The Sins of the Father     The Sins of the Father

 by Signe

 

 

  

 It is the little things that finally undo him. The glimpse of a lean
tanned wrist underneath the frayed cuff of a Sunday best jacket, the
slightly too long curls at the base of the boy's neck that shine in the
sunlight filtering through the tall windows. A streak of farm-dirt on his
cheek that Father Luthor longs to wipe away. 

 Most of all, it's the simple innocence that draws him. He wants to save
it and corrupt it and have it, and he knows that is impossible, he knows
that ultimately he's going to destroy it. 

 But he can't help himself. 

 If it were a knowing innocence, the sort the town girls with their
primped hair and sly sidelong glances have, it would be easier. If the
fleeting looks thrown his way were flirtatious in any way, if the teases
of skin were deliberate, the longing behind the confusion in those
troubled eyes at all faked, it would not be so hard. 

 Of course, he knows what he should do. He understands desire and
temptation and how they lead to sin - he preaches often enough about them,
warns his flock of the perils of fueling desire. He uses farming metaphors
suitable for an uncomplicated audience, tells them to root out the weeds
of sinful desire, not fertilize them or let them grow. Yes, he knows full
well that he should look away, look anywhere but at this boy whose beauty
is so sharp it hurts him. 

 Father Luthor is not weak, not in any sense of the word - years of
celibacy testify to that - but this is temptation beyond what he can bear.
This is sin made manifest, everything man has ever wanted since the first
taste of the forbidden. And he cannot look away. 

 Today, he preaches of love: love of God, love of neighbor, love that
leads to sacrifice. Holy, righteous, loyal love. He speaks of brotherly
love and familial love, but not of eros. Not of passion or lust or the
consuming desire that can burn a man up from the inside and destroy him.
He does not speak of that, even though he can think of nothing else. 

 The boy, Clark, is seated near the front, and no matter where Father
Luthor looks, whose eye he catches and calmly preaches to, it is Clark he
sees, Clark he wants to teach the joys of this other love, the unspoken
one. 

 He dressed in his coarsest robes this morning, the rough wool chafing his
skin, a constant reminder of the evils of the flesh. After his morning
prayers, he read Galations chapter five and prayed for the spirit to
remind him how to walk the narrow path. But he thinks he is beyond prayers
now, because the spirit does not guide him, and does not keep his eyes
from straying, over and over again, to the source of his temptation. 

 When the service is over, he speaks to Mr. and Mrs. Baker, and the
McNulty family, and briefly greets the rest of the congregation, but
afterwards he can't remember anything that was said. Trivialities, that is
all that everything outside his desire has become, inconsequentials that
don't engage him. 

 The church empties eventually, and the necessity of polite conversation
and pretence are over. He locks the main entrance and stifles the twinge
of guilt that rises: the church is never locked on a Sunday. 

 His steps are slow, heavy-soled shoes echoing on the stone floor, but he
knows where he is heading, what he is about to do, and no deliberation of
pace is going to prevent it. 

 He reaches the altar, eventually, and pauses. Turns. Faces the pew that
Clark occupied earlier. 

 Remembers. 

 Pictures. 

 He is so hard he can see the outline through his robes, pointing
heavenward like some cosmic joke. 

 He hesitates, because this-this thing he is about to do, this is the
point of no return. 

 He lifts his robes, bunches them up about his waist, and leans back
against the altar, the edge sharp in the small of his back. He reaches
down, and just the touch of his own hand is enough to make him shudder;
this is something he has resisted for so long, too long for control. 

 His fingers curl around his erection, and he knows what to do, has
imagined it enough times in that hour in the dark of night when thoughts
run wild and wrong. And as he pumps his hand up and down, fingers easing
moisture from the tip and trailing it down the hard length, he lets his
mind travel along the road it wants-needs to take. 

 He is vaguely aware of a sound, the side door possibly, but it does not
fully register. His entire world has shrunk to this experience, to the
thought of Clark Kent working in the fields, strong arms hurling straw
bales, the heady stink of sweat and farm about him. He pictures him,
sleeves rolled up to catch the sun and black hair mussed up from hours of
work. Gulping down water straight from the jug, so it trickles down his
chin, his neck, and lingers wet in the hollow of his throat. 

 His own throat constricts, and his hand speeds up. So close, so very
close. He feels himself tighten and shuts his eyes, as near ecstasy as he
has ever been. 

 There are footsteps, speeding up, but he cannot open his eyes. Not just
yet, not until- 

 "Father Luthor, are you all right? Oh-" The query ends on a shocked
exclamation as Clark (Clark, of all people) reaches his side and Father
Luthor comes with a horrified moan, his seed spilling on the ground before
him. 

 "Clark," he starts, but is silenced by the look on Clark's face. Not the
expected disgust, not confusion, but raw, naked want. 

 It is the most beautiful sight Father Luthor has ever seen. 

 * 

 Notes: Galations chapter 5 verse 24 reads - And they that are Christ's
have crucified the flesh with the affections and lusts. 

 Many thanks to Zahra for betaing. Written January 2006.   
 If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Signe

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