Did You Miss Me ?

It’s not that you’re unhappy. Your life has never been better.

Living with Sylus is easy. He always takes care of you without asking, without complaint. His steadiness wraps around you like a shield, keeping the world at bay. With him, you never worry about rent, or groceries, or even locking the door at night.

But sometimes, late in the dark when you’re alone, something twists in your chest.

It creeps in slowly—usually when he’s gone. When the apartment is too quiet, and your thoughts start circling like vultures. You’ll be scrolling through your feed, half-bored, half-lonely. Then you’ll see them.

The women Sylus is always around. At galas, dinners, boardrooms full of Onychinus elites. They’re sleek and untouchable, all bright smiles and hourglass figures. They wear black like it’s a weapon. They laugh like they’ve never been uncertain a day in their lives.

And for a moment—just a flicker—you wonder if he sees them.

You know he only has eyes for you. He proves it a million ways, every single day. The way he touches you like you’re made of something irreplaceable. The way he looks at you in the mornings, like nothing else exists.

But still.

Still, something ugly has been curling in your chest since he left last weekend for some business trip. You see the photos of the women there. Watch the clips you see on social media over and over again. Try to figure out what they have that you don’t.

And tonight, for the first time, you decide to find out.

Your first livestream.

It’s not your thing. Totally outside of your comfort zone. But you’ve seen the way people look at girls like that. The confidence. The attention. The power of it.

So you wonder—just once—what it would feel like to be wanted like that. To be seen the way they are. To play the part and maybe, for a night, feel pretty in a way that isn’t so quiet.

The light is soft, angled just right. The short, silky dress clings to your body where it should. You’ve practiced your posture, the casual glance down at the screen, the way you shift on the mattress so your legs catch the low light. You don't say much—just look.

And it works.

The comments start slow, then pick up like flames.

damn, pretty girl’s shy

love the dress. spin for us, babyy

how much for those thighs in my hands?

You're warm. Embarrassed. Thrilled. You smile. You almost say thank you, almost feel pretty. Almost.

Then the door creaks.

“Sweetie?” Sylus's voice is deep and smooth, carrying down the hall like it belongs here. Like he was never gone at all. “Is this where you’re hiding?”

He’s supposed to be gone. Out of town. You’d built this whole moment on the safety of his absence.

“Sylus!” You shriek, launching out of your bed like the mattress turned to lava. “No! No, no, not the time—please, don’t—”

You’re already too late.

He’s standing there, broad frame filling your doorway, one shoulder leaning casually against the threshold.

“Got home early,” he says mildly, almost like small talk. As if you aren’t wearing next to nothing in front of your webcam, ring light shining on your abandoned sheets like it’s a crime scene. “Thought you’d be happy to see me.”

You try to block the laptop with your body, try to pull your skirt down lower, your socks up higher.

“I am happy, I swear. Just—wait, give me two seconds—”

He doesn’t give you half of one before stepping once, twice into your room, dropping his duffel bag on the floor, and snatching the laptop from your bed.

“You’re always so quiet when I ask about your day, kitten,” he muses. He doesn’t look at the screen, though. His eyes are only on you. “Is this what you’ve been up to all this time?”

You’re frozen. Ashamed. But there’s no anger on his face, only pure wonder. Something else, too—something darker.

He sets up your laptop on your desk, sits in your chair like he owns it, knees spread. His palm lifts.

“Come here.”

Your stomach flips. “Sylus—”

“Don’t get shy on me, now. I thought you were putting on a show?”

The words are sharp, but his voice is gentler than it should be. That dangerous calm. You move before you think, letting him guide you down into his lap like it’s routine. Like this isn't mortifying.

Only once you’re settled, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric of your dress, does he finally glance at your laptop. The stream is lighting up with hearts and comments and tip jars, far more than you’ve seen tonight.

$25: daddy’s homeeeeeee

idk who this man is but I support the mission

$40: BEND HER OVER

Sylus raises a brow, slow and amused. “Are these your friends?”

You shrivel. “Not—not really, no. I mean, it’s just—”

“No?” His arm wraps loosely around your middle, keeping you in place. “But you dressed up so pretty for them, didn’t you?”

You don’t answer. Not when his fingers find the hem of your dress, the feel of his knuckles brushing against the tops of your thighs, stealing your breath.

“Do they treat you nicely?” he asks, the words hot at your ear.

“They—” your voice stumbles. All you can focus on is the way his fingers trace lazy circles against your skin, the way you pray he doesn’t notice your thighs pressing together as his touch inches higher. “They like watching.”

“Of course they do,” he says. Not angry. Just…considering. His nose brushes along your temple, one hand still heavy at your waist. “That’s not the question.”

He decides to find the answer for himself, leaning forward just enough to read the comments over your shoulder. He scrolls through the chat lazily, eyes flicking over the words that are pouring in faster than you can count.

“Let’s see,” he hums low in his throat, almost amused. “‘ Good girl .’ ‘ So pretty .’ ‘ Show us more .’ …they do treat you nicely, don’t they?”

Your face burns. “It’s not like that—”

“Shh.” His voice is calm, steady, like he’s not even affected. But his grip tightens at your hip, holding you in place. “I’m asking.” His eyes stay on the screen, detached. “Are they saying what you want to hear? Are they giving you what you want?”

His fingers brush your jaw, featherlight. “Tell me what they give you, sweetie—and I’ll show you how much more you could take.”

“I just…” Your voice is smaller now, but steady. “I wanted to feel…”

You don’t finish the sentence.

Because now that he’s here—now that you’re sitting on his lap, thighs bare, dress hitched scandalously high—you feel ridiculous. Silly in a way that burns behind your cheeks, painfully aware of every inch of satin clinging to your skin, every inch of skin on display.

You’d picked this dress because it reminded you of the women in those photos. Because it looked expensive. Sharp. But now it just feels like a costume. Like playing dress-up in a life that was never meant to be yours.

Except Sylus hasn’t stopped looking at you. Not once. Not with judgment. Not with amusement. But with that same quiet intensity he always has when it’s just the two of you. Like you’re the only thing he sees. Like you’re his.

He studies you for a moment, thumb stroking your cheek as if to wipe away the doubt he knows you’re feeling. “Feel, hm?”

His thigh shifts under you, slow and firm, and the effect is immediate—a throb of heat between your legs, your breath catching as you feel the length of him, thick and unmistakable, pressing up against the curve of your ass.

A tiny sound slips out before you can bite it back. It’s not even a moan, not really. Just a helpless little noise that gives you away completely. You reach for the laptop without thinking, shame creeping in hot and quick.

Before your fingers can close the lid, Sylus catches your wrist.

“Now, sweetheart,” his mouth is closer now, ghosting the edge of your jaw. “Where are your manners? Look—” He nods toward the screen. “They all want to see you.”

The tips are coming in steadily—$1, $5, $10—but one in particular catches your attention:

$150 - Play with her tits. Come on, let us see

Sylus notices, too. He huffs a breath of disbelief, the corner of his mouth twitching upward like he’s both entertained and unimpressed.

“Is this how you do it?” he asks lightly, his interest genuine. “They send a little money, and you do what they say?”

You shift in his lap, flustered. “You don’t have to—”

His fingers are already trailing up and down the center of your chest. Just the barest touch along your sternum, tracing the edge of your neckline like he’s deciding how much he wants to give them.

“Wouldn’t want to be rude to your friends,” he says, voice almost kind. “They’ve been so generous.”

“I told you, they aren’t my— ah — ”

Your protest cuts off in a gasp as his fingers finally slip under the hem of your dress and make contact with your nipple. It’s just enough to make your eyelids squeeze shut, enough to make your back arch without thinking.

“Hmm,” his chest vibrates against your back as he hums, clearly pleased with your reaction, and it goes straight to your core. “I think they liked that, too.”

The chat explodes with emojis and tips, and Sylus keeps watching the screen like it’s a performance he’s directing. His fingers spread wider across your chest, palm splayed possessively now, thumb brushing slowly along the swell of your breast in idle, teasing strokes. He adjusts his grip on you with casual authority, like you’re his to maneuver, his to display.

You can feel the heat of his gaze on your reflection in the camera, cataloging every flicker of your reaction, every twitch, every breath as your chest rises and falls under his hand. That is, until another tip catches his eye:

$269 - he has two hands, use ‘em

“Two hands?” Sylus reads it aloud with a quiet laugh. “How perceptive.”

You brace for it—for his hand to slip under your dress like the comment dared him to—but it doesn’t. Not yet. Instead, his fingers trail upward, skirting the hem of your dress only to veer off course at the last second. Past your ribs, up your chest, settling lightly at your throat.

His thumb brushes the hollow there. “Is this what they meant, you think?”

His other hand remains spread across your chest, a steady, patient weight, his fingers rolling your nipple until it visibly hardens through the silk fabric. Then his fingers glide up the column of your neck, barely a touch. He tilts your face toward the screen—not forcefully, but with gentle insistence, like he wants you to see what they see. To feel it.

He lingers at your lips, a single knuckle tracing the seam of your mouth. “Or maybe this is what they wanted,” he muses, almost to himself.

Two fingertips tap lightly, then press, coaxing your mouth open with agonizing care. And when you part for him, he slides them in, just deep enough to make your lashes flutter.

He watches you in the reflection, expression soft with something that looks dangerously close to admiration.

“You’d tell me if I misunderstood, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs, voice soaked in mock concern as his fingers rest heavy on your tongue. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”

You try to shake your head, even just a little, but it’s no use. The words catch somewhere behind your teeth, muffled and useless. The teasing rhythm he’d kept at your chest turns punishing, each knead of your breast and squeeze of your nipple timed with the press of his fingers deeper against your tongue.

Your eyes find his on the screen—wide, glassy, and pleading as you whimper around his hand. It’s the only way you can beg, but he doesn’t relent.

“What was that?” he breathes, a sly smile catching on his lips like he’s won something. “That didn’t sound like ‘no’ to me.”

You hold his gaze, lips parted around his fingers, heartbeat thrumming with want and warning.

If he thinks you’re just going to sit here and take it …

You sink your teeth in.

It’s only enough pressure to make him grunt. Just enough of a bite to wipe the smug composure off his face.

And enough to make his cock twitch against your ass.

His hips shift underneath you, an almost imperceptible movement, maybe even an accident, but you feel it. You feel him, the friction of his jeans making you gasp around his fingers, the promise of more enough to make you clench around nothing.

“There she is,” he mutters, admiring you like you’re holy. “Eyes like an angel, teeth like a menace.”

His fingers slide from your mouth with a slick, obscene pop. Saliva clings to your lips, your chin, cooling on your skin as you try to breathe. His thumb drags the mess down your chin, spreading it like he’s painting proof of his claim. You should be embarrassed. Should be scrambling for composure, for modesty, for anything—

But it feels so fucking good .

You move on instinct, hips lifting to chase the feel of him, to grind back this time, needy and wanting. He stops you in an instant with a firm hand at your hip, holding you in place like it’s nothing.

“My kitten’s so eager tonight. Cute,” Sylus laughs under his breath, like he’s indulging you. Like you’re adorable for thinking you still have any control. “You’d take everything if I let you, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s not fair,” you breathe, trying for tough but landing somewhere closer to plea. “ You started it.”

“No. It’s not,” he concedes, with a look that says and that’s exactly the point . He finally looks back at the screen, smearing the shine of your spit across your collarbone like a signature. “Let’s see what they think, shall we?”

The screen lights up:

Give the good girl her reward NOW

pls cmon man shes earned it 🙏

LOWERRRR 😩

“They think you’ve been good. How nice of them.” His palm flattens, pressing you down against his thigh when you try to squirm. The pressure makes your pulse race, acutely aware of the ache building where you’re trapped against him. “But I’m harder to please.”

You twist your head to meet his gaze, blinking up at him through your lashes with a practiced innocence he doesn’t buy for a second. You lean in, close enough that your lips brush against his ear with each breathy word:

“You’re the one who taught me to be bad, Sylus...”

He falters.

You feel it in his exhale, the way his body eases into yours. Like maybe, for a second, he forgets he’s in control. Like maybe he just likes the way it feels.

Your smile curves slow against his skin.

“...So don’t act surprised when I don’t behave.”

You press your lips against the edge of his ear, slow and soft. Then, you part them.

And suck.

Not sweet anymore.

He curses under his breath, hands tightening on your waist like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or shove you off.

He chooses neither.

Because by the time he realizes it was bait, you’re already slipping from his lap, standing with both hands braced on either armrest beside him.

“Besides…” you mutter, caging him in as you lean closer. His gaze is heated as it flicks down to your mouth, then climbs back up to your eyes, dark and unblinking. For a second, it almost breaks you. But you’re playing with fire, too. “Who said I’m trying to please you?”

You think you’ve won. But the silence stretches.

His gaze moves past you, to the camera. To the view it now has of your hitched-up dress, of your bare, bent-over thighs, of everything you’re not wearing underneath.

You don’t realize it. But Sylus does. And when his eyes return to yours, they’re molten.

“Oh, sweet girl,” he says, voice thick with something deeper now. Darker. “You think you have to try?”

He’s smiling.

But it’s the kind of smile that means you just lost whatever game you thought you were playing.

“Gods, look at you,” he murmurs, fingers sliding dangerously high up the back of your thigh. His palm rests over the curve of your ass, warm and possessive. “Standing here, not wearing a damn thing under this tiny little excuse of a dress…”

And when his thumb drags through the wet heat of your entrance, you nearly cry out.

Because you didn’t mean to forget your underwear. You didn’t really think about it at all. It was never supposed to go this far, never supposed to be anything but you sitting pretty in your room all alone.

But now Sylus is here, his finger teasing your bare cunt. Live on camera. For hundreds of strangers on the internet to see.

His voice dips low behind you, almost admiring. “All swollen and sweet and dripping…”

You barely have time to blink before he flips you around, pressing a firm palm between your shoulder blades to pin you to your desk.

“Do you have any idea how perfect you are?” His body is warm against your back, the wood of the desk cool at your cheek. “Any idea what they’d give to trade places with me right now?”

“Look,” he orders as his hand curls into your hair, tilting your head to face the screen. It’s not hundreds of viewers anymore—it’s thousands . All eager and hungry to see what you’ll do next.

this is pure art

Perfect body perfect face perfect mouth just perfect

$100 - DO NOT STOP!!!

“These poor people,” he says softly, almost like a sigh. “They’ll never know what it’s like to feel you—” his hand cups you fully, drawing a gasp from your throat, “—this soft. This warm. Clenching around my fingers. My tongue. My cock. They’ll never know, will they, sweetie?”

You open your mouth to respond with something wicked, but all that comes out is a whimper. The rough denim you expected is gone, shoved lower, and now you feel him , bare and hot and grinding between your folds. Not inside—he’s too cruel for that. Just pressing, dragging, soaking the length of his cock with the slick heat of your pleasure.

Your breath stutters. “Sylus—”

He groans low, right against your ear, hand curling in your hair to tilt your face toward the glow of the screen. His other palm smooths down your spine, settling at the curve of your hip like he’s presenting you.

“Look at her,” he says, voice thick with pride, speaking directly to the thousands watching. “Isn’t she the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen?”

The chat erupts.

$25 - fuckin beautiful

GIVE ME ONE TASTE GODDAMN

$50 - Pretty little girl

Your cheeks burn, throat tight, but Sylus only presses closer, lips brushing your temple as he holds you there. He continues dragging against you slowly, each gentle push of his cock at your clit making you clench around nothing.

One line catches your eye flying past:

no way bro is getting this for free

You almost laugh. He sees it, too—you can feel it in the way his body tenses, the way his breath slows like he’s deciding exactly how to handle this.

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face. “Free?” he echoes, like the word itself is an insult.

And just like that, he pulls away. The heat of his body, the grind of him against you—gone. You make a choked sound, twisting back against him in protest.

“Miss me already, kitten? That’s a shame.” His tone is low and amused, like he knew exactly how badly you’d feel the loss. His hand leaves your hip to reach into his pocket for something dark and leather—his wallet.

He thumbs through the bills, then lays one flat on the desk by your cheek. “It seems I have to do this the right way.”

He tilts your chin toward him, his mouth only a breath away from yours at this angle. “Is this enough for your lips?” he asks, nodding towards the bill.

You can tell that he means it, that he’s really asking if it’s enough. And you let him get close. You want nothing more than to kiss him, too. You’ve been craving his lips, his tongue, his hands all over you since the moment he left last week.

But you don’t give in just yet.

You bite your bottom lip with a smirk, turning your head away at the last second.

more money more money

king gotta pay up 😂

She knows her worth

You feel it—the slow, dangerous rumble of his laugh against your back. His hand dips back into his wallet, and another bill joins the first. Then another. “So that’s how it’s going to be.”

You don’t answer. Just keep that smirk on your face, still refusing to turn your head.

So he makes you.

His fingers slide up your jaw, firm but unhurried, tilting your face toward him.

“Look at me,” he says quietly. And when your eyes finally meet his, he doesn’t hesitate.

He kisses you like he earned it, tongue stroking yours like he bought it. Like he owns it now.

And just before he pulls away, just as your lips chase his, he smiles against your mouth.

“The kiss was sweet,” he breathes, dragging his tongue slowly across your bottom lip. “But how much for a taste?”

Your stomach flips. You swallow hard, and you almost ask a taste of what? —but you know. The way he’s angled behind you, the heat in his gaze, the way his fingers press just a little firmer at your hip now.

He stacks bill after bill atop the growing pile. You flinch at the sound, pulse fluttering. “Still not enough?” he murmurs, cocking his head.

One more joins the stack.

Then—

“Fine,” he says, tone edged in something darker. “Let’s see what this gets me.”

He sinks lower.

NOT FOR FREE 🔥

5 STAR MICHELINNNNNN

he’s going DOWN 😭

You gasp when he drags you closer, like your body weighs nothing, like you’re just something he bought and paid for—which, technically…

Another bill hits the desk. Then two more, just to make a point.

bro said “I BOUGHT THIS SEAT”

he better get seconds

“You took my money,” he says, right against your skin. “Now be good and let me enjoy my purchase.”

He doesn’t give you time to sass back. Doesn’t give you a chance to twist away or tease or pout. Not when he has your legs spread just right. Not when his mouth is already right where he wants it.

“Just a taste,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, thumbing over your slick heat like he knows it’s all for him.

And when his mouth finally finds you, tongue warm and unrelenting, your gasp nearly knocks the laptop off the desk.

You claw at the wood, legs twitching when he doesn’t stop after one stroke. Or two. Not even when your hips jerk back, or your breath turns into a moan so wrecked you forget the audience.

He hums, delighted. And the vibration— gods, the vibration—has your thighs closing in around his head on instinct.

Big mistake.

Because now his hands are holding you wide open, unbothered by your frantic squirming.

You lean into his touch, aching for more, but he doesn’t give it. Every flick of his tongue is precise, leaving you aching, burning, unsatisfied. And just when your body starts to beg without words, he pulls back—lips wet, smirk lazy.

“Let’s be clear, sweetie,” he says, kissing your inner thigh like it’s a bow on the gift he just unwrapped. “You’re not the one who paid.”

He rises, slow and satisfied, like a man who’s just sealed a deal.

And as you blink up at him, breathless, ruined, thighs trembling—you see him already reaching for his wallet again.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he tsks. He flips it open, frowning faintly. “Seems I’m all out.”

He plucks out the last bill and lets it flutter down beside you. “Looks like I have enough for one last tip.”

GIVE IT TO HER NOW I SWEAR

find an atm then goddamn

Look she wants it so bad 😭

He presses the head of his cock inside you, splitting you open with a single inch, stretching you around with the kind of pressure that shouldn’t feel this good. He groans like it takes effort to stop there. Like every muscle in his body is screaming not to give you more.

You’re trembling. Your breath is shaky. You can feel the slick mess you’ve made of him, of yourself—and you don’t even care.

And Sylus just stares.

“You look so good like this,” he nearly groans, eyes dragging over every inch of you. He leans forward, kissing the bare skin between your shoulder blades. “You should charge extra.”

“Mmm,” you sigh, rocking your hips just enough to make his breath catch. “Maybe you should have saved up.”

His wallet is empty, but he’s still not inside you—not the way you want him to be. You can feel the head of his cock pulsing at your walls, and you can’t help but clench around it, needy for anything he’ll give you. But the game isn’t over yet.

Sylus is quiet, agonizingly still, leaving you wet and waiting.

“And if I want you all to myself?”

The soft clink of metal against the desk gets your attention. First, his heavy, gold ring hits the wood. Then the other. He unclasps his watch next, setting it beside the already indecent pile of cash like an offering.

“It’s not enough,” he speaks into your skin. He presses into you a bit further now, enough to leave you breathless. “Could never be enough.”

“But you and I both know—“ And, like a crown, he lays his shiny, black credit card atop the bills. “You were never for sale.”

$11 LET US SEE

$68 we’re begginggggg

$230 if u don’t fuck her rn i swear

“I think they’ve had enough of a show, don’t you, kitten?”

The chat overflows with tips, comments, viewers frantically begging to keep the stream going. But Sylus doesn’t pay them any mind.

“Everyone say goodnight.”

He closes the lid of the laptop before the words leave his mouth.

And he slams into you completely.

No warning. No mercy. And when his hips are flush against your ass, he doesn’t move—just stays buried inside, deep and pulsing and smug.

“Fuck,” he hisses against your shoulder. “All mine now.”

His hips draw back like he’s teasing a second thrust, but he stops—on purpose. You can feel how badly he wants it, every muscle tense and trembling.

But then he’s pulling out completely, and your whine makes him smirk.

“Bed.” His voice is rough and final. “Want to see that pretty little face you make when you come.”

Lifting you without effort, Sylus carries you across the room with strong hands under your thighs. He lays you flat on your bed, admiring you like that for a moment as he takes off his jeans, his shirt following close behind.

“Now tell me,” he says once he’s finally undressed, naked and strong and annoyingly handsome before you. “What was this all about?”

You swallow. You don’t need him to explain what this is.

His fingers toy with the thin strap of your silk dress, where it’s slipped halfway down your arm. All wrinkled and bunched in the wrong places now, twisted from how desperately he touched you.

“I’ve never seen you wear this before.”

You glance down, suddenly so aware of how not you it is. The clinging satin, the way it fits you wrong. You were just trying to feel—

“I don’t even like it,” you mumble. “I just thought…I don’t know. I thought maybe it’d make me feel beautiful.”

His expression doesn’t change. Not right away.

But then, quietly, almost like he’s apologizing to your skin for how harsh his hands are about to be—

Rip.

The strap tears like paper between his fingers.

“You don’t need this,” Sylus mutters, voice low, furious at everything but you. “You don’t need to be anyone else.” Another rip. The dress is ruined now, silk falling from your chest like it was never meant to touch you in the first place.

You scowl at him, chest rising. “You owe me a dress.”

“You owe me a private show,” he counters, smirking. “But I suppose we’re even now.”

Your breath stutters as he presses his mouth to your sternum, lips lingering at the sensitive skin there. “Still want to pretend you’re like them?” he murmurs between kisses. “That I’d want anything else but this?”

You try to sass back, but all that comes out is a gasp as his fingers slide between your thighs again.

“You’re not them,” he says, dead serious now. “And thank fuck for that.”

You blink up at him, throat tight. “Then don’t leave me behind next time.”

That makes him pause. Really pause. His expression softens in that rare, dangerous way. Like you’ve just tugged on something deep under the surface.

“You wanna be shown off now, is that it?” he says, smirking, but there’s nothing casual in the way he cups your face. “My little trophy all dolled up beside me while I’m stuck in meetings pretending not to think about fucking you over the table?”

Your face heats. He grins.

“Fine,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. His cock twitches where it rests against your entrance, like the thought alone is enough to undo him. “Next trip, you’re with me.”

Sylus presses into you all the way then, not stopping until he can feel the heat of you wrapped around every inch of him.

“But you’d hate it, wouldn’t you?” he says, breath heavy now. “Me dragging you onto the jet, making you sit pretty in my lap while I take calls—while everyone in the cabin pretends they’re not looking.”

You squirm when his rhythm picks up, and he catches your jaw, tilting your face to his. There’s heat in his eyes—but something fond, too. Something dangerous in how much he needs you close.

“And you’re not leaving the hotel room without me.” His mouth moves to your throat, teeth grazing against your pulse. “You’ll be sore every morning. Marked. Wet before we even order breakfast.”

He nips at your neck, grinding steadily against you now, like picturing each detail of his fantasy is making him come apart for you piece by piece.

“You want to play pretty for strangers?” His thumb drags over your bottom lip. “Then you’ll do it on my arm.”

His hand slides down your waist like he’s imagining it already, the way you’d cling to him all night.

“But I won’t make it through dinner,” he breathes, hips stuttering. “Not with you looking at me like that.”

Another thrust, deeper now, almost shaky.

“I’d have to pull you into the nearest hallway,” he confesses. “Hike your little dress up around your hips and feel you clench around me and while the party goes on two rooms over. Press your back to the wall and make you bite down on my shoulder just to keep from moaning my name.”

And when your nails drag down his back, he laughs—a low, wrecked sound.

“You think I wouldn’t?” he grins, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’d fly home for ten minutes just to touch you. Just to look at you.”

He fucks into you slow, deep, like every part of him is begging to be closer to you.

“God, I missed you so much it hurt.”

His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, dragging along your waist like he can’t decide where to worship first. You feel him twitch inside you, feel the urgency building under his control.

“Sylus…” your voice breaks on his name. “I missed you, too.”

You reach up, fingers tangling in his hair as he kisses you, gentle at first, then needier.

“I love you so much it hurts.”

He says it like a confession. Like an ache. Like he’s scared it still won’t be enough.

Your breath hitches as you wrap your arms around his neck, whispering against his jaw, “I love you, too.”

His hips jerk, a groan ripped from his throat at your words. His hand finds your jaw, tilting your face to meet his eyes.

“You’re close, aren’t you, kitten?” He kisses you softly once, twice, like he can’t help it. “Let go. Let me feel you.”

You are close, throbbing around him and barely able to take any more. But you want one more thing—to be his. Marked. Ruined. Claimed.

So you beg.

“Come in me, please, Sylus, I’m—”

He stills, but only for a second. “Is that what you want?”

His thrusts return, uneven and punishing. You arch into him, hips meeting every thrust, but he doesn’t give you what you ask for. Not yet.

“Pity,” he kisses your temple. “That sounds expensive…and I have nothing left to give you.”

You almost beg some more. Almost say please like it would fix the ache between your thighs. But that’s not the game you two play.

“You think I’d ask if I didn’t know you’d give me everything?” You smile, tugging him closer until his chest brushes yours. “You always do.”

His eyes darken, mouth curving slow and sharp.

“That’s right,” he concedes, fingers flexing at your hips. “And I always fucking will.”

And that’s it.

He fucks into you mercilessly, and you take every bit of it, each drag of his cock winding you up tighter and tighter. But it's the way he looks at you, the way his lips never leave your skin, the way he holds you like he never wants to let you go that takes you to the edge.

“You want everything, sweetheart? Then take it,” he groans, voice as rough as the thrusts he gives you. “Fucking take it.”

You both shatter.

Sylus does give you everything, all of him, deep and messy and raw. And your whole body clenches for it, taking in every bit of him, like it's begging him not to leave. His mouth crashes to yours and he breathes you in, tongue stroking yours with each pulse of his release—filling you so completely, loving you so fully that your chest aches.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t pull out. He buries his face in your neck like he can’t stand the thought of leaving your body yet.

“I meant it,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back. “I’d give you everything. Even if I pretend I wouldn’t.”

He kisses you like it's not over. Like it never will be. Slow and lingering, until you’re dizzy all over again.

When he pulls back, it’s with a knowing smirk.

“Maybe I should go on camera myself next time. Start my own channel,” he says, brushing his fingers down your thigh. “Seems like your friends really liked me.”

You don’t bother correcting him this time. Instead, you shove him off of you, crossing your arms in mock offense. “That’s ambitious for someone who doesn’t know how to unmute himself on a video call.”

He lets you push him, barely moving, watching you with a smug little tilt to his mouth. “That was one time.”

Before you can tease him some more, he’s already pulling you into his lap to straddle him, arms locking around your waist like he already knows you’re not going anywhere.

“Guess I’ll need some private lessons, then,” he murmurs, voice low and full of promise. You can already feel him growing hard beneath you, the press of him making your thighs squeeze around his.

“You’re insatiable,” you whisper against his lips. As if you’re not rocking against him, too.

He grins against your skin. “Takes one to know one.”

And this time, the lights stay off.

For two whole years, you remind yourself of these things. You sit through Sunday mass every week without fail, hands folds neatly in your lap, and you ask for forgiveness on your knees beside your bed each night when you realise your focus had drifted from the Lord to His messenger.

It felt much like a test you were failing, over and over and over.

His fingers.

His fingers, above all else, were your undoing.

The Communion procession shuffles forward slowly, drawing you towards your ultimate weekly test. Behold him who takes away the sins of the world. You repeat the words to yourself as the line carries you closer to him. Behold him who takes away the sins…

“Amen,” the elderly woman in front of you mutters under her breath.

And then it’s your turn.

His eyes are gentle and kind, fixed on you as soon as you step forward—unwavering—even as he reaches for the sacramental bread, a small perfectly circular wafer. This was the part that played over and over in your mind as you tossed and turned at night. This was what you asked forgiveness for, above all else. Your heart races in anticipation as his eyes flick to your lips.

You obey his silent request, parting your lips in preparation to accept his offering. He would place the delicate wafer on your tongue with practised ease, careful not to touch you. And then he’d hold the chalice of wine to your lips—helping you take a chaste sip. His eyes would never leave you, and your face would shamefully heat in response.

One small moment of intoxicating proximity.

Repeated, week after week; never changing.

His warm eyes fix on yours as the small wafer approaches your waiting tongue, and you savour the details of his face—surrendering to your habitual sinful indulgence.

Something is different.

You replayed this never-changing ritual in your mind for years. You knew all its minor details. You knew it intimately.

Something is different.

His bottom lip trembles slightly and then drops—falling away from his upper lip. And at the same moment you watch his mouth part, mirroring yours, something else new draws a tiny gasp from your lungs.

His warm finger touches your tongue.

Every week, for years, he repeated the motion of chastely placing the small disc on the tongues of the congregation.

Never before had he touched you. Not once.

“The body of Christ,” he says, hushed, like this was normal.

His parted lips, a touch of his fingertip to your wet tongue, and then, to finalise your torment, he brushes your bottom lip in his retreat.

It’s only the well-formed muscle memory that draws a quiet “Amen” from your lips.

That night, after kneeling and begging forgiveness, you crawl under your covers and desperately will sleep to take you—to free you from your spiralling, sinful remembrance. You toss and turn. You stare at your ceiling. Eventually, you open a window and sip from a glass of water as the cool night air soothes your heated cheeks. And it would be that small sip that finally unravelled you, drawing your mind back to the moment he pressed the lip of the chalice to your lips—the lips he’d touched.

Your cotton nightgown bunches up around your waist as you roll onto your stomach and slip your hand between your legs. It was the way he guided you—the look in his eyes—like he might reach out and wipe away any wine that spilled down your chin if you were too eager. It was the way his pretty fingers wrapped around the cup. It was knowing their warmth. The way they felt on your skin. On your tongue.

He would guide you so gently, if he were here with you now. You’d imagined it before: him watching over you as you traced your fingers through your slick. But never had you imagined him touching. Touching was forbidden. A step too far. He did not touch.

Until now.

A heavenly addition to your sensory experience of him.

It’s what draws the sinful noises from you now: shameful whimpers and gasps as you picture his finger in place of yours—dipping a little inside you.

How could this be such wicked depravity if his finger slipping past your lips could be part of a Holy Rite? Was there really such a difference between two parts of a body? What made the wet heat of your mouth so different from the wet heat between your legs?

It’s these spiralling thoughts, and the flood of tears that follow your cry of his name at your peak, that finally break you.

You were not a good girl.

You were damned.

And only confession could save you.

If you were brave, you wouldn’t hesitate. You’d march through the open church door at the first opportunity and take a place in the pews among a spattering of familiar faces, each waiting their turn to speak to him.

Instead, when weekly confessional hours do arrive, you sit on a small stone bench in the church graveyard and watch people filter in and out. You notice the little changes in them as they leave. Eyes that had been focused on the pavement instead look up into the trees. Their steps are lighter.

A mother who had first passed you hurriedly, tugging her small child behind her, leaves with him in her arms. She pauses and points out a little white rabbit at the edge of the churchyard, bouncing the toddler on her hip a little as she cherishes his reaction. And when the rabbit dips into the bushes, she continues her leisurely pace, engaging with the child’s chatter.

The weight of your burden seems to grow heavier the more you watch them all relieved of theirs. If you hadn’t hesitated at the sight of the open door and rerouted to the small stone bench, you could’ve avoided this. Instead of watching them, you could’ve been sitting in the pews watching him. He would’ve made the child laugh, settling him, so he could talk to his mother.

You loved watching the way they all reacted to him, adored him.

That’s what you should have done; what you should do now. But when you stand, instead of heading inside, you find yourself turning the way you came—scurrying from the church grounds, no braver than a little white rabbit.

When Sunday comes, for the first time in years, you don’t attend.

It’s all the hesitation your body allows before you are nearly sick with anxiety. Wanting it over, you take up position on that same stone bench during confession hours, again. And like the week before, you wait. You watch as a spattering of congregants seeking opportunity for repentance come and go. An hour passes, beyond the departure of his final visitor. Again, you’d let the official hours come and go.

The sky turns a golden yellow as the sun dips behind the trees, and you wrap your small cardigan around yourself as the temperature dips with it.

And then a familiar, warm voice calls your name.

He stands in the stone arch of the old church's entryway, looking out at you. “You must be cold,” he says in his gentle, patient way. “I thought you might be waiting to speak to me last. Some people prefer knowing there’s no one waiting their turn.”

You take a small step forward, arms around yourself in a self-soothing hug. “I was,” you confess. “I’m sorry, I–”

“It’s alright,” he says gently, mercifully cutting you off as a visible shiver takes hold of you. “Come inside, please.”

He stands in the entrance, turning his body to the side as you pass. Somehow, he feels larger—taller—when you’re alone with him. Much like the empty church makes you feel small when its empty of its congregation. He towers over you.

“It must be serious,” he says, his voice echoing slightly. The large wooden door closes as you linger in the aisle between pews. A closed door meant no more visitors. You were the last allowed entry. “Serious enough for you to prefer turning to ice rather than speak to me about it.” He’s slightly teasing as he approaches—clearly trying to ease the tension that has you still wrapped around yourself—cowering like a scared little lamb.

It’s a warm, comforting sort of teasing. Familiar. It’s his natural warmth that contributes to his busy visiting hours. You’d never heard a bad word spoken against him.

It makes your guilt so much worse.

Shame wracks you, suddenly faced with the reality of confessing your wickedness to a man so good and kind. A man so rare. You had been all alone for so long. No family to guide you with unconditional care. He was a little spark of genuine warmth and care, irresistible to someone starved of it.

You couldn’t imagine returning to Sunday mass every week after this, knowing that he might think back to this night every time his eyes landed on you in the pews.

Soft footfalls approach as you stare at the stone floor.

He speaks your name in a hushed, gentle command.He wants you to look at him. To face your shame.

And when you refuse, eyes stubbornly fixed to the floor, you must deal with the repercussions.

For the second time, he touches you.

His fingers rest under your chin as he lifts your head with a gentle pressure. He’s warm. Warmer than he’d been last time. At least, that’s how it seems as your chilled skin leaches the heat from his fingers. They linger, just for a moment, holding you in position as his eyes flick across your face.

Then they’re gone.

“Would the booth make it easier?” he asks, hushed enough to avoid the echo.

There was no shame in hiding, you tell yourself. It was the only way you’d ever manage it. How could you ever tell him the truth with his eyes warming your skin?

He sees the answer in your eyes. And you’re grateful when he takes the lead without further question, letting you trail behind him to the small confessional booth in the corner of the empty church.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen,” you begin. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is… three months since my last confession.” Three months. The last time you’d convinced yourself to confess, only to find yourself listing off trivial everyday faults instead.

The sound of your breathing seems far too loud in the small wooden chamber. So much so that you take in shallower breaths in the silence that follows, self-conscious.

“Are you unwell?” he asks as the silence stretches, kind—like he truly cared. When you hesitate, confused by the unexpected question, he adds, “You were absent on Sunday. I assumed you might’ve been sick, but you look healthy. Nothing serious, then.” The last part isn’t a question. He says it like he’s reassuring himself, like he really, truly cared.

Always so caring, of everyone. It makes it worse.

Your gut flips, anxiety rushing through you. You remember why you’d listed of a few trivial things and escaped in your last attempt. It was unbearable.

You couldn’t do this again.

“It’s a kind of sickness,” you confess, relying on the echo of the box to carry your hushed words through the small hatched window in the divider between you.

He’s quiet, letting you elaborate in your own time.

“I’ve been distracted. I haven’t heard your sermons. Not really.” You dig your fingernails into your thighs. “Not because they aren’t interesting… or helpful. It’s me. I’m full of—” One of your knees starts to bounce automatically. “My head is full of… sickness. Sick thoughts. They won’t stop.”

You focus on his steady breathing in the lull between your confession and his answer, letting the even rhythm of it calm you until your leg stills.

“Has something happened?” he asks. “Something is bothering you.” A pause. “Someone?”

“Someone,” the word leaves you on an exhale.

His next question leaves him faster than any of his previous responses. You haven’t even managed to take in another breath. It’s a falter in the calm rhythm you are used to, catching you off guard.

“Who?”

“It… doesn’t matter.”

It did matter. You’d lied. One moment of impulse and you’d lied. If your distraction had been a man in the pews instead of the one standing at the pulpit, it would be a different matter entirely. You’d have asked Caleb for advice years earlier.

You’d have confessed your eyes had been drifting in the pews, distracted by temptation, instead of focused on him, as they should be. There’d be no confusing, twisted entanglement between his guidance and his unwilling involvement in your sin.

“Gideon,” he says, disrupting your spiralling thoughts. “He’s only been attending a few weeks. I haven’t seen him approach you. Was it after service?”

You’d never heard the name in your life. You hadn’t even noticed a new face in the congregation.

If only you had. If only it was that simple.

When you fail to answer, mind whirring, he continues, “Is that why you weren’t here Sunday?” The fabric of his pants brush across the wood in a way that signals his movement. His voice is a little clearer when he speaks next, closer. “Has he hurt you?”

“No,” you answer, quickly. “No, I—”

“You’ll be honest with me,” he interrupts. “Won’t you?” He sounds a little like a parent about to catch their child in a lie. Not quite stern, but the authority in his tone has you biting your lip.

“It’s not Gideon.”

“Who?”

“That’s what makes it so wicked, Father. I’ve been so afraid—” Movement again, through the divider. It breaks your momentum. You fall into silence.

Like his face, you know his voice. You’ve studied it intently, every week, for years. All the warm, gentle kindness is missing when he interrupts you, “Afraid?”

You pick at the skin at the edge of your nail.

“Of you,” you finish.

Silence follows, except from your breath.

His, for the first time, is inaudible.

You should continue. You should take the silence as opportunity to confess the depths of your depravity. Your lips part, ready—

“Communion.” His voice fills the box—fills your head.

He knew.

He must’ve seen it in your face. Of course he did. He was good and pure and righteous. He would have seen that lustful wickedness on your face each and every time.

Had he been waiting for you to confess it? Had he expected it from you each and every time you came to him, only to be disappointed when you failed to admit to your true sin?

Shame. Embarrassing, pitiful shame.

Your voice is shaky, emotion thinly veiled. “I’m sorry, I—”

“No.” He cuts you off quickly. “This is my weakness. I should be asking your forgiveness.” A bump against the wood. Maybe his elbow. Your eyes lift to the small window separating you for the first time as you turn his words over, confused. “I took advantage of your innocence. I didn’t think you’d notice. I was weak. If I knew you’d see—feel my…” he trails off, sucks in a breath, then, “I shouldn’t have touched you. Forgive me.”

Your heart races as you put together his meaning.

He was talking about his accidental touch of your tongue… and lip.

No, that wasn’t right. He was confessing it was… intentional.

He was confessing.

It’s like a sedative: the daze his words puts you in. Suddenly, instead of being hyper aware of your body, of your anxiety, you feel entirely outside of it—floating outside of yourself. “I don’t understand,” you mutter, disbelief stuttering your ability to process. He was good, and righteous, and loved, and kind, and virtu—

“You dont—,” he starts. “You don’t understand?”

He’d wanted to touch you? Why would he—

“Talk to me,” he adds with a hint of urgency. “You don’t understand?”

“It was on purpose?”

He’s quiet. Then, “You said you were afraid of me. If it’s not that—”

“You wanted to touch me?” you whisper, hardly hearing his questioning through your ongoing daze.

“Yes,” he answers quickly. “I succumbed to—” He sighs. “I gave in.”

He had... lusted. He’d lusted… for you. And even if it had been a one-off moment of weakness, unlike your own, his sin had reached out to brush yours…

Something releases inside of you. Confession rushes from your lips, unrestrained. “Father, bless me, for I have sinned. I’ve also given into lustful thoughts.”

Silence.

Then, “These are your… sick thoughts? The sickness distracting you from sermon?”

You nod. “For two years now.”

“Two—” he cuts himself off abruptly. “During mass.” He shifts. “And when else?”

The marks in your thighs capture your attention again. You scratch at them. “At night,” you confess, hushed. This… is where your sin diverged from his. Shame surrounds it still, heavy.

“Your indulgence…” he trails off.

“Yes, Father?”

A bump against wood. “Why were you absent this past Sunday?”

“I—” You tug the hem of your dress down over your knees. “I was afraid to see you.”

“Because of Communion? Because I—”

“No.” You shake your head, despite knowing he couldn’t see it. “I was ashamed.”

He’s quiet.

It stretches.

Finally, “We all have moments of weakness—”

“But it wasn’t a moment,” you interject. “There’s something wrong with me. Father, it’s—I can’t—My Sunday’s aren’t spent in worship of the Lord, they’re—” spent in worship of you.

You drop your head into your hands, incapable of speaking the words aloud. Then, so quiet you aren’t sure he can even hear you with your head bowed the way it is, “I’d never done it before you.”

When he doesn’t respond, you raise your head. “I’ve never thought about anyone but you. What is wrong with me? To lust for the first time—to lust only for a man of God?”

You focus on his breathing in the silence, hoping to let it calm you like it had before. But it’s different now. It’s uneven, heavier. It stirs your unease instead.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he says, finally.

“But—”

“There is nothing wrong with you,” he insists, firm, without room for argument. “You are… perfection, sent to tempt me.” The wooden bench he sits on creaks with his movement.

“Tell me why you wore that dress,” he adds, gentler.

You look down at the plain dress, hem resting at your knees where you’d tugged it down. Did you have a reason? You hadn’t worn it in while, and the weather was just about to get too cold for you to wear it again for months. That was all.

At your hesitation, he continues, “You wore that the first day I gave in. Apple red.”

“…gave in?” you question, a little wobble in your voice. You know what he’s implying, deep down. But it’s all too much. One thing after the other, shattering all you thought you knew.

And then, unaware of your imminent collapse, he deals the final blow.

“The first time I wrapped my hand around myself and thought of the way looked up at me, all sweet and trusting. You look at me like—”

Your small sob cuts him off, and you press your hands over your mouth, desperately trying to stifle the sounds escaping you without permission.

He stands, draws his curtain back, and exits his half off the booth. Your hands are still pressed over your mouth when he pulls the curtain in your little part of the box aside.

You look up at him with watery eyes, a towering dark shadow. And when he slowly enters and kneels in front of you, his large body fills your little section of booth. “Are you afraid?” he whispers. “Did I scare you?”

You shake your head, hands still clasped across your mouth.

You aren’t breathing at all when he leans a little closer and gently guides your hands from your face into your lap instead. His thumbs brush over your knuckles in soothing caresses as he speaks again, “Why are you crying?”

Months and months of inner turmoil spill from you in shaky half-sobs that you fail to hold back. You look into his eyes—gentle, familiar, warm. He’s an angel filling your vision, dressed in black—sin and salvation. His skin is hot where he touches you. And your eyes flutter closed when his hand lifts to your cheek, ghosting over your damp skin—like he meant to wipe away your tears but wasn’t sure he should.

With a slight tilt towards him, you close the distance.

His knuckles brush your skin, gently wiping at your tears. “I’m so proud of you for coming to speak to me,” he says, voice still lowered. “You’re so good.”

You shake your head quickly, looking down.

He lifts your chin, guiding your focus back up to him. His eyes flick across your face. “Why are you crying?” he asks again.

You suck in a shaky breath, “I don’t know.”

“Overwhelmed?”

You nod, exhaling.

“Mm,” he hums, taking your hand in his. “That’s okay.”

Gently, he guides you from the box. He stands before you, closer than he stood in Communion—a wall of black fabric. You watch his chest rise and fall, rise and fall. Then you tilt your head back to look up at him.

“Deep breaths,” he soothes as your breathing evens out.

His thumb strokes across your knuckles again.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe into the space between you.

He shakes his head, and his palm lifts to your cheek—making proper contact this time. “Don’t. Didn’t I say you did good? I’m proud of you,” he whispers.

“But—”

“Would I lie to you?”

You look up at him with glassy eyes. At your priest. Loved and trusted by all. Gentle and kind and good.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “That’s how you look at me—how you’ve always looked at me.” His fingers slip behind your ear and eventually curl around the back of your neck, holding you steady. “Thought it was your love for the Lord. That I was a privileged conduit, sampling all that sweet love you carried around inside you.”

His fingers press into your skin. “…but it was for me,” he finishes, breathy.

You whimper, tears forming again.

“Shh,” he coos, breath tickling your lips as he lowers himself to meet you. His hands are all gentle again after that brief moment of pressure. One trails up your arm as the other cups the side of your head, thumb stroking across your temple. “Please don’t cry.”

“It was wicked,” you whisper. “I’ve been wicked.”

His hand comes to rest on your shoulder, rubbing back and forth—comforting. His eyes drop to watch the way your cardigan slips off, folding down to expose the thin shoulder strap of your red dress. “No, sweet girl,” he says, distracted. His eyes move across your upper chest before returning to meet your gaze. “You were worshipping the Lord through me.”

His hair looks darker than you’d ever seen it before. The sun is gone now. You’d never seen him by candlelight before. “I was?” you sniffle.

He drags your cardigan back up over your shoulder. “You’re a virgin?”

You nod. Another sniffle.

“And you’ve only touched yourself when you were thinking of me?”

He doesn’t let you drop your head when you try, so you nod—eyes darting to the side in shame.

“What could be more sacred?” he breathes.

His lips ghost over yours before landing on your cheek in a feather-light kiss. You close your eyes, savouring his touch as he leaves a leisurely trail of them across your face. Tender kisses anointing your skin in patient reverence.

“A sweet..” Kiss. “Innocent…” Kiss. “Little lamb.” Kiss. “Using her body to worship Him. You love Him through me. That’s all.” He returns to your mouth, holding your head steady as his warm lips slide across yours—your first kiss. “Through my body,” he finishes, warm breath mixing with yours.

That made sense, your hazy mind offers. It’s why it had consumed you all these years; why you’d never felt it for anyone but him.

Light, bubbly, warmth rises in your chest as the guilt lifts.

Caleb would not lie to you. It was an impossibility.

He watches the smile take over your face with a look you’ve never seen on him before. Then his head drops to your neck, and he’s lifting you into his arms. He doesn’t move. He just stands there, holding you to his body—breathing in the scent of you. He groans something into your neck, a word you can’t decipher. Then he withdraws.

“Would you let me guide you in worship?” he says, a little shaky with his uneven breathing.

“Mm,” you hum, nodding. Whatever that means. It didn’t matter. This was good. Everything was okay now. You’re practically limp in his arms, releasing yourself to his will.

He takes a few step backwards, and then lowers himself into a pew. You sit in his lap, knees at either side of his thighs—relaxed as his strong arms hold you against him. “I’ve resisted for so long,” he says, fingers tangling in your hair at the back of your head.

Then he drags you to his mouth, messy in his indulgence. He’s eager to please the Lord, your mind supplies, as his tongue dips between your lips to meet your own. You have no experience. You don’t know what you’re doing. So you let him take you. There’s a moment, when you are limp in his arms—eyes closed, chin wet with drool—that he dips his long fingers between your lips to play with your tongue. He takes it between his fingertips. Toys with it.

When your eyes flutter open, you find yourself transfixed by the expression on his face as he plays with you. His own lips are parted to accommodate his ragged breathing, and his eyes are hooded, locked on his fingers in your mouth.

Eventually, he lowers you onto your back across the pew and crawls over you. It’s only now you notice his black shirt untucked from his pants. Then his mouth is on yours again, devouring you with a low groan. The wood is cool against your back, contrasting with the heat of him above you—with the heat of his mouth. He tasted a little sweet, like the hard candies he kept at the entrance of the booth.

He’d sucked on one while listening to confessions.

He’d heard their sins, in all his virtuous kindness, and he’d let the sweet lolly melt in his hot mouth.

And now you were tasting it.

You were tasting your sweet priest.

His warm breath tickles your neck when he parts from you.

Then his fingers return. Slipping between your wet lips and into your mouth, he plays. In and out and around your tongue, he explores your mouth like it hid something he treasured. You take in as much of his face as the dim candlelit space allowed. Lost in worship, you hardly process his words when he finally speaks.

“Body of Christ,” he mumbles.

He holds your jaw, wet fingers against your cheek. And you lay limp beneath him, willing to receive, as he hovers over you and spits into your mouth.

You swallow without hesitation, indulging in the brand new expression painting his pretty face. Hunger and satisfaction combined.

He pets your hair with one long gentle stroke, adoration flooding his eyes as he gazes down upon you. It’s a look that has your heart fluttering in your chest as your mind drifts further and further outside of your body and into the space above you—light and free.

As his thumb brushes across your glistening lips, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake, a question flitters across your vacated mind. “Is this sex?” you mutter in a dreamy breathy sigh.

He stills.

You watch the muscles move in his face as his expression shifts. His brows tug together, then relax. His wet lips part, then close, then part again.

“It’s worship,” he answers. Your cardigan had fallen off both your shoulders at some point. He gently lifts the soft fabric back over your bare skin now, putting you back together. “When it’s with me, it’s worship.”

You release a shaky breath. “So I’ll still—I’ll still be a virgin? After?”

His fingers trace over your collarbone, then wrap around your neck lightly. His voice is as gentle and warm as always when he answers, “Only when it’s with me. No one else.”

“No one else,” you sigh, blissful under his exalted guidance.

He nods with an approving hum, fingers slipping from your throat down to your chest. He traces down your body, making little patterns over the fabric of your dress as he goes.

“When I fill you with my cock…”

He makes a pattern over your lower belly as he speaks.

“…and your untouched cunt clings to me…”

His fingers brush at your thigh, where your hem bunches up. “…I might say some terrible, vulgar, things. Perverted depravity—” His fingertips dig into your skin. “—is only natural as such perfect worship is filtered through our imperfect human bodies.”

His warm breath tickles your thighs as he lifts your dress, exposing your cotton panties to the cool air, and to his eyes. He looks up at you through the brown hair that falls over his face. “No matter what I say, remember this is worship. Okay?”

“Okay,” you sigh with a nod, entirely surrendered to him.

“Good girl,” he breathes, the warmth of it tickling you through the cotton. “Angel.”

His finger makes a single light stroke down the centre of the fabric, tickling your clit as he passes. Immediately, your body tenses as you attempt to curl in on yourself, overwhelmed by the newness of the feeling. You’d expected it to feel like it did when you’d slipped your hands between your legs yourself.

It didn’t.

He traps your thighs in the firm grip of his hands, preventing you from escaping him.

“It tickles,” you confess, embarrassed.

“Here?” He brushes over the fabric again, and it’s only his firm grip on one thigh that prevents you clamping him between your legs.

His hands slip just under the dip of your lower back, and he tugs you down the bench a little, towards his mouth. Then, as you look up at the vast vaulted ceiling, he kisses the cotton. It’s nothing more than a peck. And somehow, it feels closer to sin than anything prior. More than his tongue in your mouth, or his candy-flavoured spit.

But this wasn’t sin.

Another gentle kiss, directly over your clit.

This was worship.

“Father?”

“Mm?” he hums.

You can’t see him, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Should I… kiss you too?” Your cardigan falls off one shoulder again. “I mean like you are. Worshipping your body is worshipping Him?”

He crawls up your body, filling your vision as he hovers over you again. His eyes fall to your exposed shoulder briefly. This time, he doesn’t fix it. “Where I kissed you?” he asks on a ragged breath.

Your eyes drop to his chest, and you fill in the rest of the path down to his belt in your mind. “Between your legs,” you whisper.

His thumb swipes across your lower lip, then he strums it a little—letting it bounce back as he watches its movement intently. “You want to kiss my cock?” he asks, a little rumble in his voice—dropping it lower than you’d heard it before.

Your eyes widen a little, still unused to his vulgar language.

“Remember what I told you,” he adds. “It’s natural, hm? To speak like this.”

You nod.

He lowers his face to your neck, and you look at the ceiling again and he inhales deeply, nose against your skin. Then, “Say it.” His lips tickle your neck as he speaks. “How do you want to worship m—Him?” His chest presses into yours. “Say it.”

The ceiling is a void of darkness. His body separates you from it, warm and safe. You turn your head and breathe in the scent of his soft hair. “I want to kiss you… kiss your cock.”

You jolt a little beneath him as his teeth sink into your skin without warning. “Good girl,” he groans. “So good. So proud of you.” A kiss where he’d bitten you… then another behind your ear… then your cheek… the corner of your mouth. “Just let me taste you a little first,” he whispers. “I’ve wanted to taste you for so long.”

You expect him to take your mouth again.

But he disappears, back down your body, to his position between your thighs.

You close your eyes rather than stare up into the darkness again, focusing on the warmth of him between your legs… on the delicate way he plays with the little strip of cotton covering you. His fingers lift the edges just a little as his breath fills the space he occupies—warming your thighs and cunt alike. “No one has seen it?” he asks as he toys with the fabric.

You shake your head and drop an arm across your head, over your closed eyes. “No, Father.”

“No one has touched it?”

“Just me,” you answer quietly, embarrassed, still.

His finger dips far enough under the fabric to sample the wetness beginning to leak from you. You should be ashamed, wracked with the guilt of sinful indulgence of the worst kind. Instead, a small high-pitched sound escapes you.

“And now me,” he says, low enough you almost miss it. “You’ll let me take these off, won’t you? You’ll let me see?”

“Mm,” you squeak with a nod.

His fingers hook into the waistband. You expect him to take them off quickly, like removing a band-aid.

“This is only for me,” he mutters as he lightly tugs at the fabric, inching the underwear down in a torturous lazy indulgence. “This is worship.”

You nod. “Anyone else would be sinful.”

“Mm. That’s right, angel. That’s good.”

Just before your twitching cunt is exposed to the room, he stops. You open your eyes and watch as he kneels beside the pew so he can guide your underwear down your legs and over your feet.

Then he stands.

He looks down at you.

And you watch as he brings the white cotton to his face and breathes in.

He turns and takes a few steps away. You watch him inhale again.

Then he shoves them into his pocket.

He stands there, with his back to you, lit by the candles at the entrance to the booth.

“Father?” you prompt after a long lingering silence.

His shoulders rise on a deep inhale, then he turns. He stands there, looking at you with his hands in his pockets, just far enough away that you can’t make out his expression in the darkness.

Even when you sit up, he doesn’t move.

You tug your dress down over your knees. “Did I—Did I do something wrong?”

He takes one step forward, the sole of his shoe squeaking over the stone tiles in his haste. But then he freezes again.

“No,” he answers simply.

You tilt your head, trying to make out his expression. The dark empty church seems bigger now. It’s dark corners seem darker. You resist turning around to check nothing is creeping from the dark while your back is turned. The cold starts to bite at you again. You miss him.

It’s only when you wrap your arms around yourself—much like you had when he’d found you on the bench—that he seems to break from whatever invisible string held him back. He surges towards you and drops to his knees at your feet. “Forgive me,” he pleads, wrapping his arms around you and pressing his forehead to your stomach.

Your red dress rides up to your thighs again. He takes the chance to invade the space between your thighs, gripping onto you like a lifeline.

“This is wrong,” he says, head still bowed, pressed against you. “Forgive me.” He grips the dress at your back in closed fists. “I gave in. You’re too sweet. I’ve never strayed before. Forgive—”

“I don’t understand.”

“—me. You’re—”

You shove at his shoulders.

It’s enough to halt his speech, but it does nothing to loosen his hold on you.

“Father?”

He looks up at you. Tortured. That’s how you’d describe the twist of his pretty features now. “I told myself I’d let myself have you once. That it’d be enough. That it’d fix it.” His fists flatten against your back. “But it won’t ever be enough,” he breathes. It leaves him like a confession. But instead of it making him lighter, he sags. His hands slide down to your hips, then a little further. He plays with the puddle of fabric where your dress bunches up at the top of your thighs. “I’m sick,” he mutters, sounding defeated.

“But it’s worship. It’s okay.”

He looks up at you from between your legs, through the hair that falls over his eyes—messier than you’ve ever seen it before. “Mm, it’s worship,” he says. “But it has nothing to do with God.”

You look over to the altar, then to the crucifix on the wall behind it.

Then, you look back at the man kneeling at your feet.

“It didn’t feel like sin.”

His eyes drop to your lips, and then his fingers wrap around your thighs, just below your hem. “No?” His hands warm your thighs where he touches you, squeezing and releasing you in a comforting rhythm. “It did for me, angel. So much I nearly lost myself to it. It was so easy. I’ve spent so long resisting you and all it took was a little confession, and I nearly had your—”

He swallows.

“I’m a bad man.”

You shake your head emphatically, quickly covering his hands with yours. “Don’t say that. Please.”

He looks down at your hands covering his own, lingering there, even when he speaks. “You should find a new church,” he says, entirely unmoving. “Or I’ll leave, if that makes it easier. I can leave.”

He sounds a little like he’s trying to convince himself at the end.

And when he shifts, attempting to pull himself to his feet, you panic. “No!” you cry, wrapping your arms around his neck and dragging him back into you. You wrap your calves around him for good measure. “Please don’t leave me. Please? I’ll be good. I won’t bother you again. I swear I won’t bother you.”

He breathes heavily as you cling to him, forcing his head against you again.

Then, when the tension leaves his body, and you’re sure he’s not about the leap to his feet, you loosen your hold on him enough that he can look up at you. His hand lifts to your cheek. “You are good,” he says. “You’ve always been so good, and you’ve never bothered me. Never.”

“But—”

“I’ll give in,” he interrupts. “I’ll give in eventually. I want you so—” he sighs. “I’ll give in.”

Your eyes flick to the altar again. Just briefly.

A door was opened now, one you’d kept locked and buried deep inside you. His tongue between your lips had been the key to unlock it, and the prospect of him pulling away—of losing him—had swung it wide open on its hinges.

Nothing mattered more to you.

No one. Not even God mattered more than—“Caleb,” you whisper.

His eyes dart to yours. It’s the first time you’ve called him by name. You hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

He looks at you in a way that makes it immediately clear that you’d never truly seen his gentleness more. Not really. You suppose you’d seen part of it. Maybe a little sliver. But the way he looks at you now fills you with a desperation unlike anything you’ve felt before. A desperation to cling to him. He looks at you like he could offer you everything.

You couldn’t part from him now.

Not ever.

“Have you really thought of me before? In sin?”

He doesn’t look away when he answers. “Many times.”

Even after having his spit dribbling down your chin, you struggle to comprehend the idea of him… touching himself. Especially thinking of you. Was the man before you now really the same pious one you’d idolised all these years?

“And you asked for forgiveness?” you ask softly. It was comforting to imagine someone like him kneeling beside his bed in prayer the same way you had.

His eyes drop now, shame crossing his face.

He grips the bench either side of you and slumps forward, until all you can see of him is the soft brown hair at the crown of his head. Then, “No, I haven’t. Not for this. Not from Him.”

His breath tickles your thighs as you battle your confusion. It’d been a self-soothing search for comfort, not a genuine question. You hadn’t considered he might say no.

“I’ve never strayed before,” he says, head still lowered before you. “Not before you.” His arms move to your back again. He takes hold of your dress and tugs you forward until his head rests on your stomach. “You are my greatest sin,” he confesses, sounded closer to distress than you’d ever heard him. “I don’t understand it. I’ve sat as a helpless passenger as it’s wrapped itself around me—inside me.” He looks up, glassy eyes meeting yours. “You’re inside me.”

Your lips are slightly parted in awe—in stupor.

You weren’t alone in this feeling.

The door—unlocked by his touch—falls off it’s hinges entirely. You could never close it again.

With his glassy eyes still on you, you gently nudge your cardigan from your shoulders and let the warm fabric fall into a pile around your hips.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his eyes widening slightly.

“I feel it too,” you answer, hushed. “I want to be wrapped around you. I want to feel you inside me.”

He shakes his head, and you feel his body tense, like he might try and escape again.

Quickly, you wrap your arms around his neck and fall forward, falling onto him. He keeps his balance for a moment, but gravity wins. He lands on his back, and you manage to cradle his head—preventing it making contact with the stone tile floor.

He’s entirely still.

“Caleb?” you whisper with a little tilt of your head, resting comfortably on top of him.

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Please—” He swallows. “Please, sweetheart. You shouldn’t—we can’t do this.”

It only takes a little adjustment for you to brush you lips over his. “Why?” you whisper.

His lips tickles yours as he speaks. “I’m sick,” he breathes. His hand glides up your back as he says it, until his fingers wrap around the back of your neck. “You make me sick.” His grip is firm now, fingertips making little indentations in your skin. “I’m supposed to guide you, protect your sweet soul as you walk through this sick world, and instead, I look at you, and all I think about is plucking you and keeping you. Greed and depravity and lust and—”

A little whimper from you silences him.

His eyes flick across your face, studying, and then he takes your bottom lip between his teeth—tugging just a little, then releasing you again. “I realised it when I couldn’t find you in the pews—when Gideon was absent too: it’s not just lust,” he continues, keeping his hold on you. “It’s anger, and violence, and jealousy. I feel it all.”

“Father…” you breathe into his mouth. “I don’t want anyone else to see me, or touch me.” Gently, you cradle his warm cheek in your palm. “No one but you.”

His nostrils flare slightly.

Then his hand drops from the back of your neck, leaving you entirely.

His eyes flick down your bodies, to where your thighs cradle his stomach. Then he turns his head to the side and closes his eyes, shaking it a little, like he’s trying to erase whatever thought his mind had conjured.

You sit up, straddling him. His stomach is firm beneath your palms and you shimmy down a little more, until you’re resting just above his belt.

His brows draw together as you roll your hips, bare pussy separated from his skin only by the cotton of his dark dress shirt. The friction of it feels a lot like your pillow had on nights you’d writhed against it and thought of him.

But you can feel his warmth, seeping through the fabric.

He must feels yours too.

It was your warmest place, after all.

His eyes open, and for a moment, he stares out into the darkness. Then, slowly, he turns his head and looks directly at you—watching as you move against him. Watching as your lips part and you let a few little sounds of pleasure slip out.

His shirt nudges higher with your rhythmic movement.

He does nothing to fix it.

He doesn’t move. Except for his eyes.

They move between your face and the red fabric covering your shame.

He knows his shirt is nudging higher.

He doesn’t look away.

And when it finally creeps high enough to allow you to drag your slippery pussy over his warm stomach for the first time, his hands snap to your hips.

He holds you so tightly, you are forced to halt your movement entirely.

“Stop it,” he scolds, stern.

You tilt your head. He says it like he hadn’t been watching, waiting—as if he hadn’t been anticipating the feel of your messy cunt against him.

“But I need—”

He sits up suddenly, supporting you with a hand to your back as you slip into his lap. “What?” he demands. “What do you need? You came for confession. You needed to confess and be heard. That’s my purpose. That’s what I am to you.”

“Are you angry with me?”

He leans forward, holding you firmly against him. “Why is your little flower all messy? Hm?”His eyes drop between your eyes and your lips, over and over. “What kind of girl rubs her juicy little cunt all over the priest who was supposed to protect her perfect, pure, sweet soul—on the floor of His Holy Sanctuary?”

He bites at your lip before you can even process the lewdness of his words. “Your body is a temple of worship,” he continues, a hint of anger still darkening his voice in a way you’d never heard before. He presses you into him, forcing your breasts to compress against his chest.

You didn’t need to wear a bra with this dress. It wrapped around you so perfectly that it supported you fine all on it’s own.

“Please don’t be angry,” you whisper. “I—I—” Tears swell in your eyes as you stutter, quickly breaching your lower lids and streaking down your cheeks.

As your vision blurs, your world tilts. Your back meets the hard floor gently, and the shape of him hovers above you—obscured by your tears. It all happens in one smooth motion.

And then, without another word, the sound of tearing fabric fills the empty church.

He tears the red fabric from your skin, split from the neckline down the centre of you.

Your chest rises and falls heavily in the stillness that follows.

He’s a blurry figure above you. You haven’t had time to blink away your tears.

His breathing is uneven and heavy, to match your own.

Then, as your vision starts to clear, he falls forward and wraps his warm lips around one of your nipples. There’s no build-up. He starts in a frenzy—a chaotic tandem of his wet swirling tongue interspersed with desperate feral suckling. It fills the echoing darkness with vulgar symphony.

It drags desperate whimpers from your lips. And when one of them sounds like a high, broken cry of his name, he surges into you—wrapping his arms around your back and tugging you a little off the floor and further into his mouth. He hums something around you, the muffled words vibrating around your nipples.

Your eyes lock on the crucifix behind him as he ravages your breasts, animalistic in his intensity. It felt like all-consuming reverence, adoration… worship.

It was worship.

Worship was good.

He was good.

You aren’t even aware you are doing it when you start muttering. It’s only when he detaches from you with gasping breaths and looks up into your eyes that you realise it.

What had you been saying?

Your nipples, wet with his spit, pebble tight in the frigid air.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

That was it.

You had been thanking him.

He sucks in a long shaky breath. Then, with his eyes fixed on yours, his large, warm hand cups your breast—covering it entirely. “These were made to nurture new life,” he begins. He’s all gentle, guiding authority figure now. This was how you’d always known him. He has the same cadence he used in the booth when he was offering up the Lord’s teachings. “They’re His perfect design.” He palms your breast, massaging it without hesitation or restraint. “Don’t you think it’s right—” He takes your other breast in hand and leans back a little so he can watch as he gropes you almost painfully. “—that we honour and cherish His perfect creation?”

He swings a leg over you, never ceasing his rough kneading. “Take it off,” he instructs, rolling his hips towards you. “Undo the buckle.”

His belt is hidden under his loose shirt. You fumble a little with it, half-blind. He doesn’t stop to help you. He plays with your breasts instead, looking down at you from above.

“That’s it,” he coos in gentle encouragement as you slip the leather through the loops at his waistband.

It’s only then that he lifts his hands from you.

He sits above you, one leg on either side of your body—holding his weight off you. And you watch as he unbuttons his shirt. The collar goes first. He tosses the white strip aside without looking at it’s landing place.

His pretty fingers work at the buttons.

He makes it about half-way.

Then he grips the fabric and tears. Buttons pop off and scatter across the stone around you.

And then he’s bare.

Muscle sculpts him like a living, breathing work of art. He’s— “Beautiful.”

His chest rises and falls heavily as he gazes down at you, head tilting a little as the word slips from your lips involuntarily.

“Mm?” he hums, falling forward over you. “What was that?”

When you avoid his gaze, he grips your jaw in his palm. “Touch me,” he says, “as I touched you. Worship Him through me. We are created in His image.”

He takes your hand, falls back on his heels, and lift you to your feet as he stands.

You are bare, and he is half-bare. Somehow, he feels taller than he ever had before.

Then he places your palm on his chest, flat against his warm skin. “This is my body,” he says, dark hair falling over his eyes. “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God…” He quotes the passage as he guides your hands across his torso. “So we treasure it, and and honour Him through it.”

His stomach is firm under your palm, rising and falling shallowly as he guides you to the little trail of hair that disappearing down into his waistband. “Look at me,” he commands.

You obey, fingering brushing the hem of his underwear.

“I’m a bad man,” he says.

You shake your head, frowning. He was wrong. He wasn’t bad, he was everything good and safe and warm.

He catches your chin just as it dip downwards; as your attention is drawn to the movement at his hips. He keeps your eyes fixed on his as he undoes his fly with one hand. “I’m a bad man,” he repeats. “I want to fuck you,” he breathes, a little ragged now. “Pretty little virgin comes to her trusted priest asking for forgiveness and he lowers her to the cold floor, naked, and tells her he wants to shove his leaking cock deep inside her. Is that a bad man?”

You can’t respond. Not with the way he grips you.

“He tells her he wants her to kiss his throbbing cock. To worship him, like he was her god. He wants her to put him above all other gods, above her God. He’s a jealous man, without exception.” Fabric hits the floor, and slowly, he guides your hand into the elastic of his underwear. “He wants her on her knees, looking up at him with her sweet, devoted eyes, promising she’ll put no one else above him.” You gasp as he guides your fingers around him, hot and thick. “Is that a bad man?”

His other hand slides up your stomach to wrap around your breast, still wet from his spit.

“He wants to fill his pretty little angel with his hot cum, until she’s bred nice and full, and then when her pretty tits ache with sweet milk—” He squeezes at your breast as he speaks, over and over. “—he wants to suck at her until it dribbles down his chin. Is that a bad man?”

He leans down and places a gentle kiss to your lips. “He wants her to call him Father when he’s inside her,” he whispers. “He wants her to cry as she sucks at his cock with her naughty little cunt because she knows it’s bad.” He squeezes your hand around his erection. “You know it’s bad, don’t you, angel?”

One shaky breath. Two. Then you nod.

He lips curve into a little smile, proud. “Good girl,” he whispers. Then he steps away from you, separating you from him.

You take a small step to follow.

“No.”

You freeze, wobbling a little on your feet in your haste to obey.

“Go lay down on the steps and spread your legs.”

Your eyes flick to the stairs leading up the pulpit, then back to him.

You rock on your feet again, this time in hesitation.

The stone is cold on the soles of your feet. If you stood there long enough, they might go numb.

But the steps are covered in a dark, red carpet.

He takes a small step towards you. “Didn’t you come here to confess? Hm? Show me. I need to see the part of you that aches for me.”

His eyes heat your skin as you slip past him and climb the steps. There’s only a few.

He’s closer when you turn.

And he’s entirely bare.

He stands in the candlelight, just in front of the first pew, watching you—waiting for your obedience. And as you lower yourself onto the steps, leaning back to prop yourself up on your elbows, his hand wraps around himself.

You can still feel the heat of him in your palm.

“Spread your legs,” he commands.

“Mm,” you nod. “Yes, Father.” Then you drop your knees, exposing your messy centre to his hungry eyes and the cold air. He’s silent as your cunt clenches around nothing, wanting. He strokes over himself in gentle twists, base to tip—eyes locked on your offering.

“Are you going to ask me what I think?” He doesn't look up from between your legs as he speaks. “That’s what you came here for, isn’t? For help?”

You nod, readjusting yourself on your elbows a little.

He closes the distance between you and lowers himself onto his knees on the bottom step. “I can see it clenching,” he murmurs. “Greedy. Hm? Is it greedy, angel?”

Your lips quiver as you suck in a shaky breath.

“Mm,” he hums. “Tell me why you touch it. Help me understand.”

“I don’t know,” you mutter with a shake of your head.

“You’ll tell me the truth,” he orders. It’s not like earlier, in the booth—when he was still the man you’d thought you’d known these past two years. He’s all stern authority now. There’s no doubt. You will tell him the truth.

“Felt empty,” you confess in a little whine and roll of your hips. “I felt so empty.”

He leans closer. “Yeah? Poor little baby. A virgin with an achy little hole…” His fingers wrap around your ankle. “Empty,” he mutters. "So proud of you for coming to me,” he says as he strokes up your calf in a comforting caress. You struggle not to squeeze your thighs together, tortured by the lack of friction and the pulse of your cunt under his lingering gaze.

Then he lowers himself down between your legs. His finger strokes the skin just around where you want him most. “Sweetheart,” he breathes. “You need filling with the Holy Spirit. You’re all empty, yeah? You came to me because you knew I could fix it? Because I can fill you?”

He’s asking you a question, but he’s focused entirely on your twitching pussy as you flinch under this teasing touches. There is no logic to his questioning regardless. He’s consumed by the lust you share—slave to it.

“Who better to fill you than me?” he mutters as his fingertip dips into your hole. It’s barely a prod, easing back again as soon as your soft entrance offers a little resistance.

“Just for you…” you breathe.

“Hm?” He looks up. “What was that?”

“Only want you.”

He crawls over you slowly, forcing you to look into his eyes as he asks, “Me? Yeah? You came to your priest to fill your empty little pussy?”

“Forgive me,” you whisper.

He brushes his knuckles from your temple down to your chin. “I’ll help you, angel.” His lips brush over yours. “My angel…”

When he climbs off you and stands to his feet, a tiny part of your brain fires off in panic—afraid of him leaving you. But then his pretty fingers wrap around the thick length as it bobs above you. “It needs anointing,” he says with a gravely darkness in his voice.

He towers above you, skin glowing golden as the candlelight bounces off him. The same strong fingers that gripped the Holy Book high above his head each Sunday glide over the length of him as he looks down upon you.

He takes one step backward, down the steps. “On your knees,” he instructs. His aim becomes clear as he takes one step closer again, levelling himself at the perfect height for your mouth. “Tell me,” he prompts. “Where do you want to kiss me?”

On a shaky breath, you exhale, “Your cock, Father.”

You watch his closed fist stroke over his length, from the base to the tip. There’s a little shine there, at the end of it, leaking from the slit. “Alright, angel. Anoint my cock with your drool, hm?” He lets go of it, and you watching it bob a little—heavy. Looking up at him for reassurance, you level yourself with the head and touch your lips to him tentatively. One gentle kiss. “That’s it,” he coos. So you place another to his skin, right at the very tip. It bobs a little as he shifts his weight. Then you dip your tongue out, catching a little of the shine at the slit.

A bird calls in the night as it flies somewhere nearby.

His head drops back.

“This is what you needed,” he sighs. “This is what you came to me for. Isn’t it?”

You nod with a hum as you take the tip of him between your lips, tongue working in clumsy little swirling flicks—confidence building.

“Good girl,” he praises, looking down at you again. “Oh, my good girl. Just play with it. Just like that. Sweet little kisses for Father’s cock. Oh, Fuck. Oh God,” he groans.

He slips from your lips as you startle a little, looking up at him. The vulgarity had become your new normal. But this was new.

“What is it, baby?” he coos, stroking your hair. “I shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain. I’m sorry.” He takes his cock in hand as he apologises, standing on the steps of the pulpit, in the empty church where he gives his sermon each Sunday.

No one else would ever see him like this. He was too good. He was loved and trusted and righteous. And his cock was wet with your spit.

When you stand to your feet at his guidance, he still towers over you from the step down.

“Are you gonna put it inside me now?” you question with a little tilt of your head.

He takes one step down and runs his fingers through his hair. For a brief moment, it almost looks like he comes back to himself—to the version of him that almost left you—good and virtuous. It fights to take over.

So you take one step towards him.

He takes a step down again, in return, away from you.

“I’m so empty, Father,” you whine, slipping your fingers down between your legs. “Need you to fill me up again. Please.”

A further step down has him standing on the stone tiles.

So you lower yourself onto the steps again, leaning back and parting your thighs.

He stands there as you play with yourself, slipping your fingers through your slick until your clit is as sloppy as the fluttering entrance you leak from.

His heavy cock twitches as you watch each other. He doesn’t touch it.

“Please, Father,” you plead with a half-sob, on the edge of tears. “My pussy…”

He takes a small step towards you and pauses again.

“I know it’s bad,” you continue, somewhere between a sob and a whine. “It’s wicked. My naughty pussy wants to worship your cock, Father. Wanted it so long. I think about it during mass. I imagine you inside me. I come every week for you.” You dip your finger inside yourself, whimpering a little. “Don’t you want me?”

His chest rises and falls heavily as he approaches. He’s slow, like a predator stalking.

“So bad,” he mutters as he lowers himself onto the steps between your legs.

He watches as you play with yourself, messy and clumsy.

“Sent to tempt me,” he continues muttering as his fingers wrap around himself again. “That’s what you are, aren’t you? Are you from the Devil? Made to look like a perfect little angel? Is that it?” His hand strokes along his whole length, base to tip, over and over in a slight twisting action as he speaks. “You were made for me, weren’t you?”

It sounded right. Made for him. You’d never wanted anyone else.

He lowers himself over you before you can answer.

“I’ll never stop wanting you,” he warns. “It’ll get worse and worse. I can feel it. This obsession.”

His forehead drops to yours. And with your eyes closed and his warmth over you, the slick tip of him slides over you for the first time. You want to kiss him, but he doesn’t let you get close. Instead, he breathes into your mouth as his tip collects all the slick between your folds and spreads it in an obscene mess between your thighs. “This belongs to me. Only I get to fill your greedy little pussy, yeah?”

His lips brush yours.

“No one else touches it. No one else looks at it.” He prods at your virgin hole, indulging in the sweet spongy heat that presses back at him. “This is worship,” he breathes. “You’ll suck me inside your sweet cunt, all needy and sweet and looking at me like you do in Communion. You’ll worship me. Above all else.” A chaste kiss. “Then I’ll flood you with cum, so you’re nice and full, yeah? Does that sound nice?”

“Inside,” you plead as you squirm, trying to take him in as he slips over you again and again.

He breathes into your neck as he prods at you a little harder. “You gotta let me inside. Can feel you sucking at me. Take me inside, sweet girl. Come on.”

He kisses your neck as you try to take him, letting your muscles go slack under him as he eases inside you over and over. “There you go,” he mumbles. “Fuck, that’s it. Perfect fucking cunt. Mine.”

It’s just the tip of him. It fills the ache beyond anything you’d managed with your fingers. His breath, his voice, his warmth, and his thick hot cock stretching your walls open.

It’s enough to drag tears from you again.

He kisses them away as they wet your cheeks.

“You’re inside. Inside me.”

His brows draw together as you squeeze at him, clenching rhythmically.

“Thank you, Father,” you whisper.

He groans, and then he shifts, and impossibly, he fills you further—spearing apart your walls until it feels like you might look down and see the shape of him in your belly.

“We shouldn’t—” he mutters. “Forgive me.” His hips drag back, and then he’s pressing into you again. “Forgive me.” He bites at your earlobe. “Naughty pussy. Naughty girl. Desperate for her priest to fill her with cock. Fuck. Fuck, you feel so good.”

“This is sex,” you mewl.

He bites into you, feral, and the obscene slap of skin echoes from the pulpit steps as his hips slam into yours. “This is sex,” he answers, breathless. “This is what you wanted. You wanted to suck on my cock with your perfect little cunny. You wanted to be full of me, hm? This is what you wanted.”

“He’ll forgive us,” you whisper into his ear. “I’m made for you. He made me for you. How can it be wrong?”

“Yeah?” he rasps, looking a little frenzied when he lifts his head to find your eyes. “You made for me?”

“Can’t you feel it?” you ask with a roll of your hips.

You watch his eyes flutter shut.“Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart, I feel it. Wrap around me so perfect.” He grinds into you, indulging in the feeling of your walls rippling around him in desperate waves. “I’m keeping you. You’re mine now. My pretty girl. Mine to fuck, and kiss—” He licks at your jaw. “—and breed.” He drops his weight onto you, smothering you in his heat. “Gonna keep you safe and warm. All mine.”

“Do you think He’s watching?” you whisper in his ear.

He groans into your neck. “Tell me who you were thinking of,” he orders, low and gravelly. “When you looked up at me during Communion. Tell me.”

“You.”

He draws his hips back and begins fucking you just with his tip in shallow little rocking thrusts. “No one else before me, hm?” he prods as you clench rhythmically around him, attempting to draw him back in. “You worship me with this cunt. Only me.”

You nod desperately, emphatically. “Only you.”

Pleased, he sinks back inside you with a low groan.

All your life you’d believed your body was a temple of the Lord; that you were filled with His Spirit; that you carried Him inside you always.

But you’d been empty. You’d been so, so empty. Longing to fill the cold, hollowness inside you. You’d desperately returned to this church week after week, believing the man at the pulpit was merely a messenger between you and your heavenly God. Believing your fixation was your failure—that he was temptation, and only in submission to God could you be delivered from him.

But with his cum anointing your skin, and his large warm body sheltering you from the cold, you know the truth of it all: anything, or anyone, which worked to separate you from him, could be nothing but the greatest evil. He was your salvation. And nothing would come before him.

Your face is quickly wet with tears again as you roll against each other in the dark, empty church—indulging in your mutual worship. His mouth adorns your neck in messy kisses as you mutter in his ear: praising him, worshiping him. You can’t stop, desperate to release the intensity of your adoration upon him.

Sylus lay beside you as the hunger soiled your slumber. For weeks, you hadn’t closed your eyes, and every time his warmth had lulled you to sleep, you’d awake mere hours later, gasping, wide-eyed, with beads of sweat clinging to your jaw.

You refused to fall back asleep. You only rolled away from his arms, ears falling deaf to his desperation, drowning yourself in work.

At work, you fell behind. Deadlines passed like wandering ships disappearing behind veils of fog. Your superiors yelled at you, ending their reprimands with the query—you used to be so diligent. What happened to you?

It was only months before you had been conveniently laid off, carved off like rotten flesh, a hindrance, a thorn by your coworkers’ sides. Sylus watched you take the news. Your reactions were dampened by the numbness; your bloodshot eyes stared at nothing.

You felt nothing because you felt everything at once.

Unable to return to the workforce by the courtesy of your fraying mental health, Sylus picked up the pieces you were too tired to. He could take care of you for your life—no, he most definitely would. But he knew how much you valued your autonomy, how much you enjoyed the fruits of your own labour, how brightly you smiled at your own achievements. You’d be cared for. You knew that much. But Sylus knew all too well how deep a scar that would leave in your heart.

That day, a chunk of you crumbled to the ground, powdered to fine dust.

Everything was meaningless.

Sylus had tried it all. Therapy, medication, his own unwavering love and attention. He had never missed a date, an anniversary, or your birthday. He had bought you everything you had once desired, everything you could ever need. He spoke to you softly, loved you wholly, serving himself on a silver platter for your consumption. And yet, you only fell further; neither faster nor slower, as if his means had had no effect at all.

Sylus watched as nihilism consumed you.

He watched it bleed out of your wounds. He watched it trickle down the gashes in your arms, the slits on your thighs, and the scar you’d left on your face. He saw it in your eyes, the emptiness, the pointlessness, overshadowing the fear in his eyes. As his hands fled to stop the bleeding, your eyes only looked at him as if you were already a corpse.

After that day, the day you nearly bled yourself to death, Sylus was never the same.

Something shifted within your lover. Some of his edges softened, but some of them dug into your skin.

Your meals never went unfinished again.

Meals were constructed with the patience of an engineer. Every meal was planned—the nutritional value was balanced, and the taste was enhanced. Every ingredient was deliberately added for your benefit.

You refused to eat, of course. No matter how enticing the smell, no matter how loud the grumble of your stomach, your body recoiled at its sight.

Sylus would understand and listen. He always had. He had once been patient, never breaching your boundaries, never doing something against your will.

But something within him had rotted ever since.

If only you’d stopped squirming and thrashing around in his vice-like grip, you would have heard his heart shattering as his hands forced your mouth open, gently pushing in a forkful and guiding you to chew.

“I know,” he cooed, prying your jaw open, “I know, sweetie. Just a bite. I'm sorry.” Tears welled in his own eyes at the sight of your own. He patted your back as you retched, rubbed a path down your neck as you swallowed, pressing on the lump until it disappeared down your throat.

Even as he caged you, he held you with such gentleness that the prison began to feel safe.

After every meal, Sylus would place pills upon your tongue and rub soft circles into your back as he held the glass against your lips, urging you to swallow.

In bed, his arms would snake around you with remarkable strength. Never enough to hurt, but enough to keep you still, face firmly pressed against his chest, with nowhere to wander off to besides the realm of slumber.

Every night, he would lie awake, relishing in the gentle rise and fall of your chest, often soothing the dark bags drooping beneath your eyes, other times rolling your sleeves up to caress your scars. They were the remnants of his failure, the proof of his incompetence, and the driving force that led him down this path.

For how much longer could Sylus watch as you ruined yourself? How could he watch you inch towards death, uncaring and dazed, consumed by a force far crueller than any aether core, any greed, or any spite?

How could he let his mate sever her wings and bleed onto the blades of soft grass?

Could he ever forgive himself if he lost you again?

Two days later, Sylus moved you into his place.

On the same day, the people responsible for your layoffs had gone missing.

His room became yours. Though everything of his had always belonged to you. You did not protest as he moved your belongings into his place. You were tired, and you knew he wouldn’t listen.

Every gun had been sealed behind glass. Every weapon was kept out of reach, every sharp end dulled, every knife locked away in the kitchen. He trailed you throughout the house silently, just happening to emerge in spots you ventured to, coincidentally bumping into you as you strode through the hallways.

The rooftop had been shut off with large metal locks that wouldn’t budge. The windows had been locked. The glass was already bulletproof and unbreakable.

Sylus’s defences were impenetrable. Or so, he thought.

Every day as you slept, he rolled up your sleeves.

Not a day had gone by when he hadn’t discovered a new cut, a new bruise, or a new nick.

Each time, he bandaged it with care. His confidence decomposed. Slowly, Sylus found himself inching towards a madness none had returned from.

And the last straw, he found, was when you’d sauntered to the rooftop; feet planted upon the edge, peering down at the world through lifeless eyes.

That day, Sylus almost lost you again.

Whatever restraint remained died on that rooftop.

The windows were barred. The curtains were drawn. The doors were locked behind a code. Sensors lined every doorway. The cameras, some only accessible to him, granted you no privacy.

And the cruellest change of them all was not how his grip tightened, not how his voice softened despite the abuse, and not how his mere presence made you shudder beneath his warmth. It was the chain you didn’t notice softly slipping onto your ankle, shackling you to your room.

Sylus had lured you into a gilded cage, and you had walked in willingly, allured by its gleam.

You could no longer tell whether the restraints were real or metaphorical.

All you knew, all you saw, and all you breathed was him. His affection is now akin to a beast of voracity. His obsession, now submerging your head beneath the cold, unmoving waters. His possession, now you.

If your hatred, your tears, and your fear were a necessary consequence, Sylus would be willing to pay the price.

If that’s what you wished, he’d beg for your forgiveness for all of eternity.

But the shackles would not disappear. The control wouldn’t soften.

For a corpse cannot love or be loved.

And you would realise, of course, you would, one day, that all he did was for you.

But until that day, nothing would change.

As your lover cradled you in his arms, wiping away the tears rolling incessantly down your cheeks, grieving the freedom you once had, he pulled you into his chest and whispered, “I have clipped your feathers,” a kiss to your forehead, “I have broken your wings,” one to your jaw, “And I have bound your soul to mine.”

Sylus’s lips ghosted over yours.

“Don’t… leave me, my dove.”

And then, he captured your lips in a soft, devouring kiss.

“In every lifetime, stay with me until fate consumes our souls in its cackling flames.”

Your wings are gone.

There is nowhere to fly.

They have some kind of pattern—either horizontal stripes, flowers, a repeating print of the cookie monster—doesn’t matter, he loves it all. 

They remind him of simpler times—laundry day when you were younger—and how they’d get caught up in his own load by accident. You’d flush bright red when he stopped by your door to drop them off, but he’d just throw his head back with a laugh and tell you it's fine.

He’s never told you how close he came to pocketing them instead.

In the present, he’s found himself on laundry duty again. The colonel is dumping your basket of dirty clothes into the washer when a familiar pair of cotton panties fall in. 

He doesn’t even bother looking around; Caleb reaches for them, breath hitching when he realizes they’re the same pair from before. He can’t believe you still have them. You really ought to buy some new clothes…

Something dark—hot—coils in his belly when he turns the gusset inside out and lifts the fabric to his trembling lips. 

It smells divine—a little on the tangy side, but he’ll make sure you drink more water from here on out. 

Then his tongue finally laps at the inner lining, and Caleb’s eyes practically roll into the back of his head. 

His hips jerk against the washing machine just thinking about sinking his tongue into your actual—

Your voice abruptly floats down the hall, some question he can barely hear, and Caleb tells you he’ll be right there.

Perhaps he will pocket these for later, after all…

—♡ Xavier

Xavier’s favorite pair of underwear on you…is actually his own.

His boxer briefs are basically yours at this point. 

When you sleep over and need a change of clothes, he just lets you borrow his; which is how you end up in an oversized shirt and boxer briefs in the first place.

Seeing you in his clothes is a thrill of its own, but seeing you in his underwear?

It’s an entirely new level of intimacy that has his ears burning red and his slow heart skipping a beat.

You wouldn’t wear just anyone’s underwear to bed, you’re wearing his.

He gets oddly clingy when you do, sliding in behind you in bed and nuzzling your shoulder as you scroll through your phone. 

You make some comment about a post you saw, but he’s hardly listening. Instead, his hand is sliding down your hip, stroking the fabric of his underwear and the heat of your skin. It brings a soft smile to his lips.

Xavier can’t help but think the slit of his boxer briefs is silly on you, sliding his fingers inside to gently stroke your pubes. It’s usually innocent, he just likes the texture.

But the hitch of your breath darkens his gaze, and Xavier gently coaxes you to continue scrolling as his hand sinks lower…

He hums in response to your little moan, fingers curling up into your slick heat. His other hand reaches around to take the phone out of your faltering grip and slams it against the nightstand. 

Xavier’s selfish, he admits—he doesn’t want you distracted by anything else while you’re wearing his clothes, his underwear…

You need to borrow another pair of boxer briefs by the time he’s done with you.

—♡ Zayne

Zayne’s favorite pair of underwear on you is not one you expected—thongs. He’s secretly crazy for them. Well, that might be an overstatement—but he enjoys the sight of you in them very much.

You’re surprised to learn about Zayne’s preference, though he doesn’t readily disclose it at first. You have to feign trouble picking between two sets of underwear first, and shove your phone into his face for an opinion. 

“...The one on the right.” The cool response is only betrayed by a fervent blush on his cheeks.

He likes slipping his fingers under the thin string, teasing and tugging. It leaves very little to the imagination; straight to the point.

Your order comes in, and Zayne secretly watches you slide them up your legs as you both get ready for a banquet. It’s all his mind keeps wandering back to throughout the night. 

Not only are you wearing underwear he picked out, but you’re wearing them to mingle with his colleagues. A rather distracting thought, isn’t it?

At one point during the night, you bend over to grab something, and the lack of a panty line reminds Zayne all over again what you’re sporting underneath.

He approaches calmly, interrupting a conversation with his colleagues by wrapping an arm around your waist. 

His excuse to leave early is well thought out—you suspect he’s had it in mind since arriving—but you’re barely listening when his hand wanders low.

It slides down your backside, and he absently thumbs the string of your thong through the fabric of your dress. 

…The car ride home is a short one, to say the least.

—♡ Sylus

If you asked Sylus, he’d say he prefers you in no underwear at all. 

But, if he had to choose, he’s rather fond of a simple red lace. Comfortable, practical, sexy. 

Not to mention, red is absolutely your color. The fact that it’s his too is merely a…happy coincidence. 

When he’s stocking up your closet in the N109 zone, Sylus makes sure to order only the best luxury brands exclusively in various shades of red.

The idea of you sauntering around base in his color is enough to make him purr at the sight of you, even when your underwear isn’t visible.

He makes a game out of guessing what pair you have on; is it the scarlet one with bows? Or perhaps the strappy maroon? 

Sylus finds out at dinner; you’re laughing at some ridiculous story when you uncross your legs, and there’s a flash of vermilion underneath your skirt. 

The one with heart cutouts? My my, you only wear that one when you want something…

His eyes roam you up and down as you continue your story, but you stumble over your words when a swirling red mist drags your chair closer to his.

You were quite bold for wearing such a bright color in public, and if anyone other than him was to catch sight of it…

Well, we can’t have that, can we?

Your breath hitches when his hand roams your thigh, smug eyes never leaving yours. His calloused fingers ghost the hem of your skirt, and your words trail off in anticipation of what’s to come next.

Sylus grips the fabric and tugs your skirt…down. 

Your face burns as he leans back with a chuckle, “You were saying?

—♡ Rafayel

Rafayel’s favorite pair of underwear? Brazilian panties, next question.

They sit high above your hip bones while accentuating the curve of your tummy; absolutely divine.

Of course, you look divine in everything; hell, you’d look perfect in only a seashell to cover your modesty. But something about the aesthetic of these panties, specifically, gets him insanely hot and bothered.

He brings you back gifts from his trip overseas, but he flushes and fervently denies having anything to do with the three pairs of panties tucked behind the body lotions and skincare.

Rafayel quickly changes his tune when you suggest modelling them for him, though.

That’s how you end up changing into them right then and there, a minty lace pair with a little satin rose sewn to the front. You rejoin Rafayel, who’s been waiting patiently on his bed.

Rafayel can’t speak, only tugs the back of your thigh closer as he swallows thickly. 

Your pubes peek out the sides due to the nature of the design, and you make an offhand comment about shaving the next time you wear them. Rafayel immediately shakes his head—as if offended—and grips the sides of your hips, thumbs hiking the side wings further up. 

He flushes, and his nostrils flare right before he lowers his head to lick a stripe up your lace front.

His tongue burns through the fabric, and the Lemurian lets out a shuddering breath against your stomach. You barely register the chill down your spine when he licks you again, this time his teeth catching on the waistband.

You never get to try the other two pairs on for him…