Opus

The hum of the airplane engines had become a low, rhythmic lullaby that finally pulled me under, but sleep was a fleeting luxury. When I woke up from the few hours of sleep that I had, the cabin lights were dimmed, casting a soft, blue hue over the rows of passengers. My neck was stiff, a familiar consequence of transcontinental travel, but as I blinked away the fog of exhaustion, I noticed something new resting on the empty tray table beside me.

There was a book titled “Opus: The Cult of Dark Money, Human Trafficking, and Right-Wing Conspiracy inside the Catholic Church” authored by Gareth Gore. It was a heavy, daunting book, the kind that demanded attention. A small, yellow adhesive note was attached to the cover, the ink slightly smudged as if written in haste.

I picked up the note, reading the elegant cursive. “I finished this on my last long haul flight and found it gripping. Given your work and thoughts of the systemic rot of Catholicism, I thought you’d enjoy the loaner. Safe travels.”

As I was looking at the book, a flight attendant—a tall man with a kind face and a neatly pressed uniform—passed by and paused. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so as not to disturb the sleeping passenger across the aisle.

"I hope you don't mind the intrusion," he whispered with a small, knowing smile. "You're Lara Beck, right? The author?"

I felt a sudden heat rise to my cheeks. "I am. Are you the one that dropped off the book?”

“Yes, I am,” he said. “I was pretty sure of who you were but we all look differently crossing time zones in awful lighting.”

“Thank you for loaning the book. That's very kind of you."

"You’re very welcome. I've followed your work for a while," he continued, his expression turning more serious. "I’ve also seen you at a few TedTalks. What I appreciate most is that you aren't just 'anti-Catholic' for the sake of being provocative. You treat it like a cult because you have the legit proof to back it up because you lived it first hand and witnessed some awful stuff. It’s rare to find that kind of intellectual honesty."

"I try to let the evidence speak for itself," I replied, feeling a genuine spark of pride. I was kind of flattered that I was recognized so far from home, and by someone who truly understood the nuance of my writing. It wasn't about hate; it was about exposure.

"Well, Gore is a bit of a kindred spirit, I think," the attendant said, nodding toward the book. "Let me know what you think if I'm still on shift when you finish. Can I get you anything before you dive into the book?"

"Just some ice water, please," I said. “Maybe something stronger as well?”

He returned a moment later with a cold bottle of water, a cup of ice and four of the tiny TSA approved bottles of vodka. Before opening up the book, I had some of my water and started eating the last of my bagels, chewing slowly as I stared at the aggressive subtitle on the cover. Dark money. Human trafficking. It felt like I was about to stare into a mirror of the very world I had escaped. I was thankful that the flight attendant brought some vodka…it was going to be a heavy read.

I grabbed the book, got a bit more situated in my comfortable seat, and proceeded to open the book. The spine cracked satisfyingly. Based on the weight of it and the praise from the attendant, I knew it was going to be an interesting book.

As I was reading the forward by the author, Gareth Gore, I felt a surge of professional respect. I learned that he is also an investigative journalist who was sent to cover the sudden collapse of Banco Popular in 2017. Initially, he thought he was chasing a standard story of corporate greed—the kind of dry, financial reporting that fills the back pages of the Wall Street Journal.

Instead, the text described how Gore stumbled into a massive conspiracy orchestrated by Opus Dei, an ultra-conservative Catholic sect. I felt a chill run down my spine as I read his account. His investigation revealed how members of the group had secretly stolen billions of money from a major bank to fund a radical global expansion.

The details were harrowing. From the recruitment of children to the quiet bankrolling of major political shifts in the U.S., it was a narrative of absolute power and zero accountability. It was certainly a chilling look at how a secret religious order used a super large bank to pull the strings of power from the shadows. I found myself highlighting passages, my mind racing as I compared his findings to my own experiences.

The cabin remained quiet, the only sound the occasional rustle of a page or the distant chime of a call button. I lost track of the altitude, the time zones, and the miles. It took me two and a half hours to read the book, my eyes darting across the pages until I reached the final acknowledgments.

I closed the cover and let out a long, shaky breath. It was definitely an intense but interesting read. I leaned my head back against the headrest, staring up at the overhead compartments. As someone who is a former Catholic Cult member and trying to unearth the truth to share with those deep in the “church,” the weight of the book felt like a weapon I hadn't known I was missing.

I looked at the note the flight attendant had left. He was right - Gore had captured the systemic rot with surgical precision. I clutched the book to my chest, a singular, recurring thought echoing in my mind: I wish that this book was given to those in and considering becoming Catholic. If they could see the ledger—the literal cost in lives and dollars—perhaps the spell would finally break.

After closing the final page of the book, I glanced at my watch. There were still a few hours left of the flight, stretching out before me like an empty highway. I stared at my phone for a moment but tucked it back into my pocket; I didn’t want to use it and risk messing up the technology in the plane. With no other books to read and the cabin falling into a dull silence, my options were limited. I knew for a fact I wouldn't be fucking Xander while he was in the cockpit nor while he was on the clock—professionalism had its place, even if my body felt otherwise.

The only thing left to do was lean my head back against the seat, close my eyes, and let my mind drift. I decided to think back on my former partners—both the romantic and the sexual ones.

My mind first wandered to Vince. A small, involuntary smirk touched my lips as I remembered the way he worked. He certainly made me cum with his tongue and dick for days on end. I remembered when we were first together; we were a literal force of nature. We couldn't stop fucking. Headboards would splinter and break under the force of our rhythm, and the neighbors complained so frequently it became a running joke, all because I couldn't stop screaming in pleasure. The man has a magical tongue and ick

"God, Vince," I whispered to the empty cabin, the memory of his weight on me feeling almost real.

I recalled one specific winter vacation before he retired where we were snowed in for an additional three days. It turned a eight day trip that turned into a sex marathon. We fucked nonstop for those eight days, the heat from our bodies the only thing keeping the chill at bay.

Then, my thoughts drifted to K. I thought about the few times that we fucked. The dude definitely knew how to work his dick; he had a precision that was hard to forget. But thinking about Boris? That made my panties wet instantly. He had a massive dick in all the best ways. He always made sure I came as he destroyed my pussy and rearranged my guts.

I can still feel him stretching me, I thought, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. The amount of cum that Boris produced was incredible even when he was drained

Then I remembered C. A different kind of thrill. He loved fucking me while I was unconscious, and he had my full permission to do so. There was something about waking up to the sensation of him already deep inside me that hit a different nerve. The dude not only fucked me like the sex addict that I am, he ate my pussy so intensely that I nearly drowned him on multiple occasions.

"You're going to kill me one of these days," he’d gasp, coming up for air, only for me to pull him back down. He always returned the favor by flooding my pussy with his cum until I felt like I was overflowing.

Finally, I thought back on Vic. Vic was a contradiction. Not only was he passionate as we fucked, he was rough as well. He certainly fucked me like the side piece that I was to him—with a certain kind of reclaimed hunger that left bruises and memories. I loved how much cum he consistently shot in my pussy, no matter how tired he was. Once, due to bad weather, we were stuck in a hotel together for thirty-six hours. It was a fever dream of sweat and friction. He barely pulled out of my filled pussy the entire time, keeping me claimed and soaked until the weather cleared.

By the time I was done thinking back on these men, the plane’s descent had begun. The vibration of the wheels hitting the tarmac snapped me back to the present. I took a deep breath, smoothing my hair and calming my pulse. I grabbed my stuff, my hands fumbling slightly as I checked for all three of my passports. I left my seat and left the book on the table.

I knew that my ticket would match my Lichtenstein passport, but I wasn't worried about the discrepancy. I knew Sera had called the airport customs ahead of my arrival to let them know who I truly was. The transition had to be seamless.

When I finally reached the customs hall, the air was thick with the scent of espresso and jet fuel. I scanned the lines, but the decision was made for me. The lead agent, a tall man with sharp eyes, called out over the crowd: “The lady with the navy blue duffel bag. Come through this line.”

I did as he asked, my boots clicking against the polished floor. When I got to his station, he held out a hand. “Ticket and passports, please.”

I handed all three passports and my ticket over. He flicked through the pages with practiced ease, his expression neutral for the benefit of the cameras and the crowd. Then, he leaned in just an inch.

“Welcome to Italy, Grand Duchess,” he whispered as he stamped my Lichtenstein passport, using my preferred title. The corner of his mouth twitched into a respectful half-smile. “Glad to have you back in our country.”

“Thank you,” I replied, keeping my voice low. I glanced back at the growing queue of travelers watching us. “If you need to keep up with the false spectacle of pulling me to your line, you can search me. I understand the optics.”

He nodded, appreciating the cooperation. “I need a female agent for a quick search!” he hollered, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. He looked back at me. “I believe you’ve done this before.”

“More times than I can count,” I said with a slight nod.

A female agent made her way over to us, looking bored and efficient. She gestured toward a designated area just off to the side.

“Step aside, stretch your arms out and spread your legs a bit,” she huffed, not unkindly, just doing her job. She snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “Do you have anything sharp on you or any weapons on you that I should know about?”

“No,” I said firmly.

“I’m going to perform a pat search now, ok, ma’am?”

“Ok,” I replied.

I stood still as her hands moved over my frame, checking my waistband, legs, and torso. The search took less than two minutes. Once she was satisfied, she stepped back and nodded to the lead agent.

“You’re clear,” she said.

The lead agent handed back my documents. “Enjoy your stay.”

I grabbed my stuff, slung the navy blue bag over my shoulder, and walked through the final gates. It was time to get lost in Italy but things were about to change. The second I stepped outside of the airport, onto the cement sidewalk and there was Vic standing out like a sore thumb. Tight black jeans, tight black t-shirt and navy blue cowboy boots.

“La Duquesa Marie,” he said in his sexy voice.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I said as I put my face in my palm.