Willow🪷🍃༄⁎⁺˳✧༚

Subliminal messaging at its dirtiest.

When he hit his last note, flourishing like the “people’s voice” he loved pretending to be, you couldn’t resist.

“Amen, Father Vox,” you joked.

And that?

That was when everything shifted.

One heated glare, a flare of static, and suddenly you were standing in a room that looked ripped straight from a cathedral. The ceilings soared. Candles flickered. The air carried the scent of incense and sin. A makeshift altar glowed faintly behind you. You were dressed in a tight blue cocktail dress that hugged every sinful curve. A rosary hung between your breasts, each bead cool against your bare skin. Your nipples pushed against the satin, hard enough to ache.

God. Vox and his theatrics. If he wanted roleplay, he could have just asked. He didn’t need to transform the entire room into sacrilege chic. You were thinking exactly that when you heard the deep creak of a wooden door.

He stepped inside.

Vox wore black priest vestments, complete with a clerical collar. His TV-face flickered as the fake stained-glass light washed over him in shifting colours. The cross above him hung upside down. Of course it did. Subtlety never existed in Vox’s vocabulary.

Your lips twitched as you remembered one of your earlier “scenes.” The one where he’d played a patient with an uncontrollable erection, and you were the very helpful nurse who took her duties seriously. Very seriously. It made warmth gather between your legs.

Playing with Vox was always intense. Always theatrical. Always worth it. Because when you committed to the scene, he committed to giving you mind-shattering orgasms that left your legs trembling. A better payment than any contract with Valentino.

A quiet, imaginary director clapped a slate in your head. “Take one.”

You inhaled, lowered your lashes, and stepped into your role.

“Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.” Your hands clasped together as you looked up, voice sweet and dripping with something far from holy.

Vox lifted his arms in a dramatic blessing. “My child, the confession booth is always open to those who seek righteousness and forgiveness.”

Your teeth trapped your bottom lip. Your eyes darkened at the way he watched you, like he was already peeling the dress off with his gaze. “Of course, Father,” you murmured, dragging every syllable like you were stroking him with your tongue.

You rose slowly, letting the tight dress ride up. A breeze kissed the apex of your thighs. The hem barely covered your cunt. Your panties were cut so low your ass was on full display. Vox’s head tilted, the screen flickering once in interest. He stepped aside and gestured toward the confessional booth.

You dipped your head in a shy, breathy, “Thank you,” and walked past him, feeling the heat of his attention burn across your backside.

You could practically hear him restraining a groan.

You almost broke character. A laugh bubbled up your throat the moment you realized what he’d done. One chair. One single chair in the middle of a tiny cubicle room pretending to be a confessional. Vox couldn’t have made his intentions more obvious if he’d painted “fuck me” across the wall.

The door slammed shut behind you. His screen glowed, humming with low static, and his red eyes with cyan pupils locked onto you like a predator sizing up a trembling offering.

“There’s only one chair, Father,” you murmured as you turned around slowly. You played with the hem of your dress like a shy parish girl, every tug revealing more of your tiny, barely there underwear.

“Forgiveness should always start on your knees, my little lamb.” His grin was sinful. His voice dropped to something dark and gravelly. And there it was, bold as sin, the thick outline of his erection straining against the front of his priestly robes. He pretended not to notice.

You dragged your tongue across your lower lip, slow and wet. Vox’s body reacted instantly. He swallowed hard, the flicker of his screen sharpening as he followed the path of your tongue like it was a sermon he needed to memorize.

“Of course,” you whispered.

You sank to your knees in front of the lone chair, expecting him to sit. Instead, he stepped forward, planting himself directly in front of you. Your face aligned perfectly with the impressive bulge pressing against his robe.

“Now,” he said in the sweetest voice, soft enough to make your skin tighten, “tell me your sins.”

Heat flushed through you. Your thighs pressed together, your panties damp and clinging to every slick curve between your legs. You could feel it, the warm pulse of arousal beating against soaked fabric.

“I’ve been having the most… unpure thoughts,” you breathed. Your hands trembled as you clutched the front of his robe. You leaned in, your cheek brushing the swollen length beneath. You forced a few faux tears, letting them shimmer as you gazed up at him with trembling lips. “Thoughts of you.”

His whole body stiffened. A shiver ran through him, barely contained. His chest rose sharply, and his pixels fluttered like he was holding back the urge to pin you to the wall and ruin you in the most sacrilegious way possible.

“And what am I,” he asked softly before his voice glitched, deepening with static, “doing in these thoughts of yours?”

“Touching me.” Your thighs squeezed together, rubbing for any friction.

“Feeling me.” You wrapped your fingers around the thick outline of his cock, squeezing the heat pulsing through the fabric.

“Putting yourself inside me. Deep,” you whispered, stroking him through the cloth, “so deep I can’t even breathe.”

A moan escaped him, raw and unguarded, before he caught himself and cleared his throat. He grabbed your wrist, removing your hand from his shaft, before you tempted him into ending the scene too early.

“I see.” His voice dropped lower. “Only prayers will save you. But you must prostrate yourself before your lord and saviour.”

He nudged toward the wall behind you.

You turned, ready to continue the scene… and almost cracked up.

Because mounted on the wall was a framed picture of Vox himself.

Grinning like the absolute shit-eating egomaniac he was.

You swallowed the laugh clawing up your throat and forced your voice into a trembling whisper. “I’ll do anything,” you said to the portrait of him smirking down at you.

His hand pressed between your shoulder blades, guiding you down until your forehead touched the floor and your ass lifted high. You felt completely exposed, displayed like something he owned.

“Ah… Father?” you asked in a soft, shy tone, pretending meekness even as your pulse throbbed between your thighs.

He didn’t answer.

You only heard fabric tearing. A single, effortless rip. He had shredded your already ruined panties. The cool air ghosted over your slick folds, and you gasped, heat rushing under your skin. Vox hummed behind you, deeply pleased, his claws tracing the outline of your lips with slow teasing strokes.

Then you heard it.

A sharp click.

Like a bottle being opened.

You glanced back and saw it. A bottle of lube. The kind that pulsed between warm and cold. And in the other hand… a thick, gleaming rope of blue beads ending in a metal cross. You felt your mouth dry.

“To ask for forgiveness,” he said casually, smoothing the warming gel over every bead, “you must do five Our Fathersand five Hail Marys.”

Your breath hitched.

“O-oh.” You faced forward again, lifting your hips. “Yes, Father.”

Before you could speak another word, something cold nudged the tight ring of your ass. You hissed, your cunt clenching around nothing. The first bead pressed in, slow and deliberate.

“O-Our—” you gasped.

“Father,” you tried to continue, but a moan ripped out of you as the bead slipped inside.

“Oh god,” you breathed.

Vox chuckled darkly. “That’s not how the prayer goes, my sweet little lamb.” His tone dripped with wicked amusement.

You tried again, but the second bead pushed in before you could form a single syllable. You choked on your own voice.

“O-Ou—Ou—”

Another bead.

Then another.

Your body strained around the thick, unyielding orbs. Each one stretched you wider, filling you, making your thighs shake. The lube switched temperatures, cold then warm, tormenting your sensitive skin. By the time several beads were lodged inside you, your breath was broken. Your cheek pressed against the floor. A cry escaped you as the metal cross charm bounced against your dripping cunt.

“Ah… fuck,” you whimpered, feeling your slick coat the charm.

Behind you, cloth rustled. You felt him move. Felt the heat of him. The swollen head of his cock nudged your entrance, heavy and hot, spreading your wetness with the faintest push. He didn’t press in yet. He didn’t need to. You were grinding back on instinct, rubbing yourself against him like a desperate, needy whore begging for it.

“Is this what you imagined?” he growled, voice dropping into something feral.

He pushed.

Slow.

So painfully, achingly slow.

You felt every inch stretch you open, your cunt fluttering tight around the broad head of his cock, your breath breaking as you took him inch by inch.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you sobbed, your voice cracking around the rosary digging into the sides of your neck. You looked back at him through wet lashes. “Please… please don’t stop,” you begged, feeling a wave of heat bloom deep in your ass before it cooled again, the contrast so intense it made your whole body twitch.

Your lips twisted into a delirious smile. “I need it… I need it,” you cried, rocking your hips back against him like you were starving.

His fingers slid through your hair, then tangled. He yanked your head up, forcing you to look at the portrait mounted in front of you. His own smug, perfect grin. That stupidly self-important pose. The blue clip-on bow tie. The flat-screen head angled like he was a public figure announcing the news. It would’ve been funny if you weren’t being fucked into oblivion.

Then he snapped his hips forward.

Your vision went white. His full, thick length drove inside you, shoving you open around the beads stretching your ass. You screamed, pure ecstasy shredding your voice. Your face stayed fixed on the portrait through blurry, lust-drunk eyes as he bottomed out.

He kept pushing until his heavy balls pressed flush against you. Saliva slipped from the corner of your mouth. The sensation was too much. Too intense. Too good. The lube’s heat, then cold, the deep stretch of the beads, the thick pressure of his cock throbbing inside you… it all blurred together into something you could barely survive.

“Oh God… god… god…” you sobbed. You begged.

You prayed.

He growled with half laughter, half hunger. Then he pulled back.

You whined heartbreakingly as each inch slid out of your desperate, clenching pussy. Your slick coated him, your cunt tightening around nothing in protest. He didn’t pull out fully. He withdrew to the swollen head, teasing you with an empty ache.

Then he slammed into you.

The hit of his hips jolted you forward. Your breasts bounced free from the skimpy blue dress, the straps slipping down your shoulders. Your hair bunched painfully in his grip as he fucked you with sharp, powerful thrusts that sent you rocking.

He did it again.

And again.

And again.

Every snap of his hips made your breasts sway like a pendulum. Your clit throbbed. Your ass and pussy clenched in unison, stretched and stuffed and trembling. Your eyes rolled back as the rhythm took over, his voice turning into muffled static in your ears as pleasure dragged you under.

At one point, you barely recognized your own voice. Fucked-out. Gone. Your body shaking with every brutal thrust. Skin smacking skin. The room thick with sweat, heat, and the wet, obscene sound of your bodies colliding. Words tumbled from your lips in broken, breathless nonsense as release coiled tight inside you.

So close.

So close.

He felt it. Vox was just as loud, just as desperate, groaning in filthy delight as the slick rhythm of your bodies filled the room like music.

“Fuck, baby… you’re gonna cum for me. Gonna soak my dick nice and thorough,” he growled, dropping the priest act without a second thought.

He dragged your hips closer, folding his tall frame over you. You felt the heat of his screen against your back, heard the faint static crackling with his own arousal.

“You feel so fucking good, baby,” he breathed into your ear, voice shaking with need as he pounded into you harder, faster, deeper, chasing your orgasm like he was starving for it.

Tears pooled at the corners of your eyes, your thighs tightening, your stomach knotting with pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. “C-close,” you sobbed, voice breaking apart.

“I know, baby,” he panted. He sped up, his pace turning frantic and hungry. His balls swung with every thrust, slapping hard against your swollen clit, sending sharp bursts of pleasure shooting through you.

Your voice rose, louder and higher, trembling on the edge. You were seconds away, your whole body coiling tight. And then, just before you tipped over—

With a single, guttural grunt, Vox yanked the anal beads out.

The sensation detonated inside you. A white-hot flash exploded behind your eyelids, and your moan came out shredded and animalistic. Your cunt clenched violently around him even as your whole body seized, then went limp. The orgasm ripped through you in waves, hard enough to make your vision blur and your muscles quiver uncontrollably.

“Fuck,” he groaned, wrecked by the sound of you falling apart. Your pleasure hit him like a punch.

He pulled out and flipped you onto your back in one fluid motion. Your legs fell open without thinking, twitching from the aftershocks. You were still gasping when he wrapped his hand around his slick, throbbing cock and stroked himself fast.

His moans cracked as he came. Long, warm arcs painted your face, your breasts, your stomach. He kept stroking, milking himself until the last stubborn bead clung to his tip… before it slid down and landed on your trembling thigh.

For a moment, only your breathing filled the room. Hot. Heavy. Shared.

Then Vox smirked.

“We’re not done yet,” he murmured, crawling over you with predatory purpose. “Not until I fully baptize you.”

He straddled your head, knees bracketing your ears. His softening cock—still warm, still glistening with his release—tapped against your lips.

“Come on, doll,” he rasped, lowering his hips just enough that you felt the weight and heat of him. “Open up for me. White looks good on you.”