Game night.
It’s the bane of every Alpha’s existence. That is, every Alpha who wishes to contain the baser urges flowing through him. Yet, with one stroke of a pen, the Universal Governance Council doomed us, gave us the freedom many didn’t want, nor need.
Though, I could just be delusional. I don’t claim to be a reliable narrator, seeing as my thoughts are consumed with lusts of the flesh and not the Body and Blood of Christ as I should be. It would probably be better to say they doomed me and me alone.
But then, that’s just hubris, isn’t it? To think that the government wants to see me fail so spectacularly that they enact a feast of the flesh, a bacchanalian celebration of sorts where chaos is god and righteousness is nowhere to be found, just to tempt me, to draw me back into the depths of depravity. The depths I fought tooth and nail to crawl out of.
It would be far too easy to leave on this most unholy night, to travel to another sector and be done with it all. But I’ve never run from anything before in my life, and I don’t intend to start now. It’s laughable, really, thinking this night should have any effect on me, any hold.
He was tempted in all points like we are. And yet, I’m sure Christ never faced this. The virus that swept through, transforming us into monsters - predators versus prey - has only had its effects scorching the earth in this last millennium. He was never forced to fight against base urges so strong it makes you want to claw your skin from your bones and weep at your inept weakness.
He could never know. Never understand. But such thoughts are blasphemy. Grabbing my rosary, I finger the familiar beads as a calmness drifts over my mind and soul. I just have to have faith. Everything else will work itself out.
A heavy sigh flits from my lips, pulled from the deepest recesses of my being as I look out of my barred window, watching the flecks of snow drift over the empty courtyard. Silence. Everything is too quiet. We are all supposed to spend this time in silent contemplation, yet my mind continues to wander.
I should be better than this. Beyond all this. But I’m not. I’m a mere mortal man. Gripping my rosary even tighter, I grit my teeth as I force myself to concentrate. I need to get my mind and heart right before morning Mass. Unfortunately, every time I close my eyes, it’s not wholesome thoughts that fill my brain.
It’s the newest Sister to our abbey—Sister Emily Agnes. Agnes. My mind trips over the saintly name bestowed upon her. Chaste, virtuous, everything a Sister should be. And yet, here I am, wondering what she looks like underneath her habit.
A groan eases from my lips, breaking the silence, as I squeeze the rosary so hard the cord snaps and beads plink all over the floor. My vision wavers for a moment as a buzz fills my brain. Until she came here, I had things under control. I was able to keep myself calm.
And yet, here I am, brought to my knees as electricity surges through my brain, forcing me to stop all action as it tamps down the aggression and sexual need coursing through me like a live wire. An animal. Nothing more. At least, that’s how the government paints us.
Forcing young Alphas on the cusp of adolescence to cede their power over to some foreign bit of nanotechnology to keep omegas safe. As if that is all that’s needed. It’s a heart issue and not a control issue.
As a practicing Father Confessor, I’ve heard the stories. I’ve listened to other Alphas as they recounted in cold calculation the things they and others have done. All without the implant stopping them. It’s not foolproof by any means.
Learn to game the system, and you can have the various sectors eating out of the palm of your hand. Learn the rules well enough, and you can bend them to your will with no one being a bit the wiser. If only I were such a specimen.
But no. I wear every emotion on my sleeve. My brain sizzles and snaps with every untoward thought. It’s as if God himself seeks to punish me directly.
Either way, I’ve been able to keep my heart and mind in check. Once I committed myself to a life of service to God almighty, the incidences of needing the implant to remind me of my place and role became less and less until it was nearly zero.
But then there was her.
Until Sister Emily Agnes, I’ve been able to maintain my role here with piety and dignity. I’ve never felt this with any of the other Sisters under my care, never felt such loss of control. They were sheep for me to lead, poor, innocent women for me to protect. Now, I feel like the vilest of wolves set to devour them.
No.
Not them.
Her.
I lie there on the cold floor, breathing in and out as my body remains immobile, held hostage by this implant forced into us at such a tender age. Perhaps it’s because we’re so close to Game Night. Even though I was not an active participant last year, it’s as if my body is gearing up for something, becoming primed and ready.
But ready for what?
Last year, I sequestered myself into my room as the Sisters took to the main chapel and prayed. They were phenomenal at offering sanctuary to any omega who requested it. They were so generous in their outward showing of love and faith. Unlike me.
I didn’t dare chance leaving the confines of my room. Not when the idea of being unfettered was so new, so unexplored. But even then, even when their myriad scents of fear and lust permeated the abbey, I stood firm.
Nothing shook me then. It’s as if I were untouchable, protected by God Himself. I was a lone Alpha able to conduct the game in prayer in supplication with little regard to any carnal needs that could have arisen.
Not now. God seems to have abandoned me at this time of need. It’s as if He’s testing me, seeing how far I can go before I break. That means this year I have no clue how I’m going to keep myself behind these paltry bits of wood and iron. Not when I already long to burst out of my bonds of the flesh to bathe in the sanctity of the Sister who haunts me at every turn.
I’ll have to do something else. Something drastic. Closing my eyes, I take in a deep breath and push myself off the floor. Down beneath the abbey lies old catacombs and long deserted prison cells. They were in order long before the central government took over.
After that, there was no need to house anyone down there—criminal or otherwise. That should hold me. It should keep my flock safe. Keep her safe.
Who am I kidding? As long as I have these animalistic thoughts pounding in my brain, she’ll never be safe. Granted, all Alphas have this constant stream of consciousness, but as a member of the cloth, I should be above such things. I must purge them from me, drive them from my body and soul. Weary aches flood my system as I hoist myself up and walk over to my armoire.
I should be over this, over her. It’s times like these I wonder why I even went into the priesthood, anyway. It seems as if I’ve been doing more harm than good.
As the Sisters file out into the bitter chill, my fingers wrap around the thick handle of the flogger I keep hidden inside. No one else knows about this, about my secret shame. Setting myself in front of the window, I pull my robes over my head and place them neatly on the edge of the bed.
I watch each omega as they scuttle off to the chapel, preparing themselves for Mass. A Mass I’m supposed to lead them in. A Mass I feel wholly unprepared to conduct.
Thwack.
The hardened tips of the beads slam against my back, sending a shudder through my body. Pain explodes over me, making me fall forward just a touch.
Thwack.
Wetness trickles down, making my stomach flop as queasy nausea brings bile bubbling up to the back of my throat. It’s like hot-white fire searing me from the inside out, a pain I’ll never get used to, never desire. And that’s how it should be.
Thwack.
My breathing evens out as I force myself to remain calm. It’s not a penance if I trigger the implant and it allows me to slip into oblivion. No. I need to feel every moment of this remorse as I confess before God the lustful thoughts that plague me at every turn.
Thwack.
Harder now. A bit more bite and sting. My back becomes accustomed to the abuse, and so I must increase the force of each strike to ensure the message drives home. I cannot have her. I cannot want her. I cannot desire another woman over the need I have to give myself to God.
Thwack.
The sickening squelch of striking wet flesh fills the room, making my brain fuzz around the edges. It’s not enough to tip the scales, but close enough. Taking in a deep breath, I fill my lungs to capacity, dragging copper-tinged air into my very soul, my very being.
Thwack.
By enduring this agony, I can atone and show my remorse. Maybe, in time, it will drive these base needs out of me so I can once again be a gentle and doting shepherd and not the ravenous monster that lurks just under the surface. But with each stinging lash, I wonder how much of this is just wishful thinking.
Thwack.
As much as I want to look away, to drag my gaze from the women in front of me, I cannot. I will not. I need to get their safety and sanctity in the forefront of my mind. They are why I do this. They are why I debase myself before God. Somehow, it lends me strength, allowing me to continue through the last few strikes I have left.
Thwack.
Off in the distance, a solitary Sister turns around. At first, her face is obscured by the snow and the billowing veil threatening to conceal her, but I know it’s her. Though these windows are made so that no one can see in, her sapphire gaze pierces me as if she’s looking at me.
Sister Emily Agnes.
There’s a sorrow in her eyes, a tinge of grief as she continues to watch. Breath haggard, I lock my gaze with hers and finish out my punishment.
Thwack.
I crave her.
I want her.
I need to have her.
Thwack.
I must consume her.
I must feast upon her virginal flesh.
I must make her mine in every Biblical sense of the word.
Thwack.
Agony bows up my back as the skin is now raw and freely bleeding, splattering the dark vermillion over the floor. The pain gives me clarity as I watch her retreating back as she joins the rest of the Sisters.
She’s just like them. She’s an untouchable gem, a jewel in the crown of God.
Thwack.
A loud cry punctuates the air as the tips rip through jagged flesh. Dropping the flogger onto the floor, I huddle into myself, rocking back and forth as I continue to send up my prayers. It is enough for now, but what will happen tomorrow? Or the day after that? Or the day after that?
Ragged breaths flit through my lips as I wait there for my vision to stop swimming. The Sisters await me, and I cannot keep them there for long. As always, there is much to do, and I can’t sit here, prostrate, as I bemoan my inner longings.
With a soft groan, I rise from my place on the floor and grab a damp rag to clean the wood where my blood stained the light browns. More and more, I contemplate leaving. Not only for their sake, but for my own. Shaking my head, I toss the rag into a bucket, not wishing for anyone to know my secret shame.
Better that they think of me as careless with my things than know the blood I shed for their continued salvation. As I crank on the shower, the hot steam caresses my body like invisible fingers trailing over my skin. Cupping my balls, I roll my head back onto my shoulders and look up at the heavens.
“Please take this temptation from me. It is a cross too heavy to bear.”
Every inch of me aches as I plunge myself into the heat. Most of all, my balls are drawn up to the point of pain. Yet one more bit of penance I’ve come to accept. Daily, the very act of sitting becomes uncomfortable, and it’s all because of her.
I cannot send her away, because she has done nothing wrong. The only thing she’s guilty of is being a temptation sent from a different sector to test me. When their convent closed down, we welcomed her with open arms. Now, I wonder if it was wise.
She looks different, speaks differently, and worst of all, smells differently. There’s an underlying note of raspberries, a tang of decadence underneath the chocolaty overtones surrounding her lithe, tiny body. How does no one else smell it? How are these Sisters able to carry on with their duties as if there’s not an omega presenting herself as a snack to be devoured?
I can’t think like this. I won’t think like this. Instead, I grab my soap and pour it down my back to clean out the wounds. Slamming my fist against the warm tile, I quell the agonizing scream threatening to rip from my lips. I must suffer in silence as He did. I must take my punishment, all of it, with the grace afforded me.
As I turn to allow the warm spray to cleanse me, swirls of blood eddy around my feet. A small sacrifice, a minuscule bit of torment for a much greater good. Leaning forward, I stretch out the skin, allowing no spot to go untouched. Minutes tick by like hours as I force my body to stay under my control.
I can’t trip the implant now. I have work to do. I must stay focused.
Eventually, the pain quiets to a dull roar, filling a small corner of my mind. My skin feels flayed and bruised as I dry myself and toss the towel into the flames with the sullied rag. Each scrape of my cassock, the holy robes I wear around the abbey, against my back sends tendrils of torment shooting through me, but I must persevere.
My Sisters need me.
Especially Sister Emily Agnes.
