Dulcinée (freewrite)

She slides up behind the priest, who doesn't open his eyes (or hers, for that matter) and does his best to ignore her.
'I've got it,' she announces and clears her throat.
'Shh,' the priest whispers sharply, 'not here,' and he looks around the well-adorned church, soulless but for the two of them. He's weary, afraid that someone might find them, might hear his deepest darkest shames and then his soul will be damned forever.
The girl waits patiently, observing the priest's little rituals, how he bows his head every other minute and how he crosses himself, even when he's not done praying.
Finally, he stands up, nodding slightly as if to signal he's no longer in God's service and walks away from the altar with a heavy heart. They stand together outside the church. The little girl who has no God and the old man, who's just about to lose his.
'Well?' he asks, anxious. He's plagued by guilt, not for involving the girl, but for fear she might tell someone, she might run away into the night, trumpeting his moments of weakness to the whole village.
The girl grabs his hand and brings it to her dirty lips and the priest shies away, although he didn't really use to. Nowadays, it all bores him, frightens him, disgusts him. The parishioners, the lost children of the street, anyone and everyone who is not her. Her at whose feet he'd crawl.
The one who threatens to make him abandon God, the Holy Spirit and everyone in the divine sky. He feels his hand touch the cold metal,even through the paper, and holds on tight, letting the girl sliver out of his grasp and run back to her games. She will be paid later, his little spy.

The priest thinks, as he climbs up the tall him on which she lives, holding the little key. He remembers the moment he first laid eyes on her. Not in his church, that would've been too much even for the Devil living inside her. He'd seen her one day, as he made his rounds, walking by the town pump. The walk, that perfect, cat-like purr of her hips, on which his gaze had become fixed and he became hopeless.
He thinks of all the nights he cannot sleep, and wakes up thinking he's in a dream and she's lying beside him. Him, who hasn't had a woman in a good forty years.
This has to be done, he tells himself once more. He's said it out loud millions of times, ever since he first employed the little rat and he's told his Good Lady this many times, and yet he doesn't walk any easier.
He needs to see her, once, just once, or else he will go mad, he'll forsake the cloth within the week if he does not.
'Ma fille,' he opens his mouth to whisper, as he unlocks the door, but stops himself. No, she is not one of his flock, she is sent to tempt him.
And she turns on her feet, terrified, and she's more beautiful than ever, her eyes wide and ever-curious.
'Cherie,' he mumbles, the word tasting foreign in his mouth.
She sees in his eyes just why he's here, although she didn't really need to. She's a damned soul, she knows, a bad lot. So she lies down and loves the wayward priest, just like she loves all her men, with a great sorrow in her heart. She knows, long before he does, that he too has lost his way and now he'll never find it.
None of the men she loves ever do, losing themselves in her green, fire-lit eyes forever. She looks into his soul, holding onto his arms, the muscles already dying in her grasps and she'd like to weep, if she could.

Tomorrow, she will walk through the town, singing his tale, just like she does with all the rest, in a tongue that only she knows and she'll allow others to catch her gaze and become lost.

Today's prompt was 'muscle'. Check out @mariannewest, our lovely freewriting leader! The title is the French word for 'ladylove'.