your stomach." He does as commanded so quickly I feel like he must have said goodbye to his last Mistress 10 minutes before I got there. Or maybe he just needs this too much. I'm going to use a wooden ruler and a cane, as he would do on me if this were Catholic school a generation ago. I doubt he's old enough to have used one himself, unless he did so recreationally before entering the priesthood. First, though, he needs to be taught some humility. I step in front of his face. "Turn towards me," my controlled tone instructs him, "and open your eyes." He does so. My 4-inch heels are right in his face. "I'm going to walk all over you like you have walked all over the Lord's will." He cringes and betrays his fear with a low moan. He must have thought the heels were just for effect: the click on the hard tile floor meant to establish the authority he's handed over to me. But when I get up on top of him, his moans aren't apprehensive or fearful: they come from that mixture of pain and pleasure stirring in his belly. I know this because I've moaned this way, when I've been lucky enough. "Get up" I say, "Kneel over the alter." That's where he dishes out Jesus every Sunday. That's his pedestal, and I'm transforming it into a piece of profane punishment furniture. I pick up the cane and swing it thorough the air a few time, while I slowly circle his body. Smack mmph! Suddenly I bring it down hard across his ass. He represses his moan as well as he can, but a small squeal still escapes his lips. After a few seconds the next will land on his upper thighs, and the next his shoulder blades. He's good at controlling his reaction, but I know it will only take a little while to get him screaming and trying so hard not to move to avoid the blows. This will happen in his body, but his mind will fight against it. I know: I've done it myself. "Do you like that?" I ask; knowing full well his cock is so hard it hurts. "I...mmph...I'm grateful, Mother Superior." This infuriates me. "Turn over," I say this lazily, not letting myself betray my anger. He does and I see the hard-on I knew was there. "I am not your Mother Superior." I sit on his face and slap his nipples with the ruler as I say it. His tongue flirts with my cunt: is it breaking his vows? "Lick it," I command him, "This is my flesh. Take it and eat it." His tongue is a soft serpent. He's so good I have to wonder if he hasn't been practicing. "I am" smack MMPH "not a" smack " fucking nun" SMACK! He moans as he licks my clit, having to control his reaction and concentrate his pain inside if he is to avoid hurting me. He is not going to hurt me: he won't let himself. "I am" SMACK "a woman-Priest" SMACK "ordained by" SMACK "the church" SMACK "that's finally" SMACK "seen the" SMACK "error of" SMACK "leaving women" SMACK "out of" SMACK "the priesthood" SMACK, "you women hating" SMACK pig" SMACK! He moans whenever I insult him. I think he's learned his lesson but his tongue feels so good I need to cum, so I kiss and lick his nipples while he finishes. His strokes betray his submission: sweet, not sharp and not as quick and light as if he were taking control of this. His tongue comes down decisively over my clit, making love to it, like it was Jesus' clit or something. Maybe it is: this is my blood. He laps up all my juices until I cum hard, thrusting against his mouth. I lick and suck on his nipples so they'll stay sore for a while. That last line must have hurt him. "I'm so sorry," he says as soon as I climb off of him. "I am so sorry! I don't hate women, I just slipped up, please Mother..." "Turn over again." Is all I say. No I will not forgive him just now. "I asked if you liked it." I continue to cane him. "I could see when I had you flip over that you do." "I'm sorry," he says. "Do not be sorry for that," I answer. "Being sorry for that is a sin! Don't you think your sins hurt the Lord?" He struggles to answer, now he trying so hard not to scream as I bring the cane down in five successive strokes, concentrating on his ass now. "Yes, Mother. I know that they do." "Then why does it turn you on when I punish you for them?" "Because my urges don't obey the Lord, only my mind struggles to do so against them. I can't stop myself from wanting it, only acting on it...and because I need it so badly," he answers, defeated. He needs it badly: this punishment, and his tension released in orgasm, through the human-touch he won't let himself have. "And now tell me why you've commit these sins?" "I'm weak," he repeats. "Human weakness is reason, not an excuse. You've earned this." "I know." His humble tone tells me this is true. I can tell from the way he says this that he's softly crying now. From the pain? From having to face the sin? I'm not sure but I think he has what he needs for it to be undesirable for him to sin again. "This isn't anything like the pain you've caused the God you claim to love so much," I add, continuing my ministrations. " I know," he repeats. "Thank you," he starts to say. "Thank you, thank you," and I can hear his gratitude, and I know it's genuine, because I've felt it too. He's screaming; he is struggling to submit. He held out much longer than I thought. He breaks out in fresh tears, that final acceptance. So I stop and make him sit up, so I can hold him and stroke his cock until he calms down. "No," he says, "don't." But it's a weak "don't." I can tell he doesn't want it to stop. He sighs and lets me touch him like he hasn't been touched in a long time. I don't know how long. I lay him back down and lick his frenulum a little at first, then move to take him in my mouth. "Stop," he sighs. "I can't." But he doesn't move to stop me or repeat himself. He sighs. He accepts this absolution and lets me make love to him. He starts to moan as he entwines his hands in my hair. He's not rude, not selfish, doesn't thrust or hold me down. I touch him lightly with my tongue and the walls of my mouth. I suck him gently, creating a vacuum. He cums violently—crying out and clenching his fingers at his sides—and it's the most cum I've ever swallowed. He tastes sweet like he takes care of himself: like his body is a temple. When I return in the morning, he places the wafer on my tongue. "Take this bread and eat it..." he tells me, risking a moment's grin. Absolution The day I met my girlfriend's family, Desmond was home for the weekend. According to Bridget, he had just finished university in London, where he had just found a job. The Reilly house was a semi at the edge of the city where I lived, in a quiet cul-de-sac with a huge, sprawling garden overcrowded with flowers and gnomes. My palms were sweaty and my mouth was dry at the thought of meeting the family, but the minute I saw Annie my nerves evaporated. "Antoin... welcome, welcome!" she cried, throwing her arms around me and pulling me inside the house, which like the garden was filled with clutter: flowers, ornaments and family photos everywhere. "Come and meet the brood! My son's upstairs so we'll start with the girls, and there's plenty of them! This is wee Annie, the baby..." she waved her hand towards a skinny, spotty teenager with flaming red curly hair, who smiled shyly through her train track braces, "Siobhan and Adele, they're twins," ...two identical girls, a year or two older than the youngest, both with the same black hair as Bridget... "Bronagh, the oldest, and this here's her husband Martin, and this is Cathleen." So many smiles and nods, so many black haired girls, except for Annie jnr... the only one whose name I did not instantly forget. Martin looked bashful and in desperate need of male company so I was ushered round to sit beside him as Annie and Bronagh bustled around the table, filling glasses, scooping creamed potato and chips onto plates, straightening cutlery and tugging at the wrinkles in the faded tablecloth which had seen its fair share of family dinners. Martin said a perfunctory grace, and the dinner began with an empty seat opposite me for Desmond. "He's always dithering around in the bathroom, making himself beautiful!" Annie jnr giggled. "He spends more time in there than Bridget!" Bridget laughed and threw a chip at her. "I'm not the one in there trying to iron my hair". I smiled behind my hand as Annie flushed and pursed her lips. Soon, all seven women were talking at once about bathroom usage. Martin seemed disappointed that I didn't know anything about football or rugby, and looked as if he was about to try a new topic when the door opened and Desmond came in. If my mouth hadn't been full of potato and sausage, my jaw would have hit the table. He was tall, well built and with the same black hair as most of his sisters. He wore a ribbed black t-shirt which showed off his perfectly muscled chest and arms. His smile was wicked, just like Bridget's, and like her, he had piercing blue eyes, which flashed in my direction as introductions were made. A faint flush rose in his cheeks as he sat opposite me, avoiding my eyes as he tucked in to his dinner. I had to force myself to stop staring at that beautiful face, and concentrate on what Bridget was saying. "...Desmond works in an art gallery" she was saying. "Mum wants him to come home, don't you mum, but he says he's settled there for the moment." "I think he has a girlfriend over there" Annie said, winking at me. " But he's keeping it all secret! Never one for talking much, our Desmond!" I almost laughed aloud but instead stuffed some more peas into my mouth as I watched Desmond turn beetroot before my eyes. It was so obvious to me that he was gay, I couldn't believe they couldn't see it too. Then I saw the way their eyes shone adoringly as they looked at him, and I sympathized, knowing all too well the pressures of being the only son. My knee started to twinge and I stretched my leg out, trying to avoid all the feet and legs. As the pain passed, my ankle brushed against Desmond's, and he nearly jumped out of his chair. I groaned inwardly, hoping he wouldn't think I was playing footsie with him. "Sorry" I muttered. "It gets stiff sometimes." Desmond's eyes widened, and a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. "What gets stiff?" It was my turn to flush, and I stared down at my plate, suddenly struck dumb. "Is your knee playing up again?" Bridget looked at me with a small smile, giving my hand a squeeze, rescuing me. "Oh, what happened?" Annie asked with her mouth full, showering the plate with specks of potato. "Oh nothing exciting, I just fell off a chair in the kitchen and landed badly. Ruptured cruciate ligament, I was on crutches for a few months. But it's all better now, apart from the odd twinge. Probably just getting old." Annie laughed. "Old he says! Sure you have your whole life ahead of you." She cast a meaningful look in Bridget's direction, which I chose to ignore. Martin shook his head. "Same as that injury Gazza had, that's a damn nasty one. Lucky you aren't a professional footballer, Antoin. He was never right after that FA cup final." Bronagh rolled her eyes. I had no idea who or what Martin was talking about, but it seemed irrelevant, when I glanced at Desmond and for a second, our eyes met. They were bright and dancing with amusement, and...had he winked at me? I felt a worm of excitement slither through my stomach. The conversation fragmented, the twins were giggling and texting under the table, the other women were discussing a plot line on Eastenders. I tried to pay attention to Martin's description of the ankle injury that had seen his football "career" cut short at the age of 13. He seemed to think he had found a kindred spirit, a shared trauma. But his words washed over me as I watched, open mouthed, as Desmond slowly speared a sausage with his fork and dipped it into the creamed potato, which he then licked off, his eyes catching mine once again. I looked away, wriggling in my seat, trying to block out the obscene thoughts that were suddenly creeping into my head. When Martin had finished talking, I glanced back at Desmond. He had finished eating and was sipping his wine, chatting to Bridget, the model son and brother, apple of the family eye. The evening seemed to go well, because as I was leaving, Bridget pulled me in for a kiss and whispered, "They like you". I was glad, because I had desperately wanted to come across as someone with a personality, as I was often struck down by crippling shyness. As I was walking to my car, I thought about Desmond. What was he really like? Was I as obvious to him as he was to me? The last thought was a bit worrying. Having grown up with such a religious, conservative background, I knew there was really no way I could ever come out of the closet without doing as Desmond had done, leaving the country. And I didn't want to leave my family and friends, I couldn't. They were so tied up in who I was, and the things that made me happy, the things I knew would make me happy in the future. I had figured that everyone had to sacrifice something in life, so I had reasoned that my sacrifice would be sexual happiness. Still, after meeting Desmond and feeling the raw pull of sexual attraction so strongly, I began to wonder if I had just been naïve. As I was fumbling in my pockets for my keys, a soft voice said behind me, "Looking for something?" I spun round. It was Desmond, holding my keys in his hand. He was breathless after running after me. The Reilly house was just round the corner, just out of sight. "Thanks" I said, suddenly tongue tied. There was a pause. He blushed again, scuffed his shoe against the kerb. "Fancy a drink sometime?" "I thought you were only here for the weekend." I replied, as my heart began to pound treacherously against my ribs. "Yeah," he said, "but I'll be home next weekend. Don't tell Bridget. I'm meeting a...friend." Something clicked at that moment when I looked again into his beautiful eyes and became his accomplice. Of course I would never tell Bridget. There was no point trying to hide from the truth, that I wanted to fuck Desmond's brains out and next week, when he came back again, it was likely to happen. Suddenly, a week seemed like such a long time. * * * * * The week passed slowly, and yet, when it was Friday night, I was pacing the hallway, waiting for him to call me, wondering where the time had gone. I had told Bridget that I was staying in to work on my Masters' project, knowing that I had already finished the first module so I could "prove" it if necessary. Up and down I paced, smoking one after the other. My nerves were jangling. Would he call? Would he call? I kept asking myself, catching a glimpse of my flushed and excited face now and again in the mirror and having a pang of conscience. What are you doing? I thought, stopping my march and staring into my own eyes for a second, but I couldn't rationalize anything, couldn't feel any guilt, couldn't think about the consequences. All I could think about was the way he walked, the way he smiled, the soft voice and that beautiful, sensuous mouth. The phone rang suddenly and I nearly leapt out of my skin. My hand shook as I picked up the receiver. It was him. "I'm coming round to yours" he said, and I could hear the roar of traffic in the background. "I'm knackered, is it OK is we stay in for a bit? I've got a video and some fish and chips." My heart leapt. "Sounds perfect" I said, and gave him directions about how exactly to find my apartment. The minute I hung up I started buzzing around, tidying, hoovering and almost dancing for joy. Desmond was coming round! I didn't even care that I had never even kissed a man before, or that my entire sexual experience was limited to snogging and a few fumbles with Bridget. She was a good catholic after all, and I wasn't complaining. I had always considered my sex drive to be non existent. Now it was running rampant, about to wreak havoc in my boring, perfectly ordered, bookish life and I was tingling all over with nervous excitement. When Desmond arrived, my cock was already starting to stiffen, and I was mortified. I pushed it around in my pants, trying to make it look less obvious, and only exciting it more. If I could have paused reality to stand and stare, it would have been then, when I opened the front door. He was leaning against the wall, a black leather jacket slung over his shoulder, a plain white t-shirt clinging to his perfect chest. I could see his dark little nipples ghosting through the material and I sighed with longing. His eyes were twinkling as he looked me up and down, a smile spreading across his face like a sunrise. "You going to invite me in?" he asked, winking, and I stood aside, inhaling the aroma of his aftershave and the fish and chips as he walked past. Awkwardly, I closed the door and almost tripped going after him. "Kitchen's to the left" I called, and followed him in. "Nice pad" he said, looking all around as he put his takeaway on the table. "Is it yours?" "Yeah" I said, opening the cupboard and pulling out a couple of plates. "My dad died a couple of years ago and left me some money. Otherwise I'd still be living with my mum and sisters." "How many sisters have you got?" he said, grinning. "Only three." I laughed. "I'm the youngest. After I was born, my mum had the son she wanted and got her tubes tied." "I think mum was going for a hockey team" he said, tucking in to his chips. "Then dad died and that put a stop to her ambitions." Silently, I ate while he talked, about his family, his job, his plans for the future. He didn't mention Bridget, or my relationship with her. He had a chatty, casual manner and I felt like I had known him all my life when he stood up. "Nothing like a good grease attack" he announced, patting his stomach fondly and stretching. "I can feel my arteries hardening as I speak." That's not the only thing that's hardening, I thought, fidgeting in my seat as his t-shirt pulled free and exposed a flat, tanned stripe of stomach, lightly dusted with black hair which got thicker as my eyes travelled south. He yawned hugely and relaxed. "Sorry about that" he said. "I'm still a bit tired after last night. Dan and I, Dan's my flatmate, we went out to a new club that's opened near our place. Didn't get to bed until 5am." With Dan or someone else, I wondered, feeling a stab of irrational jealousy. We went into the living room where he promptly flopped onto the sofa and began to peruse my CD collection. "Radiohead, Leonard Cohen, Coldplay...The Verve...oh my god, ...the Cranberries, NO! You're a bit mournful, aren't you! Got anything a bit lighter?" "I have Kylie" I confessed, and he beamed. "Stick her on then!" he cried, and patted the seat beside him. Sitting down beside him, I was almost struck dumb with nerves. Now he was here, beside me, I had no idea what to do. He didn't seem to notice my anxiety because he just kept chatting in that relaxed manner. "So where do you usually go out then" he asked, and I had to clear my throat before I could speak. "Nowhere really" I said, glumly. "I'm not very exciting." "Och, come on, you must go somewhere sometimes" he said, laughing. "What about the Parliament?" It was said in such a casual way, but I knew what he was asking. The Parliament was about the only decent gay bar there was in the city. The other one was full of sailors with huge moustaches. At least, that's what I had heard. "I've been to the Parliament once" I said, and I could feel my face start to burn. "I'm not good in crowds though. As I said, I don't go out much." "You managed a Reilly family dinner" he said, edging closer to me and smiling. "I would say that was a crowd, wouldn't you?" I watched, frozen like a statue, as he put out his hand and lightly stroked the back of mine. His touch was like an electric shock, but I couldn't move. "Desmond-" I started, but he silenced me with a light touch of his fingertip on my lips. "It's Des" he whispered, getting closer and closer so I could feel his breath on my face. "I'm Desmond to my family, but Des to the people who really know me." "Des...I've never..." I began again as his arm snaked round me and turned me to him. "It doesn't matter" he muttered, stroking my cheek, looking at me as if I was some kind of treasure. "I knew from the minute I saw you..." Suddenly, we were kissing, and all my fears melted away. His lips were so soft, his tongue like a little fish exploring my mouth. Tentatively, I slid my arms around him, savouring the hot wetness of the kiss, pushing my fingers through his hair as if in a dream, as the kiss grew more urgent. His hand found my hard on and rubbed it through the rough material of my jeans, making me groan. He broke the kiss and looked at me, his face flushed. "God!" he said, and the hoarse desire in his voice made me even hornier. He smiled and looked down to where I was pitching a pretty enormous tent. I felt dizzy, as if most of my blood had gone south to fire up my rod, leaving me brainless and weak, only able to feel the incredible sensations my body was racked with, feelings I had never felt before. He pulled my flies apart and delved into my pants. I didn't know how close I was to the end until the touch of his hand, enveloping my bare cock had me seeing stars as I spewed out a load of cum. When I could see straight again, I gasped "Sorry about that!" as he started to lick my cum off his fist. "No problem" he smiled, and pulled my trousers and pants off. Burying his face in my groin, he sighed. "You are so beautiful" he whispered, inhaling the scent of my sweat as he slid off the sofa to kneel before me. The feeling of his warm breath on my cock and balls was divine. Slowly and gently, he began to lick me there, up and down, little light butterfly licks, teasing the sensitive flesh until I was rock hard again. "Oh God" I groaned, almost unable to stand it. In one fluid movement he engulfed my cock in the soft wetness of his mouth, his tongue still flicking away, then his throat muscles constricting to torture me even more as my cock slid in, slowly, slowly...then it was all in and his hand found my balls, tickling and stroking behind the sack as he began to bob his head up and down as I gasped and moaned. He kept me in a state of heady arousal for a good ten minutes, bringing me to the brink then squeezing me gently to put off the inevitable. Having just cum I hoped I could save face and last longer than a few seconds, but it was clear Desmond knew exactly what he was doing. I was babbling incoherently, begging for release when he slid a finger into my asshole and that was it. I stifled a roar as my hips jerked forward and I came so hard I thought my eardrums would burst. As the orgasm faded, my tingling body began to glow, alive for the first time. Dazed, I lay there like a rag doll, as my breathing slowed. He sat up and licked his lips. "There's more...if you want it" he said, smiling wickedly, stripping off his clothes until he was standing before me in all his perfection. His cock was pointing upwards, rock hard and glistening. Like the rest of him, it was beautiful. At least, I thought so, not having had much to compare it with except my own. I watched as he rummaged in his jacket pocket and brought out some condoms and a tube of something. "I've been thinking about you all week" he whispered, kneeling down before me again and pushing my legs up to my chest, exposing me completely. Anxious, I sat up, but his smile was reassuring. "I won't hurt you" he said, and went back to licking my balls, tickling the inside of my thighs with his fingernails...soon, I was hard again and I couldn't believe it. Pushing my legs up even further, his tongue trailed away from my balls, torturing me slowly as it flicked over my asshole, making me jump and shiver. I groaned as he slid a slippy finger inside me, opening me up... then brushing against a spot inside that made me gasp and sag back against the cushions, breathless. "Fuck!". My eyes began to glaze as he found it again and again, he added another finger then another and as my muscles relaxed, I could feel another orgasm start to build...but then he took out his fingers and sat back on his heels. Almost drunk with pleasure, I watched as he rolled on a condom, and applied liberal amounts of the gel he had brought to my hole and his cock. "Sit up" he grunted, his face red and his eyes dark. Obediently, I obeyed as he positioned me in front of him, on my knees with my ass in the air, face pressed into the sofa. He nudged my knees apart and positioned himself between them, and I felt his cock come to rest between my arse cheeks. I held my breath as he began to push slowly inside me. Despite the lubrication, it was a struggle, and I wasn't quite prepared for the pain...I grunted and he stopped, allowing my arse to get used to the intrusion. As the pain subsided, he pushed in further and further until I could feel the whole of him inside me, his hairy balls resting against my cheeks. "Are you OK?" he whispered, and I nodded, feeling beads of sweat spring out on my brow. Slowly, he pulled out and pushed in, hitting the spot his fingers had so deliciously tortured...I felt my cock, which had drooped a bit with the shock of the pain, starting to stiffen again as his assault began. The sound of his breathing, the slap of his flesh against mine, the smell of sweat and cum and the unbelievable sensations coming from my insides...I seized my cock and began to flog it rapidly as he started to slam me, emitting small whimpers and gasps. He didn't last long: suddenly he cried out as he began to cum, emptying his load in rapid bursts. I felt his cock twitch and then my own orgasm hit and this time I couldn't hold back my cries, spraying the sofa with watery cum, feeling him buried deep inside me, wishing the moment would never end. We collapsed together onto the floor, and he pulled the condom off and wrapped me in his arms, stroking my hair. "Jesus, that was amazing" he muttered, and I could hardly speak as I nuzzled into his neck. I felt as if we had been lovers forever, I felt complete, I never wanted to leave his arms. Later, when we had regained our senses, we had a shower together. My arse was still a bit tender, and I was exhausted, so I contented myself with soaping his amazing body, and kissing him deeply. Still damp, we flopped into bed together. He curled up behind me and we made spoons, his cock nestling against my ass, the tickle of his hairy thighs against mine. Perfect, I thought. I had never imagined that I could feel so completely comfortable with another person. Even though we had only met twice I knew he was The One, if I had any kind of choice. Guiltily, I thought about Bridget and realised that I was condemning myself and her to a life lacking in physical love, all because I was a coward. As Desmond began to snore gently in my ear, I made a silent prayer, now I had met someone so totally special, to have the courage to keep him. Absolution * * * * * The next morning, I woke up and it felt like the world was a different place. My body was still echoing the delights of the previous night's activities. When I moved, my muscles protested as if I'd been at the gym. My arse was still a bit tender, but I was grinning like the Cheshire cat. I wasn't a virgin any more! Desmond was sitting on the edge of the bed, a glass of water in his hand. Propping myself up on one elbow, I watched as he took a bottle out of his bag and popped two pills out onto his palm, then threw them to the back of his throat. He saw me looking, and smiled. "Got to take my vitamins" he said, swallowing the last of the water. "They're obviously working" I said, eyeing his naked body in all its perfection. He smiled and slid in beside me once more. He snuggled up to me, and I could feel his cock stiffening against my thigh. "I don't know what it is about you" he said, "but I knew I had to see you again. In fact..." he looked sheepish, "I've always fancied Bridget's boyfriends. We appear to have the same taste. Mum always said we were the real twins of the family. Siobhan and Adele look the same but they're complete opposites once you get to know them." I didn't know what to say. Suddenly it all seemed a bit incestuous. I thought about Bridget and felt slightly ill. "I thought you were visiting someone this weekend." I said eventually, as he began to stroke my belly. His touch was like fire, and my muscles fluttered as his hand went further down...I groaned as he found my stiff prick and took it in his hand. "I'm already visiting someone" he muttered as he pulled me over for a kiss, a long, sensuous exploration of my mouth which left me gasping. We stayed in bed all day. He fucked me again and again, until I lost all sense of time and place, forgot how many times I had come. He filled my world, the smell of his sweat and cum, the sweetness of his breath against my face, as my fingers grasped and slid over his skin, desperate for more. "So this is sex" I gasped, reeling from another orgasm, as he collapsed on top of me, panting. He stroked my hair, my shoulders, pressed his lips against my ear, as his breathing slowed. "No, this isn't sex" he murmured. "This is....something else." Our fingers intertwined and I felt my heart swelling up inside me as we lay there together, like lost pieces of a jigsaw, fitting together at last. When it was time for him to go, I felt pain in my throat as I watched him pack. "Will I see you again?" "You can count on it." He beamed at me, glancing at his watch. There was the beep of a taxi outside, and he winked. "See you soon!" He blew me a kiss and was gone. And so it became a regular thing. He would come over every third weekend, sometimes staying with his family, and sometimes staying with me. I would spend as much time with Bridget as possible in between, seeing Desmond in her smile and hearing him in her laugh. Bridget was "saving herself" for marriage and I was content to do without sex, because I always knew Desmond would be coming over soon, and I could have all the sex I wanted then. I fell in love with the Reilly family, it was impossible not to. I loved Annie's bustling, mother hen manner. I even grew to like Martin and his boring talk about football players. Time passed, three months, six months, a year. When I was with Desmond, it seemed like nothing else mattered. I was completely and utterly in love with him, and he with me, though god knows why. I had initially thought we had a lot in common, but I was slowly realising we didn't. He was extrovert, full of fun, had a busy social life. He liked dressing outrageously, dancing to disco music and going out to clubs and bars. He was 24, same age as me, but intent on living it up. I, on the other hand, was a painfully shy wallflower who liked nothing better than a night in with my Master's stuff and a cup of tea, or spending time at the library or the coffee shop with my equally boring friends. I was like a 24 year old grandfather. But with Bridget, I really did have a lot in common. She took a great interest in my Masters' and planned to enrol in the programme once she had saved up enough money. Coming from big families, we both wanted loads of children. We were comfortable together, like a pair of old slippers. Then one day, out of the blue, Bridget proposed to me. "So what do you think?" she said, as I stared at her, open mouthed. "We make sense, you and me. I love you, and so does my family. We could be happy." I looked down at my untouched cappuccino, listening to the soft sound of Portishead playing from the cafe's speakers and wondering what the other people were talking about. Did I really want to marry Bridget? Desmond had asked me many times to move over to London, but I had refused. I had visited him once, and hadn't enjoyed it much. I was a country boy at heart, and I was shocked when he had taken me to a gay club, where men kissed openly and wore outrageously little. There was even a "glory hole" in the toilets and when Desmond explained what it was, I had to try so hard not to be horrified as I felt the weight of my puritanical upbringing clashing once again with what I thought I should be thinking about life, sexuality, human behaviour. I knew Desmond's trendy friends thought I was a nerd and a bookworm, and they were not far from the truth. Bridget was right in a way. I was incredibly introverted, unlike her brother. I needed a quiet, ordered life, and I could have that with Bridget. I thought about breaking it off with Desmond, but I couldn't. He was like a drug that I couldn't get enough of. I would have the speech all rehearsed in my head, but when he came into my apartment and pulled me close for a long, hot kiss, I lost my heart all over again. It was so lucky for me that he didn't live in Belfast too. It meant I could go on circumventing the problem, keeping my "bit on the side" and having the best of both worlds. I dragged my attention back to Bridget and her proposal. "Can I think about it?" I said. "It's a bit out of the blue." She looked disappointed. "Look," I said, in a tone I hoped was reassuring, "I'm not saying no. You know what a bachelor I am. Just give me time to get used to the idea." I picked up her hand and kissed it. She smiled, and for the millionth time I marvelled at how much she reminded me of Desmond. That night, he called me. He couldn't come over as he had planned, how about I stirred my boring ass into action and went over there? Just this once. "We can stay in the whole time" he said, and I could hear the wicked smile in his voice. I fully meant to say no, but suddenly there I was, making arrangements to go. I didn't tell him about what Bridget had said. After I had hung up, I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time, wondering how someone could possibly be so weak minded, wishing my dad was alive so I could have someone to tell me what to do, although if I had even hinted that I knew I was gay, he probably would have beaten me half to death. I had never felt so confused. * * * * * That weekend, I made my usual excuse to Bridget about visiting an imaginary sick aunt in England, and hopped on a plane to London. I still hadn't given her an answer about the marriage proposal, and I felt sick to my stomach every time I thought about it. Preoccupied, I barely noticed the people around me as I caught the tube to King's Cross, where Desmond lived. He was waiting for me outside, blinking in the bright sunlight. My heart did its usual somersault and I ran to meet him. "Hi!" I said brightly, longing to take him in my arms there and then. He smiled, a small, sad smile I'd never seen before and took my bag. "Let's go" he said, flagging down a cab. I wondered what was wrong. He was still silent when we exited the busy outside world and stepped into his flat. His room mate was obviously there that weekend, judging by the amount of crap lying around. I knew Desmond to be a bit of a neat freak, and wondered how on earth they managed to live together. I sat down. "What's wrong?" I asked. He stared at me and bit his lip. Startled, I noticed there were tears in his eyes. "Bridget told me you asked her to marry you" he said finally, hovering over at the music system, straightening pictures, blowing at imaginary specks of dust. I was gobsmacked. "SHE asked ME to marry HER" I said, "And I haven't given her an answer yet." "I can't wait for you forever, Antoin" he said, and I stared at him. No words would come, no excuses, no explanations. He crumpled into a chair and burst into tears. "Why don't you love me enough," he said, leaning forward, his head in his hands. I had never seen him cry, or lose control before, and it was terrifying to me. "Des..." I stared at him, swallowing back the lump in my throat. "I dunno, if I had met you first things would maybe be different but...I can't do that to Bridget, not now." "So you ARE going to marry her" he said, his voice flat, his hands clawing the tears away as if they disgusted him. "I didn't say that." "Yes, you did" he said, and with the same sad smile he stood up. "Better get shagging then" he said. "That's all you want me for anyway, so you might as well get down to it." I stared at him, stricken. "That's so not true by the way. You know...you're special to me." "Special?" He scoffed. "Even after all this time, you can't say it, can you. You're such a pathetic coward, so terrified of being different, and I'm even worse. I wish I'd never met you." He grabbed his coat and stalked out of the flat. I didn't know what to do, so I waited for him, my cheeks burning as I digested his words. Of course he was right. I was worse than a coward, and knowing it didn't make me feel any better. It got dark, and Dan came back. He looked surprised to see me. "Hello Ant-wan, where's Des?" he asked, throwing his coat on the floor and slumping into an armchair. "Don't know" I said shortly, irritated by his mispronunciation of my name. "He just picked a fight with me and left." Dan looked hesitant. "Look" he said finally, "I know this is none of my business, but Des really likes you. I mean, he REALLY does. Maybe you should think about where your priorities lie and stop this business with his sister." My face flamed. I was about to speak when the door rattled and Desmond came in. I looked at my watch. It was after eleven. Judging by the way he was swaying around, I guessed he'd been in the pub drowning his sorrows. He spotted me and fixed me a beaming smile. "Sorry about before" he said and flopped down beside me. "That's OK" I said, trying to ignore the smell of beer on his breath. "I deserved it." "No you didn't" he murmured. "I love you, Antoin. Never forget that." He stood up again and held out his hand. I grabbed it as he swayed. Trying to ignore Dan's silent disapproval, I followed Desmond into the bedroom and closed the door. Immediately he took me in his arms. "I love you" he repeated softly, burying his nose in my hair and inhaling deeply. "Bridget's a lucky girl." He kissed me, and the feel of his lips on mine sent my head spinning again. I lost all thoughts of conversation as we fell onto the bed together, pulling at each others clothes blindly. His cock was rock hard when I pulled off his jeans, and I took it into my mouth as he sighed and stroked my hair. By now I knew exactly how to please him, and his sighs of pleasure turned me on so much I almost came in my pants. Suddenly he pushed me off him and sat up, breathing heavily. Without a word, he stripped me and threw my clothes on the floor. Flipping me over, he forced me onto my knees and drove his slippery cock into my ass. Unprepared as I was, my breath left my body and there was a stab of pain but it quickly turned to pleasure as he began to pound me...He was making no attempt to be quiet and groaning deeply as he picked up the pace...pounding my most sensitive spot until I felt my balls beginning to tighten up and burying my face in the pillow I held my breath as boiling semen burst from me in rapid spurts. I felt my ass tighten around his cock and in no time he was unloading inside me, crying out and digging his fingers into my waist as his hips jerked forward, impaling me deeper and deeper until he fell on top of me, gasping, and fell asleep almost instantly. I pulled the covers round him and lay down beside him, feeling his cum dribble out of my body. As I watched him sleep, my heart ached for him. I loved him so much, but I couldn't see how it was possible for us to be together, not without hurting all the people we cared for. I knew what my mum and sisters thought about homosexuals. Deviants, perverts, people who needed psychiatric treatment for their "condition". Then there was Bridget, and the Reillys. I knew Desmond was never going to tell them about his sexuality. If only I had the courage to throw caution to the wind and tell the world, I love this man, sorry Bridget. Sorry mum, your only son is a queer. Apologies, Annie, it's your son I want, not your daughter. Doesn't matter, does it? If only I had broken it off with Bridget earlier, it seemed to be the logical plan in hindsight. If only I hadn't let it get so serious. If only I was brave and extrovert and didn't give a damn about what people thought. If, if, if. * * * * * After spending the weekend in bed, I packed to leave. Desmond watched me, as if mesmerized. "What!" I laughed at the expression on his face. "I love you" he said. "Never forget that." I looked at him, puzzled. Snapping shut my case, I turned to face him. "I'll see you in a couple of weeks" I said eventually. Seeing him so downcast almost gave me physical pain. "I won't marry Bridget" I said, suddenly full of resolve. He looked up at me. "Sure you won't" he said. "See you soon." All the way home I puzzled over his behaviour. I had never seen him so crestfallen and sad. I was worried about him and resolved to call him as soon as I got home. It couldn't just be about me and Bridget, surely, could it? But when I got in and tried to ring, the line was engaged. Again and again I tried, but still the same. Eventually, I went to bed and slept, exhausted. * * * * * The phone rang, sometime in the middle of the night. Cursing it, I padded into the hall and picked up. No one spoke, but I could hear some kind of agonised breathing, and wailing in the background. "Who is it?" I repeated. It was Bridget. "Desmond's dead," she said finally. "Can you come over?" My heart missed a beat and I sat down suddenly. This is a dream, it isn't real. "Sure" I said and hung up, my head spinning. I dialled his number. There had to be some mistake. Again, it was engaged. I placed the receiver into its socket, so softly, as if a sudden movement would shatter the world. In a daze, I pulled on some clothes and drove to the Reilly's house. My mind was empty and I filled my vision with the night lights, the edge of the city which slid into the darkness of the sea, the road ahead a grey stripe that led to nowhere. The wind bit through my t-shirt as I got out of the car, gazing at the Reilly's house. All the lights were on. I stood at the gate, not wanting to go in. I didn't want to know what they were going to tell me. How could I support them when it felt as if I was dying inside? I bit my lip and walked up the path, like a prisoner going to his execution. Bridget answered the door, her eyes red and swollen. Seeing her, I knew it was true, and I took her in my arms as she began to sob. Upstairs, I could hear screaming and crying. Annie was sitting on the stairs, her littlest daughter in her arms, just rocking and rocking. Her face was empty. I couldn't find any words to say to her. Bridget led me into the living room. "How?" I asked, my voice tight with shock. "He's killed himself!" she said, her voice breaking. "His flatmate called us with the news. He took an overdose. They tried to revive him but it was too late. Mum's going to have to go over and..." Deal with the body. I held Bridget tight and stared at the wall. I could not bear to look at her, because all I could see was Desmond. * * * * * The chapel was quiet and smelt like a flower shop, the low mutter of conversation rippling over the soft organ music. Desmond had been a popular guy. I thought I had known all of his friends but there were people there I had never met before, who I was never going to meet now he was gone. Now, the Reillys were huddled together in grief, faces set in determination to see this dreadful day through. I felt bound to them more than ever and dutifully went over to join them. Annie enveloped me in her meaty arms. "You're a good lad Antoin" she whispered in my ear, rocking me from side to side. "You'll be a good husband to Bridget, we know that. And god knows, we've got precious little to look forward to these days." The day passed in a blur. I felt as if I was going through the motions like a robot, struggling with a feeling of nausea as I carried the coffin, wishing selfishly that I was a few inches shorter so I didn't have to bear so much of the weight. It had been hard to round up enough men to carry the coffin because they were rare in the Reilly family, so I was roped in as an honorary son. In fact there were many men who would have done the job, but I had told them not to come. My stomach lurched as I tried desperately not to think of what was inside. A body I had known and loved so secretly, for so long. The girls would have been surprised to see me grief stricken: after all, to them, I had only met Desmond at a few family functions and evenings out. As we struggled along the path towards the graveside, I felt the weight of my complicity in his death drag at my heart, heavier than the weight of his body. Can you ever forgive me, Des, I thought to myself as finally the coffin was lowered into the ground. I wanted to scream, to scratch my skin off, to run away howling. But with self control I never knew I had, I saw the day right through to the end, smiling mechanically and polite, shaking hands and serving sandwiches at the wake, muttering all the right platitudes in all the right places without even shedding a tear. "Such a nice boy, is our Antoin," Annie kept saying, louder and louder as the whisky started to flow. "I remember the first time Bridget brought him home. It was a great day for this family." "Like hell it was" I muttered when no one could hear, hurrying to lock myself into the bathroom just for a few minutes, just so I could breathe. * * * * * After the funeral I hopped on a plane to London. There was someone I desperately needed to see, to talk to. I couldn't sleep, eat or think. Forced to spend so much time with the Reillys, I could not even grieve properly. I was losing weight, as if all my body's systems had shut off, and I looked ill and haunted. Haunted by crushing, horrendous guilt. If only I had said this, or done that, was all I could think as I pulled up in a cab to Desmond's. Well, Dan's place now... Dan answered the door, wearing Desmond's dressing gown. He beckoned me in with a curt nod. There were brown boxes in the living room. "His stuff" Dan said hollowly, and I sat down. "I can't stand looking at it. Gonna send it to his family, I guess." I noticed a t-shirt poking out of one of the boxes. It was the same one he had been wearing the day I first saw him. Impulsively, I picked it up and inhaled. It still smelt of him, and I was seized by a wave of dizziness so severe I almost blacked out. I had to sit down and put my head between my legs. I felt a touch on my shoulder. It was Dan, he pulled me up and hugged me tight. Surprised by the unexpected gesture, I rested my head against his huge shoulder, breathing deeply. "You mustn't blame yourself" he muttered, his voice muffled. "Des was depressed. He'd been on anti depressants for a long time. Sometimes he would lie in bed for days, he couldn't shake it off." Absolution "What?" I muttered dumbly, trying to make sense of his words. I sat down, Dan beside me. "Des was ill" he said gently. "I was the only one who knew. Don't blame yourself." "Why didn't he tell me?" Dan shrugged. "Who knows?" he said. "Des didn't tell many people a lot about himself. His whole family, they never knew he was gay. I told them about the depression, of course. It's a reason. They need that." I shook my head. "He should have told me." "Antoin, you made him happy. He loved you. Don't forget that." I remembered what Desmond had said just before I left. Was it really just a week ago? I love you. Never forget that. He must have already decided to end his life at that point, and all I had done was chatter inanely about nonsense, not realizing the true extent of his misery, his sadness. My stomach cramped and I clutched at it, as if I could soothe the hollow part of me that his love had filled. I remembered the way his eyes had followed me around the room on our last day together , as if he had already known he would never see me again. Suddenly I was on the floor, tears flooding my vision, enveloped in Dan's arms again, my fists clenching and unclenching as the grief forced its way out, lines of slobber and snot connecting me to Dan's t-shirt as raw, painful, animal wails tore themselves from my throat. Dan's huge hands wiping my face, stroking my hair, holding me tight as if he could somehow put me back together again. When the wave of agony subsided, I felt raw and sore, but just slightly better for finally having let it out. As my chest hitched and I hiccupped, Dan fetched me a glass of water. I drank it rapidly and stared at the glass, stupid with sorrow. So he had been ill, there was a reason. I felt the weight of guilt lift a little. Absolution...of a sort. Looking round the apartment, now empty of his things, brought on the tears again. I cried until I fell asleep there on the sofa. Later, when I woke up, Dan took me out to dinner. Some of Desmond's friends were there, the ones I had disliked. They welcomed me like a brother, and I felt ashamed of my earlier judgments of them. We ate dinner, drank wine and talked about Desmond. As the fifth bottle of wine arrived at the table, Dan asked me if I was going to marry Bridget. I shrugged. "Probably." "You won't be happy, denying who you are," he said, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter" I said, looking out at the busy London street, where people were getting on with their lives. Despite the amount of wine I'd had, I felt sober, numb, as if I was turning to stone. "I can't leave Bridget now, not ever. None of this is her fault." And without Des, I'll never be happy again, I thought, taking a final forkful of rice. It tasted like ash in my mouth. He nodded. "Well don't forget to come and visit sometimes." I forced a smile. "I won't" I said, but I was sure Dan knew it was a lie. I didn't belong in their world, any more than Desmond had belonged in mine. I would finish my masters then do a PhD. I would marry Bridget and have the settled, quiet family life I had always planned. I would spend my time with books and pay my bills on time like a good citizen with the money dad had left me, and just hope that one day, I would be able to feel again.