A/N: THINGS ARE GETTING EXTREMELY SMUTTY AND KINKY NOW. YOU ARE WARNED.
Chapter 2: Strip My Mind
Emma spent the next week discreetly investigating the good Father Hook. She staked out the church and the small rectory located directly behind it, and she discreetly followed him when he was out and about. After a few days, she had his routine down.
In the mornings, he went about his duties at the church, including attending meetings and working in his office. A steady stream of mostly female parishioners, many carrying Tupperware or foil wrapped containers of food, visited him daily. Around lunch time, he'd walk the short distance to the little rectory and disappear inside for a few hours, reemerging around 2 pm to go for a run or work out at Gold's Gym, just as Ruby had told her.
In the evenings, he'd either go home for dinner or, occasionally, dine at a parishioner's house. He seemed to have a lot of invitations to dinner. After that, he'd either go home or to Tony's to have a few drinks at the bar, just as Leroy had told her. He didn't encourage conversation. Then he'd go home and usually turn the lights off before midnight. There were Evening Prayers and Confession on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 5:30 pm.
So far his life seemed deliberately boring.
Frustrated, Emma decided to push it a bit. The next week she and Ruby accidentally on purpose turned up to work out at the gym at the same time he did. She surreptitiously watched him as he methodically went through a fairly challenging circuit, mostly using free weights, the Smith Press, sit ups, and pull ups. Ruby was right; he was in excellent physical condition, not particularly bulky or roidy looking, but wiry and jacked, not an extra ounce of fat anywhere. Wearing nothing but a pair of Under Armour gym shorts and a tank top, he appeared oblivious to the stares of every woman in the gym.
Emma was concentrating on her own routine on the mat, challenging herself to double her usual number of leg lifts as she held herself square on her hands and knees when she became aware that someone was observing her. Whipping her head around, she caught him standing right behind her. His eyes were on her ass and the expression on his face was anything but holy. In fact, it was downright predatory.
He caught her eye then, but instead of flushing and ducking his head in embarrassment at being caught, he held her gaze as he slowly licked his lower lip with his tongue. At the same time, he'd taken off his shirt and was using it to wipe the sweat from his neck and shoulders.
Embarrassed to find a half-naked priest leering at her in so vulnerable and suggestive a position, Emma scrambled to her knees and turned around to find herself face to face with …. his package, clearly outlined under the thin material of his shorts.
"Miss Swan, I believe?" he inquired, smirking a little as he offered his hand to help her to her feet.
Her face felt hot and she knew she was blushing to the roots of her hair. She became even more flustered when she realized she wasn't sure what to do with her eyes. She didn't want to look at his body, didn't want to look at the dark matted chest hair on his well-defined pectorals tapering down over his rippling abdominal muscles and disappearing into his shorts. But she also couldn't bring herself to look at his too blue eyes or the full, obscene lips that smirked at her either. Instead she stupidly fixed her gaze on a point just beyond his left ear, as if she were slightly wall-eyed.
"Yes, that's right," she recovered, clearing her throat nervously, "I'm David and Mary Margaret's daughter."
"I just thought I would say hello and inquire about your family's health. They are well? Your father's recovery is progressing?" he asked politely, his face now expressionless and impersonal.
"Yes, thank you," she said stiffly, looking down at the floor. Goddamnit. She prided herself on her unflappability under pressure. Why did he rattle her so? And why did she feel like he was the one stalking her, when it was really the other way around?
She pushed past him, muttering that she needed to get going. Ruby gave her an arch expression as they pushed through the doors of the gym into the cold outside.
"I saw you talking to the priest," she said, her eyes mischievous.
"Yeah, so?" Emma said, a tad defensively.
"So, what's your reaction?" Ruby demanded. "Would you hit it or not?"
Emma paused to roll her eyes and take a deep breath. "Would I hit it?" she asked rhetorically. "Yes, I'd hit it. Till it caught on fire."
That was Tuesday. On Thursday, she decided she was going to catch him at a disadvantage rather than the other way around.
Donning a tight little black dress that showed off her figure and barely covered her ass, she finished the outfit with some Fred Leighton vintage diamond drop earrings, a Cartier tank watch, and a pair of Christian Louboutin fuck-me red pumps, her hair loose and streaming down her back.
She found him sitting at the end of the bar at Tony's. He was wearing his Look Don't Touch sign in the form of his dog collar. He appeared to be drinking seltzer water.
"Is this seat taken?" she asked, sliding in next to him.
He shrugged and cocked an eyebrow at her. "Why, Miss Swan, I'm surprised to see you here."
"Can I buy you a drink, Father?" she asked innocently, motioning the bartender over.
"Wouldn't say no," he said nonchalantly. "Scotch. Laphroaig. Neat, please."
"Will that be the 10 year old or the 18?" the bartender asked him.
"Oh, the 18, I think," he answered, smirking at her, "I think Miss Swan can afford it."
"Interesting choice," she said, "wouldn't have pegged you as a single malt man." She turned back to the bartender.
"I'll have a glass of chardonnay – Rombauer if you still have it," she ordered.
"Why, how very 1980s of you, Miss Swan," he said, amused. "That's one big, fruity, in-your-face chard. But that suits you, doesn't it? Nothing subtle about you, is there?"
He smiled a little, but Emma noticed that his smile rarely reached his eyes.
"I see you know your chards as well as your Scotch, Father," she rejoined. "Guess you're a man who really likes his drink."
He smiled another enigmatic smile but said nothing. They sat in silence until the bartender brought their drinks.
"Slante," she said, raising her glass.
"Slante," he returned, gravely, clinking her glass and taking a pensive sip.
She decided to plunge in. "What's a man like you doing in the priesthood?" she blurted out.
"A man like me, Miss Swan?" he answered, "like what?"
"You're good looking, obviously educated and sophisticated, and you clearly like women. I don't see you as a humble priest ministering to the parish ladies in a backwater in the middle of nowhere." There, she'd put it right on the table.
"Well, we all have our callings, don't we? Our special gifts? Perhaps my calling as a priest comes from my unusual perceptiveness." He had parried her thrust.
"Perceptiveness?" she questioned him, raising her eyebrows skeptically.
"Yes, I'm quite perceptive," he said leaning his face toward her so closely she could feel the merest brush of his scruff and his warm, whiskey-soaked breath tickling her face, "I'm very good at seeing through the facades human beings present to the world. I can look right through them. I can see the dark temptations and forbidden desires they keep buried deep down underneath. Call it my superpower, if you wish."
"Oh really?" she said archly, taking a sip of her wine, "And can you see through me too?"
He chuckled, toying with his glass. "Yes, I think so. By all appearances, you're a real ballbuster, both professionally and personally. I'm sure most men find you very intimidating, and you've probably been disappointed many times to realize the man you're seeing isn't as strong as you are. You feel contempt for their weakness, then you discard them."
Emma raised her eyebrows in surprise, disconcerted by her own transparency. "I'll neither confirm nor deny that."
A brief smile flitted across his handsome features. "And yet I find it especially interesting that you're wearing Carnal Flower."
Emma had to struggle not to drop her jaw in shock that he had correctly identified her current favorite perfume, purchased a few months ago at Barney's from the Frederick Malle counter.
"How did you know that?" she demanded suspiciously.
"I have a particularly acute sense of smell," he said, winking at her.
"How does a priest know so much about ladies' perfume?" she demanded rudely.
"Perhaps many ladies visit me in the confessional booth and I've learned over the years?" he suggested.
"I'll bet," she replied sarcastically, swirling the wine in her glass before taking another swallow.
"Well, it's a perfect choice for you, really. As I'm sure you know, it's a fragrance with the scent of tuberose, a symbol of forbidden pleasure. Tuberose is a beautiful and dangerous flower, so passionate and sensual that in some cultures, young women are not allowed to feel its intoxicating scent after sunset." He studied her reaction through hooded eyes.
Taken aback, she just stared at him, not sure how to reply, when she felt his hand on her naked thigh, sliding up to rest against the thin silky material of her thong. His long, supple fingers fluttered lightly against her sex as he gave her thigh a hard squeeze. Shocked, she could feel her stomach clench and wetness seeping out of her as he withdrew his hand.
He knocked back the rest of his Scotch, then got up without another word. "Thanks for the drink," he said breezily, then sauntered out of the bar as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Her eyes narrowed as she recovered her composure. There was something definitely dodgy about that priest, and she was going to find out what it was. But, she had to admit, she had never been so turned on. She wanted more. Much, much more.
The next day Emma watched from a discreet distance until she had seen Father Hook leave for a run. She knew from her observations he'd be gone at least an hour.
Making sure she was unobserved, she stealthily crept around the church until she was at the locked door of the rectory in back. Pulling on a pair of rubber surgical gloves, she took out a picklock and held her ear to the door as she gently clicked the tumblers over and the lock opened. As she opened the door, she failed to notice the thin, clear piece of fishing length that had been held in place by a bit of gum high above her head, one end attached to the frame, the other to the door itself.
She pushed into the house. There was very little to see. The furniture was basic and she knew that it came with the house. The front door opened into a combination living and dining area. There were no pictures, knick knacks, books, or anything else of a personal nature. A center hall at the back of the room revealed a kitchen on one side and a bathroom on the other. The kitchen was bare other than a half drunk bottle of Laphroag, a couple of bottles of wine, a few cans of tuna, and a jar of peanut butter. She picked up the wine bottles to examine them. Amused, she noted that both were hearty reds, one The Prisoner and the other called The Monster. Interesting choices. The fridge was empty.
The bathroom was scrupulously clean. The only evidence of human occupation an open shaving kit containing basic male toiletries, some soap in a plastic container, shampoo, toothpaste. Nothing remarkable.
At the back of the small house, there were two bedrooms on either side of the hallway. One was utterly empty save for a bed, a dresser and a chair. The other contained a double bed with a bare mattress topped by a sleeping bag and a travel pillow. There was a small portable Bose Bluetooth player on the bedside table along with a single paperback book: Great Expectations. She shook her head, perplexed. In the dresser, Emma discovered several neat piles of shirts, some sweats, exercise and under clothes. Opening the closet, she found a few dress shirts, both standard and clerical, a few suits, a blazer, some dress pants. There was a large duffle bag in the bottom of the closet. Riffling through it, she finally found something interesting: a small wooden box containing a rifle cleaning kit. What the hell was a priest doing with a rifle cleaning kit?
She walked slowly around the room, trying to figure out what this meant. This wasn't a normal home. The man was a ghost, living like he was ready to bounce at any moment. Other than the book and the strangely out of place rifle cleaning kit, it was entirely impersonal. Just before she left the room, her eye was caught by a stack of four pennies sitting on the lever used to open the window. She did a further circuit of the house and discovered similar stacks at every window. When she let herself out the front door, she examined the jamb carefully until she spotted it – the broken fishing wire. She reattached it as best she could, then quietly closed the door.
Jesus Christ. What kind of a priest lives in a place loaded with anti-intrusion devices?
That night, Emma, more obsessed than ever with learning the priest's dark secrets, found herself dressed all in black, a pair of high powered binoculars in hand, hiding in some dense shrubbery in the back of the rectory. She was going to find out what that tricky bastard got up to when he thought no one was looking.
He came over from the church at about 8. She saw him turn on the lights in the living room, then the bedroom. She heard the sound of music then, almost certainly coming from the Bose player. She moved closer to the house, madly curious to hear what was on his playlist.
Scar Tissue, by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Consolers of the Lonely by the Raconteurs. Black, by Pearl Jam. Comfortably Numb, by Pink Floyd. Lithium by Nirvana. Boulevard of Broken Dreams by Green Day. Father Hook was one angsty son of a bitch, she thought. Either that or he had been driven into the priesthood by a really, really bad breakup. She was surprised she hadn't found a couple of big bottles of Klonopin and Prozac in the medicine cabinet.
The music changed to Mozart's Requiem (yeah, that's angsty as fuck too, she thought) and she saw the light snap on in the kitchen. Moving around the house, she saw him pour himself a scotch, open a can of tuna, and then proceed to eat it right out of the can with a salad fork while leaning against the counter. Guess no one brought over a casserole today. It all looked unbearably lonely and sad. She was actually starting to feel sorry for him.
Dinner concluded, she saw the bathroom light switch on and the sound of water running in the shower. She moved back around to the rear of the house and raised her binoculars to peer into the bedroom, noting that he hadn't bothered pulling down the shade. Well, why would he? The church and rectory were located on an isolated headland on the edge of Storybrook. It overlooked the sea and backed up to a fairly dense copse of trees.
Evidently, he liked long showers, because she was getting bored and fidgety by the time he breezed into the bedroom, droplets of water still glistening on his shoulders and – God have a mercy – only wearing a towel around his waste. She swallowed hard a couple of times and tried to steady her slightly shaky hand on the binoculars. She felt like a completely perverted voyeur. A wave of shame washed over her for grotesquely invading the man's privacy, but she suppressed it determinedly. He was hiding something, she was absolutely certain. What kind of a priest brazenly feels up a woman at bar?
But he wasn't exactly hiding anything now. She watched, transfixed, as he walked with deliberate strides to the window and looked out. She could swear that he knew she was out there because she felt like he was looking right at her. He stood there for what seemed like an eternity as she debated making a run for it.
He was perfectly framed in the light of the window as he slowly unwrapped the towel. Suddenly she was staring right at his naked body in all its male, freshly showered glory. Feeling even dirtier, she zoomed in on his crotch. Fucking hell, he was well-hung. As he stood apparently unconcerned at the window, she watched fascinated as his cock began to grow right before her eyes. When he reached down and began to stroke it, she nearly dropped her binoculars. Her throat suddenly felt parched as the back of her neck began to prickle and a sense of renewed panic set in. It was as if he could see her in the dark. The sick bastard knew he was being watched and was deliberately putting on a show for her benefit! He smirked out into the darkness before reaching up and slowly pulling down the shade on his impromptu peep show.
Emma fled after that, and she didn't really stop shaking until she'd gulped down a few shots of bourbon and pulled the covers over her head in her childhood bedroom.
Emma went out of her way to avoid the hot priest for the remainder of the week. She even went so far as to duck into a store and pretend to look at birthday cards to avoid walking by him in the street. She utterly refused to go to Mass on Sunday, instead hanging out with her father and watching football with him for most of the day.
She finally caught a glimpse of him late one evening sitting at the bar at Tony's while she was at a table grabbing a late dinner with Ruby, Graham, Belle and Ashley. She didn't speak to him, and he made no move to say hello either, just nursed his drink while Milah, the town skank, hung all over him. Well, they say Jesus liked to hang with prostitutes too.
Despite herself, she felt the tiniest bit jealous while she watched them, and just the tiniest bit miffed that he appeared to completely ignore Emma.
She was enjoying a mild buzz from the wine she'd drunk as she walked down the deserted streets, her high heels echoing loudly off the dark buildings. She had just ducked down an alley near the hardware store to cut across the schoolyard to her house when she felt herself being shoved up against the wall and pinned there by a pair of strong arms, one pressing against the back of her neck, the other against her waist. Heart hammering, she struggled helplessly for a few moments until she heard him laugh darkly in her ear.
"I know it was you who broke into my house," he hissed, "don't bother trying to deny it, I could smell the remnants of your perfume. A word of advice, love, if you plan to continue your career in B and E, use a scent with less silage. Didn't I warn you young girls shouldn't inhale the scent of tuberoses after dark? It enflames the passions." She could feel his hot, whiskey-scented lips nibbling at her ear as he pressed her hard against the wall, her face scraping against the bricks.
Oh, holy fuck. He was turning her on. She could feel herself getting wet as her pussy clenched reflexively. He kicked her legs apart and she felt his hand roughly probing her between her legs and ripping off her G-string. She could have cried out for help, but something stopped her, and the next minute he was stuffing it in her mouth. Her heart was pounding and she was panting with arousal as she felt him brutally shove three fingers right up her hot, aching cunt. She moaned in response, rutting back against him.
He swore when he felt how wet she was. "What a wanton little voyeur you are, your tight little cunt already hot and dripping wet for me," he said, curling his fingers in a way that made her gasp.
"Haven't you ever heard the story about curiousity and the cat, Swan?" he continued in a sinister, conversational tone, stilling his hand for a moment. She whimpered with need and frustration, trying to fuck herself on his magic fingers but he shoved her back into the wall and held her still.
"You've been a very, very naughty girl indeed. And do you know what happens to naughty little girls?" he hissed. "Nod yes or no, Swan." He released her neck so that she could shake her head "no".
He chuckled, then his voice became even more threatening. "They get spanked and sent to bed without their supper. Would you like that, darling? Didn't I tell you I knew your most secret, forbidden desires?"
She moaned again as he shoved his fingers back into her and began to play with her more aggressively, expertly manipulating her and rubbing little circles around her swollen clit as she clenched around his fingers. He was winding her up tighter and tighter and she felt her walls beginning to flutter as a tremendous orgasm began building in her body.
"Come for me, now, Emma," he commanded darkly, as her body began to shake and her knees nearly gave way. She felt him sink his teeth into her neck and suck hard on the tender flesh, the pain only intensifying the violent waves of her release. Sweet Mother of Christ, he had made her see God. She continued to shudder as he soothed her through the aftershocks with his rough caresses. When the shaking had stopped, he moved his hand around to her belly and reached between her legs to continue caressing her as he ground himself against her ass. He was as hard as a rock and she wanted nothing more in that moment than for him to pull out his cock and fuck her right in the alley.
Instead, he stopped and pulled her panties out of her mouth, still holding her against the wall. "Do we understand each other, now, Swan?" he said, his voice husky and thrillingly sexy in her ear.
"Yyyyes," she stammered out, her voice trembling a little.
"There's a good girl," he said in a satisfied, slightly smug voice. "Oh, and I'll be keeping these as a trophy. Don't bother wearing anything under your skirt the next time you see me."
"You are one kinky bastard," she hissed back at him, still panting.
"So are you love, so are you," he said smugly, then melted into the darkness as she slowly sank to the cold pavement below, thoroughly shaken and still incredibly turned on.
THANKS FOR READING -I"M GOING IN A MUCH DARKER AND FILTHIER DIRECTION THAN IN MY OTHER STORIES. I"D LOVE YOUR FEEDBACK EITHER WITH A REVIEW OR A PM. I ALWAYS WELCOME SUGGESTIONS ABOUT WHAT YOU WOULD LIKE TO SEE NEXT AS THE STORY UNFOLDS.