You lean closer to the screen, and the latticework casts tiny bruises of shadow across your cheeks. He can see your outline, just barely—the hazy swell of your shoulders, the shape of your mouth. He doesn’t need more than that. He’s imagined worse in the empty hours of morning, when the church bells are silent and his sheets are damp.

"I touched myself this morning," you whisper, mouth close to the mesh, your breath fanning through. "And then again after lunch. I can't stop thinking about you, Father."

He freezes. Every hair on his arms lifts in silent protest. He swallows. Hard. But his voice is calm.

"You mustn’t speak like that in here."

"Why not?” you breathe, "Isn’t it better I say it in here than… do it again out there?"

Your knees shift apart—he can tell from the sound of fabric sweeping across the bench.

“You want to know what I’m doing now, Father?”

Just a gentle pass of fingers beneath your skirt, but the sound—your breath hitching, the soft grind of cotton between your legs—is unmistakable. The booth is hot. Suffocating. You breathe like someone freshly exorcised.

“You’re doing it again,” he says, voice thin with disbelief. “Right now?”

“Mmhm,” you murmur, lips going slack. “Can you hear it?”

He can. The wet, indecent sound of your fingers parting what should remain untouched. It echoes in his skull like water dripping in a crypt.

The screen shifts as you lean your head against it, the lattice bending as if it might snap under your breath. He’s sweating. His fingers curl inward, dragging up the swell of his crotch, gripping flesh that’s pale and sickly-soft under the black. He palms himself clumsily through his cassock, breath ragged, stomach clenching with shame.

"You mustn’t…" he repeats, moreso to himself than to you. A final, trembling plea from a man already halfway to Hell. His teeth grit behind closed lips. Through the thin clerical robe, he feels how stiff he’s become. He tells himself he hasn’t done anything yet—but that’s a lie, and God does not suffer liars. He just listens to the sound, that awful squelch as your fingers work through the slick mess between your thighs, it fills the booth like incense. A new kind of sacrament.

“Tell me what you see when you close your eyes,” he croaks. “Speak it plain. Do not spare me. I—I deserve to know the full weight of your corruption.”

He tells himself it’s to save your soul—but he’s trembling. His thighs twitch beneath his robes, his cock a thick and pulsing brand of guilt in his fist. A bead of precum blooms at the head, spun from years of tension and restraint.

You whimper, soft and obscene, and he squeezes harder.

"I see your mouth," you whine, "I imagine you licking me here—along my slit—moving your tongue slowly, carefully..."

He gasps—a broken, wounded sound. His hand stills for only a second before moving again, more desperate now. His fingers are sticky with his own filth, the damp cotton of his underclothes clinging to him like a second skin.

“I imagine your hands, too. You have big fingers, Father. I think they’d stretch me.”

A groan. Low, muffled into his sleeve as his spine arches. He should leave. He should run. He should vomit at the altar.

Instead, he shifts forward, pressing his forehead to the cool mesh of the confessional screen, his breath stinking of guilt and lust and sour wine from the last Mass.

“Keep going,” he whispers. “Please.”

“I’m using both hands now,” you say. “One finger on my clit, one inside. It’s so wet. So hot. You did this to me, Father.”

Through the screen, you watch him squirm. He doesn’t know how visible he is—how his silhouette shudders every time your voice dips.

He stifles a moan, eyes squeezed shut as his own hand moves in jerks. Harsh. Desperate. He’s biting his tongue, practically drawing blood, but the pain only makes him harder, makes his grip crueler. His hips jerk forward and the booth creaks beneath his weight.

“I want to come in front of you,” you moan, “I want you to see me dripping for you. I want you to open that screen, just once, and look at what you've done.”

A sob breaks loose from him. He imagines you curled in the opposite booth, thighs glistening, belly twitching, slick smeared down to your knees.

His legs twitch at the thought and he caves, pulling his cock out from under his robes—angry and red and leaking at the tip like something wounded, and strokes it furiously.

“You’re going to make me cum,” you pant. “Please, Father. Tell me I can.”

He’s already gone, already past the point of prayer and penance. He trembles, his voice cracked wide and bleeding:

“God sees this—He sees you ruin yourself.”

“I want Him to,” you whisper. “I want Him to watch you too.”

"F—Fuck."

Something in him cracks. And when he speaks again, it’s not his voice. It’s lower, darker. Sick with want and full of lust. “Say my name,” he begs, pleads, the words tumbling out before he can catch them. “Let me hear it. Let me hear you cum with my name on your tongue.”

Your cries become wet and frantic, and he thinks he might die hearing them. Might rot right there in the booth, buried beneath his vestments, his purity crumbling around his shaking hand.

"I give you permission, my Child," he groans, the words dragging out of him like a curse, “Cum for me.”

You gasp like a dying girl. The noise he makes in response is worse—a soft, strangled whine, helpless and boyish.

“I'm—" you mewl, and he can hear it: the crescendo of your breath, the slapping rhythm of your hand, the helpless, wet clench of your insides.

You choke on his name, your slick crashing down around your fingers in waves, in dribbles, in sin. It leaks into the wood. It soaks the hem of your skirt.

He follows—only seconds after—his whole body shaking, his hand sticky and twitching and useless as it cups the spent, wilting shame between his thighs.

It hits his fingers in hot, thick ribbons—disgrace painting his palm, his robes, the edge of the wood below him. His whole body seizes, a twitching marionette held up by guilt and ecstasy. His spine curls, bowing as if in prayer, but there’s nothing devout in the way he grips the edge of the seat, white-knuckled, twitching with aftershocks.

He can hear you breathe, just beyond the screen. Shallow, shaky, content.

“…Did you cum too, Father?” you ask, your voice soft, breathless. Yet, you sound triumphant. Vicious with beauty.

He doesn’t respond. Can’t. The taste of it is thick in his throat—a blasphemous stew of salt, blood, and bile. His collar is too tight. His chest aches like he’s been struck.

And still, your voice continues, dreamy and warm: “You sounded so pretty. I thought maybe you did.”

His cock throbs in his weary hand, softening slowly under the weight of what he’s done. What he let you do.

But he sits there. Still. Listening to you rise. Watching your outline slip from view.

And then, very quietly, he whispers:

“God forgive me.”

You didn't learn his true name until after his death—when his stubbled face was plastered across every television screen and newspaper headline.

Strade. The name tasted like soot in your mouth.

Not Wilhelm. Not the man who ruined you—whose thumbs pressed into the delicate, frightened skin of your throat while his car idled behind the chapel. Not the man whose hands reached under your dress and pulled your panties aside despite your pleas.

The memory comes in wet, bludgeoning waves.

The sting of the seatbelt buckle digging into your spine when he forced you down across the seats, pinning your hips with his weight as his rancid breath fanned across your face.

The chemical stench of pine air freshener mixing with your virgin blood when he split you open—probing, violent, careless—muttering something in German that you didn’t understand, but would remember anyway.

The soft, endless choke of the rosary between your fingers now, and the ghost of it then—hanging limp around your neck while you begged God to make you disappear.

It wasn’t until your fingers wrapped around his car keys— still warm from the ignition—that you found salvation.

You don’t remember thinking. Only doing. The twist of your wrist, the puncture, the sharp, wet grunt that left his mouth when you drove the keys into his side, just beneath his ribs. You never forgot the way his blood soaked your hand, or how the taste of your own name vanished behind the rush of your heartbeat in your ears.

You remember stumbling out of the car with your dress askew, legs numb and shaking, your thighs sticky with blood and urine. You remember falling—knees scraping gravel, palms skinning open—and the sound of him slamming the car door behind you as you ran blind into the road. You remember the headlights. The driver that stopped. The woman who gasped at the sight of you.

You remember saying nothing.

You told no one. Not your father, not your priest. Not even God.

You buried it, buried him, and he never came back. He disappeared like a sickness the body couldn’t hold any longer, taking with him your faith and everything that once felt sacred.

Years later they found his body rotting in the freezer of an abandoned house, curled fetal between the butcher-papered limbs of missing students. His name was all over the news—the face you’d tried so hard to forget, suddenly everywhere.

And still, somehow, it had never truly left you.

You don’t know how long you’ve been kneeling, only that your knees are bruised into the shape of penance and that the rosary unravels from your fingers like entrails.

And in that moment, in that terrible, holy silence—

The world rips open.

The air fractures. The altar groans. Candles flare to life, one by one, vomiting wax and smoke. The crucifix on the far wall snaps clean down the centre, a great vertical crack bisecting Christ’s weary face.

And then you smell him.

Iron. Sulphur. Burned meat. Memory.

The air tastes like the inside of his car.

You try to move, but your body forgets how. The glass windows seem to melt inward, their colours running like blood at your feet. The church convulses—walls weeping molasses-like ichor, rafters warping into grotesque, jagged angles. The house of God transforms, perverted into a cathedral of rot, consecrated by pain.

Your blood had opened the door.

A clawed hand erupts from the floorboards in the aisle—curved and black, as if pulled from the depths of a kiln. Then another. They dig into the stone like wet clay, dragging the rest of him from the chasm that yawns open below.

He rises slowly, deliberately. Like he knows you’re watching. Like he wants to be seen.

His horns are the first thing to catch the light—huge, curved back from his brow as if carved from obsidian. Wings unfurl behind him, stretching the width of the nave, their membranes glistening like bat leather and dripping dark fluid that hisses when it touches holy stone. His skin is split in places, stretched too thin over a frame that no longer pretends to be human.

His chest bears a hole, cavernous and obscene, ribs cracked open around a heart-shaped absence. In its place, a writhing mass of green smoke pulses with hunger.

He’s so much bigger now—towering, grotesque—but there’s something in his face, in the tilt of his head and the way his eyes glint when they find you. That same glint, the same sick amusement. The same look he gave you before his thumbs pressed against your trachea.

You feel the urine warm your thighs before you even register the fear—and his mouth peels into a grin.

"You," he muses, his voice impossibly deep, like it comes from behind your skull.

Your knees collapse out from under you as you scramble back, hands slipping in your own blood. He follows, slowly, lazily, as if there’s no need to rush. His tongue snakes out, long and green, curling over the edge of his lip as he tastes the air.

“You got big, didn’t you?” His grin widens. “Almost didn’t recognize you without the Sunday dress.”

He crouches low, knees cracking, claws braced against the floor as he tilts his head. You can hear the vertebrae in his neck grind against each other. His gaze drags down your body like candle wax.

"But I could never forget that scent."

You try to recoil, to shrink into the stone, but his hand shoots out and seizes your face. His claws dig into the fat of your cheeks, curling in like meat hooks. The points pierce skin, draw blood. You gasp, your jaw forced open beneath the stretch of his grip. If he squeezed just a little harder, you were sure he could crack your skull like an egg.

His hand grips your jaw until your teeth ache, and he leans close—so close you can smell the rot curling behind his breath. It's the same stench that clung to the car, that filled your lungs while you wept against faux leather seats. The same scent that had soaked into your bones, that had made into a thing instead of a girl. "Immer noch so süß,” he croons, almost lovingly, before releasing your face with a shove. You crumple backward, trembling with shock and old, cellular revulsion. The rusted crucifix rolls from your fingers, forgotten. You don’t reach for it.

You know better now.

You flinch when his clawed hand snakes down—not toward your throat, as you'd braced for—but lower. Down the slope of your hip, over the curve of your thigh, lingering. “I can smell it on you,” he purrs, crouching between your legs. “The Schande, the hate. You think this body's dirty, Ja?"

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. Your body gives you away.

He laughs. It bubbles up from his chest like magma and smoulders behind his teeth. With a sudden jerk, he rips the fabric of your pants and underwear apart with his claws, leaving you bare and trembling on the altar floor. You instinctively try to close your legs, but he’s already separating them, shoulders wide, wings unfurled, hands pinning your thighs apart. “Ah-ah-ah,” he tuts, mockingly. “Don’t be shy now.” You sob, “"P-Please—don’t—"

“Didn’t I already?” Then his mouth descends, dragging hot breath across your inner thigh. His serpentine tongue slides out, wet and glistening, each fork tip twitching with independent hunger. He drags it up the inside of your leg—dangerously close to your slit—tasting the saltiness of your sweat, the bitterness of your urine. You jolt. The sensation is unspeakably wrong. Wet, hot, invasive. You feel everything. Every split flick of his tongue, every hellish sweep that refuses to be gentle. It skims against your clit and you gasp in response.

You hate it.

You hate yourself for the way your skin begins to buzz, for the way your stomach tightens. You sob again, and his tongue presses against your entrance. You feel it split you. Each fork parting your soft lips, dragging obscene circles over parts of you you’ve long tried to pretend don’t exist. Places that have felt like festering, pus-filled wounds since that day. His tongue moves like a creature with its own mind—exploring, taunting, forcing you to feel. You’ve spent years dissociating from this body.

Now he’s dragging you back into it. His tongue forces its way deeper, both ends writhing as it burrows into you. The wet muscle twists and your back arches violently. You scream, pushing both hands against his head, trying to shove him away, to dislodge the horror writhing inside you. His claws sink into the meat of thighs, keeping them spread wide, keeping you pinned like an insect. And still, his tongue delves deeper—too deep—until it presses against something you’ve never felt touched before. A pressure so wrong it knocks the wind from your lungs. He finds your cervix—and flicks against it.

You convulse. It feels like being stabbed from the inside, like a parasite wriggling its way into your core. The slick, muscular tips coil and prod, as if they're tasting your soul through the soft, trembling mouth of your womb. You choke on a mouthful of spittle, trying to twist away, but it only encourages him. He growls low against your cunt, tongue lashing inside you like a living flame. He is slick and relentless, forcing the shy, delicate opening to stretch, to give. The forks flutter torturously along the ridges of your cervical canal, nudging deeper until it feels like something inside you is unspooling nerve by nerve.

A fresh scream rips from your throat.

“Stop—God, please stop—I can’t—I can’t—” But there is no mercy in him. No divinity left in this place. You squeeze your eyes shut to shield yourself from the horror slithering between your legs.

Every nerve in your pelvis lights up like fire. You gag on your own breath, your spine arching hard enough to snap. It feels like your body is trying to turn itself inside out just to escape him. When he pulls his tongue from you, it's in one slow, obscene drag—the forked tips dragging slick, pulsing heat along your inner walls on the way out. You’re left gaping, empty, wet with spit and arousal. Your hips drop back to the floor, legs still trembling in their forced spread. You suck in a breath, just one—before he grabs your jaw and shoves his mouth over yours. His teeth are huge, jagged, they grind against yours, blunt enamel cracking against sharp points as his mouth opens far too wide. Still warm from your cunt, his tongue snakes past your lips, your teeth, the back of your throat. You choke, spit bubbling from your nostrils as it slithers deep, tasting, invading. You try to claw at him, to push him away, but he grabs your wrists in one massive hand and pins them to your chest. You taste blood—your lip, or his, you don’t know—but it floods your mouth all the same.

You can’t breathe.

You can’t think. Your eyes roll as the wet bulk of his tongue pulses in your esophagus, pressing against your windpipe like it wants to taste the air you’re no longer allowed. His breath is like fire in your nose and all you can do is choke around the fleshy gag.

His mouth peels from yours with a wet pop, saliva and blood stringing between your teeth. You heave in a desperate breath and immediately bawl it out. He looms over you, panting now—not from exertion, but from thrill. His eyes lower, settling on your legs. They twitch involuntarily under his gaze, still stinging with pain from where his claws had braced you. "Scheiße," he breathes, licking the corner of his mouth where his blood still clings. “I've missed this.” Your head falls, and you see them—four deep trenches carved into each thigh, blood pulsing freely, spilling down your legs in arterial waves. Yellow adipose glistens from the wounds, bulging where your flesh has been torn apart.

“Oh my God,” you rasp. “This isn’t real—this can’t be real—”

Your elbows dig into the blood-slick stone as you try to crawl backward, pain flaring in your thighs and hips with each pull. You don’t make it far before he jolts forward and drags you down with bone-grinding force.

He snarls like a dog driven mad with hunger. His palms splay over your inner thighs, grinding the bone beneath his weight until something in your hips pops with a horrible, wet crack. You howl—a sound rawer than anything you've ever made—as your joints buckle under the pressure. The sound sends lightning through your nerves, and suddenly, you can’t move. You can’t run. One leg spasms feebly; the other flops useless, detached from your command. You thrash weakly as he kneels before you, your scream splintering into broken cries, your terror animal and absolute. “You’re so loud, Liebling,” he coos, his voice dripping with adoration. "I used to wonder what you'd sound like if you screamed for real.” His thumb brushes your cheek, collecting a string of mucus and tears. "Deine Schreie klingen süßer, als ich es mir je erträumt habe.” You feel then, a pulsing heat against your crotch. It rises with each ragged he takes, sliding stickily along your skin. Your expression twists into something between disgust, fear, and dreadful knowing, your lips trembling as you glance down. It's monstrous, inhuman. Thick and veined, his shaft throbs with an unnatural life, its blackened skin glowing from within. The head head drags wetly, drooling precum onto the curve of your stomach. It twitches when you cry. Even semi-soft, it looks too large—like something no living body should take. You shake your head, choking on your own breath. “No—please, no, no, you’ll kill me—” His laugh is low and full of teeth. "But isn't that what you were made for?" You go still. The sob catches in your throat and stays there. Because this is it. The moment that ruined you the first time, returned to finish what it started. You were never free. He was always there—in the silence of every failed relationship, every broken reflection, and sleepless night. He lived in the tremble of your hands, in your fear of being touched. It always came back to him. He grips himself at the base and drags the tip along your trembling entrance. Your whole body lurches as the heat of it touches you. His other hand finds your belly, pressing you down, flattening you against the stone. You can’t move. Not with your hips cracked out of place. Not with the weight of him anchoring you like a grave. When the head breaches your entrance, the scream that rips from your lungs doesn’t even sound human. It’s primal. Ugly. Utterly hopeless. The pain is white-hot and blinding. You feel your body tear around him—skin splitting, muscles straining, an old wound reopening from the inside. Your mind tries to escape the flesh, but he yanks it back down with every thrust. He throws his head back in a long, drawn-out moan. “Ahhh..."

His hips slam forward, driving deeper, and your vision blacks out at the edges.

“Still as tight as I remember," he breathes. Your mind lifts, floats, untethers from the sound rising in your throat. You stare past the black twist of horns crowning his skull, past the blood-fog and candlelight, and fixate on the ceiling overhead. It’s rotted now—moss eats through the wood of once-sacred beams—but you remember how it looked once. How you sat in the pews below with your mother, your legs swinging off the edge of the bench, your eyes turned upward in wonder. “How'd they build that?” you had asked, voice hushed in awe. And she whispered, “With love. And faith. Always.” But now there’s nothing left of that little girl. Nothing left of that sanctuary. The demon is panting harder, drooling above you, his claws twitching against your hips. You feel the pads of his fingers twitch, flex, and curl. The claw tips press into your skin of your stomach—then through it. He pierces smoothly through the tender skin as if you are made of butter. There's no resistance, only the sick, wet sound of muscle parting. Your eyes go wide. He rips upward, dragging the points through your abdomen until your belly opens like a flower—glistening red and steaming in the bleeding candlelight. You feel your insides spill against his hands. Your stomach folds open, intestines bulging out like knotted ropes. Blood pools under your back, flowing over the altar floor in sticky, sacrilegious ribbons. He cups your viscera in his claws like he’s holding something sacred. Something beautiful. And he doesn’t stop fucking you. "Look at you,” he breathes, eyes alight, lips stretched wide over his teeth. “So much prettier on the inside.”

The wet sounds continue—slower now, as he moves through the mess he’s made of you, dragging out every last moment. Your hand lifts on instinct, reaching towards your organs as if to hold them in. As if you can keep this body yours a moment longer.

You can’t.

A chill blooms in your fingertips. Then your toes. Then it rushes in all at once, like black water in your lungs.

You look up at him. Your mouth opens. Blood bubbles on your tongue. “I d-don’t... want to die—”

He leans close, presses his forehead to yours.

“You already did, Mädchen. This is just... the part where you realize it.”

Your body gives out. Your vision splinters. And in the very last moment—when all of you is coming undone—

You feel something warm flood deep inside you.

It’s not pain anymore. Not even fear.

Just quiet.

And for a moment—

You’re free.