#Priest!au

[pseudowho]

Deliverance

Hunting down a monster, you are led to an isolated little town...and into the arms of its enigmatic priest, who harbours a dark secret.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, Vampire!Priest!Nanami, monsterfucking, winged vampire, soft!Dom/pleasure!Dom Nanami, loss of faith/disillusionment, enemies to lovers/forbidden lovers, haematophilia, corruption kink

Very much inspired by Mike Flanagan's exceptional "Midnight Mass" which I highly recommend.

Soundtrack: "Take Me To Church" by Hozier, and "All Around Me" by Flyleaf

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The bridge to the mainland lived most of its saltcured life underwater. It rose, skeletal against the fog, as if the wreck of a ship from some bygone era, only twice a day, at low tide.

You were, by now, well-established into this friendly little town; a much-needed teacher to its handful of muddy-toed children. They did now know of your armory, your deadly weaponry. They did not know of your vow to hunt down the monsters that stalked the night.

And, they did not know how you suspected that the beast responsible for the deaths of at least 20 men on the mainland, may be one of their very own. 20 murders all occurring at low-tide, and only low-tide, could not be a coincidence.

They were all scum, you mused to yourself, all rapists, paedophiles and murderers...so perhaps it does have some sort of moral code. It must be here, you reasoned, fingers tapping the woody shelves of your little school cupboard in thought.

Your hunt was hampered by the timekeeping of this sleepy fishing town; often up before sunrise to take to the sea, and back before the sun broke above the horizon, it was not unusual for its residents to sleep during the day, and rise in time for the sunset. Its little church even held an evening mass, attended by plentiful nocturnal residents, after dinner.

"Hello?" A rich baritone, which was beginning to feel so intimately familiar to you, stirred an illicit want in your belly. He called your name. You could not help but run to him.

"--sorry, I'm-- I'm here! In the cupboard!" You called out, breathless in...what? Your rush to get to him? Anticipation? Something...more?

You flurried round the corner, all eager smiles, flyaway hairs and dimples. Your eyes melted so softly upon each others' forms, both sighing with relief. Neither of you knew how the other stirred within.

"Ke--...Father Nanami. What a lovely surprise. You're not usually up so early."

Nanami Kento cut an imposing figure in his cassock and white collar. He was a big man, with mountainous shoulders, and long, broad hands. You remembered the heat that pooled in your belly, the first time he had rolled up his sleeves to help you to move supplies into the schoolhouse, his forearms so alluringly thick and corded. His size belied an easy grace, and the elegant quick-step of a busy, intelligent man.

"I found myself unable to sleep," Kento admitted, his head bowed and hands clasped as he stepped to you. He seemed paler than usual, as he continued, "I was thinking abo--...just, thinking." He finished weakly. His eyes drew so fleetingly to your fast little pulse, thrumming from your throat, down your cleavage. His mouth dried, a double-edged hunger climbing down his abdomen.

"...thinking?" You offered, slowly closing the distance between you. You ached to remove it completely, your respect for his holy vows the only thing that contained you. Kento cleared his throat, running one strong finger between his neck, and corseting black and white collar.

"...wondering. If you would be attending mass. Tonight. I have miss--...you have missed the past week, I believe."

Ah. Yes. There was rarely another time when the homes of the local residents were empty enough to allow for investigation. You had only a few more to ransack, to find your monster, and you could feel yourself closing in on it. You felt a heavy rock of regret in your belly, and you clasped one of Kento's cool, pale hands in your own. His cock twitched, to feel the burn of your flesh against his, in ways so much less intimate than what he had imagined, alone at night.

"I'm so sorry...not tonight," you frowned, and you hurried to reassure Kento as he visibly deflated, "But tomorrow, I promise you. I'll come. Truly." Kento's face, so angular and strong, softened down at you with the hint of a smile.

His hand raised up for a moment, hesitating, before cupping your cheek. You felt your heart skip a beat, the tips of his little and ring fingers ghosting over your pulse point, while his thumb swiped beneath your eye.

"...chalk," Kento whispered, seeing your pupils dilate under his inherent, dangerous magnetism. He wished nothing more than to lean down and taste you, clutched against him and whimpering in the schoolhouse. You heard thunder rumble in the distance, and smelled the petrichor of an oncoming storm.

"...I can't wait," Kento whispered, stepping back from you, with just one backwards glance before sweeping out under the wind and blotting clouds.

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Your hunt had amounted to nothing. Either, your monster was meticulously careful, or your suspicions were incorrect, and it did not reside on this island. There was just one more place you had not explored, and you resigned yourself that you may be heading home sooner than you thought.

And yet, you felt a rope behind your navel, a red string around your finger, holding you here. You decided to complete your final investigation at the home of the priest, who had become the lifeblood that ran inside you, at midnight. He generally stayed late at the church, completing administration. You would be undisturbed.

Armed, rogue-like, you blended with moonlit shadows until you reached the windows outside his bedroom. You peeked through the gaps in the wooden blinds, and were met with an image of Kento, erotic and resplendent, that seared itself into your brain for the rest of your days.

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Kento didn't need sleep, ever since his God had forsaken him. Yet still, he craved that sweet embrace, to take him away from the twisted torture of what he had become. His resolve to die this way, as some fallen angel, had been unexpectedly fractured by the will to live-- fractured by you.

Kento switched the shower off, the last droplets of water running down his back. His cassock and collar were discarded, all woven lies against the skin of a faithless hypocrite. Kento wrapped a towel loosely around his waist, stepped past the empty mirror, and out into his bedroom.

His gut churned to see his empty bed. It had been weeks since he had fed. Years since he had taken a woman for the last time, before taking his vows. Weeks, since you had begun to consume him, mind, body and soul.

Kento had been losing his faith before the change. He had grown further from God, as countless monsters died beneath his teeth. But it was thoughts of you, spread, penetrated and whimpering beneath him, that took Kento beyond redemption.

Kento shuddered at the aching greed within. He lay back on his bed, hair still damp and floppy, but desperate for sleep to grip him and pull him under. His cock, rapidly thickening and tenting beneath the towel, made him curse, one broad arm flung over his eyes, while the other tried to squeeze himself into submission.

Kento squirmed with guilt, his semi-erect cock gripped in his palm. He thought of you, your fingers dipping into your needy wet cunt, the vibrator on your clit doing nothing to relieve the ache in your soul. He thought of the way you had squirmed and begged, to your god, and to him, to be granted your release. He thought of the way you had sobbed as you came, curled round yourself, your fingers desperately trying to reach the sweet spot that would make your orgasm climb all the way into your belly.

He didn't need to imagine it, Kento thought blithely, his thumb now stroking slick pre-cum under his foreskin, and over the sweet swollen head of his cock. He didn't need to imagine it, because he had seen you, through the gap in your curtains in the dead of night. Watching you, a pale angel in the rain, hunting for the forgiveness of a body he couldn't allow himself to sully.

Kento's hand had begun to masturbate himself instinctually, to the thought of you crying out for him. For him, and he could do nothing but pretend he hadn't seen you fall apart, to the dream of him inside you.

Kento groaned, low and rumbling, his hand gripping tightly around his throbbing, heavy length, longer than his thick fist could cover. Dripping with pre-cum, Kento began to fuck into his own fist to lubricate himself. He moaned in time to the memory of you, writhing and mewling against your pillow.

Kento's other arm reached round above his head, and he sunk his sharp teeth into his pillow, licking at it, imitating how he would flick his tongue against your pert little clit with a ragged moan. He pictured you above him, riding his mouth and nose as the length of his cock fucked down your throat to the tune of sweet wet gags. Kento whispered filth into the dead of night, trying to rut himself to orgasm.

"--take it-- good girl...cum down your throat-- cum in my mouth...shit...fuck you through it soon, angel-- promise, I promise--...ahhhh, shit, SHIT--"

Kento cursed, spitting venom, his balls heavy and sore, his own hand so woefully inadequate. His canines had lengthened, his mouth twisted into a teeth-baring snarl, and he gripped his cock harder. Trailing his other fingers to his mouth, sucking on his fingertips with a shiver, Kento pierced them until he could taste the hot rush of blood, imagining it was you quenching his thirst--

At the window, completely unnoticed, you gripped the windowpane, weak-kneed. Your other hand clapped over your mouth. Kento lay naked on his bed, sprawled and ethereal under strips of moonlight, masturbating with gasps and groans that you only wished you could hear.

Those hands, that you had spent night after night, wishing were inside you. That cock, thicker and longer than you had pictured...and oh. The way he rutted into his fist with such devastating ferocity, left you jealous of his hand. Your mouth watered.

What would he do, if you knocked right now? If you offered yourself to him, spread bare and pleading? Would he forsake his vows for you? Would he turn his back to God, as he stroked his cockhead to orgasm between your wet folds, singing your praises, and spattering hot, thick cum over your clit--

You were drawn back out of your head as Kento convulsed, his anguished, sloppy moan breaking through the windows, shooting through you like a knife. You gasped, delighted by Kento's twitching pleasure.

Kento hit his orgasm with the turmoiled strength of a stormfront, breaking. His final image was of you, cradling his sore cock between your legs, humping him inside you while you whispered to him and he whined into your hair and got lost in the smell of you, god, the smell of you, he could smell you now--

Kento spasmed, crying out as cum spurted in heavy stripes up his abdomen, his orgasm threaded with a tinge of horror-- fuck, he could smell you, you were here nearby, he knew the smell of that skin and that blood and that cunt--

Kento sat up with a jolt and a snarl, still gasping, the power of the hunt crashing through him. His teeth bared, animalistic, he wrenched his window up, sticking his head out into the night.

The smell of you, quickly fading, was being carried away by the wind. And Nanami Kento was losing his mind.

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You could barely compose yourself, walking into Church the next evening. The night had crept in fast; another storm churning over the water, was pulling the moon in with it. You felt overburdened with...guilt? Desire? You could not hide it, you were sure.

You could not hide it, as Kento's rich voice embraced the pews. You could not hide it, as your voice trembled its way through hymns. Kento's stern, impassive face remained unreadable, as you took communion from him. You met each others' eyes, both thinking about the same thing; his finger grazed your tongue, and gazed upon your sweet face, open-mouthed and doe-eyed, kneeling before him.

And despite all this, it was each others' company you craved more than anything more carnal. You found excuses to stay, in the church, loitering as Kento bid the crowds a warm goodbye. As the last person left, finally alone, you turned to each other. You both held your breath.

After a few moments, yours released in a twinkling laugh, and a blush, that had Kento's chest clenching in possessive adoration.

"I...have neglected you, father," you offered, brushing your hair behind your ear. Kento huffed, at first, pinching the bridge of his nose, before laughing. A genuine laugh. Deep, velvety, and rich. You were putty in his hands, and he didn't even know.

"Alas...it is the life of the clergy. Our own needs, go...unmet." Kento grimaced, a forced half-smile. His hands clasped over his lap.

You felt the tinge of bitterness at the edge of his words. You swallowed, thickly. Your fate balanced on the edge of a knife.

"Not...not all of them, surely? You could...you could join me for dinner?" You couldn't miss how Kento's eyebrows raised fractionally, his pupils dilating. Kento felt a dangerous hunger.

"I...I'm not sure-- I shouldn't--"

"Of course, you're completely right--" you flapped, taking a step back, and Kento's hunger gripped you back with jealous need.

"...I shouldn't be long here. An hour, maybe? If...if you'll allow it." Kento could feel himself twist under the need to possess you, one way or another. Judging by the smell of you, you would be wet, supple under his lips.

"Perfect," you blurted, standing up on your tiptoes for one happy moment, "perfect. I'll cook. We can...we can talk. I can't wait."

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A brisk knock. You hurried to the door, biting your lip, briefly abandoning dinner on the stove.

"Father," you cried, damning yourself for sounding so excited, "you're here...I'm glad. I was afraid you wouldn't...anyway..."

You hurried back to the stove, leaving the door open. After a moment, you looked up, seeing Kento leaning against the doorframe, looking at with with something...unreadable, in his eyes. He simply stood, drinking you in as you cooked.

"...Father? What are you waiting out there for? Come in." Blinking, chuckling to himself, Kento stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him and gently placing a bottle of wine on the table.

"Please. Call me Kento. It seems...silly, if we're having dinner, and a night together." You felt heat blossom through you, at the accidental double-meaning behind Kento's words.

Dinner together was soft, intimate, the food and wine smoothing over an already glossy conversation. You were made malleable by the wine. You were intoxicated by him. Kento looked into you with such knowledge of you, that you were laid bare beneath his gaze.

Sat facing each other on the sofa, Kento had abandoned his white collar, the buttons of his cassock and white shirt undone to his chest. He rolled wine around his glass, his head leaning on one hand, smiling as you talked. The wine made you stupid, and you blurted out;

"Why? Why...did you join the church, Kento?" It was, in part, rhetorical. A cry of despair against the crime of Kento being made untouchable. His answer surprised you, and you found yourself shuffling closer as he talked.

"I ask myself that same question every day. Ever since..." Kento bit his tongue, thinking of the night he was turned, on a missionary trip abroad. Thinking about the day you walked into his parish, setting him aflame with unquenchable burning thirst. Kento cleared his throat, swirling his wine. He felt his primal magnetism drawing you to him like a moth to the flame, and he could not stop himself.

"...I have become...disillusioned, with the church. I am...torn," Kento admitted. Your knees were touching his now, and you leaned towards him with lovesick eyes. Kento felt the thrill of the hunt, feeling the sting of his teeth lengthening. His cock twitched as your breath passed over his cheek.

"...torn?" You felt a quiver of fear now, in the way Kento's eyes darkened, his hand slipping over to grip behind your knee, pulling you into his lap. He set aside his glass. It should have rung alarm bells. You were so drunk, but you had only had one glass of wine. Kento smelled so intoxicating. You were warm, floppy as he pulled you to straddle his lap, cupping your face with both hands.

"...torn," he whispered, his nose brushing yours. Kento's hunger overtook his panic for you, a victim to himself. Kento whispered against your lips, watching your eyes flutter closed, your head heavy and lilting to the side, exposing the pretty thrum of your throat to him.

"...torn," he continued, gliding his tongue up the pulse in your neck, feeling his cock jump against your clothed pussy, "...all because of you...if God has forsaken me, I hope he never wants me back. If only you would let me worship you, instead."

Kento's lips hovered over yours, barely quelling his urgent need to feed on you, until you whimpered his name. Kento snapped, and pulled you in by the back of the neck, crashing his lips to yours with the ragged groan of a starving man.

Your head swam with Kento, clutching his open collar and falling against him, allowing him to devour your mouth with bliss. You murmured against his lips, sloppy and licking, tasting the sweet allure of him, and his grip on the back of your neck grew crushing, his weight now bearing over you to press you back into the sofa, a sharp sting on your lip--

"Ow! I...ugh, sorry...I'm bleeding--"

As you moved to sit up, shocked back out of your reverie, Kento had pushed himself back to the other side of your sofa. One hand had clasped over his mouth. He trembled, and shook, white-knuckles clasping the sofa. You heard a sharp gasp, as if Kento was in pain.

With blood on your lip, you reached for him-- and stopped. Your eyes fixed on the switched-off television opposite you both. You stood, slowly, moving towards the hallway, and your bag, trying to control your terrified little heart.

"I'll just...get a cloth, for my li--"

As you pulled a blade from your bag, standing up to spin around, you were thrown back to the wall, your head cushioned by Kento's hand. You cried out, feeling him bracket you against the wall, his cassock now abandoned, his form seeming to grow and swell before you. Kento's face pressed to your neck, and you felt the hot throb of his growing cock against your belly.

You stood this way, both panting into each other, your knife pressed over Kento's heart, and his teeth pressed to your throat. Your heart broke, fragile beneath Kento's twisting form, and hungry mouth. You hiccuped, your hand and resolve faltering.

"...I never wanted...I wish it wasn't...why did it have to be you?" You sobbed, your arm starting to lower. Kento growled against you, already two feet taller, his enormous chest trapping you in against the wall. You felt the lights blotting out around you, as vast, black, velvety wings unfurled from Kento's back.

"...always...you always knew...just couldn't accept--" Kento gasped, his tongue darting out against your neck, ridged and trembling. His chest burst with pain to feel you sob beneath him.

"I can't do it," you cried, your knife hand lowering again, "just take what you want, because I can't-- I love you-- I'm not strong enough." Kento's teeth gritted, his face crumpling against the soft copper scent of your skin. His enormous hand gripped yours, raising the knife to press to his chest. You gasped and cried out, resisting his pull; a bead of blood sprung up around the tip, pressed to Kento's chest.

"From the moment you arrived," Kento growled, his teeth pressing gently over your pulse point, starving and needy, "...my life...everything I am, has been yours to take. I would know you, blind and deaf...and I would be honoured, for you to take my life as penance for my sins."

You gritted your teeth, completely releasing your grip on the blade. It clattered to the floor. You reached up to trail hands up Kento's enormous, powerful shoulders. Your fingertips grazed the soft base of his wings, and Kento shivered, shuddering into you. He felt a dribble of pre-cum soak his stretched, ripping boxers.

"Then I condemn you to live, Kento," you whispered, pulling his face up to yours. His pupils were dilated, bursting with lust, inky black in pools of crimson, "...and take me. However you want me."

Kento snarled at you again, pressing himself to you, pinning your arms above your head with one thick hand; "You have no idea what you're asking for," he hissed, "I will eat you alive." He felt you tremble, seeing the golden resolve in your eyes. You leaned forwards to his mouth, begging.

"Then eat me...or fuck me, like you fucked your hand to me."

Kento cursed, snapping, lifting you against him. You wrapped your legs around his hips, feeling Kento reach down to shred the clothes off himself, completely absorbed by the need to possess you, to love you.

Flung backwards onto the bed, you gasped at Kento's monstrous form. Eight feet tall, broad and exquisite, his great black wings folded and unfolded against his back. His aching cock dripped with pre-cum, so much bigger than when you had seen him cum into his own hand. His face, still undeniably Kento, stared into you, owning you. Heat pooled between your legs, as he grasped his cock in one great hand, groaning and shuddering.

You crept forwards, still drunk on him, and his nephilim glory. Kento's hand stuttered around his cock as you licked the tip.

"--fuck-- too big for you-- you can't--" Kento uttered a strangled moan, to feel your hot little mouth engulf his cockhead, your lips stretched wide, gulping him to the back of your throat, all hot little licks and sucks. Every fibre of his being needed to buck forwards into your mouth, and you felt two great hands tangle in your hair.

When your hands joined your mouth, stroking down his aching length, masturbating the parts of his cock your mouth could not reach, Kento rutted involuntarily. Moaning, begging and whining your name, his voice ran deep and ragged around his sharp canines.

"--darling, I-- shit I-- so good...so good for me...taking me s--so well, haaaaah...not-- can't last-- like this--"

You hummed around his cock, swallowing down a trickle of salty pre-cum, feeling the gentle pressure of his fingertips against your head. So aware of his size and strength, Kento handled you like a china doll, with the utmost love and affection. Kento moaned with abandon, his head thrown back, his great wings furling and unfurling with divine pleasure.

Swallowing around Kento's thick tip at the back of your throat, you felt his cock leaping in warning. Kento tried half-heartedly to pull you off him, whimpering and moaning with fractured cries of your name;

"--can't swallow-- s'too much-- ohhh fuck, my love-- c-cumming, I'm cumming-- fffuuuck yes, swallow-- all of it--"

You squeaked as his cock jolted and twitched in your mouth, Kento's balls clenched tight as he hunched around your mouth, pressing your head to him. Your mouth and throat flooded with Kento's bitter seed, cooler than that of a normal man, and you swallowed him down with pride. Kento's groans and breaths ran ragged, as you licked him clean.

Kento panted, glossy-eyed as he came down from his high, his cock still half-hard against his thigh. Crowding your body against the bed with his, his fingertips grazed the dress you wore, before ripping it from you with a bared-teeth growl. You felt your bra snapped in the middle, as if it were paper. Your breasts heaved, nipples peaked under Kento's ravenous attention.

Poking his tongue out to tease it over one hard nipple, you felt your clit throb to feel the otherworldly ridges and grooves running along his tongue's sides and tip. Whining as he sucked your pebbled nipple into his mouth, you shuddered to feel Kento's sharp teeth graze your sensitive peak. He savoured you, lathering your nipple against his tongue, until you felt you could cum from that alone.

His other hand rose to engulf your second breast, your nipple rolled so tenderly between two great fingers. You felt a trickle of arousal soak your underwear. Kento could smell it, and pressed his hand to your lower belly, feeling vaguely for the telltale swell of ovulation.

"...made a mistake, angel...letting me take you like this-- nothing of you left, by the time I'm done with you--mine-- all mine-- fuck--"

Trailing kisses down your belly, sniffing you and eager to fill you with his smell, his body thrummed for you. Kento threw your legs over his shoulders, ripping the sides of your underwear and tossing the scraps aside.

His eyes fixed on your pussy, slick and clenching. Kento shuddered, feeling his cock beginning to bound to life again. It flopped, heavy and twitching against his thigh, filling again in preparation to fill you. Kento felt a vague desire to ensnare you, trapping you inside his drunken intoxication, to fill you, and fill you, and fill you, until your belly swelled, oozing his thick, white seed.

"...Kento...please..." Your sweet begging pulled Kento out of himself. Despite his monstrous form, his face softened, his eyes fixed to yours as his tongue, long and ridged, stretched out of his mouth. You saw stars as it lathed insistently from side to side, spreading your folds, stroking back and forth over your aching, pearly clit.

Kento mumbled into your pussy, tasting you, his long tongue fucking into your cunt while his nose nuzzled your clit. Mewling, your hands flew down to sink into Kento's hair, and you felt your hands grasped and pinned against your belly. Kento knew, with a faint pang, that if your fingernails scratched against his sensitive scalp, he would surely spill his seed all over your floor.

Kento draped his other forearm over your belly and hips, pinning you down as you twisted beneath his attention. He lapped, sucked, and nipped at you with the softest bites to your clit, his tongue fucking in and out of you with inhuman dexterity.

You bucked your hips down the bed, eager to feel his tongue sink into your deepest parts, and Kento obliged with a wet moan. You felt his tongue lathe against your spongy spot, pinned down as he devoured you.

"--just there...harder please, please-- god I need your cock in me, please-- fuck me please-- please--"

You begged and pleaded your way to orgasm, your arousal seeping out around Kento's tongue as you came with a jolt and a cry, your thighs clamping around Kento's head, feet tickling against his sensitive wings. Kento continued to fuck his tongue in and out of you, lathering you with his spit, tasting your arousal, desperate to taste more of you.

You reached down, trying to pull Kento up your body. He almost laughed at your casual management of a true to life vampire, about to fuck you into the mattress. Kento allowed it, settling above you, his pupils narrowing at the insistent beat of your throat. Suddenly, and with a strangled growl, Kento knocked your head aside, his teeth grazing at your throat, and his monstrous cock throbbing at your entrance.

You trembled beneath him, heaving and gasping from your high. All of your resolve left you, beneath his tongue, and you uttered words you knew to be true;

"...I trust you, Kento."

Kento pressed into you, with teeth and cock and a husky moan. You felt a sharp pierce at your neck, his teeth just deep enough to feel the hot splash of your blood against his tongue. Kento almost finished then and there, his seed threatening to spatter into your folds and entrance, instead of in your belly, as he had promised himself. Kento drank you, his mouth clamped around your neck, one great hand cupping your head to the side while the other gripped your hip.

With a squeak and a protracted, broken moan of his name, you felt Kento's cock stretch through your wet velvety walls. You squirmed, trying to climb up the bed, feeling Kento growl around your throat and yank you back down.

Kento was enormous, by far the biggest cock you had ever taken, splitting you with a dull sting. Your fluttering hole soothed as Kento began to rut his length into you. His red, leaking tip bullied your cervix, bumping it up against your womb, with inches of him still outside of you.

You uttered strangled little moans, completely pinned beneath his hulking form, feeling him rut as much of his cock inside you as he could fit. With a shiver, Kento denied himself of any more blood at your throat. His tongue stroked your wounds, clotting the blood there, as he fucked gently into you.

Kento's wings caged you both in, and he stared down at where his cock tried to stretch your pussy out with dopey, lovesick eyes. A trickle of your blood ran down from the corner of his mouth, and he was struck with a sudden burst of pride for you. Kneeling back, Kento pushed your knees up to your chest, crushing over you in a mating press.

You writhed, as Kento managed to sink more of his cock into you, groaning which each stroke he watched enter and pull out of you. Your slick formed a translucent white ring most of the way down his cock length. Kento was eager to see it drip down his balls. He gasped down at your prone, fucked-out form, and gently began to press and roll the fatty flesh around your clit, making you buck up into him with pathetic little mewls.

"--fit it in--fit all of me in...if you cum again-- fuck you through it, baby...fuck you through it...fuck you through it..."

Kento repeated this like a mantra, every gradually strengthening thrust into you taking him deeper, your pussy stretched to its limits around his terrifying girth and length. Leaning over where you joined, Kento spat a smooth mouthful of spit, stroking it around his base, lubricating you both, before upping his pace and intensity again.

You cried out, head thrown back as you arched, feeling Kento so deeply that you clasped your belly. Kento planted one hand over yours, his fucks growing gradually more feral as he bared his teeth, determined to finally take what was his, after so many years of miserable self-denial.

"--mine make you mine make you mine--leave it behind...leave it all...for you...shit-- so tight, just--milk it out-- all my cum-- all yours, I swear..."

As you came, your pussy clenching and spasming, Kento finally bottomed out. His head flung back with a cry of success, slamming into you with abandon as he chased his high, desperate to see you filled with his cum. Cursing, and spitting, teeth bared and blacking out the room around you with his wings, Kento came with a roar, and you felt your pussy and belly flooded by him.

His cock jerked long, protracted twitches inside you, spurting thick bursts of cum, with nowhere to go but up, plugged by his enormous girth. You were pliable and dazed, taking it with the sweet relief of his love for you, his seed soothing your swollen inner walls like a balm.

Kento faltered above you, staggered and dazed. Keeping his cock stuffed inside you, manoeuvring himself onto his side, he swept one great wing beneath you, and one above you. You felt yourself cocooned, sleepy and full, reaching into hand up to tangle into Kento's hair. He pressed a lazy kiss to your palm.

"...you're a...terrible vampire hunter..." Kento slurred, fading out into soft snores, just seconds later.

He's not wrong, you reasoned to yourself, wondering and drifting to sleep in his arms and wings, maybe he'll help me.

[chronicroderick]

Confessional / Priest!Hannibal

Will Graham wants to fuck a priest, Father Hannibal Lecter.

Smut, Priest Kink, Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham, Blowjob, Face-Fucking, First Time With A Man, Anal, Implied Internalized Homophobia

Confessional on Ao3

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“Father?” The word echoed through the empty corridors of the stone church. There was no answer except for the distorted resonance, making Will’s question sound more like an expectation.

Will Graham had been going to this church every couple of weeks for half a year now. It was one he had always passed on his evening jogs. Pillars with gargoyles atop them, twisting carvings of vines along the bannisters, daunting in its dark beauty where it stood among the office buildings and the floor to ceiling window paned highrises. Baltimore was not so strange, there were always plenty of churches. Too many, if you asked Will. The severity of this one was what always caught his attention. Old stone outside that was tarnished almost black by time. He had wondered how old it was. He wondered about the services. Eventually he decided he had the time to step inside, that was months ago, he had met Father Hannibal that day.

He shut the heavy doors behind him with a slight bang. There was still only silence. The candles were lit though, mounted on the dozen columns that lined the outside of the pews, and the ones gathered around Jesus’ feet at the front. Their flickering yellow light illuminated the gold cross in a way that made it seem like it pulsed, the red paint dripping from the statue’s crown of thorns and nailed limbs appeared almost black. It was then that Will realised how late it was, the evening mass was already over, just barely, he was sure, but the sun had long since hidden itself behind taller buildings, leaving the stain glass unilluminated, and the corners shadowed. He approached the statue, a moth drawn to the light and the warmth it offered, his footsteps clunking louder than ever it seemed. When he got close enough that all the pews were behind him he saw the faint light coming from one of the rooms offset from the congressional area. There was the sound of a pencil scratching and the shuffling of papers.

“Father?” He asked once again, this time a bit louder despite being closer than before. The scratching stopped and he heard someone exhale.

“Is that you, Will? You missed the service.” Father Hannibal sounded exhausted.

“Yeah.” He’d done it on purpose, but that purpose was still as ambiguous as a dream.

There was no beckoning into the office, so he stood a great deal away from the door, lingering with the candles. He listened to the clergyman gather his papers, closing something, maybe a book, and pushing in a chair. The lamp light from inside the room went out with a click, cloaking the other man in darkness until he reached the outer cusp of the doorframe.

“I reckon that was not a mistake on your part.” The priest’s face looked almost ghastly in the dim light, his high cheekbones and steep nose bright, while the shadows of his cheeks and eye cavities lept and shook.

Will shook his head, looking down at the layered shelves of candles, drawing an index finger up the side of one to wipe away some white wax that had almost made it down to the wood.

“A mistake? No. I can come see you if I need to, can’t I?”

Father Hannibal came closer, but Will did not look up, “Are you seeking absolution, Will?”

The long black bottom of his gown swayed around his feet for a second when he stopped walking and Will allowed his eyes to travel up from there, over the merry green stole draped around his neck, pausing on the brilliant white of his clerical collar.

“I believe I am. It may come too little too late.”

“Nonsense,” the man took Will’s hand and enveloped it in both of his, patting the top of it, “It is never too late in the eyes of the Lord. I will listen, as will He.”

With a gentle smile, he let go, and gestured for Will to follow him to the second pew. Gathering the skirt of his gown in his hands, he sat down in the middle of the row and waited with practised patience for the man to speak. The brunette only looked at his feet for a long moment, gathering his courage, before ultimately stalling.

“Shouldn’t we be in Confessional?”

“If that would make you more comfortable, we can. I figured this would be more fitting, you are an unconventional man, and not a member of the flock.”

Will smiled ruefully, “Church isn’t really my thing.”

“I know.” Father Hannibal almost sounded admiring.

“So,” Will looked at him now, angling himself so he could face him the best he could, their knees brushing against one another. “How do I begin?”

“You make the sign of the cross,” As the pastor spoke he mimed, and Will followed along, “then you say ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’ after which you tell me how long it has been since your last confession.”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been… I’ve never confessed before.”

He felt like he should whisper or steeple his hands, though he only folded them in his lap in the same way the priest did his, and bowed his head, eyes still open.

“Now tell me your sins.” There was an edge to Father Hannibal’s voice that seemed more than priestly.

“I…” Will took a breath, “I guess my lack of prayer is a sin. I do not go to church or read the bible. I have lied, as a child and as an adult. I have stolen, mostly as a child. I am sure I have been prideful and envious and lustful. I masturbate.” He chuckled.

“Now is not the time for jokes, Will. This may be uncomfortable, but I would rather you take this seriously. You came to me. What is it you seek?”

“I want to be forgiven.” The words surprised Will.

“By God?”

“Yes. God doesn’t care about me. He doesn’t care about people like me.”

“Homosexuals.” Father Hannibal filled in the blank with ease.

“Yes.” Will unfolded his hands and gripped the edge of the seat, he refused to look into the priest’s eyes, afraid of what he might see.

“I am not meant to judge you. I can only take your words as a vessel. What exactly about homosexuality is it that you wish to be forgiven for?”

He shrugged, “I only want to feel like I tried. Like I said the words in his house, like I did not give up completely.”

“You wish to let Him know that you're still one of his children, in spite of your lack of faith,” Father Hannibal observed, “When you masturbate do you think of God?”

“What?” Will’s cheeks turned scarlet.

“Do you imagine he is looking down on you, watching your self pleasure, aware of no doubt your thoughts of other men, which you know is a mortal sin?"

Will swallowed, “Yes.”

“Did you come here tonight to seek forgiveness from God or to seek forgiveness from me?” His question held authority and a cold curiosity.

“I came here to… From you, but you knew that.”

“I did. I am not blind to the way you look at me, Will Graham. A man of the cloth. Is it me you imagine in your bed at night?”

His knuckles turned white where he gripped the pew, his face scarlet and his eyes scrunched closed. This was more embarrassing than he had ever imagined it to be.

“I just needed to say it. I just had to get it out of my head so you could reject me and I could move on. I’m sorry. I know you can’t have sex and I know you – you can’t be gay anyways. It was – I just everytime I see you I –”

His apologetic rambling was cut short by the feeling of cloth brushing against the fronts of both of his knees. Will opened his eyes and looked up, only to see the faintly lit silhouette of Father Hannibal standing over him. The light from the gathering of candles behind him made him seem like a disciple himself. The bench was deep, so he towered over Will more than normal, and he looked down at him with an expression no less serious than when he was performing confirmation.

“Open your mouth.” Father Hannibal’s voice was smooth as sin.

“What?” Will asked meekly.

“Open,” the minister cupped the back of his head, “your mouth.”

So Will did. Not obscenely wide, just barely, as if he expected to have the body of Christ placed on his tongue. The priest’s robe had a row of black buttons all the way down the front, and a green cloth belt that tied tightly around the waist like that of a pirate. It matched the ornate stole. Will watched the man’s free hand untie his belt with ease, letting it fall to the floor before undoing only five buttons in the front.

“If you want this, pull it out.” All priestly patience was gone from the man’s voice and in its place stood an indescribable blackness.

He wanted it, more than anything, so Will reached into the robe without question. It took him a moment to sort through the cloth, but when he felt the hot skin of his erection, Will pulled it out eagerly. Father Hannibal took in a sharp breath as the cool air of the church hit him and his cock bobbed in front of the other man’s face. Will looked up at him, asking permission, unsure if he should really be doing this.

“Go on. Show me what you must be forgiven for.” Hazel eyes burned into Will’s blue ones and he took him in his mouth.

He could taste the salty precum immediately on his tongue. It was smooth and delightly, Will flicked his tongue over the small hole, causing Father Hannibal to shudder. He swirled his tongue around the tip, teasing the edges of it, sucking on just the end, until the fingers in his hair curled tightly. Then he took the whole thing in his mouth, all the way down to the base, excited to please, excited to have even this part of Hannibal. He swallowed, allowing the back of his throat to clench around the tip of the dick before pulling it out with a small gasp. Looking up at the priest once again he saw the man was biting his lower lip, in a way that looked almost pained. Will could not have that. He wrapped a hand around the shaft, slowly pumping it near the base as he took it in his mouth again. His head bobbed in Father Hannibal’s grasp, he moved as fast as he dared without scraping him with his teeth, overcome with need. He flared his tongue along the bottom of his shaft as he moved up and down, caressing it in a way that made Hannibal groan. This delighted him, finding a rhythm best he could and taking as much cock down his throat as possible with every pass. Firm hands gripped his head, causing him to look up with wide eyes, never stopping, and see the way Father Hannibal had become super imposed on the statue of Jesus on the cross. The gold shone brightly behind him, pulsing like before, this time in sync with the way the priest began fucking his face. Will’s eyes watered, but he focused on not giving the man any reason to stop. He could hear the wet noises his own mouth made, obscene in a bedroom and even more so in the current setting. Father Hannibal registered it at the same time he did, his lips twisting into a sneer, and he gripped the brunette’s head tighter, moving it faster, burying Will’s nose briefly into the front of his robe every time he forced his dick all the way down the man’s throat. Will still gripped the pew with one hand, attempting to keep himself in place against the onslaught he graciously accepted. Suddenly, his mouth was empty, both hands removed from his hair, and he had to wipe away the drool that had collected at the corners of his mouth.

Father Hannibal looked down at him silently, as if giving him time to collect himself before speaking, “You have my forgiveness, Will. I hope God can forgive us both.”

He then grabbed Will by both shoulders, half lifting him, allowing him to catch up and stand the rest of the way, before kissing him, hard enough that when Will’s lip was caught between their teeth, it got cut open. The taste of blood blossomed in both their mouths, causing a deep rumbling to come from the clergyman’s chest, while Will groaned in response. He could feel the man’s freed cock brush against the outside of his pants, an unwitting tease to his own erection which strained against the fabric of his jeans. He shoved his tongue in the priest’s mouth, allowing the man to taste himself as their tongues met. It was delicious. Hannibal’s precum and Will’s blood, equal parts in an intimate dance.

Pale hands travelled up from Will’s shoulders to his neck, while he simultaneously reached around Father Hannibal, strong fingers gripping the creases along his back and pulling their bodies closer, until their hips ground together. He felt hungry.

“I’ve thought about this so many times.” He whispered when he broke the kiss, panting softly.

The priest was silent, eyes flickering between Will’s lips and his eyes, and in response Will trailed his right hand over the other man’s clothed ribs, up his chest, and wrapped one side of Father Hannibal’s stole around his hand. He watched carefully as the man’s face registered understanding.

“There’s a certain eroticism to being more powerful than God, isn’t there?”

The brunette chuckled softly, taking the end of the stole and wrapping it around the back of Father Hannibal’s head, pulling until it rested loosely against his throat, like a scarf.

“Shhh.” Will whispered, “Don’t say his name again.”

The clergyman’s eyes narrowed, but he allowed the shorter man to turn him around and bend him over the back of the pew with a firm hand. Will yanked back on the stole, forcing Father Hannibal to lift his head as it choked him, trapped between the wood and Will’s aching erection. He ground his hips against his ass, its shape slightly distorted by the robes, but not by much. Sighing, he rutted against it, the outline of his cock pressed between the other man’s cheeks.

“I want you and I want you now, Reverend. Pull your robe up.”

Father Hannibal did as he asked, fingers gathering the fabric of his clothes and bringing it up over his waist, draped over his back, now all that lay between Will and his goal was a pair of starched black dress pants. He ran his free hand down the man’s back, until he caressed his buttock, tightening his grip on the stole until he heard Father Hannibal grimace. For a moment he worried it was too much, maybe topping was not a good idea, but when he bent over and snaked his hand around to palm Hannibal’s erection, it was rock solid and leaking a steady drizzle already.

“Good boy.” Will whispered in his ear, licking the shell of it as he began pumping the other man’s cock.

He felt the priests back stiffen and arch underneath him, pushing his ass deeper into the crook of Will’s hips. This earned a small growl from Will, who traded Father Hannibal’s flesh for his belt buckle, pulling the man’s pants and boxers down roughly past his ass, before undoing his own belt. The moment Will’s erection sprang free he trembled with excitement. In the dim light he could still see how pink it was, painfully hard, the slight bend in it dipping deliciously near Father Hannibal’s entrance. He was almost afraid to stroke himself, he might finish before he even had a chance to fuck the priest. That would be a waste. Will yanked on the stole, forcing Hannibal to arch his back even more, presenting his ass in the most inviting way, before the brunette spit onto the hole and rubbed his thumb around the rim. With a surprising amount of tenderness, he worked his digit into the ring of muscle, not wanting to hurt the man more than he had to. It was tight, slow work, drawing little whines out of Hannibal as Will pushed it in deeper, circling as much as he could as his own cock leaked now.

“Please.” Father Hannibal begged. It was quiet, resolute, almost dignified.

Will said nothing, only removed his thumb and spit again, this time as much as he could, and pressed the head of his dick against the entrance enough to trap the small amount of lubrication there. With one hand on Hannibal’s hip, the other still wrapped in the stole and resting in the small of the man’s arched back, he slowly pressed in. They both gasped in satisfaction, Hannibal clenching down on his cock in a way that made him want to shove the entirety of it in, but he held back, certain this was the priest’s first time with a man.

“Relax. I’ve got you.” Will said.

Father Hannibal inhaled audibly, shuddery, as if those words roamed beyond sex. He relaxed slightly, Will pushed in and out, going a little deeper every time, being as careful as he could until he was sure the clergyman was ready. It felt good. Eventually he moved faster, making Hannibal take most of his length. He moaned, a breathless sound as he bottomed out for the first time. The inside of Hannibal was pure heat compared to the desolate church and Will watched the way the muscle tried to hold his cock inside as he pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in. This caused the minister to mewl as he brushed against his prostate. That was enough for Will to pick up the pace. He was immediately an animal, slamming into Father Hannibal with all the force of his fantasies, the force of many nights stroking his cock alone in his bed imagining this moment. Hannibal let out a soft pant everytime he was filled up, the wood of the pew screeching ever so slightly along the floor as he was shoved into it by the force of Will’s thrusts. Skin slapping against skin filled the large room, the drapes swaying with some unforeseen draft, the wax from the candles pooling onto the wood shelves as the priest was stretched open over and over.

Will was panting, trying to catch his breath as he pumped in and out of Hannibal, a sheen of sweat covered them both and his thrusts began to lose their rhythm. He abandoned the stole and instead grabbed the pastor’s hips with both hands, forcing him back onto his cock as much as he could. The priest caught on, spearing himself on Will’s dick over and over, both of them groaning, both of their eyes fixed on the shimmering cross, on the watchful eye of Christ, half turned away as he hung from his crucifixion.

“Hannibal.” Will half groaned, half warned. He was close.

“I will love you, Will.” Father Hannibal breathed. It was more than an earthy promise, and Will knew it. It was celestial. It said; ‘If God can not love you, I can.’

And he came undone, bottoming out once again, to be sure he came as deeply as possible inside Father Hannibal. He moaned loudly, his hot seed filling the priest, and as it did he felt the muscle tighten, milking every last drop out of him as the other man had his own orgasm. They both slumped briefly, Will on top of Hannibal, Hannibal on top of the backrest of the pew. It was silent now, only their shaky breathing occupying the space around them. Will was almost positive he could hear the clergyman’s semen dripping onto the floor, from where he no doubt painted the back of the pew. It made him chuckle and he slowly pulled out, his cum rushing out of the man and down the inside of his thigh. Father Hannibal righted himself fully, pulling his pants back up despite the mess and straightening out his robe and stole the best that he could before turning to face Will, hands still buttoning the front buttons as he spoke.

“I hope you will come to Confessional more often.”

Will smiled, making himself presentable as well, “If it suits you, I will,” he paused as both their hands stilled, just staring at one another, then added, “I’ll love you, too.”

This made Father Hannibal smile and lean down to peck his lips, a soft, chaste kiss, before they parted ways. White wax dripping down to the floor under the feet of the Lamb of God.

[bucky-barnes-diaries]

Priest!Bucky Moodboards

A place to store my moodboards that inspire me

All moodboards are mine

– more moodboards

• Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned

• The Body of Christ

[i-eat-bugs-and-dirt]

JONATHAN SIMS PRIEST AU! FORCED CONFESSIONS! PEOPLE BEING FORCED TO RELIVE THEIR CONFESSED SINS IN THEIR DREAMS OVER AND OVER AGAIN!!! RELIGIOUS GUILT MARTIN!! THE FEAR ENTITIES SOMEHOW LINKED TO THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS! IM GOING INSANE!

[rice5x]

pouty vampire

[blkkizzat]

'SINS OF THE FATHER'

PRIEST!NANAMI X READER

✟ the liturgy: (summary) Even the most pious of men succumb to temptation and Father Kento is no exception... especially when it comes to you. (Priest!Nanami POV) ✟ the confession: (tw) dark themes, sacrilege, adultery, blasphemy, jealously, exhibitionism, blackmail/manipulation, heavy biblical references, cunnalingus, fingering, riding dick, shoe fucking, blow jobs, panty sniffing, olfactophilia, dacryphilia, lightly suggested altarboy!yuji (aged-up) x reader, oil tycoon!gojo x reader, suggested mentions of reader x other jjk men, corruption, masturbation and angst as you are literally tormenting this poor priest (lol). ✟ the sins: (wc) 4.1k ✟ the opening rites:(a/n) i grew up catholic (got confirmed too) and went to catholic school but haven't stepped inside a church in literal years. i was honestly surprised how many bible references came so easily from pure memory while writing this.

Sanctified conviction radiates off Father Kento as he approaches the inordinately adorned wood carved pulpit with authority to address his congregation. 

Despite the uncomfortable Summer heat there is no lack of attendance, a sea of familiar faces packed into the small town chapel. The buzzing song of cicadas and soft oscillation of the large fan circulating humid air through the church are the only sounds heard as the masses eagerly await his homily.

You were among them of course. 

Sitting front and center– a small saccharine smile graced your lips while your doe-like eyes, captivated and attentive, were made even bigger as they raised to the podium to meet his own.

Bible open, Father Kento takes a full breath pause before he finally speaks, his gaze is benevolent yet his voice is firm as it projects over the congregation. 

“Dear Brothers and Sisters– Let us reflect on the gospel of First Corinthians Chapter 10 Verse 13…and The Lord says– ‘There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man—”

Oh but you– you were anything but common– and irregardless of any higher standing his status as a clergy member bestowed upon him he was still a man of flesh and blood.

No matter the effort exerted, Father Kento had been unable to keep his eyes from yours during the service. The magnetism of unknown and certainly unholy forces drew him to you time and again without fail.

No beauty in town rivaled yours, not with an angelic countenance that complemented your delicate features so gracefully in your every action. 

Yours was a form of divine femininity rivaling that of Venus herself. 

If that wasn’t beguiling enough, your honeyed voice and syrupy words had the ability to sway even the most feral of temperaments. Leaving those who heard it at your mercy like a gentle but deadly siren.

“—but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able—”

Is God faithful? 

Ironic how you had Father Kento questioning the very foundations of his own faith while simultaneously indoctrinating God’s dogma to his faithful parishioners.  

If you were a test he had failed. 

Many times.

Even the first man, Adam, had fallen to Eve’s allures and not even the warrior strength of Samson was able to overcome Delilah’s seductions. 

Who was he to prevail where the biblical idols had fallen?

What actual grace could God give man against the sensual temptation that he had carved from man’s own rib? 

Father Kento had felt forsaken of God’s grace ever since you had approached him after mass to quietly request the rites of confession. He should have refused when you kindly solicited him to perform them in the cooler confines of the secluded rectory over the oven-like heat of a chapel confessional box in summer. 

Led astray so effortlessly by your genial charms as you looked to him like a lamb lost and addressed him so meekly as “Father Kento”. He would have just as easily given you access to heaven then if it were in his power.

Yet it was you who had so graciously led him to the gates of Zion— which so conveniently happened to reside in the velvety depths between your thighs. 

Consequently, the only sins that were confessed in the rectory that day were the moist squelches of your peach-ripened pussy gushing around his cock and coalescing with the frenzied sounds of hot flesh slapping together in unison. 

A child of Lilth incarnate to be sure but you looked so pure and celestial, even in ecstasy.

Hair matted to the sides of your face drenched in sweat while your nimble hands clutched onto his clerical collar. Your eyes filled with such loving devotion and you rode him earnestly as if it was your life’s penance. 

Father Kento in turn gives you his absolution by taking you from behind. The swell of your plump rear rippling against his hips and shared fluids splashing onto his hard abdomen feverishly drive him closer to God than he’d ever been.

Yes, he is weak. 

But Father Kento held the conviction that not even The Vicar of Christ, the Pope himself would be able to resist the vice grip of your silken cunt as if its true purpose was never to bear life but to wring out the very essence of the soul of man. 

He’d fallen prey to a day-walking succubus on hallowed holy grounds. 

No– Father Kento was certain if this church had ever truly been blessed as a house of God you would have caught aflame the moment you graced its threshold. 

“—but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye are able to bear it’.”

Father Kento concluded the passage. Nonetheless, neither it nor any other doctrine had provided him the solace of escape and nor biblical strength did he receive to endure against his temptations.

There was no resisting you. 

There was no escaping you. 

For anyone you cast your sights on.

This is exemplified by the obvious effect you have on the young alter boy Yuji. 

Barely old enough to be called a man, the youth's entire body flinches whenever you spare a sweet glance in his direction. 

Has Yuji’s innocence already been stolen? 

Father Kento must quell the inkling of jealousy at the thought lest he stumble over his words and shame himself further.

He was a man in every sense of the word and a man of the cloth, he would not compete for your adulterous affections with his own altar boy.

Even so, Father Kento’s lip does curl in disapproval at the deep flush of guilt on Yuji’s cheeks. Yuji clumsily trips over his own feet, nearly permitting the blessed vessels for the rites of eucharist to fall to the ground.

Harlot! Have you really allowed someone other than himself to bathe in the sins of Jezebel?

Maintaining composure through his sermon, Father Kento reminds himself that an inexperienced youth is no threat. 

However it is more than likely Yuji– who normally is so oblivious in nature– had likewise become aware of the wicked exhibition of sacrilege occurring beneath the prayer cloth in your lap at the very hands of your own husband– Satoru Gojo.

“So you may ask where does that leave us as followers of Christ? Temptations lure us into doing, saying or thinking something that does not reflect who we really are as sons and daughters of God.”

Neither you nor your husband were Christ’s children so none of these ideologies applied to either of you.

Nefarious philistines the both of you– godless and immoral.

Although Father Kento was for certain your husband, Oil Tycoon, Satoru Gojo– was the only one whose deeds could put yours to shame. 

The white haired devil had descended upon the quiet small town like a thief in the night to greedily capture the first few drops of black gold that surged from the earth before it could even fall to the ground. Quickly buying up land and resources, in less than a fortnight Gojo essentially had control over the entire town– its priest included.

But as he became more wealthy, so did the town and its people. Satoru Gojo built up the town around him to match his own gluttony for opulence, taking the town and its people away from simple old time comforts and into the more complex modern age. 

Therefore the man was seen as a saintly savior, rather than the lecherous leech he truly was.

To Father Kento’s credit, if he deserved any at all– he had initially held strong in his faith. 

He was not a man tempted by the power that would come from a promotion to bishop if a larger church was built. Nor was he tempted by monetary gain. The treasures he had always held most valuable were only those to be found in God’s kingdom.

Familiar with the tricks masked by flamboyant arrays of grandior, Father Kento’s folly had been his own headstrong vainglory in being a man above the lures of temptation. Thus he failed in recognizing you as the seductive snake in sheep's clothing the cunning tycoon Gojo had sent to be his undoing.

And you had never once failed to unravel him.

Even now Father Kento struggles to keep himself together as you inconspicuously lean against your husband, your head resting gently on his shoulder while the dainty fan you are holding obscures the lower half of your face. 

What appears as an innocuous attempt to halt the perspiration rolling from your nape into your heaving bosom is merely a front to hide the sinful ‘o’ your cherry lips form.

Your chest softly heaves although your labored breaths aren’t from the humid heat shrouding the church– but the increasing warmth dampening in your loins. All which had been provoked by your husband slipping two fingers through the buttons of your thin sundress and into your pussy, lightly teasing its gooey folds. Gojo’s movements are mostly concealed by the cloth but Father Kento can make out the skillful circular motions stroking your spongy bud and causing the sporadic twitch in your knees. 

You had writhed similarly under him. You were always far too sensitive.

Fat tears would never fail to pour from your bright eyes when he would latch his mouth onto your sex. You would be his last supper if ever given the choice. If heaven had a flavor it would surely be akin to the taste of your pink candied cunt and he knew of no sweeter treat on earth.

Twas no wonder then how Father Kento easily loses all sense of self when flicking his tongue into your gaping slit. Swirling the appendage within your gummy walls he gluttonously slurps down the steady stream of your flowing nectar. 

Your mewls and cries for him are far lovelier than even the song of cherubim. Father Kento has committed them to memory and as such he knows when they reach a certain octave– your pitch so high it's practically soundless– you're nearing your nirvana.

Arriving at your peak you would thread your hands through his blonde locks and thrust your hips forward as if his mouth were salvation itself. Your manicured nails would dig into his scalp to rock his head deeper into your plump pussy. The actions would beckon his tongue to finally give you its mercy by dragging it flat up your folds to suckle and nip at your swollen clit.

You never called on God then. 

Nor your husband. 

Only Father Kento.

Coincidentally, Father Kento’s gaze locks with Gojo’s for a brief moment and Gojo’s pale lips curl into smirk. 

A fleeting look is shared before contact is broke but the message is clear: 

Satoru Gojo own’s everything in this town. 

Gojo owns your cunt. 

Your cunt owns Father Kento.

Therefore by proxy Gojo owns him.

The revelation has Father Kento showing the white of his knuckles from the intensity of his grip on the pulpit podium as you simultaneously release a silent scream brazenly cumming on your husband’s dexterous fingers in the middle of mass. 

“The time now is propitious for us all to make a journey of conversion, led by sincere faith to allow ourselves to be confronted with the Gospel. Let us confirm this commitment by sharing in The Body and The Blood of Christ.”

Proceeding with communion the altar boy Yuji stands next to Father Kento holding the tray where the blessed chalice of wine and platter of thin wafers reside as the congregation dutifully exits their rows to receive the eucharist. 

As it is the more modern way to receive communion the majority of the congregation choses to place their non-dominant palm up over the other to respectfully receive the host. Yet traditionally, the priest placed the blessed wafer directly on the tongue of the one receiving. This practice was typically only seen by the elderly, the most exceedingly pious and of course— you.

When it is your turn to approach you beam brightly as you and all your beauty seem to float before him.

“The Body of Christ.”

Father Kento raises the host before you.

“Amen.” 

You obediently replied. 

Like expected your eyes fluttered to close as your pillowy lips parted in order to accept the host directly in your mouth. 

God help him, this was the most sacred part of mass but the way your deviant tongue lulls out hot and thick with your saliva pooled on the edge and threatening to spill onto your lips has Father Kento shifting at his post.

You look just as compliant and yearning to receive as when you had been on your knees before him taking his cock in your mouth whole.

Father Kento delicately placed the host in your mouth in a similar fashion as to when he would tap the tip of his bulbous leaking cockhead onto your tongue. 

So willing to please you kiss his angry red mushroom tip to appease his cock, swirling your tongue over the tiny hole before puckering it between your lips to greedily suck any drops of pre that dribbled forth as you pumped his base.

You were a tease. 

That much was evident both then and now as you extended the tip of your tongue to caress the tip of his finger. A tiny kitten lick, but nevertheless a tingle ran through his cock in remembrance.  

“The Blood of Christ.”

Father Kento presents the wine symbolizing the blood before you. 

“Amen.”

Again you closed your eyes and allowed Father Kento to press the chalice against your parted lips. 

The very picture of amenability, you actually enjoyed when he went rougher on you as a result of your teasing. Father Kento would gather your hair into a tight grip as he not-so-gently rammed his cock past your tonsils and down your throat. 

It was unnatural and ungodly for a person to lack any semblance of a gag reflex such as you. 

In response you pressed your fingers into his thighs– not as a means of resistance, but to control your own lust as you began shamelessly humping your mound against his leg. You were always desperate to feel any small sensation against your cunt while he ravaged your mouth.

Of course, Father Kento would oblige you and in turn he is rewarded with the heavy moans that would vibrate around his cock as his oxford loafer pushed up into your soaked core. Your white lace lingerie did little to contain your juices and as such Father Kento made use of the fluids leaking from your pussy as polish to shine his shoe.

Having sipped the wine from the chalice you peer up at Father Kento as if seeking his approval. 

He gives you a small nod. 

Similar to the one he bestows upon you after his seed has filled your stomach and you lick your lips as if it was his essence and not The Blood of Christ that lingered on them.

In the beginning, he had prayed long and hard to forget those sinful images of you that would intrude unwelcomed into his mind. 

Yet you always had ways of sucking him back in. 

Such as leaving your soiled panties stuffed between his headboard. Father Kento thought he was going mad when even after changing the sheets thrice was he still plagued with your smell.

He should have burned the offensive garment as soon as it was discovered and yet he treated it with reverence as if it were a holy object of salvation. Truly an euphoric experience, on days he couldn’t have you he’d bury his nose into the fabric murmuring blasphemy as he worshiped the very scent of you while jerking his cock.

When Father Kento finally ceased trying to resist you he then had the fleeting thought he could save you. Bring you to God and away from your villainous husband. 

But you were no Mary Magdalene, there was no returning you to the flock.

You will not leave your husband who provides you wealth and security. Father Kento is not so enamored he holds illusions that extend beyond his reality. There is nothing Father Kento owns and nothing he can offer you but himself. 

The singular consolation of the tragic circumstances is that Father Kento is sure you prefer his touch. The touch of a seemingly pious man who only has desires for you.

Unlike your scoundrel of a husband who Father Kento was sure had not remained faithful to your marriage bed. Not the way most of the female townsfolk threw themselves at Satoru Gojo. If he had no qualms using you to achieve his means he certainly had none for himself. 

You were simply a pawn to be played, as was Father Kento.

“Before we depart I leave you with these words: Let every day be a new day to renew the promises of our Baptism: We renounce Satan and all his works and seductions — for sh– *ahem* HE – is the seducer. Now go forth, Brothers and Sisters and remain true in the light of God.”

The closing rites over, Father Kento has never been more relieved nor eager for the conclusion of a mass. Watching the congregation mingle in the entrance, he gives his farewell blessings to the parishioners.

A few still remained however you were nowhere to be seen. 

This was not odd, the Gojos were a busy couple, likely excusing themselves immediately to attend to more important affairs.

Or so he hoped.

“There you are, Father! Riveting service, as always.”

With a devious grin and a firm drawn-out handshake Gojo greets Father Kento. Turning to face the devil himself, Father Kento greets Satoru in turn with a strained smile and an even firmer grip. 

Yet still he is unable to show you any of the wrath you justly deserve and Father Kento’s smile is more genuine when he faces you.  

You regard Father Kento coyly as your husband’s arm tightens around your waist. Your face is flushed and it’s evident you are still weakened from the orgasm your husband gave you earlier in front of the entire congregation. 

That knowledge though is only held by the three of you, God and perhaps the altar boy Yuji.

Father Kento had never known you to be silent when cumming so the exertion of the effort you expended likely weighed heavy on you as displayed by how you are clinging to Gojo to keep from swaying on your feet. 

“Thank you. I am but a humble messenger of The Lord’s wor–.”

“– Wait. Hold that thought!”

Father Kento’s eyebrow twitches as Gojo's attention is momentarily called elsewhere. 

Every Sunday, a growing number of parishioners would seek Satoru Gojo’s greeting and recognition after service over that of their priest Father Kento. 

True to character Gojo makes an obnoxious show of charisma which leaves the last group of parishioners fawning and singing his praises as they exit.

“Forgive me, Father. Where were we? Ah– Of course! Yes, you are quite excellent in your delivery of God’s word, a true testament to your faith!”

His flattery is so obviously false in its sincerity that Father Kento is not surprised when Gojo’s sordid smirk returns. 

“But you are not only a messenger for The Lord… isn’t that right, Father Kento?” 

Father Kento warily clutches onto the large cross dangling from the rosary around his neck as Gojo continues.

“I’ll need you to spread mine as well. Haven’t you heard? I have plans to run for Mayor.”

Mayor.

The diabolical fiend truly knew no limits in his quest for control over the town. 

“I’ll need you to come over to dinner tonight to consult with the rest of my top supporters.”

Father Kento steeled himself.. 

There was nothing he could do to stop Satoru Gojo from being mayor but his infatuation with you aside, he could not walk straight into the lion's den to collude with heathens. 

It would be the final nail in his coffin, Gojo would indeed own his soul.

“Oh! Y/N is prepping a feast too… aren’t you, angel?” 

Gojo’s grip on your waist trails lower to palm the fat of your ass and you clutch on to him tighter as you nod eagerly in agreement, biting your lip as his large hands knead into your cheeks through your wispy dress. 

Your body is ever responsive to Gojo’s touch just like he trained you to be.

“I must refuse. I have duties here to attend, I couldn’t poss–”

“P-Please F-Father…”

And just like that your delicate voice cuts through his iron defenses like it were warm butter.

“…K-Kento, p-please come!”

Your request fumbles out of your lips as a cry as Gojo’s devilish fingers dip past your ass to prod at your cunt.

“You heard her Father. She wants you to come. Break bread with us, you will be among friends. Friends who know how to share, yeah? I’ll even share a piece of her cream pie for dessert.” 

That had been the final straw. Gojo had gone too far this time.

You seeking him out was one matter but he would not allow Satoru Gojo of all people to dangle you in front of him like a master would dangle a treat to a dog.

“Begone, you foul heretic. I will not tolerate your mockery of me, this church nor God any longer.”

Commanding in his tone, Father Kento extends the cross of the rosary forward to Gojo as if he were casting a malevolent curse back down to hell. 

Father Kento doesn’t have the courage to look at you though, he can’t. Not if he wants to take a triumphant stand against Satoru Gojo.

And so Father Kento closes his eyes and silently prays. 

Immediately bored at such a devout display, Gojo sighs rolling his eyes.

“Alright, alright, Father. I get it. Whatever you say, jeez. It’s not like I need your support to become mayor– just thought it would be nice is all. ”

Father Kento remains silent as he listens to both of your footsteps exit the church but not before Gojo stops at the doors, his cheerful voice taking on a dangerous edge.

“Heh, you know, not everyone in this town is as pious as you Father. Sheriff Fushiguro has never been one to turn down a stack of bills but I’m sure tonight he would enjoy sharing in Y/N’s creampie if you don’t.”

Father Kento’s eyes open to flash red with fury.

Having received a satisfactory enough reaction from the priest, Gojo grins wildly as your own eyes widen in shock at your husband’s words. 

Has Gojo only ever used you to manipulate him alone? 

The thought remains as Father Kento doesn’t miss the pleading gaze directed at him from over your shoulder as you are led out of the church.

Goddammit– He couldn’t let you fall into the brutish clutches of Toji Fushiguro. 

Toji may have been the sheriff but he was well-known for his oafish demeanor and greasy womanizing ways. 

NO! He mustn’t think of you any longer. 

Father Kento needs to clear his mind of you for good with prayer.

Prayer and solitude.

Deep prayer and extensive solitude was what he needed if he ever hoped to rise again to gain God’s favor. He needed to call upon The Lord’s strength one last time to remain at the parish tonight and defy Gojo’s will.

Father Kento couldn’t let the pleasures of flesh continue to manipulate the very fibers of his being in such a way. 

The rosary still in his grasp Father Kento raises his hands close in prayer as a final call for God’s mercy… and then it hits him– wafting off his fingers, overwhelming his senses and igniting every nerve in his being. 

The scent of your cunt. 

The lingering perfume of your sinful drippings spilled on your husband’s hand during mass had been transferred to his own when Gojo shook his hand and held it so firmly.

The bastard. 

The rush hits him hard and he feels dizzy as his ears begin to ring. Vertigo overtakes Father Kento as he holds the offending hand out as if he had been poisoned. 

Leaning back against a wall to gather himself, Father Kento realizes once the manic pounding coursing through his veins begins throbbing in his loins that he’s fated for damnation.

This is the moment he’d always dreaded although ironic with the simple acceptance of it he feels no despair. 

Father Kento’s conviction is finally clear as he is left with a singular truth that rang through his entire soul:

Whatever solace he would know, whatever peace he would have in this life, he would only find with his cock buried in the sweet embrace of your cunt. 

✟

©blkkizzat 2024. do not steal works or gfx, do not translate.

✟ the closing rites: (a/n) hell is hot and it's surely my destination after writing this. i tried to leave it a little ambiguous to whether y/n is actually in-love with nanami or just a sex-crazed slut eager to use him at the request of her husband. i don't have a pt.2 planned just fyi as this is meant to be a oneshot. although i do need to write more nanami so i will take requests for him! but fair warning i am very slow i apologize.

also shout out to the amazing art i used for the gfx ✟ art by mishwell

✟ REBLOG to be unburdened of your sins by Father Nanami but likes and comments are also appreciated!

upcoming: the nursery (yakuza!toji), please teach me! (ceo!gojo), request: teasing choso (college au), request: sukuna x blkreader, [none in any order as im at the mercy of my adhd lol]

[ford-owner]

little birdy

[pitifulwolves]

I don't see enough priest Jayce, I needed to fix that.

[caughtshrimpin]

that swan princess scene no one asked for but im obsessed with anyway

bonus mahad

[pseudowho]

Vampire!Priest!Nanami is coming tonight, in Deliverance. I'm excited.

[pendwelling]

ORV x TWSB novel swap AU!

When the Reader Strikes Back

Omniscient Third Wheel's Viewpoint

[zu-is-here]

<– • –>

[thef1diary]

Forgive Me, Father | C. Sainz

summary: returning to religion seems like an impossible task, especially as you’ve lived a life of sinful indulgence, but fortunately, Father Carlos knows exactly how to purify you…in questionable ways

warnings: 18+ content, slow burn, dark!carlos, manipulation in the name of religion, oral (m receiving), masturbation, degradation, praise kink, fingering, spanking, light anal, use of religious items in an inappropriate manner, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, spit kink, choking, breath play, squirting, overstimulation, cum play, blood kink, use of knives.

wc: 23.5k

masterlist

— commissioned by my lovely 🩵 & 🐱 nonnies. This is a dark fic, read the warnings. Don’t like, don’t read. Also, I’m not catholic so some details may be inaccurate

The bass thrummed deep in your chest, a steady pulse that matched the rhythm of your heart, or maybe it was the other way around—it was hard to tell. The club was suffused with the kind of haze that didn’t just cling to the air but seemed to sink into your skin. Neon lights strobed in fractured patterns, reds, blues, and yellows smearing together like watercolours left out in the rain. You danced in the middle of it all, a body among bodies, indistinguishable in the tangle of limbs, sweat, and laughter that didn’t reach anyone’s eyes, only reflecting intoxication by one means or another. 

Your drink had warmed in your hand, condensation rolling down the glass, forgotten. You weren’t drinking to get drunk tonight; you were already too far gone. Maybe not on anything tangible—not this time—but the hollow ache inside your chest was the same high—emptiness that burned brighter than the neon overhead. You leaned into it like you always did, letting the throb of music drown out the thoughts you refused to name. 

Another stranger’s hand found the curve of your hip, his presence lingering just long enough to make you notice. You didn’t turn to look at him right away—there was a rhythm to these things, a game played in the undertow of the music. The press of his body against yours came next, deliberate but not desperate, his movements syncing effortlessly with your own. It wasn’t anything more than lust, only fuelled by the pure, unadulterated mind mingling with unspoken, primal need. 

When you finally glanced over your shoulder, you were met with dark eyes and a half-smile that might’ve been charming if you cared enough to notice. He leaned in to say something, his breath warm against your ear, but the words dissolved into the music, incomprehensible and unimportant. You didn’t ask him to repeat himself; you just nodded, tilting your head slightly in invitation, the universal sign for keep going. 

His arm slipped around your waist, drawing you closer, until there was no space left between you. His scent was sharp, woodsy, and undercut with something faintly spicy—cologne, expensive but over-applied. His lips brushed against your temple, then your jaw, soft and searching, and you let him find his way. It didn’t matter who he was. What mattered was the way he let you feel the rush of living, at least for a little while. 

The transition from club to the street to his bed was seamless, blurred by alcohol and autopilot. You didn’t need to think, didn’t need to process. You let him guide you through the neon-streaked darkness, his hand gripping yours as if you’d slip away otherwise. The taxi ride was a haze of whispered filth and soft laughter, his hand resting on your thigh, thumb brushing slow circles that sent sparks up your spine. 

His apartment was generic, clean in the way of someone who didn’t spend much time there. You barely registered the details—a couch in muted gray, a framed print of something abstract, the faint smell of laundry detergent that clung to the air. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, he turned, his hands cupping your face as he kissed you with a fervour that bordered on desperation. 

You didn’t resist. You let him pull you in, let him press you against the wall, his mouth trailing down your neck as your fingers found their way into his hair. It was all mechanical, rehearsed—a dance you’ve done too many times to count. Clothes hit the floor in a haste, and you let him lead you to the bed, its cool sheets a startling contrast to his fevered skin. 

The hours passed in a blur of touches and murmurs, bodies tangling and untangling, the kind of intimacy that didn’t linger, that didn’t leave marks. It wasn’t bad, you’d give him that. But it wasn’t remarkable either. It wasn’t meant to be. 

Morning came like it always did, dragging you back to reality with its pale light and dull, persistent headache. You cracked an eye open, the sharp scent of the stranger’s cologne hitting you first—musky, unfamiliar. The sheets were tangled around your legs, the air too warm against your bare skin. You shifted, squinting against the sunlight filtering through the unfamiliar curtains, and found him still asleep beside you.

His face was peaceful in the half-light, lips slightly parted, hair messy from the night before. For a moment, you almost lingered. Almost traced the curve of his shoulder or let yourself wonder about his name, his life, the kind of person he was when he wasn’t tangled up in the haze of a one-night stand. But that wasn’t part of the routine.

You moved slowly, deliberately. Clothes scattered across the floor—your skirt halfway under the bed, your shirt draped over the arm of a chair. The bra took a minute to find, caught between a pair of discarded shoes. Each step was silent, measured, like muscle memory kicking in. You’d done this too many times to count, slipping out of strangers’ apartments before the sun had fully risen, before you had to face the awkward small talk or the possibility of vulnerability.

When you reached the door, you paused. Not to look back—you never did—but to steady yourself, to push aside the faint flicker of something you couldn’t name. You told yourself it was nothing, that it didn’t matter, and turned the handle.

Outside, the morning air was crisp, a stark contrast to the warmth of the bed you’d just left. The streets were quiet, save for the faint hum of traffic in the distance and the occasional jogger passing by. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to ignore the faint sting of regret in your chest. Regret for what, though? You weren’t sure.

As you walked, your mind drifted back to the stranger’s apartment, more specifically to the small, battered book you’d spotted on his nightstand while searching for your shoes. It hadn’t fit the vibe of the person you’d met—worn leather and gilded edges. You hadn’t touched it, but the word embossed on the cover had stayed with you: Psalms.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. It shouldn’t have stopped you in your tracks the way it did. But it brought a memory rushing back, sharp and unbidden—kneeling in a church pew, sunlight streaming through stained glass, the quiet cadence of whispered prayers. You could almost hear it, the echo of your own voice repeating verses you’d long since forgotten.

You shook your head, trying to dispel the thought. It was just a book, you told yourself. Just another reminder of the life you left behind, of rules you didn’t need, of beliefs that had only held you back. But as you turned a quiet corner, the ache inside you—the one you’d spent years trying to drown in neon lights and borrowed warmth—seemed sharper.

Catholicism was part of your foundation, woven into you from childhood like a second skin, But somewhere along the way, that skin cracked. You couldn’t pinpoint when it happened exactly. Maybe it was gradual, the questions piling up until they formed a wall you couldn’t climb. Or maybe it was sudden, a clean break the first time you realized life was more fun without rules. Without limits. Without guilt. 

The things you were told would damn you—the hookups, the drinking, the thrill of losing yourself in the night—turned out to be the very things that made you feel alive. So you let go. You didn’t turn back. You stopped praying, stopped going to church, stopped pretending to care about a salvation that felt distant and abstract. Life became simpler, freer, unbound by restrictions you no longer believed in. You lived for the rush, for the here and now, for the electric thrill of knowing you could do anything you pleased. 

However, the word lingered in your mind like a whisper you couldn’t shake. Psalms.

And for the first time in years, you wondered if the life you’d chosen—the freedom, the endless nights, the fleeting pleasures—was really as limitless as it seemed. Or if you’d simply traded one kind of emptiness for another.

You paced back and forth in your apartment, gnawing at your bottom lip as your thoughts spiraled. It wasn’t like you to dwell on this, to feel torn between choices that seemed so far apart they shouldn’t have even been on the same spectrum. You’ve lived years without this pull, without the pang of guilt or the ache of longing for something you didn’t quite understand. But now, here it is, creeping up on you in quiet moments like this, refusing to be silenced. 

Could you even go back? After everything? After living the way you had, the sins you’d committed willingly and often gleefully, the sheer rebellion against the rules you once swore to follow? Or was this all just a fleeting moment of weakness, nostalgia wrapped in shame? 

You shook your head, hating the way your chest tightened at the thought of stepping inside a church again. But would it really hurt to try? You weren’t promising anything. You weren’t giving up your freedom, your indulgences, your life. You were just going to test the waters. One service. If it was awful, if it suffocated you the way you feared it would, you’d never set foot in a church again. 

That’s how you rationalized it. One hour on a Sunday. 

But when Sunday rolled around, the hours seemed to evaporate, and before you knew it, you were standing outside the church. It wasn’t the one you grew up in—thank God. No familiar faces here to judge you, no whispers behind hands as they recognized the “wild child” who’d fallen off the path. This place was different. Unfamiliar. 

The building was tall and imposing, made of pale gray stone that seemed to glow in the morning light. The arched windows were lined with intricate stained glass, and the doors were massive, made of dark wood with brass handles polished to a gleaming shine. A single bell tower stretched high above, the sound of its chime faintly echoing in the crisp morning air. 

You hesitated at the entrance, your palms clammy as you pushed the heavy doors open. Inside, the scent of incense hit you immediately—earthy, smoky, and strangely comforting. The space was vast, the high ceilings adorned with painted murals of saints and angels, the pews polished and lined up in perfect symmetry. At the far end, the altar gleamed with golden accents, the crucifix at its center casting a quiet shadow. 

There was a small basin of holy water near the door. You froze for a moment, unsure, before dipping your fingers in and making the sign of the cross—forehead, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder—all with your right hand. The motion felt foreign but oddly automatic, like muscle memory you hadn’t realized was still there.

You glanced around, watching others kneel beside their pews before sitting. Following suit, you dropped to one knee and made another sign of the cross before sliding into a seat near the back. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap as you looked down at the polished wood, your heart pounding in time with the faint murmur of voices around you.

The sacristy bells rang out sharply, and everyone stood. You rose with them, your heart hammering. The organist began to play, the notes swelling and filling the space as the priest entered.

He was younger than you expected, his presence commanding despite the simplicity of his vestments. He wore ivory vestments edged in deep gold embroidery. The robes were layered, a chasuble over an alb, the fine fabric catching the light and emphasizing his broad shoulders as he moved with deliberate grace toward the altar. 

You couldn’t help but notice how perfectly the vestments suited him, his every movement calm and measured. He wasn’t supposed to stand out—he was merely a vessel for the divine—but somehow, you couldn’t look away. His dark hair caught the light, and his face was too handsome for a man of God. Sharp cheekbones, a strong, shaven jaw, and an expression of quiet authority. Your stomach churned with guilt at the thought, but the realization didn’t stop your wandering gaze.

The mass began with the priest leading the opening prayer. His voice resonated with an almost magnetic pull, commanding attention without effort. You tried to focus on the prayers, on the carefully chosen words echoing through the nave, but your attention drifted to the man leading them. 

When the Liturgy of the Word began, the scripture readings washed over you. Passages you hadn’t thought about in years took on new weight as they were spoken aloud, the cadence of the lector’s voice rhythmic and deliberate. But it was during the priest’s homily that you found yourself truly captivated.

He spoke with an eloquence that felt personal, as if every word were meant to reach you directly. His tone was gentle but firm, guiding rather than demanding. And when his dark eyes swept across the congregation, lingering on you for just a moment too long, your heart stuttered in your chest.

The Eucharistic celebration followed, the altar boys moving with precision as they prepared the chalice, the cruets of wine and water, and the golden paten filled with wafers. The priest raised his hands in blessing, murmuring the sacred words over the elements. The congregation echoed him in parts, their voices a low hum of devotion.

When the line for Communion began to form, you hesitated again. You were baptized, yes, but the years you’d spent away from the Church made you feel unworthy. You were a sinner in ways you didn’t even want to admit, and the thought of stepping in front of the altar filled you with both dread and longing.

But you stood, your legs shaky as you moved forward with the others. The line felt interminable, every step closer to the priest making your chest tighten. When it was your turn, you felt the heat rise to your face as he looked directly at you.

“Body of Christ,” he said, his voice softer now, almost intimate.

Your throat was dry, but you managed to respond, “Amen,” before holding out your hands. His fingers brushed yours as he placed the wafer in your palm, and the contact sent an electric jolt up your arm.

“Welcome,” he added quietly, his dark eyes catching yours.

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard him correctly. “Excuse me?”

He leaned in slightly, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re new here. I’d remember you.”

A short nervous laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it, and you nodded. “First time in a long while,” you admitted, trying to ignore the way his gaze seemed to linger.

“I’m Father Carlos,” he said, his smile disarming but tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “If you ever have questions—or just need to talk—I’m here.”

The weight of his words followed you back to your seat, and even as the congregation sang together for the final hymn, your mind was elsewhere.

When you returned home, you slipped into your room, letting the door close with a quiet click behind you. The weight of the mass still lingered, a strange mixture of comfort and unease settling over you like an ill-fitting coat. Your gaze fell instinctively on the drawer beside your bed, the one that held your collection of toys—your private solace during years of loneliness and indulgence. It was almost muscle memory now, reaching for that drawer at the end of a long day. Satisfying yourself had become routine, a way to fill the void left by the chaotic life you’d built.

But tonight, as you stood there, hand hovering just above the handle, a pang of doubt struck you. Could you keep living like this? If you were truly serious about returning to the Church—about reconnecting with your faith—didn’t that mean letting go of these habits? The thought sent a shiver through you, twisting your stomach in a knot of frustration.

You dropped your hand, leaving the drawer closed, but it wasn’t easy. The itch of desire simmered beneath your skin, and you clenched your fists to distract yourself from the temptation. Sleep came fitfully that night, your dreams haunted by flashes of past indulgences and the faint, magnetic pull of the priest’s steady gaze.

The next few days were an uphill battle. You avoided the places that had once been your playground: the dimly lit bars, the pulsing nightclubs where temptation always waited at the next table or on the dance floor. Instead, you stayed home, trying to distract yourself with books and movies. But the silence of your apartment seemed to stretch on endlessly, and your thoughts drifted back to nights spent in someone else’s arms—or their bed.

The memories came unbidden, vivid in their detail. The way their hands had roamed your body, the low laughter shared over drinks, the exhilarating rush of the unknown. Sometimes there had been more than one at a time, and those memories in particular felt sharp, electric, impossible to ignore. Your chest ached with longing, but it was more than that. It was the frustration of trying to suppress a part of yourself that had always felt so natural, so vital.

By the second or third day, it became clear you couldn’t keep this up. The idea of refraining from all indulgence—of denying your body its needs for the sake of purity—felt like a punishment rather than a path to salvation. The thought of waiting until marriage was unbearable, a horror story playing on a loop in your mind. And since marriage wasn’t even on the horizon, the idea of living without touch, without pleasure, was unthinkable.

The unholy thoughts became harder to resist. They fed off your frustration, growing louder and more vivid with every passing hour. The memory of a man’s lips trailing down your neck, the press of warm bodies against yours, the shared moans and whispered promises—it was too much. You clenched your thighs and tried to force the thoughts away, but they only came back stronger, taunting you with what you’d given up.

In the quiet moments, a different thought began to creep in: Father Carlos. You remembered how kind he had been during the mass, how welcoming he’d seemed in that brief exchange. He had made you feel seen, not judged, even as you stood there awkward and unsure. And though it made your cheeks flush with guilt, there had been something about him that you couldn’t quite shake. The warmth of his smile, the way his dark eyes lingered just a moment too long—it was magnetic in a way that left you both intrigued and uneasy.

Surely he could help you. Surely a man like him, so rooted in his faith, could offer you some direction. The thought was fleeting at first, and you tried to dismiss it as a momentary lapse in judgment. But as the days wore on and your frustration mounted, it took hold, refusing to let go. You were still running on the high of that brief, strange attraction to him, though you knew you shouldn’t be. You should feel guilty for thinking about him this way. But you didn’t.

It was ironic, really. The old you—the one who embraced every indulgence without hesitation—would have scoffed at the idea of seeking guidance from a priest. Yet now, here you were, unafraid to admit you were lost, that you needed help finding your way back to something that felt steady, something that could ground you.

By the time the thought became a decision, you were nearly vibrating with frustration. You couldn’t continue like this, teetering between desire and guilt, trapped in a cycle of indulgence and denial. You needed someone to pull you out of it, to show you the path forward. And so, one evening, as the sky darkened and the weight of your sins pressed heavy on your chest, you found yourself heading toward the church.

The confessional was small, with dark wood panels enclosing you in a space that seemed built for secrets. You sat down slowly on the chair, your palms damp against your thighs as you adjusted to the intimacy of the setting. The screen between you and Father Carlos offered a sliver of anonymity, but even that did little to quiet the thunder of your heart. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the faint outline of his figure through the lattice, a shadow of a man who seemed larger than life in this moment. 

His voice came low, warm, and steady, breaking through the tense silence. “Take your time. Begin when you’re ready.”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” you began, your voice soft but thick with shame. The words felt foreign on your tongue after years of silence, but they were all you could manage at first. 

“How long has it been since your last confession?” he asked gently.

You hesitated. “Years. I… I don’t even remember the last time.”

He hummed thoughtfully, his tone patient and unjudging. “That’s all right. The important thing is that you’re here now. What’s been weighing on your soul?”

You exhaled shakily, staring at your hands. “I’ve been trying to change, to walk the right path again. But it’s been… hard. The temptations are strong, very strong and I find myself weak in these moments. The things I’ve done, purely selfishly, the life I lived full of pure sin—it’s like I can’t escape these memories.”

“Tell me about this life,” he prompted, his voice soft but firm. “Be honest, as you are before God. There is no forgiveness without the truth.”

Your cheeks flushed with heat as you stared at the wooden panels, knowing he was just beside you, listening intently. “I’ve… I’ve been with men,” you began, the admission falling from your lips in a shaky whisper. “Many men. I lived a life of indulgence, seeking out pleasure wherever I could find it.”

“What kind of indulgence?” he pressed, his tone remaining calm but carrying an edge of insistence. “Describe it, so I may understand the depth of your struggle.”

Your throat tightened, the weight of shame making it difficult to speak. “There were nights where I… gave myself over completely. I’d let him do whatever he wanted to me. Sometimes, there were two or three of them at once. They’d touch me, praise me, degrade me—and I… I enjoyed it. I craved it.”

There was a faint shift on the other side of the screen, the sound of fabric rustling, but you didn’t think much of it, too caught up in your confession.

“I let them take control,” you continued, your voice trembling. “I wanted to feel used yet wanted. There was something… intoxicating about surrendering to it, about letting go of everything else and just living in that moment of raw pleasure.”

“And these memories,” he said after a moment, his voice noticeably deeper, though still even, “they haunt you now?”

“Yes,” you admitted. “They come back to me all the time. The sounds, the touches, the way they made me feel… it’s like I can’t get them out of my head.”

His voice softened, but there was a tension beneath it. “Have you continued to give in to these temptations? Have you sought out this pleasure recently?”

Your throat tightened, your shame threatening to choke you. “Not like that,” you said quickly. “I’ve stayed away from men, from bars, from everything that used to tempt me. But…”

“But?” he pressed, his tone gentle but insistent.

You lowered your head, the words coming out barely above a whisper. “I haven’t been able to stop myself from… from giving in on my own. I’ve used toys, even when I told myself I wouldn’t. Last night…” You trailed off, your face burning with humiliation.

“Go on,” he urged, his voice soft yet commanding. His hand slipped beneath his attire, fingers brushing against his hardened cock as he gripped himself firmly. He began to stroke slowly, spreading his precum dripping from the tip. 

“Last night, I gave in,” you admitted, the confession spilling out of you. “I was alone, thinking about everything I’m trying to leave behind. But instead of praying, instead of fighting it, I reached for my vibrator. I… I used it, again and again. I moaned, loudly, shamelessly, just chasing the pleasure. I let myself fall completely into it, like I used to.” 

“And did you feel guilty afterwards?” he asked, his voice slightly strained now, though you didn’t notice.

“Yes, it was unbearable,” you said, tears stinging your eyes. “I feel like I’ll never be good enough, like no matter how much I want to change, I’m too far gone.”

He exhaled shakily, his grip tightening around his cock as he leaned closer to the screen. “You’ve taken the first step by coming here,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “But to find true forgiveness, you must lay everything bare. Speak your sins in their entirety, without holding back. What else did you do with these men?”

Your voice wavered as you continued, diving deeper into the memories you’d tried so hard to suppress. “There were nights when I’d let him tie me up, blindfold me. I liked the control he had over me, the way he’d whisper filthy things in my ear. And I’d beg him for more. I let him push me further than I ever thought I’d go.”

Carlos groaned softly, catching himself just in time to muffle the sound as his hand moved faster now, the pleasure sending shivers through him. He tilted his head back, his breath uneven as your voice wrapped around him like a forbidden hymn.

“And now?” he asked, his words coming out in a low growl. “What do you desire now?”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “I want to be free of it,” you said. “I want to stop feeling like this. But…” You hesitated, the truth catching in your throat.

“But what?” he pressed, his voice a little sharper now, more commanding.

“But part of me still wants it,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. “Part of me doesn’t want to let it go.”

Father Carlos closed his eyes, his movements growing erratic as he came with a muffled groan, his cum spilling over his hand. There was a long pause on the other side of the screen, and when he spoke again, his voice was hoarse, yet a thread of promise was woven into his words. 

“I feel there is more weighing on your heart and soul. Years of sins cannot be wiped clean in a single confession,” he said. “You’ve done well to confess so far but this is only the beginning. There’s still so much you’re holding back. You’ll need more guidance, more reflection. I want to meet with you again—face to face. Privately. These sessions will help you overcome the temptations you’re struggling with. But it will take time, and you’ll need to commit to this fully.”

You nodded quickly, desperate for relief, for salvation. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” you said, your voice earnest. “Whatever you say, I’ll do it. Just… help me.”

“Good,” he said softly, though his tone held a weight you couldn’t quite decipher. “Trust me, I will lead you back to the light.”

But as his words settled over you, the truth of what lay beneath them was something you couldn’t see. Father Carlos’ calm exterior masked the darker intentions that churned within him. He would use your desperation, your guilt, to make you his—willingly, eagerly.

“Come to me next week,” he said, the finality in his tone making it clear this wasn’t a suggestion. “Another confessional. Just you and I.”

“Yes, Father,” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and hope.

“Go in peace,” he said, his voice a low rumble that lingered in the confined space of the confessional.

You left the booth with your heart racing, the promise of salvation hanging heavy over you. But you didn’t know that salvation would come at a cost—and you would pay it willingly.

The following week, you returned to church, your nerves fluttering in your stomach. Though Father Carlos had assured you he only wanted to guide you toward salvation, the memory of last week’s confession lingered in your mind, heavy and raw. The thought of spilling your sins again—and facing whatever questions he might ask—made your palms sweat. Still, you came, dressed modestly in a long skirt and a high-collared blouse, hoping to show your humility and commitment to change.

The confessional booth loomed ahead, its wooden structure both inviting and suffocating. You stepped inside, taking a deep breath as you settled onto the bench. While you felt more prepared this time, knowing what to expect, the ritual was still unfamiliar enough to leave you slightly uneasy.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you began, your voice quiet but steady.

“It has been one week since your last confession,” Father Carlos said, his tone soft yet commanding. “Tell me, nena, have you committed the same sin again?”

Relief surged through you as you shook your head, though he couldn’t see it. “No, Father,” you said, your voice carrying a note of pride. “I haven’t touched myself or been with anyone else all week.”

There was a pause, and then he hummed approvingly. “You’re on the right path,” he said. “Resisting temptation is never easy, but you’ve proven your strength. I’m proud of you.”

You hesitated, the words caught in your throat. The relief you felt was quickly overshadowed by the heat rising in your cheeks as you prepared to share the rest. “But…” you began, your voice faltering. “I… I’ve still been having the thoughts.”

The silence on the other side of the screen was heavy, urging you to continue. You took a shaky breath, pressing on despite the shame that burned in your chest. “I—I feel like they’ve been worse, Father. Every time I think of… of the things I used to do, it’s like I can’t stop. And even though I didn’t give in, I feel… wet, almost all the time.” The confession came out in a rush, and your cheeks burned so hot it was as though the weight of your sin had taken physical form.

Father Carlos exhaled slowly, the sound low and measured. “It’s good that you told me,” he said, his tone soothing yet firm. “You must not keep anything from me, nena. Hiding even the smallest detail will only hold you back.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, guilt tightening your throat. “I was so ashamed to say it.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” he reassured you, his voice taking on a gentler tone. “Your shame is a sign that you’re on the right path. But these thoughts, this… wetness—it is your body betraying your spirit. You must address it, or it will fester like a wound.”

You swallowed hard, your head dipping in an instinctive show of obedience. “How do I stop it?” you asked, your voice small and uncertain. “I’ll do anything, Father.”

“I’m glad you’re willing to do anything,” he said, the approval in his tone sending an unexpected ripple of warmth through you. “Then we’ll take it to the next step. Strip for me.”

You froze, your breath hitching in your chest. “I… I don’t understand,” you stammered. “Why do I need to—”

“It’s the sin you confessed last week,” he said, cutting you off gently but firmly. “You indulged in your body, purely for selfish reasons. Now, you must confront it head-on, under my guidance, so I can truly help you. Strip, nena. Lay yourself bare, and let’s rid you of this burden together.”

Your heart raced, confusion warring with the trust he’d instilled in you. “But wouldn’t that be… a sin?” you asked, your voice trembling.

“No. It is not a sin when done for the man of the church. This is not indulgence—it is penance. By allowing me to hear the full extent of your struggle, I can guide you more effectively. Better to confront this temptation here, in the presence of the Lord, than to fight it alone and risk falling further.”

His words felt strange, yet his conviction was unshakable. You hesitated, your hands trembling in your lap as shame and obedience fought within you. Slowly, your fingers moved to the buttons of your blouse, your cheeks burning even hotter as you fumbled with the fabric.

“Good,” he said softly as he heard the rustle of fabric. “Do not be afraid. You are proving your devotion. This is how you’ll rid yourself of the sins that weigh you down.”

Though shame curled in your stomach, a strange sense of purpose propelled you forward. One by one, the barriers between you and his judgment fell away, leaving you vulnerable in a way you hadn’t been for a while despite the screen separating you. 

“Are you completely bare now, nena?” His tone was smooth, patient, but laced with an unyielding authority that made it clear he expected your honesty.

Your breath hitched as the word escaped your lips. “Yes, Father,” you replied, barely above a whisper.

“Good,” he said, the approval in his voice sparking something deep within you. “Now, listen carefully. I want you to follow every word I say. No hesitation, no resistance. Put your trust in me to guide you.”

“Yes, Father,” you murmured, your voice trembling with a mixture of nervousness and submission.

"Good girl," he praised, and the warmth of those two simple words seeped into your chest, easing the tension coiling there. "Now, spread your legs for me. And tell me, are you wet?"

Your breath hitched at the directness of his question, but you obeyed. Slowly, you adjusted your position, hiking your heels up to the edge of the bench. The cool air kissed your pussy, sending a jolt of awareness through you. "Very," you whispered, feeling the damp heat between your thighs.

He hummed, "now, slide two fingers down. Spread your folds. Look at yourself, nena. Take in every detail."

Your hand moved instinctively, gasping when you felt the wetness gathering between your folds before spreading them like he asked. You couldn’t help the soft moan that slipped past your lips as you explored the glistening wetness coating your skin, your fingers brushing lightly over your pussy. 

The sensation was electric, and temptation won over caution. Your fingers moved instinctively, circling your clit with slow, teasing strokes that sent ripples of pleasure through you. Your head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut as your body surrendered to the feeling.

“Stop.”

The sharpness in his voice snapped you out of your haze, and you whimpered softly at the loss, your body craving more even as guilt flared at your disobedience. “I’m sorry, Father,” you whispered, the apology tumbling from your lips unbidden.

“You gave in too quickly,” he chided, the firmness in his voice tinged with calm authority. “That’s not why you’re here. Discipline, nena. Learn to control yourself.”

“I’ll do better,” you murmured, shame and a strange sort of thrill twining together in your chest.

“Slap your pussy,” he instructed, his tone uncompromising. “You need to be taught some manners.”

Your eyes widened at the order, heat rising to your cheeks as his words settled in the air between you. But the pull to obey was stronger than your embarrassment. Tentatively, you let your fingers pull back before snapping them forward with a sharp slap, the sting sending a jolt through your body that made your thighs quiver. A soft cry escaped your lips, part pain, part pleasure.

“I didn’t tell you to stop, did I?” His voice sharpened, his disapproval clear, and you whimpered at the weight of his command.

“N-no, Father,” you stammered, the words trembling on your tongue.

“Then again,” he instructed, his tone brooking no argument.

Whimpering at his shift in tone, you struck your cunt again, the second slap echoing louder in the quiet room, mingling with the wetness. The sharpness of it sent a fresh wave of arousal coursing through you, leaving you trembling in its wake.

“On your clit this time, harder.” 

Using two fingers, you separated your folds again, exposing your throbbing clit to the air. Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself and brought your hand down with more force. The sound of the slap rang out, wet and sharp, as the sting spread through your core. A moan tore from your throat, unbidden and shameless.

“You like this,” Father Carlos stated, the certainty in his voice making it less a question and more a declaration.

Your cheeks burned, the heat of embarrassment mingling with the undeniable pleasure coursing through you. Even though he couldn’t see you, the weight of his gaze felt tangible. “I do,” you admitted, the words soft and tremulous as you lowered your head in submission. Your fingers stilled, retreating away from your aching core.

“Why?” he pressed, his tone thoughtful yet firm, like he was peeling back the layers of your soul. “How does it make you feel?”

Your throat tightened, but the truth spilled out before you could second-guess yourself. “It… it puts me in my place,” you murmured, the words barely audible as you fought to meet the intensity of his inquiry. “A punishment for being bad.”

A beat of silence passed, his presence thick and unyielding. Then, a low chuckle rolled from his throat, smooth and edged with dark amusement. “Tsk, even punishment wouldn’t work on you,” he said, the faintest trace of mockery lacing his tone.

Your head shot up slightly, startled by his words. “What?” you whispered, your voice barely audible, though your body reacted—every nerve alight under the weight of his teasing.

He exhaled sharply, the sound deliberate. “You heard me, nena. If I were to spank you myself…” He let the sentence hang for a moment, heavy with implication, his tone almost contemplative. Then, his voice dipped lower, carrying a teasing lilt that sent shivers down your spine. “You’d just get off on that too, wouldn’t you?”

Your breath caught in your throat, shame and heat crashing through you in equal measure. “I-I wouldn’t…” you stammered, though the words felt hollow, even to your own ears.

He laughed again, a deep, knowing sound that made your stomach flip. “Don’t lie to me now, not during a confessional” he said, a note of playful reprimand in his voice. “I can hear it in your voice, in the way you’re breathing. You’d take anything I gave you, wouldn’t you? Anything to feel this alive.”

You bit your lip, your hands curling into fists in your lap as his words settled over you. You couldn’t bring yourself to respond, the truth of his accusation striking too close to the ache inside you.

“Hmm,” he mused, as though considering his own words. “Maybe I should test that theory one day. See how many slaps it takes before you think of it less as punishment and more as pleasure.” His tone was light, almost casual, but the gravity of his suggestion sent a jolt of heat through you, pooling low in your belly.

You swallowed hard, your voice trembling as you finally managed to reply. “I… I’d do whatever you ask, Father.”

His low hum of approval vibrated through the air, a sound that left you aching for more even as it reminded you of your place. “Good girl,” he murmured, his words settling over you like a benediction. “But remember—your place isn’t to crave. It’s to learn.”

“Yes, Father, I want to learn,” you murmured, ready to do anything he asked for, giving yourself completely to him so he could guide you. 

“That’s my good girl,” he said, his voice a low rumble of approval that wrapped around you like a warm embrace. “Now, are you ready to truly listen and follow what I say?”

“Yes, Father,” you replied, your voice soft but resolute, surrendering entirely to his guidance.

“Take your fingers and trace them down, slowly. Don’t rush, nena. I want you to feel every moment, every inch of yourself.”

You shivered at his words, your fingers obeying as they moved back to the warmth between your thighs. The wetness grew due to his commanding words, making your breath hitch, and you teased your hole with a feather-light touch, just as he instructed.

“Slide in,” he said, his tone softening slightly, though the authority remained. “Just one finger.”

The tip of your finger slipped inside, the tight heat you haven’t touched in a week making you gasp softly. You pressed deeper, following his guidance, every sensation heightened by the sound of his voice.

“That’s it,” he said, and you swore you heard the faintest edge of strain in his tone. “Curl your finger upward. Feel for the spot that makes your toes curl, the one you’re familiar with.” 

You obeyed, your breath hitching as your fingertip brushed against a sensitive spot inside you that made your thighs tremble. A soft moan escaped you, unbidden, and you bit your lip to stifle it.

“Don’t hold back,” he instructed, as if sensing your hesitation. “Let me hear you, nena. I want to know how good it feels, I need to know why you give in to the temptation.”

Your moans slipped free, shamelessly filling the confessional with their soft echo. As you moved your finger in slow, deliberate strokes, his breathing shifted. It grew heavier, deeper, and you could hear the faintest sounds slipping from his lips—soft, almost inaudible groans that made your pulse race.

You didn’t dare ask, but your mind raced with possibilities. Was he as affected as you were? Was he merely listening and guiding, or was he doing more, letting his own body succumb to the same heat that had taken hold of you? Surely, as the priest, he wouldn’t use your struggle of restraint for his own pleasures. 

Though, the thought sent a fresh wave of arousal coursing through you, and you bit your lip to stifle the sound it drew from your throat. You pressed your palm against your pussy for added pressure, your body moving instinctively as you followed his instructions.

“Add another finger,” he said, his voice raspier now, the strain unmistakable. “Take your time with it, don’t chase the pleasure, let it come to you.”

Your fingers slid deeper, the sensation both intense and electrifying. A gasp escaped your lips, and you couldn’t stop yourself from imagining what he might look like, what he might be doing to make his breathing sound so laboured, his voice so heavy with need.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, his tone laced with approval. “Keep going, nena. Circle your clit with your thumb. Let the pleasure wash over you.”

As your thumb found your clit, your body arched, the added sensation driving you closer to the edge. The soft sounds escaping his lips grew more frequent, each one fanning the flames of your imagination.

You pictured him there, his jaw tight, his hand moving over himself as he guided you. The thought was almost too much to bear, and your fingers moved faster, the rhythm becoming desperate as you chased the pleasure building inside you.

“Not so fast,” he chided, his voice a strained growl. “You’re too eager. Slow down. Make it last.”

You whimpered at the command but obeyed, forcing your movements to slow despite the ache radiating through your body. Your mind was spinning, the sound of his heavy breathing mingling with your own ragged gasps.

The combination was intoxicating, the not knowing, the imagining, the thought that he might be as undone as you were. It fueled you, drove you to move your fingers in deeper, slower strokes, each one pushing you closer to the edge.

“Do you feel it?” he asked, his voice rough and low. “That heat building inside you, the one you haven’t released in a week? Let it take over, nena. Let yourself feel every second of it.”

“Yes, Father Carlos,” you whispered, your voice shaking with the wave of pleasure crashing over you as you uttered his name. 

Your body trembled as the high of your orgasm ebbed, leaving you flushed and breathless, your heart pounding against your ribs. For a moment, the room felt utterly still, the only sound your uneven breaths mingling with the faint echo of his steady, deep exhale.

“You’ve done well, nena,” he murmured, “now, lick your fingers clean.”

The command was unexpected, and your eyes widened slightly as you processed his words. Heat flared in your cheeks, but you obeyed without hesitation, bringing your trembling fingers to your lips. Slowly, you drew them into your mouth, tasting your cum as you cleaned them, your tongue flicking over each finger.

When you finally lowered your hand, you whispered, “Thank you, Father, for allowing me this… for guiding me.” Slowly, you redressed, feeling satisfaction wash over you. 

He chuckled softly, the sound low and almost indulgent. “You’re welcome, nena. But don’t let gratitude cloud your understanding. This was a means to reduce your temptations, nothing more.”

His words cut through the lingering haze of your release, grounding you abruptly. You turned your head to look at the screen, making out the outline of his presence. “What do you mean?” 

He sighed, the sound a mix of patience and reproach. “Let me be clear. This is the last time you’ll take matters into your own hands.”

Your breath caught, a sharp protest forming in your throat, but his steady outline behind the screen silenced it before it could take shape.

“From now on,” he continued, his voice calm but unyielding, “if the temptations become too strong, if you feel the pull of desire overwhelming you, you will come to me.”

Your pulse quickened at the implication, your thoughts a tangled web of confusion and longing. “I… I don’t understand, Father, will you make me cum?”

His shadow shifted, and a soft, almost amused sigh escaped him. A moment later, he opened the door to the confessional, stepping into the dim light of the church. You hesitated for a second before following him, your heart racing as you stood before him, desperate for clarity.

“Father, please,” you said, your voice shaky but insistent. “What do you want me to do?”

He turned to you, his gaze steady, and though his expression was composed, the intensity in his eyes made your knees weak. Before you could rationalize the thought, the question spilled from your lips. “Will you touch me?”

The corner of his mouth curled into a wry smile, and he chuckled—a deep, knowing sound that sent a fresh wave of heat rushing through you. “Nena,” he murmured, shaking his head. “I’m a priest, not your hookup.”

Shame engulfed you instantly, your cheeks burning under the weight of his words. You dropped your gaze, your hands twisting nervously in front of you.

“But,” he added, his voice softening slightly, “I understand where the confusion lies. What happened today wasn’t for your pleasure. It was for my understanding.”

You looked up at him, your brows furrowed in bewilderment. 

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming as his hand gently brushed against your arm, trailing down to your wrist. The touch was light, almost comforting, yet it sent a jolt of awareness through your body. “You need to rid yourself of these temptations,” he explained, his tone patient but firm. “Start by getting rid of anything that fuels them. Like your toys—anything that keeps your mind in sin.”

Your lips parted in protest, but he silenced you with a raised hand. “And that’s not all,” he continued. “I want you to write down every impure urge the moment it crosses your mind. Get it out of your head and onto paper.”

“Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“So you’re not burdened by it and I can keep track of how far you’ve come,” he said simply. “Every time you visit me, you’ll bring the notebook with you. I want to see how many temptations you’ve faced—and how many you’ve resisted.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of his expectations settling heavily on your shoulders. His hand slipped down to settle on your waist, his thumb brushing over your skin in a way that felt almost too intimate, too deliberate. But you told yourself it was nothing. He was a priest, after all. He only wanted the best for you.

As you lowered your gaze, another question gnawed at the edge of your mind. Timidly, you looked up at him again. “Father… even if I do all that—what if I still feel… wet?”

His expression didn’t falter, but his lips curved into a faint smile. His hand tightened its grasp on your waist as he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Then you come to me,” he said, his tone smooth yet commanding. “And I’ll deal with it how the Lord wants me to.”

Your breath hitched, your heart pounding as his words lingered in the air between you. You nodded, unable to form a coherent response, and his thumb stroked your waist one final time before he stepped back.

“Go now,” he said, his voice returning to its calm authority. “And don’t forget what I told you. I expect obedience, nena. Nothing less.”

“Yes, Father,” you murmured, bowing your head before turning to leave, your body still trembling from the weight of his words and his touch.

The days had been an endless blur of restless thoughts and scribbled confessions—fantasies. 

Every moment had been consumed with the lure of the notebook Father Carlos had instructed you to start. It had become your constant companion, a tether to the guidance and obedience he demanded of you. You carried it everywhere, pen poised to capture every unholy thought that flickered through your mind, no matter how fleeting or detailed. 

It was your personal book of fantasies, of sins you’ve been tempted to repeat. 

It started innocently enough. You initially started writing on that same night of the last meeting with Carlos, plagued by the memories of what had happened in that confined wooden stall. Even though he hadn’t touched you himself, his words caressed your body, seeping deep into your skin until you were too far gone to remember anything but his name. 

That night, you wrote about the temptation to use your toys again, even after he had told you to get rid of them. The urge to reenact the scenario, to feel the unbearable pleasure again was too high. The words spilled out hesitantly, the pen shaky and unsure in your grasp. You felt as if writing them down, admitting them would only make them more real. But the act of actually writing was oddly satisfying, almost soothing in its own way as you filled page after page with filth, transferring the thoughts from your mind to the once pristine, empty pages. 

As the days went on, instead of having fewer thoughts, the opposite happened. Your thoughts began to shift towards a different, forbidden path. They stopped being about abstract desires you had, focusing on missing the pleasure in general and started starring him. 

You couldn’t help it—he was everywhere. His voice echoed in your mind when you were on your knees, hands clasped in front of you while you tried to pray. As you shut your eyes, all you could imagine was Father Carlos standing in front of you, his commands turning filthier with each word he spoke. You found yourself distracted by the memory of his seemingly innocent touch, the faint graze of his thumb against your cheek. Every Hail Mary became a whispered plea, not for forgiveness, but for release.

In the shower, with hot water cascading over your skin, you caught yourself imagining what it would feel like if he was there, interrupting the steady stream of water with his body, trapping you against the glass walls. You imagined how his hands would feel roaming your wet body, the way his fingers might linger, the press of his calloused palm against your soft curves. You still wrote it all down afterward, confessing in ink what you couldn’t yet say aloud, choosing to obey his command despite the shame creeping up your cheeks.

Even the most mundane tasks became tainted with thoughts of Carlos. Folding laundry, you imagined his robes slipping away, revealing skin you hadn’t yet seen but could only picture in your mind.  

By the time Saturday rolled around, quite a few pages of the notebook were filled. The pages were dense with your handwriting, the words getting messier and more frantic as the week progressed. That night, the night before Sunday mass, the urge was unbearable.

You sat at your desk, pen in hand, the notebook open before you. Your other hand, however, was cupping your cunt over your pants, feeling the heat seeping through. You held your palm tightly against your pussy, as if increasing the still pressure would reduce the need that coursed through your veins. You wrote feverishly, the words spilling onto the page as if they might somehow purge the thoughts from your mind. This time, the words were directed at him, addressing him since you knew he would read each sinful word carefully when you see him again. 

Father Carlos, you began, the formality of his title making your core tighten with want, you have no idea what you do to me. Every time I see you, every time you speak, it’s like my body knows no boundaries. My thighs clench, my heart races, and I can’t help but wonder what you’d look like without your robes.

Your handwriting became messier, the lines slanting as your pulse quickened.

I think about your hands most of all. The way they would feel gripping my hips, rough and firm as you hold me in place. I imagine your fingers dipping lower, brushing against my pussy, exploring me until I’m begging for you to take me. I want to hear you whisper in that deep, commanding voice of yours, telling me how bad I’ve been and how much I need to repent. But the punishment I crave isn’t prayer—it’s you.

Your breathing was shallow, your cheeks burning with a mix of shame and arousal. 

Forgive me, Father. Please, guide me to the right path. Punish me. Take me. 

You dropped the pen with a shuddering gasp, your head falling into your hand as the weight of your confessions hit you. The ache in your core was unbearable, your hips instinctively grinding against your palm. A sharp cry escaped your lips when you accidentally grazed your clit, but you resisted. His voice echoed in your mind, firm and unyielding: “This is the last time you’ll take matters into your own hands.” 

Instead, you grabbed the notebook and headed to bed. You held it in front of you as you lied down, rereading the words, your cheeks burning with shame. At some point, exhaustion claimed you. You fell asleep with the notebook still clutched in your hands, the pages open to the filthiest confession yet. 

When you woke up the next morning, the notebook was resting on your chest, the ink faintly smudged where your fingers had lingered. For a moment, you simply lay there, the sunlight streaming through your curtains, the heat of your dreams still lingering between your legs. 

Before you could turn the pages and refuel the filth you had written last night, you closed the notebook and pressed it against your chest, as if the physical weight of it could anchor you. You had to face him today. You had to sit through mass, knowing the notebook was filled with your darkest desires, and then meet him afterward, alone. 

The thought made your heart race, a mix of dread and anticipation pooling low in your belly. You slipped out of bed, your legs trembling as you made your way to the shower. But even the cold water couldn’t extinguish the heat that had taken root inside you. 

You dressed carefully, choosing a modest outfit that successfully hid the way your body ached  for something forbidden. As you made your way to the church, the notebook tucked securely in your bag, you couldn’t help but wonder what he would say when he saw the truth of what you’d written. 

And more than that, you wondered what he would do. Surely, he would find a way to help you, to rid you of the impure thoughts you’ve been plagued with. 

The mass began, and for a while, you managed to focus on the words, on the hymns, on the solemn rituals that slowly filled you with peace. But as Father Carlos stepped forward to deliver his homily, your resolve faltered. He stood tall and commanding at the altar, his voice rich and steady, weaving through the congregation like a soothing balm. Yet, to you, every word felt like a private message, a call meant to pierce directly through your shame. 

The church was quieter after mass, the congregation filtering out with subdued goodbyes and murmurs of peace. You waited until there were only a few people left before walking to the backroom—Carlos’ private study. The small, unassuming space was lined with books and religious relics, the air thick with incense and something unnameable that always seemed to cling to him. 

He was already there, seated behind a simple wooden desk, his dark eyes lifting to meet yours as you hesitated near the door. For a moment, his gaze flickered over you, taking in your appearance with a small smile that sent shivers throughout your body. 

“Come in,” he said softly, gesturing to the chair across from him. “And close the door.” 

You shut the door behind you before sitting down, carefully placing the notebook on the desk. Carlos glanced at it briefly but made no move to open it. Instead, he leaned back slightly, his hands folded neatly on the desk. 

“You’ve written it all down?” he asked, his piercing gaze studying you for a moment. 

“Yes, Father,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

He grabbed the notebook, opening it to skim through the pages, and you held your breath. “Good,” he murmured, not sticking on a page too long to fully read the extent of your desires. “I’ll read this on my own time, but right now, let’s focus on you.” He set it aside without a second glance. 

The words sent a shiver through you, even as you tried to steady your breathing. You wanted to believe that he was here to help you, guide you back to the light. But there was something in the way he looked at you—a flicker of something darker in his eyes. You ignored it, reasoning that it was because you were no longer familiar with the religion. And instead of turning you away, Father Carlos has taken upon the responsibility to guide you himself. 

He stood and came around the desk, his presence overwhelming as he stopped beside your chair. His hand settled lightly on your shoulder, a touch that felt too deliberate. “You’re trying,” he said, his voice low, almost soothing. “I can see that. But there’s still more to be done.”

You looked up at him, the heat of his gaze making your cheeks burn. “I want to be good again,” you said softly. 

Carlos nodded, his fingers brushing down your arm, his touch too slow, too lingering. “Then you must surrender yourself fully,” he murmured. “Your mind, your body, your heart—all of it must be devoted to God. Do you trust me to guide you?” 

“Yes, Father,” you whispered, the words falling from your lips before you could think. 

He smiled faintly, his hand moving to yours. His fingers curled around your trembling wrist, lifting it slightly. “These hands,” he said, his voice soft, almost reverent. “What have they done? Have they served God—or served sin?”

The question made your stomach twist with guilt. “Sin,” you admitted, your voice barely audible.

Carlos hummed thoughtfully, his other hand coming to guide yours downwards, pressing it to his chest. “Then we must sanctify them,” he said, his tone heavy with meaning. “You must use them to serve, to obey. Only then can they be cleansed.”

His hand moved yours lower, over the fabric of his robe, guiding it with an authority that left you breathless yet completely trusting. When your palm was pressed against his clothed cock, you froze, your breath catching in your throat. Carlos didn’t pull away, only pressing your hand further into him, as he said, “every step I take is for your redemption.” 

Your fingers moved barely an inch, and it was enough to feel his cock twitch beneath the fabric, sending a shock through you. When he finally released your hand, you didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. He stepped closer, leaning down as his fingers grazed your lips while his dark eyes bored into yours. 

“This mouth,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, “has it been used for prayer? Or for sin?”

Your heart pounded, your breath shaky as his thumb lingered, pressing lightly. “Both,” you admitted, the confession trembling on your tongue. 

Carlos’ lips curved in a lazy smirk, his gaze dropping to your mouth. “But more sin, no? Filthy words have left this mouth, obscene sounds…” he trailed off. 

“Yes, Father,” you shamefully admitted. 

His thumb caught onto your bottom lip, dragging it down, allowing your lips to part. “It’s okay, nena, we can easily fix that.” 

Hope fluttered through your chest at his words. “Really?” you murmured, muffled as his thumb rested on your tongue. 

“Yes, you’re just in need of purification,” he said softly, pressing down on your tongue only to feel you wrap your lips around it. “Every inch of you must be made pure again. And we’ll start with your mouth.” 

He slid his thumb out, only to lean in further. He was so close that you could see every detail on his face—the faint shadow of his stubble on his jaw, revealing that he just shaved a couple days ago, the way his dark lashes framed his eyes, the curve of his lips. Your gaze flicked downward, drawn to his mouth despite yourself, and he noticed. 

“You’re trying.” he said quietly, “but temptation clings to you. Let me help you.” 

His lips brushed over yours, a featherlight touch that sent heat surging through your body. You didn’t resist. You couldn’t. The moment you leaned into him, pressing your lips firmly against his, a muffled moan escaped his lips. Just as his hands settled on your waist, a sharp knock at the door made you both jolt apart. 

Carlos straightened quickly, his composure snapping back into place. “Come in,” he called, his voice calm, though his chest still rose and fell with heavy breaths. 

The interruption was brief—someone asking about the upcoming service—but it was enough to break the moment. You were fidgeting with your hands when the door closed again, leaving you alone with him once more. 

Carlos turned to you, his expression unreadable. “Go home,” he said quietly. “Pray for guidance. You’re due for a confession tomorrow—same time, and we’ll begin the process of turning you pure.” 

You nodded quickly, standing up and reaching across the desk for the notebook. Before you could grasp it, his hand laid flat on the cover. “I’ll keep this for tonight, nena, I still have to read what you wrote."

The confessional felt different this time. The familiar, sacred space that had always kept you separated by a thin wooden screen was now charged with an intensity you couldn’t name. Carlos stood by the door this time, his hand resting on the frame as his dark eyes bore into yours, unyielding. The command in his gaze sent a shiver through you.

“Come here,” he said, his voice low and steady.

Your legs carried you forward almost against your will, your heart pounding as you stepped into his side of the confessional. The small space seemed impossibly tight with the two of you inside. The door clicked shut, sealing you both away, and the intimacy of the moment thickened like the air before a storm.

“On your knees,” he instructed, his tone soft yet commanding.

You obeyed without question, lowering yourself onto the polished wooden floor. The surface was cold against your knees, grounding you even as the heat of his presence sent sparks racing through your veins. Carlos lowered himself onto the bench before you, the folds of his dark robe brushing against your skin as he moved. In his hand, he held your notebook, the one where you had poured your innermost thoughts—confessions you were nervous about him reading. But here he was, the pages open, his thumb tracing the lines of your handwriting.

“These words,” he began, his voice quiet but edged with something sharp, “do they strike you as belonging to someone truly asking for forgiveness?” His dark gaze lifted from the page, pinning you in place.

Your throat tightened as you struggled to find your voice. “I… I do want forgiveness, Father,” you managed, the tremor in your tone betraying you. “Please. I need your guidance.”

A low chuckle escaped him, the sound rich and indulgent. He closed the notebook and set it aside with deliberate care before leaning forward. His hand reached out, the rough pad of his thumb brushing against your cheek. The gesture was gentle, almost tender, yet it left your skin burning.

“Oh, nena,” he murmured, his voice softening as he tilted your face upward. “I haven’t given up on you. That’s why you’re here, on your knees for me. You’re ready to be cleansed. And that’s what you need, isn’t it? To be purified?”

“Yes, Father,” you whispered, the words escaping your lips like a prayer.

His thumb lingered, tracing the curve of your jaw, before he withdrew his hand. You followed the movement instinctively, your eyes drawn to him as he adjusted his posture. Slowly, almost methodically, he lifted the hem of his robe. Your breath hitched as the fabric rose, revealing the strong muscle of his thighs, dusted with dark hair. The sight caught you off guard, and you fought the instinct to avert your gaze out of respect. Instead, you drank in the vision before you, the intimacy of the moment almost too much to bear.

“Do you see, nena?” he asked, his tone laced with something unspoken. “Every part of me is here to serve the Lord. But you… you’ve strayed. You’ve used your body, your mouth, for sin.” He shook his head, his expression softening, though his eyes remained sharp. “You need cleansing, and as I told you yesterday, it begins with your mouth.”

Your lips parted to respond, but no words came. Instead, he reached out once more, his hand cupping your chin as his thumb grazed your bottom lip. The sensation sent a spark through you, igniting something deep within.

“This mouth,” he murmured, his tone almost reverent, “has spoken too many sinful words. But we can purify it, together. Are you ready, nena?”

“Yes, Father,” you said, this time with more confidence, though your voice trembled with anticipation.

“Good,” he said softly. His thumb pressed down, parting your lips until your jaw fell open. “Then show me. Stick your tongue out like the whore you are.”

Heat flooded your cheeks at his words, but you obeyed, your tongue slipping out, wet and ready. His other hand moved to gather the folds of his robe higher, revealing the full length of his cock. Thick and heavy, it rested against his thigh, the head glistening with precum. Your eyes widened, wetness immediately pooling in your panties, your cunt throbbing to be filled. It had been far too long since you had been near a cock, but none compared to his. 

Saliva gathered on your tongue at the sight of his cock, a bead of precum spilling out the tip. Carlos chuckled as a drop of spit dripped on the floor, the sound echoing in your ears as he watched you drool for him. “Do you see now, nena? The path to forgiveness is very hard, but it’s necessary. Take it, and I will guide you.”

Tentatively, you licked your palm, wrapping it around his length. His cock twitched in your grasp, and a satisfied groan rumbled in his chest.

“Father Carlos,” you murmured, leaning in until your lips brushed against his heated skin, “you’re so big…”

“I know,” he replied, his voice steady, “and you’ll take it all. Every inch or you won’t be purified.”

Your lips parted further as you let your tongue flick over the tip, tasting the salty bead of precum. Carlos let out a low hum of approval, his hand tangling in your hair as he guided you closer. “That’s it, nena,” he murmured. “Suck. Let your mouth be a vessel of your repentance. Take me in—slowly.”

You obeyed, your mouth enveloping a couple inches. The salty tang of his skin met your tongue as you hollowed your cheeks, drawing him deeper inch by inch. Carlos groaned softly, his hips shifting just enough to press himself further into your mouth. The thickness of him stretched your lips, making your jaw ache, but you welcomed the discomfort, the sensation grounding you in your submission.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his fingers tightening in your hair as he guided your pace. “Look at you, so willing, so eager. This is what true surrender looks like.”

Just as you found your rhythm, the door to the other side of the confessional clicked shut. Your eyes flickered up to Carlos, your lips still stretched around his cock while panic flared in your chest, but he merely smirked, his confidence unshaken.

“Stay quiet,” he instructed softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek, feeling the bulge of his cock protruding as he held your gaze. “This is one of your tests, nena. Do not falter.”

A voice came from the other side of the confessional, muffled but audible through the wooden screen. “Father Sainz? May I speak with you?”

“Of course, my child,” Carlos answered, his tone shifting seamlessly to one of pastoral care. His hand remained firm on your head, though, gently urging you to continue. 

You hesitated for only a moment before resuming your movements, your tongue swirling around his cock as you tried to take him deeper into your throat even though your jaw ached at the stretch. He nudged his hips forward under the pretence of adjusting his posture, forcing his cock deeper down your throat, earning a muffled gag from you. 

The person on the other side began to speak, their voice trembling as they confessed their sins. Carlos listened intently, his words calm and measured as he offered guidance. But his attention never left you. His fingers tightened in your hair with each subtle movement of your tongue, and the weight of his gaze burned into you as you worked to suppress the sounds of your effort. 

“That is a heavy burden you carry,” Carlos said to the unseen penitent, his voice steady even as you took him deeper, your nose brushing against the base of his cock, grazing against his hair. “But the Lord is merciful. Seek forgiveness with a pure heart, and you will find peace.”

You struggled to keep your composure, your eyes watering as the need to breathe and the rising pleasure in Carlos’ expression warred within you. The wet sounds of your mouth filled the small space, and you fought to keep them as quiet as possible. The thrill of being on your knees for the priest, so vulnerable, only heightened your arousal, and you felt the damp heat soaking through your panties as you continued your ministrations.

The person on the other side fell silent for a moment, perhaps in thought, and Carlos seized the opportunity to lean down, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re doing so well, nena,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “Don’t stop now.”

You moaned softly around him, the vibration drawing a low groan from his chest. His hips jerked slightly, and he exhaled a shaky breath before composing himself. “Go in peace,” he said to the penitent, his tone unwavering. “And remember, God sees the effort you make.”

The moment the creak of the other side of the confessional ceased, signaling the departure of the penitent, Carlos’ entire demeanor shifted. The restraint he had so carefully maintained melted away, replaced by an unyielding intensity. His hand tightened in your hair, firm and commanding, as his eyes darkened with a hunger that seemed to consume the space.

“That’s it,” he growled, his voice a rough, guttural sound that sent a shiver through your body. “You’ve done well, nena, almost done.” 

His grip in your hair tightened painfully, and before you could prepare yourself, he pushed you down his cock with a force that stole the breath from your lungs. The tip of his cock hit the back of your throat, and you gagged, your hands flying to his hairy thighs for balance as your body instinctively struggled against the intrusion.

“Stay still,” Carlos commanded, his tone leaving no room for disobedience. His other hand came to rest at the back of your head, holding you in place. “This is part of your penance, nena. You asked for forgiveness—don’t shy away now.”

Your throat tightened around him as you choked, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes and streaming down your cheeks. “I hope you die from this so you can suck me in the afterlife, forever,” he murmured, earning a spluttering mess from you as you tried to respond. 

The sensation was overwhelming—his cock thick and unyielding, filling your mouth completely. You could feel the burn of effort in your jaw, the ache mingling with the steady pulse of your arousal.

“Good,” he rasped, his hips shifting slightly, forcing you to take every inch of him. “Let it all out. The tears, the struggle—it’s what cleanses you. Every gasp, every choke—it’s a prayer, a plea for absolution.”

You couldn’t speak, couldn't breathe, couldn’t do anything but surrender to his control. The taste of him was sharp on your tongue, and the warmth of his length filled you, an undeniable reminder of your submission. His words, manipulative and commanding, wound their way into your mind, twisting your thoughts until you clung to them like gospel.

Carlos held you there, his cock buried deep in your throat, until your vision blurred and your lungs burned for air. Just as you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, your eyes rolling back, he pulled you back, allowing you a desperate gasp of breath.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Tears streaming down your face, lips swollen and red. Do you get it now, nena? This is what it takes—this is the price of purity.”

You barely had a moment to recover before he guided you back down, setting a demanding pace. His cock slid in and out of your mouth, the wet sounds of your effort filling the confessional. Your saliva coated him, dripping from your chin and onto your knees as he used your mouth without mercy.

“You’re doing so well,” Carlos groaned, his hips jerking as he chased his release. “Such a good girl, taking me like this. You were made for this—don’t you see? To serve, to repent, to be purified.”

The words sent a thrill through you, your body trembling as you clung to him, your nails digging into his thighs. His pace quickened, his breaths coming faster, rougher, until he stilled with a deep, guttural moan.

He withdrew suddenly, his cock slipping from your lips as he grasped himself, stroking hard as he came. Warm spurts of his cum painted your face, hot and sticky as it dripped down your cheeks and onto your lips. The sheer filthiness of the act left you breathless, your heart pounding as his cum marked you completely.

Carlos tilted your chin upward, forcing you to meet his gaze. His thumb smeared the evidence of his orgasm across your skin, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and something darker. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent. “Marked by a man of God, cleansed by my cum. This is what purification looks like, nena.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling over you like a heavy cloak. He leaned closer, his thumb brushing over your lips before pressing into your mouth. “Lick it,” he commanded, his tone soft but unyielding. “Let me see how much you’ve learned.”

Your tongue darted out, tasting the saltiness of him as you obeyed, your gaze never leaving his. He watched you intently, his expression indulgent and possessive, as though you were his most devout follower.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice softening into something almost tender. “Purification is a journey, and slowly I’ll purify your entire body, so no sins weigh down on your soul.” 

You nodded, your cheeks still burning, your body still trembling from the intensity of it all. “Thank you, Father, for purifying my mouth.” 

Carlos smiled faintly, his thumb stroking your cheek one last time before he straightened, adjusting his robes as though nothing had happened. “Take care, nena, and soon your filthy thoughts will disappear.” 

You had fallen off the right track, and you felt it with every passing moment. 

That so-called purification process Father Carlos had initiated—his words, his touch, the commanding presence of him in the confessional—clung to your mind like a heavy fog. It reminded you of the life you had lived before meeting him, the desires you had buried, of the way you once loved to be filled and covered in cum, utterly consumed by lust. 

You didn’t let yourself linger on the idea too long, convincing yourself this wasn’t sin—it was repentance, wasn’t it? Carlos had said so, and you trusted his guidance. But even as you tried to hold on to that belief, the ache he left in your body betrayed you.

Your mouth had been purified, yes, filled by his cock again and again until you were left trembling, gagging, and raw, but no other part of you had been touched. That ache had settled deep in your pussy, a throbbing, relentless reminder of your unfulfilled desires. It was worse than anything you’d ever felt, more intense than you thought possible, and the wetness only grew with each passing hour. By the time you returned home, your panties were soaked through, the fabric sticking to your cunt in a way that made you shiver with both discomfort and longing.

It wasn’t just the physical sensation; it was the thoughts—wicked, unrelenting thoughts of him—that consumed you.

At first, you tried to resist, to distract yourself with prayers and scripture, clutching your rosary tightly as though the beads could anchor you away from sin. But each time your fingers brushed over a smooth, cold bead, your mind betrayed you, imagining the rougher texture of his hands, the weight of them gripping your hips, your hair, your throat. Every word of prayer seemed to morph into whispered thoughts of him, of the way his cock had felt in your mouth, heavy and insistent, the way he’d told you his cum purified you.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, seeking relief, but it only made the throbbing worse, teasing you with what you craved but could not allow yourself to have. 

Walking was torture; each step sent another jolt of awareness to the wetness pooling between your legs. Sitting was no better—your thighs pressed together in search of relief, only for the slickness to betray you, stimulating every shift of your body.

It was unbearable. The heat became a constant companion over the days, slickness pooling and dripping down your thighs, leaving your panties damp before noon and entirely ruined by nightfall. Washing them became a pointless endeavor. You stopped wearing them altogether, the fabric only another tangible reminder of your torment, yet the freedom of bare skin beneath your dress, the air hitting your pussy every time you moved made you more aware of every shift, every brush of fabric. By the end of the second day, you couldn’t even sit without feeling the telltale slide of moisture between your legs, and it drove you mad with frustration.

The nights were the worst. In the stillness of your room, the temptation was louder than any prayer you whispered. Your hands would stray before you even realized it, slipping beneath your shorts, fingers ghosting over the swollen, slick heat of your folds. The first time, you stopped yourself, shaking with shame, tears stinging your eyes as you begged for strength. But the need didn’t go away.

By the fourth night, you gave in. As you lay in bed, the ache became too much to bear. Your hand slid between your legs almost without thinking, your fingers finding your swollen, wet heat. The first touch was electric, and you gasped, your back arching off the bed as pleasure flooded through you.

Your thoughts spiraled back to the confessional, to the way Carlos had brought you to your knees, his voice a mix of command and praise as he filled your mouth with his cock. You imagined being back there, his hand gripping your hair, his hips thrusting as he murmured sinful things about purification and penance. Your fingers moved faster, circling and thrusting as your body writhed against the sheets.

It wasn’t enough. You wanted more—needed more. You imagined his cock again, what it would feel like inside you, stretching you, filling you completely. The thought alone was enough to push you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you as you cried his name into the dark.

But the relief was fleeting. The ache returned almost immediately, stronger than before, and you gave in again. Over and over, you touched yourself, each orgasm leaving you trembling but unsatisfied. The sheets beneath you were soaked, the air heavy with the scent of your arousal, but still, you couldn’t stop. You imagined his hands on you, his words a mix of praise and degradation, his body pinning yours down as he took you apart. 

By the time exhaustion claimed you, your body was utterly spent, forgetting all about the shame of committing a sin and only focusing on the pleasure you experienced after days of resisting.

The early rays of the sun barely kissed the horizon as you jolted awake, your body still warm and bare. The hazy remnants of sleep faded quickly, leaving the weight of what you had done pressing heavily on your chest. You glanced at the stained sheets beneath you, the evidence of your sin undeniable. Shame burned through you, hotter than the pleasure you had indulged in hours ago. You had fallen—fallen far and fast, surrendering to desires you had fought so desperately to suppress.

Your legs trembled as you slipped out of bed. You didn’t even think of covering yourself in layers, grabbing only a loose, flowing dress that hung just a few inches above your knees, not exactly modest. No undergarments, no barriers—it didn’t matter. 

You needed to repent. Now. 

Carlos’ words echoed in your mind: “Your shame is a sign that you’re on the right path.”

The church doors loomed ahead of you as you hurried through the empty streets, your feet carrying you as if possessed. The stillness of the early morning only deepened the unease pooling in your stomach, but it also spurred you forward. The church was where you needed to be, where you might find absolution for the temptation you had given into so fully.

When you pushed open the heavy doors, the creak of the hinges seemed deafening in the silence. The familiar scent of candle wax and old wood greeted you, grounding you momentarily. The church was empty, save for one figure seated near the altar. Carlos.

He was seated casually, not in the attire you’ve always seen him in. His black shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a glimpse of the tanned skin beneath. In his hand was a half-full glass of wine, the deep crimson liquid reflecting the faint glow of the votive candles nearby. 

But what instantly caught your attention—what made your breath hitch and your guilt churn deeper—through your teary eyes, was the growing beard on his face. It was more than just stubble, the kind you’d seen before but which always disappeared before it could grow out. Now, it darkened his jawline, giving him an air of disheveled ruggedness that only fueled the thoughts you’d been trying so hard to banish. 

His brows furrowed when he saw you rush in, disheveled and clearly distressed with tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Nena?” he called out, his voice warm but edged with concern. He placed the wine glass down and rose to his feet, his movements slow and measured as he approached. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

The words tumbled out of you in a broken stream, your sobs punctuating every other sentence. “Father… I—I’ve sinned. I tried to resist, I really did, but I couldn’t… I touched myself. Over and over again.”

Carlos’ eyes darkened at your confession, but his expression remained composed, his lips pressing together as if considering how to respond. “Hush, nena,” he said softly, placing a hand on your shoulder and guiding you to sit on the bench beside him. “Take a deep breath for me. Let it out slowly. That’s it.”

Your hiccuping sobs quieted slightly, though the shame still burned in your chest. You looked at him, tears streaking your cheeks, as you whispered, “I deserve punishment for what I’ve done. I—I couldn’t stop thinking of… impure things. I let it consume me.”

Carlos tilted his head, his gaze flickering over your tear-streaked face before dipping lower, briefly, to where your dress clung to your thighs. “Punishment?” he repeated, his voice low, contemplative. His thumb brushed the side of your face, wiping away a tear. “Nena, do you truly believe you need punishment to find your way back to God?”

“Yes,” you whispered desperately. “I can’t… I can’t live with this guilt. Please, help me. Guide me back.”

A flicker of something dangerous passed through his eyes. He leaned closer, his voice soft but weighted with meaning. “I told you, didn’t I? Purification is not an easy process. It is demanding. It is difficult. And sometimes… it requires sacrifice.”

You nodded, his words sinking into your mind like truth. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” you said, your voice trembling.

Carlos’ faint smile lingered, his expression a disconcerting blend of warmth and authority as he stood. But instead of offering his hand as a gesture of comfort, his fingers suddenly twisted into your hair, gripping it firmly. The sudden tug sent a jolt through your body, forcing you to stumble after him as he led you with deliberate steps, your scalp stinging from his grip. His pace was measured, almost casual, as if he were leading a lamb to slaughter, your body following wherever he commanded.

“This, nena,” he began, his voice calm yet dripping with contempt, “is the consequence of letting your body overpower your soul. Look at you. Weak. Trembling. Desperate.” His words struck like lashes, each syllable digging deeper into your fragile resolve.

He didn’t pause until he reached the space behind the altar, where the morning light streamed in from the stained glass windows, brightening the church, giving Carlos an ethereal aura even though his thoughts were quite the opposite. Only then did his hand release your hair, shoving you towards the wooden pulpit, the edges digging into your back. 

“Do you even realize what you’ve done?” he asked sharply, his voice echoing in the stillness. His hands didn’t wait for an answer. They found your shoulders first, then skimmed down the sides of your dress, his touch bold and shameless. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, then moved upward, deliberately brushing against the sensitive swell of your tits. He stopped there, his palms pressing firmly over the fabric, testing, checking.

His sharp intake of breath was the only warning before he pulled back slightly, his gaze narrowing as he looked at you with a mixture of disapproval and dark curiosity. “Nothing beneath this,” he muttered, his tone laced with mockery. “Not even a shred of decency left in you, is there?”

Your breath hitched, shame and confusion swirling as his hands returned, this time cupping your tits fully. The warmth of his palms seared through the thin fabric, his thumbs dragging over your covered nipples until you flinched. His touch wasn’t gentle; it was purposeful, unrelenting, as if meant to remind you of every sinful thought you’d tried to bury.

“Have you learned anything?” he demanded, his voice low and menacing. His fingers grasped the hardening nipple beneath his touch and pinched sharply, a jolt of pain that made you gasp, your body arching involuntarily. “Or have you simply wasted my time?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat as he pinched again, harder this time, the sting radiating through you. “No answer?” he asked, tilting his head, his gaze boring into yours. “Of course not. Your dumb little mind probably can’t even comprehend the depth of your failure. But at least you understood one thing—you need punishment. Desperately.”

His hands lingered for a moment before he released your nipple, leaving you breathless and trembling. His dark eyes roamed over you, calculating, as he considered his next move. His hands moved lower, gathering the hem of your dress and lifting it to your waist with agonizing slowness. When his fingers finally brushed against your bare cunt, the sound he made was a mixture of amusement and derision. 

“No bra. No panties,” he murmured, his voice thick with disdain. 

One hand stilled against your hip while the other teased your cunt, his thumb tracing small circles against your trembling form. “Tell me, nena,” he began, his voice low and biting, “what made you so wet? Was it thinking about what I’m going to do to you?” 

He gently spread your fold with two fingers, before using his middle finger to gather the wetness that grew with each word of his. “Or was it what I’m going to make you do for me?” 

You couldn’t summon a response. The weight of his words, the heat of his touch—it overwhelmed every rational thought in your mind. Carlos didn’t seem to expect an answer. He dragged his fingers up and down, sliding over your folds easily, nudging your clit a few times. 

“You make this far too easy,” he said, his tone cold, biting. “It’s pathetic, really. You’re lucky you came to me. At least you had enough sense to beg for salvation, though I doubt you even understand what it takes to earn it.” 

His thumb pressed against your clit, testing your reaction, as he continued. “If this is how you present yourself, do you even wonder why you’re consumed by sin? You don’t resist it, you welcome it.”

Carlos straightened, his hand slipping away, leaving you aching and exposed, a whimper slipping past your lips. 

He turned away briefly, retrieving his wine glass from earlier, swirling the crimson liquid in the glass before bringing it to his lips. He drank slowly, letting the wine linger in his mouth before he approached you again. His free hand reached out, gripping your chin firmly and tilting your face up to meet his.

He squished your cheeks using his hand, forcing you to open your mouth. He leaned in closer, his mouth hovering just above yours. When you dropped your jaw completely in obedience, his hand dropped to wrap around your throat, squeezing almost painfully. Without warning, he spit the wine into your mouth, the warm liquid flooding your tongue with its intoxicating flavor.

“Drink up, nena,” he ordered, his tone brooking no argument. “This is your final test. If you can’t follow my commands, you’re too far gone into sin for me to save.” You swallowed forcibly, his fingers tightening around your neck, feeling the sensation of you gulping under his palm.

He stepped back, releasing his grasp on you, letting you inhale sharply while he reached into his pocket and produced his rosary. The beads glinted in the bright light, each one seeming heavier than the last as he held it up between you. “Do you know what this is?” he asked, his tone almost patronizing. “It is a sacred object, yes, but it is also a symbol of discipline—something you clearly lack.”

He held the rosary out toward you, the cross dangling ominously at the end. “Kiss it,” he commanded. “Pray silently, nena. Ask for strength, for forgiveness, for the resolve to endure what comes next. Because what I’m about to do is not for me—it is for you. It is the burden I carry to bring you back to the light.”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering between him and the rosary, but the weight of his words—and the shame curling in your stomach—drove you forward. Your lips brushed the cold metal of the cross, the gesture both reverent and desperate. Your whispered prayer was barely audible, your voice trembling as you begged for forgiveness, for guidance.

Carlos’ hand returned to your shoulder, his grip tightening as he leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear. “Good,” he murmured, his tone soft but laden with intent. “So you can obey like a good girl, you just need to be put in your place.”

Carlos’ fingers hooked into the neckline of your dress, tugging it down with an effortless precision, letting your tits spill out freely. Your pussy and now your tits were exposed to the cool air of the church, forcing the last shred of dignity out of you as Carlos kept his intense gaze on your body. 

His silence was profound, heavy, and yet spoke volumes. His dark eyes roamed across your form, lingering on the soft curves of your figure still covered by the dress as if committing every detail to memory. A slow exhale escaped him, the sound too quiet to carry through the empty space but loud enough to send shivers across your skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low but steady, carrying that familiar blend of praise and reverence. His hand lifted, calloused fingertips brushing along your shoulder, a hint of greed building in him, needing to see more of your soft bare skin. He tugged the sorry excuse of a dress down to bunch around your waist, before tracing the curve of your arm. His touch wandered, exploring with unhurried intent, his palms skimming over the soft swell of your hips, lingering at the softness of your waist. 

“Such a shame you’ve indulged in sin,” he said, almost to himself, his hands gripping your sides firmly for emphasis. The words were biting, yet the reverence in his touch betrayed him, as if he couldn’t stop himself from appreciating the way you felt beneath his hands.

The rosary hung from his fingers, the beads cool and unyielding as they trailed behind his movements, brushing against your heated skin. When the cross touched the hollow of your throat, you flinched, but he didn’t let up. Instead, he let the beads follow the path of his hands, dragging them lightly across the curves of your tits, your sensitive nipples stiffening even further under their cool pressure.

His head dipped suddenly, lips brushing the skin of your mound. The gesture was deceptively soft, almost reverent, before his mouth opened fully. His tongue flicked against your skin, warm and deliberate, before he wrapped his lips around your nipple. The sharp contrast between his mouth’s heat and the rosary’s cool touch made your knees tremble.

A soft moan escaped your lips, breathless and involuntary, but it barely had the chance to echo in the silence. He returned the rosary back to your lips, pressing against it until you obediently parted your lips, allowing the cool beads to slide against your tongue, the faint metallic tang of the cross mingling with the warmth of your breath. 

He didn’t pull back immediately, continuing the relentless torture on your nipples, flicking the peak with his tongue while letting you wet the rosary thoroughly. His teeth grazed the sensitive peak, earning a muffled cry from your lips. His other hand gently kneaded the softness of your tit, then more firmly as if testing your limits. His thumb brushed over your hardened nipple before pinching and twisting it harshly, making a sharp muffled cry fall from your lips. 

The rosary rested heavily on your tongue, its smooth, rounded beads pressing against the roof of your mouth. It felt sacred, forbidden, a weighty representation of your salvation, even as his presence and touch felt as if it pulled you further from its grasp. Each bead carried a history of whispered prayers and faith, and yet here it was, in this profane moment, repurposed into something entirely sinful.

Once he released your nipple from his mouth, he retracted his fingers, slipping the rosary out as well, bead by bead, slick with your saliva. It glistened faintly in the dim light, his eyes, dark and all-consuming, followed the motion as though this simple act held infinite power.

The beads dangled from his hand for a moment, swaying like a pendulum, before he began to drag them down the curve of your neck. The coolness of the cross met the warmth of your skin, leaving behind a wet trail that felt almost electric. It wasn’t just the sensation; it was the way his movements were deliberate, worshipful yet unholy, his touch blurring every boundary of what you thought was right in the name of religion. 

The rosary descended further, tracing the hollow of your throat, the chain tickling against your collarbone before he pressed the beads down the center of your chest. Each ridge of the beads pressed into your skin, a strange contrast of softness and unyielding hardness, and you could feel the trail of spit cooling as it mingled with the heat of your body. His gaze lingered where the rosary had touched, as though marking you with his intent.

He dragged the rosary lower still, over the curve of your soft stomach, the motion unhurried, methodical, as if savouring every inch of skin it passed. He paused for a moment just below your navel, letting the beads rest there, their weight light but unbearably present. His fingers followed, brushing against your skin, spreading the faint moisture left behind, smudging the remnants of sanctity with his touch.

Without warning, he slid the rosary between your legs. You inhaled sharply, the sensation startling and intimate, each bead dragging between your folds, separating them while collecting your wetness on the sacred item, tainting it with your sins. The rhythm was slow, torturous, as if he wanted you to feel each individual bead graze your clit, to memorize its texture and weight against you. His actions were like sins wrapped in the guise of sanctity, pleasure tangled with the echoes of prayer. 

He took it one step further. Using his free hand, he held your pussy spread open before pushing the rosary inside your cunt, bead by bead. Each bead stretched you slightly before it gave way to the next, filling you in a way that felt both intrusive and intimate. He watched your every reaction, his dark eyes gleaming with something that sent a shiver down your spine. 

“There,” he whispered, his breath warm against your lips. “Look at how greedy your pussy is, practically begging to be filled by anything.” His words were laced with a hint of amazement, as if he’s never seen anyone as gullible as you in the name of religion before. 

When he finally began pulling the rosary back out, you felt every bead dragging inside you, the ridges catching in sensitive areas, making your hips move on instinct, chasing the pleasure. His movements were slow, almost tormenting, as if he wanted you to memorize the way it felt, the way he wielded control over you with something once meant for prayer. 

Carlos suddenly turned you around with a firm grip on your hips. He bent you over the wooden pulpit, the rough grain pressing into your skin. The air in the church felt heavier now, stifling, as if the walls themselves disapproved of the desecration happening within them. He kicked your legs apart, his movements sharp and commanding, leaving you no choice but to obey. 

Leaning in behind you, his breath ghosted over the back of your neck as he whispered, “the Lord has given me strength to punish you, and I won’t be gentle.” His words were both a promise and a threat, sending a ripple of heat and dread through your body. 

You opened your mouth to respond, but instead of a word, a loud moan left your lips when his palm came down sharply on your ass, the impact jolting you forward against the pulpit. The sound echoed through the empty church, a sharp crack that left your skin stinging and your body trembling. He did it again, and again, each strike accompanied by murmured words, low and demanding. 

“Such a whore,” he muttered, his voice dripping with condescension. “I have to ruin you to save you.” 

His other hand continued to torment you with the rosary, the beads slick and warm now, sliding over you with a deliberate rhythm that left you breathless. Every motion seemed to blur the line further between punishment and pleasure, his twisted sense of control leaving no room for you to question him.

When the rosary was thoroughly soaked, he dragged it from your dripping cunt to your ass, letting the beads linger on your winking hole. Carlos leaned down, his lips brushing against the curve of your ass, giving you a false sense of security from the tender gesture. It didn’t last long because the soft kisses quickly turned into a sudden sharp pain erupting from his teeth digging into your plush ass. 

“Carlos—” you gasped, looking over your shoulder only to be met with a menacing gaze, a lazy smirk playing at his lips. 

“Father Carlos. Don’t forget your manners just because you’re bent over, dripping like a slut for me,” he corrected, punctuating his words by leaving the indentations of his teeth into your soft skin again. 

“Sorry, Father Carlos,” you murmured, lowering your head, your cheeks burning with shame. 

His rough, hairy hands covered the expanse of your ass, kneading your soft skin. He spreads you apart, exposing your dripping cunt to your clenching hole, all for him to take as he pleased. He didn’t ease up even as you tried to squirm away under his scrutinizing gaze, one you could feel even though you’re turned away from him. 

With deliberate slowness, he allowed a thick string of saliva to pool in his mouth before letting it fall onto your puckered entrance. The warm droplet lingered for a moment, leaving a glistening trail as it slid down between your legs, settling in the slick heat of your folds. His fingers followed its path, tracing the mixture of spit and your arousal with a teasing precision that made your thighs tremble. He smeared the wetness upward, back to the sensitive ring of muscle he was so fixated on, his touch unrelenting yet deliberate as he circled it.

A soft, shaky cry escaped your lips as the tip of his finger pressed against the tight entrance, testing your resistance before gently breaching it. Your breath hitched, your body involuntarily tightening around the unfamiliar sensation. The warmth of his body radiated against your back as he leaned closer, his chest brushing against your back with every inhale. His lips hovered by your ear, the heat of his breath fanning across your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

“You’ve been fucked here before, haven’t you?” His voice was sharp, almost taunting, as he let the cruel accusation linger in the space between you. The edge in his tone made your stomach twist, a strange mixture of shame and excitement pooling low in your belly.

“Just—just once,” you stammered, your voice barely a whisper, trembling as you clenched instinctively around the foreign intrusion. The confession seemed to amuse him; a low, satisfied hum vibrated from his chest as his finger pushed in deeper, stretching you with agonizing slowness.

“Just once?” he repeated mockingly, the corners of his lips curling into a wicked smirk. His free hand gripped your hip, keeping you still as he twisted his finger, coaxing your body to accommodate him. “That’s unexpected from a slut like you.”

His finger withdrew slightly before sliding back in, the motion deliberate and calculated, coaxing out every sound of pleasure you tried to suppress.

The rosary rested delicately against your skin, its cool, polished beads a stark contrast to the sinful warmth of his touch. With calculated precision, he pressed it just above where his finger was buried inside you, the holy artifact seeming almost blasphemous in its placement. His breath hitched, a low, dark chuckle escaping him as if the juxtaposition of the sacred and the profane amused him to no end.

Slowly, deliberately, he began sliding the rosary in, bead by bead, each one stretching your ass a little more, leaving a trail of both devotion and desecration. The smooth spheres disappeared inside, swallowed by your trembling body, as if you were offering up your very being to this unholy act.

Your breath hitched, your hands gripping the edge of the wooden pulpit, your knuckles turning pale. Each bead passed with a rhythmic cadence, almost as if he were reciting some forbidden litany in his mind, a dark ritual performed in your ass. The chain connecting the beads grew taut with each sinful insertion, cool metal pressing against your heated skin, a silent reminder of the holiness you were defiling.

Only the cross remained, the small silver crucifix dangling just outside your hole, swaying slightly with your trembling. He caught it between his fingers, letting the edge of the sacred symbol brush against your pussy, a mocking act of reverence. His lips curled into a wicked smile, and he leaned down, his breath hot against your neck.

“Do you feel absolved yet?” he whispered cruelly, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. 

It doesn’t take Carlos long to rid himself of his trousers, not when your moans echo against the walls of the empty church, raw and desperate, a melody of need that makes his control falter. You’re on the edge of reason, begging for him to save you, to guide you back to the light—or pull you deeper into the sin you both crave. Although you weren’t certain on what it was that you were asking for, all that mattered is Father Carlos gave in—albeit to punish you but still gave in. 

Standing behind you, his breath is hot against your shoulder, the soft rasp of it teasing your skin. One hand wraps firmly around his cock, stroking slowly, deliberately, as his gaze drinks in the sight of you bared and waiting, mesmerized by the holy cross hanging out of your ass. His other hand settles on the soft curve of your hip, fingertips pressing into your skin, grounding you both in this shared moment of temptation.

He steps closer, his chest brushing against your back, the warmth of his body enveloping you. The tip of him nudges against your folds, teasingly slow as he slides along your slick heat—once, twice—each movement deliberate, purposeful. He groans low in his throat, the sound reverent, almost guttural, as he coats himself in you, the evidence of your desire clinging to him like a forbidden prayer. 

Carlos glances up at the ceiling for a moment, closing his eyes and murmuring something unintelligible—perhaps a prayer to let his punishment guide you to the right path or an apology to the Lord for straying off the path himself by indulging in sins with you. 

He finally slides his cock inside you, inch by inch, until he is fully seated. The stretch is overwhelming, almost too much, and your breath stutters as you struggle to accommodate him. His hands settle firmly on your hips, holding you steady as your body trembles beneath him. 

The edge of the pulpit is digging into your skin, the unyielding surface grounding you even as your senses threaten to unravel. Your chest lays flat against the smooth, polished wood, your hardened nipples brushing against it with every subtle movement, sending jolts of pleasure skittering through your body.

Behind you, Carlos exhales slowly, his breath warm against your neck, and you feel the tremor in his hands, the way his control frays at the edges. “So much sin,” he murmurs, his voice low and ragged, more to himself than to you. “So much to purge.”

The cross, hanging out from your other hole, moves with every shift of his hips. It’s a thought that should terrify you, but instead, it ignites something deep inside—a forbidden thrill that coils hot and tight in your belly. The steady rhythm of his movements makes the cross sway, a stark reminder of where you are, what you’re doing, and who you’re doing it with. The juxtaposition of holiness and sin makes your head spin.

“You’re soaked,” Carlos growls, his tone both admonishing and reverent. His hips pull back, only to slide forward again, dragging against every sensitive inch of you. The wet, obscene sounds of your cunt fills the air, echoing in the sacred space around you. He shifts his grip on your hips, pulling you back against him with each thrust, and you feel every inch of him—thick, unrelenting—claiming you. “I thought I could guide you away from sins,” he continues, his voice tight, almost anguished. “I thought I could save you by telling you to ignore the wetness. By making you resist.”

He leans over you, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “But I was wrong. You crave this too deeply, too completely. And now, the only way to save you is to drain you through your pussy. To take every ounce of sin from your body until there’s nothing left but exhaustion—until you can’t crave it anymore.”

The words send a shockwave through you, your pussy tightening involuntarily around him, and he groans, a guttural sound that vibrates against your skin. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward with a deliberate rhythm, each thrust driving deeper, harder, as if he’s determined to fulfill his promise. You can feel yourself unraveling under him, the heat building low in your belly, radiating outward in waves that threaten to consume you.

“Do you feel it?” he demands, his voice rough and commanding. “Do you feel me so close to taking it from you? Draining you of everything unholy, everything corrupt?” He punctuates his words with a sharp thrust that leaves you gasping, your nails scraping against the wood of the pulpit as you struggle to hold on.

You try to respond, but the words catch in your throat, replaced by a breathless moan as he shifts the angle of his hips, hitting a spot inside you that makes your vision blur. “Answer me,” he growls, his fingers digging into your hips. “Are you going to come on my cock?”

“Y-yes,” you manage to gasp, your voice trembling with the intensity of it all. “So close, Father. I—”

Your words are cut off as a wave of pleasure crashes over you, your body convulsing around him as he drives you over the edge. 

But he doesn’t stop. He keeps moving, his pace relentless, determined, as though he won’t stop until he’s wrung every last ounce of sin from your body. 

“You’ll come again,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding. “And again. Until there’s nothing left. Until you’re too spent to think of sin, too tired to crave it.”

His words are a promise and a warning, and you can feel yourself quickly spiraling toward another orgasm, your body trembling with anticipation and overstimulation. Carlos’ grip tightens, pulling you impossibly closer, and his movements grow more desperate, more unrestrained, as if he, too, is succumbing to the very sin he claims to purge.

Carlos doesn’t stop, his focus unyielding as if his salvation hinges on your complete and utter surrender. He brings his fingers to your clit, rubbing tight circles in rhythm with each thrust, forcing a cry from your lips. Your legs shake, only standing due to the weight of his body holding yours upright, nails pressing into the smooth wooden surface. 

Your eyes roll back as another orgasm crashes over you, his fingers unrelenting on your clit until you’re spent, trembling from the overwhelming pleasure. You’ve completely soaked him, creating a creamy ring of your cum on the base of his cock. 

When he finally slows, it’s not to let you catch your breath—it’s to adjust. He pulls out, but before you could whimper at the emptiness, his rough palms find your waist and with a swift motion, he turns you around so that your back presses against the wooden pulpit.

The sharp edge digs into your lower back, grounding you in this sinful reality, but you barely register it as Carlos pulls one of your legs up to hook around his waist. His cock slides back in without any resistance, your wetness and cum soaking your cunt down to your thighs. The new angle drives him deeper, impossibly so, and the stretch forces a gasp from your lips. His body presses against yours, pinning you between him and the unyielding wood, leaving no room for escape—not that you wanted to.

The rosary, still nestled in your ass, makes the cross swing wildly now with each thrust. The beads shift and press against your walls, a sensation so obscene and contradictory that it makes your head spin. The weight of it, the texture, the unrelenting pressure—it all blends into an overwhelming storm of pleasure and shame. Carlos notices the way you tense, the way your breath catches in your throat, and his lips curl into a knowing smirk.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice rough with exertion and tinged with something darker. “The weight of your sin. The way it clings to you, refuses to let go.”

His grip on your thigh tightens, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds you steady, surely causing visible marks to form as a present for tomorrow. His other hand moves with purpose, sliding up your body until it wraps firmly on your neck. His fingers tighten, a steady pressure that causes a sharp gasp to escape your lips as he slowly restricts your breathing. 

As the pressure builds inside you, it feels different this time—stronger, sharper, an unbearable intensity that has you teetering on the edge of something unrecognizable. Your palms fly to his hairy chest, desperate to push him away, to escape the overwhelming sensation. But Carlos is unrelenting.

“No,” he growls, his hand on your neck tightening just enough to make you still. His dark eyes bore into yours, his expression a mix of command and reverence. “You don’t run from this. Not from me. This is salvation, and you will take it.”

Your protests die on your lips as the pleasure crests, your body seizing with a force that leaves you lightheaded. The release rips through you, blinding and all-consuming, leaving you trembling in his grasp. He removes his grasp on your throat, causing the blood to rush back to your head, sharply inhaling, only making your head spin further. The intensity of it causes him to slip out, and you barely register the loss before you feel him again—his hand wrapped around his cock, slapping the tip of him against your swollen folds, forcing out more gushing cum.

Carlos watches intently as the evidence of your orgasm spills out, glistening and wet, streaming down your thighs. His gaze is dark, predatory, yet there’s a strange satisfaction there, a twisted pride in what he’s done to you. He hums low in his throat, a sound of approval, and leans in closer, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispers, “There we go. That’s what I wanted.”

As you tremble against him, he guides himself back into you, his movements frantic, as if he no longer cares if you’re walking the fine line of pleasure and pain. The stretch is almost unbearable, the sensitive ache from your last release making every thrust sharper, but your body betrays you, greedily pulling him in deeper, tighter, as though it can’t get enough of him.

Your cries spill out uncontrollably now, raw and guttural, filling the vast emptiness of the church as you inch closer to yet another orgasm. The echo of your sounds bounces off the stained glass and stone walls, growing louder with each thrust. 

“Be quiet,” he spat, “Do you want others to hear? Do you want them to walk in while you’re laid out like this, dripping sin onto holy ground?”

The words send a jolt of shame and excitement coursing through you, but you can’t stop the way your body reacts to him, your noises growing louder despite yourself. He stills for a moment, trailing his hand down to your ass. He pulls his hand away before sharply bringing it down, a loud crack sounding in the air, mingling with your moans. 

The sting hasn’t even begun to fade away when Carlos grasps onto the dangling holy cross. You feel the delicate beads shift inside before he tugs it out of you in one slow, deliberate motion. You’re clenching around his cock, begging for friction as he leaves your ass empty. 

Carlos doesn’t give you a moment to adjust. He grips your chin, forcing you to look at him, his dark eyes burning with something unholy, something wild. “Open your mouth,” he commands, his voice sharp and leaving no room for argument. When you do, he spits into it, the warm slickness landing on your tongue. “Good girl. Keep it there.” 

Without missing a beat, he slides the rosary into your mouth, pressing the beads against your tongue. “If you can’t stay quiet on your own, then this will do it for you,” he murmurs, his tone almost mocking. “You won’t make another sound. Not when the faithful will soon arrive for their morning prayers. Do you want them to see you like this? To see what a slut you are?”

The shame floods through you, heating your cheeks, but the way he looks at you—the dark desire in his gaze—only fans the fire inside you. He presses his palm across your lips, forcing your mouth shut at the same time he begins thrusting again. 

Clenching around him, your ass feels empty, aching with the absence of anything to fill it. He doesn’t leave it that way for long. His fingers slide over your thighs, coated in the wetness you’ve left for him, and he plunges two inside your hole without warning. You cry out, the sound muffled around the rosary in your mouth, your body arching as he works his fingers deep, curling them with practiced precision in time with his thrusts. 

“You’ll stay full,” he growls, his voice harsh and low, every word dripping with control. “No part of you will be left wanting. Do you understand me?” His fingers thrust in and out of you, stretching and scissoring, as his other hand remains on your mouth. 

You nod weakly, your vision blurring as he overwhelms your senses. The sound of your wetness as his cock moves in and out of you is obscene, the slick noises mixing with your muffled whimpers and his low grunts. Every movement feels like both punishment and salvation, a deliberate reminder that you are completely at his mercy.

“Good,” he breathes, leaning down to press his lips to the shell of your ear. “Now, be a good little whore and take everything I give you. We wouldn’t want to disturb the faithful, would we?”

Your eyes widen at his words, and you shake your head to the best of your abilities while restrained beneath his hand. His thrusts are deliberate and unrelenting, as though he’s punishing you for every transgression. His fingers slide in and out of your ass, a rhythm that feels both torturous and divine. The small, gilded cross hanging from his neck catches the faint light, swaying with every shift of his body. It dangles dangerously close to your lips, a reminder of the sanctity you’re defiling—and the punishment to resume on the path of purity he insists he’s granting.

Your body trembles, overwhelmed by the sensations he’s forcing out of you. Every orgasm has chipped away at your restraint, leaving you raw and exposed. This time, when you squirt, it’s with a desperate cry muffled against his palm. A fresh wave of pleasure surges through you, and your body reacts instinctively, wetness spilling onto his, leaving no doubt of your surrender.

His lips ghost across your temple, a false act of reverence. “Look at you now—so beautifully broken, so… clean.”

His pace quickens, his own restraint fraying as he chases his release. When he finally stills inside you, the warmth of him fills you completely, his cum spilling deep as if to claim you entirely. He exhales a low, satisfied groan, his head tilting back, exposing the strong column of his throat.

“This,” he says, his voice softer now, reverent almost, “is your purification. My cum, a baptism to rid you of every impurity.”

Your vision blurs, the room spinning as exhaustion pulls at your limbs, leaving you pliant, vulnerable. You barely register when he removes his hand from your mouth, slowly slipping the rosary out, but you inhale sharply, your chest rising with a desperate gasp. His lips find your jaw, their path deliberate and searing, branding your skin with whispered promises of redemption.

The faint glow of flickering candlelight mingles with the sun’s muted rays streaming through the stained glass windows. Colours dance across his face, painting him in hues of red and gold, as though divine light itself had anointed him. For a fleeting moment, he looks holy—an angel cloaked in shadow, his presence both damning and sanctifying.

He pulls out of your used, aching cunt, his cum spilling down your thighs. The sight is obscene, vulgar even, but Carlos’s gaze is steady, reverent, as if each drop is a testament to your purification.

“Thank you,” you whisper hoarsely, your voice trembling with exhaustion and something dangerously close to gratitude. “For cleansing me of my sins.”

His eyes narrow, and a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. “Oh, slut,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Before you can question him, he turns toward the wooden pulpit, his movements smooth, purposeful. Your heart pounds as he retrieves a small pocket knife. Your breath hitches, fear prickling at your skin as he flips it open, the metallic click reverberating like a warning, it’s blade gleaming wickedly in the light. 

“Father Carlos,” you whisper, your voice wavering. “Why… why do you have that?”

His breath fans across your face, warm and deliberate. “Religion,” he begins, his voice smooth and laden with a false reverence, “is not merely about worship. It’s about sacrifice. Surrender. It’s giving every piece of yourself to God. And here, now, you give it to me, as His vessel.” 

You shiver as his words sink into you, their weight unbearable yet irresistible. He speaks with the conviction of a preacher delivering salvation, and though you can’t grasp the truth within his claims, his unwavering gaze seems to dim the edges of your resistance.

Carlos lets the blade linger in the air for a moment before dragging it slowly down the bunched fabric of your dress, the ripping sound loud and jarring in the heavy silence of the church. The knife’s edge glides close to your skin but never touches, a taunting reminder of his control. The ruined fabric falls away, leaving you exposed beneath the warm, watchful gaze of flickering candles.

“You’re afraid,” he murmurs, cupping your chin with his free hand, forcing your gaze to meet his. “But don’t be. This is holy. This is right.”

Your lips tremble, a feeble protest forming in the back of your throat, but he’s already moving. He holds his palm out to you, his fingers steady and commanding. “Give me your hand,” he orders, and though every fiber of your being screams to pull away, you find yourself obeying. 

Slowly, you lift your trembling hand and place it in his. His fingers close around yours, warm and firm, grounding you even as your heart pounds in terror.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice laced with approval, as though you’ve passed a sacred test. He flips your hand over, palm facing upward, and trails the knife’s tip along the delicate lines etched into your skin. The touch is featherlight, more teasing than threatening, but the cold steel sends shivers racing up your spine.

You swallow hard, your throat dry. “What… what are you going to do?”

Carlos tilts his head, his expression serene, almost beatific. “Make you mine,” he says simply, as though the answer is self-evident. “For all your life, you will belong to me.” 

His words worm their way into your mind, pulling at the edges of your resistance. You don’t know the Bible well enough to challenge him, but something inside you weakens as his deep voice continues to promise that this is for your own good, that this sacrifice will lead you to the right path indefinitely. His faith, twisted as it is, seems unshakable, and you find yourself caught in its gravity.

The knife gleams, almost mockingly at your gullibility, as he continues to draw it lightly across your skin. You wince at the sting, but it’s nothing compared to the way his words penetrate deeper, whispering how this is the only way to be whole. He’s not just a man with a knife in his hand—he’s an answer, a guide. And in this moment, his words start to make sense.

His voice is almost reverent now as he finishes his sentence: “You will be mine, just as you are God’s. This is the final step.”

The blade cuts deeper, and you gasp, the warm blood flowing freely from the small wound. Your heart races, and there’s a part of you that wants to recoil, to protest. But Carlos’ grip on you tightens, unyielding. The tip of the knife is stained with your blood, and without a second thought, he licks it off, his tongue savoring the taste of your surrender. His eyes never leave yours, filled with a darkness that sends shivers down your spine. 

Carlos watches as the blood pools in your palm, crimson and warm, a stark contrast against the pale trembling of your fingers. His dark eyes gleam with something unspoken, something insidious, as though the sight of your sacrifice—your surrender—has unlocked a primal satisfaction deep within him. The knife clatters softly against the wooden pulpit as he sets it aside, the sound barely audible over the erratic rhythm of your breath.

You flinch as his fingers dip into the blood, warm and slick, and press into the fresh wound. The sharp sting makes you gasp, a soft, broken sound that escapes before you can stop it. His lips curl into a smile—soft, almost benevolent—as though your pain pleases him in a way he can barely contain.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, his voice low and rough, thick with satisfaction. There’s no concern in his tone, no true care for your answer. It’s a question meant to remind you that he is in control, that your pain is his to command.

You manage a shaky nod, unable to meet his gaze as he presses harder against the cut, eliciting another whimper from you.

“Good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “It’s supposed to hurt.”

Slowly, deliberately, he begins to move his finger, dragging it through the blood. You can feel the warmth of it spreading as he marks you, tracing the unmistakable shape of a cross over your chest. The gesture feels intimate in a way that leaves you unsteady, as though the very essence of you is being claimed, piece by piece, with every deliberate stroke of his finger.

You flinch as he presses his fingers firmly into your skin, sealing the symbol with a finality that makes your stomach twist. His hand lingers, the heat of his touch seeping into your skin like a brand.

“The cross,” he says, his voice reverent but laced with something far darker, “is the seal. The mark of what you are now—what you’ve given to me.”

Your chest tightens at his words, at the weight of the moment. You try to convince yourself that this is holy, that it’s right, but there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that whispers otherwise. Still, his words have a power over you that you can’t resist, a pull that drags you deeper into the illusion he’s weaving.

“Now,” he whispers, leaning in close, his lips brushing against your ear. You shudder at the warmth of his breath, at the faint taste of your blood still lingering on his tongue. “Now, you belong to me.”

The weight of his statement settles over you like a heavy shroud, suffocating and inescapable. Your body trembles, your mind reeling, but deep down, you know that it’s already too late. For all your hesitations, for all your doubts, you’ve given yourself to him—completely, irrevocably.

The first drop of blood hits the stone floor, the sound sharp and loud in the oppressive silence of the church. You watch as it pools at your feet, crimson against the gray stone, and a soft, involuntary whimper escapes your lips.

“Father,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, heavy with confusion and something dangerously close to desperation.

He coos at you, his tone almost soothing, but there’s a mockery in his eyes that makes your skin crawl. “Hush, nena,” he murmurs, his hand closing over yours once more. “Don’t cry. It won’t go to waste.”

With that, he brings your trembling hand closer to his mouth. You watch in horrified fascination as he lets a ball of spit fall onto your palm, the moisture stinging the cut as it mixes with the blood. Your breath hitches, the pain sharp and immediate, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, he flattens his tongue against the wound, licking and swallowing the metallic taste of your blood with deliberate slowness.

The intimacy of the act is unbearable, leaving you frozen and helpless as he continues, his tongue dragging over your palm as though savoring every drop. “Divine,” he mutters, his voice thick with satisfaction, “absolutely divine.”

The blood hasn’t stopped flowing, and as you feel the last remnants of your resistance begin to crumble, Carlos moves with purpose, his hands firm as he pushes you down onto your knees. 

“Now,” he says, his tone taking on a commanding edge, “pray to me as you would to the Lord.”

Your lips part in protest, but the words never come. He tilts your chin up, his gaze locking with yours, dark and unyielding. “I am the man of God,” he continues, his voice a low growl that reverberates through you. “I hold the key to your salvation. And you, my little slut, will prove your devotion.”

Behind him, the enormous wooden cross looms, its shadow stretching over him. The faint light from the candles dances around the edges of the symbol, giving it an almost celestial glow. It frames him perfectly, a mockery of holiness, as though he himself is the vessel of divinity. Standing tall and unshaken, he becomes something larger than life, something terrible and magnetic.

You, in contrast, are on your knees before him, stripped bare of your defenses, trembling as though the weight of his words alone could crush you. The image is unshakable: him towering like a god while you kneel as a humble supplicant, desperate and lost.

The air feels heavy, thick with the kind of silence that fills a church just before a hymn begins. The cross behind him seems to pulse, a reminder of the faith you thought you knew, now distorted by his presence. Your heart races, your mind screams that this is not worship, this is not holy—but the power in his voice, the weight of his authority, leaves no room for dissent.

Shakily, your trembling hands clasp together, fingers interlocking in a feeble attempt at prayer. You close your eyes, each breath shallow and uneven as you bow your head. The words that escape your lips are foreign, wrong—they are not for the Lord you once prayed to, but for him. For the man who now claims to hold the keys to your salvation, for the dark, twisted force that has wrapped itself around your soul.

Your blood trails in uneven rivulets down your arm, tracing your trembling skin. The sight of you is unholy—blasphemous—yet it is precisely how he wants you: on your knees before him, utterly undone. Bare, vulnerable, tears streaking your cheeks, and a cross smeared across your chest in the crimson hue of your own sacrifice. The blood dripping from your palm stains the floor in dark, damning blotches, marking the sacred space as profane.

His cum still leaks from your pussy, a viscous reminder of the way he’s claimed you, defiled you. You are ruined, completely and utterly wrecked, and even then, it is not enough for him.

Carlos’ smile is slow, deliberate, and so full of satisfaction that it feels like a blade sinking into you. He steps closer, his presence looming, his shadow cast by the cross falling over your kneeling form. “Good,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent, dripping with approval as though your surrender is a sacred offering. “Worship me.”

His words settle over you like a benediction and a curse, heavy with false sanctity. In this moment, he has made himself your god, a figure of twisted devotion and unrelenting control. And though a small, flickering part of you screams to break free, it is drowned out by the overwhelming need to obey.

Carlos eyes rake over you, dark and hungry, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile that borders on cruel. His satisfaction is palpable, a weight in the air that presses down on you as you try to steady your breath, though the tears keep coming. The sting of the cut on your palm hasn’t dulled, each pulse of pain grounding you in this twisted reality you’ve surrendered to.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with mockery and delight. His fingers find your wrist. The grip is firm, possessive, and you shudder as he lifts your bleeding hand into the space between you. The blood flows freely, trickling in thin lines down your fingers. He watches it as though transfixed, his thumb brushing over your palm in a way that makes you wince.

“You’ve given so much to me,” he says, his tone reverent, though his gaze holds none of the holiness his words suggest. “But you’re not done yet.”

He guides your hand toward him, the motion slow and deliberate, as though he’s savouring every second of your hesitation, your trembling compliance. His cock is hard and waiting, and your stomach churns as your bloody hand is wrapped around it. The warmth of him, the slickness of your blood spreading across his skin, makes your breath hitch in your throat.

“Do what you know best, nena,” he commands, his voice low and rough, the kind of tone that leaves no room for defiance.

Your fingers tremble as you begin to move, the pain from your cut sharp with every motion. The blood coats him in uneven streaks, glistening and crimson, each stroke smearing more of your sacrifice onto him. The metallic scent of it fills the space between you, heavy and suffocating, and yet, you find yourself lost in the way he watches you. His eyes are half-lidded, the satisfaction in his expression undeniable, and for reasons you can’t comprehend, it’s all you need to keep going.

“You’re such a slut for me…what if someone walked in right now? You wouldn’t stop worshipping me, would you?” he asks, his voice dipping lower, rougher

The words send a chill down your spine, your cheeks flushing with shame and something darker, something you’re too broken to name. You can’t meet his gaze, but you feel it boring into you, devouring you. The thought of a devotee seeing you like this—wrecked, desperate, ruined—makes your stomach twist, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

“No,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, and his smile widens, wicked and approving.

“That’s what I thought,” he says, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “You’re too good for me, too devoted. You’d stay here, on your knees, with your blood on my cock and tears on your face, just like this. Wouldn’t you?”

You nod, your movements becoming steadier despite the pain. Each pained motion of your hand draws a groan from him, low and guttural, his head tipping back in a display of raw, unrestrained pleasure. The sound sends a shiver down your spine, and despite the ache in your wrist and the sting in your palm, you keep going, desperate to hear more, desperate to see more of the satisfaction that’s written across his face.

When he finally cums, it’s with a sharp exhale, his hand snapping to your wrist to still your movements. You barely have time to register what’s happening before the warmth of it splashes across your face and your tits. The sticky warmth of it mingles with the blood smeared across your skin, soaking into the cross he’d drawn on you. The lines blur, ruinous and obscene.

Carlos’ chest heaves as he comes down from his high, his expression softening into something almost tender, though the darkness in his eyes remains. He reaches out, his thumb tracing the smeared mess on your chest. His touch is slow, deliberate, as he presses the mixture of blood and his cum deeper into your skin, ruining the cross entirely.

“There,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. “Now you’re perfect.”

He lifts his thumb, coated in the remnants of the act, and brings it to your lips. His gaze pins you in place, unrelenting, and you know what he wants without him having to say it. You hesitate, your breath catching in your throat, but his thumb brushes against your lips, insistent.

“Clean it,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for defiance.

Your lips part slowly, and he presses his thumb into your mouth. The taste is bitter, metallic, and foreign, but you don’t pull away. You can’t. His eyes remain fixed on you, watching every movement of your tongue as you obey, and the weight of his approval is suffocating, all-consuming.

When he finally pulls his thumb away, his smile returns, dark and knowing. “You’ll be back,” he says, his voice soft but certain. “You can’t stay away, can you? From sinning. From me.”

You feel the words settle deep within you, a truth you can’t deny, no matter how much you want to. The part of you that knows this is wrong, that screams this isn’t devotion or love, is drowned out by the part of you that craves his approval, his praise, his touch.

“But that’s okay,” he continues, his thumb brushing against your jaw. “Because I’ll always be here to help you. To guide you. To remind you of who you belong to.”

You manage a weak smile, exhaustion weighing heavy on your limbs. You’re too far gone, too manipulated, too consumed by him to see the depth of his control. Every word he speaks feels like scripture, every command like a divine decree, and you find yourself nodding, willing to follow him wherever he leads, like his most devoted servant. 

In this moment, you are his, wholly and irrevocably. As the tears streak your face, as the blood dries on your skin, you realize you can’t regret it. You don’t want to. You’ve given yourself to him, and there’s no turning back.

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPXDC Prompt. Dead on main with priest Jason: Father Todd brings the Ghost King’s cult into the World of the Living.

So, when Jason dies and returns, the League of Assassins fails to hold him for long because spirits from Far Frozen pick him up after seeing teen through the Lazarus pit.

Jason quickly realizes that, well, they’re kinda obsessed with their cult of the Great One. And yeah the cult of the ruling Ghost King was very popular during the reign of the Pariah Dark but back then the rituals were carried out more out of fear. Now things are different. The population of the Ghost Zone has become interested in the activities of Frostbite and his loyal spirits because of an attempt to understand what kind of ghost the new ruler is and how best to thank and appease him. So Jason had no shortage of stories about the teenager's deeds.

~~~~

Jason to Frostbite: Well, you guys and your lil hobby are nice but I don't understand at all what's so cool about this guy, even if he defeated Pariah Dark and gets along with most of the Ancients…

Danny: *comes to visit Frostbite*, *slips and falls three times, sets the kitchen on fire in an attempt to make coffee then sheepishly smiles at Jason*.

Jason to Frostbite: ... Okay, Understandable, I Hope Danny Has a Nice Day and Some Sleep.

Tucker: Congratulations, you've acquired another Paulina. Great job. Danny: I'd rather he just asked me out instead of worshipping me. What the hell? I'm just a semi-ghost.

Tucker: Maybe things would be easier if you just gave him your phone number, you know? Danny: But he didn't ask. Tucker: Why didn't you ask? Danny: I couldn't! He's Robin himself, you know? Tucker: Well, good luck to you idiots to grow old alone near the altars of each other's name. Danny: Actually lil altar in his honor is not such a bad idea. Maybe this way he'll understand that I like him too.. Tucker: Danny, no!

~~~~

New in Gotham robbers break into Jason's place: Hey, father, God ordered you to share with your neighbors, so bring us some money or we.. Jason, who is talking on the phone with Danny: In fact, he just said that if you don't get out of here now, he will turn a blind eye to the fact that I will use my guns.

Danny*screams internally*: Oh Ancients, he's sooo cool!

Pandora: Honey, we're happy for you but stop flooding us with spam. You have already told 5 times during prayer how good his abs and chest look and how perfect Todd is when he reads aloud. We get it, okay? Clockwork: Well, I actually enjoy it. It's so much more interesting to watch while listening to the internal dialogue. Show must go on~ Danny: ...Get out of my mind! Nocturn: Thou shalt not take the name of the Lords in vain if you don't want to share with us, lil blob. So rude.

~~~Team Song: You Are My Religion · Firehouse~~~~

[gothghostiie]

oh this was so fucking delicious holy FUCK

Ship: Alejandro Vargas x F!reader

Lenght: 914 words

Potential triggers: incorrect use of prayers, religious guilt if you squint hard enough, too much of the "he" word, boner in the house of the god.

A/N: for @gothghostiie the main culprit of this nonsense, we both shall repent in hell hehe

Enjoy muahh!!!

The darkness doesn't prevail. The ever-burning star comes out from under the long line of the horizon, shining down at the land that begged for its warm touch.

_____________________________________________

The slumbering animals awaken again from the hibernation they succumbed to in late fall. Conducted by the light breeze of spring in the air, they come out of their lairs with a light body and mind. They might have starved during the dark days of winter, yet they prevailed and awoke at last, greeted by the warmth of the first day of a new season.

The drought makes way for the blessing of the rainy season, bringing relief to the scorched plains and gauging their thirst with the miracle of a cold shower from the greying skies.

That's what Alejandro thinks of you. You're his spring after the cold of winter, the sun that shines down on him even during the darkest hours, the long-awaited rain that soothes his dried-out sinner's soul.

Alejandro was a man of God, but even his solemn grace could not compare to the blessings you brought into his life.

It all started innocently. You were the great-niece of one of the old patrons who religiously attended Alejandro's masses. A girl in her twenties, visiting her family for the summer to help your aunt with the chores around the property.

Your aunt bragged about you to her Sunday mass friends, complimenting you to heavens and back, which piqued Alejandro's interest. It's a rare sight for a young lady like yourself to waste summer heat in a small town in the middle of nowhere.

Such querida like yourself should be busy surrounded by her friends, not hundreds if not thousands of miles away from home. That's what Alejandro thought, at least.

But nothing would have prepared him for the sweet sight of your innocence when you stepped through the archway of his church during one of the warm Sundays. A cotton-made dress hugged your body in just the right places, hugging your breasts and accenting the sensual curve of your hips, flowing around your waist with every step that you took.

Your aunt introduced you to the friendly young priest who moved into the town a while ago. A delicate smile that adorned your face with softness Alejandro had never seen before was directed at him.

He was a man gone.

His cock, which he had sworn off the use of when he entered the priesthood, rose to life for the first time since his late teens when it was the last he recalled feeling such primal want.

Persisting and surviving through the service was his way of the cross. Finally, the bell rang, and people began spilling out the main gate, some wishing Alejandro a good Sunday.

He barely made it to his private quarters, the urgency to relieve his body ache almost too overwhelming to hide the sin he was about to commit in his own four walls. Alejandro couldn't help but slam the doors shut behind his back. He threw himself on the bed, unzipping his suit pants that barely contained his erect pride in place. He hissed out a curse as his cold palm made contact with the too-hot-to-touch skin of his cock.

Twisting his wrist, he began pumping up and down, occasionally brushing his thumb against the tip, which was a poor imitation of what your tongue would feel like when you tasted him for the first time. "Ha pasado mucho tiempo desde, ah, mi última confesión..." His head lolled to the side, and he shivered at the electrifying spasm that went down his cock and up his spine.

"Perdóname, Padre," Alejandro grunted out, squeezing the base of his member, "porque he pecado..." He groaned, running his free hand across his face and hair. He spread his muscular thighs apart, sinfully imagining that it's you between them, with your delicate hands wrapped around his leaking cock.

His tongue lashed out from between his lips to lick at the dried-up skin, a filthy moan escaping his throat. He would not last long, not with your angelic face wired hot behind his shut eyelids, smiling down at Alejandro, coaxing him to let go.

And Alejandro did just as you asked him to; with the last rough tug to his weeping dick, he came hard, temporarily blinded by the feeling of climax you eased his weary soul into. His warm seed shot up and landed on his satin stole. The priestly shawl Alejandro didn't care enough to take off his shoulders beforehand, leaving a prominent contrast of his creamy white come against the rich purple of the material.

His breath calming, Alejandro pried his eyes open and looked down upon himself. As if possessed, he raised his arm that was previously squeezing his dick in a near-perfect picture of what your tiny pussy would do to him. With a hand still covered in his juices, he dipped his fingers into the pool of sperm sploshed on his shirt and stole. He brought it to his face to examine the stickiness, rubbing it between his thumb and pointing fingers.

No hell seemed scary when creatures like yourself existed in this world. Alejandro will get you sweaty and moaning between his arms soon enough, and the both of you will reach an absolution together. Him spilling his seed deep inside of you, and you on his cock, hitting and prodding all the right spots that make prayers spill from between your lips.

_____________________________________________

Spanish vocabulary:

Querida - Dear

Perdóname, Padre, porque he pecado - Forgive me, father, for I have sinned

Ha pasado mucho tiempo desde mi última confesión - It's been a long time since my last confession

[rice5x]

bite