“You’re all I dream about,” she uttered. “I dream that I am standing naked before you, watching you flay yourself, but you don’t…you don’t ever look away from me…. And sometimes I waken from dreams of you moving inside of me, the blood of your self-inflicted scars dripping on my flesh…. Is it wicked of me to tell you this?”
Benedict loosed a breath. “Yes…” he rasped after a moment, his voice strained.
Catalina bit at her bottom lip. “Forgive me,” she whispered.
Even in the darkness he could see that she was trembling, and he thought his heart would burst.
“I never want you to be afraid of saying what you need of me, you need only ask me,” he said.  
“I need…. You,” Catalina said huskily. “But I’m afraid of what you might do to yourself by knowing this. If my presence here disturbs you, I shall go. And I won’t have anything to do with you further.” She had tried to prepare herself mentally in case this was to be the last she would ever see of Benedict, unless they could come to an agreement.
He was silent for a long moment. “My personal torment didn’t appease after you left,” he finally admitted. “But I no longer took lengths to keep you from my mind. I gave in. I sullied myself with my own hand to vulgar dreams about you. Christ, Catalina,” he cussed under his breath. “Is this what you want to hear?”
Catalina felt her face burn up.
“Yes,” she gasped. “Tell me,” she pleaded, didn’t think she could want anything so much than to hear him say these things to her.
Benedict breathed through his nose. “I defile you and I bless you while I imagine it’s your body I find my relief in.”
Catalina was profoundly aware of their shared breathes in the heavy air between them.   
“Amen…” she breathed, because it was like a prayer had just been spoken to her.  
“May God and the Devil have mercy on my soul,” Benedict murmured.