Chapter 6: Sunday Service
The starched collar of Micah’s Sunday shirt was a noose. Every swallow against the black satin hidden beneath it felt like a confession. He sat ramrod straight in the pew, the ancient, polished wood cool and slick beneath his trembling thighs, his football player’s frame folded awkwardly into the cramped space between his father and Lydia.
Lydia smelled of Jean Naté and hairspray. She was a handsome woman, her dark hair in a neat bob, her dress a sensible shade of lavender. She smiled warmly at the choir, her hand resting lightly on David’s forearm. David, in a gray suit that pulled slightly at the shoulders, looked like a pillar of the community. He sang the hymns in a clear, strong baritone.
Micah tried to mouth the words. What a friend we have in Jesus. His voice died in his throat.
His world had condensed to two points of unbearable sensation. The first was the constant, gentle pressure of the lace panties he wore, a secret filigree against his skin, already damp with a shameful arousal that had begun the moment his father had fastened the collar that morning without a word. The second was the dull, heavy ache in his chest, the fullness that seemed to intensify with every beat of his heart.
The hymn ended. The congregation settled back onto the creaking pews for the scripture reading. David shifted, his arm moving to rest along the back of the pew behind Micah. A casual, fatherly gesture.
Then his thumb, hidden from Lydia’s view, found the side of Micah’s neck, just above the hidden collar. It stroked, once, twice, a rough pad against his pulse point. Micah’s breath hitched. His eyes fixed on the stained-glass window of the Good Shepherd, the colors fractured and blinding.
David’s hand drifted lower, seemingly absently, as the pastor read from Corinthians. His fingers brushed, then rested against Micah’s side, just beneath his arm. Then, with a slow, imperceptible movement, the heel of his palm pressed firmly against the side of Micah’s right breast.
Micah jerked. A soft, choked sound escaped him.
Lydia glanced over, a question in her eyes. David’s hand didn’t move. “You okay, son?” he murmured, his voice low, for Micah alone. His palm began a slow, circular massage, right there in the house of God, through the crisp white cotton. The pressure was immediate, insistent. A direct command.
Micah nodded, his vision swimming. He could feel it happening, the treacherous response of his body. A warm, leaking sensation spread from his nipple, saturating the inside of his shirt. The sweet, cloying scent of milk, subtle but distinct, mingled with the odors of wood polish and Lydia’s perfume.
“Love is patient,” the pastor intoned, his voice echoing in the vaulted ceiling. “Love is kind.”
David’s fingers tightened, squeezing rhythmically. Micah’s knuckles were white where he gripped the pew. He could hear his own blood roaring in his ears. He was swelling, straining against the lace, each pulse of worship from the pulpit mirrored by a throb of excruciating need between his legs. A soft, pathetic whimper lodged in his chest, held back by sheer force of will.
The scripture ended.Another hymn began. As they stood, David’s hand finally withdrew, leaving a cold, wet patch of fabric stuck to Micah’s skin. Micah fumbled with the hymnal, his hands slick with sweat. He couldn’t look at his father. He could only stare at the words swimming on the page, seeing not notes but the dark, approving look he knew was on David’s face.
He sang nothing. He was a vessel of silent, screaming want.
After the service, in the milling crowd in the fellowship hall, Lydia beamed up at David. “He’s so quiet, your boy. So well-mannered.”
“He has his moments,” David said, his hand clapping heavily on Micah’s shoulder. The grip was possessive, tight enough to bruise. “Sometimes needs a little reminder about his place, don’t you, Micah?”
Micah’s smile felt like a cracked plate. “Yes, sir.”
He saw David’s eyes flick down, just for a moment, to the front of his shirt. Two faint, dark circles were visible against the white broadcloth. Micah’s face burned.
“I’m gonna take him to the men’s room,” David said to Lydia, his tone light. “Be right back.”
The hallway to the bathrooms was quiet, empty of the congregational chatter. The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry insects. David didn’t speak. He just steered Micah by the arm, his fingers digging in, past the main door to a smaller, single-occupancy bathroom used by the janitor. He shoved Micah inside, locked the door, and flipped on the light.
The room was stark: concrete block walls, a toilet, a sink. The air smelled of industrial soap and mildew.
David turned on him. All the calm, composed father was gone. His eyes were dark, furious slits. “You think this is a game?” he hissed, crowding Micah against the cold wall. “Sitting there, making those little sounds, leaking through your goddamn shirt for the whole world to see? You think I didn’t see you, practically shaking in that pew, loving every second of your disgrace?”
“Papi, I didn’t—” Micah’s protest was cut off as David’s hand slapped across his mouth.
“Shut up.” David’s other hand went to Micah’s belt, yanking it open with violent efficiency. He shoved Micah’s trousers and briefs down to his knees, then ripped the delicate lace panties down, the fragile material tearing with a sad, final sound. Micah’s erection sprang free, thick and desperate.
“No control,” David spat. He reached into his suit jacket pocket and pulled out the small, cruel cage. Micah whimpered against the hand over his mouth. “You have no control. You’re an animal. I told you. I told you what would happen if you embarrassed me.”
With a brutal, practiced motion, David forced the cage over Micah’s aching flesh and locked it. The bite of the metal was a shock of cold, punishing denial. Micah groaned, the sound muffled by his father’s palm.
“And these,” David snarled, his hands going to Micah’s shirt buttons. He ripped them open, sending tiny white buttons clattering across the floor. Micah’s chest was exposed, his breasts swollen, nipples dark and painfully erect. The stained fabric of his undershirt clung to them. David tore that away too.
He stared at Micah’s body, heaving in the fluorescent light. Then his hand, open-palmed, cracked against Micah’s right breast.
The pain was electric, white-hot, bursting from his nipple and radiating through his entire chest. Micah’s scream was swallowed by David’s hand. Milk beaded at the tip, then trickled down the abused curve.
“You like showing these off?” David breathed, hitting the left one.Another jolt. Another leak. “You want the whole church to see what you are?”
Spank.Spank. Spank.
He alternated, methodical, his blows landing on the soft, vulnerable flesh of Micah’s breasts and then, with a swift change, cupping and smacking his trapped, caged balls. The pain was a symphony of humiliation, each sharp note singing through Micah’s nerves. He was sobbing openly now, tears and snot leaking onto David’s hand, his body convulsing, sliding down the wall. His mind shattered into bright, glittering shards of utter submission.
He was nothing. He was his father’s thing.
David finally released his mouth, grabbing a fistful of his hair instead, forcing him to look up. Micah’s lips were red and wet. “Please,” he slurred, broken. “Please, Papi.I’m sorry. I’m your good boy. I am.”
“You are,” David said, his voice low, watching the ruined, leaking flesh of his son’s chest. He smoothed a thumb over a reddening welt, collecting the milk, and smeared it across Micah’s trembling lips. “Now clean yourself up. We have to get back to Lydia.”
He stepped back, adjusting his suit jacket, his breathing slightly elevated. He looked at Micah, a heap of trembling, half-naked shame on the janitor’s bathroom floor, milk and tears on his face, the cold metal cage glinting between his legs.
David’s expression was unreadable. A mask of disgust, of fury. But beneath it, in the dark depth of his eyes, was something else. Something that had accepted its hunger.
He tossed a wad of paper towels at Micah. “Five minutes.”
The door closed, leaving Micah alone with the buzz of the light and the echo of his own shattered whimpers. His body throbbed with a pain so profound it felt like purity. His cock, trapped and straining, gave one final, agonizing pulse against its prison. A silent, blinding orgasm rammed through him, wracking his spasming body with waves of unbearable sensation that had no release, leaving him curled on the cold floor, emptied and owned.
He pulled himself up. He looked in the smudged mirror. A stranger with his father’s eyes, his mother’s full lips, and the marked, milky breasts of a secret whore stared back. He wiped his face. He buttoned his ruined shirt over the wet, aching evidence. He tucked the torn lace into his pocket.
When he walked out, his gait was careful, his face placid. He took his place silently beside Lydia, who smiled and took his arm. David’s hand settled back on his shoulder, heavy and final.
From the choir loft, someone began to sing a recessional hymn. Micah didn’t hear the words. He only felt the cold metal bite between his legs, and the warm, tender ache on his chest, a twin liturgy written deep into his skin.