What I Saw Through the Spiritual Retreat Window

A few years ago, I made my living as a security guard at a spiritual retreat house on the outskirts of a little mountain town. It was an old building, with tiled roofs and an inner courtyard full of jasmine that, in summer, smelled so strongly you ended up with a headache. Elderly priests rested there and, from time to time, groups of young people who helped out in parishes would arrive to spend three- or four-day get-togethers.

My shift started at nine at night and ended at seven in the morning. The routine consisted of walking the halls every so often, checking that the exterior doors were locked, and keeping an eye on the cameras in the lobby. The rest was mine. The rest was silence.

That night I arrived in a low mood. It was hot, the crickets were chirping as if they wanted to bore through the walls, and I was carrying around a bad temper I couldn’t quite place. I went through the kitchen, poured myself some water, made my first round. Everything in order. Everything predictable. Until, as I passed the guests’ wing, I heard something.

It was a low, muffled noise, almost a sigh. I stopped.

The visitors’ rooms faced the hallway through a door and the garden through a window. That night the moon was high and the garden was still. I walked to the window of room nine. The inner curtain was badly drawn; there was a three-finger gap.

By instinct, I looked.

What I saw shook me.

Father Salvador, one of the newcomers, was sitting on the edge of the bed, still wearing his cassock but open to the waist. In front of him, on her knees on the carpet, a young woman—no more than twenty-two or twenty-three—was stroking his thighs with a slowness that seemed learned. She wore a dark blue pleated skirt hiked up to mid-thigh and a white blouse with almost all the buttons already undone. Her hair was pulled up in a high ponytail and two loose strands fell down the sides of her face.

I stood there frozen. I knew I should move away. I knew I was seeing something that wasn’t any of my business. But my legs wouldn’t listen.

Father Salvador ran a hand over her cheek and said something to her in a low voice. She smiled, one of those smiles you learn late, not early, and answered softly, her lips pressed to the leather of his belt. I saw her mouth shape a word I couldn’t hear from outside but could guess: father. She opened his cassock all the way with both hands, slipped her fingers under his trousers, and drew out his cock, already hard, thick, heavy, with a slowness that was almost liturgical. She held it for a second, looking at it up close, breathing it in, like someone about to take communion. Then she stuck out her tongue and licked its whole length, from bottom to top, never taking her eyes off the priest’s face.

He let out a low moan, clenched his teeth, and put a hand on the back of her neck.

—Take it in your mouth, daughter —he told her, and his voice didn’t tremble—. Take it all.

The girl opened her mouth and swallowed him whole in one motion. She choked for a second, her eyes filled with water, but she didn’t pull back. She started sucking him with a slow, wet, deep rhythm. Every time she lifted her head, a thread of saliva hung from her lip. Every time she went back down, Father Salvador closed his eyes and murmured something that sounded more like a curse than a prayer.

This isn’t happening.

But it was happening. And against all reason, my pants were swelling.

I felt ashamed at first. Then I stopped feeling ashamed.

He lifted her by the hair, carefully but without tenderness, and sat her on the edge of the bed. He finished opening her blouse with fingers too firm for a man who prays out of habit. Under the fabric she wasn’t wearing a bra. She had small, round tits, nipples almost the same color as her skin, already hard and pointing upward. He took both of them in his hands at once, squeezed them, lifted them, and lowered his mouth to suck one nipple while pinching the other with his fingers. The girl threw her head back with a barely audible sound, that muffled sound I’d heard from the hallway and now, pressed to the glass, could hear in such detail it made the hair on my neck stand up.

I didn’t dare breathe. Not fully.

She pushed at his shoulders and he let himself drop to his knees in front of the bed without resisting. She spread her legs for him, hiked her skirt up to her waist, and ripped off her panties in one tug. He didn’t even try to pull them down: he stuck two fingers into the elastic and tore them at the side like they were paper. I caught a side view of her cunt, shaved, already shiny with wetness. Father Salvador buried himself there with his mouth, with his whole tongue, and the girl arched her back and dug her fingers into his gray hair.

—Oh, Father —she said, and this time I did hear her—. Oh, Father, like that, don’t stop.

He didn’t stop. He ate her for a long while, hungrily, moving his head as if he were drinking. He ran his tongue over her whole cunt, slid it inside her, pulled it out, went up to the clit and circled it. The girl started trembling in the legs, pressing his head between her thighs, whispering filthy things that slipped out between her sighs: that she was a whore, that she was his whore, that he should eat her more.

When she came, she came biting the back of her hand so she wouldn’t scream. I saw her jaw tense, her neck stretch, the veins in her neck standing out. Her whole body shook three times.

What came next was fast and slow at the same time. He stood up, pulled his trousers down all the way, settled himself between her legs with his cassock still on, and grabbed her hips. He drove into her in one thrust, all the way to the hilt, and she bit her hand again to keep from crying out. He let out a deep groan that had nothing spiritual in it.

—Forgive me, Lord —he muttered, and gave a low laugh as he speared her—. Forgive me again.

He started fucking her with a steady, deep, rhythmic motion. Every thrust made her tits bounce and she clutched them with both hands, squeezed them, pinched her nipples for him. The black cassock moved over the girl’s white body like a shadow that wouldn’t leave her alone. I watched his cock go in and out, wet, gleaming, thick, and with every drive the damp sound of their bodies reached my ears through the glass.

They stayed like that for a time I couldn’t measure. It could have been ten minutes. It could have been twenty. He lifted her, turned her face down on the bed, spread her ass cheeks with both hands, and shoved it into her from behind again. He started giving her soft little slaps on the ass, one after another, until it turned red. She gripped the sheets and pushed her body back against him, asking for it harder, deeper. I pressed my forehead against the glass and held my breath. I felt my heart in my temples, in my pulse, in my fingers. I felt my cock rock hard against the fabric of my uniform and, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t want it to go soft.

I was going to stay until the end.

But then I heard footsteps. Soft, measured footsteps on the gravel in the garden, behind me.

I turned so fast I almost lost my balance.

A young woman—she looked about twenty-five—was standing three steps away, arms crossed, with a smile that didn’t bother hiding anything. She was wearing a thin cream-colored robe tied loosely at the waist. Barefoot. Her hair, long and loose, fell over one shoulder.

—You like what you’re seeing —she said.

It wasn’t a question.

I swallowed. Tried to come up with an excuse.

—I was… making my round. I heard a noise.

—You’ve been watching for six minutes, guard.

She looked me up and down, unhurriedly. When she reached my waist, she raised an eyebrow and her smile widened.

—And from what I can see, you’ve gone rock hard.

I wanted to speak and nothing came out. She took two more steps toward me. Her hair smelled sweet, of vanilla maybe, or something I couldn’t name. She laid an open hand on my chest, with no pressure, as if measuring my heartbeat. Then she lowered it, unhurriedly, and squeezed my cock through my trousers. Squeezed hard. I let out my breath.

—I’m not the first one to look through that window —she said very quietly—. Father Salvador brings visitors to every retreat. The girls don’t complain. I don’t complain either. But someone has to watch the watcher, don’t you think?

This is a trap.

But if it was, I didn’t care.

She grabbed me by the belt, not violently, and dragged me to the tool shed at the end of the garden. She shut the door behind us with her foot. Inside there was a worktable, tools hanging on the wall, and the smell of old oil.

She shoved me against the table.

—What’s your name, guard?

—Damián.

—Damián. Good. —With one motion she untied her robe. Underneath she wasn’t wearing anything. She had pale skin, tits a little fuller than the girl in the room’s, dark, large nipples, wide hips, and long legs. She took one hand to her cunt, touched it for a second in front of me, slipped in one finger and pulled it out again gleaming—. I’m Carolina. And now you’re going to do what I tell you, Damián, because we both know this is what you wanted from the moment you heard that first noise.

I nodded. There was nothing else I could do.

She yanked my pants and underwear down to my knees. When she took my cock in her hand, I let out my breath in a rush. She laughed softly, a sound in her throat, and knelt on the shed floor without taking her eyes off mine. She looked at it up close, weighed it in her hand, squeezed it at the base and drew a clear drop from the tip, which she licked off with the tip of her tongue.

—Look at that cock you’ve got, guard. And you didn’t know what to do with it.

She took it into her mouth slowly, with a calm that seemed obscene for how serene it was. She wasn’t in any hurry. She swallowed it centimeter by centimeter until I felt my throat close around the head. I had to brace both hands on the table because my knees were going. She started sucking me with a deep rhythm, moving her head up and down, letting saliva run down her chin and onto my balls. Every so often she pulled it from her mouth to lick it all over from base to tip, looking at me, and then took it back in. With her other hand she grabbed my balls and squeezed them gently, sizing me up.

I’m going to last three minutes.

I thought it and forced myself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Count to five. Count to ten. She sucked me with methodical patience, glancing up at me now and then to check whether I was still alive. She pulled my cock out of her mouth, held it, and tapped it against her cheek, her lips, her stretched-out tongue.

—Are you going to come in my mouth, Damián? —she asked, smiling—. Not yet. Not yet.

When she felt I was close, she stopped. She stood up. She turned me halfway around.

—Stay still, guard.

She braced herself on the table with her back to me, spread her legs and leaned forward until her elbows were down. She spread her ass cheeks with both hands and looked at me over her shoulder with a smile that was more challenge than invitation. Her cunt was open, wet, pink, ready.

—Like the Father, Damián. Exactly like that. Put it all the way in with one thrust.

I entered her slowly, against her order. Not out of tenderness, but because I was afraid I’d finish in one stroke. She let out a long, held breath and pushed her body back to take me all the way. I felt the heat, the wetness, how tight she was. I grabbed her hips and started moving with a rhythm she corrected every couple of thrusts with an impatient tilt of her pelvis.

—Harder —she murmured—. More. Fuck me however you want. Break me.

I obeyed her. I grabbed her hips and started driving into her to the hilt, with all the contained rage of the previous hour. The table began to creak against the floor. The tools on the wall rattled. Carolina pressed her knuckles into the wood and pushed her ass back to take me all the way. I watched her cunt swallow my cock again and again, come out shining, sink back down. I slapped her left cheek. She laughed, hoarse.

—Again —she told me—. Harder.

I slapped it again. Her ass turned red. I grabbed her hair, wrapped it around my hand, and pulled her back. Her head flew up and her neck arched. I kept fucking her like that, pulling her hair, seeing her mouth open in profile, tongue out, eyes half-lidded.

—Like the Father —she said into the air, with a broken laugh—. Just like the Father, Damián. They’re all the same when they get hard.

Every so often she turned her head and told me things in a low voice, things that weren’t prayers. That she was a whore. That she loved it. That her husband didn’t fuck her like this. I could feel the blood pounding in my ears. I felt Father Salvador’s image mixing with Carolina’s body and everything became the same desire, the same fever.

She yanked my cock out of her cunt all at once, turned halfway around, climbed onto the table and spread her legs. She grabbed me by the nape and dragged me to her mouth.

—Eat me first. Like you saw me do.

I knelt and buried my face between her thighs. I licked her cunt all over, from bottom to top, tasting her. She was salty, sweet, hot. I slipped my tongue inside her, pulled it out, sucked her clit with my lips. She grabbed my hair and pressed my face against her until I could barely breathe. I felt her legs tense around my head, felt her starting to tremble. She came like that, against my mouth, biting her forearm so she wouldn’t wake half the house.

—Now —she panted, and yanked my hair upward—. Now yes. Put it in me again.

I stood up and shoved it into her in one stroke, with her lying back on the table. I grabbed her ankles and spread her legs wide, leaving her cunt open for me. I started pounding her hard, watching her tits bounce with every thrust, watching the look of pleasure disfigure her face. I grabbed one breast with my free hand and squeezed it until she moaned. I pinched her nipple. She dug her nails into my forearm.

I came in her with a muffled groan I tried to smother against her neck. I felt her clench around me with her inner muscles as if she wanted to keep all of it. My orgasm came in three long waves, deep inside. I stayed still for a few seconds, breathing against her shoulder, my cock still buried and throbbing. When I pulled out, a white thread ran down her thigh, thick, dense. She caught it with two fingers, brought them to her mouth, and sucked them while looking at me.

—Tasty, guard —she said—. Very tasty.

She gave a low laugh and sat up.

—Same time tomorrow —she said, tying her robe—. And bring those eyes wide open, Damián.

She left through the shed door as if nothing had happened.

I stayed leaning on the table, with my pants down around one leg and my heart in my throat, trying to understand what kind of retreat house that was.

***

I went back to the guard post, washed up as best I could, sat down. I watched the moon rise through the lobby window. I watched the first cool air of dawn come in. I didn’t sleep.

The next day, I did my usual round. I greeted Father Salvador with the same seriousness as always. He returned the greeting without blinking. The girl from the night before was having breakfast in the dining room with two other girls just like her. Carolina appeared in the gallery with a book in her hand and shot me a half-second look. No one would have noticed anything.

That night I heard a noise again. And another. And every night of the retreat.

Sometimes it was Father Salvador with the same girl in the blue skirt, now on all fours on the bed, ass raised and mouth against the mattress while the priest speared her from behind. Sometimes with a different one, darker, with fuller tits, straddling him, riding him slowly with the cassock bunched up between them. Sometimes it was two girls at once, one eating the other’s cunt while he took the one on top from behind and pulled her hair. Sometimes it was Carolina who waited for me first, before I even reached the window, and dragged me straight to the shed without letting me see anything.

—Tonight it’s your turn first —she’d say, and shut the door with her foot.

And she’d suck me on her knees on the floor, or spread herself on the table, or ride me on the workbench until splinters marked my back. Every night a different position. Every night a new dirty thing she came up with. Once she made me come on her tits and scooped up the semen with her fingers to take it to her mouth, laughing. Another time she told me to spit on her and call her a whore while I fucked her from behind, and so I did.

I spent four nights like that. The four nights of the retreat.

When the group left, the house went back to the silence of the elderly priests and the heavy scent of jasmine. I kept doing my rounds. I kept looking at room nine’s window every time I passed. The curtain was properly closed. I didn’t hear a sound again.

But when the next group came back, two months later, I knew enough to wait.

And she knew how to find me.