Chapter 5: Sacrilegious Devotion
The house held its breath for three days.
David went to work. Micah went to practice. They moved around each other like satellites in decaying orbits, passing the sofrito in silence, the echo of the belt’s crack living in the air between them. The welts on Micah’s skin faded to yellow-brown ghosts, but the cage remained, a constant, grounding weight. His body continued its betrayal, his chest tight and full, damp spots appearing on his t-shirts if he went too long without expressing the pressure in the shower, a secret shame he hid beneath hoodies in the Alabama heat.
The silence was a wall. But it was a wall Micah had built, and he found a perverse comfort in it. His father had seen him. Had touched him. Had punished him. It was more than he’d ever dared hope for. He waited, a patient, aching vessel.
He woke in the deep indigo before dawn on the fourth day. He wasn’t alone.
The weight on the edge of his mattress was familiar. The scent of his father—Ivory soap and warehouse dust—filled the dark room. Micah’s heart hammered against his ribs, but he didn’t move. He didn’t open his eyes. He lay perfectly still, his breath shallow, feigning sleep.
A calloused thumb brushed his cheekbone. The touch was so gentle it burned.
Then, fingers, hesitant at first, traced the line of the black satin collar where it lay against his throat. They followed its circumference, a slow, tactile exploration. The pad of a thumb found the small, engraved lock at the front. It rested there.
Micah let a soft, sleep-like sigh escape him and turned his head slightly on the pillow, offering his neck. A reward for the bravery.
The fingers on the collar stilled. Then, they tightened. Not enough to choke, but enough to claim. To acknowledge the offering.
The other hand settled on his chest, over the thin cotton of his sleep shirt. It was warm, heavy. It covered the entire swell of his right breast. For a long moment, it just rested there, as if measuring the change, feeling the unnatural softness and fullness beneath the fabric. Then, David’s hand began to move. A slow, circular massage, firm and purposeful. It was the same motion he’d used when Micah was a boy with a pulled muscle, but now it was all wrong. It was right.
Micah couldn’t suppress the shudder that wracked him. A soft, whimpering sound leaked from his lips. His nipple hardened instantly into a painful peak, pressing against his shirt and his father’s palm.
David’s breath hitched. His grip on the collar tightened a fraction more.
He worked in silence for minutes, his hand kneading the swollen tissue. Micah could feel the dam inside him weakening, the familiar, shameful pressure building. A warm, wet spot bloomed on the fabric beneath David’s hand.
“Christ,” David whispered, his voice a graveled ruin in the dark.
He didn’t stop. His movements became more deliberate, his thumb and forefinder finding the soaked nipple through the cloth, pinching and rolling it with a clinical detachment that was more devastating than any cruelty. Micah’s back arched off the bed. A thin, choked cry was smothered into his pillow.
The wet patch spread. The scent of warm, sweet milk mixed with the sandalwood soap.
Finally, David spoke. His voice was low, drained, resonating with a finality that froze Micah’s blood.
“Lydia finally said yes.”
Lydia. The nurse from the clinic. David had been asking her out for months.
“She’s coming to church with us on Sunday.” His thumb kept working, milking him with a steady, relentless rhythm. Micah’s hips twitched helplessly against the sheets. “You’ll sit with us. You’ll be on your best behavior. You’ll call her ‘ma’am.’ You’ll smile.”
Tears welled in Micah’s closed eyes. This was a new pain, sharp and clean.
“And you’ll wear this,” David said, his voice dropping to a deep, private rumble of reluctant acceptance. He gave the collar a slight, symbolic tug. “Under your shirt.Every Sunday. When I take my girlfriend to church. You’ll wear it, and you’ll remember who you are. What you are. For me.”
The words were a sentence. They were a blessing. They were the dissolution of every boundary Micah had ever known. He was to be his father’s secret, a silent, leaking penance in a house of God.
David’s hand finally stilled, then withdrew from his chest, leaving a cold, damp emptiness. He stood up. The mattress groaned in relief.
Micah lay there, trembling, his chest a map of wet shame, his soul split open. He heard the floorboard creak by the door.
“Your cage comes off today,” David said, his tone now flat, administrative. “Can’t have you… straining in your Sunday best. But the collar stays. It stays forever now. You understand?”
Micah found his voice, a broken thing. “Yes, Papi.”
He listened to his father’s footsteps recede down the hall. The first true light of dawn, a brutal, golden haze, began to bleed through the half-drawn curtains. It fell across the rumpled sheets, across the wet stain on his shirt, across his own trembling hands.
He brought his fingers to his chest, touching the damp fabric. He brought them to his nose, then to his mouth. The taste was cloying, primal, deeply wrong.
A laugh, raw and hollow, bubbled up from his gut. It turned into a sob, which choked off into silence. He stared at the ceiling as the room grew brighter, the reality of his new life etching itself into him with the unforgiving light.
He had gotten exactly what he wanted. He was his father’s.