IT'S FRIDAY, OR AS I LIKE TO THINK OF IT, WINE DAY. YOU WILL EITHER RUN SCREAMING FROM THE ROOM OR YOU WILL BEG ME FOR MORE. THERE IS NO MIDDLE GROUND.

Hit Me Baby One More Time

Emma had barely awakened the next morning when she flushed crimson with incredulity and embarrassment at what had happened to her at the party the night before. She'd allowed, no encouraged, the village priest to stroke and play with her private parts for hours in a public place, in full view of her parents, her friends, and everyone she had known for her entire life. He'd brought her to the edge of orgasm repeatedly, only to deny her at the last minute and leave her groin knotted and aching with frustration. He'd tied her up and brutally throat-fucked her, but only after she had literally begged him while on her knees. Then he had spread her out right on top of Regina Mills' priceless Louis XIV desk and eaten her pussy until she had shattered, her climax all the more intense for having being repeatedly denied and delayed. The fireworks across the lawn could not possibly have been nearly as loud or dazzling as the fireworks in her own head. She'd been nearly sobbing with shock and relief and almost unable to walk afterward, ducking into the nearest powder room to wipe away her tears, repair her makeup, and recover herself before rejoining the party.

She had never been more sexually aroused or satisfied in her life. She had never been more in the moment. Every single nerve ending in her body had seemed to be standing on end, fully alert to every sensation, every dimension. For the first time she could recall, including and especially during, sex, she had felt awake. Fuckstruck didn't even begin to cover it.

She stretched decadently under the covers, smiling at the memories. She ran her tongue over her still swollen lips, trying to taste the lingering remains of him. Her knees still burned from the carpet. She reveled in the sensation, as well as the lingering soreness in her throat, shoulders and wrists from where he had bound her. She reached down and gingerly explored herself between her legs, still sticky from her own release, feeling the sensitive, abused tissues. She tingled with renewed longing for his hands and mouth on her as she began to make little circles around her clit. As she rubbed harder, panting, she tried to remember every detail of the filthy things he had done to her body already. Then she began to fantasize about all the even filthier, even more depraved, things she was already wishing he would do…. He made her want to do things she had only ever read about in erotic fiction and the internet.

The priest had been right about Emma's perennial disappointment with the men she'd had in her life. Certainly her strong personality and intellect were off-putting to many men. Very, very few could stand up to the gale force of her formidable persona. And then she was very particular herself about her own idiosyncratic aesthetic and intellectual preferences. Even an otherwise attractive man could turn her off so easily with just the smallest of mistakes or absentminded omissions. Leaving the toilet seat up, for example. Instant dealbreaker. Presenting her with a bouquet of flowers that included filler flowers like carnations. Wearing sandals. Jewelry other than a watch and signet ring or cheap cologne. Tattoos. Using "impact" as a verb, or failure to use the Oxford comma in a sentence. A blind date who, when she'd told him she was from a town called Storybrooke, asked her "Where's that at?", and had been invited to leave immediately thereafter. One devastatingly handsome suitor had her swooning when he brought her a gorgeous bouquet of perfect pink peonies. For a few breathless moments, she'd thought surely she'd found "the one." That is, until she opened his handwritten card and read "To my darling Emma. How rare to find a woman who is not only beautiful, but intelligent to."

First, sentences that ended with a preposition. Then, T-O instead of T-O-O. She just couldn't live with that. It was TOO much.

Another boyfriend had succeeded in pleasing her pickiness for nearly two months when she had invited him to be her escort at a black tie fundraiser for the New York City Ballet. When he had shown up with a pre-tied black tie, she'd wanted to be sick, so great was her disappointment. The entire evening had been ruined. She just couldn't avert her eyes from that tie. Did this oaf not realize the total sexiness of a real bowtie later in the evening when it was, umm, untied? It was like he had a piece of spinach in his teeth. Which was a good thing, possibly, as it had diverted her mind from her parallel disappointment that he had failed to wear a proper black formal jacket with either a peak or a shawl (her debonair favorite) collar. He was wearing a fucking notch collar! Doesn't he know the difference? Sure, she was not expecting a normal guy to reach the sartorial sublimity of Eddie Redmayne on the Red Carpet or the style perfection of an eternal fashion icon like David Bowie or Bryan Ferry, but couldn't he even get the basics right?

Her girlfriends had ridiculed her mercilessly, comparing her to Jerry in Seinfeld, whose long list of stupid, picky reasons for breaking up with every beautiful girl he dated on the show included his incomprehension when he saw one spearing her peas individually with a fork at dinner. They'd tried to persuade her that every man was a possible "fixer upper", and she was regretfully beginning to think they were right.

Sex never lived up to her fantasies, either, even if she occasionally felt herself to be in love, and even if her partner was a considerate and experienced lover. She always found herself giving them directions. "A little to the left. Okay, that's good. Now could you add a finger? Okay, get up on your hands now." There was always a part of her that was not present in the moment. Instead, she was haunted by the superior, critical, ironic commentator part of her that hovered above her as she lay entangled with her lover, making sardonic remarks and observing how truly ridiculous they looked. It's not like she hadn't been open to adventure and experimentation with sex to overcome it, either. It's just that it had caused the little voice to taunt her even more. Perhaps she needed therapy.

Until him. That hot, perverted priest had entirely driven out the annoying little voice. He'd dominated her will and her caustic, carping mind with his brutal assertiveness and brazen self-assurance. He'd so overwhelmed and enveloped her with unfamiliar, pulsing sensations and did such filthy, unthinkable things to her that she could focus on nothing but him, and the million little feelings he aroused in every tiny fiber of her body. He had taken control and she'd been – finally—relieved of command. It had been incredibly exciting. But it had been oddly peaceful and liberating too. He was like her own personal Ecstasy.

She realized in the coming days that she was entirely obsessed with him. She found herself rereading The Thorn Birds for one thing. She'd also downloaded a British television miniseries called Grantchester featuring a crime-solving, hot priest with a drinking problem and a weakness for women named Sidney Chambers. She noticed with satisfaction that even the basically good and decent Sidney had fallen to the sin of fornication by Episode 5. And sometimes she still reran the scene in Episode 2 when the tall, handsome, and extremely well-built actor cast as Sidney is shown scything the tall grass in the churchyard in his undershirt. She would imagine the same scene with Father Hook and the next thing she knew she'd be touching herself again.

As days turned into weeks, however, her obsession and lust began to torment her as Hook steadfastly ignored her. He was perfectly polite as always, but it was if they were nodding acquaintances again, as if what had happened was only a dirty dream in her imagination. She'd run into him many times at the gym, at the bar at Tony's, at church, and even been seated next to him at dinner parties. But so far nothing had broken through his icy reserve.

She wondered if he still wanted her, or fantasized about her, but had decided that their illicit sexual encounters were simply too dangerous. Although it was quite likely and would have been entirely rational on his part, she had no real way of knowing, and that tormented her. As did her continuing inability to turn up any additional information on who he really was.

Sometimes she felt angry, and thought of telling Graham and everyone else what she knew about his apparently false identity, what he had done, but something always stopped her. Well, not "something", but rather her unwillingness to contemplate never seeing him again.

Feeling increasingly desperate, she began to take more overt measures. She would deliberately brush up against him on occasion, but he stepped away politely, murmuring "pardon" or "excuse me". She pushed a pair of her lacy panties into the rectory mailbox after spraying them with Carnal Flower. She even broke into the rectory again – twice. The first time, she opened his bottle of The Prisoner, poured a glass, and drained it, then left the used glass on the drainboard next to the corked wine. Another time she ripped the cover off of his copy of Great Expectations, ripped it down the middle, and left it lying on the bed.

No response.

She had turned into a creepy stalker. She kept singing The Police to herself. Every step you take…every vow you break…every smile you fake…I'll be watching you. She especially liked the line "every vow you break" with savage appreciation as she eyed the hot priest who now ignored her.

One day, utterly frustrated, she'd decided to go on a run in a particularly isolated part of the forest. She would run down to a cave she and her friends used to play in as children. They'd called it the "Cave of Wonders." As she approached it, she suddenly stopped dead, alerted by the sound of a shot nearby. It was hunting season still, so she was immediately cautious. Stepping back, she listened for more shots, then followed the sounds carefully, pulling her field glasses out of her fannypack as she moved through the trees. She caught sight of a figure in the distance and put the glasses to her eyes, crouching behind some bushes.

It was him. And he was reloading an extremely powerful-looking rifle with a telescopic site on it. Moving closer, Emma tried to examine the gun more closely. From where she could see, it looked like a bolt-action 660 mm Arctic Warfare rifle. Standard issue for British military snipers, she knew.

He was using a flattened rock to position the gun on its tripod. After reloading, she watched as he lay on his belly, adjusted the sighting, then began firing at a target located at least 500 yards away. She could barely see it even with her field glasses.

He clearly knew what he was doing and she thought back to the mysterious rifle cleaning kit she'd seen at the rectory. Obviously, he had another hiding place for the rifle itself. Watching his confidence with the gun, she felt a sudden gush of wetness between her thighs and she briefly thought about surprising him but then thought better of it. God, Emma, she said to herself, you are one sick puppy.

But she couldn't stop herself from watching him lustfully from afar, too turned on to move and pressing her thighs together reflexively, almost feeling like she was about to come just from watching him as he expertly broke down the rifle into pieces and stowed it into a waiting case, then picked up the spent shell casings and dropped them into his pocket. Then he disappeared through the woods. Presumably, he was on his way back to wherever he had hidden his car.

She waited a good, long time before she moved, almost frozen by the time she finally did start walking. She headed toward the direction he'd been shooting, as he'd headed away from it. She found the target and examined it. Nearly every shot had been a bullseye or close to it. Damn.

She ran back to the rock where he'd set up the rifle and began hunting in the snow systematically. It took her a while, but she finally found one spent shell casing he'd missed. She slipped it into her pocket.

The next day, she sealed it in an envelope and left it for him on his desk at the church.

Then, she began preparing for her next move.

When she finally made her move, several days had passed since she caught him at target practice. He continued to keep his distance, but she'd caught a couple of burning glances in her direction from him that tipped her off that she was getting under his skin. He looked infuriated She had decided nothing short of the boldest of actions was required.

"No half-measures," as Mike Ermentrout tells Walter White in Breaking Bad, the greatest show in the history of television.

Damn right. She might go down in flames, but at the very least she was confident the brazenness of her actions would appeal to him.

The following Thursday, the good Father was occupied with Evening Prayers and Confession. Shortly before she expected him to return to her office, Emma arrived, took off her concealing hat and large flapping wool coat, and seated herself in a chair in front of the desk in his office and waited.

She was dressed rather unusually – and entirely provocatively—for Emma. Her inspiration had been Britney circa 1999 – the Baby, One More Time video. She was wearing a very short, pleated plaid Catholic schoolgirl type skirt, a black lace push-up bra, and a white cotton blouse with the tails tied up under her breasts, exposing her midriff. Her blond hair was plaited in two braids tied with pink ribbons on either side of her head. Instead of knee socks and stacked heel shoes, however, she sported a pair of extremely high stiletto heeled black suede Stuart Weitzman boots with leather laces that crisscrossed up her calves and tied just under the knee.

The sound of his footsteps echoing down the long hallway, along with the anticipation of seeing him and the fear of what she was about to do, what might happen, had her soaking wet before he'd even opened the door. Cccrrreeaakk. She nearly jumped out of her skin as she heard the door slowly open behind her, but she didn't move a muscle, or turn her head to look at him. She heard him stop, then she could hear him standing behind her, breathing steadily. Her heart raced. Then after a long pause, she heard the door creak again and softly click shut. He stepped softly into her view, then pulled his chair out, and seated himself behind the desk without saying a word. He regarded her through hooded eyes, tenting his fingers as he observed her quietly. She thought she saw him swallow hard a couple of times as she watched his mind whir.

He slowly licked along his lower lip and exhaled audibly. "Miss Swan," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, "Are you in need of pastoral care?" A ghost of a smirk flickered across his face.

Feeling emboldened, Emma pouted her lips and then sucked her fingers as she regarded the priest, pretending to think about what she was going to say. Removing her fingers, she tugged on one of her braids, then leaned over the desk to say in a breathy, girlish voice, "I've been very, very naughty."

"Oh?" he said in an interested voice, his eyes darkening with lust, "How have you been naughty?" His voice no longer sounded politely impersonal. Instead, he was using the dark, commanding voice he had used in the alley and at Regina's party. The voice of her Master.

"You know," she pouted, slumping back in her chair, letting her legs fall apart so that he could get a good eyeful of her wet, panty-clad crotch.

"I do," he acknowledged in a disapproving, threatening tone. "You've been very naughty indeed. Do you remember what I told you happens to naughty little girls?"

"They get spanked and sent to bed without their suppers?" Emma tried not to sound hopeful. "Is that all, Hook?" she continued in a deliberately bratty voice as she played with her braids and hooked one leg over the arm of the chair. She was baiting him now.

"That's Father Hook, to you, young lady," he warned, menacingly. "I won't tolerate disrespect."

She stood up then, placed both her hands on the desk, and leaned toward him over the desk. He had an eyeful of cleavage and black lace as she provocatively moistened her pink lips. "Would it be alright if I called you Father?"

Before he could answer, she leaned even further over the desk, so far she was falling out of her shirt. "Or how about just Daddy?" She smirked at him before falling back into her seat, deliberately behaving like a brat. She hooked her leg over the seat arm and began to touch herself through her panties.

As turned on as she was, she could see that he was turned on too and was struggling to maintain his iron control. "Stop touching yourself immediately," he commanded harshly.

She immediately ceased, pouting, as he continued. "You are not to touch yourself – ever – without my permission, do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir," she said, hanging her head and looking up at him through her lashes.

He pulled open his center desk drawer and drew out a wooden school ruler. The same exact kind of ruler she'd had to keep in her desk all through grade school. He smacked it hard across his palm a few times experimentally, causing Emma to jump a little with fear and excitement. Then he carefully placed it on the desk.

"Stand up," he commanded. She rose. "Take off your shirt." She slowly untied the tails of her blouse, then unbuttoned the buttons and slipped it off her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.

"Good," he said, approvingly, leaning back in his chair. "Now take off your bra. I want to see your breasts."

She reached around and unhooked her bra, then pulled it off and stood before him, her nipples pebbling in the cool air. She had to clench her thighs together to relieve the burning between them as he watched her with eyes full of predatory desire, his face otherwise controlled.

He stood up slowly, then walked with light, deliberate steps to pull her into the center of the room. He stalked around her several times, examining her with a burning intense stare as he inspected her breasts.

After several turns, he stopped and cupped her breasts, testing their weight. He kneaded them gently before taking her hard nipples between his thumb and forefingers, squeezing them and then running his index fingers around them tantalizingly as she groaned and arched into his touch.

"Don't move," he admonished her. "You have beautiful tits, Swan," he said appraisingly. "Full, perfectly round and symmetrical. Lovely, pert pink nipples. So young and innocent…" He tweaked her nipples almost painfully as she gasped and tried not writhe, her pussy wet and clenching with need, praying he'd touch her there.

He trailed his hands from her neck, down along her shoulders, then slowly down her breasts and belly before pulling at the waistband of her skirt. "Raise your skirt," he ordered.

She could feel another gush of wetness at his words. She obediently pulled the skirt up and he dropped to one knee and placed his hands on her ass. He pressed his mouth to her white cotton panties and inhaled, then nipped at her clit through the fabric. She flinched and clenched her thighs, shuddering with arousal.

"Virginal white cotton panties – nice touch," he said.

"I thought they went with the outfit," she said sincerely, still panting and trying not to thrust her pelvis against his mouth.

He leaned back again, a slightly surprised look on his face. "And you've gotten a Brazilian?"

"Like I said, it goes with the outfit," she said, her eyes glazed with longing as she looked at him. The Brazilian wax job had hurt like a bitch but it had been worth it. She was entirely hairless down there and looked either like a prepubescent girl or a porn star. Either would do for her purposes.

"So naughty," he breathed, "Such a dirty, filthy little girl you are," he said, flicking her wet panty crotch with his fingers.

He stood up then, walked behind her, then spun her around and stood her in front of the mirror mounted on the wall. He reached his hand into her panties and fingered her swollen clit as she leaned back against him, closing her eyes and moaning with relief as she writhed against him.

"Open your eyes, Swan," he ordered, "Look at what I do to you."

She did as she was told and opened her eyes to drink in the pornographic sight of his big hand plunged into her virginal white cotton panties and delving aggressively between her legs, probing her roughly as she gasped and writhed.

He deftly played with her, bringing her right up to the brink then taking his hand away and she cried out in frustration. He ignored her as he dropped back to one knee and took the top of her panties between his teeth and tugged them down. She practically came right then and there.

"Please, please touch me again," she begged, closing her eyes, nearly in pain with want. "Please, I need to come."

"No, Swan, you're a very naughty girl and you'll take your punishment before I'll even consider letting you come," he chastised, smoothly pulling her panties the rest of the way down with his hands. She stepped out of them, then reached between her legs, not to make herself come, but just to press her hand against her dripping folds to ease the ache.

He slapped her hand away. "I told you not to touch yourself!" he said sternly. She put her hands guiltily behind her back and awaited his next command.

"That will cost you. Walk over to the desk, bend over and place your elbows on the surface." His voice was like a drug, and she could feel herself moving toward the desk as if propelled by a force outside her body. She bent over obediently and placed her elbows as instructed. The waiting, the anticipation, the fear of what was coming next drove her nearly insane with lust, and she could feel the moisture dripping down her legs. Every nerve was screaming as she struggled to control herself, imagining what feelings he might awaken in her, what he might do to her, whether she'd be able to bear it. She could feel herself pulsing with need, even more than the night of Regina's party.

He walked slowly over to the desk, then picked up the wooden ruler, and walked back around behind her. She stood as still as she could, quivering with fear and excitement as he tantalized her by drawing out the process and standing silently behind her.

"I was going to go easy on you for your many transgressions, Swan, and confine your punishment to ten strokes only. But you've been so very deliberately wicked and disobedient, I regret I have no choice but to double the number to twenty," he said, sounding not at all regretful. He suddenly smacked the ruler against his hand again, causing her to jump.

He carefully raised her skirt and held it gathered in his left hand. She braced herself. She heard the sound of the ruler as it slammed into her tender skin even before she felt the shock of the first, staggering bloom of sharp pain. She cried out and struggled not to move. "One," he said quietly. Three more cracks followed in quick succession, each delivered with precision to a different, tender part of her ass. Tears were leaking from her eyes as her body went on high alert, adrenaline electrifying every nerve. After the fifth, he stopped and began to rub her flaming skin with his warm, comforting hand, soothing the sting and causing another warm gush of liquid between her legs. His hands roved down her cleft and between her legs as he teased her clit and sank his fingers into her cunt, curling them just the way that made her groan with need. The stinging pain and the throbbing pleasure began to merge into one as she involuntarily pressed against his hand.

"What a wanton little trollop you are," he said, his voice tickling her like a caress as he played with her, "You were already wet when I walked into the room, and now you're dripping down your thighs. I'm beginning to think you're enjoying your punishment."

God, yes, she was enjoying it. But just as she began to relax he removed his hand and delivered four more sharp blows, this time to her sensitive upper thighs, causing her to scream in pain and him to hiss with disapproval.

He stopped for a moment and she could hear him moving in the room behind her in the room. Her heart leapt with anticipation about what he would do next, then she gasped as he stuffed her panties into her mouth to quiet her. "Come now, Swan, I expected more from you. Keep quiet."

She focused hard on breathing, the same way she had done the last time she had run the New York Marathon, her lungs and quads burning by the time she'd crossed the finish line. This was no different, and she knew she could do it. But before she could completely regain her physical composure, he began raining down more blows on her already tender backside. She was sobbing now as her ass and upper thighs throbbed with pain and her cunt with need, but she refused to move any more than the force of the blows required. Even her scalp and the soles of her feet were tingling with sensation. Her mind was blank save for anything other than sensation, whichever sensation he permitted her to experience at any one moment. Her body, her experience, and he seemed to permeate the entire universe.

Her mind had floated off into an endorphin-induced trance when she heard him say, finally, "Twenty." She felt triumphant and had a transitory impulse to high five herself, but she stubbornly held her position and waited for his next command.

"What do you say, Swan?" he asked her, his hand on the small of her back, his voice quietly threatening.

Her mind, which had been on a long-needed vacation, suddenly swung into high level survival mode.

"Thank you?" she said, her voice quavering.

"Thank you, what?" he shot back, pressing her harder.

"Thank you, Sir?" she answered.

He relaxed his hold on her and stepped back.

"Very good," he said approvingly, flooding her with completely irrational feelings of elation. "Now walk over to the ottoman in front of the reading chair, kneel down in front of it, and lie down on it. Pull your skirt up around your waist."

Part of her wanted to rejoice with happiness at the possible implications of this. The other, cautious part of her quavered with fear. But she quietly walked over to the ottoman and did exactly as he had ordered her. As she leaned over the ottoman and raised her skirt, she stuck her throbbing ass in the air. Every one of her senses seemed especially sensitized. She could every creak of the floorboard as he walked, the soft whoosh of the heating vents. She could smell the musty odor of the old upholstery, and the subtle fragrance of the cologne he wore. She could feel every indentation and scar in the ancient leather of the ottoman to which she clung. When she closed her eyes, she could see exploding pinwheels of color and pattern just like she had the one time she'd tried LSD in college.

She listened in a heightened state of awareness as he walked over to her and stood behind her. She heard a rustling sound as loud as a roar to her sensitive hearing as he unzipped and (she hoped) pulled his cock out. She was throbbing with desire, her body so alight with desire that she was certain that she would go up in flames at any moment if he didn't give her what she needed – no, what she craved.

She was trembling with need as she felt him rub the wide tip of his shaft against her aching wetness and she bit her lip to keep herself from whimpering with need. She knew that would only prolong her suffering. She steeled herself not to rut back against him as he continued to rub himself on her, teasing her into a near frenzy, her mind and body crackling like dry tinder.

"Please," she finally whispered, her need unbearable.

"Please, what?" he asked, implacable.

"Please, Sir," she tried helplessly.

"What do you want?" he said, almost tenderly as he caressed her throbbing ass.

"Please, please put your cock in me, Sir," she implored, nearly sobbing with her aching desire.

"Well, since you put it so nicely," he said approvingly. He sank his cock fully into her as she cried out with pleasure and pain as he entered her. She was ready, so ready for him but still she stretched to accommodate the size and hardness of his entire length and girth. When he bottomed out and hit her cervix, she cried out and tried to wiggle away but he grasped her hips and pulled her hard against him as she struggled. He smacked her already sore ass a few times and she relaxed, feeling him twitching inside her.

She relaxed around him, and she could hear him calming his breathing as he pulled out of her and began teasing her entrance, entering and retreating just a few inches, repeatedly, tantalizing her most sensitive spot as she gritted her teeth and tried not to rut back against him. It drove her mad with pleasure yet denied her the full, merciless thrusts she craved.

"What do you want?" he whispered, pulling back again, his cock twitching.

"Please fuck me hard, Sir," she rasped, the words torn from her throat. No longer able to control herself she rutted back against him just as he slammed into her hard. "Oh God, oh god, oh god," she sobbed, practically weeping with gratitude as she clenched around his throbbing cock and he pounded into her over and over.

"I tried to stop myself," he said despairingly into her ear as he covered her with his body, "But I couldn't. I've wanted to fuck your hot, wet little cunt since I first laid eyes on you….you're mine now, Swan, and I feel sorry for you…." He reached between her legs and all it took was the merest touch of his fingers to send her exploding into a million pieces, riding the aftershocks until she exploded yet again in another mind-blowing orgasm.

He followed her, unable to hold back a second longer, his cock pulsing as he came hard, cursing filthy endearments, and she could feel him filling her with his sticky pleasure, already weeping with relief and a twisted sense of gratitude. As his body stilled, she lay there in an endorphin-induced stupor, crying and laughing at the same time, the reactions of a person experiencing mild shock.

Realizing what was happening, he sat back and pulled her to him, cradling her head on his chest and rocking her head on his chest as she subsided into sobs. "I ddd-ont know why I'm crying," she babbled, still gripped by the intensity of the experience.

"I'm so sorry, Swan, was I too rough with you?" he crooned, caressing her face with his hand. "I don't know why I'm like this…I won't do it again."

She drew back from him, then, aghast. "No! Please don't say that…." She sobbed harder.

"What?" he said in a surprised voice his face ashen.

Her voice was shaky as she groped for the right words. "Th—th-that was the…well, the most incredible experience of my life," she said, her voice faltering but stronger with every word. "I don't want you stop. I mean it," she said, more firmly.

Then she looked up into his eyes. "Please, Sir," she said. His eyes darkened immediately in response.

He held her for a long time. He felt warm and safe and she had clung to him for a long, long time, neither of them speaking. She didn't want to ruin the exquisiteness or singularity of the experience by talking about it. This wasn't something to be understood and categorized intellectually or overanalyzed with spoken words or the hard light of irony and pragmatism. That would ruin it. That would ruin everything. She wasn't sure which one of them was the more shaken by the experience.

Nonetheless, when she finally said goodbye and slipped away, she didn't leave the church immediately. Instead, she bolted into a bathroom off the narthex and into a stall. Opening her purse, she took something out, put her leg up onto the toilet, and stuck the swab up into her vagina. She swabbed around to make sure she had an adequate semen sample, then pulled it out and dropped it into a waiting plastic bag. She sealed it tight, placed it carefully in a zippered compartment of her purse, and stole away from the church into the coldness and darkness of the winter night.