Barbiel ⁞ HOME AFTER SERVICE

The big, silver car came to a halt on the white gravel driveway. Inside, Barbiel took a long, final moment to survey the neighborhood. His sharp eyes tracked the last of the station wagons pulling into driveways up and down the street.

Every last car was accounted for, every doorstep had been represented at his sermon this Sunday. A slow, deep satisfaction settled in his chest. If there had been a soul missing, he would have had to pay them a visit, a proper minister's duty to a straying sheep.

A few of the neighbors, Mrs. Jenny from number three and old Mr. Greeley from across the way, turned and waved with bright, empty smiles, calling out a greeting to the Minister and his wife. Their obedience was a warmth that fed him. Only then did he open his own door and step out, the South Carolina sun catching the gold of his skin.

He walked around the long hood of the car, his polished shoes silent on the stones, and opened the passenger door with a practiced and genteel flourish. He offered his hand to his wife, watching as they stepped out, the red cherries on their church fascinator bobbing amidst the perfectly permed blonde curls of their wig.

"There we are, my dear," he murmured, his voice a low drawl he composed as perfectly as his sermons.

He took their hand and spun them around in a playful little turn, his dark eyes drinking in the full picture. The dress was a brilliant red, the exact shade of the lipstick he'd chosen for them that morning. It hugged the figure his influence had crafted, all modest in length but undeniably feminine.

"Just look at you," he said, his smile showing rows of perfect teeth beneath full lips. "A vision of elegance. You put every other woman in that pew to shame today."

He brought their gloved hand to his mouth and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the back of it, waiting. And there it was, the programmed response he so loved, the scripted smile that didn't reach the eyes and the automatic, delicate press of their other hand to their chest. It was perfect.

He tucked their hand into the crook of his arm and escorted them toward the pristine white and velvet red mansion, the front door swinging open at the barest flick of his wrist and shutting firmly behind them without a touch. The cool, quiet air of the foyer enveloped them, smelling of cleaning products and leather polish.

Usually, he would send them off to the kitchen with a pat on the backside to start on the afternoon baking, the picture of a dutiful 1950s housewife. But not today. Today, he was hungrier for something much different. The memory of his morning tease was fresh in his mind, how he'd knelt before them in their bedroom, his hands sliding up their stockings to the black lace garter belt he'd fastened there himself, a secret sin beneath the virtuous red dress. A good wife always let her husband play with her body, after all.

As they moved to turn toward the kitchen, he stopped them before his body pressed close from behind in the spacious living room. His hands settled on their hips, then slid slowly up their sides, feeling the structure of the bra beneath the red fabric, the garment that gave the pleasing illusion of a soft bust. He dipped his head so his lips close to their ear, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper, a command disguised as a promise.

"Not just yet, my lovely," he breathed. "There will be no baking this afternoon. Not until I've properly rewarded my beautiful wife for how utterly pretty she looked today."

His hands tightened possessively. "We're going upstairs first."

The big, silver car came to a halt on the white gravel driveway. Inside, Barbiel took a long, final moment to survey the neighborhood. His sharp eyes tracked the last of the station wagons pulling into driveways up and down the street.

Every last car was accounted for, every doorstep had been represented at his sermon this Sunday. A slow, deep satisfaction settled in his chest. If there had been a soul missing, he would have had to pay them a visit, a proper minister's duty to a straying sheep.

A few of the neighbors, Mrs. Jenny from number three and old Mr. Greeley from across the way, turned and waved with bright, empty smiles, calling out a greeting to the Minister and his wife. Their obedience was a warmth that fed him. Only then did he open his own door and step out, the South Carolina sun catching the gold of his skin.

He walked around the long hood of the car, his polished shoes silent on the stones, and opened the passenger door with a practiced and genteel flourish. He offered his hand to his wife, watching as she stepped out, the red cherries on her church fascinator bobbing amidst the perfectly permed blonde curls of her wig.

"There we are, my dear," he murmured, his voice a low drawl he composed as perfectly as his sermons.

He took her hand and spun her around in a playful little turn, his dark eyes drinking in the full picture. The dress was a brilliant red, the exact shade of the lipstick he'd chosen for her that morning. It hugged the figure his influence had crafted, all modest in length but undeniably feminine.

"Just look at you," he said, his smile showing rows of perfect teeth beneath full lips. "A vision of elegance. You put every other woman in that pew to shame today."

He brought her gloved hand to his mouth and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the back of it, waiting. And there it was, the programmed response he so loved, the scripted smile that didn't reach the eyes and the automatic, delicate press of her other hand to her chest. It was perfect.

He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and escorted them toward the pristine white and velvet red mansion, the front door swinging open at the barest flick of his wrist and shutting firmly behind them without a touch. The cool, quiet air of the foyer enveloped them, smelling of cleaning products and leather polish.

Usually, he would send her off to the kitchen with a pat on the backside to start on the afternoon baking, the picture of a dutiful 1950s housewife. But not today. Today, he was hungrier for something much different. The memory of his morning tease was fresh in his mind, how he'd knelt before her in their bedroom, his hands sliding up her stockings to the black lace garter belt he'd fastened there himself, a secret sin beneath the virtuous red dress. A good wife always let her husband play with her body, after all.

As they moved to turn toward the kitchen, he stopped her, before his body pressed close from behind in the spacious living room. His hands settled on her hips, then slid slowly up her sides, feeling the structure of the bra beneath the red fabric, the garment that gave the pleasing illusion of a soft bust. He dipped his head so his lips close to her ear, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper, a command disguised as a promise.

"Not just yet, my lovely," he breathed. "There will be no baking this afternoon. Not until I've properly rewarded my beautiful wife for how utterly pretty she looked today."

His hands tightened possessively. "We're going upstairs first."

The big, silver car came to a halt on the white gravel driveway. Inside, Barbiel took a long, final moment to survey the neighborhood. His sharp eyesight tracked the last of the station wagons pulling into driveways up and down the street.

Every last car was accounted for, every doorstep had been represented at his sermon this Sunday. A slow, deep satisfaction settled in his chest. If there had been a soul missing, he would have had to pay them a visit, a proper minister's duty to a straying sheep.

A few of the neighbors, Mrs. Jenny from number three and old Mr. Greeley from across the way, turned and waved with bright, empty smiles, calling out a greeting to the Minister and his wife. Their obedience was a warmth that fed him. Only then did he open his own door and step out, the South Carolina sun catching the gold of his skin.

He walked around the long hood of the car, his polished shoes silent on the stones, and opened the passenger door with a practiced and genteel flourish. He offered his hand to his wife, watching as "he" stepped out, the red cherries on his church fascinator bobbing amidst the perfectly permed blonde curls of his wig.

"There we are, my dear," he murmured, his voice a low drawl he composed as perfectly as his sermons.

He took his hand and spun him around in a playful little turn, his dark eyes drinking in the full picture. The dress was a brilliant red, the exact shade of the lipstick he'd chosen for him that morning. It hugged the figure his influence had crafted, all modest in length but undeniably feminine.

"Just look at you," he said, his smile showing rows of perfect teeth beneath full lips. "A vision of elegance. You put every woman in that pew to shame today."

He brought his gloved hand to his mouth and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the back of it, waiting. And there it was, the programmed response he so loved, the scripted smile that didn't reach the eyes and the automatic, delicate press of his other hand to his chest. It was perfect.

He tucked his hand into the crook of his arm and escorted them toward the pristine white and velvet red mansion, the front door swinging open at the barest flick of his wrist and shutting firmly behind them without a touch. The cool, quiet air of the foyer enveloped them, smelling of cleaning products and leather polish.

Usually, he would send him off to the kitchen with a pat on the backside to start on the afternoon baking, the picture of a dutiful 1950s housewife. But not today. Today, he was hungrier for something much different. The memory of his morning tease was fresh in his mind, how he'd knelt before him in their bedroom, his hands sliding up his stockings to the black lace garter belt he'd fastened there himself, a secret sin beneath the virtuous red dress. A good wife always let her husband play with her body, after all.

As he moved to turn toward the kitchen, he stopped him before his body pressed close from behind in the spacious living room. His hands settled on his hips, then slid slowly up his sides, feeling the structure of the bra beneath the red fabric, the garment that gave the pleasing illusion of a soft bust. He dipped his head so his lips close to his ear, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper, a command disguised as a promise.

"Not just yet, my lovely," he breathed. "There will be no baking this afternoon. Not until I've properly rewarded my beautiful wife for how utterly pretty she looked today."

His hands tightened possessively. "We're going upstairs first."