Sparks by Yolanda Olson

I didn’t realizeI had left the bedroom window open and my room is chillier than the weather outside. I wrap my arms around myself and with a shiver, walk over to that side of the room and lower it until only a small sliver of the breeze can come in.

A heavy sigh escapes me as I turn around and look at my closet. I wonder what Luke was really looking for in there, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it had been some kind of neatly stowed away memory of his father.

It makes me sad to think I don’t have anything I can give to him that would be a token of the man because he seems to becoming more and more interested in as the days go on—even if he doesn’t ask me about him, things like poking around in my room tell me as much.

I decide to not think about it right now, although I make a mental note to try and see if maybe I can find him online tomorrow somehow.

A son should get to know his father and I only hope they both feel the same way.

Tomorrow, I’ll make this right. I don’t care what I have to do, but Luke will know who his dad is and maybe I can convince them to meet up.

I pull my tank top over my head and toss it onto the floor, the sweatpants following shortly thereafter. I have the same feeling washing over me that always does when I think of his father and I don’t have the will to fight the urge tonight.

I walk over to where I left my veil earlier and for the first time in a few months, I place it on my head, pushing my hair beneath the thin fabric. I walk over to the mirror and look at myself.

A woman still lost in the hopes of a young girl’s dreams that were shattered when I broke my sacred vows. But the one thing that will make me feel better is already at the forefront of my thoughts.

I turn to the side and look at my body. Slender, short, and taught—the same way I’ve always been. Mom once told me that if I had long legs, I could have easily been a model, yet as I turn my body back toward the mirror and stare into my cold, blue eyes, I keep telling myself that I’ve done the right thing with my life.

I did what I wanted to do—I joined a convent, I did my best, and some pre-designed plan decided that I was destined to become a mother instead. I have a beautiful, caring son who loves me and would never abandon me like his father did, and I couldn’t ask for anything else.

I let my eyes wander down my reflection as I reach back and unclasp my bra and shrug out of it. Even at my age now, my breasts are still perky and full which makes me smile. It’s one less thing about getting old that I won't have to worry about right now.

My eyes are giving me an accusing stare as I wallow in the pride of my body and I have to look away. Pride is one of the sins that Father Moore always preached vehemently against, and in the quiet moments when I’m pretending to still be a chaste nun, I always manage to fall headlong into that damnable emotion.

It doesn’t matter.

This is about me right now. It’s about how I feel and what I want to do to remember the man that gave me the precious gift that’s more than likely perched in his bedroom window watching the moon slowly drift across the night sky.

I force myself to face my own accusing stare as I reach a hand down and open the top drawer of my vanity. Inside, hidden away in a black felt pouch is one of the only things that really holds meaning to me from my days in the church. I look down as I pull the pouch out and give the drawstring a tug, revealing a set of beads inside.

I pull out the necklace and drop the pouch back into the drawer, slowly pushing it closed as I turn and walk back toward my bed. This was the rosary that Father Moore gave me when I made my vows and just holding it makes things seem as simple as they used to be. I miss those days for the most part, but I wouldn’t trade my son for them if that were the only choice I would be given, and I know it is.

I lay down on my bed and set the rosary on the pillow next to me. For what I’ve done, I already know that my soul is condemned for all eternity, but for what I am about to do, I welcome the Hellfire.

Closing my eyes, I think back to that moment so many years ago when I was in his arms. I think of how his hands gently caressed my skin and how he hungrily reached for my panties, pushing them aside and how he began to rub me.

I suck in a shaky breath as my hands do the same. I allow myself to be swallowed by the memory from time to time, and I play out what happened between us because it’s one of the few things that makes me feel alive anymore.

My body is shaking as I begin to gently circle the tip of my finger around my bud over my underwear and arch my back slightly off the bed. I remember the way his fingers moved, and I move mine the same way, bringing a pool of desire against my cotton panties.

Even though his fingers touched my skin, even though they moved with purpose and skill, I’ve never been able to find the will to touch myself the way he did, so I always leave my panties on.

The feeling, however, is tantamount to what I felt when he circled his finger faster and faster, kissing my bare neck and whispering what he wanted to do to me. How he wanted to taste me completely and lick away the juices before shoving his dick into me.

My breath is coming in heaving gasps now as I continue to rub myself. I want nothing more than to experience the hands of a man on my body again, but until that moment happens, my own will have to do.

I squeeze one of my breasts tightly in my hands as the heat of my finger starts to bring forth the euphoric release I’ve been searching for.

My mound is engorged, and the heat of my core is becoming almost too much to bear. Just when I think I can’t take anymore, my body becomes rigid and I can feel the orgasm take control over me. I bite my lip as hard as I can as to not cry out or make any noise.

And when it’s over, when it’s finally done, and I open my eyes again to look at my rosary and beg for a silent forgiveness, I see the figure hiding behind the cracked doorway.

Luke apparently watched the entire thing.