#father garupe

He’s just extinguishing the last of the candles at the altar when the door to the church creaks open. Francis glances up, expecting to see any one of his regular parishioners, and is greeted by the sight of you. His own Lilith, donned in a blood red dress that flutters over your thighs as you walk towards him.

He swallows hard, stepping forward even as his gaze darts around the nave, searching for anyone who could be watching—or, perhaps, anyone who could save him. There’s no one around, and Francis has no choice but to face you, his expression schooled into something calm.

“Father Garupe,” you greet him, voice quiet and even. He searches your gaze for a clue to what you’re wanting from him, but he finds nothing illuminating.

“My child,” he responds, “how may I be of service this evening?”

And oh, there, the tiniest glint in your eyes—it makes his stomach drop, makes his heart race. You smile, the smallest quirk of your lips, and ask if the two of you can speak in private, despite there being no one amongst the pews.

He cannot refuse you. He never can.

Francis ushers you into the small vestry in the back corner of the building; his hand burns where it brushes against the small of your back. He closes the door behind the two of you, but doesn’t lock it, still clinging to the pretense of you needing him for innocent, spiritual reasons. He doesn’t know why he still tries to fool himself.

The vestry is small, with a couple wardrobes, a storage area, and a small wash basin in the corner; a dark green loveseat sits against the back wall. The room isn’t used for much--just to store vestments and sacred objects for services. Francis has sat upon the small sofa many a time to review scriptures as he waited for the church to fill with parishioners.

You head right for the settee, and Francis can’t help the way his gaze drifts over the lush curve of your backside. His cheeks flush, and he internally chastises himself, forcing himself to look away. His fingers twitch at his sides; he clasps his hands behind his back to stop the movement.

You’re looking at him expectantly, and it makes him nervous. There’s silence, aside from the frantic beating of his heart--you always had this effect on him. It’s what got him in this mess in the first place.

He still doesn’t speak, not knowing what he’s supposed to say--not knowing what you’re wanting. Finally, you sigh; Francis’ brow furrows. There’s an edge to your voice when you speak, though he can’t quite place the emotion.

“You missed dinner last night.”

The words are simple, but they send Francis floundering. His heart drops into his suddenly icy stomach, brown eyes wide. Dinner. He’d forgotten. The two of you had made the plans two weeks ago, in a rare moment of braveness on his part; you would do the hosting, the prepping, the cooking--all he had to do was show up. But a bishop had visited at the last minute from a neighboring diocese, who had to be housed and fed, shown around, impressed. It had been overwhelming--had gotten in the way of Francis’ scheduled time to work on the coming week’s homily. He’d been up half the night before passing out asleep.

Dinner had slipped his mind. You had slipped his mind. How had he allowed that to happen?

He’s horrified, his stomach knotting up. Your name falls from his lips, sounding strangled--it’s a show of his weakness. He never allows himself to cross that line at church; never allows himself to be more than your priest while in the true presence of God. You just cross your legs in response, looking unimpressed. Francis takes half a step forward, sputtering apologies and explanations into the air, desperate. You hum to yourself, watching him rub his nervous hands on the front of his black cassock.

“I made your favorite, too. Roasted an entire chicken, grilled vegetables, made sweet tea just how you like. I waited--I thought maybe you were late. I never thought that you would stand me up.” There’s the slightest bit of a tremor in your voice, and it breaks him. He strides across the small room with just a couple large steps, hands clasped in front of himself as he towers over you.

“Forgive me, my child. Please. It was a horrible thing for me to do, I--how can I make it up to you?” There has to be a way. He has to fix this. The thought of you being upset, or worse: leaving him… It makes him feel sick.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting you to say, though he’s already making a list of possible penances in his head. The whirlwind of his mind comes to an abrupt stop when you finally speak.

“Kneel.” You say, voice so soft at first he thinks he’s imagined it. Francis blinks, brows furrowing just the slightest; maybe you think he doesn’t understand (and, in a way, he doesn’t), because you speak again. “That’s the correct way you beg forgiveness, isn’t it? You kneel.”

… He can’t exactly say you’re wrong. It’s how he begs the Lord for forgiveness for his transgressions every night. At this point, has he not put you above the Lord many times? You deserve his best attempt at atonement. So he kneels obediently, sitting back on his heels and looking up at you with his big brown eyes. He clasps his hands in his lap, the picture of perfect piety, though feeling oddly hot under his collar as he trains his gaze on your face. “Please. I beg your forgiveness.” His voice sounds odd--low and hoarse and strained. Perhaps he is worried someone will overhear; perhaps it is something else.

The smile that spreads over your face should reassure him, but instead, his chest tightens with nerves. The tightness worsens, and then explodes into a harsh exhale as you spread your legs open, tugging up your dress to reveal your bare cunt. Francis knows he should move--knows he should get up, remind you that last time was the last time (and how many last times have the two of you had now?) He knows he should leave, but he can’t bring himself to. He’s frozen in place, heart racing in his chest, face burning.

“You still need to pay penance, Father.” You say, casual as can be. Francis thinks he might faint. He’s hyper-aware of the unlocked door behind him. Sure, it was late--parishioners usually didn’t come by at this time of the night, and if they did, they merely wanted to light one of the votive candles and say a quick prayer. But what if. What if someone came looking for him, what if they decided to search the vestry, what if they saw?

Lilith. Temptress. Siren. Delilah. Forbidden fruit.

Acceptance. Passion. Happiness. Beauty. Heaven.

Francis reaches out, brushing trembling finger tips over your knee, then the soft plush of your inner thigh. He tampers down the urge to grip at the pliant flesh, to watch how it yields under his touch. Your body was intoxicating--supple and pillowy where his own was so harsh and uninviting. He could spend eternity touching you, even if it meant losing a spiritual eternity. His desperation for you terrifies him.

He clutches his fingers into the crimson of your dress instead, pushing the skirt further out of the way. Then, he rests his palms on the tops of your thighs, thumbs brushing circles closer and closer to the apex; he tries to quell the racing of his heart—tries to push down the dark feeling of guilt curdling in his stomach.

Suddenly, your fingertips trace along his sharp cheekbones; Francis startles, looking up at you quickly, already searching your face for what he’s done wrong. But you smile sweetly at him, brushing his soft, wavy hair out of his eyes, curling the locks behind his prominent ears. “Use your mouth, Father.”

Francis stares, trying and failing to think around the sudden sound of all the blood rushing in his ears. His head fills with white noise, waves crashing one over the other. He doesn’t quite know what you mean, but for all his inexperience, he’s not stupid. You’d used your mouth on him, after all. It was filthy and debauched, absolutely deplorable--a memory, a sensation, a dream that he comes back to night after night.

“My child,” and oh, his voice is little more than a croak around the sudden lump in his throat, “-I cannot… this is neither the time nor place—“

“A good priest pays penance, does he not?” Lord above, you’re still touching his face, still brushing your fingers through his hair, rubbing the shells of his ears. It feels so lovely, unlike anything he’s ever experienced. Before you, Francis never thought he would have affection like this—never allowed it, never thought he deserved it.

You say he deserves it. And if he deserves it, you deserve it tenfold.

So he swallows hard, flushed bright pink up to his ears, and murmurs quietly to you. “… I do not know how.” He isn’t sure why he feels ashamed to admit it when it’s no secret. Sometimes he wishes he already knew how to please you. But then again, if he had been given another lot in life the two of you may have never met. And what would be the point, then?

Your palm caresses his cheek, a soothing balm to his uncertainties. “It’s just another form of a kiss,” you say, and it sounds far too simple an explanation but then again, he did have a tendency to overcomplicate things. Francis nods, shifting on his knees; the way your eyes light up is a reward in itself, and he feels a little flicker of pride. You scoot closer to the edge of the settee, spreading your legs wider, luring him in. For all his fear of being discovered, for all his guilt--Francis welcomes the desire that flickers in his belly.

Easing forward, he brushes gentle kisses over your inner thighs, allowing himself to get lost in the silky feeling of your skin against his lips, his cheeks. You sigh, massaging the pads of your fingers against his scalp, and suddenly Francis recognizes what this really is. It’s worship. Perhaps you are the only altar he should bow down in front of from now on. It’s a sinful thought, one that circles his mind as he presses his prominent nose against your mound and inhales deep.

Salty-sweet, a heady aroma that makes his head spin. He adores it, and his cock starts to thicken in his black slacks under his cassock. It’s not unexpected, his arousal--some days all it takes from you is a single look. Using his thumbs, Francis opens you up, revealing your slick, pretty folds. It’s instinct for him to lean forward and press a chaste kiss to your cunt, nuzzling forward slightly, wanting to be closer to you. It feels intimate in a way he hasn’t expected--he’s honored that you’re allowing him this. He wonders if this is how you felt when you used your mouth on him.

A couple more kisses, then one curious swipe of his tongue, and Francis groans at the flavor that bursts on his taste buds. It’s tangy and bright, and flips some switch in his brain; suddenly all he knows is that he wants more. He wants to be the only man allowed to taste you like this, wants your nectar from the source every day, needs to drink his fill. He dives back between your legs, fingers digging into your thighs--perhaps he would apologize for his roughness if he weren’t so overcome.

He laps at the source of your slick, licking and sucking as if he is feasting on the most delectable of peaches. Francis feels ravenous, frenzied, light headed--was this possession? Maybe you truly are Lilith’s incarnation, delivering him to evil. For some reason, the idea doesn’t disagree with him. If this is how men in scripture fell from grace, at least they went willingly, wrapped in a spider’s web of bliss.

He realizes, idly, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he’s moaning into your cunt, his cock straining uncomfortably against his zipper. Someone could hear, but he’s reached beyond caring--his sole focus is on the banquet before him. It’s the most gentle sin, kissing you here, feeling you squirm underneath his hands, listening to you whimper as you run your palms over his arms and shoulders. Francis wishes he had something to rut against, to rub himself off like some depraved animal. This is what you do to him.

When the tip of his nose brushes against a hard little nub, you cry out, clutching a fist in his hair, tugging insistently. Francis whines in protest, not wanting to leave his happy indulgence, but he soon discovers that wrapping his lips around that little pearl--your clit, you’d once explained to him--is it’s own pleasure. You shudder, hips bucking, stomach and chest heaving; it’s with awe that he looks up at you, doing what he can to please.

There’s pressure building in his own abdomen, and he can feel how his cock is drooling all over his underwear. It’s a warning that he’s getting steadily familiar with, and it makes his heart leap in his throat. He’s at a crossroads and he knows it. Does he allow himself to be defiled even more, filling his briefs underneath his cassock, knees aching on the cold stone floors of God’s temple? He shouldn’t. But the alternative--stopping this, leaving you unsatisfied, distancing himself--was unfathomable.

Deep down, Francis knows he’ll choose you every single time.

So he doubles down, gaze flickering up your body as he wraps his arms around your thighs, holding you close and still as he sucks and licks, paying attention to what seems to send you careening further towards the edge. He desperately wants you to fall apart, ideally before he does. It’s inevitable at this point, his ruin. His jaw aches a little, but Francis ignores it--he’s deserving of the twinge of pain, deserving of the small punishment his body is divvying out to him.

You’re tensing, tensing, tensing--tugging at his hair in a way that makes him shiver, his eyes rolling back in his head. His scalp smarts in the best way because you’re the one causing it, expressing just how he’s affecting you. Your soft, perfect thighs close around his head, rubbing satiny smooth against his sensitive ears, and he groans low in his throat. It’s the flames of damnation that lick up his spine and he welcomes them, his body hurtling towards release.

He thinks, foolishly, that he can hold on a little bit longer, but then--then--you gasp, voice warm and syrupy and beautiful. “Francis,” you sigh, “Francis, Francis, Francis.” His name. It’s his name that finally breaks him.

His hips jerk, and he moans long and dark and strangled in his chest as he fills his slacks with his spend. It’s lewd, disgraceful, the highest form of sacrilege--but the way your breath catches, crying out as your clit pulses in his mouth, is angelic.

Francis thinks it’s the closest he’s ever been to God.

The second your thighs relax around his head, he falls back onto his ass unceremoniously, chest heaving as he pants. The mess in his underwear is already uncomfortable, a physical reminder of his wickedness. He knows the picture he must make--pale skin flushed red, hair mussed, face covered in your release, clothing rumpled. You gaze upon him with hooded eyes, bathing in the glow of your orgasm. Francis fights the sudden urge to kneel once more, to kiss your feet, your legs, and upwards until he’s covered every inch of you--veneration of his golden idol.

You relax back into the cushions, humming contently. There’s a moment’s silence, heavy with the scent of sex, electric with exhaltation. And then, that small smile curls upon your lips once more.

“I forgive you, Father.”

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