#religious corruption

The pews were empty now. The last parishioner had slipped out the side doors, the heavy wooden frame closing with a sigh that echoed in the cavernous sanctuary. Only candlelight remained, flickering against stained glass saints who seemed to watch with silent judgment.

You lingered in the aisle, hands folded too tightly, the hymnal still clutched against your chest though the songs had ended long ago. You didn’t know why you stayed. Maybe it was the quiet, or maybe it was him.

“Child,” Father Barnes’ voice broke the silence, low and gravel-soft. You turned, startled, and found him watching from the altar steps. His cassock was still draped over his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled back enough to bare the veins in his forearms. He looked too human for a priest, and yet too heavy with something you couldn’t name.

“You’ve remained behind.” His eyes narrowed, curious, not unkind. “Why?”

Your throat closed. You hadn’t spoken to him much beyond pleasantries, but every time his gaze found you during mass, it burned. Now, alone, you felt small under it. “I—I just… didn’t want to leave yet.”

He descended the steps slowly, deliberate as a predator. The hush of his shoes against stone carried like thunder in your ears. When he reached you, his hand rose—not touching, only hovering near your shoulder as if testing your boundaries.

“The church is no place to wander without guidance,” he murmured. “The heart is easily led astray when left untended.”

You swallowed, heat flooding your face. “I didn’t mean—”

He cut you off gently, his voice a benediction and a warning all at once. “No, little one. I know you didn’t. You’re unspoiled. Untouched. That much is clear.” His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “But innocence is a dangerous thing to carry. Wolves find it first.”

Your breath caught. You weren’t sure if he was warning you about the world… or himself.

He gestured toward the side door, the one that led to his office. “Come,” he said softly. “If you have questions, if you linger with unrest in your heart, it is my duty to tend them. We’ll pray together. You’ll leave lighter.”

Something in his tone made your knees weaken, but you followed. The little office smelled of candle wax and old wood, his Bible lying open on the desk as though waiting. He motioned you to sit, then circled behind, close enough that you felt the ghost of his breath at your nape when he leaned down to murmur:

“Tell me, child… have you ever confessed?”

stay close, comforting until you shakily ask him to continue

His question hung in the air like incense, smoke curling around your lungs until you could barely breathe.

You shook your head, fingers twisting in your lap. “N-no, Father.”

He let out a low hum, one that rumbled through your chest though it wasn’t meant for you to hear. “Of course you haven’t. So pure.” His hand finally touched — settling heavy on your shoulder, the warmth searing through cloth. “Then you’ve never spoken your sins aloud. Never unburdened yourself.”

“I don’t—I don’t think I have any,” you whispered, though it sounded like a lie even to your ears.

He chuckled, deep and quiet, the sound brushing against the back of your neck. “Everyone carries sin, little one. Desire itself is sin. Do you understand?”

You shook your head, trembling.

He leaned closer until his lips nearly brushed your ear. “Have you ever looked at a man and wondered how it would feel for him to touch you?”

Your entire body went hot. You stammered, “I—I’ve never even kissed anyone—”

“God above.” His groan sounded like a prayer, but his grip on your shoulder tightened. “Untouched. Not even a kiss.” He drew back just enough for you to see his eyes — blue, storm-bright, and burning with something unholy. “Do you want me to show you, child? To guide you, so your first sin is… sanctified?”

You shouldn’t have nodded. But you did.

His thumb grazed your chin, tilting your face upward. “Then open your mouth. That’s it. Obedient little lamb.” His lips met yours — slow at first, reverent, then hungrier when you gasped. He swallowed that sound like wine, deepening the kiss until you clutched at his cassock, overwhelmed.

When he finally broke away, his mouth was damp and smiling faintly. “There. Your first kiss. A sin… but doesn’t it feel divine?”

You couldn’t answer, only stared, dazed.

He guided your trembling hand downward, pressing it against the hard line straining beneath his robes. “This, too, is sin. Flesh. Desire.” He watched your shock with something close to delight. “You’ll touch, and you’ll learn. Say it with me — forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Your lips stumbled over the words, half-whispered.

“That’s my good girl.” He kissed your temple as your palm flexed against him, your innocence clashing with the weight of him in your hand. “God hears you, but tonight, only I absolve you. Every gasp, every cry from your lips — your penance.”

Then his hand slid beneath your dress, parting your knees. Fingers tracing where you’d never let anyone near. His voice dropped to a growl, still wrapped in prayer:

“Say your Hail Marys while I ruin you, little one. Every word will carry you closer to Heaven… even as I drag you through Hell.”

Your breath caught, jagged. His words, his touch — they crashed over you too fast, too heavy. The heat building low in your belly terrified you more than the hand between your thighs.

You jerked back, eyes wide, chest heaving as though you’d run from the altar to the gates of Hell itself. “I—I can’t—” Your voice broke, your hands trembling as you tried to pull your knees together.

Immediately, he stilled. Fingers retreating, his hand pressing instead to the small of your back, steady, grounding. His other hand cupped your jaw gently, forcing your gaze back to his. The hunger in his eyes was still there, but tempered now, wrapped in something softer.

“Shhh,” he whispered, voice low, coaxing. “Breathe, little lamb. Just breathe for me.”

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, humiliation mixing with fear. “I don’t know what’s happening. I feel—”

“Overwhelmed,” he finished for you, nodding. “I know. It’s new. It’s too much. And it stops now if you wish it.”

Your lip trembled. “You mean… I can stop?”

His thumb brushed across your cheek, reverent. “Of course. Your will is law here. God gave it to you — and I won’t take it.” His mouth curved, faint but certain. “If you never want me to touch you again, you’ll leave this room untouched. Do you understand?”

The tight coil in your chest loosened, just a little. You nodded, though your tears fell hot onto his cassock. He wiped them gently, as if they were holy water.

“You are not wicked for trembling,” he murmured. “You are not wicked for wanting, or for fearing. Both live in you. Both are natural.” His lips brushed the crown of your head, featherlight. “And if you ever choose to walk this path with me again, I’ll guide you slow, step by step. Not a moment sooner than you wish.”

For the first time since mass ended, you exhaled without shaking.

And in that moment, you realized something even more dangerous than his touch.

You trusted him.

His hand stayed steady at your back, rubbing slow circles, his voice softer now than it had ever been at the pulpit. “That’s it. Breathe with me, little one. In through your nose… good. Out through your mouth.”

You matched him, uneven at first, until the panic loosened its claws. The office grew quiet again, just the tick of the old clock and the rasp of your shaky breaths.

He didn’t push. Didn’t move closer, didn’t move away. Simply waited.

The gentleness was almost worse. Because as your tears dried, as your heart slowed, you became aware of everything else again — the heat of his body so close, the faint scent of incense and cedar clinging to his cassock, the echo of that kiss still tingling on your lips.

Your fingers, traitorous, curled in the fabric at his chest. “Father…”

“Yes, little lamb?” His tone was patient, but the edge of hunger flickered in his eyes, restrained only by sheer will.

“I…” You swallowed hard. Shame and desire warred in your chest until the words stumbled out in a whisper. “I don’t want you to stop. I just… need you to go slower.”

For a moment, his jaw tightened, as though fighting some inner battle. Then his hand cupped the back of your head, guiding your gaze to meet his. “You ask, and I obey. We’ll go slow. As slow as you need.”

The tension broke like a storm easing. Your shoulders sagged, a trembling exhale leaving you.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your damp lashes, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “You see? Even now, you guide the path. I only follow.”

And when his lips claimed yours again, it was different — not a theft, but an offering. Gentle, reverent, coaxing instead of devouring. His tongue brushed against yours only when you parted for him, his hand never straying until you shifted closer, shy but deliberate.

When you finally gasped against him, his smile was a benediction against your lips. “That’s it. We’ll take our time, little one. You’ll learn, piece by piece.”

His voice dropped to a hushed growl, sinful even wrapped in softness. “Now tell me… may I show you more?”

When you whispered yes, his smile deepened — not cruel, but reverent, like he’d just received communion itself.

“Then come here.” His hand slid down your arm, fingers curling around your wrist as he rose and led you the few steps to his desk. The Bible lay open there, words of scripture glinting in the candlelight. With a single motion, he closed it, setting it aside with care. Then his hands found your waist and lifted, placing you gently atop the polished wood.

You gasped, clutching at the edge as your skirts spilled around you.

“Look at you,” he breathed, stepping between your knees. His hands slid up your calves, slow and deliberate, coaxing them apart. “Perched on my desk like an offering. Do you know what you are, little lamb?”

You shook your head, lips parted, heart hammering.

“Temptation itself.” His mouth brushed your ear. “And I will teach you how to bear it.”

The first kiss at your throat had you shivering, his stubble scraping tender skin. When his hands slid higher, settling on your thighs, you whimpered.

“Easy,” he soothed. “We’re in no hurry. This is teaching, not taking. Do you trust me?”

“Yes, Father,” you whispered.

His groan rumbled low, his forehead pressing to your shoulder for a heartbeat as if your words struck him too deeply. Then he straightened, eyes blazing. “Good girl. Then open for me.”

You obeyed, thighs parting as his hand trailed beneath your dress, calloused fingertips grazing untouched skin. When he reached the damp heat of your innocence, you jolted, a cry catching in your throat.

He hushed you with a kiss, slow and grounding. “That’s sin, little one. That ache between your legs? That’s desire. And this—” his fingers slid against your softness, spreading you, finding the little pearl that made you arch off the desk with a helpless moan, “—is where I teach you to pray with your body.”

Your nails dug into the wood. “Father—”

“Say it,” he commanded softly, thumb circling you until your words broke into gasps. “Say, forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Tears pricked your lashes as the pleasure built, terrifying and overwhelming. You choked the words out between breaths. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Again.” His mouth claimed your throat, sucking bruises into the pale column of your neck.

“Forgive me, Father—” a gasp tore from you when two of his fingers pressed inside, stretching you for the first time, “—for I… I have sinned!”

“Good girl.” His teeth scraped your skin, sinful and sweet. “And with every sin, I’ll teach you the penance.”

Your cries filled the small office, mixing with the sound of his low groans, the wet slide of his fingers working you open. His cassock shifted with the strain of him against you, but he didn’t rush, didn’t take. He simply ruined you on his desk, whispering filthy prayers into your ear as your body learned its first lessons in sin

Your body arched under his hand, every nerve lit like stained glass catching fire. His fingers worked you open with unholy patience, each thrust deeper, stretching you in ways that made your thighs shake.

But it wasn’t just the touch. It was him.

The way his voice wrapped around the prayers, twisting them. “Say it again, little lamb.” His thumb pressed harder to your pearl until your breath caught. “Confess.”

“F–forgive me, Father, for I have sinned—”

“Yes,” he growled against your throat, the sound too deep, too raw. Not priestly. Not holy. For a fleeting moment, it sounded less like a man’s groan, and more like something darker slipping through.

Your eyes fluttered open, dazed, and you swore the candle nearest the desk guttered lower, shadows lengthening across the office. His gaze caught yours — blue, but gleaming with an unnatural brightness, like a storm swallowing the sky. For one terrible, intoxicating heartbeat, you thought you saw something flicker beneath, something endless and wrong.

Then he kissed you, and the thought burned away in the press of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth at your jaw.

“Do you feel that ache?” His fingers curled inside you, dragging a sharp cry from your lips. “That’s your soul learning hunger. God may forgive, but I…” His smile was wicked, almost inhuman. “…I will devour.”

You shivered, not from fear, not entirely — but from the dizzying sense that you were no longer safe, no longer in the hands of a man of God.

And yet, you couldn’t pull away.

When his mouth descended between your thighs, spreading you open to his gaze, his breath was hot, reverent — but there was something feverish in the way he stared, something closer to worship of sin than of any saint.

He kissed you there first, like it was sacrament, before his tongue slid against you, and the world shattered.

“Pray,” he ordered, voice muffled against your flesh. “Pray while I damn you.”

And as your cries filled the dark little office, the shadows seemed to thicken, curling closer as though eager to listen.

Your body trembled helplessly, pinned to his desk by nothing but his mouth and his will. His tongue traced you until you were sobbing, hands knotted in his cassock, tears streaking your cheeks from the sheer force of it. Every prayer you tried to whisper fell apart on a moan.

When he finally lifted his head, his mouth glistened, his lips swollen, eyes burning. He wiped your tears with his thumb, smearing them like chrism. “Look at you. My perfect lamb, already undone.”

You shivered, still pulsing around the emptiness he’d left behind. He leaned closer, pressing his forehead to yours. “You trusted me enough to let me touch you. Will you trust me enough to have you?”

Your breath caught. The wordless fear of what that meant tangled with the ache of wanting. “F–Father, I’ve never—”

“I know.” His voice was silk wrapped around steel. “I’ll guide you. Slow. Gentle. You’ll feel no pain, only me filling you, making you whole. Let me in, and I’ll teach you what no boy ever could.”

Something in you broke loose — trembling, terrified, and yet yearning. You nodded, whispering, “Yes.”

His cassock shifted as he freed himself, the heavy sound of fabric rustling like thunder. When the head of him pressed against your slick entrance, you gasped, clutching his arms.

“Easy,” he soothed, kissing your temple. “Breathe. Let me in.”

And when he pushed forward, stretching you, filling you inch by inch, the pain you braced for never came. Instead, there was only pressure, unbearable and overwhelming, until he seated himself fully inside.

You opened your eyes — and for a moment, the world changed. The candlelight flared, shadows writhed across the walls, and his face above you wasn’t entirely human. His pupils swallowed the blue, his smile sharp and knowing. A shiver should’ve been terror. But it wasn’t. It was… trust. Strange, unearthly trust, as though he could destroy you utterly, and you would let him.

He began to move, slow, grinding, his lips brushing your ear. “That’s it, little lamb. Take me. Every inch. You were made for this.” His words laced with reverence and ruin. “So sweet, so tight. You’ll never need anyone else now — only me.”

Your nails dug crescents into his back as the pleasure built again, higher, sharper, his thrusts driving you toward some impossible peak.

And then, with his pace faltering, his breath harsh against your throat, he rasped, “Tell me, little one… where shall I spill my seed? In your purity, to stain it? Or on your skin, to mark you as mine?”

The question burned hotter than his body inside you, hanging between damnation and devotion.

You tell him without words — the tremor in your throat, the way your fingers braid in his hair, the plea that lives in the tilt of your chin. “Inside,” you whisper, the single syllable a benediction and a dare.

He answers with a sound that’s half prayer, half possession, and then he moves with you — slow at first, reverent in the way a man might approach an altar. Inch by inch he fills you; there is a hot, stretching ache that blooms into something keening and impossible. The office shrinks to the scrape of wood and the soft patter of his breath and the press of him inside you, all of it wrapped in the hush of candlelight.

You ride him the way a sacrament takes you — awkward, tender, and then suddenly fluent. Every thrust is a lesson, each one a word he says into the hollow of your ear: more, breathe, say my name. He is both teacher and temptation, and you answer him with body and sound; the confession becomes a chorus of moans and whispered absolutions.

When he comes, it is not a clean, clerical thing. It is a wrecking, a hot, overflowing surrender that makes you see sparks behind your eyelids. He groans — a sound like thunder under the roof — and you feel him lose himself inside you, warmth spilling where you asked him to, filling you like a secret. The sensation is too full, too final; you see shadowed shapes flicker at the edges of your vision, a brief unraveling of the ordinary. For a second his eyes flash black at the center and the candlelight seems to lean toward him, hungry.

You do not tremble with fear. If anything, trust blooms in your chest — strange and stubborn, as if you have handed him your pulse and he is the only one who can hold it steady.

He slows, lets the last of him still inside you, and there is a long, private silence. His forehead rests against yours, breath cooling along your lip. Then he shifts, easing out of you with the gentleness of a man who has inhaled and now exhales with care.

You sag, dizzy, watched by saints in glass, by the holy and the unholy both. You give a shaky, embarrassed laugh that tastes like water. “What… are you?” the question slips out before you can stop it — not accusatory, only small and terribly earnest.

He straightens, fixing the fallen line of his collar as if dressing were a sacrament he performs every time. For a moment he simply looks at you — something like a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, something like midnight in his eyes. He leans in and presses a thumb to the corner of yours, wiping away the smear of him with the carefulness of a man who has handled delicate relics.

“A father,” he says, in that same low velvet that taught you to obey and to ache. The word hangs oddly, not quite true and not quite false. He straightens, hands smoothing out his cassock, and there’s a half-smirk that catches the lamplight. “A sinner. A shepherd. A hunger you named in the dark.”

You watch him tuck himself back into the rigid holiness of his role and the rumpled humanity beneath it. Your mouth quirks into a confused half-smile. “If you’re… a demon, why do you clean me up after you take what you wanted?”

He pads across the room with a slow, purposeful step, the sound of his shoes calm as a heartbeat. Kneeling beside you, he presses a cloth to the places you can’t see and then another to the ones you can. His hands are sure and steady, methodical as prayer. When he looks up, there is an odd softness in his face that doesn’t belong in a pulpit.

“Being unholy,” he says, “doesn’t mean I don’t have my own morals.” He looks almost amused by the surprise on your face, as if he’s confessed something scandalous and tender at once. “I take. I take what I want. But I do not discard. I tend what I keep.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your cheek as if smoothing a vow. “You asked me to teach you. I taught you. I will not leave you ruined in a gutter. That isn’t mercy. It would be cruelty.” His voice drops softer. “There are rules even monsters keep, little lamb.”

You let the cloth fall from your fingers. The absurdity of the statement — the altar, the demon, the priest who called himself both — tastes like sin and salvation at once. You find yourself strangely comforted by his tidy, oddly paternal ministrations: the way he folds the cloth, the way he secures your skirt, the way he waits for you to meet his gaze before he sits back on the edge of his desk.

He gives you a look that is part question, part command. “Are you all right?” he asks.

You nod, though you are still trembling. The pull between the dark things you saw and the gentleness of his hands stitches a wild, impossible trust into you.