Anthony the Great was never a saint to which James prayed. This was a part of his faith he never felt close to. Despite his reserved feelings towards sainthood, James found himself relating to St. Anthony that week. The saint had earned status by fighting supernatural temptations subjected to him by Satan during his pilgrimage in the desert. He fought the creatures of temptations but eventually had to seek refuge from the beasts. St. Anthony tried to hide in a cave but the small demons kept attacking him—biting, punching, and torturing him mercilessly. They not only attacked his physical body but crept into his dreams transforming them into nightmares filled with wicked creatures and pleasures of the flesh. James recalled how in paintings of the saint, he was usually depicted slumped down, worn by little winged creatures disturbing him during the day and his nights. Their incessant, unreluctant presence edged St. Anthony closer and closer to his breaking point.
If James's past four nights were anything similar to St. Anthony's he too would hope for canonization. For the first time in his adult life, he was unable to rest due to his dreams. That night, the cold bath did little to satiate the fire inside James. The remnants of his lascivious thoughts pestered him and resulted in dampened underwear the following morning. Instead of little devils dancing around his head, it was the memory of Claude. The way his chest rose and fell, how he laughed and wrapped James around his delicate finger. The night of the dinner, James dreamt of him resting on his couch—rosy-cheeked. The following night, Claude plagued his dreams again but this time, fiction began to creep in. His dreams vividly illustrated Claude panting underneath him, gripping James's tanned back as he thrust mercilessly into the young man. The night after that, Claude visited again. And also the night after that. His usual morning routine of 10-kilometer jogs, shower, then breakfast was interrupted with an almost daily laundry load. It had become beyond ridiculous and embarrassing. He was acting like a teenager.What was worse was Claude's tone over the phone the following day. He called the house to thank James for hosting and to alert him that he had arrived home safely. He mentioned that he would be staying in his apartment in Midtown Atlanta for the week but would be sure to let James know when he was back in town. The conversation could not have been more than fifteen minutes but James's heart pounded with every word exchanged. Claude had called to smooth things over and James's reaction to this kind exchange was lewd, lustful, and monstrous thoughts. He felt ashamed of his consciousness. James attempted to pray but he knew it was futile.
The rest of the week James preoccupied himself with work and continuing odd jobs for his congregants. His body ached as he mowed lawns, yanked weeds, and entertained mundane conversations. James knew his body and his mind were at odds but he knew better than to pay it any more attention. He felt nauseous and hungry. No matter how hard he labored during the day, what was truly exhausting him were the nightly wet dreams that only escalated his sensations. To acknowledge his feelings was to acknowledge the problem at hand. He refused to concede to his nature and ignored the very obvious crush he had developed. Any other adult alpha could easily mitigate these sensations churning inside them but in this regard, James was quite inexperienced. He had spent most of his adult life ignoring his disposition and remained fairly innocent.
When Saturday arrived with grey skies and thick sticky air, the humidity made it hard to breathe, desperately begging rain to pour down from the heavens. He had already organized and typed out his sermon for the following day when the phone rang. Miss Sharon had called for James to stop by for a small lunch and as Claude was likely still in Atlanta, he didn't see the harm in stopping by. He quickly changed into some sensible clothes, grabbing his wallet and house keys before exiting the home. Carefully grabbing the hot plastic door handle, he quickly turned the keys to start the car and the A/C. His car stereo immediately flicked on and a soft female drawl began to sing:
The way that you love me
The way that you touch me
The way that you whisper my name
I cannot resist you
Each time I kiss you
Then everything goes up in flames
Baby, I'm burnin', out of control
Baby, I'm burnin', body and soul
Hot as a pistol that's flamin' desire
James frowned and flicked it off. He closed the door and drove in silence. Every little thing reminded him of Claude, the radio and television kept playing sappy love songs and endless runs of the Newlywed Game—he could only take so many of Bob Eubanks's 'making whoopee' jokes. He continued to drive in silence but the lyrics still lulled in his brain, 'Hot as a pistol that's flamin' desire.' James turned up the A/C a bit more.
Miss Sharon's invitation may be the distraction James needed all along. Her style hadn't changed since he was younger. Unlike his mother's kitchen, the appliances nor the design were high-end however, it felt more welcoming. It was small with bright white tile flooring and pastel yellow walls. Every mitten, tea towel, and sugar bowl bore a sunflower motif. A thin run of wallpaper circled the kitchen, it too illustrating sunflowers. James sat on the diner-style table in the middle of the kitchen, sipping iced tea out of a sunflower glass while Miss Sharon in her little apron prepared chicken for frying. He had always loved her ridiculously themed kitchen. It seemed every couple of years, she would choose an obsession and fully administer it throughout the space. The last time he was here, the theme was strawberries—every dishware, ice tray, and pitcher wore strawberries. It was tacky and silly but something about it always put James at ease.
"I wish you hadn't arrived so early," she snapped, her back turned to James, dipping chicken thighs into the egg mixture and quickly onto the flour. "I am still preparing our food. You're gonna smell like grease." James laughed, "I don't mind Miss Sharon. There are worse things to smell like." Miss Sharon did a small "Mmhm" under her breath and kept fanning her face. "I am looking forward to our service tomorrow," continued Miss Sharon. "What's the first reading?" James nodded in reply, "From Deuteronomy. I wanted to do a special service for Father Michael but the Diocese was against it." Miss Sharon sighed loudly, "I'm not shocked. They had been wanting to replace him for years. That's why they were flinging Father Otto at us." James poured himself a bit more iced tea, feeling very hot. Perhaps it was the fryer or the weather. Maybe a combination of both. "How did you know he-" "Of course, I know Jimmy. I run the Church," she retorted in a manner-of-factly. James giggled. When Miss Sharon didn't like someone, she let it show.
Miss Sharon walked over to her sink and washed her hands. Drying them off with her apron she walked over to James, sniffing slightly at his neck. She pressed her hand to his forehead. "You're burning up!" James brushed it off, "Oh don't worry about that. I feel fine, just been a bit stressed lately." Miss Sharon pursed her lips, not out of judgment but slight concern. "Jimmy," she began to question, "When was your last rut?" James's eyebrows rose. He hadn't thought about his rut. He usually got them at the end of summer but between Father Michael's death, finals, and moving it must have come early. "Ah," James replied, "I haven't had it in a while." "Hmm," she muttered disappearing out of the kitchen without any other word. James could hear the closing and opening of drawers in the distance. She then yelled from some distant room, "It may have been triggered by the weather." James shrugged, "I don't think that's how it works Miss Sharon." "Yes, it can!" She replied, who was he to tell her otherwise? "My poor Claude told me he got his heat early. He was sweating up a storm a couple of days ago in this weather." James paused. Claude hadn't told him that over the phone. He walked home Tuesday night without a collar nor any medicine from what he recalled. He could have easily been attacked, he thought to himself. There was an impulse to rush to him, to make sure he was all right.
"Oof yeah, it's your rut all right," said Miss Sharon holding a handkerchief to her nose. "Get that scent under control." She walked over to the window and opened it slightly, not wanting to let the muggy air get inside. She handed James a small pill bottle. "Take some. It will control it for twenty-four hours. You got service tomorrow after all." James nodded. He usually didn't take suppressants as whenever the rut cycle would come along another priest would take his place. "It's been overdue," replied James, popping a pill into his mouth. "I thought it was gonna come in later this month." James admired that Miss Sharon stocked up on gendered medications. Despite being rough both in speech and character, she took care of those around her. James gestured to give her the pill bottle back but she shook her head, "Don't worry Jimmy. Keep those with you." She went back to tending to the chicken, carefully dropping them into the hot oil. The sizzling sounds and delightful aroma made James's stomach growl. Miss Sharon laughed, "It's coming, it's coming!"
The rest of the afternoon was spent eating and speaking some more. She recounted town gossip, church affairs, and her volunteering at her former Library job. To both James's despondency and curiosity, Miss Sharon spoke of Claude. He helped her around the house and his visits were something for her to look forward to. Having been living alone for so long even before her retirement, Miss Sharon had begun to sink into a slight depression as her friends were living distantly with their respective children and getting older by the day. The town had changed and she had felt like a remnant of the past. Claude had been a welcome change of pace—though he was challenging and spent many nights "riding hard and put up wet," she welcomed his youthful charm. He brought over some "rowdy-looking" boys but they were sweet and took her about town. Miss Sharon's face filled with glee recounting stories from the last couple of years while James looked at her. James wondered if his father felt similarly, keeping his work position not out of a need for money but out of loneliness. Maybe James felt this way too. He knew one day he would die, like any other child of God but would he have the support that Miss Sharon has? Even without children, those who love her stepped in to care for and cherish her.
The two said their goodbyes. Miss Sharon kissed James on the cheek and then wove from her porch as he drove away. When James arrived home, he felt a pang of disappointment. Miss Sharon's kitchen, an oasis of brightly colored kitsch, juxtaposed the dreary wooden layout of Father Michael's. He took off his shoes at the doorway and audibly sighed. The only thing that illuminated the home was the night with Claude. After then, the house had become too quiet, too stuffy. James took off his shoes and walked over to place them in the cupboard under the stairs. Inside the cupboard hung his green Liturgical robes, a reminder of the path he led. He touched the robes softly, as to not wrinkle them before use. The fabric felt abrasive under his fingertips, the longer he held the more it would make his fingers itch. Why had he wanted this vocation all his life? What had drawn him in?
...
Sunday arrived with thicker humidity than the day before. Beads of sweat ran down James's face and neck as he shook the hands of his congregants in his full vestment. Families dressed in their best clothes eagerly shook James's hand, excited to see their fresh new faces. Several of the congregants could probably pick up a bit of James's scent and held on a bit too long. Father James awkwardly let go and then began mass. It ran as it typically would in any church, he gave the sermon and explained the scripture. He prepared the Eucharist and alongside Miss Sharon provided it to those in the audience. Sounds of distant thunder clapped through the last of the Mass. Father James was explaining to those attending that the new permanent Father would take the post in a couple of weeks. Glances of confusion and disappointment flashed back at him, illuminated by the increasingly stormy weather. "The Mass has ended," Father James spoke, "go in peace to love and serve the Lord." The crowd replied, "Thanks be to God." Congregants quickly rushed out, trying to beat the incoming weather. The old Church echoed the shuffle of heels and the increasing patter of rain. Father James shook everyone's hand once more and waited with those older folks, getting picked up by their families. Even Miss Sharon left in hurry with a family, muttering about laundry she had left on the line.
James closed the Church door and immediately took off his robes and collar. He had thankfully worn a short-sleeved button-up underneath but he had sweated through it and it clung to his body tightly. He could feel his body getting worse and his breathing getting heavier. Oh no, he thought to himself. His rut had begun. Though no congregants were remaining, he was scared of being caught in this state. James roughly rummaged through his robes, looking for his suppressants. He frantically looked through, his pheromones increasing and his scent starting to seep through. "No, no, no-no," he cried to himself. They were nowhere to be found. The rain began to pour heavily and the roaring clapped loudly alongside it. James grabbed his robes and collar, walking over to the back door of the church—he was going to have to run back to the house.
Though the distance wasn't much the lot had already become quite muddy. James ran as fast as he could, the warm water bathing him and cooling him slightly. Mud flung underneath him, his shoes sinking deeper into the soil the closer he got to the house. His vision blurred, raindrops cascading down the lenses of his glasses. He reached his door and quickly made his way inside. Immediately, James threw his robes and collar onto the ground. The door was still ajar when he began to fling off his wet, muddy clothes at the entrance. His body became hot to the touch, he couldn't stand it. He was riled up, concupiscent desire growing ever more. He wanted release. James began breathing even heavier, and panic set in. Where did they go? James thought to himself, heat crept into his loins. He flung off his socks and ran upstairs to his bathroom, looking through the vanity for his pills. He threw his glasses in the sink, out of frustration. It was easier to squint than to see through those wet lenses. James leaned in to read the labels, his erection painfully pressed against the cool sink. He was being driven to insanity! I want him, he squawked to himself, right now! I want him! James slammed the vanity door in defeat, the mirror reflected his painfully red countenance, covered in rain and sweat. His eyes were growing wider and his pheromones were no longer able to be controlled. He felt on the verge of tears, what was happening to him?
James had never experienced a rut so horrible before in his life. What normally felt like unrelenting desire struck him like an excruciating carnal craving. It was not just the increased propelling to have sex but the sensation that he needed it to live. James raced down the stairs, feeling overwhelmed with lust and misery. It was a sickly yearning that had instilled this pain within him. He wanted him. No, James needed him. He tried his best to fight his thoughts, searching for any kind of suppressant. James wouldn't be able to withstand another week of this pain. Two conflicting thoughts kept hounding him as he searched through his cabinets: Where are they? and I need him! James's entire body had become sensitive. The cool circulation of air within the home caused an eruption of goosebumps all over his body. He felt both hot and cold at the same time. His vision fogged and his consciousness slipped into ravaged absurdity. James's mouth hung agape, heaving loudly.
He yanked open several drawers, not bothering to put them back into place. He hastily shook each one, hoping that the medication would slip towards him. Preoccupied with finding his suppressants, James ignored the loud crashing of the thunder and slamming of the door. He continued to shake the drawers till finally one of the drawers by the sink rattled. An orange pillbox rolled down to the edge of the drawer. James quickly squeezed off the cap and threw several pills down his throat. Too desperate to think straight, James aggressively turned the tap and stuck his head underneath the faucet. He gulped room-temperature water down his throat, slugging it down several times. He needed to make sure the pills were inside him. James finally raised his head and threw water at his face. He turned off the tap, continuing to heave. The water snapped him back to reality for a minute. James's breathing began to relax. Closing his eyes he collapsed onto the ground, waiting for the pills to take effect.
He breathed in, slowly exhaling trying to calm himself down. His underwear gripped tightly onto his body, his sex throbbing wanting to be touched. Intuitively, James placed his hand upon it, lightly wrapping his fingers around him. It felt fiery, intensely tender. "Mm," James groaned lightly. His other hand brushed against his hardened nipple, lightly and slowly circling it with his fingertips. His wet chest hair caught and yanked at his skin. "Ah," he hoarsely moaned. James didn't want to begin stroking himself but he could only control his instincts for so long. James's hand caressed over his damp underwear, gently massaging himself. His thoughts were polluted with fantasies of Claude. James's imagined his light, freckled body responding to his touch and the sounds he would moan into James's ear. He wanted to run his fingers around his light curls and wrap them into a fist. He wanted to devour him, to be drunk by Claude's citrusy scent. James opened his eyes, his head hung low. He didn't want to be lost in his fantasy. He continued to lightly tug at his genitals, now panting lightly. The heaving had subsided and he raised his head. In the doorway stood the object of his desire. Claude was before him, staring hungrily at James. In his arms were the drenched robes, water pooling underneath him. He too was breathing heavily, his face pink unable to look away. The two of them stared at each other in silence for a moment, unsure of what was to do. James stopped touching himself, instead of using his hands to best hide his erection to little avail. He could feel Claude's gaze on him, it was not fear but something else. He could smell Claude's desire, he could smell the arousal growing deeper within him.
"I think you need to leave," quietly said James, unable to move or to look away, "I'm on my rut. It's dangerous for you." Claude continued to stare, paralyzed by the sight before him. James's uncontrolled scent had stirred Claude to point of debilitation. He had experiences with other alphas but this was different, very different and he knew he shouldn't walk away. Claude's scent was lightly releasing, his excitement unable to be controlled like usual. James slowly rose off the ground, panting heavily breathing Claude in. James's eyes pleaded, "Please, I don't want to hurt you." Claude set down the wet robes and without turning around began to walk back down the hall. James followed him, equally paced and at a safe distance. James was relying on every will within him to stay safe. He followed him down the hall, wanting to assure he safely made his way to his car and out of this house. They finally reached the entrance, and the remainder of James's clothes lay scattered on the floor. "Do not worry," huffed James, "I will lock the door as soon as you leave." Claude desperately looked into his eyes, this wasn't what he wanted. Claude's gaze suddenly darted to the floor. "Step away for a moment," Claude stated, causing James to take several steps back. Claude's gaze moved back to James as he grabbed something off the floor. Claude hunched over and began clasping something onto himself. "I think this would do," Claude stated slowly standing up, James's priestly collar wrapping his neck. James's eyes widen. Claude had no intention of going home.
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