#sacrilegious

“You’ve come again,” he says, and his voice is close, impossibly close, as though the partition between you is nothing but a flimsy veil.

“With your head bowed, your hands folded so sweetly in your lap,” There’s something indulgent in the way he says it, like a priest speaking not to scold, but to savor your sin. “Do you know what it looks like, little one? Do you have any idea how you appear when you come to me like this?”

You purse your lips together, the action almost painful, before speaking up again.

“I wake up in the night. Restless, hot, bothered and I think of…” Your voice is small, barely audible. “I think of bodies. Of what it would be like to have a strong one against mine...”

The silence on the other side stretches, but it isn't cold, it's contemplative.

And in that silence your mind betrays you completely. You picture him leaning in slightly, fingertips pressed together, dark eyes fixed on the partition like he can see straight through it. Like he can see straight through you.

His large hands, his broad shoulders hunched in quiet focus— the image arrives uninvited and refuses to leave. That, you think miserably, is precisely the sin you came here to confess.

“Temptation is the Devil’s oldest trick. He plants seeds in your thoughts and waits for them to rot you from the inside.”

His voice is softer now, gentler, like a hand on your shoulder. “But you’ve done well to bring it here. Speak, and be unburdened.”

You shift on your knees, wetness slowly building between your legs at the rasp in his voice alone.

Fuck, out of all people, how could you be this turned on by the priest you're confessing to?

“I please myself.” you state bluntly at last, as if ripping off a band-aid.

“When I feel it building. I try to resist, I do, but I end up on my knees anyway, just not like... this." you whisper as your nails dig into your thighs, leaving crescent marks.

"And afterwards I cry, because I just feel so empty and ashamed... Because I let my lust consume me.”

You hear the faint rustle of his robes shifting behind the partition. No other sound, just that, and the pounding of your heart, like it’s trying to escape your chest and climb into his hands.

“Child of God,” Geto murmurs, “you carry shame like a second skin. But if you come here seeking sanctification…”

The wooden grate clicks open. Your breath catches in your throat as a sliver of light spills through. Enough to catch the faint glint of his rings, gold and tarnished silver, engraved with tiny symbols you don’t recognize.

“Then let me take it from you,”

His fingers slide through the opening gradually, knuckles kissed by candlelight. The cuffs of his robe pull taut at his wrists, the soft black fabric whispering against wood.

“Let me purify your being.”

Geto's hands cup your face, warm and firm, brushing the stray strands of hair from your eyes, tracing the curve of your cheekbone with rough hands.

You tilt your head up, eyes glossy with unshed tears. You can’t see him clearly through the rail, but you feel the weight of his gaze, knowing and unyielding.

His hand tightens just slightly, as if to steady your trembling.

“This is no mere penance,” he croons, swiping his thumb below your eye tenderly. “It is a communion of flesh and spirit. Will you receive the Host I offer?”

You nod, barely, wordless and desperate.

“Very well, then.”

The wooden grate slides fully open, divider folding back with a quiet, final creak. The confessional no longer feels like two separate worlds but one dimly lit chamber charged with a secret, forbidden electricity.

Geto steps through, crossing over to your side. The flickering candlelight catches the deep black, traditional Roman collar crisp against pale skin.

His robe falls smoothly, the fabric pooling lightly at his ankles, just above polished black shoes. Around his neck hangs a beaded rosary with a silver crucifix.

His hands slide to your face again, steadying you as the other moves to his neck. The beads slip through his hands with a soft, rhythmic clack. He lets the strand fall gently, like a silent benediction, before looping it slowly around your neck, the cross resting heavy against your skin.

Geto tightens his grip just enough to tug the beads against your throat, a slow choke that makes your breath hitch sharply and pulse quicken.

Leaning in close, breath hot and ragged against your ear, he murmurs, “Open yourself, and let me absolve you.”

His eyes darken with intent as one hand slides down to the waistband of his pants. Fingers deft and sure, he undoes the clasp with a muted whisper of fabric and metal.

His cock springs out, pale and pretty with a pearly split tip.

And it's huge. So big and girthy that for a moment you wonder if you could even fit it in your palm. The sides of your mouth froth at the mere thought of it.

You part your lips, trembling, as he presses himself to your mouth. The tip slides past your lips, warm and demanding.

You take him in eagerly, mouth hot and wet, the taste sharp like consecrated wine.

Geto's hands thread through your hair, fisting it and holding you firm as he fucks your face. Low groans spill from his throat like worship.

“That’s it... the Lord will—”

His words catch, swallowed by a deep, guttural sound as he pushes himself deeper and deeper, your pretty little throat stretching to welcome him. The pressure of the beads around your neck and the fullness in your mouth blend into a pulse of sinful salvation.

You suck and swirl, tasting him fully—holy and profane in one breath—as his hips thrust forward with steady rhythm. The church walls seem to close in around you, sacred space pulsing with every grunt and stifled moan.

Your cunt throbs in perfect agony. Your cheeks are wet from the mixture tears and spit.

Your fingers slip between your thighs before you know what you’re doing, sin layered on sin, shame so sweet it could only be divine.

“I can feel your mouth praying for me,” he pants. “Isn’t this what you wanted? What you needed? The Lord forgives you. I forgive you.”

You gag softly as he hits the back of your throat, but you don’t stop. He doesn’t let you.

You look up through your lashes, drool spilling past your lips, fingers moving faster. You’re cumming all over your own digits before he does.

“More,” he gasps, voice heavy with need. “The flesh is–ngh–not your enemy, child. It is simply honest.”

Geto's head tilts back slightly, jaw tensing as a breath escapes him. He shudders, thick release flooding your mouth, hot and creamy ropes gradually painting near the inside of your mouth.

“Be a sweetheart...” he murmurs, voice hushed and hoarse, thumb tilting your chin up. “And swallow for me.”

You swallow, your throat aching and still tightening around the rosary beads.

Geto looks down at you through his hooded gaze—still kneeling, spit and release coating your lips lewdly. His hand finds your jaw again, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

His eyes then flick down to your trembling hand, fingers slick and glistening with your own climax.

He catches your wrist with his free hand, bringing it up slowly. His tongue laps the mess you made, savoring the taste of your sex with a groan deep enough to echo through the confessional walls.

When he’s had his fill, Geto pulls off with a wet pop, licking his lips. "You have prayed for this, sweet little sinner..."

He lingers for a moment, eyes trailing over your wrecked form—your heaving chest, the tremble still in your thighs, the cross hanging heavy against your neck. Geto's breath is still uneven, but his voice is steady as he speaks:

“Perhaps not in words— but the body confesses what the tongue cannot. In this sacrament of flesh, you are reborn.”

His silence stretches, a void that pulls at you. When he speaks, his tone is measured, priestly, but there's an undercurrent, a warmth that seeps through the wood like heat from a hidden flame. "Impure in what way? Speak plainly, so that grace may find you."

Your breath hitches.

The booth feels smaller, the air thicker, pressing against your chest.

"They are...desires. Fleshly desires. About a man of the cloth." You hesitate, heart pounding against your ribs like a trapped bird.

"They are about…you."

The lattice seems to hum with his stillness. You can't see him, but you imagine the flicker of candlelight on his face, the way his brow might furrow, those full lips parting in surprise or—God forgive you—something darker.

When he responds, his voice has dropped, a velvet edge sharpening the words. "Me? You come to this sacred place, to unburden yourself before God, and confess lust for your confessor?" There's no anger, not yet, but a weight to it, a condemnation that coils low in your belly.

Or is it arousal? The ambiguity chokes the space between you, the creak of the booth settling like a held breath.

You press your palms to your thighs, fingers digging into the fabric of your skirt, willing your voice steady. "Yes, Father. I picture you in ways I shouldn't. In the quiet of night, when prayer fails me."

The admission hangs there, sinful and raw, and you wait for the absolution that won't come, or perhaps for the rebuke that will break you.

His exhale is audible now, ragged at the edges. "Tell me more," he murmurs, and the command is soft, almost tender, like a benediction. But beneath it, the air shifts, charged as the moments before a storm. The chapel's shadows deepen outside, the candles sputtering as if in witness to your fall.

The lattice blurs in your vision, or perhaps it's the tears of shame pricking your eyes. You shouldn't continue, shouldn't feed this forbidden flame, but his voice draws it out of you like a confessor's probe into a wound.

"What do you think of, exactly?" he presses, his tone dipping into something harsher, a whip crack of authority. "Paint it for me, sweet lamb. Every sinful stroke."

You swallow, the wood of the kneeler biting into your knees. "I think of your voice, Father. How it fills the chapel, how it could fill... me. I imagine kneeling not in prayer, but before you, your hands in my hair, guiding me." The words tumble out, your body flushing with the heat of exposure. The booth traps the sound, making it intimate, profane.

There’s a low hum from his side, of disapproval…of hunger maybe?

“Lustful wretch,” he murmurs, the words striking like a whip, sharp enough to sting. “You drag your filth into this place, daring to tempt your shepherd, to drown him in your sins.” His voice rises, echoing his own sermons about temptation, but there’s a tremor under it now, a raggedness he can’t conceal.

Then, unexpectedly, it softens, curling around you like an unseen hand.

“But you’re honest, aren’t you? So bold, laying yourself bare. A little lamb still reaching for the fold.”

The warmth creeps into you, dangerous, addictive as it loosens the shame he’s just sewn into your skin. You tremble, no longer from fear but from the swing of it, the way his tone drags you from the brink of punishment to the edge of grace. Your thighs press together, a pulse building as his control draws tighter.

“Tell me more,” he commands again, the edge returning like a blade slipped from its sheath.

“Do you touch yourself to these thoughts? Do you whisper my name in the dark, like a prayer to a false god?” You nod, though he can’t see, whispering, “Yes, Father. I do. It consumes me.”

“Filthy,” he breathes, the word a velvet knife, glinting with something almost holy. “Such a secret to cradle under your pious face. And yet here you are, spilling it out.” The swing of his voice dizzies you, a pendulum from scourge to solace. Each bitter word strips you down; each soft one rebuilds you as he wills.

You lean into the lattice, craving the next sting, the next stroke.

He twists your confession back at you, weaving it into his litany. “You imagine my hands guiding you? Then know this, you’d kneel for me, wouldn’t you? Beg for what you crave, even as it damns us both.” His tone splinters, the mask of priesthood cracking as arousal threads through restraint.

You feel it like a current, pulling you further in.

You’re shaking now, the booth no longer a place of penance but a throne for your confessor. His lingering approval coats you more thickly than his censure, a tenderness so sharp it hurts. “You’re doing well,” he murmurs. “So good for me.”

And in that moment, the line blurs. You’re no longer just penitent but his, bound to the rhythm of his voice.

The door to his side of the booth creaks open, a sound slicing through the air like a revelation. Footsteps approach, and your heart stutters as the latch turns. He enters, the space contracting around you both, his presence a sudden heat in the confined dark. The scent of him overlays the smoke, Clean soap, faint sandalwood, and something deeper, animal, betraying the man beneath the cloth.

You keep your eyes on the shadowed floor, but feel him there, towering yet lowering himself, knees brushing the edge of the kneeler until the air between you hums with forbidden nearness.

“Do you want forgiveness, little lamb?” he asks, voice heavy as ritual. You nod, whispering, “Yes, Father. Please.”

His hand—God, his hand—slides through the dimness, fingers grazing your chin, tilting your face upward. His touch is electric, restrained, like a sacrament made flesh. His eyes catch the candlelight from beyond the booth, dark pools where you see him unraveling.

The calm priest fissured by desire.

“Then tell me what you’d do for it,” he says, thumb tracing your lip, a touch at once blessing and blasphemy. “What would you offer?”

Your breath stutters, body alive under his gaze. “Anything,” you murmur. “I’d worship you. Take you in my mouth, on my knees, like communion. Let you use me to atone.”

A low groan escapes him as he shifts closer, his cassock whispering against your skirt.

He doesn’t rush as this is no hasty sin but a liturgy of hunger. His free hand finds your thigh, fingers splaying, heat seeping through fabric. “Such a faithful sinner,” he says at last, voice falling to a hush that vibrates through you. “On your knees for your priest, offering yourself as if you were an altar. You’d take me deep, wouldn’t you? Swallow every drop of my forgiveness.”

The words flicker like candlelight against shadowed stone, drawing a shiver from you, and a nod that seals your quiet yielding.

His fingers ascend, parting the soft barrier of your thighs with a patience that borders on ritual, the booth's narrow walls catching every whisper. The faint hush of fabric shifting, your breaths sharpening, the distant patter of wax melting beyond the lattice.

He leans in, breath warm against your ear, his body a shadowed monolith before you. "But you're so filthy for it," he continues, the swing of his tone shattering you anew. "Craving your confessor's cock like a whore in the house of God. Touching yourself to thoughts of me defiling you, spreading your legs in this sacred place."

His hand ventures beneath your skirt, tracing the warming edge of cotton with the care of one deciphering ancient script, as if your skin holds some forbidden verse.

"See how you respond, already wet for absolution," he breathes, the words a soft invocation.

Your form softens into him, arching like a flame seeking air, but his touch retreats, just enough to stir the hollow ache before it returns, circling your clit through the thin barrier with agonizing slowness.

"Beg for it, then," he urges. "Voice the fire you'd walk through, the fragments you'd become for a whisper of release."

"Please," you breathe, fingers digging into the kneeler's worn edge, wood yielding under the press. "Let me draw near. Let this be my vow. Let me taste you, Father. Let me prove my devotion."

He rises slightly, unfastening his cassock with one hand while the other holds you in place against the temptation of what is to come. The fabric parts, revealing the hard line of him, straining against his undergarments.

Evidence of his own fall.

He frees himself and guides your hand to him first, wrapping your fingers around his shaft. It's hot, velvet over steel, and you stroke tentatively.

“Good girl,” he breathes, the words melting into your skin, heat blooming low in your belly. “Touch me like that, let me see how your faith trembles.” His tone roughens, a shadow curling beneath the warmth. “Faster, you needy thing. Show me how badly you want to be filled, how your filthy mouth waters for it." You obey, pace quickening, his hips rocking into your touch as his fingers finally push aside your underwear, delving into your wetness with two digits, curling just right.

The rhythm of his words drives it all, a pendulum of sanctity and sin.

“You’re divine like this,” he murmurs, thumb circling your clit as he moves inside you, “spread open, taking my fingers like a blessing.” You moan, head falling back against the booth wall, the saints carved above seeming to leer. “But so depraved,” he breathes, voice crumbling into gravel, “clenching around me like a harlot, dripping for the man who should save you.”

Each swing splinters you further. His shifting tone dissolves your resistance, his darker edge igniting your surrender. He adds a third finger, stretching you, his free hand tangling in your hair, guiding your mouth toward him like gravity.

“Open,” he says, and you obey, tongue flicking out to taste the bead of precum at his tip.

He groans as you take him in, inch by inch, the salt of him a dark communion on your tongue. His hips thrust shallowly, careful even in abandon, his words urging, "that's it, sweet lamb. Worship me with that mouth, earn your grace," and undoing in equal measure. "Suck harder, you desperate slut. Choke on your priest's cock, show me your devotion's depth."

The booth rocks faintly with your movements, the air thick with the sounds of it.

He tests you, pushing deeper, then pulling back with tender strokes of your hair. “You’d burn for this, wouldn’t you?” he whispers. “Fall to cinders just to hear me call you mine.” Your body coils tighter, pleasure building from his fingers relentless rhythm inside you, his taste filling your mouth, his words weaving the spell.

The climax builds like a crescendo in his sermons. He calls your name then, the syllables on his tongue raw and intimate, cracking the facade.

“Cum for me,” he commands, the edges of his voice blurring into something neither pure nor profane.

“Let go, little lamb. You’re absolved.”

And just like that, you rise.

Waves crashing, body convulsing around his fingers as you cry out around him, the release seismic, unholy. He follows moments later, spilling into your mouth with a choked prayer, his grip tender as he holds you through it, whispering, “So good. So beautifully undone.”

You collapse against him, spent and trembling, the booth a cocoon of after sin.

His hands stroke your back slowly, tender as though gentleness itself could quiet what’s just been undone, the pendulum slowing to a hush.

The door to the confessional sighs open once more, and he helps you to your feet, his touch lingering. Languid fingers brushing your elbow, steadying you as the world tilts. The chapel waits beyond, its candles burned low, the air cooler now, as if the heat of your undoing has seeped into the stone.

You emerge into the nave together, wordless at first, the weight of what transpired settling like ash after a fire.

He adjusts his cassock with practiced care, but his eyes, when they meet yours, hold no apology. Only a quiet certainty, the priest and the man no longer separate.

You sink into a pew, the wood cool against your flushed skin, and he joins you, not as confessor but as companion, his thigh brushing yours in seismic intimacy. The saints in the stained glass gaze down, their colors muted in the dying light, witnesses to this unspoken aftermath.

Guilt stirs in you, a soft undercurrent to the fading pleasure, but it’s laced with something else. Something that feels like understanding forged in the heat of confession.

He sits in silence for a moment, hands folded in his lap, the picture of restraint.

Then, almost ashamed, he reaches for your hand, his palm warm and callused from turning pages of scripture. “I shouldn’t have…” he begins, voice low, frayed with doubt. “The vows I took—they’re not just words.” Yet even as he speaks, his thumb traces small, rhythmic circles against your skin, betraying the discipline he tries to reclaim.

You turn to him, the candlelight catching the sharp line of his jaw, the nakedness in his gaze. “But you did,” you whisper, fingers tightening around his. “And it felt like forgiveness.” The words hang between you, quiet as breath, echoing the duality that binds you.

Sin and sanctity, ruin and grace.

He exhales, cupping your cheek with devastating tenderness, a gesture both human and holy. “You’ve made me question everything since your arrival,” he admits, voice soft, like a confession given to the dark. "In your presence, faith and doubt entwine like lovers. You're the sin I'll never confess, the temptation that feels like grace."

You lean into him, foreheads touching in the shadowed pew, the chapel wrapping around you like an absolution neither of you earned.

Outside, the night deepens, but here, in this tender hush, clarity blooms in surrender to the blur. He presses a kiss to your temple and murmurs the final echo of the pendulum.

“You make me believe… and doubt… all at once, little lamb.”

As the last candle gutters out, leaving you in twilight’s embrace, you know the lines have dissolved for good. The collar at his throat remains, a symbol unbroken, but what binds you now, spoken in shadow and quiet devotion, feels truer than any oath to God.

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