SIR PSYCHO SEXY

It was after Christmas when Emma finally got a response from her FBI contact in Quantico. She woke up early one January morning to ice encrusted windows, frigid temperatures, and the buzzing of her phone indicating a new text message.

I've got the results you were looking for. Will be in Boston Thurs – meet me for lunch?

Frowning, Emma sat up in bed and immediately texted back.

Can't you just email or call me to discuss?

Her phone buzzed back seconds later.

No. Better to talk in person. Meet me Sandrine's near Harvard Square, 1 pm.

"OK" she texted back. She threw the phone down on the bed and flopped back against the pillows. Her heart was racing and her stomach was doing somersaults. If the information was so sensitive he didn't feel comfortable sharing it over the phone or in email, she must have stumbled onto a real bombshell. Was he a criminal? A terrorist?

Drug smuggler?

Her mind raced through numerous increasingly implausible theories. One thing she was sure of, however – he was most definitely a sexual deviant and a total perv. And since she was apparently powerless to resist him, what the hell did that make her? He seemed to have tapped into some very deep, dark, and tormented part of her of psyche. He'd so messed with her mind that she could no longer distinguish between pain and pleasure or right and wrong. He made her heart race, her skin prickle, and her body burn with desire. She thought about him obsessively, constantly. She could never get enough of him and the past few weeks had been utter torment. He'd barely given her the time of day.

According to him, the Christmas season was an exceedingly busy and demanding time for "religious professionals", as he'd explained patronizingly to her and Mary Margaret.

Desperate for any kind of a fix for her addiction, she'd suddenly found herself attending nearly every Advent and Christmas service. She'd sit through mass in a sort of stupor, unable to tear her eyes away from….his hands. She couldn't stop thinking of all the things those hands had done to her. Every. Dirty. Thing.

Every so often, her eyes would drag themselves away from his hands and find herself fixated on his luscious lips as they formed the words, the tip of his wicked tongue occasionally running along his bottom lip, the flash of his wolfish teeth. She would suddenly find herself nearly panting and shivering as she remembered his teeth on her nipples and his tongue licking her pussy as she writhed under him. She'd find herself clenching and shifting her bottom on the pew uncomfortably, realize what she was doing, then focus on deep breathing to steady herself again. And the mere thought of the burn of his belt or the wooden ruler on her tender flesh caused her to clench instantly and nearly climax without even touching herself.

Occasionally, his mellifluous voice would penetrate her consciousness enough to realize that whether or not he was a real priest, he seemed completely comfortable and at ease delivering the liturgy. Never did he stumble or hesitate in the slightest, nor did he ever consult the open catechism before him. He seemed sure and practiced in a way that suggested a thoroughgoing and longstanding familiarity with the material. It made her think that at the very least, he'd probably grown up with a fairly thorough Catholic education of some kind.

That made her wonder about Ruby's comment of several months ago that Graham suspected the priest's accent was fake. What did that indicate? Was he an American pretending to be British? A working class chav trying to pass as an educated Englishman? A member of the Russian mafia trying to pretend to be English? What?

Bumping into Graham one day at Granny's and catching up on mutual friends, she casually asked him what he'd meant by his comment.

"So, do you think he's trying to pass himself off as a toff or do you think he's not even English?" she'd asked.

"No – the opposite," Graham replied as he finished the last of his French fries. "He's a toff with a posh accent, but he deliberately dumbs it down to estuary English. Every once in a while, I hear him slip and the public school boy he truly is inside just oozes out of his mouth."

"Explain," Emma demanded. "What's 'estuary English' and why would someone do that?"

Graham shrugged. "It's pretty common among politicians like Tony Blair and David Cameron, young privileged people embarrassed by their upper class origins, and even some members of the royal family. They dumb down their accents to something called 'Estuary English" - the typical accent of southeastern England located somewhere between cockney and R.P. – that's received pronunciation for you novices."

"Really!" Emma sat back in the booth and fiddled with her straw. "I had no idea. So you think the priest is faking it?"

"Definitely. I'm betting he attended one of the more exclusive public schools, but he's talking like an IT tech from Milton Keynes." Graham snorted.

"I wonder why?" Emma mused.

"Why, indeed?" Graham responded, frowning. "I don't like him one bit."

Emma laughed. "I'd say you've made that fairly obvious. Don't see you two bro'ing out together anytime soon over a few beers."

"You got that right," Graham said, as he rose to leave.

Emma decided to do a little research on estuary English and try to do a bit of sleuthing herself but finally gave up. Not having grown up British with the exquisite, ingrained sensitivity to what an accent reveals about the class or geographic origins of another person, she was hopeless as an amateur Henry Higgins.

Besides, she'd had frustratingly few one on one encounters with the maddeningly sexy priest and when she had seen him, she was more interested in what was in his pants than conversation of any kind. On one occasion, he'd pulled her into a coat closet at Regina's annual Christmas party. While the rest of the guests had been assembled merrily around the piano in the Great Room singing "Deck The Halls" and "Jingle Bells", she'd been on her knees giving him the best blow job of her life. She'd fondled and licked his heavy balls until he'd groaned with pleasure and she could feel them tightening in her mouth. She'd used her hands to squeeze him as she sucked and licked his cock hard, slowly swallowing him deeper and deeper, enjoying his helpless little moans of pleasure and the tortured expression on his face as she repeatedly brought him to the brink of orgasm only to slow down again as he throbbed and pulsated in her mouth. A tennis racquet fell on her head, but she ignored it. Finally, she teased him to the point he could bear it no longer and he seized her head and plunged forcefully several times down her throat, nearly choking her. Expecting him to shoot his load down her throat, he surprised her by pulling out at the last minute and coming all over her face, thick ropes of semen bursting out of his dick as he jerked himself with his hand. It seemed to fall in torrents on her forehead, cheeks, mouth and neck.

"Enjoy that, come slut?" he asked tenderly as he rubbed the thick, milky fluid into her skin. Then he handed her what looked like an old tennis sweater of Robin's. Emma cleaned herself off as best she could, then guiltily stuffed the sweater underneath a pile of old boots, fervently hoping no one would be able to identify the telltale residue when the sweater was at least unearthed.

She made a move to duck out of the closet but he firmly pulled her against his chest. She felt his hand lift her skirt and caress her bare ass.

"How did those welts heal?" he murmured, running his fingers lightly back and forth as she shivered with arousal at the memory of his belt against her skin and his cock in her ass as he forced orgasm after orgasm from her body as she lay plastered against Gold's vibrating sports car.

He moved his hands around and began delving into her wet folds, his thumb circling her swollen, needy little clit. She responded with little gasps and pants and reflexively ground herself against him.

"I can't wait to give you another whipping. I'm sure you deserve one," he said in a low, threatening voice. "I've seen the way you've looked at me at Mass with your mind filled with filthy thoughts and your hot little pussy squirming against the bench. And I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Sometimes I wish you wouldn't come to church, because watching you makes me so painfully hard I can't concentrate. All I can think of is wrapping your hair around my cock then bending you over the pulpit and fucking you till you beg for mercy."

Between his talented fingers and his dirty talk, she could feel a tremendous orgasm building quickly within her and her legs began to tremble. He thrust two long fingers hard into her wet heat and whispered "Come for me."

That was all it took for the wave to break as the detonation of her orgasm caused her entire body to jerk, a torrent of wetness gushing over his fingers, tears filling in her eyes as she sobbed quietly with relief and sank boneless against him. She would have fallen to the floor had he not held her erect with an iron grip, continuing to stroke her as a second orgasm built hard on the heels of the first and crashed over her until she was stunned senseless. Beyond the closet confines, the assembled guests had just burst into "Joy To The World". But as she slowly recovered her wits, all she could hear in her own head was the "Hallelujah Chorus."

When Emma collected herself and returned to the party shortly thereafter, she'd found herself trapped in conversation with some of the sweet old ladies in Mary Margaret's knitting circle. Apparently they were all knitting little Christmas presents for the Good Father Hook, clucking like a gaggle of hens about what a lovely, polite young man he was, and what a Godly inspiration his religious devotion provided to the young people of Storybrooke. He was a real role model.

Emma chuckled darkly to herself as she listened, impassive, to their nattering. If they only knew that at this very moment she could still feel their role model's dried semen on her skin, her lips tender and swollen from the punishment of this "Godly" man's huge, porn star cock pulsating in her mouth and ramming her throat. Yeah right, she thought cynically, he's god-like all right, but not quite like they imagine.

After the closet incident, the week between Christmas and New Year's Day seemed to crawl, each day leaving Emma feeling more fidgety and frustrated. She was constantly tempted to touch herself and even get her vibrator out of its secret hiding place, but then she would remember his prohibition and stop herself. She told herself it was absurd, yet somehow his power over her was such that she couldn't bring herself to disobey, even in secret. Somehow she knew he would know if she lied to him.

Her patience was finally rewarded on New Year's Eve at Leroy's party when he followed her to an upstairs bathroom, bent her over the sink, and fucked her so roughly she was sure she was torn and bleeding. He battered her with his monstrous, rampant beast until they both came shuddering, Insatiable, he was hard again minutes later, impaling her on his shaft with violent, punishing strokes and yanking her tormented hips against him until he came again with a feral growl. His hard use of her left her swollen and sore the next day but she didn't care. She'd reveled in the thick, hard length of him sliding in and out of her, had missed painfully the feel of him inside her, the feeling of being entirely filled and possessed by him. She'd almost wept with relief as he had plunged into her, so desperate to feel his body against hers that she'd lain awake afterward until daybreak, constantly tempted to sneak out of the house to the Rectory and crawl into bed with him. Even if he whipped her for her disobedience. Especially if he whipped her.

She'd started to think seriously about consulting a shrink when she'd finally received the text from her contact, and she could hardly wait until Thursday to find out what he knew. When the long awaited day arrived at last, she woke before dawn, dressed and went to her car. She'd decided to drive the roughly two hour distance to Boston, and had told her parents the night before she needed to attend a business meeting there regarding a possible new case for her agency.

Her FBI contact, Peter, was in town as a guest speaker at the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard, so they were meeting in Cambridge rather than downtown Boston. Dropping her car off at the Charles Hotel, Emma walked the few blocks over to Harvard Square, the snow from record setting snowfalls still piled high everywhere. Cambridge was always a fascinating place to people watch. Even the homeless panhandlers were articulate and well educated. The mellow red brick buildings of Harvard College seemed to smile benignly in the weak winter sun on the throngs of Asian tourists and students passing in front. Emma could always spot a Harvard student a mile away – they always had a look about them that suggested they were truly one of God's Elect. Crossing the Square toward Harvard Yard, she ducked onto a side street and entered Sandrine's, a delightful, intimate French restaurant that Peter liked to frequent when he was in town.

He was waiting for her as she entered, standing to greet her with a hug and light kiss on the cheek. Over six feet tall and stunningly handsome with amazing cheekbones that could cut glass, Peter Quinn was the most swoon worthy ex-spook she'd ever run across, and she'd met a few. He'd worked mostly overseas in a shadowy capacity for the CIA for many years before supposedly getting out of the spy business to become a profiler with the FBI, though Emma strongly suspected he continued to work for "the Company" when his special talents were required. Emma had gotten to know him a few years earlier when her agency had worked with the FBI to infiltrate and break up a notorious gang of art thieves and counterfeiters associated with the Albanian mafia. It had been Emma who had finally broken open the case by tracking down and identifying the organization's leader, a ruthless, violent career criminal named Radek Mogavech. He was the key to an international crime organization that specialized not only in art insurance fraud and counterfeiting, but car and identity theft, large-scale jewelry and casino heists, and human trafficking.

Emma had heard a rumor that the "big man" had a mistress in Manhattan. She eventually identified the woman as a Brazilian national and former model named Raffaela Dominguez. She'd followed her and discovered she had her nails done regularly at a small salon in her apartment building on the upper west side. Emma had started frequenting the place, made friends with the rather lonely Raffaela, and eventually began putting pieces together from the bits of information Raffaela had unwisely and indiscreetly confided in her.

The revelations had led to some major busts in the organization but Mogavech himself slipped away at the last minute, probably forewarned by an insider in the local police force.

They exchanged pleasantries, inspected the menu, and ordered before getting down to business.

"How do you know this man?" Peter asked her abruptly, casting aside his menu.

Emma hedged. "I'm spending the winter in my hometown in Maine, a town on the coast called Storybrooke. He's recently moved there, and there are a few things about him that don't add up. Just thought I'd check him out." She fumbled with the napkin in her lap.

"Would it be indelicate of me to ask how you obtained a semen sample from him?"

"Yes, actually, it would," she looked down at her lap, blushing furiously.

"No judgment, Emma," he reassured her, leaning over the table and lowering his voice. "But you should know you're potentially involved with a very dangerous and unpredictable man."

She was on the edge of her seat now, her neck prickling. She knew it! She knew that bastard was hiding something. "Who is he – and what is he, exactly."

She was frustrated when they were interrupted by the waiter bringing their salads. When the waiter had gone, she leaned forward again expectantly.

Peter hesitated. "Emma, I'm willing to share some information with you as a personal favor, but you have got to understand that this is highly sensitive, even classified, information. I had to call in some rather large favors to find out as much as I have. I shouldn't really tell you anything."

"You mean if you tell me, you'll have to kill me?" she joked.

"Something like that," he grinned faintly.

"Of course I understand, Peter, and I think you know from our experiences together that you can count on my discretion."

"It's still all kinds of wrong for me to tell you anything, but I'm actually concerned enough about you that I think you need to know," he said, taking a sip of water.

"Know what? For Gods sake, you can't leave me hanging like this!" Emma said, breathless now. She tapped on the table nervously, unable to consider even a morsel of food.

"Okay, his real name is Jones – Killian Jones. Or more precisely, Killian Andrew St. John Fawsley-Jones." He pronounced "St. John" as "Sin-jin".

"You're kidding," she said, exhaling gustily. "He sounds like a character in a Monty Python sketch of Upper Class Twit of the Year."

Peter grinned at her, and speared a forkful of salad. "Kind of. Aristocratic, but completely dysfunctional family. Father was the black sheep of the family, virtually disowned, a compulsive gambler, a drunk, a serial womanizer. Drank and gambled himself into penury then shot himself to death in a Monte Carlo hotel room. Mother was a fragile, sheltered little rich girl who developed a bad cocaine habit and later spent years in and out of rehab and institutions with mental health issues. The son – only child by the way - was practically an orphan, shuttled between lots of aunties and cousins who didn't give a shit about him and actually spent most of his time in boarding schools from the time he was about eight."

"That sounds kind of sad," Emma said, mulling it over. It tugged at her heart to imagine the lonely, abandoned little boy he must have been. Then her face turned inquisitorial again. "What boarding school?" she queried sharply.

"Ampleforth College in Yorkshire. It's a very prestigious Roman Catholic public school run by Benedictine monks," Peter explained.

"Ah, that explains a lot," Emma said thoughtfully, spearing a slice of pear in her salad.

Peter continued. "He comes from a dissipated, effete family of Roman Catholic aristocrats – kind of like Sebastian Flyte in Brideshead Revisited. He read theology at Cambridge, then went to Sandhurst. Ended up as an army sniper and then joined a special ops team."

"Special ops? Don't you mean black ops?" Emma pressed him.

Peter gave her a ghost of a smile. "Now you know if I told you that I really would have to kill you, right? But let's just say that he, like me, was in the business of killing bad guys."

Emma grinned back at him then went at it from a different angle. "What kind of record does he have?"

"Hellraiser, unpredictable, in and out of trouble for most of his school and university career. Borderline at Sandhurst, but proved himself to be absolutely top notch as a sniper and special ops officer. Deadly accurate marksman, resourceful in tight situations, and absolutely fearless. Recklessly so. Awarded several honors for gallantry and courage under fire. Worked with both MI-6 and CIA after the military," Peter explained, running a hand through his hair.

He went silent as the waiter removed their salad plates and replaced them with the entrees they'd ordered, mushroom tarte flambee for her, steak frites for him.

"Come on Peter, isn't that what people like you get paid to be?" Emma teased after the waiter had departed. She knew good and well that Peter himself had been notorious in black ops and was still involved.

"It's a fine line. A lot of men drawn to high risk professions like test pilots and special forces have a low autonomic response nervous system. They are the opposite of the anxious, nervous type – they crave thrills, risk, and danger because it's the way they feel alive. It's addicting for them, like a drug, and it's hard to stop. But it can go too far, and believe me when I tell you, 'wet work' over time can inflict some fairly major psychological trauma and mental instability. There's a high rate of marital failure and suicide with them. When they burn out, sometimes they just fall apart. I know I did."

"So, Jones, is he still in the company then?" Emma asked, furrowing her brow.

"From what I can tell, he dropped out of sight a few years ago. A lot of what went down in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq – it was pretty bad if you were special forces of any kind but especially black ops. On top of that, he was involved in an operation in Caracas that went terribly wrong. The support team totally botched it and he accidentally killed a ten year old boy. He ended up in a mental ward himself and was diagnosed with severe post-traumatic stress."

"And then? Is he now considered 'cured'?" Emma pressed, her mouth agape.

"Don't know. He walked out of the hospital one day and went AWOL. There seems to be some intelligence he got mixed up with your old pal Radek Mogavech, may have been part of a big casino heist, and the theft of a big cache of diamonds in Rotterdam. Rumor has it he may have worked as a hired assassin not only for Mogavech for one of the mobs from the former Soviet Union – not sure which one."

Emma pushed back her chair and shook her head. "It seems likely he's hiding out, but whether from his former government employers or mobsters, it doesn't sound too clear."

Peter nodded. "Probably hiding from both, since it sounds like when the big bust of Mogavech's organization went down, Jones managed to get away with both the diamonds and the casino loot. He's a marked man for double crossing Mogavech and I don't blame him for going to ground. I also suspect he's probably gotten some fairly high level inside help to do it from our guys. Whatever his sins, no one – no one - in either American or British intelligence wants this guy to surface, including being arrested by local law enforcement. He knows too much, and he's too unstable. Although they might not care if he turns up dead at the hands of his former criminal associates."

"What about a wife or girlfriend?" Emma asked.

"Dude has no trouble attracting women, but I can tell you from personal experience that there is no possibility of a long term, stable, or healthy relationship in his particular line of work. And I couldn't find any evidence of any such connection in his file."

They ate their main courses in silence for a while, then Peter gave her an appraising look. "Okay, Emma, your turn. What name is he using and what did he tell you he did for a living?"

"This is – awkward," she responded, honestly. "He goes by the name of James Hook. Father James Hook. He's pretending to be the parish priest of our local Catholic church."

Peter started laughing then, vastly amused. "Fuck me," he said, gasping with mirth, "Are you telling me you're bonking the local priest?"

Emma gave him an annoyed expression. "Yes, and it's the best sex of my entire life," she responded tartly. "Unfortunately."

"Well, given the fact he seems to be trying to hide out and stay off the grid, it seems like reckless behavior even for him. How did your little affair start?" he asked her, mystified.

"Umm, I think 'reckless' does not even begin to cover the level of insanity of his sexual thrill seeking. It's like he wants to be caught. He doesn't even bother pretending with me anymore. And it 'started', as you so diplomatically put it, when he shoved me up against the wall of an alley, threatened me, and then felt me up, to give you the G rated version."

"Wow. Hot, I guess." Peter said, still amused. His face turned serious again. "But seriously, Em, you have no idea what's going on with this guy. He's potentially dangerous, even unstable. He may have an agenda you know nothing about as well. For all you know, he's there preparing to carry out a hit. You need to be careful."

"Like you're one to talk, " Emma retorted. "How's Carrie?"

Peter sighed, his shoulders drooping at the mention of the intelligence operative on whom he had had a crush for several years. "I don't know whether I'm more scared for her or more scared of her."

Emma nodded sympathetically. "I know the feeling. Good luck with that. "

"And you," he responded gravely. "But the best advice I can give you is, whatever kind of relationship or friends with benefits or kinky sex thing you've got going on with this priest slash hitman, you need to stop it - now. I don't know exactly what's up with him, but there isn't a doubt in my mind that this ends badly."

"I know that," she said, sadly, "But I can't stop. I just can't. But thanks for your help. I really appreciate it." She took a deep breath.

He regarded her silently for a few minutes. "I know there's nothing I can say to change your mind. But let me know if you get into trouble."

"Oh, I'm already in trouble – bad trouble," she said glumly.

"Oh there's one more interesting thing you should know. His choice of Storybrooke, Maine is rather curious given that a businessman named Gold also resides there, apparently. Know him?" Peter sat back in his chair and dabbed at his lips with his napkin.

"Sure," Emma responded, "What does he have to do with it?"

"We suspect Gold has had some involvement with Radek's group and others fencing stolen goods. I don't know if he and Jones even know each other, or if they do and that's the reason Jones came there. But it's an interesting coincidence, no?" Peter said, his curiosity evident.

"Very," Emma agreed, her voice thoughtful. "I've always thought Gold was shady as hell and the priest seems kind of fixated on Gold in a weird way." She refrained from relaying the car theft incident. "I'll keep an eye on that."

"Good. You might be able to help us out again if you see something," Peter said, sounding relieved.

Emma nodded solemnly. Peter motioned for the check.

I will also be posting updates of this fic on AO3. PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW OR PM ME WITH YOUR REACTIONS TO THIS LATEST TURN OF EVENTS! WHAT DO YOU THINK HE IS UP TO IN STORYBROOKE? ARE YOU SURPRISED BY HIS REAL IDENTITY? PLEASE DO LEAVE A REVIEW THEY KEEP ME GOING. I PLAN TO POST AN UPDATE ON SAVING PRINCE KILLIAN SOON.

PLEASE CHECK OUT MY NOW COMPLETED STORY TIED WITH A SILVER CHAIN (PIRATE & PRINCESS AU); my HISTORICAL FICTION ROMANCE style SAVING PRINCE KILLIAN, AND MY NEW ONE SHOT THE SPACE BETWEEN, A STORY WHERE I WORK OUT MY FRUSTRATIONS ABOUT HOW TERRIBLY EMMA IS TREATING KILLIAN ON THE SHOW CURRENTLY. NOT YOUR TYPICAL CS STORY. THANKS FOR READING!