Orgy of Souls

“Save it. There is no penance for me.”

The door to the confessional closed. Minutes later, it opened again and the next parishioner shuffled in.

“Bless me father for I have sinned…”

Haven’t we all. Samuel thought as tears welled up in his eyes. Haven’t we all.

15

“Can I take your coat?” Samson held out his hands. Bare-chested and shoeless, wearing only a pair of jeans, his body glistened in the light of the bright moon. Tara brushed past him with a knowing linger of her weight against him. She slipped from her thin jacket in a fluid motion. She reeked of alcohol and stale smoke, reporting promptly from her interrupted evening at Requiem for his booty call. “Here, I’ll take your purse, too, if you’d like.”

“My, aren’t we being the complete gentleman?”

“You make it sound as if I’m usually not a gentleman.”

“I’ll let you know when I want you gentle.”

“Goes with the spirit of the evening. If I gave you my belt, would that make you happy?”

“Well, let’s just say I plan on putting it to good use later.”

“Promises, promises.”

Tara’s long black hair had been pulled into a loose ponytail, highlighting her dove-like eyes and practiced smile. Her electric blue satin camisole bobbed merrily with each step, matching the bounce of her freed breasts. A black leather miniskirt showcased her toasted almond complexion. Samson led her to his spacious living room. Haunting, tuneless strains of hip-hop influenced jazz emanated as dull beats from his speakers. Spartan by design as well as necessity, the unadorned walls held a bleakness about them. With no knickknacks along his shelves, the room was impersonal. Cold.

Only a picture of him and Samuel, in much younger and happier days, rested on the mantle above the faux fireplace next to a stand with a Japanese Samurai sword and two other smaller swords. Tara immediately gravitated to it, running her fingers over the swords. She removed the bushido blade from the stand and ran the sharpened edge over her tongue, bathing the cold steel with her saliva. The very tip cut into her tongue and her blood ran down the blade. She began to dance with it, a striptease, sliding the blade across her breasts, over her belly, down between her legs, leaving trails of her own blood and saliva.

Samson sat, mesmerized by the dance. If she’d wanted to, she could have cut his throat before he could have so much as blinked, he was so enthralled. When she slid the sword back into its sheath and replaced it on the stand, he sighed his disappointment; he’d wanted to see more.

His heart skipped with apprehension when she picked up the picture of Samuel and him. The sight of her cradling it quickened the pulse at his temples, inviting a sliver of doubt that tugged at his insides as he wondered what his brother would think. Not that his brother had many positive things to say about how Samson chose to live his life. Samuel tended to keep his disapproval to himself, carrying himself without judgment of Samson, which was why Samson remained close to him. Samson couldn’t remember the last time he spoke to their mother. With something akin to remorse threatening to stir within him, he wiped a cold sweat from his forehead. His course was set. After several deep, calming breaths, he steeled himself to his course of action; he had simply come too far to turn back. He took the picture from Tara and set it face down.

“Would you like something to drink?” Samson asked.

“Whatever you’re having.”

The best thing about being “Samson,” he often thought, was the multitude of connections he managed to make. People always wanted to be able to get their hands on whatever, whenever. From celebrities to lowlifes, he mixed with them all because you never knew who could provide. So he was never in want of alcohol or drugs, no matter how exotic. Tara took the glass from him and stepped nearer in order to kiss him passionately, reveling in the heat of his musk. She ran her hands along his naked back before letting her hand trail down to the bulge in his pants. Taking a large swallow of his drink, he proceeded to kiss her neck then work his way lower, running his tongue along her belly. He slipped his hand under her camisole and teased her nipple. Samson poured some of his drink into her navel and sipped. Tara leaned back against the couch and languidly drank. Like a boy unwrapping a Christmas gift, his free hand unzipped her miniskirt. A lone tuft, like a pubic soul patch, greeted him.

“Do you know what a covenant is?” Samson asked.

“Mmm-hmmm.”

“It’s a binding agreement between two people. In the Old Testament, you didn’t make a covenant, you cut a covenant.”

“Sounds kinky,” she cooed.

“You see, I have this problem. The contract you signed, it wasn’t enough. Just words on a page, not especially binding, less so with all the lawyers we have today. So we need some sort of, well, sacrifice might be too strong of a word, but it gets the point across. It just sounds so dramatic, you know.”