pedropascallme - Tumblr blog

pedropascallme · 12 days ago

Text

Corpus Dei

Pairing: priest!König x f!Reader

Summary: "When he had arrived, Father König had seemed intimidating; large, in both physical form and presence. His thick accent made even the most insignificant passages hold power. He had held your attention with the strength of his voice, gripping the podium until his knuckles turned white as he read aloud."

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI!!!!), religious themes, religious guilt, implied age gap (reader is ~19-20, König is 35ish), virgin!reader, power imbalance, masturbation (f), guidance/instruction, fingering, oral (m receiving), little bit of size kink, hair pulling, panty sniffing, some spanking, blasphemous dirty talk, p in v sex, use of honorifics in a sexual scenario ("Father"), inexperience/corruption kink, is 'sex in a church' a warning? if I missed anything please let me know!

By all accounts, tonight should have been something that warmed your spirit and put you at ease.

It was finally getting dark, and the warm wind pushed against the still semi-bare branches of the trees that scraped at the sky. But the breeze on your face, and the gentle glow of the sun, wasn’t enough to quell the strange ache you felt in your bones that seemed to stem from somewhere in your chest.

You loved Easter—you loved the communal joy. The smiles on the faces of even the dourest of old folks when the village children expressed their excitement over the coming of the Easter Bunny; the shine that the warmer weather brought to the usual drabness of daily life.

But this year had hardened you in an unfamiliar manner, and as you approached the old, Norman-style church, spires reaching high and stone glinting in the fading sun, you felt indecent—out of place.

The candles lit within the main hall burned bright, and the light refracted against the stained-glass windows to project colorful angels and saints onto the grass outside. You stopped to stare momentarily, searching the dancing pictures on the ground to find some motivation to finally push through the large wooden doors and enter the church.

It was loud. The noise had been muted when you were outside, but now, standing amongst the chaos of the annual Easter celebration, the veneer of positivity that was plastered on the faces and bodies of everybody inside felt almost overwhelming.

You took a hesitant step, pushing yourself further into eye of the storm, keeping your head bowed and glancing in your peripheral just to maintain a semblance of awareness. You didn’t know where you were headed, or what exactly you hoped to find in the sea of people around you, but you made an effort to look like you belonged, anyway.

One of the older women of the village appeared at your side, offering you a bite to eat—fresh bread, softened butter. You raised your head, at first with the goal of kindly dismissing her, but you changed your mind when you saw the fruit on the tray she carried; red and green and blue, they looked like gemstones under the candlelight, and you couldn’t help yourself, eagerly accepting her offer with a perhaps too excited thank you. She smiled, and when she left your line of sight, it was as if some divine intervention forced your eyes directly onto Father König.

He looked back at you; wide blue eyes that held far too much knowledge for his age flickering over your expression, as if trying to read your thoughts. His hood was up, making his face shadowy, the glint of his eyes and the white of his teeth made brighter by the dark void of fabric surrounding him.

You wanted to lower your head again, to bow and blend in, to pretend he wasn’t there, but something stopped you. Perhaps it was the same something that had stopped you from attending Mass in the first place.

When he had arrived, Father König had seemed intimidating; large, in both physical form and presence. His thick accent made even the most insignificant passages hold power. He had held your attention with the strength of his voice, gripping the podium until his knuckles turned white as he read aloud.

He wasn't frightening, though. Simply passionate.

You had assumed his presence would be a turning point in the village’s faith. Those around you had feared his arrival. They spread tales about a man who would be coming from one of several places where Protestantism had taken a hold, and the village faced a scary possibility that with the times they, too, would have to change.

You hadn’t been convinced by their anxieties—your assumptions only formed after his arrival, and the change you thought he would bring was, for all intents and purposes, beneficial. Maybe he would know how to handle a place like this; maybe he would know how to keep his mouth shut, like a holy man should, instead of fanning the flames that often licked the heels of anybody dumb enough to trust the previous clergy and their misguided preaching.

But the real change was in yourself, and it excited you nearly as much as it alarmed you. His rhetoric so heavily favored the individual, and you wondered often if his touch would be as reverent as his words. You watched his large hands tracing the rosary, and you imagined your body in place of the beads. Your confessions were vague, knowing that he was on the other side, knowing that he would be able to recognize your voice if you were to admit to him the filth that ran through your mind, that he was the main subject of your cardinal sin.

His presence was all encompassing. He’d nestled in the deepest corners of your mind after only a month of preaching to you, and you couldn’t escape the thoughts that tortured you daily, no matter how hard you tried to push them away.

So, you'd stopped attending services. You risked the wrath of God and the murmurs around the community in favor of saving yourself from the divine punishment you were certain awaited you—not to mention the expression of disappointment you were certain to hear from Father König, were he to learn the details of your musings.

You couldn’t bear the thought of being in his presence, being alone with him during confession, and at the same time, the sudden absence of him in your life also became unbearable.

Which, putting more thought into it, is why you stood in the large hall of the old church now. But how to go about your search for forgiveness, you had no idea.

You realized that you had been holding his gaze, and quickly decided that you didn’t want to be in church right now—not with everybody here, not like this.

Not with him looking at you with such abundant empathy. It made you feel dizzy.

You backed away, stuffing the fruit you hadn’t yet eaten into the pocket of your apron. You bowed your head once more in an effort to lose his attention, and turned to push through the wooden doors again.

And then you waited.

Loitering in the shadows, popping the colorful fruit into your mouth and spitting the seeds, you waited for the festivities to die out. You tried to focus on the way the shadows stretched out beneath the trees as the sun dipped lower and lower, until finally, it disappeared.

You waited for the chatter and the excitement to turn into yawns and quietly muttered ‘goodnights’ as people exited the church to exchange their dresses and trousers for bedclothes, their revelry for rest. You waited for the sound of small children, bundled in the arms of their mothers, wondering aloud if they would get to do this again tomorrow night, and the quiet hiss of mothers, in turn, telling their babes to close their eyes.

When you were absolutely certain everybody had gone, that there was nobody left in the building, save for the one you so desperately craved an audience with, you waited just a moment more.

You finished the fruit, spit the last seed, and swallowed your pride. Then, you re-entered.

The candles had burnt low. They flickered, as if begging for rejuvenation, or mercy, casting long, creepy shadows across the stone of the building’s interior.

You watched intently as Father König lit new candles at the altar. With his back to you, the cloak he wore made him appear as one of the shadows on the wall, but his movements were too calculated to truly blend in, too smooth. The heavy door closed behind you with a loud creak, and he seemed too engrossed in the candles to notice or to care.

But his movements slowed when you began your approach, listening to the soft clicks of your shoes against the floor before they were muted by the long carpet; an echo with every one of your first few steps, then a soft thud with every remaining one.

You paused when you found yourself in the middle of the aisle—a distance of several yards felt appropriate. Not too close, not too distant.

You could admire him, but you couldn’t become too enamored, and he, in turn, would have no clear insight into your frantic thoughts of him.

After a moment spent watching him pick up the pace of his candle lighting again, you cleared your throat, your whisper-quiet tone still managing to echo softly throughout the church.

“…Happy Easter, Father.”

He didn’t turn around, but he hummed quietly in response to your well-wishes.

“And to you,” his tone was calm, even, and in every way the exact opposite of the frantically jumpy flames of the candles he worked over. “Something is on your mind?” He finally raised the match he’d been holding, shaking it gently until the flame went out.

He turned around slowly, immediately meeting your gaze and holding it.

“Something to ask?”

You nodded, a subtle gesture, but one that allowed your gaze to drop slightly, if only for a moment, to avoid his knowing eyes from reaching into you and seeing any of the thoughts that had already flooded your mind.

It was a childish notion, that the Priest could read your mind, but God’s glory had seen much more outlandish things occur.

“I…I don’t really know what I’ve come to ask you.” You admitted, suddenly hoping that he could see through you, that he would guide you to the proper question, and, thus, the proper answer.

He didn’t seem surprised by your words. Maybe it was something that he had become accustomed to hearing. Maybe he simply understood what you had left unsaid. Either way, there was a moment of silence before he spoke up again.

“Sit down.” He gestured to the pew in front of him.

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek before you found the motivation to move your feet. You almost found yourself resisting, albeit subtly, by walking towards the second pew in the row he’d signaled to. You changed your mind at the last second, quickly altering your steps to take the open seat directly in front of him.

Father König watched you take your seat, the hesitation and the calculated but failed defiance not going unnoticed, though he said nothing. Slowly, he, too, took a seat, sitting next to you with his hands clasped on his lap. He fixed his gaze on your face, and you sat silently, allowing him to observe you.

In an effort to make yourself more comfortable, to provide yourself some sort of key to belonging in the church with him, you mirrored his movement, clasping your own hands on your lap.

At the very least, it gave you something to focus on while he scanned you.

Silence continued to consume the cavernous hall before you found the confidence to speak up.

“I haven’t been to church in a few months. And I haven’t been to confession in…” You swallowed, trying to think of a proper timeline, “In a while.”

He almost smiled, still shrouded by his cloak.

“Ja. I have noticed,” he turned his body to face you better, to encourage you to continue. “It has been a long time, Lammchen.”

“I know,” you admitted, “But I can’t…”

You paused to gather your thoughts, unsure of how you could phrase things in a way that didn’t seem overly defensive.

“Before you, the record held by the clergy here wasn’t great,” you sighed, “It was hard for anybody to speak their mind in confession without becoming a—a lesson for the rest of the congregation the following week.” You found the courage to look up at him, “People talk. Even the holiest of people.”

He stayed silent, holding your gaze, and then:

“You are afraid.”

You couldn’t deny it. His statement left no room for you to push back against the truth, and he seemed to know it.

“Yes…” You whispered, “I’m afraid.”

He sighed, but it was barely audible under the creak of the wooden pew as he shifted ever so slightly closer to you, leaning in so that you could hear his voice as it came out soft.

“You have a fear of judgement.”

“I—” You wavered, before again realizing that he wasn’t asking, “I do.”

“But whose?” He continued to prod in the soft, understanding and all-knowing tone of a cleric, “The saints? The sinners?”

“Neither—both…” You bit your lip. “By God.”

“You fear His judgement?” Now he seemed to truly be asking.

“I know that everybody is. Worried about that, I mean. And I know that that’s the point of confession—to, you know, cleanse yourself of sin, to…face judgement and…renew,” now that you had started, you couldn’t stop; all the thoughts you’d been unable to bring yourself to share for the past several months seemed to just spill out. “But it’s hard. Because what if God doesn’t forgive you? What if after a certain number of confessions, God decides He doesn’t want to hear it anymore?”

You looked down, picking at your nails in an effort to seem more collected than you felt.

“He will not stop forgiving,” Father König’s gaze moved to watch you fidget with your hands before flickering back up to your face. “There is no limit on forgiveness. Nor a limit on the number of confessions one is allowed.”

You went quiet then, and your fidgeting stilled. Your hands perched gently on your lap as you stared out at nothing.

“Maybe that’s worse…” You mumbled, finally turning your attention back to him, meeting his gaze once more. “The idea that I might be forgiven for something that doesn’t deserve forgiveness.”

“Have you done something unworthy of clemency?” He goaded you now, “Something so bad that you will not even attempt to atone?”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, and you could laugh at the circles you were talking in, “I don’t know, because I don’t confess. And I don’t confess because I’d rather not know.”

Father König seemed satisfied with your answer, smiling down at you rather fondly.

“You worry quite a lot, Lammchen.”

“Isn’t that the whole point?”

He shook his head, amused. You couldn’t blame him for finding enjoyment in your paradoxical thinking, though there was something underlying in his expression now. Something more serious, darker, but still just as kind.

“No,” he answered simply, pausing before expanding on the thought. “No, that is not the point.”

“…What is, then?”

“That, I cannot tell you,” he sighed, “Not in simple words, not in…” He gestured vaguely, tilting his head to the side. As your gaze dropped to admire the gentle smile on his lips, you realized just how close you were sitting. “It is a feeling. A warmth.”

“Love?”

“Perhaps. Some call it that,” he tilted his head back, his smile widening ever so slightly, “Others, trust…exaltation.”

He looked down at you, his hood now threatening to fall back and off his head.

"But it is warm. Und it is good. Not...worrying."

You felt a warmth as you looked up at him, his sharp jaw and tanned skin exposed as the hood of his robe fell further back. You'd never seen eyes like his; so sharp but so patient, almost doleful despite his jovial nature.

This likely wasn’t the kind of warmth he was implying. This warmth made you feel the same soul-crushing guilt you always did, as if the Devil himself was trying to pull you down to Pandemonium.

The heavy silence that followed Father König’s explanation was interrupted only by the hiss of candle wicks burning themselves out on their own wax.

“I think,” you closed your eyes, breathing deeply before opening them, looking up at him with a bit more light behind your eyes, “I think I’m ready now.”

“To confess?” He greeted your words with that same smile; tolerant, gentle.

You nodded, and he leaned back against the pew, waiting.

You signed the cross, mouthing the names of the Holy Trinity, then bowed your head, placing your clasped hands against your forehead. You finally found yourself saying those all-too simple words that you’d been avoiding for months.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned, it’s been…seven months since my last confession.”

“Eight.” There was a smirk in his voice.

You glanced at him in your peripheral, almost playfully, and he nodded gently, encouraging you onward.

“These are—these are my sins…” You faltered now, realizing that you would have to speak aloud your misdeeds to the man who had inadvertently caused them. “I have…thoughts. Unholy thoughts and…profane desires.”

Another short silence came and went before Father König spoke.

“Tell me, Engel.”

“The kind of thoughts that—” You swallowed, “That an unmarried woman shouldn’t have. Thoughts about the…forms of men. Desires to feel them, to…touch them.”

You heard him swallow thickly.

“You have acted on these thoughts?”

“No,” you answered semi-honestly before clarifying, “Not with other people…but I—I’ve turned the thoughts into fantasies. At night, I allow the most filthy thoughts to cloud my head, I let my own hand wander across my body. I imagine you, Father—"

He cleared his throat, which quickly turned into a coughing fit. When you glanced up at him again, his hood had finally come down, and his smile had faded, replaced by a look of panicked indifference as he struggled to find his breath.

“Father—?”

He raised a hand, swallowing to stifle the last of his coughs and closing his eyes in a way that seemed to comfort him as much as it was meant to comfort you.

“...I imagine you, replacing my hands with yours. I whisper your name and I think of your face,” your voice had dropped to an intense whisper, “You became the object of my lust, and then the object of all of my desires.”

You said it bluntly, trying to get the words out as quickly as possible, to have the declaration be over and done. But the falsity of your confidence was evident, even in the low tone of your whisper.

“So...I have skipped church. And I have forgone confession, until now. I have risked divine punishment in an effort to avoid these thoughts of you,” you clasped your hands a bit harder to keep the tremble at bay. “…For these and all my sins, I am truly sorry.”

You finished, straightening up to lean back against the pew again, keeping your hands clasped, at least until the shakiness subsided.

He sighed, a wavered exhale, as he looked down at you.

“Even saints have vices.”

You smirked a little.

“Did John the Forerunner take up smoking?”

Father König huffed a short laugh.

“That is not what I mean,” he shook his head, “Just that, perhaps in order to be devout, one must also…enjoy the less holy.”

You stared up at him expectantly, and he dropped his face ever so closer to yours.

“There can be no piety without transgression, Lammchen.” He finished his thought simply, staring down at you with a look in his eyes that could be described as a hungry insight. "Night and day must both exist, ja?"

Father König dropped a hand to your knee, holding eye contact with you. His breath fanned your face, and had you not just confessed, you may have felt a bit of that familiar inner turmoil.

Now, though, the only feeling you could label was the tightening of your lower stomach, hot and anticipatory.

“So…I’m forgiven?” You prompted; your lips close enough to his face that you assumed he’d be able to feel the displacement of the air as you spoke.

Slowly, as if he were considering your question as he moved, he raised the hand that had been on your knee to grip your chin.

“Gott, der barmherzige Vater, hat durch den Tod und die Auferstehung seines Sohnes die Welt mit sich versöhnt und den Heiligen Geist zur Vergebung der Sünden unter uns gesandt.”

You didn’t understand his mother tongue, but his voice and the unfamiliar words held you rapt at his attention, leaning into his touch a bit too eagerly.

“Durch den Dienst der Kirche schenke Gott euch Vergebung und Frieden.”

He traced his thumb over your lower lip, which had parted from your top lip in the heat of the moment as you enjoyed the tenderness of his touch and the strength of his voice.

“I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” he sighed out the words, leaving you to bask in the breath he exhaled when it fanned your face so pleasantly. “What do you say.”

“Thank you…” Your gaze moved to his eyes to his lips and back. Still caught in his grasp, you were careful not to move and inadvertently cause him to let go. “Amen.”

“Braves Mädchen.” His words were exhaled again, but you had no time to appreciate the warmth of his breath before he pressed his mouth to you, his lips eagerly but carefully mapping your own.

You let out a soft gasp, but wasted no time in matching his movements. When his hand wandered from your chin to your jaw, fingers combing gently through your hair as he held you in place, you mewled. Reaching up to grab a fistful of his robes, you tugged him closer.

He took more initiative then; his free hand wrapping around your waist and hauling you against him, his tongue pushing against your lips and into your mouth to properly get a taste of what he so craved. And when you opened up so obediently, both hands now clinging to his robes, he groaned quietly into your mouth, letting you swallow the sounds of his excitement.

He pulled away after a period of licking into you, pressing his forehead to yours and smiling as he watched you catch your breath.

“It would be, I think—” he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to regulate his own breathing, before continuing, “One confession alone will not be enough to cure a guilty conscience, ja?” Father König pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “Are you still uncertain, Engel?”

You smiled, not anticipating this sort of game from him, but grateful for it all the same. His actions and his justification of them made you feel as if you were the object of his worship.

“Maybe…a little.”

“Surely, then, I will have to hear more,” he wrapped both arms around your waist, “I will have to see it all.”

He pulled you up, manipulating your body to sit on his lap so that you were straddling him in the reverse; your knees hooked over either side of his thighs, your back pressed against his chest.

With his arms wrapped comfortably around you, he dropped his face lower, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered.

“I will not have you leave here still feeling sinful,” his voice took on a low tone, saturated with a dominant craving, “You must leave here feeling satisfied,” he dropped his face even lower to nose against the sensitive skin of your neck, “I want for you to feel only pleasure.”

His hands trailed over your body as he pressed kisses to your neck, catching the hem of your skirts and pulling them up enough to allow himself access to the soft skin of your thighs.

“Show me,” he nipped at you now, teeth grazing your neck and forcing a gasp from you. “Show me how the thoughts make you act.”

“I—usually do it lying down…” You whispered, leaning your head back against his shoulder and closing your eyes in response to his ministrations.

“That is ok,” he smiled against your throat, “I will not let you feel anything but good, Engel.” One of his hands trailed slowly up your stomach, catching in the fabric that still covered your torso, but it didn’t stop him from groping you gently, his other hand kneading the bare skin of your thigh. “I would like to see. To watch.”

You made a choked sound, one that captured merely a fraction of your need as you reached between your legs and began to rub yourself over the thin cotton of your panties. You located the sweet spot, the button that sat above your slit, and the noises you made went breathy and weak as you applied more pressure, arching your back against Father König.

“Oh, Lammchen,” his breath pushed against the hair that fell over the side of your face as he traced his lips across your jaw, “That is hardly sinful…”

He let both his hands come to rest on the bare skin of your inner thighs, adding a gentle pressure as if to spread your legs further, wider, over his own.

“Is this all you do, Engel? Are you so gentle to yourself even when you are alone?”

“Just—use my fingers,” you sighed out a shaky response, momentarily losing track of your own ministrations when you felt his fingers digging into the plush skin of your legs. “I sometimes—I sometimes put one inside.”

Your admission elicited a groan from the Priest, who pressed his face against the crook of your neck to mark you pink with his teeth.

“Let me see,” his tone bordered pleading, “Let me see you stretch yourself.”

You bit your lip, looking down at the V of your thighs and pulling the white cotton that covered your shame to the side, exposing yourself to God and to the Father in the holiest of places.

And, somehow, you felt none of the guilt you did when you’d done this in your own bedroom.

The candlelight bounced off your skin, catching the slick that had smeared itself across your cunt, and it glistened, almost pearlescent, as you trailed the tip of your finger down your slit.

When you felt his teeth against your throat again, you pushed the finger into yourself, getting to the second knuckle before you mewled out softly in response to the feeling.

“There you go,” he tore his face from its spot against your neck to ogle the way your finger slid in and out of your cunt; the way your hand collected the drippings. “Such shallow movements, Engel—I thought you said you had practiced?” He was teasing you, seeing if he could push you further, but you were too busy enjoying yourself to play into his game now.

“Feels…good,” you mumbled, eyes closing as you once again rested your head back against him, “Feels good like this.”

Father König made a low sound in the back of his throat, reaching to wrap his hand loosely around your neck, his fingers teasing your jaw line.

“It would feel better with more,” he smirked against your cheek as he spoke, “It would feel better if it were me.”

You squeaked, eyelids fluttering and hand stilling, though the latter took effort as you continued to relish the way your finger brushed over a delicious spot you’d located weeks prior. You found the strength to remove your hand from between your legs, raising it to wrap your dampened fingers around his forearm, tugging his hand from your throat and craning your neck to look up at him in a manner almost dumb.

“Mmh,” you whined, still grasping his wrist, “I know—I know it would.”

He made that same low sound again, growling at your words. Father König wrestled his arm from your grip, hastily grabbing your hand and bringing your finger to his mouth. Feeling downright starved for you now, he made quick work of lapping your juices from your hand, his mouth hot against your skin, and you watched on, hypnotized by the way he licked the slick from your flesh.

And then he placed your hand so carefully on your own stomach. He moved you, not as a doll, but as a Saint to be revered, imagining you in an icon of your own and admiring the way your hand rested over the bunched-up fabric on your torso.

You felt his breath hitch against you as he lowered his hand. He had no interest in pushing your panties to the side—Father König was far too delirious with desire to be satisfied by only part of you; he wanted all of it, he wanted to cup your warmth. He reached beneath your waistband, brushing his fingers over your cunt until his whole palm covered you.

You whimpered; the weight of his hand was already more intense than any of the thoughts you’d had of so much more. When he pressed the tip of his middle finger against your hole, slowly pushing into you, you gasped; it was thicker than your own, and you melted against him. You exhaled in short puffs as he plunged his finger down to the last knuckle, nestling it into you with a groan.

“So tight,” he grunted with a harsh breath, pressing his parted lips to your shoulder. “It feels good, ja? Are my hands much better?”

Groaning through clenched teeth, the sound escaped through your parted lips. You took a moment to find the right words, jaw moving as if you meant to speak, though the words were stalled as you focused so fully on the way he felt inside of you.

“M—uch better,” you finally answered his prompt with an echo of his question, “Good…”

Father König smirked. Though your praise made him puff slightly in pride, his own ego, further fed by your whines, was the last thing on his mind—especially when your walls squeezed his finger.

He pulled his hand back, pulling his finger out until it barely penetrated you, and you bucked your hips to chase it, whining at the loss.

“Tsk,” he chastised you playfully, using the angle he now had his hand positioned in to tease your hole with a second finger, “God does not answer whiny girls, nor do I. Where have your manners gone, Engel?”

You swallowed, still rolling your hips desperately against the tips of his fingers in an effort to convince him to fill you again.

“Please,” you tilted your head to press your cheek into the fabric of his robes, “Please, Father.”

He dropped his head, tilting his face down to ensure your gaze met his. The look in his eyes now was far from the empathetic, priestly gaze he’d offered when you first entered the church. He looked possessed, almost inhuman, but in a manner more divine than demonic, at least to your pleasure-addled mind.

Father König held your gaze as he pushed his middle and forefingers into you, watching the way your expression contorted in reaction to the intrusion.

You, in turn, felt your jaw go slack. Though words again failed you, you continued to look up at him with a dumb, eager expression as you choked out louder sounds to convey your appreciation.

“Sehr gut, Lammchen,” his voice came out gruff, like he was trying to downplay any reaction his own body was having to the way he touched you, “You are soft—like velvet.”

The thrust of his fingers was measured, slow and purposeful; he wanted to savor you, admire you in your entirety. He wanted to gift you endless pleasure, gradually bring you towards the light and watch you melt.

And it was working. He pressed the heel of his hand against your clit as his fingers curled against the front wall of your cunt, his fingers locating that tender spot you’d only recently been able to find. You squirmed in his lap, practically panting as he practiced the same rhythmic movements within and outside of your body, forcing your hips to jerk on their own accord at the simultaneous stimulation.

“You have needed a come to God moment,” Father König grunted against the shell of your ear, “Do what is asked of you, Engel. Cum.”

You did. With no questions and with the upmost appreciation, you came on his hand, crying out a pitiful sound that bounced off the walls of the church.

You felt holy. And if the pleasure wasn’t enough, the tingling sensation that spread over your body so comfortably as you trembled against the Priest, and the light that danced behind your eyelids in gentle, bright colors, was certainly enough to make you feel as though you’d reached Heaven.

“Gut, Engel,” you heard Father König hum low behind you, his chest vibrating against your back and a smirk on his face as he watched you soak his fingers. “Do you always look so beautiful when you cum?”

He punctuated his question with a quick scissor of his fingers, and you yelped before the sound morphed into a soft laugh through the panted breaths you still took. He chuckled, pulling his fingers from you and bringing them to his mouth to get yet another sample of you.

Pressing your cheek against his chest, eyes fluttering in fatigued appreciation, you considered his prompt before answering slowly.

“I wouldn’t know…” You sighed, “I never watch myself.”

He exhaled harsh above you, amused, and pressed his lips to the crown of your head.

“I suppose that is fair…” He seemed to be thinking carefully about his next words, “Perhaps we must…experiment…”

There was a pause in his words as he leaned back, seemingly to examine you; he tilted his head to the side, moving his palms over the still-mussed fabric that draped your torso.

“I would hate to leave you wondering. To leave myself wondering. Especially when you have expressed such interest in the bodies of men…”

Your breath hitched in anticipation, smiling lazily.

“I didn’t think you’d be so willing to sate my curiosity.”

“My job…” He muttered, “Is to offer guidance.”

“And you would guide me?”

“I already have, no?”

You pressed yourself back against him, tilting your head back to catch a proper glimpse of him.

“How would you go about doing more?”

He quirked a brow, “You would like to see?”

You smiled.

“See what?”

“Stand.” He smirked down at you, hands moving to grip your hips as he began to maneuver you off of his lap.

You let him grip your body a second longer, before pushing yourself off his lap. Your skirts fell over your body again, shielding you as if nothing had happened, as if the Priest hadn’t just had his fingers buried in your cunt while you begged for more. The moisture between your legs, though, was a dead giveaway, and you relished in the gluey sensation that caused the skin of your inner thighs to stick together as you turned to look at him.

He looked right back at you, raising his arms to spread them across the back of the pew he still sat on. He spread his legs slightly, as if encouraging you to move closer without asking outright.

So you did, moving awkwardly to position yourself between his thighs. You didn’t know how to stand properly—didn’t know how to look appealing, to seem desirable to him as you stood with your arms limp at your sides and your weight shifting from foot to foot.

Father König didn’t care. He couldn’t care less. The candles emitted a faint glow now, still dancing meekly as they took their sweet time to burn out, leaving your face shadowed but the crown of your head glowing as the light flickered over your hair.

Angelic. He reached out to pet you, smoothing your hair down. His hand trailed over your cheek before his fingers found purchase on your chin.

“Kneel.”

You sighed softly at the borderline romantic gesture, at the heat of his palm against the skin of your face. You felt your knees buckle on their own accord, forcing you to curtsy between his legs and watch on as he hiked his chasuble up over his knees.

“You have many ideas,” he reached under his robes, “But no worldly experience.”

“That’s why I came to you.” Your eyes dropped to the movement of his hand beneath the fabric of his chasuble.

“It is why you cum for me.” He almost laughed, amused by his wordplay, amused by his power.

He cut his own merriment short, his movement stilling beneath the robes as he met your gaze, and you again saw the look in his eyes change. From empathetic to downright possessive, his expression became something tender; no longer did you think he could read your mind, but he seemed to want to, almost desperately.

“You are ready?” Despite his phrasing, you knew it wasn’t rhetorical. This was him begging.

You nodded in response, swallowing. He kept his gaze glued to you as he finally lifted his chasuble high enough to expose himself to you.

Maybe your eyes went wide—it was all you could do to avoid closing them immediately, to keep from averting your gaze as a reddish hue overtook the skin of your face. You felt the overwhelming excitement battle with the internalized shame you were only just unlearning.

It looked different than the pictures, than the way it had been described.

His cock looked soft, like padding placed over something stronger.

Without thinking—without asking for permission—you reached out to wrap your hand around him.

He was thick, your middle finger and thumb barely touching as you squeezed at him gently. You found yourself focusing on the thick veins that ran up the sides of his length, from base to pinkened tip.

Father König hissed softly, as if burned by your touch. He grabbed your wrist, though you hadn’t begun to move your hand over him, making his action seem more in an effort to stall than to stop you completely.

“Wet your hand,” he explained, and you noticed his breathing had become somewhat labored, “Spit. In your palm, Lammchen.”

You removed your hand from his hesitantly, spitting in your palm and watching the drool pool over the cracks in your hand.

“Gut,” he grunted, “Now. Touch.”

You reached out again, saliva threatening to drip from your hand as you moved to wrap your fingers around him.

This time, Father König’s reaction was less subdued; he groaned, head threatening to fall back against the wooden pew as his half-lidded eyes darted from your face to watch your still unmoving hand on his cock.

“Your hand, Engel,” he breathed, “It is warm.”

You didn’t know how to reply, staring at his cock in your hand. Your spit dripped from beneath your fingers and down his length, and the image was mesmerizing.

“It is a good thing,” he smiled at your apparent ignorance. “Move it now—not off. Up and down.”

You nodded slowly, still watching your own hand on his cock as you began to stroke him. The spit made it easier, and you wondered if it was more for his enjoyment or your ease—you figured it was a combination of both, but didn’t dwell on it long as you were distracted so pleasantly by the grunts Father König let out when you squeezed gently at his tip.

“Ja—ja, that is right,” he mumbled, lips parted and eyes closing. He furrowed his brow, trying to hold himself together. “A fast learner.”

You smiled, keening under his praise. It encouraged you to take it further, to speed up the pace of your hand over his cock, pausing only once to spit again, this time directly onto him and letting your hand massage it downwards.

“Oh, sehr gut,” he moaned, deep and throaty, perking up to watch your lips perse as the thin strand of spit connected your mouth to him. “You might…you are allowed to taste, you know.” His words would seem smug if they weren’t so breathless.

Your own breath hitched at his instruction—his weak plea—and you found yourself leaning forward, pressing your lips to the head of his cock not to spit, but to kiss him gently before hesitantly licking the underside of him.

You were met with a piquant flavor—salt mixing with the taste of your own saliva.

You liked it. And it spurred you on to do more, to wrap your lips around his tip and let your tongue glide over him.

When he let out another deep moan, you mewled happily, letting your face drop as you took him deeper into your mouth. You tried not to gag, spluttering over him, too entranced by the weight of him against your tongue to care about whether or not you were doing it right.

You felt more weight when Father König’s hand came to rest on the back of your head. You half expected him to pull you away, chastise you for your voracity and inexperience. Instead, he tangled his fingers in your hair, guiding your movements and muttering soft praises through sighs of contentment.

You swallowed around him, and the sound he made was undeniably obscene.

“Would you come to me—if this was your sacrament, would you come to me?” His words were rushed, made almost harsh by the exhalation of breath he punctuated the question with. “Would you kneel for God as you kneel for me now, Lammchen?”

You made a garbled sound, still working your mouth over his length and catching your drool with your hand at the base of his cock.

“Say it,” he hissed, finally using the grip he had on your hair to pull you off of him, and you inadvertently let slip a whimper—disappointed by the loss of him in your mouth, thrilled by the gentle sting of your scalp as he tugged your hair by the roots. “You must speak up—” he smirked, his free hand dipping down to wipe drool from your cheek, “Or God will not hear you.”

You swallowed, gazing at his cock dumbly as you panted.

“I don’t…” you inhaled a shaky breath, letting it fill your lungs before letting it out just as shakily, “No.”

“You do not know?” He tugged on your hair again, forcing your gaze on him, rather than the mess of saliva you’d left on his lap, “Or is the answer simply, no?”

You nodded, your breathing finally levelling out as you met his eyes.

“No,” you confirmed that you meant the more blasphemous of the options, “I wouldn’t do it for Him. I only want to kneel for you.”

Father König was momentarily lost for words, your admission leaving him reeling slightly—unsure if his lightheadedness was a result of your hand still on the base of his cock, or the blasphemy falling from your lips.

“Godless little girl…” He managed to croak out, tugging at your hair again to ensure your gaze remained level with his.

You thought he might well and truly scold you now, but his next words put you at ease.

“A sacrilegious answer,” he continued slowly, “But a good answer, still.”

He finished his thought, lessening his grip on your hair and opting to stroke your locks instead. You closed your eyes; the same hand that had caused your scalp to experience the pressure of having your hair pulled taut now offering such gentle caresses.

You squeezed him at the base of his cock, still absentmindedly searching for that filthy connection to him, and he groaned softly as he continued to pet you.

“Another question for you, Engel,” his words were softer now, more collected as he gathered more control over himself in response to your naïve movements, “If I would ask you…to remove your skirts,” he let his hand drop from your hair, his fingers curling beneath your chin to grab your attention, “Would you?”

You sucked in a breath, almost as if to stop your answer from coming out to fast. You didn’t want to seem greedy—though you knew immediately what you wanted to say.

“Yes—” you swallowed, “Yes, Father, I would.”

He smiled then, the corners of his lips barely twitching upwards, but the look in his eyes made the gesture apparent as his hand dropped from your chin and moved to grab your wrist. You obeyed the silent request, uncurling your fingers from his length and letting him guide you to stand in front of him again.

You blushed, perhaps unreasonably so, given the wider context, as he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing soft kisses to your knuckles, murmuring against your skin as his eyes flicked up to your face.

“Go on, Lammchen,” he muttered against your hand, “Your clothing…”

You made a quiet sound, anticipatory and eager, slipping your hand from his grasp as you rushed to remove your over jacket. You shucked it off, dropping it on the floor, where it landed with no audible sound. Quickly, you moved on, yanking your neckerchief from your body so fast that the thin fabric flew from your hand before you could dispose of it properly in the heap you had planned to create with your jacket.

Father König chuckled at your zeal, speaking up when you began to remove your apron.

“Slow,” he leaned back on the pew again, head tilted back as he analyzed your rushed movements, “Be slow. Gentle with yourself.”

You paused, staring up at him before you nodded, gaze flickering back down to your skirts as you slowly peeled them from your body, letting them pool around your ankles. You glanced at him again as your fingers trailed upwards to the knot in the front of your corset, undoing the tie with one sharp tug. You worked slowly to rid yourself of the tight garment, though only out of obedience for him—if you had it your way, it would be him undressing you, and not so much as undressing, but ripping the fabric from your body.

You realized now, with your corset gone, that there was but one thing standing in the way of allowing the Father to see you bare, and you felt a sense of power in that. You reached for the hem of your shift, pulling it up and over your torso until you were able to pull it off completely.

You shivered as you dropped it to the ground, the drafty stone of the church allowing the night air to nip at your skin despite still being housed within its walls. The cotton of your underwear clung, sticky, to your cunt, serving only to heighten the chill you felt.

Father König stared at you hungrily, eyes burning with desire as his gaze roamed over you.

You were perfect. The dim light softened you, but you couldn’t hide in the shadows, your body almost aglow as the fading candlelight bounced from the walls and illuminated you.

He let out a shaky breath as he beckoned you forward.

“Engel…” He reached out to grasp your hip when you had gotten close enough to him, “Perfekter Engel…”

You wanted to ask if he was satisfied, but you were unable to do more than gasp when he leaned forward and attached his lips to your chest. He mouthed at the supple flesh, letting his teeth graze the peaked bud of your nipple before moving onto the other one.

You cupped the back of his head, the ticklish sensation of his tongue against your nipples almost making you laugh through the soft whines you let out.

“You are beautiful,” he muttered against your chest, licking thick stripes between the cavern of your breasts, “Perfect.”

He pulled back then, lips glistening slightly with his own spit—though not as brightly as your chest did—and smirked up at you.

“You have clothing on, still.”

You watched with bated breath as his hand trailed from your hip to hook under the waistband of your underwear.

“Am I not allowed to see?” He teased, “To admire you?”

“You want to?” You found yourself questioning him in response, a smug smile tugging the corner of your lips.

“Ja, I want to.” He seemed pleased with the gentle teasing he got from you in return for his own.

“Then help me,” you whispered, “Take them off for me.”

Father König growled. No sooner had you finished your request had he gripped the elastic on both sides of your hips and tugged it down, slick clinging to the fabric as he shoved it down your legs. You stepped out of them as gingerly as possible, wobbling slightly when you got impatient and tried to lift your legs faster, higher.

He brought the panties to his face, inhaling in a vulgar display of lust and power, and you whimpered softly, unsure of how someone could make you feel this way without touching you.

He lowered the garment, dropping it onto the pew beside him and returning his focus to you.

“Come, Lammchen,” he patted his thigh, “Come and sit. Sit properly with me.”

You smiled softly, understanding the implication, and quickly moved to straddle him. This time, you faced him; knees digging uncomfortably into the wood of the pew, hands pressing against his chest before moving upwards to grab his shoulders in an attempt to steady yourself.

“Like this?” You questioned, though the answer was obvious, if his grunt was anything to go by; his hands immediately finding your waist and tugging you against him.

“Ja, gut.” He groaned softly, holding himself back from bucking up into you immediately, despite the ease with which he would be able to in this position.

You mewled softly as he maneuvered your body to sit more comfortably; spreading his own legs to get you to spread yours further, pressing a gentle hand against your lower back. You inhaled sharply when you felt his cock bounce against your cunt, almost trembling with desire now as you neared what you wanted most.

“You must be willing,” he sighed into your ear, “And you must be grateful.”

“I am,” your words came out whiney despite the effort you put into making them strong, “I am, Father—I want it.”

“Und grateful?” He pressed.

“I will be…” You smiled, biting your lip and looking him in the eyes pointedly.

You had never wanted anything so badly. You had never been so certain that an action would be worth its reward.

“Be still, then,” he was clearly just as impatient as you, though his attempts to hide it with the façade of godly wisdom were much better than yours. “Be still…be good, Lammchen, and you will get what you would like.”

He encouraged you to sit up on your knees. Gripping your waist with one hand, he dropped the other to slide it beneath you and take hold of his cock.

You watched on in suspense, your head dropping to watch his movements before you looked back up at his face. It was only upon seeing the way the muscles in his jaw ticked that you realized you too, had been clenching your teeth.

You closed your eyes and let your muscles untense at the very moment he breached your entrance.

You cried out, the sound deep, ripped from your throat. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your face against him, burying yourself in the fabric of his robes.

Father König hissed, pleased, and rocked his hips gently, offering only a portion of his length up to you, trying to help you cope with and adapt to the new pressure against your walls.

“Like velvet,” he repeated his earlier sentiment, holding your hips as you clung to him, keeping you steady, “So tight, Engel—do you feel nice, hm?”

You blinked absentmindedly against the fabric you still hid your face in, jaw slack as you breathed in unsteady huffs. You didn’t know how to answer; you did feel nice—truly, the stinging force you felt in response to the way his cock pressed into you quickly faded into nothing short of heavenly bliss, something you wanted to feel forever and always. But your legs were growing sore already, and you didn’t want to continue holding yourself up like this, not when there was more for you to take.

“Yes,” you breathed out, “Yes, Father—it feels good…” You brought yourself out of your hiding spot on his shoulder, staring at him wide-eyed. “More. Please, keep going.”

“Greed is a sin,” he smirked, his voice going gravelly, “But I would be foolish to deny you, ja?”

He didn’t hesitate after that, pushing you down onto his cock and groaning in response to the way you squirmed around him.

You couldn’t keep quiet; speared on his cock and loving it, you nearly screamed as he filled you, as if his movement had pushed the air from your lungs.

Your eyes rolled back, and you were again pressing your face into his robes to muffle the sounds that echoed around the church.

“So good—” you bit into the fabric, squealing, “God—oh, Father, it’s so—it feels so good.”

You felt the familiar sting against your scalp again as Father König grabbed you by the hair, hauling your head up to look at him properly.

“You should not be using the Lord’s name in vain,” he tsked, smiling impishly as he punctuated the sentiment with a thrust of his hips upwards into you. “Perhaps you should confess for this? So many sins in such a short time, Engel…”

He was playing, goading you, and you would have smiled, maybe even laughed, if you had the breath for it—if you weren’t being stretched so completely, filled to the brim by his cock.

“Mm…” You whined out in place of a half-hearted apology, hands moving on their own accord to perch on his chest, tugging at his robes lazily.

Father König tugged your hair again, making you moan and subconsciously jerk your hips against him—which, in turn, made you repeat the process.

“I am serious,” his words were stern, but his expression was one of total pleasure—the joy he took in corrupting you was second to none, the ambience of the holy setting paralleled by your filthy whines and the sounds your bodies created together. “Confess.”

You sighed happily at his words, the notion that he’d have you confess for something as simple as using the Lord’s name while you did something as obscene as ride him in front of the altar made you feel something you never had before—and it was magnificent.

“Bl-bless me, Father,” you began, and Father König purposefully bucked his hips, causing you to stutter through your prayers as the tip of his cock nudged that same spot he’d so easily found with his hands, “I—ah—have…I have sinned…”

You began to rock your hips in time with his movements, lips parting when you felt him even deeper to an almost painful degree.

“Can’t…” You whined, “I can’t—” You tried to protest, grinding down on him in an attempt to make him forget his demand that you atone. But even that was too much for you, as you fell further into the haze of total, all-encompassing pleasure.

“You can,” he spoke up, voice gruff between panted breaths. “You will. Start over.” He swatted at your thigh, and you mewled as he followed up the action with a gentle rub of his palm over the spot. “Mach es jetzt.”

You took a deep, shaky breath, still grinding against the intrusion of his cock and whimpering each time he pressed against a spot that afforded you an intensified version of the bliss he already provided.

“Bless me, Father,” your words came out stronger, though clearly forced as you focused desperately on getting the prayer out while Father König held your hips, using his grip as leverage to guide your movements. “I have sinned…”

“Your last confession was how long ago, Engel?” He was amused, visibly so, and you watched the smirk on his lips tremble ever so slightly when he felt you squeeze his cock.

“An—maybe an hour ago.” You couldn’t look him in the eye—not out of shame, but the way in which his gaze made you feel wholly unable to do anything but whine and squirm.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in while he broke you, and it felt so right.

“My sins…these are my—my sins…” You began again, breathy and muted against his skin.

He clearly had no problem with you nuzzling against him, using it as further opportunity to control your hips, pushing and pulling you over his length at a gentler pace as you thought back on what he was having you atone for.

“Blasphemy—” you remembered, speaking the sin aloud only to be rewarded with a sharp thrust from the Priest, who chuckled lowly at the way your breath caught in your throat. “I used—I—oh, fuck—” you whined, trying to keep your train of thought on the right track, so easily distracted by the way he continued to use you like a toy. “I used the Lord’s name—I shouldn’t have…” You let the rest of the sentence die in your throat, the words fading out as you once again succumbed to the beautiful pressure of his cock against your walls, the round head pushing forward to open you up to the rest of his length.

You mewled, and he hummed contentedly, raising one hand from your hip and pressing it against your back to have you arch it. He let out another low groan, a rumble from somewhere deep in his chest as you followed his silent instruction. He smiled softly, drinking in the eager sounds you made at the small change in angle.

“You have not told me everything, Lammchen,” he rasped out his taunts, “What of your greed?”

You whimpered almost noiselessly, exhaling the neediness you felt in the pit of your stomach as heat swelled within you.

“Say it,” Father König was demanding now, his tone sharp, but too zealous to seem genuinely severe. He brought his hand down on your thigh again, then again, watching the way you flinched and listening closely to the soft moans the spanks elicited from you. “Say it to me—you are a greedy girl, is that right?”

“Y-es,” you tilted your head back, staring up at him to see the sincere want in his expression, “I’m—I’ve been greedy.”

Father König made an animalistic sound when his eyes met yours again. The hand he’d had perched on your back came up to grip your jaw, forcing you to crane your neck further, allowing him the full view of your face as his pace began to increase bit by bit in response to your admission.

“You are a greedy thing,” his lips ghosted over yours, his breath warm on your skin as he panted, “You are a greedy little girl—say it. Say you are a greedy girl. Greedy for salvation. For me.”

His hand on your face was warm, fingers pressing into your jawbone. Your lips quivered beneath the pressure of his digits on your cheeks—from feeling so seen, or being so consumed by desire, you couldn’t quite make out any difference at this point.

“I am,” you let your voice go whisper quiet, hands stilling over his chest as you swallowed any moans you would otherwise let slip in favor of obeying his command, “I’m greedy, I’m a greedy girl. I’m—I need it. Need forgiveness—need you.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, staring with wide eyes as you. He offered no verbal response, instead crashing his lips to yours and swallowing the sounds you made.

You sighed as he dropped his hand from your face in favor of placing it on your hip again, once more guiding your ministrations and moaning deeply as your body went almost slack in an effort to encourage him to manipulate you.

As his movements became calculated, faster and more deliberate, you thought back to what he had said.

It is a feeling. A warmth. Trust. Exaltation.

You understood now.

You could feel his cock throb against your walls, the sensation heightened by the way you squeezed around him, your body eager to pull him back in the moment he pulled his hips away in the slightest.

With the kiss broken, the movements between the two of you becoming frantic with need, you could feel the coil in your abdomen tighten. It was a stiff heat that made your eyelids flutter and your skin feel flushed.

Either he felt it, or he saw the way your body began to respond with even more intensity to his rough thrusts, but Father König was obviously just as wanting as you were—thrilled at the opportunity to see you come undone again, to be the reason for your satisfaction and your depravity.

“So sweet, mein Engel,” he cooed at you, letting his forehead rest against yours as he watched your face twist in pleasure, “Will you show me again? Will you let me feel you?” His voice was whinier now, as if he was pleading with you; desperate to see you through to your own high in order to fully appreciate his.

You nodded meekly, too caught up in the delight to form anything more coherent than that.

“Bitte, Engel,” he swallowed a gruff sound, “Gift me the fulfillment—show me how I have made you feel.”

You bit down hard on your lip when you came, muscles spasming as you let out a broken cry of his title. Your hips stuttered against him, the world opening from above to let in white light that danced in front of your eyes. You felt his fingers twitch against the skin of your hips, and you closed your eyes to relish the feeling of tranquility, of satisfaction, as the light seemed to envelop you from within.

When you opened your eyes, your gaze landed on Father König, whose jaw had gone slack and whose cock remained buried deep inside of you as your walls clenched tightly around him. The only light that remained in the church was what you could see in his blown-out pupils; the embers clinging to the wicks of candles that had long since burnt out danced in the reflection of his gaze, making you feel just as warm—if not warmer—than you had in the face of the bright light.

“I was correct,” he breathed, still moving his hips, thrusting shallowly into your slick cunt, “Very pretty when you cum, always…”

You smiled softly, pressing your face to the crook of his neck again and pressing kisses to the exposed skin there.

“Lift yourself, Lammchen,” his voice was clerical again, serene, but remained tinged with the desire he’d expressed throughout this encounter with you. “Slow.”

You did as you were told, pushing yourself up on your knees so that you hovered over his lap. The loss of his cock made you shiver, feeling empty, but not unfulfilled. You whined quietly, looking down at him with a pout.

“No sadness, Engel,” the Father smiled at you, “You will have it again. But your hand, now—bitte.”

His hand moved to find your wrist, though you needed to real guidance, knowing what you knew now after his earlier lesson.

You wrapped your fingers around his cock, slick with your pleasure, so much so that you had no need to spit like you had before. You tilted your head to watch your own ministrations, palm gliding over his length, smiling almost playfully when you heard him moan.

Maybe you were spurred on by his assurance, that he had wholeheartedly and without any hesitation implied you would have this again—have him again—but whatever higher power controlled your actions was certainly as eager as you were to see him through to his orgasm.

His hips spasmed, and with a throaty whimper Father König painted your cunt with thick white ropes of warm cum.

He panted, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the pew briefly before looking at his spend dripping off your skin in fat trails.

Reaching between your thighs, he swiped his fingers down your slit, collecting the sticky conclusion of your pleasure and his. You flinched, sore and sensitive, but he pulled his hand away just as quickly as he’d placed it on you in the first place, bringing his slick coated fingers to your lips.

You opened your mouth, sucking on the digits he offered you and swallowing the salty taste contentedly.

With a sigh, he pulled his hand away, gathering you in his arms again as he encouraged you to fall forward, to rest against him.

It felt safe, being close to him; snug—sacred.

“The Lord has freed you from your sins.” He spoke clearly, words coming out loud enough to echo against the stone of the building, but his voice was sleepy; cheery, but calm in the same manner you felt.

“Don’t you have to tell me to go in peace.” You weren’t questioning him, not in a way that demanded an answer, anyway.

There was a moment of total stillness; the candlelight had faded completely, save for those still flickering at the altar, which itself seemed to gaze down at you in a manner that suggested total acceptance. You let yourself slump further against him, letting yourself melt into his form as you rested your head on his shoulder. He toyed with your hair, following each strand he collected down to the end before repeating the process.

“I do not want for you to go,” he broke the silence. He didn’t sound like he was confessing—didn’t sound at all like he had regrets, or like he was trying to find some sort of solution. “Not away from me.”

No, he sounded completely at ease, confident and completely accepting of his response. Eager, as if he had been waiting to tell you—perhaps for as long as you’d been waiting to tell him the same.

You smiled, shifting on his lap, sticky with sweat and with the gluey mixture of your cum and his. The obscenity of the concoction dripping down your thighs perfectly juxtaposed the gentleness of this moment, though both feelings managed to encapsulate the devotion felt by both parties.

You yawned, wrapping your arms around his neck. You murmured what you thought would be both an appropriate acknowledgement of his words, and a clear agreement to them.

“Thanks be to God.”

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