My life with the pastor

The last chapter

Months passed since that three-day bridge in the mountains. Months in which I went down to the village with my body marked, my ass still sensitive for days, the smell of him stuck to my skin even though I showered three times a day. Months in which I returned every weekend, every bridge, every excuse I could invent: "I have to go see my cousin", "I need fresh air", "I'm going hiking". Each time I brought more things: tobacco, cognac, new rope, a double sleeping bag that we never used because we slept stuck together in the filthy bunk, cans of food that he barely touched because he preferred what he hunted or milked. Each time he fucked me more wildly, more dirtily, more deeply, as if he wanted to engrave himself in my flesh so that I couldn't forget him for a second when I returned to the village.

But the village was no longer the same. The glances became longer, the comments more biting. "Another time in the mountains, huh?" said the man at the bar with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. My mother asked why I never brought back photos of those "hikes". My boss looked at me strangely when I asked for another permit for "family problems". I started to feel that the village air was suffocating me. The lights, the noise, the people who pretended not to know what I did on weekends. Everything seemed false, small, suffocating.

One night in late March, after one of those brutal fucks in which he left my ass raw and my face covered in his semen and urine, I stayed awake while he snored beside me. I looked at the cracked stone ceiling, listened to the wind whistling outside, the distant bleating of the sheep. And I knew: I didn't want to go down anymore. I didn't want to pretend anymore.

The next day, while he was milking, I stood beside him and spoke without looking at him.

—I'm not going down today.

He continued milking, the stream of milk hitting the bucket with a constant rhythm. He didn't say anything for a while.

—And what are you going to do? —he asked finally, without raising his eyes.

—Stay. Here. With you.

Silence. Only the sound of the milk and the wind.

—And your life down there? The job, the family, all that.

—Let them fuck themselves. It's not life. This is life.

He got up from the stool, wiped his hands on his pants, and looked at me for the first time. His small, dark eyes studied me as if I were a new sheep in the flock.

—It's not going to be easy. Here there's no light, no hot water, no one to save you if you break a leg. And I'm not the kind to pamper.

—I know.

—There's no going back. If you stay, you stay forever. I'll fuck you when I want, how I want. I'll use you how I want. There won't be weekends, there won't be "going back to the village to rest". You'll be mine. Completely.

I swallowed saliva. My heart was beating so hard that I thought he could hear i...