Smut ahoy.

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'… And they will pay the penalty of eternal damnation, away from the presence of the Lord and the glory of His power!'

Archdeacon Claude Frollo thrust his finger into the air and cast hard, glittering eyes around his congregation. His thunderous words echoed off the stone walls of Notre Dame and up toward the vaulted ceiling.

The faces of the people below were pale, upturned, their eyes dancing with images of hellfire. It was his voice and presence they responded to as much as his words. They were in his domain, his thrall. Frollo slowly lowered his hand, such a feeling of vigour spreading through his chest.

He was just winding up to one of his favourite discourses on the deeds of the wicked when he noticed a figure in the last pew. Unlike the others, who were dressed in sombre black and grey, their faces pinched and pious, this young woman had a riot of curls and colourful clothes, and a red, bitten mouth, as if she'd been chewing her lower lip.

The sermon evaporated from his mind. It was replaced by images of his thumb rubbing hard over that soft lip; the feeling of her tongue running over it, of her taking it into her mouth and sucking. He gripped the lectern with both hands and breathed hard.

A moment later he snapped, 'For the glory of God, amen,' and descended the pulpit.

The parishioners blinked, the spell he'd woven rapidly unravelling. 'Amen,' they repeated.

Frollo swept down the centre aisle, his black robes swirling around him. Pausing for a moment at the last pew, he looked hard at the gypsy girl, and then at the vestry door. Then he strode on.

It took an interminable time for nearly a hundred and fifty parishioners to file out of the cathedral, each murmuring their goodbyes to the archdeacon and receiving his clipped responses. Frollo required all his self-restraint not to look to where he had last seen the gypsy. Would she still be sitting there? Would she be in the vestry by now?

Finally the cathedral was empty and he pushed the heavy oak doors closed. His palms rested on the wood a moment, his head bowed. 'Woe unto thee, sinners, hypocrites,' he murmured to himself. 'Ye shall receive the greater damnation.'

Frollo turned toward the vestry, his strides long.

Inside, the girl was waiting for him. It was a moment's work to slam and bolt the door and pull her into his arms. His mouth claimed hers and his hands her slender waist. She arched up to meet him, her mouth opening. How heated her flesh was, how soft she felt beneath his hands. He had never realised until recently how yielding a woman's body could be, so accustomed as he was to his own hard, cold flesh.

Her hands gripped his cassock and she whimpered, pressing herself closer to him. He had tried to be gentle with her the first time, by the baptismal font, but he, so inexperienced, so desperate for her, had been like a wild creature. She'd kissed him softly afterward, and told him that the burn of pain she'd felt at his first thrust had felt like penance. Then she'd whispered to him such secrets about her body that his eyes had grown round as communion hosts. Her hand had directed his fingers here and there as she spoke, until he gripped her wrists hard and snarled at her, demanding to know who had taught her such things.

'No one,' she whispered, her breath hot against his mouth. 'I discovered them for myself.'

The girl had confessed all manner of things to him. He was sure he would be able to tell if she lied, and there was nothing but truth in her trusting face. Nevertheless, he'd said in a harsh whisper, 'It is for me. These places, this knowledge. Only for me.' His expression had been his flashing pulpit expression, the one that would brook no argument, that promised perdition, damnation. She had held her breath and nodded.

Taking her by the hand he led her up a spiral staircase. High in the tower he kept his study, and he directed her to the pallet in the corner. Upon it they lay, tight around one another, until he felt that wildness come over him once more. Her slender fingers had been working at the buttons of his cassock and he divested himself of the garment and other parts of his raiment. She reached for him, but he grasped her hands and pushed her down, rolling her onto her belly and moving between her legs. With one hand he pinioned her wrists behind her back. The other hand rucked up her skirts until her lower half was bare beneath him. He listened to her panting lightly as he kneaded the flesh of her behind. By some instinct he wanted her like this, prone before him, her body a symbol of vulnerability. Frollo liked symbols and ritual. They vested an ordinary act with meaning and power, and this act, like everything else in this cathedral, would be subject to his governance.

His free hand dipped between her thighs and he felt a slippery wetness. It was one of the secrets she had told him – it meant she wanted him, was ready for him. Had she been like this, in the pew, watching him? A groan expanded his lungs. He pushed her thighs wider with his knees and sheathed himself inside her. Then again, and again, his eyes closed, his body awash with sensations that demanded more and deeper. He voiced his veneration and desire in the only way he knew how, intoning as he moved, 'Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum …'

Muffled cries came from the gypsy girl. He was becoming carried away again, he was too violent with her. He arrested his actions immediately. 'Do I hurt you?'

Her breathless reply was the negative, and she begged him to continue as hard as before.

Frollo studied her a moment, unsure whether she was telling an untruth so as to please him. She begged again, more urgent this time. Watching her closely as resumed his thrusts, he discerned that the flush on her cheek and the anguished expression on her face, which he had mistaken for pain, was one of pleasure. The act was a man's act, was it not, for his gratification? Or was this, too, something he'd mistaken in his ignorance? The thought that she was feeling some or perhaps even all of the sensation that he was in that moment made desire plunge through him.

'Your sermon,' she gasped, her eyes screwed shut, 'you did not finish it.'

His sermon. Damn the sermon to hell, he needed this more.

'Tell me the rest,' she said, crying out beneath him.

He reached forward and buried his fingers in her hair, holding a fistful in a firm hand. The words were ready on his tongue. 'For he that eateth and drinketh unworthily,' he growled, his voice ragged and panting, 'eateth and drinketh damnation to himself.'

'Am I unworthy, Father?'

He was nearly tipped over the edge, hearing her call him that. 'Nay. I will eateth, and I will drinketh of thee.'

'Mon Dieu,' she moaned into the linen sheets, and such a cry ripped from her throat and she bucked beneath him. The wail went on and on, and such a tightness there was about him that his own crisis came upon him, and he knew not where or who he was.

The world rushed back and he opened his eyes. His hands slowly released their iron grip on her, and he withdrew. She was as languid as a puppet without its strings as he gathered her into his arms. Here and there her clothes had loosened, and he kissed her softly, slowly, listening to her breathe. How beautiful she was, her skin aglow from his ministrations.

'Tell me some more,' she said, looking up at him, her forefinger tracing the hard line of his cheekbone. 'I want to hear your voice.'

He thought for a moment. Another sermon came to him, one that he had read and knew by heart, though had never quite comprehended. Now the words passed easily over his lips. 'Let me kiss you with the kisses of my mouth,' he whispered into the cleft between her breasts, 'for your love-making is sweeter than wine. Your name is an oil poured out.'

She shivered and her eyes drifted closed. Untangling the sheets from around their legs he drew the covering over them both and pulled her body against his. His words were a soft murmur in her ear. 'I take thee into my tower, and my banner over thee is love. My left arm is under thy head. My right embraces thee.'

Her breathing deepened. She was close to sleep, though a smile curved her lips. His. His to protect. His to hold and love. Just them in this place, outside the world but inside their bodies. He felt as if he was inhabiting his body for the first time. 'I charge you,' he said, his lips fluttering against her neck, 'daughters of Jerusalem, by all the gazelles and wild does, do not rouse, do not wake my beloved before she pleases.'

'What is that passage?' she whispered, her eyes still closed.

'It is from the Bible, mon ange.'

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. 'The Bible? But it is beautiful. Why do you not read that during your sermons?'

He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm. 'Because it is too sweet for them, petite bohémienne. It is just for you.'

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The passages Frollo quotes to Esmeralda after they have made love are from The Song of Solomon. I hope you enjoyed this chapter :) Leave me a review either way.