Kit

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.