She fumbled with the button and zipper of his jeans, then reached into her bag for a condom Lourdes had given her. That girl always had condoms in her purse. Her hands reached into his boxer shorts feeling his cock was hard but the skin soft, like his lips. His lower body tensed at her touch. Watching his excitement excited her. With the condom on she let him slide inside. She bit her lip with the initial pressure, until she gave in like she did with his fingers. The pain subsided. She pulled off her dress so he could see all of her. Their black pubic hair one soft puff of fur. She loved how the moisture of sex felt against her thighs the more she grinded and rolled her hips, his hard cock teasing her clit with delicious licks, like devouring a popsicle before it has a chance to melt in the hot summer sun. Without needing to think, she rocked her body back and forth, relaxing her shoulders, her mind only focusing on Ruben and her pleasure.
Ruben drove her home with one hand holding hers and a smile on his face. D’Angelo’s “How Does it Feel” played quietly. When they came to a stop he leaned over to kiss her.
She knew she would have to break his heart, but not tonight, and she kissed him back.
“Goodnight,” she said before running from the truck back to her window.
Fernanda lay in bed, feeling a surge of confidence in her body.
“You awake?”
I never sleep, just drift away. Did you enjoy yourself?
“It was better than I expected, but that is why I chose Ruben. I knew he would be kind and loving. Thank you for helping me to feel aware of my body, what it can do. The miracle of it, really.”
It is nothing but a natural ability. Goodnight, dear Fernanda.
Father Moreno drove back to the church with a sense of accomplishment, the air conditioner on full blast to dry the sweat covering his body beneath his clerical clothing. A feverish chill ran through his backbone, the cold so deep his vertebrae felt like they would fuse together in a permafrost. As he sat across from Mrs. Garcia he couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder at the photos of Fernanda. How beautiful she was; he wanted more than anything to restore her purity. The thing he saw before was not her. He would get rid of it and then keep whatever was left of Fernanda. After recording what he needed to prove the existence of demons, he would say she ran away. How could anyone think differently after her rebellious behavior all summer?
When he arrived at the church, the feeling of unwellness was worse than before. Usually he would sit in the confessional to gather his thoughts but today he wanted to be close to Martha. He sat behind his desk with hands clasped in prayer, trying to fight impure thoughts of cold flesh upon his, of ice crystals on her tongue for him to ingest like a host. He fantasized about this being the elixir that would cure him. These blasphemous thoughts were too tantalizing and easy to entertain. The collar around his neck felt noose-tight again. The church-issued clothing needed to come off before it stitched into his skin. Father Moreno jumped from his seat, frantically clawing at the seams of his clothing, pulling at the buttons until they popped off and the loose threads unraveled to what they really were, weak little spindly things. He stood before his collection of La Virgen statues panting from the exertion, all of his clothing torn rags on the floor. They stared back at his nudity. All his life they were enough, sustained him. She was woman perfected as she gave forth life but remained pure. Her life was a sacrifice to her son, the savior.
Now she looked like a cheap copy in plastic and ceramic. Her presence made him sick. Next to the filing cabinet was a faded piñata stick. He gripped it in one hand, lifting it above his head to swing at these women with smug smiles on their faces. Those empty eyes would no longer see him, mock him. His arms thrashed in all directions. The fallen ones he continued to pulverise.
His arms began to ache. On the floor lay a pink cheek and single eye from one of the larger statues. With his bare foot he stood on the ceramic shard until it broke in half. The remaining pieces cut into his skin; a large triangular fragment lodged in the soft arch of his foot. He pressed it in deeper, allowing it to enter his flesh. The rage slowly subsided.
He had to take Fernanda. Quickly he got dressed and drove back to the Garcia house, where he saw Fernanda climbing out of her window. For a moment he thought it might be the chance to take her, but she was not alone. As she ran from her home, a black truck pulled up to the curb. He knew that truck. It was Ruben’s. He followed the vehicle to the edge of Espada Park, the place of missions and ghost stories. Beneath the moonlight, far enough not to be noticed but close enough to see, he stood against the outer wall of the missions in shadow. He clutched the vial of blood at his neck, wet with sweat. His chest remained tight. It couldn’t be the girl doing these things; it had to be the demon inside of her. A seducer of men and possessor of virgins. He would have her, too, wrapped in cloth, rosary in hand. Cold and beautiful like his Martha. Her body would be his forever, icy and pure.
When they drove off, he returned to his car, wanting to relieve himself of desire but knowing it would only give the demon what it wanted. He needed God on his side. Father Moreno fished a rosary out of his pocket, pressing
