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Oh may your breasts be like clusters of the vine,
and the scent of your breath like apples,
and your mouth like the best wine.
It goes down smoothly for my beloved,
gliding over lips and teeth.
- Song of Solomon 7
Ava’s hand is tight around Beatrice’s, her fingers sure and familiar.
“Come on,” Ava urges, pulling Beatrice forward and into the chapel. They’ve been at Cat’s Cradle for just under a day, joining the others for their monthly strategy meeting.
“Whatever this is, I assure you we don’t have time,” Beatrice comments, still allowing herself to be dragged along by Ava.
“It’ll only take a minute,” Ava replies. “Besides, Camila’s still in the training yard with Yasmine. And based on the number of times I saw Yasmine fall ass up, I’m thinking they’re going to be awhile. You look cute, by the way,” Ava motions to Beatrice’s outfit — the training tunic, not quite as formal as Beatrice’s old habit, allowed for more movement than the jeans and Oxford shirt she had arrived in.
“Yes, well.” Beatrice smoothes down the skirt a little self-consciously. “I wasn’t expecting Mother Superion to request I demonstrate correct kendo technique to the novices.”
“I’m glad you did.” Ava grins. “It was hot. And also, I want you to show me how you did that little flippy thing with the sword—“
“Shinai.”
“Exactly.”
Beatrice runs her thumb over the back of Ava’s hand, feeling a surge of affection. “I still don’t know where you’re taking me.”
“You’ll see,” Ava sings, weaving them through the pews.
It’s been almost a year since Ava returned. Almost a year since they won the Holy Battle before it became a Holy War. More than a year since Beatrice removed her wimple for the last time. Now they maintain peace rather than fight for it. The halo lies dormant and almost forgotten, buried like a secret in Ava’s skin.
She and Ava have made a small, cosy home near enough to the others to be on call, but far away enough that their lives feel like their own.
It feels simple…normal — the kind of life Beatrice would never have dared imagine for herself.
Ava stops abruptly in front of the confessional and Beatrice waits for the curtain to be pulled aside and for someone to pop out or something equally elaborate, based on Ava’s excitement. When nothing happens except Ava’s expression becoming even more expectant, Beatrice asks, “You wanted to show me the confessional?”
It is a nice structure as far as confessional booths go, Beatrice supposes. A large, dark wood box separated into two separate booths, a latticed wooden screen between them. The curtain in front of the priest’s side is covered by a heavy violet curtain, velvet and luxurious looking.
“I’ve never done one of these,” Ava says, still looking excited.
“It’s for penitence, Ava. It’s not a theme park ride.”
“I know that,” Ava rolls her eyes. “Maybe I want to repent.”
Beatrice snorts. Ava has an almost supernatural gift for making Beatrice laugh when she shouldn’t. “What could you, Ava Silva, possibly want to repent about?”
Ava wiggles her eyebrows mischievously. “I don’t know. You’ll have to confess me to find out.”
Beatrice blanches. “You want me to…” she motions towards the confessional. “No. There’s no way. It’s…sacrilegious.”
“Oh come on. You haven’t worn the wimple in like a year. Despite,” Ava adds, “how many times I’ve asked.”
Beatrice feels heat rise to her cheeks. She looks around, but the chapel is empty and quiet. “Just come back next Tuesday,” Beatrice replies. “That’s usually when Father Matteo stops by for confession.”
Ava pulls a face “Tell that wrinkly old dude all my secrets? Fuck no.”
Beatrice looks from the booth to Ava with her puppy-dog eyes and exaggerated pout and sighs. “Fine,” she says curtly. Ava’s smile is wide and delighted. “Just so you can see what it’s like.”
Ava is already halfway into the booth. “Okay, now you be the priest,” she calls out.
Beatrice takes one more look at the open door, where sunlight streams in and the sounds of training can be heard, carried by the light spring breeze.
She crosses herself for good measure and slips into the priest’s side. It is a weird feeling being in the booth. She feels both blasphemous and strangely exhilarated.
“I’m on my knees,” Ava says from the other side. Beatrice can just make out her shape on the opposite side of the grate. “Should I sit instead? There’s a bench in here.”
Despite herself, Beatrice finds it endearing, how earnest Ava is about this whole thing. “Whatever feels comfortable, I suppose.”
“Okay, I’m kneeling,” Ava says. And then, “Are you?”
“No, I’m sitting on the bench beside the grate.” Beatrice looks down at her phone. They have about 15 minutes until the meeting begins. She likes to be early, but she can’t imagine that this will take very long.
“Sweet. Okay, go!”
Beatrice frowns in confusion. “Go?”
“Say the thing.”
“Well, technically you say, ‘Bless me…’”
“Oh, I know this one!” Ava interrupts. “Okay, you ready?”
“I…” Her smile is soft and indulgent. “Sure.”
“Bless me, Sister, for I have sinned. It’s been—“ And Beatrice can hear the giggle in Ava’s voice before she says, “sixty-nine days since my last confession.”
Because of course. Of course this is why Ava wanted to do this. “Okay, this is…”
“No, no, no. I’m sorry,” Ava snickers, not sounding very sorry at all. “It’s been never since my last confession. But I have some stuff I have to say.”
“Go ahead.” Beatrice considers adding a “my child,” but it feels too strange. It’s embarrassing how easy it is for Ava to enlist her in ridiculous situations. It almost always ends with them hanging onto each other, laughing hysterically until their stomachs hurt. Before Ava, Beatrice has never had reasons to laugh hysterically about anything.
“My confession is this. Last week, you made that lentil soup and I said it was delicious. But…”
Beatrice squints. “Go on.”
“I lied. It was so fucking bad, Bea. Like, both under and over salted? The lentils were like tiny gravel stones in my mouth and honestly, I don’t think it was supposed to be that colour.” Ava lets out a breath. “Oh my god, it’s so good to get that off my chest. I see why people do this shit. It’s so much cheaper than therapy.”
It was supposed to be that colour, Beatrice thinks. Although, maybe not quite as orange. “Is that all?”
“For now, yeah.”Ava sighs as if this weight has been lifted and Beatrice thinks it’s a tad dramatic. “Am I forgiven?”
“Two thousand Hail Marys and a month of fasting,” she all but orders, “and you’ll be fine.”
“That doesn’t sound right.”
Beatrice huffs in amusement. “You obviously need a lot of penance.”
“Oh, do I?” Ava’s voice drops register in a way that makes Beatrice’s stomach flip in anticipation.
“Ava. No.” She tries to sound as firm as possible.
“Whaaaat?” Ava tries for innocence and fails miserably. Beatrice can practically feel Ava grinning through the grate.
“I know that tone.”
“Oh, come on.” Ava murmurs. “Tell me this doesn’t get you just a little hot. Sitting there, in the dark, listening to me tell you all my dirty secrets. Like how much I liked it when you did that thing with your tongue last night.”
Heat of embarrassment, of arousal, shoots through her like an arrow. “Ava! We are in a convent.”
“Right now, we’re alone in a little wooden box. No-one around. Just you and me…” Ava trails off. “I have one more confession.”
“I don’t know if I want to hear it,” Beatrice replies unconvincingly.
“You sure? You don’t want to hear about how turned on I was watching you train today? How at one point, you twirled your sword—”
Shinai, Beatrice resists the urge to say.
“—and all I could think about was pushing you against a wall and slowly running my hand under your skirt, touching you until you came all over my hand.”
When Beatrice’s only reply is a soft gasp, Ava asks,“You want me to stop?” Beatrice knows she would. If Beatrice asked. She doesn’t. “Bea?”
Her exhale is shaky and loud and Ava’s breath hitches in reply.
In a raspy whisper, Ava asks, “Are you wet right now?”
Beatrice moans as liquid heat pools between her legs. She doesn’t mean to, and clamps her hand over her mouth the second it escapes, but it’s too late. Ava’s scrambling out of the booth and pulling open the curtain. Her eyes are dark and dilated, her mouth parted and cheeks flushed with arousal.
They stare at each other for an infinite moment. Beatrice wonders if her face mirrors the raw, unfiltered desire on Ava’s. Before she can change her mind, Beatrice reaches out and yanks Ava into the booth with her.
Ava is on her immediately, mouth on hers, pushing Beatrice against the hard wooden wall. The panels dig into Beatrice’s back and she arches forward, trying to get as close as possible. Ava’s hand is in her hair, already pulling it out of its bun. The other is on her hip, fingers skating over her skin, tugging at the waistband of her skirt. Her tentative touch a question that Beatrice answers by lacing their fingers together and guiding Ava’s hand under the band until Ava’s fingers find Beatrice’s soaked underwear.
“Fuck.” Ava drops her forehead against Beatrice’s and shuts her eyes, her breath coming out in short, hard pants. Ava’s fingers push drenched cotton aside and slide clumsily through Beatrice’s slick folds. Beatrice bites down on her lower lip to keep herself from crying out as Ava swipes against her clit. “Beatrice.” Ava says her name like a prayer. “Jesus. You’re so wet.”
It would be embarrassing with anyone else, but here, in this small world that suddenly feels like their own, Beatrice is a column of pleasure—all feeling, no intellect, seeking more, urging Ava’s touch to be harder, deeper, just…more.
She’s never felt this wanton or…free. The frustration of every clenched fist, every word held back, every impulse denied seems to melt away under Ava’s touch. Beatrice inhales sharply as Ava circles her clit, just brushing the swollen tip.
“Oh god,” Beatrice breathes out and cants her hips forward, coating Ava’s fingers and palm in her wetness. Ava moans and Beatrice tenses under her. “Keep your voice down,” she manages in a ragged whisper.
Ava licks a stripe up Beatrice’s neck and tugs on Beatrice’s earlobe with her teeth before murmuring, “You gonna punish me if I don’t?”
The words rush to Beatrice’s knees like a shot of tequila—which she’s had one too many times thanks to the woman currently attached to her. She braces her hands against Ava’s chest, just enough to push her back and look at her.
Ava’s a mess already. Hair in her eyes, mouth shiny and kiss-swollen. “What?” Ava’s breath comes out a stuttered exhale. “What’s wrong?”
Beatrice takes a split second to assess her next words and, with all the prudence of an ex-nun, thinks, fuck it.
“Get on your knees.”
“Oh,” Ava whines in something like pain and pleasure. “Fuck.”
She falls to her knees on the carpeted floor—a supplicant ready to worship. Beatrice sits on the bench, facing forward, her stomach in flutters at the sight of Ava, chin tilted up, eyes wide and expectant.
With her eyes never leaving Ava’s, Beatrice spreads her knees, inviting Ava in. She feels like she’s in a dream, a shared delusion fuelled by lust and the overwhelming desire to have Ava’s mouth on her.
Ava does not disappoint. She pushes Beatrice’s skirts up and gives her a light slap on her ass, urging her to lift up for Ava to remove her distractingly soaked underwear and ruck her skirts up around her waist instead of going under them.
“I wanna see your face,” Ava says by way of explanation.
In a second, Ava’s mouth is on her, lips pursed around her clit, tongue moving in short, fast strokes just the way Beatrice likes.
The sound Beatrice makes is high-pitched and strangled. It dies in her throat as she swallows it down, eyelashes fluttering as she attempts to remain lucid for this utterly biblical experience. One hand tangles in Ava’s hair, keeping her exactly where Beatrice needs her.
Ava reaches up and spreads Beatrice open, exposing her to the warm thick air in the small space. Beatrice shivers involuntarily and Ava blows on her clit before sucking it into her mouth. The action makes Beatrice whimper, before she clenches her teeth to keep from crying out.
Ava’s tongue circles Beatrice’s clit for good measure, then trails down to penetrate Beatrice’s dripping, swollen core. Ava loves doing this. Beatrice knows this because Ava’s told her so…many times…often in public. She feels the stretch of Ava’s jaw against her as Ava points her tongue, trying to get as deep as possible.
Beatrice feels full, feels diaphanous. Strains of Ave vernum corpus play through her head, flowing over Ava’s ministrations. Beatrice pleads, prays, professes words of devotion, while Ava devours her whole.
“I could do this forever,” Ava mumbles, pulling her mouth away for a second.
“Then do it,” Beatrice sighs, her knees tightening against Ava’s ears, her fingers clenched in Ava’s hair. “Please, Ava, I—”
Beatrice’s head knocks back against the hard wood as Ava swipes her flat tongue up Beatrice’s core, humming as she does. When her tongue begins a fast, steady rhythm against Beatrice’s throbbing clit, Beatrice begins to see stars. Who needs heaven, she thinks, holding Ava’s head close, when she has this?
Her hand finds the lattice and her fingers dig into the grate, trying to ground herself before she goes flying off into the ether.
It starts slow, the rolling, insistent crescendo in Beatrice’s lower belly, the hot pressure between her legs, the hitch of her breath as Ava’s tongue perseveres over her increasing slickness to find just the right spot to make her—
“Ava,” Beatrice croaks out. She clenches, her head thrown back in a silent scream as the orgasm crashes through her. It’s so much. Almost too much. Ava’s mouth is still on her, seeking, hopeful for another, but Beatrice gently pushes her away.
“Enough,” she manages through laboured breath. “That was…” She trails off, suddenly overcome by the sight of Ava, on her knees, looking up at Beatrice with an expression of pure veneration. Her chin wet and shiny, her eyes bright and soft.
“Come here,” Beatrice says softly, her heart heavy with love. Ava stands, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and allows Beatrice to pull her forward. She straddles Beatrice’s lap, knees on either side of Beatrice’s hips, both of them barely fitting on the narrow bench.
She kisses Ava, long and slow. This holy communion. Ava tastes like come and smells like incense. The combination is heady.
“You’re beautiful,” Beatrice murmurs against her neck. “So beautiful.”
“Bea,” Ava’s voice breaks when Beatrice scrapes her teeth against the soft skin of Ava’s neck. Beatrice had never thought it could be like this, sex, fucking as Ava loved to say just to make her blush. Beatrice knew it was natural, physical, at times animal, but with Ava it’s holy. With Ava, it’s like taking the sacrament every time she slides her fingers into Ava’s enveloping heat. There is no Christ in this small booth, only Ava—body and blood.
“Please.” Ava grinds down against Beatrice’s lap, searching, wanting. Even though the material of her trousers, Beatrice feels Ava’s heat.
“What do you need?” she asks, her breath ghosting against the shell of Ava’s ear. “Tell me.”
“Just touch me,” Ava whines. “Please Bea. I just want your hands on me.”
Beatrice reaches down to undo the buttons of Ava’s trousers. The fabric is a thick corduroy. A vintage find from a flea market they browsed the week before. Ava scoots up to give Beatrice enough space to slip her hand into Ava’s pants.
They both gasp at the sensation of Beatrice’s fingertips gliding against Ava’s drenched underwear. It’s so wet that Beatrice can feel the clear outline of Ava beneath the cotton, so wet that when Beatrice slides two fingers inside, she’s met with no resistance, only a low moan from Ava. The sound goes straight to Beatrice’s stomach, as new arousal flares through her.
“More,” Ava rasps, her hips already thrusting forward.
“Three?” Beatrice asks to make sure.
Ava nods and Beatrice adds another finger, feeling the subtle stretch as she pushes into Ava. “Oh,” Ava half-moans, half-sobs as Beatrice begins moving her fingers.
“Look at me,” Beatrice instructs softly, watching Ava’s eyes shut, her head tilted back. She reaches up to clasp Ava’s chin between her thumb and forefinger, willing her head down. Beatrice stills her fingers until Ava’s eyes flutter open. She makes a valiant attempt to focus on Beatrice.
Beatrice leans up to capture Ava’s mouth in a hungry kiss. Ava melts into it, her hands on Beatrice’s shoulders, anchoring herself as she grinds down. When Beatrice curls her thumb just enough to put pressure on Ava’s clit, Ava arches back with a strangled cry. The confessional is filled with Ava’s sharp breaths and the wet—and ridiculously sexy—sound of Ava bouncing up and down on Beatrice’s fingers.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Ava curses like an invocation, every breath pushed out as she makes contact with Beatrice’s lap. She’s beautiful like this, Beatrice thinks, watching the vein in Ava’s neck pulse, the light sheen of sweat gathering on her jugular notch.
“Come for me,” Beatrice murmurs as Ava, placing both hands against the wooden panel behind them, rides Beatrice so hard that the booth rattles from their exertion.
“Kiss me,” Ava manages with a groan. “Kiss me while I—” Ava’s kiss is sloppy and without focus as she tenses, her body going suddenly rigid. The hand on Ava’s waist rushes up to her mouth to cover the scream and Ava takes two of Beatrice’s fingers in, sucking on them as she comes. Beatrice continues to fuck her, her thrusts long and slow and Ava chases the sensation until she’s spent, until she sags against Beatrice, forehead to forehead, their breathing shaky, their bodies trembling.
“That was…” Ava trails off into a soft laugh.
“I know,” Beatrice whispers, her smile incredulous. Her hands go to Ava’s waist, holding her in place. Ava slings her arms around Beatrice’s neck, making no effort to move.
“I can’t believe we did that.” Ava looks dazed.
“I know,” Beatrice says again. She feels buoyant, awake.
Ava’s expression turns suddenly contrite. “Think we missed the meeting?”
“I think we’re definitely late.” Beatrice nods and Ava narrows her eyes, as if trying to figure something out.
“You’re surprisingly chill about this whole thing.”
A shrug. “Endorphins, I suppose.” And then, Beatrice’s own confession, artless and true. “I loved it.”
Ava’s smile is everything. “I loved it too.” She kisses the tip of Beatrice’s nose. “So…” Ava raises her eyebrows. “You were saying confession is usually like a once a week thing?”
Beatrice’s laugh rings out through the empty chapel. This time, she asks for no forgiveness.