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Easter Sunday

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The Sunday mornings in Jackson’s home tended to start much the same; he wakes you from bed, you both shower; you put on a dress, he puts on a suit; he heads outside to his truck after locking up the house, and you followed, sitting obediently in the passenger seat to be taken to church.

This morning, however, the emotion in the home was different; a different intensity, a new tension. As you wrapped Jackson’s tie around his neck, preparing to tie it for him in front of the bathroom mirror, you watched him feverishly check his watch every few seconds.

“He’s late,” he jabbed, lifting his chin to make way for your hands, “Shoulda figured that.”

The black silken fabric of the tie wisped past and between your fingers as you began to tie it in a knot.

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

With your hand close to his throat, you felt and heard a grumble from his throat as you pulled his tie taught against his neck.

“You c’n be sure all y’like. But I ain’t.”

You turned toward the bathroom mirror to make your final adjustments to Jackson’s suit. The position of every button, the cuffs, the evenness of his tie; each part of him received your special attention. You pulled his tie down to meet his belt, and picked a couple stray pieces of lint from his bright white dress shirt. Jackson stroked his beard in the mirror, laying down a few stray hairs on his freshly trimmed jaw, but the abrupt sound of knocking turned you both toward the bathroom door.

“Looks like he made it after all,” Jackson teased, looking back toward the mirror, “I’ll finish up ‘n here. You go’n downstairs an’ greet ‘im. Get acquainted. See if y’ like ‘im any better th’n I do.”

With Jackson staring intently into the mirror, brows furrowed as he stroked his beard and laid down several thick, dark strands of hair on his head, you turned toward the bathroom door to exit. Descending the stairs toward the front door, several more knocks filled the home, as did several startled barks from Earl.

When you opened the door, you saw a man with a similar stature to Jackson, his face clean shaven, his hair long and neatly combed over. You were distracted by his bright and glinting gold watch, reflecting rays of morning light, before you noticed the rest of his outfit. A white button up outlined in black, short sleeved, leaving his lightly tanned arms exposed; with them, a pair of black dress pants, down the side of which were a black pinstripe. The man stood at the door with his hands in his pockets, a smirk crawling across his face when he saw you open the door.

“You don’t look much like my brother, thank god,” he said, looking you over, “You must be the ‘helper’ he was talkin’ t’ me about.”

“You could call it that. You must be Noah?”

You heard him scoff and bite the inside of his cheek, lifting his hand from his pocket to wipe his face.

“Figures my brother decided t’ tell you that name. That is my name, but it’s not what I go by. I prefer Fabian, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh,” you said, stepping aside to swing the door open wider, “Well, Fabian, please come in. Jackson’s still upstairs getting ready.”

Fabian stepped inside, looking around at his surroundings, dragging his fingers over the kitchen table and dining chairs. He looked at the walls, at the pictures and plaques, and peered into the living room at the walls and furniture.

“Jesus. Didn’t realize how bad Jackson needed someone t’ help him clean until now. The place actually looks nice now. I might have t’ pick you up and whisk you away t’ help me out.”

You laughed and straightened out your dress, to which Fabian shared a momentary chuckle. He slowly licked his lips as you responded.

“Thank you. I try to do my best around here.”

“If this is your best, then your best is perfect, sweetie. It really is. And so’s that dress.”

Fabian motioned his finger toward your dress, all white and flowing to your knees. The dress itself was thinly strapped, with a V cut deep enough to expose the gold cross on your chest. To cover your arms, you wore a light pink cardigan, soft and elegant to match with the holiday.

“That’s very sweet of you to say, Fabian.”

“Of course. Tell me, somethin’, though.”

Fabian leaned his elbow against a dining chair, scanning you up and down again.

“How’s a girl as beautiful as yourself end up in the middle of nowhere with someone like my brother?”

You cocked your head to the side, laughing gently at his comment.

“Where should I be instead? With someone like you?”

“If you ask me,” said Fabian, taking a few steps closer toward you, “I think we’d get along just fine—”

“Noah, that you down here makin’ all that noise?”

Interrupting Fabian’s approach, you heard the evenly timed thuds of Jackson’s shoes against the stairs and on the floor as he stepped toward the kitchen. Fabian straightened his posture as you moved aside, leaving the brothers to look each other in the eye, silently and intensely as they shook hands.

“I thought I remembered telling you I prefer to go by Fabian, Jackson.”

“Y’ mentioned it, sure,” Jackson said, letting go of Fabian’s hand, “But y’know you’ll always be my little brother Noah t’ me.”

You could see Fabian roll his eyes and nod, and simultaneously felt Jackson’s arm snake around your waist. He squeezed your hips lightly and looked down at you.

“Y’ about ready t’ go, darlin’? I don’t wanna be late.”

Before responding, you glanced up at Fabian, whose eyes were fixated on Jackson’s hand on your waist. He looked up at you, with a cocked eyebrow, to which you abruptly looked away to look at Jackson.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready to go when you are.”

With that, Jackson walked ahead of you toward the front door, and you grabbed your purse from the kitchen table. You looked up at Fabian, who smirked and twirled his keys around his finger. He motioned his hand toward the door and made a shallow bow.

“After you, please.”

Following behind Jackson, you walked out of the front door, hearing Fabian’s steps close behind you. As everyone stepped from the porch and onto the sandy dirt of the yard, you heard Fabian’s voice from behind you.

“You know, I was thinkin’,” he proclaimed, walking up behind you and placing his hand on the small of your back, “Maybe the young lady and I could ride together this mornin’. You know, t’ get to know each other.”

Jackson turned, his keys jingling in his hand as he squeezed them. His brows were slightly furrowed, and he cocked his head to the side.

“I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time for that later.”

“Maybe. But maybe not. Just let me drive the young lady to church. We’re all goin’ to the same place anyways. And I like to get to know the people I hang around.”

Jackson’s top lip flared up for an instant before he shook his head, turning to walk back toward his truck on the other side of the house.

“Fine. Take ‘er, Noah. Just don’t be late.”

“Yes, because it’s so hard to keep up on a straightaway road. I’m in awe of your driving skills, Jackson.”

Jackson didn’t respond, but even as the physical distance between the brothers grew, the presence of their tension could still be felt. Fabian placed his hand on your shoulder as he walked toward his car, leading you to the passenger side and opening the door to allow you inside. You sat down and buckled your own seat belt, watching as Fabian sat and did the same. His key clicked in the ignition and the engine hummed quietly, much more gently than the loud angry roaring that often came from Jackson’s truck. The car itself was pristine, the outside a glimmering silver, and the interior a deep black leather. Being in close quarters with Fabian now, you could smell him, his fresh clothes and the scent of expensive cologne, which you’d not smelled for the while you’d been in town. With each of his gentle movements, to turn the key, switch gears, move his foot to the gas or the brake, a waft of his scent caressed your nose.

“Your cologne smells nice.”

Fabian glanced over to you and smiled, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting against his car door as he waited for Jackson’s truck to pull ahead.

“Thank you, sweetheart. That’s sweet of you to say.”

As Jackson’s truck pulled off down the road, Fabian followed, a fair distance behind.

“So,” he started, breaking what had been several moments of silence, “Can I ask sort of a personal question?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“How long have you been religious? You always been that way, or did you find it later in life? Did Jackson introduce you to it?”

You shifted, somewhat uncomfortably in your seat at the question. You thought back to your first night and everything that had happened since; the sermons, the lessons, the sex, the guilt, piled on with more sermons in a vicious cycle. You thought back farther still, to your life before coming into town, before you formulated an answer.

“My family was religious. You could say I grew up in it. Grew up used to it. I was sorta tired of it when I came into town, honestly. I loved letting loose, doing my own thing all the time. But I guess you could say Jackson pulled me back into it. Religion, I mean. I don’t mind it, really.”

“D’you really believe in all of it, though? Or do you do it ‘cause it’s his lifestyle?”

He paused, sensing some of your discomfort, and added,

“If it makes you feel better, I’m not big into religion myself. I grew up in it, same as Jackson. Just realized it wasn’t for me. I won’t judge you, darlin’.”

You thought on the question for a moment before saying anything. You looked down at your nails, picking at them, trying to find the words. Or trying to find the truth. Knowing well what Jackson’s reaction would be if you didn’t choose your words carefully, you questioned Fabian.

“If I’m honest, can you not tell Jackson what I say?”

“Whatever you say stays with me,” he said, glancing away from the road and at you. He smiled, his eyes gazing again at the open road and the dirt and sand that surrounded it. “I don’t want you to lose your job on account of me. I’m just curious.”

You sigh, adjusting your cardigan and playing with one of the corners.

“I believe some of it,” you started, pausing again. You looked ahead on the road, seeing the tail end of Jackson’s truck. You looked back down toward your lap.

“I don’t think having faith is a bad thing. But sometimes it’s too much. I understand having a lifestyle, but sometimes it’s too restricting. I don’t wanna feel like everything I do or say or want is gonna land me in hell for an eternity.”

Fabian nodded, his eyes still fixated on the road ahead. He rubbed his lips and jaw with his free hand before speaking again.

“Does that mean you still have a li’l bit of a wild streak in you?”

You laughed and tugged your dress, which had begun to ride up your thighs, down closer toward your knees.

“I guess you could say that.”

Fabian smirked slightly and leaned back in his seat, his thighs spread apart, with one hand guiding the wheel. You looked him over, starting toward his knees and moving up his leg, to his lap, up to his chest. When your eyes met his, you saw his eyes, meeting directly with your own. You smiled nervously but quickly looked away, back toward the road.

“Does Mrs. ‘I-Love-God-But-Only-For-My-Job’ like what she sees?”

Your lips curled inward and you chuckled lightly.

“You’re handsome. Your brother is, too. I won’t deny that.”

“How handsome? ‘Cause I know I’m more handsome than some church goin’ farm boy.”

“You’re both handsome. But to answer your question, very. Very handsome.”

Licking his lips, Fabian pressed further.

“Mmm. Okay. Can I ask another question? More personal?”

You glossed your eyes over the land for a moment.

“Sure.”

“Have you ever fucked him? Jackson, I mean.”

You cleared your throat to voice your surprise at the question itself. You bit the inside of your cheek and twisted your mouth to consider it for a moment, then answered him.

“If you must know,” you sighed, “Yeah. Yes, we’ve slept together before. But definitely don’t tell him I said that, either.”

Fabian gripped the steering wheel and raised his eyebrows, a tickled laugh filling the car. He rubbed his jaw, still chuckling over his words in his response.

“Oh, wow,” he started, laughing a little under his breath as he adjusted his hand on the steering wheel. “I knew my brother could be a little bit of a rebel, but damn. A full-on hypocrite nowadays, huh? Jesus.”

The car ride continued with curious conversation from Fabian. He asked about your life, both before Jackson and now, your likes, your dislikes, how you enjoyed life on the farm. He danced around the topic of yourself and Jackson, of how you’d met and what you considered the relationship to be; before he could ask too much, however, you saw the town within eye distance, and soon enough, you’d made it to the church.

The parking lot was full with cars; at least as full as a small town like this could get. Jackson’s car pulled into a space close to the front door, while Fabian opted to park in the back. He turned off his car, exiting and walking to your passenger side door to let you out. He offered his arm for you to hold on to as you both walked around towards the front of the church. As you bent the corner, passing two large trash cans, you saw Jackson come into view, slamming his truck door shut and shoving his keys into his pocket. He turned to see you both at the sound of your heels clicking against the pavement.

“So, you two did make it on time,” he said, adjusting his tie. “I’m almost shocked.”

Fabian rolled his eyes, the three of you walking toward the front door, with Fabian leading.

“If anything’s gonna shock you, it’s gonna be some broken part in that bucket of bolts you call a truck.”

Fabian swung the church door open and filed in, turning immediately toward an unoccupied backmost pew to sit. He guided you to sit closest to the wall, while he sat between yourself and Jackson. He crossed his legs, resting his arm behind you on the pew.

Service began, and all throughout, you could smell Fabian’s cologne, and his subtle aftershave. The pastor of the church, Mr. Dover, and his wife, along with several other speakers preached in short bursts, each with their own presentation for Easter. Most spoke about the resurrection, some spoke of self-growth and still others lead youth presentations. At the latter, you could hear Fabian talk under his breath.

“Why do kids need to get involved in this?”

Jackson shot him glances whenever he caught a line of defiance, but soon, Mrs. Dover stepped up to the podium after a particularly rehearsed (“indoctrinated”, Fabian had called it) song about Christ’s resurrection to speak.

“Now,” she said, leaning into the podium’s microphone, “We have a final sermon, to be led by Mr. Jackson Pritchard.”

The crowd erupted with claps, as it often did when Jackson’s name was called for a sermon. Jackson was well respected, and his father well-known; everyone tended to listen to his sermons with reverence. Fabian, however, clapped half-heartedly, almost mockingly, as Jackson left the pew, walking toward the front of the church.

“This should be great,” he jeered. “Absolutely great. I wonder if he’ll talk about pre-marital sex sending people to hell while he’s up there.”

You nudged Fabian with your elbow and heard him laugh at himself, and promptly thereafter heard the echoing of the microphone being adjusted between Jackson’s fingers before he spoke.

“How’s everybody doin’ on this beautiful Sunday mornin’?”

The crowed jubilantly responded back with “goods” and “greats”, along with a defiant “we can chat about it” from Fabian, earning him another nudge from you.

Jackson began his sermon, asking the audience to flip to scripture pages and read along with him, before going on to build his speech. With the sound of Jackson’s voice filling your ears, you felt a hand rising up your leg, past your knee, and towards your thigh. You looked down to see Fabian’s hand gripping your thigh, his fingers beginning to slide between the warm space between them.

“Let me know if you want me to stop, church girl.”

You said nothing and simply smiled, looking up towards the podium at Jackson. With his hand swinging into the air and his face emoting every several seconds, the crowd was completely transfixed on Jackson. He was a gifted speaker, no doubt; which left time and opportunity for Fabian to slide his hand higher up your thigh. His fingers teased the hem of your panty line, and he leaned over, his mouth brushing against your ear with each movement of his lips.

“Take off the cardigan.”

You obliged, slipping your pink cardigan off of your arms. As it slipped off of your body, Fabian adjusted it in front of you, laying it in your lap to cover the movement of his hand under your dress. He shifted in his seat to get closer to you, but kept his legs crossed to block the view of unwanted eyes.

His fingers began to push and pull at the fabric of your panties before creeping into them from above. His and your eyes maintained fixed on Jackson, who still preached, increasingly involved now, at the podium. His fingers teased below your waistline before he slid his fingers between your lips. His middle finger lapped up your wetness, and moved back up toward your clit, rubbing it in wet circles. Tension grew in your throat from the pressure of suppressed moans. With one hand, you gripped Fabian’s arm, stroking it with your thumb to keep your hands occupied, distracting yourself from the urge to make noise.

Fabian’s hands worked rhythmically, stretching down between your lips to feel your wetness before they reliably slid back upwards, rubbing one side of your clit, then the other, then rubbing in circles before a dip back down between your lips.

Intensity began to build in your stomach, which Fabian felt with your grip on his arm beginning to tighten. You glanced around the room for assurance that no one was looking, and were relieved at the sight of the church still steadily focused on Jackson’s impassioned sermon. Fabian looked up toward the podium with a self-satisfied smile.

“Fucking clueless,” you could hear him say under his breath. “Absolutely fucking clueless.”

The intensity in your stomach only grew as your stomach twisted itself into knots; a combination of nervousness and the imminence of an oncoming orgasm. Jackson’s speech grew louder, and your grip on Fabian tighter the closer you crept towards release.

“Were it not for the sacrifice of our Christ Jesus,” you could hear Jackson say, “Our sins would never be forgiven. We’d all be wallowing in our sins, in our own transgressions. Drowning in them. Can I get an ‘Amen’?”

The crowed echoed back his “Amen”, and Fabian laughed momentarily as his pace around your clit quickened.

“Sins. Fuckin’ tell me about it.”

He dipped his finger once more between your lips, the slick fluid coating your clit as he rubbed quickly and steadily against your clit. Your face felt flush and warm, the tightness in your throat began to hurt. Fabian could feel your nails begin to dig into the skin of his arms, but he continued, eyes still defiantly fixed on Jackson, proudly staring through him as he made Jackson’s-little-servant-girl cum.

Your thighs squeezed around his hand and your teeth clenched together, your body seconds away from orgasm. You closed your eyes and felt a rush of warm blood course through your body, the urge to cum replaced by an intense throbbing between your thighs. Fabian continued to rub his fingers against your soaking wet lips, but slowed his pace to draw out your pleasure.

“Open your eyes,” he said, leaning in your direction. “Don’t look obvious.”

You open your eyes and cleared your throat to release some of the stress that holding in your moans had brought. Your orgasm now subsiding, and Fabian’s fingers ever-slowing, you let go of his arm as his fingers lap between your lips once more, coating them in thick, sticky wetness before he pulled his hand from below your dress.

Fabian licked his fingers, your taste coating the middle of his tongue. He did so slowly, savoring the warm liquid, before he pulled a small package of sanitary wipes from his pocket. He licked his lips, fully satisfied with your taste, and used a wipe to clean his hands before placing the package back into his pocket. From the same pocket, he pulled out a tin of Altoids, which he opened and offered to you. You pulled your dress down and regained your composure, taking one before he took one himself, and put the tin back into his pocket.

Service continued without a hitch, with Jackson finishing his sermon, loud and powerful, to be met with adjulation and tongue-speaking and “Amens” from the crowd. As service wrapped up and people began to file out of the doors, Fabian unwrapped the sanitary wipe he’d crumpled in his hand. On the wall behind both of you, a gold cross hung, seemingly unmoved or untouched for years. Fabian took the wipe, damp with the scent of both yourself and him, and wiped down the crust of a few inconsequential flecks of dust. Some passersby nodded in his direction, ignorant to Fabian’s actual intentions, and only seeing a kind member of the church cleaning off precious memorabilia. Jackson stepped down from the podium, talking to several people eager to thank him for the service. Fabian, proud as ever, continued to wipe down the cross with the soiled wipe until Jackson was able to walk away from the center stage, and to the back of the church, where you both stood.

“I never took you as th’ type t’ wipe down a cross,” Jackson said, his head tilted to peer over at Fabian’s handiwork, “’specially not outta th’ kindness of your heart.”

“Well,” Fabian said, crumpling the wipe again in his hand, “I guess your preaching skills got me in the mood this mornin’. Could you take this and throw it out for me? I would, but I ain’t been here in a while. I don’t know where the trash cans are.”

Jackson opened his palm, wherein Fabian dropped the wipe. Jackson walked away, out of the door and out of earshot before Fabian snorted and laughed, covering his face with his hand. Everyone had exited the church but the Dovers, who had gone into the back of the church to begin cleaning and sorting things away.

“Holy fucking shit,” he struggled out, still laughing, “This is the best fucking day of my life. I swear to God, out of all my days on Earth, this is the best one.”

“A day for me to get caught if if you don’t stop fucking around,” you whispered harshly. Fabian shook his head and rubbed your back reassuringly.

“He won’t realize a damn thing, darlin’,” he said. “This’ll stay between you and I. Trust me.”

Fabian nudged his hand forward towards the front door, which you both exited before he closed the door behind both of you. At the side of the church you could see Jackson, lifting the lid to a trash can and dropping the wipe inside. When he looked up to see yourself and Fabian, he took off his suit jacket and draped it over his arm.

“Seein’ as you got to drive the young lady to church, I’d appreciate it if I drove her back home.”

Fabian, with widened eyes, pointed toward Jackson’s truck.

“In that?” he jeered. “You wonder why you and I were so different with girls back in the day. You wanna drive a girl in that death trap. And your skin is always dry, cracking, and covered in dirt.”

“She’s been in it plenty of times. ‘Cause she works with me. You’d’a figured that out if your skull wasn’t so thick.”

“I’m sorry, big strong Mr. Jackson Pritchard the preaching farmer, but what happened to that message of love and forgiveness you were talkin’ about in that sermon?”

Jackson closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, sighing out of his nose before opening his eyes again.

“I apologize, Noah—”

“Fabian.”

Jackson cleared his throat.

“I apologize. Now if we could please—”

Fabian held up his hand.

“I’m sorry, Jackson, but I don’t think I heard you say my name. Do it at least once today. I know you can find it in your good Christian heart.”

“Fabian—”

A grin spread across Fabian’s face.

“I will drive her back home, and we c’n all have lunch and dinner at my house. I’d enjoy your company.”

Fabian nodded and pulled his keys out of his pocket, swinging them by the key ring around his finger.

“Alright. Sounds good to me. I’m ready to get outta here before God-fearing children start huntin’ for eggs while recitin’ scriptures, anyway. I’ll meet y’all there.”

With that, Fabian turned toward the back of the church to walk to his car, while yourself and Jackson stepped to his truck at the front. Stepping inside and slamming the door shut, you felt the truck bounce gently on its wheels, giving into the weight of Jackson taking his seat. Jackson backed out of his spot and pulled off onto the road, with Fabian following behind soon thereafter.

The two of you sat in silence for a couple of minutes, Jackson’s hand gripping the steering wheel, his silver ring wrapped around his right ring finger, rays of sunlight dancing over the top.

“So,” he started, shifting in his seat, “Did’ya like it? My sermon, I mean.”

You thought back over the sermon you’d heard, but only remembered in patches. Resurrection, something, forgiveness, someone, something else, sins wiped clean, so on and so forth. The incident with Fabian had left your memory of the sermon in a blur.

“It was good,” you responded, adjusting your cardigan in your lap, “Very beautiful. Really moving.”

“Thank you, darlin. I appreciate that. I really do.”

Another few moments of pause fell between the two of you.

“Did y’ get hot in the church? With all th’ people in there? I noticed y’ took of y’r li’l sweater.”

You gripped on to your cardigan, adjusting it in your lap much as you had in church earlier. You remembered the sensation of Fabian’s hand between your legs, and the sensation of your nails digging into his forearm.

“I did, actually. Especially when you started speaking. I feel like everybody’s temperature rose.”

Jackson laughed and leaned back in his seat, switching his hand grip on the wheel. His left hand now steered, while his right hand rested on his thigh.

“Then I guess I did somethin’ right, didn’t I? I’ll take it as a win.”

Another pause.

“If you don’t mind my askin’, what d’ya think of Noah, anyways? ‘R Fabian, ‘r whatever he prefers t’ go by nowadays.”

“I think he’s sweet,” you said, pulling your dress down toward your knees. You could still feel an uncomfortable wetness in your panties from earlier, and crossed your legs to avoid the sensation. “Very much a gentleman. Aside from the looks, you aren’t very much alike.”

“Nah, an’ we never were. Not really. He c’n be a little too rich f’r my blood nowadays. We bumped heads a lot. Still do. Y’ could probably tell.”

Thinking back to your car conversation with Fabian, you decided to press further.

“He said you had a little bit of a rebellious streak. Way back when.”

Jackson rubbed his jaw and scratched his beard, again adjusting his posture in his seat.

“Yeah. I guess y’ could say that. I did some things I ain’t proud of. Probably some things I don’t remember no more. But our paths diverged a long time ago. If I was a li’l rebellious, he was a lot rebellious. Our daddy got onto both of us f’r it, an’ Noah wound up leavin’ home after a while t’ get away from it all. I stayed, though. S’ now I got the farm an’ th’ house, an’ the preachin’ thing. An’ he got… well, he ain’t preachin’, that’s f’r sure. An’ he got whatever it is boys from the city with nice cars an’ nice clothes tend t’ get.”

After a while longer of conversation, yourself, Jackson, and Fabian had all arrived back home. Jackson pulled in around the back of the house, while Fabian pulled in at the front. Stepping into the house, you were all greeted by Earl, whose paws thudded against the kitchen floor with his jumping.

“How old is Earl now? Younger than you? Even in dog years?”

Jackson knelt down to stroke Earl’s head and adjust his collar.

“I dunno. ‘Bout as old as you act? Seven or so.”

With yourself and the brothers beginning to wind down now, you prepared for the rest of the day. Jackson had asked you to cook both lunch and dinner for everyone, and you did, with help from both brothers. Lunch was modest, with fish, rice, and vegetables (Fabian didn’t share Jackson’s love for red meats), while dinner was more substantial. Ham, mashed potatoes, corn, rolls, mac and cheese, and a cherry pie; the table was full with an array of Easter dinner foods. Fabian took pleasure in helping you, stirring pots for you, kneading dough with you, all the while sneaking light touches against your arm and back under Jackson’s nose. When dinner was ready, and all the plates made, the three of you sat at the table. Just as soon as you all sat, Fabian picked up his fork in his hand, aiming it directly toward a piece of ham. You held is hand back, to which he cocked his eyebrow up at you.

“Grace first.”

Jackson smiled, holding out his hands to hold both yours and Fabian’s in prayer.

“Very good catch, darlin’. She’s right. I always say grace in my house.”

Fabian put his fork down and sighed, putting one hand in Jackson’s palm, and gripping your hand with the other.

“Right. I forgot you think that the food we just cooked with our own two hands will be poisoned and inedible if we don’t say words first.”

“Watch your mouth, please, Noah.”

Under his breath, you heard Fabian remark, “It’s Fabian, but alright, Jason Pritchard,” to which you pursed your lips to bar laughter.

With you gripping both Jackson’s and Fabian’s hands, you all bowed your heads, as Jackson led the prayer. Throughout the prayer, you could hear Fabian commenting just loud enough for you to hear as you sat beside him, but not quite loud enough for Jackson to notice, or care.

“Heavenly father, an’ Lord, His son—”

“Right. Forgot there were two of ‘em.”

“We thank you—”

“Jeremiah Pritchard thanks you.”

“F’r this meal you have blessed us with t’night.”

“Did we not just slave over the fucking stove?”

“T’night, we recognize the Resurrection of you, our Lord Jesus Christ—”

“How many names does one man need?”

“An’ the sacrifice you made t’ cleanse us of our sins.”

“Like that wipe from earlier?”

You squeezed his hand to nudge him to stop, but he continued.

“May your word heal even those who have strayed from the path, O’ Merciful Lord—”

“Me. That one was about me.”

“An’ may we continue t’ reap your blessin’s for life eternal.”

“Seems like a long time t’ listen to a ghost.”

“Amen.”

Yourself and Fabian repeated back Jackson’s “Amen” and began to eat. Both Fabian and Jackson complimented the meal, and dinner continued without conflict. After the meal, with nightfall having approached and arrived, you turned your attention toward the sink. With a sink piled with dirty dishes and everyone full and satisfied, Jackson pulled off his tie and rolled up his shirt sleeves, walking toward the kitchen sink.

“Little lady an’ I c’n work on the dishes here. Y’ c’n use the shower if y’ like, or head on home. Not sure what you planned on doin’ t’night.”

Fabian stepped ahead of Jackson and next to you at the sink, beginning to rummage around for dish soap.

“Oh, no, Jackson,” he said, wetting a sponge with soap and warm water, “Please. Allow me. I’m your guest. I c’n do your dishes.”

“You ain’t gotta do that, Fabian.”

“As much as I appreciate you using my name for once, please. I insist.”

Jackson sighed and untuck his dress shirt, beginning to unbutton it from the top.

“Alright. Go ahead. I’ll be in the shower if y’all need me.”

“To help wash dishes?”

“Y’know what I mean.”

Jacked turned and ascended the stairs, and Fabian watched as he reached the top, entered the bathroom, and closed the door, out of view.

With the reassuring “click” of the bathroom door locking, Fabian stepped behind you, his hands wrapping around your waist, then your hips, then your thighs. You felt his light kisses on your back, neck, and shoulders as you washed dishes. You stopped to enjoy the sensation, feeling Fabian’s hand slide around in front to lift your dress, his hand sliding down into your panties to feel between your legs. His fingers were met with a familiar slick wetness from earlier.

“Damn, still wet? My brother must not be givin’ you anything worthwhile if you’re gettin’ like this for me.”

With one hand in your panties, his other moved up toward your chest, squeezing your tits in his hand as his tongue slid up the side of your neck. He kissed up your jawline, and pecked your cheek before moving his mouth over yours for a kiss. His tongue wrapped around yours as his fingers steadily rubbed between your legs. After a few moments, Fabian released the kiss and pulled your hips back toward him. You could feel him hard against your ass and thighs as he pressed his hips forward.

“How d’you feel about quickies?”

“I enjoy them.”

“How long do his showers usually take?”

“Around twenty minutes.”

“Alright. Consider this round two, then. Go ahead and do the dishes. Don’t mind me.”

Fabian looked over at the kitchen clock to note the time, then grabbed either side of your hips and knelt down. You almost immediately feel his arm breath against your thighs, and soon thereafter his warm, wet tongue between your lips. His thumb continued to trace wet circles around your clit as his licked you out, his tongue wandering now and again up to your taint, and your ass, before swirling back down to your lips and clit. You heard a couple of swallows as he took in the taste of you, and he squeezed your thighs each time, satisfied, but still hungry for more. After a few minutes, he slowed his pace and kissed your pussy lips, then the back of your thighs, and stood.

The metal of his belt buckle clicked and jangled as he unbuckled his pants, unzipped them, and pulled them down just below his underwear. You felt the head of his cock begin to stroke up and down the lips of your pussy, getting wet before Fabian pressed his hips forward, sliding himself into you. You moaned and gripped the kitchen counter with one hand and squeezed your sponge in the other. Fabian kissed your shoulder blades and caressed your hips.

“Sshhh. Don’t want Mr. Old McDonald finding out you’re getting something worthwhile on his farm, do you?”

As you leaned over the sink, continuing to scrub dishes, Fabian slowly bucked his hips forward and back, sliding in and out of you while he reached a hand between your thighs to play with your clit. Gradually, he picked up pace, looking up at the bathroom door every few minutes, his hear attuned to the sound of shower water pounding against the tub upstairs. A moan escaped his mouth as he felt your tight, wet walls squeezing around him the faster her went. You looked ahead at the wall behind the kitchen sink, and read the plaque that read:

“Every moving thing that liveth shall be meat for you; even as the green herb have I given you all things. Genesis: 9:3.”

Fabian followed your gaze and read the plaque, laughing behind you as he slid his hand up your back.

“I’d say I’m givin’ you a lotta things right about now. The meat thing is a li’l on the nose though, don’t y’ think?”

His pace was fast now, with the close of Jackson’s shower nearing closer now, ten minutes away. The faster he went, and the more you felt his wet fingers circling around your clit, the more you feel an acutely sensitive feeling inside of you with each stroke of his length. After a minute of his fast paced thrusting, you feel a hot gush of fluid between your legs as you squirt, with the liquid dripping down your legs and spraying onto the floor, and onto Fabian.

Fabian pulled out to allow the rest of the liquid to gush out of you, patting his cock against your lips, letting his cock drip soaking wet.

“Fuck, baby girl,” he said, with a momentary laugh between his words, “How bad did you need that?”

Giving you a moment to catch your breath, and pressing his lips against the dip in your back, Fabian slid his cock back inside of you, and replaced his fingers between your thighs to rub your clit. He used the wetness as lube, slicking it against your clit as he favored each side, edging you toward climax. He’d lifted his button up shirt, and you could feel the warmth of his stomach and the stiffness of his abs against your back as he continued to thrust. A familiar swell of pleasure began to build between your legs, as it had in the church, your body hot and seconds away from release.

In your hands you squeezed a plate so hard you thought it might break, and between your legs was an intense throbbing between Fabian’s fingers as you came, his cock still steadily sliding in and out of you. You heard him moan in satisfaction and slow his pace, enjoying the new wetness between your legs, feeling your pleasure and aching for his touch.

“Does Jackson do that for you?”

Breathless, you simply shook your head.

“Figured he didn’t.”

He continued to fuck you from behind, both of his hands squeezing your hips as he picked up his pace. Five minutes left.

With each minute passing, Fabian’s moans grew louder. He began to stifle them, trapping the moans in his throat and grunting, and exhaling sharply through his nose. Continuing to thrust, you felt his grip tighten and his breathing become more labored as he came closer to climax.

Two minutes out from the time Jackson would typically finish his shower, you felt Fabian pull out.

“Get on your knees. On your knees for me, sweetheart.”

You listened, getting on your knees and holding your mouth open expectantly. Fabian tilted your head back with his hand and stroked himself with the other, his own head thrown back, eyes closed. With a final moan, his warm, thick cum shot out from his cock and onto your tongue and lips, in several long, powerful spurts. You held your mouth open for him for several seconds before swallowing, then licking and sucking the head and shaft of his cock, tasting yourself, licking your own juices off of him, and sucking out every last drop. You lifted his shaft to kiss and lick his balls, met with groaning laughter from Fabian. You stood and wiped your mouth, while Fabian zipped and buckled his pants, then reaching into his pants pocket for the tin of Altoids. He offered another to you, which you took gladly as you finished up the dishes.

Fabian stood at your side, helping dry the dishes that you’d cleaned, as you both heard the bathroom door click and swing open. From the door exited Jackson, none the wiser, who turned toward his bedroom to get dressed for the night. Several minutes passed before he descended the stairs, black tank top and black pajama pants, to inspect the kitchen. He looked over the progress on the dishes, then at the floor, where his eye was drawn to a puddle beneath your feet.

“Fabian can’t even wash a dish without makin’ a mess, huh?”

Fabian looked down between your legs, raising his eyebrows and nodding.

“Yeah. I guess you’re right. I did do that.”

Jackson laughed to himself, and you nudged Fabian, who was proud as ever. With dishes nearly done, you watched as Jackson walked over to his liquor cabinet, grabbing a bottle of whiskey and another of red wine, and setting them both on the table. Fabian looked behind himself to see the bottles, and Jackson, who was unscrewing the cap on the whiskey.

“This is what we’re doing on Easter Sundays now?”

“I feel like windin’ down for the night. So I’m gonna wind down. The wine’s f’r you, if you want some.”

With the dishes now done, Fabian looked over the table and sighed.

“Where do you keep your wine glasses in this mess of a house?”

Jackson pointed Fabian toward the kitchen cabinet wherein he kept his wine glasses, and the two sat at the table to drink casually over casual conversation. Fabian stayed mostly on his phone, while Jackson drank and fiddled with his harmonica, playing several seconds worth of song a couple times. Fabian had drunk two and a half glasses of wine, while Jackson had thrown back more than a few glasses of whiskey over ice. Cutting through what had been a small while of silence, Jackson spoke.

“So,” he said, throwing back the rest of what was in his glass, “You headin’ home t’night? Or do I need to make a bed?”

Fabian glared at him, tapping on the base of the wine glass.

“You know, despite our family history, I’m not dumb enough to drive home after almost three glasses of wine.”

“It was just a question.”

“A dumb question. Yes, Joshua, I’d like to stay the night and not kill two people, four horses, and fifteen chickens on the road.”

Fabian stood, pushing his chair out from underneath him and walking towards the staircase.

“I’m gonna lay down,” he called back. “In the room that must not be named. Hopefully God doesn’t strike me down in here.”

Jackson watched as Fabian went up the stairs, turning right towards the bedroom that had remained empty since you arrived. He listened for the click of the door shutting, much as Fabian had when the roles were reversed, then looked over at you. His eyes wandered up and down your legs and chest as he poured himself another glass of whiskey. He spread his legs apart and patted his thigh.

“C’mere. Sit.”

You walked over to Jackson, acquiescing to his whim and sitting in his lap. He wrapped his arm around your waist as he drank again, his breath thick with the scent of whiskey. He spread your thighs apart, making sure your panties, still wet from the activities of earlier today, sat directly on his thigh. He waited, patiently, for the sensation of a wet spot against his skin. His free hand grabbed his glass of whiskey, downing the remainder of it, then grabbing and stroking his crotch as you sat obediently on his lap.

Abruptly, Jackson stood and picked you up in his arms, your legs now wrapped around his waist. He stepped up the stairs in silence, turning to his bedroom door, closing and locking it behind him. He laid you back first on the bed and crawled on top of you, his whiskey stained lips and breath leaving trails on your neck and chest where he left kisses and bites. He pinned your arms above your head, lifting your dress up towards your stomach.

He paused, then, suddenly, standing upright and staring down at you as he lifted his tank top up and over his head, then pulled his pants down to the floor, and his underwear along with them. You could see plainly that he was hard as he took a couple of steps back, giving you room to slide off of the bed and get on your knees.

You cupped his balls with one hand, and lifted him into your mouth with your tongue. As his cock slid towards the back of your throat. You looked up to see his head thrown backward, his throat bobbing as he moaned and grunted at the motion of your tongue. Between sucks, you took him out of our mouth to kiss and lick his shaft, delicately swirl your tongue around his head, and suck his balls. He moaned at each transition, and moaned louder each time the head of his cock sit the back of your throat as you took him back in.

Your drool and spit bubbles ran down the shaft of his cock, some dripping farther still down to his balls, and some others dripping down to the floor. Several minutes passed you by without notice, and Jackson held your chin to keep your head at bay, moaning at a final lap of your tongue against the underside of his head.

He crawled into bed and laid on his back, motioning his fingers for you to come over. As you crawled on your hands and knees into bed, Jackson snuck his hand up your dress to grab the hem of your panties and pull them downward, down your thighs, calves, and finally off of your feet and onto the floor.

Jackson lifted your dress and held it in a fist in his hand to keep it out of the way as you straddled him, positioning him against your lips and beginning to sit down slowly. As more and more of him inched its way inside of you, Jackson let out a long, drawn out, grunt-like moan, letting himself enjoy the sensation of how tight and wet you were.

“You c’n make noise this time if y’ like”, Jackson breathed out through a moan. “I don’t mind.”

You rested your hands on Jackson’s chest, which was bobbing up and down from his heavy breathing, and began to ride him. You moaned, and Jackson stared up at you, mouth ajar, breathlessly moaning every few strokes. Jackson put his hand behind your neck and pulled your head down toward him. Your noses touched, then your lips, and thereafter you felt Jackson’s tongue inside of your mouth as he kissed you, your hips continuing to buck and grind, back and forth, side to side as you rode him. He moaned into your mouth, still kissing you, his mouth thick with the taste of whiskey, his body light with the scent of soap and cologne.

He released the kiss, allowing you to sit up and continue riding. As you sat up, your cross necklace dropped and dangled from your chest, hanging directly over Jackson’s face. He stared at it, then up at you, your hands still gripping his sides, his cock sliding in and out of you to the rhythm you’d set. He looked around at his bedroom walls, at the plaques and crosses, and then again at the cross necklace, and abruptly sat up, pulling out and pushing you off to the side as he sat up against his headboard.

“I’m sorry,” he said, putting his head in his hands. “I really am. I shouldn’t’ve done this.”

You adjusted your dress as you sat on the bed next to him.

“You sure?”

Jackson sat on the bed, bare and naked, illuminated only by the faint moonlight outside. He glanced at you, but looked away quickly in guilt as he cleared his throat.

“Yeah. Yeah, you can go’n ahead an’ go to bed if y’ want. I won’t bother you any more t’night.”

Picking up your panties from the floor, you unlocked Jackson’s bedroom door and left, closing it behind you. You heard it lock as you stepped into the hallway and turned towards the stairs. Before you could get to the first step, however, the bedroom door on the opposite side of the hall opened, from which you could see Fabian’s head. He stuck out his hand, motioning for you to come in, and after looking back at Jackson’s bedroom door, you did.

“Did you just fuck him?”

“Are you kidding me? This is what you called me in for?”

Fabian looked at the panties you had gripped in your hand and cocked his head to the side.

“You fucked him.”

You sighed defeatedly.

“Yes. I mean, sort of. We didn’t finish.”

“He can’t get it up?”

“No, smartass. He got guilty and stopped.”

A snort of laughter left Fabian’s nose before he covered his mouth to prevent any more sounds from escaping. He laughed silently to himself, almost doubled over in laughter, and took what felt like hours to regain his composure.

“Okay. Okay, wow. God must’a took over. Hallelujah. No pussy on Easter Sunday.”

You shook your head, and Fabian continued.

“Well. Alright. That means you still need to get off, right?”

You smirked up at him, but said nothing.

“I can finish you off, if you want. I’d be happy to, actually.”

Fabian’s hands lifted your dress, and pulled it up over your head. He dropped it to the floor, then wrapped his hand behind your neck to pull you in for a kiss. You began unbuttoning his shirt, starting from the bottom and working your way up the top, slipping it off of his shoulders once it was completely undone. You grazed your fingers against his stomach, your fingers rolling against the hills of his abs as he moved his kisses down to your neck. You unbuckled his pants, but before you could unzip them, Fabian lifted you by the waist, allowing you to wrap your legs around him as he carried you to the bed.

Laying you down, he unclasped and removed your bra, throwing it aside, and allowing his hands to explore your now naked body. He cupped one breast with his hand, and put his mouth on the other, swirling his tongue, slowly and gently, around your nipple. He moved his mouth down, leaving a trail of spit as he moved down to kiss your stomach, and down still to your waistline. He knelt on the floor and spread your legs apart, rubbing between your lips with his thumb.

“How does the farmer usually do this for you? Fast? Slow?”

“He doesn’t do it, usually. Not often.”

Fabian’s eyes rolled as he positioned his mouth closer to your lips and clit.

“’Course not. Fuckin’ idiot. Or a coward. Or both.”

Before he put his mouth on you, he spoke up one more time.

“Don’t worry, then. I know how to treat a lady as beautiful as yourself.”

With those final words, you felt Fabian’s tongue snake up slowly from your whole, up between your lips, and then to your clit, where his tongue lapped up and down against the front of your clit, before gradually moving to one side, and then the other. As he licked and sucked, you felt a finger slide inside of you, moving and twisting as slowly and carefully as Fabian’s tongue. He looked up at you, his eyes greenish-brown, and his long, dark hair falling in strands on his forehead. He continued, painfully slowly, and you gripped a fistful of his hair between your fingers. With the sensation of you tugging at his hair, Fabian slipped a second finger inside of you, his tongue moving in circles and teasing semicircles around your clit. You moaned, to which Fabian moaned in response, the vibration of his moan hitting your clit directly.

You swayed your hips and arched your back as he continued, his pace only picking up momentarily. You came close to orgasm a couple of times, and each time, Fabian would pause to lick between your lips, your wetness coating his tongue. He’d wait for your body’s excitement to decline before he worked his way back up to your clit, his pace slowed to draw out the time it took for you to come close to orgasm again.

The third time, Fabian watched as your back arched and your hips bucked into him, bringing your pussy closer and deeper into his mouth. He quickened the pace of his finger fucking, but slowed the movement of his tongue, making your moan sound almost like a cry as he teased you closer and closer to climax. You squeezed his head with your thighs as you came, your back arched, his tongue still swirling around and sucking on your clit as it throbbed in his mouth. He continued to lick through your orgasm, and kept going until you tugged at his hair to bring his head up, your body nearly jumping out of its skin, your clit sensitive to even the slightest wisp of warm breath from his mouth. Fabian licked his lips, then kissed between your legs, resting his head on your thigh.

“I was gonna go some more. D’you need me to stop?”

You let go of his hair and nodded.

“Okay. D’you still wanna fuck, or are you settled for the night?”

Your head was still laid back on the bed, but you nodded, and spoke breathlessly.

“Please fuck me.”

Fabian smirked, picking you up off of the bed and carrying you toward the mural of Christ that hung on the wall. He laid you down on the floor beneath it, on your side, beneath the collage of crosses. After removing his pants and underwear, both of you now bare, he laid down behind you and lifted one of your legs, positioning himself between your lips.

“I dunno about you,” he said, pressing his hips forward, “But I always wondered what it’d be like t’ give God himself a show.”

His stomach warm and solid against your back, you felt Fabian’s cock move past your lips and inside of you. One of his hands was beneath you, clutching your breast, while the other kept your weak, shaky leg hoisted in the air. He pulled you closer, resting his head in the crook of your neck and moaning next to your ear. With every few thrusts, he let a puff of air out of his mouth, hot and damp against your skin, stained with the scent of red wine. His pace was slow and gentle, allowing you to recover from your climax minutes prior.

He got pleasure from the disrespect, the defiance of fucking you beneath a painting of Christ himself, but yearned for more. He continued for several minutes on his side, but gradually slowed his pace until he stopped, pulling out and getting up on his knees. He gripped your hips and guided you semi-upright, on your hands and knees. You were both facing forward now, looking directly at the bedroom’s makeshift altar, staring directly into the eyes of a picture of Christ.

“D’you think He likes it so far? Maybe we can ask Jackson. See if God’s favorite puppet knows.”

Fabian again pushed himself inside of you, eliciting a moan from you both. He spanked your ass and thighs, throwing his head back and groaning.

“I swear, Jackson is so fucking ungrateful,” he said, leaning down to kiss the back of your neck. “You are so fucking perfect.”

You groaned as Fabian’s pace quickened, his cock hitting against your G-spot in rapid succession. You bent forward, your face now touching the floor, your ass still pointing up into the air as Fabian continued his strokes. Nails scratching against the hardwood of the floor, you felt a familiar warmth begin to grow inside of you, promptly followed by a gush of fluid from between your legs, coating Fabian’s abs and thighs, along with your own.

“Now there’s a good girl,” he said, laughing to himself. “Jackson really didn’t give you mucha anything for you to be doin’ all this, did he?”

He gently wrapped his fingers around your neck and lifted your head up to see the mural of Christ. His head was circled with a crown of thorns, from which blood dripped down his head. Fabian wiped his fingers against his stomach, and then on the floor, capturing the fluid on his hands, and wiped it on the painting, tracing everywhere the blood was. On the painting, you could see your wetness dripping down, mimicking the streams of blood on the painting itself. Behind you, heard satisfied laughter from Fabian.

“There. Look. Now it’s better than the boring ass original.”

Fabian kept your head gently held upright with his hand, while the other guided your hips back and forth against his length. Several minutes passed before he lifted your head further, forcing you up on your knees, your back now laid flat against his chest. He continued to pump, his fingers delicately encircling your throat, his mouth trailing kisses along your back and shoulder. You heard him swear under his breath again and again, “Fuck,” “Oh my fucking god,” “Jesus fucking Christ,” quietly into your ear between held-back moans. He slowed his pace momentarily to speak.

“Where do you want me to cum, pretty girl?”

His head was in the crook of your neck now, your moans vibrating against his mouth as his lips grazed over your throat.

“Inside,” is all you could manage between moans.

Fabian’s groans and growls grew more intense the closer he came to climax. His grip around your throat tightened, and he nibbled on your ear, tugging with the lobe between his teeth.

You felt his warm breath against your ear as he breathed out a final moan, feeling a sudden warmth between your legs. You felt his throbbing inside of you, and the gentle movement of his hips pressing against you through his orgasm. As the intensity subsided, Fabian stayed inside of you, kissing up your neck and jaw, then kissing your lips before letting go of your neck. He pulled out slowly, his cum beginning to drip out of you and onto the floor. He reached behind himself, for his pants, and reached into one of the pockets to pull out his pack of sanitary wipes. He pulled out several, using them to wipe the floor clean. He set all of them aside to throw away, except for the last one. He looked at it momentarily, after wiping a few remaining spots of cum from the floor, and stuck it on the mural of Christ, in the middle of his forehead.

“Amen,” he said, with a cocky grin, “And happy fuckin’ Easter.”