hagiography
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Sometimes, a Saint can celebrate Carnaval.
Series
- Part 1 of hagiography
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In the past, he would keep his hands away from his thighs, bathe in cold water and indulge in the jabuticaba jam he always kept a jar of in his room. Now, the sensation was stronger than it had ever been, fanned from flame into an inferno by the touch of Hilda’s lips.
He stared at himself in the mirror, a sheen of sweat on his skin and a feral look in his eyes. A deep ache was beginning to build up in him, not painful but needy, desperate for touch. No wintry baths or jars of jam could save him now.
Malthus contemplates the body as the temple of God, and witnesses its profanity.
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- Part 2 of hagiography
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“Aren't you a Saint?” she said. Her voice curled around the words, as if whispering them to a lover. “You say that the Devil is in me.” She pressed against him, her eyes pinning him in place. “So purify me. Perform your miracle.”
Malthus dreams of Hilda. He doesn't sleep on his mattress anymore.
Series
- Part 3 of hagiography