Katrina and the wicked priest (Part 1 remastered into something hotter) (fm:first time, 14205 words) [1/3] show all parts

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The Kalinas had recently moved to Mauritius from Eastern Europe, drawn by promises of work, quiet, and a fresh beginning. A small family, tightly knit by routine and reverence, they had always lived with a strong sense of devotion. Mr. Kalina, a quiet man in his sixties with lined hands and a voice like worn leather, carried the weight of their decisions with silent strength. Mrs. Kalina, graceful despite the years, spoke with purpose and moved with the poise of someone who still believed that goodness was something you could wear like perfume. Both parents held tightly to discipline and spiritual hunger—values they had raised their only daughter to carry deep within her bones.

Since their arrival, the Kalinas had been searching for a place of worship—a chapel, a congregation, somewhere they could root their faith and feed their piety. Religion wasn't a ritual for them; it was breath, rhythm, the unseen spine of their days. Wherever they lived, they made it a point to connect with others who shared their reverence. Though unfamiliar with the local customs, they held hope that even on this distant island, there would be a house of devotion where they could bow their heads and feel at home in the spirit.

They spot the compound by its walls first: volcanic blocks fused together by time, half-strangled by the roots of an ancient banyan. A rust-eaten iron gate yawns inward. Above it, a single word—BLOODSTONE—is carved into weather-pocked stone. No cross, no familiar crest, only that one tantalising promise.

Katrina steps out first. Eighteen, barefoot on sun-baked gravel, ankle bracelets chiming. Sweat beads between her breasts beneath a modest cotton dress, but she barely notices. Something inside the compound is pulling.

Incense hits them at the threshold—thicker than any church blend she's ever smelled. It's resinous, yes, but laced with a faint animal musk that makes her cheeks flush. A low drum beats somewhere distant; every vibration seems to crawl up her calves and settle between her thighs.

Inside, the layout echoes the chapel they left back home: benches angled toward a stone dais; candlebanks lining each wall. But the candles glow crimson and amber, and the reliefs on the walls show serpents swallowing their own tails, suns devouring moons. Nothing overtly blasphemous, nothing she can name—but nothing that belongs to the comfortable faith of her childhood either.

Voices hush. A figure emerges through curls of red smoke.

Then he appeared. Tall even with the slump in his shoulders, a gaunt frame wrapped in an earth-stained linen robe. Candle-wax freckles his chest; a crust of something—dirt or dried sap—darkens his fingernails. His scalp gleams with sweat that smells faintly of sandalwood and raw herb. He looks half-starved, half-possessed, yet when he lifts his face the whole room shifts. His eyes are dark liquor rimmed in gold; they drink every soul in the chamber.

And then they drink her.

He does not stand at the altar. Papa Cain walks the aisle like a prowling jackal, bare feet silent on the stone. His sermon is no gentle homily—no polished exegesis. It is a call to arms, spoken in a voice that slides over skin like oil:

"Beloved seekers," he purrs, "the flesh is the first gate. Open it, and the soul floods with truth. Clamp it shut, and divinity starves."

Every step, every pause, he lets the words coil and tighten.

When he reaches the Kalinas' bench he stops. The entire chapel seems to hold its breath.

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Nalyd writes Sun 29 Jun 2025 07:12:

Really hot, you’ve inspired me to start writing again!

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