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It could not have started at a worse time.
The meeting itself is a drab one. The topics to be discussed are of no particular concern to anyone present, and yet elicit vitriol from these same unconcerned parties. Archbishop Andrizzi’s report of a retired bishop consecrating three priests without mandate in Kerala is unfortunate not only because of the dismissal of mandate, but also because it starts an hour-long argument about whether the bishop will be excommunicated or suspension a divinis. Thomas stares mournfully at the agenda, which has the meeting neatly wrapped up by one-thirty.
A flush of cold air drifts over his bottom. It cannot actually be air; Thomas is wearing trousers and his heavy woolen cassock besides, and he is sitting. The chair is uncomfortable, but it is a solid wooden thing. He reorients himself: Aldo is beginning to talk about a doctrinal issue in diocesan Quebecois textbooks, something about an omission without a synodal request. Aldo had been quite up in arms about it last night but the memory is slipping away as Thomas shifts in his seat.
Something is touching him. He shifts again; perhaps a fold within his clothing has bunched up in some irritating manner. It doesn’t feel like clothing. As it continues, the sensation coalesces. It is soft and smooth with a small, off-set hard piece that traces around his anus. It feels like a finger on skin, but that is impossible . His muscles jerk involuntarily, and the pressure stops just above his bud.
Could this be some symptom of his prostate cancer? He’s heard of nerve pain. Tingling, maybe, although that sounds like more of a stroke, is he having a stroke? Someone clears their throat with a loud hacking noise while the speaker drones on.
The phantom pressure abates, a product of a wandering mind. He will pay better attention to his brother and ask God’s forgiveness later. He goes to write a note. Something inane; evidence that his mind is in the right place.
A shocking coldness.
Thomas’s pen tip skates across the page, slashing across his detailed minutes. He cannot pretend not to know this sensation, having experienced it once a year since his fifties. A cold, lubed finger is sliding into him.
My God, he thinks. It must be the Devil.
The extraordinary squeeze does nothing to push the intruder out. It does not even stop it in its tracks. The Devil marches forward. The archbishop is clearing his throat again, but this time the loud noise does not frighten it off. Someone calls his name.
“Dean Lawrence,” Andrizzi starts as the finger works its way deeper, “I know you handled something like this before…?”
“Yes, in Brazil.” Thomas cannot believe he is about to discuss episcopal ordinations while under assault. “There was an—” the fingertip wiggles impetuously, “ah, an issue of laypeople performing rites.”
The people gathered around the table wait for him to elaborate, and so he must. “Baptisms. The Commendation of the Dying. Even an ordination, although—” it starts pumping in and out, aided by the generous amount of lube. “Although there were special circumstances, a hurricane that destroyed much of the coast and—and these situations came up through no fault of the populace.”
This incenses someone, because Thomas has evidently not suffered enough, and the rapidfire Italian is completely unintelligible to Thomas despite his decades in Italy. “I laici non possono amministrare l'estrema unzione indipendentemente dalle circostanze, è un'offesa alla Chiesa, alla natura stessa di questa istituzione—”
Thomas begins nodding before the man has finished his rant. The movement dizzied him enough to be a small comfort, though he was sure he appeared a loon to those watching. No comfort is enough when another digit forces into his asshole. It does not hurt. He wishes it would.
The abuse continues into the next presentation, though Thomas knows not what it is about. He has completely given up on taking notes: a failure to be sure, and Thomas has many, but in the face of the darkening of his immortal soul, he must consolidate his attention. He once told his doctor that he felt overwhelmed with anxiety and was taught some inane breathing technique. Deep breath in. Hold. Deep breath out. Deep breath in. Hold. Deep breath out. Deep breath in.
The finger withdraws again, but Thomas knows better than to feel relieved. The Devil’s sword pokes against his stretched asshole. He hadn’t realized the fires of Hell could feel so pleasantly warm.
He feels—impaled. There is no other word for it. Something is pressing in, slowly, ever so slowly. Thomas swallows the whine that threatens to escape him. It encounters little resistance, his tissue mapping every inch of the intrusion: the bulbous glans emerging from foreskin like a viper’s tongue, the thickness of the shaft, and finally the weight of a sack on the cheeks of his ass.
Thomas barely, just barely, chokes back a moan. Heads turn, most notably Aldo’s, who places a hand on his shoulder with an inquisitive expression. “Thomas? Are you alright?”
“Yes, of course. Please, continue.”
Whoever had been speaking carries on, heedless of his distress. Like a Judas cradle, the thing inside settles deeper than he ever could have thought possible. It is a total fullness and while the idea sparks comparisons of overeating, it is nothing like that at all; he feels stuck, stretched wide and desirous, a contradictory satiety and starvation.
Thomas is full, yes, but he is hungry.
His hips have begun shimmying in the chair of their own volition, rocking in time with the thrusts. He crumples the edge of the dossier in a fist. Something foreign is building in him but when he reaches for his old friend flagellantism, that internal instrument of mortification, the whip falls from his hand. He cannot summon the will to hate himself now.
Whether in weakness or strength, he groans loudly, halting the argument between archbishops as he comes. He is bright red and suddenly breathless; they must all be thinking he is having a heart attack. Before Aldo can call an ambulance, Thomas tells himself that the wetness in his briefs is not abundant enough to be visible through his cassock and wobbles to his feet.
“Excuse me, I’m not feeling very well,” he hears his voice croak. He does not wait for a response before he flees the room.
Thomas wishes that he could say that the walk to his office is a blur, but it is in fact marked by clarity. The stumbling pace allows him a look into the face of angels and demons on frescoes he has long since stopped noticing, their gaze is non-judgemental unlike when he had first come to the Vatican.
He focuses his attention on the floor as he limps, determined not to be seen as the cock forces in and out of him. For his lack of respect he falls, brought to his knees before the Virgin Mary embracing the dying Jesus. She looks not at him but at Thomas, face filled with benediction while the torture reaches its apex. Knees shaking, his hips spasm at the force of the blow within him. A warmth spills within him.
There is a hand mirror in Thomas’s office, gifted to him by a well-meaning friend. He’s never used it; Thomas hates the sight of his own face, which was probably why it was given to him in the first place. Miraculously, he recalls in his terror that he left it in the bottom left drawer under years of files. The surface of the mirror is clean when he lifts it and is assaulted by his own visage, red and sweaty. He quickly lowers it, closing his eyes. Whatever he looks at next will be far worse; he cannot lose his courage now.
Soon his ass is bare on the office chair, trousers pooled around his legs and skirts hiked up. He’d tucked them into his fascia, which he realizes now is an awful desecration, but there is no time to waste. The mirror slots between his legs and he leans back. The view trails over his aged thighs until he lands on his asshole. It is reddened as his face, but nothing else appears amiss.
Nothing there. Nothing. Is it a comfort if he is losing his mind? Even while he contemplates the idea, he feels the wetness inside, real as God in heaven.
Thomas places his fingers in a V and spreads himself. A white fluid dribbles out.
The mark of the Devil.
.
At first it seems that there is little rhyme or reason to when it makes its presence known, but Thomas soon realizes his mistake. While it comes often, and it does come often, it adheres to a specific schedule.
It will appear once or twice in the morning, a quick thing that leaves him breathless and dissatisfied. These appointments are for the Devil’s own pleasure, it seems. He often finds himself suddenly abandoned at the midway point of his own journey, so to speak, and must white-knuckle the table until the erection between his legs subsides. Only then can he stumble off to the lavatory to wipe the seed out of himself.
He should find it a comfort that he is not forced into Onan’s sin, but he finds little relief at all in these moments, reminded for several painful minutes of the disobedient flesh he is bound to. Worse still, he notices budding weaknesses of the mind: more than once he has caught himself disappointed at the loss of stimulation.
These sinful prayers are answered later on in the day. Each evening, when Thomas has retired to his apartment—is the Devil circumscribed by the same strictures of the workday that Thomas is?—the ecstatic torture begins.
Whoever He is, that creature of fire and temptation, he must consider Thomas’s evenings his highest priority. Instead of the lubed finger, a tongue darts out, tracing his rim for so long he wonders if it will do anything but that, and once the iniquitous thought crosses his mind it plunges in, forcing his slickened hole open. The muscle squirms inside, then out, licking a circle about the rim, and dipping in again as if at feast.
Thomas shudders like a landed cod, an invisible hook in his mouth pulling, tautening the line and making him thrash on the bed. No matter how much he guards the seat of his pants, the pressure deepens. Its enthusiasm grows, licking and suckling at his hole so ardently that he suddenly cannot stand to be in his trousers and underwear. These are the only sensations he has control over, that fabric on skin, and though the tongue eclipses them he scrambles out of them. His nails scratch oversensitive thighs in his haste to doff his underthings, but he hardly notices, reaching up to tear his shirt off as well.
It sticks about the collar—he had not removed the hard plastic tab before unbuttoning. This produces a mild choke when he goes to pull it over his head. It would not be so bad if it were not for the unfortunate timing of this with the reentrance of that unholy tongue; the dual sensations have him rearing his hips and back off the bed in a sort of possessed Bridge pose, the hand that was clutching his shirt trapped beneath him such that he leans into a noose of his own making. The tongue chases him upward off the bed, through orgasm, and beyond.
Thomas collapses onto the mattress with a strained back and cannot move as the tongue is replaced with something much thicker. For ages the trial continues. Three has always been a divine number: Jesus’ resurrection on the third day, the three temptations of Jesus, the three year ministry, the three crosses on Golgotha, Peter’s three denials. The Devil’s best weapon is Christ’s word: Thomas is fucked and spilled into thrice.
When it finishes, it does not leave. He falls asleep like that, quicker than he ever has, a cock softening within him. It is there when he awakes from a deep slumber, the penetrant returned to hardness and rutting into him with abandon. This surprises him as a pleasant way to awaken, though it should not. Thomas has always enjoyed a life of service.
.
“Here are the requisition forms, Your Eminence.”
Thomas looks up from his work. The presence has retreated—for now, at least—and he is using this time for some much-needed catch up. He’s managed to get used to working on call on the seat of the Devil, but it hinders his efficiency. “Thank you, Ray.”
Monsignor O’Malley does not leave. He stays in front of Thomas’s desk, taut as a bowstring.
“Is there something else, Ray?”
“Cardinal Bellini asked me to keep an eye on you. Is everything alright?”
He’d hoped to avoid this conversation, but it had seemed a likely eventuality. Ray sees him at his weakest, which he cannot complain about in and of itself, for he trusts the man implicitly. It is only that he hates to worry Ray. He allows himself to imagine telling Ray the war besieging him. Ray would pull a chair up in front of him and hold his hand in a tight grip while Thomas spoke nonsense. He’d stroked Thomas’s knuckles the day he admitted to Ray that he had prostate cancer; in fact, Ray had been the first person he told. He longed to feel that firm pressure again. While Thomas was never meant to be a shepherd, Ray made an excellent one, and he never failed to make Thomas feel safe.
Telling the truth would feel liberating. But that would mean admitting to Ray that sometimes he looked forward to the visits.
He aches as he speaks, though Ray’s face tells him that the monsignor is completely unconvinced by Thomas’s smile. Perhaps lying is not a sin if it is opaquely untrue. “Just a little under the weather.”
“Forgive me, Your Eminence, but…” The Monsignor’s face looks pained in worry. “You’ve been limping.” There is a long pause as he gives Thomas a chance to reply, and when he doesn’t, Ray speaks again. “Has it returned? Your cancer?”
“No, no! Not as such, Ray.”
“And this problem… if there has been any behavior on my part that has led you to believe I would betray your confidence, I beg of you to tell me so that I may rectify it.”
The man is near tears now; Thomas feels his resolve break in an instant. “Oh, Raymond, you have done nothing wrong. Please, my boy, believe me.” It doesn’t appear that he does, and Thomas rips off the bandaid, for there is no way to word this that will sound sane. “It is only… I have become plagued with a most mysterious affliction. A… demonic one, I believe.”
“Is it truly so?” Ray’s eyes widen, but he takes it in stride. “In what manner?”
“An invisible spirit has been, ah, following me.”
Now Ray’s forehead crinkles in confusion. “But—and do forgive me for questioning you, as I believe you wholly, I only seek to understand—if it is invisible, how can you tell its presence?”
Thomas studies a missive on his desk for the simple reason that he cannot look Ray in the eyes as he says this. “It is a sodomous spirit, Ray.” To his surprise, Ray nods, first slowly, then decisively. “What is it?”
“I’ve heard of something like this before, Eminence.” His excitement seems to grow as he speaks, and Thomas knows by his enthusiasm to help that he has chosen the right person to confide in. “There was a, a similar case in Dublin in my earlier ministry. A rector of a parish experiencing strange intrusions like yourself. And it was ameliorated by the archbishop. Disappeared entirely.”
Thomas has not heard better news since the end of the conclave, leaning forward to reach for Ray’s hand in desperate gratitude. “You must tell me, how did they do it? A prayer?”
Ray takes his palm in two hands and, bringing it up to rest over his heart, stares into Thomas’s eyes. “Yes, Eminence. We can perform it within the hour. But you must know, it will require a,” here his voice thins, “recreation of the possession. I swear to you, I will be gentle! If… if you agree. I wouldn’t want to force you.”
Oh, Ray. “There is no one I would trust more.”
.
“I apologize, it took me a moment to find some oil,” Ray sputters as he sets his bag down onto the dresser. “Really, in the Vatican of all places…”
“It’s quite alright. I only just arrived myself.”
They’ve convened in Thomas’s apartment after rushing through the few tasks that could not be pushed back to the next day, Thomas delivering a haphazard dozen emails while Ray collected what would be needed for the ritual. No frightening metal implements emerge from Ray’s satchel. From what Thomas can see, the only necessary material appears to be oil. His little knowledge on the subject tells him that this is a good thing; even if it wasn’t used for its holy properties, he understands that penetration without a lubricant is painful. The thought makes him pause. Why would the Devil spend time stretching and lubricating him?
Thomas is about to pose the question to Ray when he looks over and sees the man lifting something to his mouth. It’s a small blue pill, about the size of a grain of rice. It’s swallowed with a bob of his Adam’s apple. Ray jumps upon noticing Thomas’s gaze.
“Ibuprofen,” he says, inexplicably tense. “I have a headache. Lay back, please.”
It speaks to the authority in his voice that Thomas immediately complies. The monsignor pulls off his fascia, approaching Thomas from the side so silently he feels a trill of fear. Ray must see it on his face, for he strokes Thomas’s cheek with a rough thumb.
“It will be alright, Thomas.” The hand takes Thomas’s wrist in a tender grip. The watered silk of Ray’s fascia feels cool on his skin, and though it ties his arm at the headboard, he feels safe, not imprisoned. Ray circles the bed and secures the other with Thomas’s own.
His gentle voice is hypnotic as he recites the Blessing of the Oil of the Sick perfectly from memory. Thomas finds himself following Ray’s hands intently with his eyes. They are thick things with clean, well-trimmed nails. The oil is unscented—Ray explains his fears that the traditional chrism could in this case be a skin irritant—and pours gracefully from the mouth of the cruet onto Ray’s palm.
He reaches for the sheet covering Thomas’s modesty, then pauses. It takes Thomas a moment to find his voice.
“Please.” It’s not what he meant to say, but Ray seems to find no fault in it. There’s a pleasant chill on Thomas’s skin as he’s made bare. The position he gets into is uncomfortable, but he feels a twinge of satisfaction at not being too naive to know how two bodies might fit together. He is not entirely naive.
Ray lets out a breath so quiet that he would not have heard it at all had the room not been inundated with silence. His broad finger slips in easily; the Devil had visited again while Ray fetched the oil, displeased at the threat of exorcism—and Thomas tells him as such. He doesn’t want Ray to think his looseness was evidence of self-abuse.
“You cleaned it out?” He sounds reproachful, likely disgusted with Thomas’s state of disgrace. To his horror, Ray pulls his finger out and checks it; Thomas assures him that the cleanse was thorough, though this does little to soothe Ray.
What a mistake this all has been. Thomas closes his eyes for a full minute, just listening to their mingling breath in the empty room. He can picture the revulsion that will be on Ray’s face if he is brave enough to open his eyes. He should have known better than to spread this iniquity, no matter how frightened he had been.
“I’m sorry, Ray, perhaps we—gh—”
The thatch of hair on Raymond’s groin is thick. Curly, much curlier than that on his head, and squashed against Thomas where their bodies meet. In one quick movement, Ray has entered him fully.
“Oh my God, Thomas,” Ray heaves, “you—oh my God.” He visibly gathers himself to begin the prayer. “O God, Father of all consolation, who willed to heal the infirmities of the weak through your Son, listen favour—favourably…”
Thomas lets his head fall back onto the pillow as Ray speaks, the prayer spilling out of him inconsistently. It quickens, then slows, a huge sigh billowing onto Thomas’s stomach, choking grunts and overlapping syllables and tears, for Ray is crying now with the slap of his hips, and Thomas is too, blasphemously sharing the most ardent prayer either of them or even God has ever heard or ever will hear in the fullness of time, spoken wordlessly between the congress of their bodies.
Ray holds him when they finish, falling into a doze. He does not stir when Thomas gets up to stretch his aching body and tidy the room. As he places the glass cruet back into Ray’s bag, he notices a strange object: a thick cylinder, leaking a whitish fluid into the bottom of the bag. His finger just brushes the end of us and he jumps when he feels something touch his ass.
It must have been a trick of the mind, he concludes when the phantom sensation does not return. The ritual has worked, just as Ray said it would. He crawls back under the covers, the warmth of Ray’s body beside him a comfort. The bag lies forgotten.