#priest!daniel bruhl x reader

[mypoisonedvine]

𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖇𝖗𝖆𝖊 || dark!father antonio x reader

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞 | tenebrae (/ˈtɛnəbreɪ/, latin): darkness, obscurity; dark place; prison (or, delusional priest develops an obsession with one of the lost little lambs in his flock)

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙 | 3.5k

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 | smut (noncon), incel vibes? (which is ironic because the celibacy is very voluntary, but still) as well as yandere vibes, significant religious imagery and references, loss of virginity, blood, some misogyny (I mean, he’s a priest, so...), spanking, pain kink, creampie, very lightly implied breeding kink, 

{a/n: my gif, please don’t steal it!}

                   Antonio had always had a gift, the same one that made him such an excellent priest: he could see darkness.

He could see darkness, and he could cast it out.

It weighed heavy on him sometimes, the burden of the ills of the world.  He saw people for what they really were most of the time: monsters.  It was taxing.  It left him feeling more alone than any vow of chastity ever could.  Sometimes, it felt like being close to God meant having to be so far away from everyone else; but that’s how it had always been for him, since he was a boy.  He never got along with other children, even his parents seemed to have disdain for him.  The only thing that kept him going was knowing that he had a higher purpose.

Over time, he got better at hiding among normal people, mainly because he needed to in order to acquire what he wanted.  Becoming a priest was a natural step for him, for a litany of reasons.  For one, God accepted him when no one else had, blessed him with the righteous curse of seeing sin.  Second, it not only prevented intimate relationships but stopped people from asking him why he didn’t have one; he wasn’t good at relationships or questions about them.  Women, frankly, always scared Antonio slightly because he found them especially unpredictable and often additionally sinful… and being at the church meant overall interacting with less women.

And finally, the option to be occasionally moved from parish to parish gave him a sense of freedom, answered that call he sometimes felt to drop everything and go somewhere new.  

What he never expected was to meet someone like you.

At first, what attracted him to you was the light you seemed to shine, like an angel.  You were perfect— obedient, pious, patient.  You listened to his homilies, you cared for your siblings and respected your father and mother.  You had a lovely voice and would often sing in services, to the delight of the congregation; you always said that God had given you a gift and it was right that you should give it back.  

But, what started innocent quickly turned sinister.  The more time he spent with you, the more Father Antonio felt the tug of a deeper instinct, something sickeningly human; of the flesh, perhaps.  

Because, you see, Antonio’s gift came at a price.  He could see darkness, but he carried it in himself, as well.  He carried the kind that couldn’t be cast out; he carried the kind that needed to be fed.

Maybe your gift came at a price too; your lovely voice, bought with your soul.  Once he suspected it, he couldn’t shake it from his mind, and soon everything he saw was cast in a new light: or rather, cast a new shadow.

Your “innocent” smiles and touches, your “selfless” dedication to the church… it became obvious that your intentions were far from holy the more that he felt the pull of your wicked wiles on his mind.  It wasn’t his own weakness, no, just your power that made him long for you, filled his every thought with impurity.

At night, he had visions of you, of your body and every unholy way it could be marked and claimed, of every carnal sin that he feared yet craved.  Licking your lips, sucking your fingers, bending over and looking back at him with something truly godless in your eyes.  Take me, Father, haven’t you lusted for my body?  It’s yours, Father… break it.

For a man who could cast away the darkness, he suddenly couldn’t seem to get an erection to go down, not since those horrific images came to him.  He dealt with it the only reliable way, but it quickly became addictive until he was spilling on himself at least daily while he shut his eyes and let the sinful apparitions overtake him.

Maybe a demonic spirit had possessed you, somehow, or maybe you were evil from the very beginning, a succubus masquerading among God’s creation in a pitiful attempt to sully a man of the cloth.  Well, Antonio wouldn’t let that happen.  

He knew the next time you would be at the church when almost no one else was there; you see, Sunday Mass was probably the worst time to take you because the church would be full of witnesses.  Wednesday after choir wouldn’t be so bad, comparatively speaking, but the best by far was Thursday afternoon.  That was when you came by to help with the knitting of prayer shawls.  It was your most niche church activity and one that brought you to him when only a few other people were around— mostly little old ladies who used the time to gossip.

If he could get you alone just after it ended, the church would be all but empty.

Passing the time grew irritating, as once again all his thoughts turned to you before he could stop them.  When he finally caught a glimpse through his window of some of the women from the shawl-knitting group walking down the path to their cars, he almost made a fool of himself running so fast to the other end of the church.

But he didn’t make a fool of himself, in the end, because he caught you just in time.

He found you sorting through skeins of yarn and placing them back into the baskets they were stored in during the week; you didn’t seem to see him at first, since your back faced the open doorway.

Being alone in a room with you was chilling.  He had to be careful how he handled this, or you might reveal your true form and possibly overpower him.  He wasn’t sure entirely what you were capable of, and he’d rather not find out the hard way.  

When he spoke your name, you jumped up and turned to him with a smile.  “Padre,” you greeted with a little bow— so respectful, always.  He saw it now for the manipulation it was.  “Did you need something?”

“Yes, I thought I might speak with you in my office, if you don’t mind,” he explained.  Right away, you looked concerned, and he had to think quickly.  “It’s just that I wanted your input on my next homily,” he added, trying to seem casual— even jovial.  “Sometimes it seems like you’re the only one who’s listening, so I figured your approval is worth getting while you’re already here.”

“Of course!” you agreed.  “Let me just put all this away…”

“No no, come along now, and you can clean up later,” he insisted, and though you seemed a little worried by his intensity, you nodded and crossed the room to walk alongside him.

“So, what was it you wanted to ask me about?” you prompted him as he escorted you down the hall.  He saw your eyes hover briefly over his collar before scanning his torso; he tried not to smirk to himself at such an obvious lustful gaze from you.

“Well, I’ll need to show you my notes, I’m too forgetful to recall it all now,” he chuckled lightly.

“I always think it’s impressive that you can remember the whole homily each week,” you flattered gently, tilting your head and looking a bit shy to say it.

“Oh, well, it doesn’t come to me naturally,” he admitted, “I’m always losing things and forgetting where I’m supposed to be.”

“Maybe you just need someone to help you sometimes,” you offered sheepishly.

“Well, a life in the priesthood is one of solitude,” he shrugged.  Of course, his attention was torn away when he saw some church members gathering not far from his office: the last thing he needed was potential witnesses at a time like this.  He quickly grabbed your arm and pulled you into an alcove, just in time to stop the two of you from being seen together.

“F-father,” you gasped in confusion, glancing at where his hand clutched the sleeve of your cardigan.

“Actually, now that we’re almost there, I remember I’ve left my notes in the parsonage— not my office,” he sighed.  “Would you mind if we went there?”

“Um, n-no, I wouldn’t mind,” you decided nervously.

He guided you the opposite way, glancing back to make sure neither of you were seen, and soon enough you two were at the furthest end of the church grounds, at the wooden door of his apartment, perfectly secluded from everyone else with you unknowingly at his mercy.  “Come in,” he instructed gently as he opened the door for you, watching the sunlight stream in through the opening as you stepped in with a subtle (but noticeable) hesitance.

He followed behind you, watching your head turn as you scanned over the small space— priests did not live extravagantly, of course, and from just having stepped in you were already right in front of his dining table and could see his bed across the room.  

But he didn’t even make it to the bed.

The second the door was shut behind him, he grabbed you and covered your mouth with his hand, feeling you hesitate for a moment before you began to resist.  Did you really trust him that much, that your instinct was to accept what he was doing?

Pulling your body against his own, he bared his teeth at the warmth of you— so strong he felt it even through your clothes and his— and the smell of your hair suddenly filling his nostrils and intoxicating his mind.  Already he felt his cock filling, pressed up against your back; he laughed a little at how desperate his body was for your temptation.

"You conniving little witch,” he growled at you, holding you tighter when you struggled, “I should commend you for playing the part so well: the innocent girl, devoting her life to Christ… but you should've known that I would see you for what you are."

He spun you around to pin you to the wall, letting go of your mouth which released a whimper as he held you back.  “Father, what are you—?”

“Be quiet,” he hissed, “and listen.”

You straightened up a bit, looking at him with wide, fearful eyes.

“I can see things,” he began to explain, “things that other people can’t.  I don’t like to talk about it, because people often get upset when I do— they fear me.  And they should: I can see their sin.  Most sins can be forgiven, but some…” he trailed off, losing his train of thought as he ran his fingers over your cheek, down your neck, to the little gold crucifix you wore.  Anger burned in his chest at the sight of it, and with a snarl and a tug he ripped the jewelry off of you, making you flinch and sniffle.  “How dare you wear this so flagrantly, devil?  Have you no shame?”

But then when he saw your face all twisted up in fear, he chuckled to himself, surprised by his own outburst.

“Of course you don’t.  I remember the visions you sent to me, trying to tempt me.  I remember the way you looked begging to be fucked and used and violated.”

You were still playing dumb, looking at him like he was crazy, but he saw through your ruse.

"Luckily for you, I might just give you what you want," he grinned.  "It might be the only way to save either of us."

His right hand held your shoulders down while his left, the dominant, slipped up your skirt and into your panties.  When he was growing up, he was punished for using his left hand, told that it was of the Devil to favor it.  So, he learned to use the right in public, and the left only for matters of sin— like when he stroked his cock and thought of you, or like now.

“Stop struggling, I’m going to bless you,” he explained, taking his hand out of your skirt to demonstrate the sign of the cross he’d often given you in Mass, “with two fingers, like always.”

It didn’t seem to soothe you much, but he didn’t have time to worry about that.  As he reached back down to pull your underwear out of the way, he only indulged in exploring you for a moment before carefully sliding them into your channel.

“Warm,” he blurted out instantly at the feeling, noticing your eyes blown wide and filling with tears, “you’re burning up.  But of course you are, it’s only right that you should burn, isn’t it?”

After only a moment, he pulled his fingers from your body and looked on in shock at the dark crimson stain on his skin.

"Sanguis innocentes," he mumbled to himself as he lifted his fingers to see them closer.  The blood of the innocent.

He carefully took the fingers in his mouth and tasted the mixture of your arousal and your suffering.  It was almost as if he could taste your purity and sin all at once, at war with each other, and it was literally divine.  The body is a temple, after all, and he had just torn your veil.

"Oh, sweet child," he cooed at you as he leaned down over your squirming body.  “You’re ripe for the ruining.”

He reached to his belt and you cried again, a bit louder, and though he didn’t mean to get so angry with you, he just couldn’t stand the sound of your whining— so he gave you a quick slap to the face, but it only made you cry louder.  

“Quiet, harlot!” he barked.  

Grabbing you by the shoulders and tossing you back, it only took him a moment to bend you over the table and pull up your skirt; he grabbed handfuls of your skin, admiring the supple softness of it, before holding down your hips with one hand and finishing pulling his cock out with the other.  “S-stop,” you whimpered as he slid the head of his cock over your slit, kicking your legs apart quickly.

“Don’t struggle, this is the only way to save you,” he breathed, “just stay still and let me cleanse you.”

As soon as he pushed forward, he heard you sob suddenly but it sounded distant past the fog in his mind— the overwhelming intensity of just being inside you.  He didn’t mean to moan so loudly, but he simply couldn’t help himself when you felt so warm and tight, pulling him in deeper.  Only sin could feel this good; you were so hot inside that it must have been the fires of hell burning where your soul should've been.

"Oh, you lustful creature," he breathed, "sin incarnate…”

You whimpered and he felt your channel clench tighter around him in rhythmic pulses.  He'd never felt anything like it before, and it compelled him to thrust faster into you.  "Father, please," you whispered, "it hurts… you're hurting me."

"Good,” he groaned, looking down at your face pressed to the table and twisted in agony.  “Pain brings purification.”

When he looked down to watch his cock moving in and out of you, he groaned to see your body stretch to its limits, a pinkish tint coating him now as the bleeding started to subside.  

What hadn’t subsided, though, was your insatiable wetness, arousal coating the both of you with each movement— so much that he could hear the filthy sound of it echoing around the small room, past your broken cries and his own labored breathing.  As his own pleasure began to build, he could feel the evil draining from your body, but he knew what you needed for total salvation and he pulled you up closer to him to speak right into your ear.

“You want my seed, I know it,” he whispered, “that’s all you ever wanted.  Should I give in to you, witch?”

He ignored the way you shook your head and started to protest, clamping his hand down over your mouth and groaning as he moved faster, giving you all his strength in every thrust.

“Fuck,” he hissed; he didn’t curse often but when he did, he meant it.  Already he was so close to the edge and he could feel himself verging upon the precipice of something… powerful.  Unholy yet sacred.  You breathed heavily against his hand, your little whimpers muffled but getting louder— you were on the verge, too, it was obvious.  “Little whore,” he grinned, “you want to come, don’t you?  You want to come on my cock?”

You nodded awkwardly behind the grip of his hand.

“Go ahead then,” he challenged gruffly, “show me how wretched you can really be… make me come inside you.”

It was subtle at first, with just your eyes fluttering shut and your legs beginning to shake, but it was incredibly obvious as your channel gripped him tightly, so tight that he had to shut his eyes as well just to try to compose himself.  Call it disturbing, but the feeling of your tears running down over his hand on your mouth was nearly as erotic as your orgasm surrounding him; he moaned for both, and smiled slightly when he felt wetness coat him further until it surely stained his trousers and dripped down your legs.

“You insatiable bitch,” he growled, “I can feel how hard you’re coming.  Your lust is powerful, but I’m stronger— once you have my seed in you, your demon will be vanquished and you’ll belong to me.”

He liked the smell of your fear when he told you that.

“Forever,” he added, just to make it stronger.

You were clearly weakened after coming so hard, like the energy had drained out of you from it, but your struggle was renewed as you tried to push him away— but with the table in front of you, you couldn’t move your hips far enough to get his cock out of you.  He held you tightly and gave you faster, rougher thrusts, still staying as deep as he could to make sure you could never wash out what he was about to give you.

“Don’t put up a fight, just take your blessing like a good girl,” he instructed, choking on the last word as the first wave of it hit him and he groaned deeply.

Pumps of come filled you, each one wracking like a pang through his body while he stumbled over every slurred praise he could think of.  His movements slowed down as the intensity subsided, though he didn't stop completely until he was sure every drop was deep inside your shivering, weak body.

When he let you go, you fell onto the table in front of him with an unceremonious thud, eyes bloodshot and watery, and blinking blankly as you stared ahead.

With his breath mostly caught again, he gained the strength to slowly pull his hips back, though it was almost painful to move while his cock was so sensitive after giving you so much come.  Still, he managed to pull out completely and then watch in awe as his seed spilled from you, leaking slowly down between your legs.  He carefully followed the line of it back up over your inner thigh to gather his spend and push it back inside you; you winced and whined as his fingers reawakened the soreness inside you.  

Pulling his fingers out again he found a mix of his come and your own there, plus that pink tinge of blood still tainting his skin.  With a smirk he found your slack lips and ran the fingers over them before pushing them inside the hot, wet cavern of your mouth and guiding you to suck them clean.  You grimaced slightly but he held your head with the other hand so you couldn’t pull away.

“That’s it, clean up your mess,” he cooed.  Though his eyes were generally transfixed on your lips wrapped around his fingers, they glanced down quickly at his cock when he realised that he was still hard.

Using his free hand, he guided it back to your abused, leaking cunt and shoved himself back into you.  Your back straightened, your eyes went wide, and your teeth instinctively bit down on his fingers a bit as he started to fuck you again.

“You thought that was the end of it, didn’t you?” he smiled, taking in a deep breath through his teeth.  "Clearly you need more to be saved— look at you, sucking your own come off my fingers... you filthy slut.”

You cried a little more, shaking each time he slammed his hips into yours.  He could tell it was hurting you, and even having already been used you were somehow tighter than last time.  With your poor cunt all swollen now, you were even more sensitive as given away by your broken, weak moans.  

He pulled his fingers from your mouth to give several hard slaps to your ass, keeping you from squirming too much by pinning your head down with his other hand.  “I’m not going to stop until I know you’ve truly found salvation,” he promised you as he began to really pick up the pace again, still recovering from his last orgasm but sensing that a second would come along eventually.  “And I’m never, ever going to let you go.”

[ebiemidnightlibrarian]

In Noctem | Father Romero x Demon!Reader | English

(this GIF doesn't belong to me, credits to the owner (if you're the owner, please, tell me, so I can give you the credit))

SUMMARY | MY MASTERLIST

Warnings: Religious Images and Symbols, Disrespect for Religion, Catholic Guilt, Breaking Celibacy Vows, BDSM (Soft), Smut, Choking Link, Priest Kink, Blood, Masturbation (implicit), Oral Sex (afab), Heresy, Descriptions of Body Horror, Demonic Mythology, References to Dante's Inferno.

Note: Skin, hair and body tone descriptions were purposely vague so that everyone interested can have a turn.

Again, English isn't my mother language, so I'm sorry for any orthography or writing mistakes you might find. If you feel comfortable, you can tell me what you have found wrong, so I can fix it.

Word Count: 7.6K

A/N: Here is my contribution to the spooky season! Enjoy!

THE NIGHT MASS had just ended when the brown-haired young priest felt a dark shiver in his core, creeping up his spine, shivering every golden thread on the back of his neck. Some of the last of the faithful who had attended Mass were leaving the church, the mahogany pews gradually emptying once more that day. The lights were off and only a few punctual candles illuminated the church's wide nave with their flickering light, allowing the place to be engulfed in darkness.

Patiently saying goodbye, Father Mateo waved to a couple of ladies who had greeted him on the beautiful Mass. His deep ebony brown eyes then caught a subtle movement of a pale figure to his right. Turning his warm gaze to said figure, Mateo caught sight of the angelic face of the young woman who was a novice at the nearby convent.

The young woman rarely missed a Mass for Father Romero, even though she was sometimes late or needed to convince the matron that she would not be long. The nuns of St. Agnes had their own mass in the convent, but the novice never took pleasure in any of them as with the masses of the priest in the church next door. For her, Mateo Romero had a special way with words, one that made a heat rise within her, at her core. The novice always felt closer to God in that church, listening to the young priest's sweet words of faith.

“Good evening, Father Romero.”, she smiled gently, a gentle blush covering her cheeks, her habit white as milk, pure, a rosary tightly wrapped in her hand. Approaching slowly, the priest greeted her with a smile.

“Good evening.”, said the priest in his husky, lilting voice. “What can I do for you, my child?”, he asked, his words echoing through the empty church. He studied her with his eyes, a spark behind them.

The young novice couldn't help but think that the priest looked too attractive for a clergyman, especially when he wore the White Robe to masses, her heart skipping a beat at the thought that permeated her mind. Not looking him in the eye, as the worn rosary in her hand suddenly looked very interesting, she continued.

“I… I'd like to confess, Father”, she says, the blush on her cheeks turning almost scarlet in the half-light. Mateo could barely contain his soft laugh, laced with the young lady’s shyness. He always referred to her as if there was a huge gap between their ages, but she was only a few years younger. For him it was a way of reminding him that she was not reachable.

“You know you must go to the convent, don't you?”, the priest uttered, his tone still gentle but almost patronizing as he gently rebuked her. Hands clasped in front of him, settling into a comforting posture, Father Romero kept a friendly smile in the curve of his thin lips.

“Yes, I know… but I thought, since I'm here…”, the young woman begins, her sweet, gentle voice trembling slightly with anxiety. She lifted her almond eyes to the clergyman in front of her, for a split second making eye contact, her cheeks burning a red that stood out with the excess of white on her robes.

“I won't scold you for that, after all, it's my duty to listen to you if you wish so.”, The soothing cadence in the male timbre made the young novice calm down slightly. “After you.”, With a deft flick of his wrist, Mateo pointed the way through the pews to the small confessional booth to the right of the altar, in the corner. Taking a long breath, the novice nodded, nervously clutching the rosary in her delicate hand.

The sound of footsteps reverberated off the walls. The young woman dressed in white had the impression that she could only hear her own footsteps. Father Mateo had a feather-light step, almost as if he floated as he walked. The novice could hear the irregular beat of her heart above the rhythmic floor, the blood rushing through her auricles.

Mateo swallowed hard under his clerical collar, his Adam's apple slowly rising and falling. He saw the novice daily, at least twice a day; at morning mass and evening mass. His daily torment to focus on the sermon as a good Christian, a good God-fearing pastor. Oh, how she was a sight for sore eyes, but also fuel for the impure fire that burned within him whenever he rested his brown orbs on her. The white tunic he wore felt strangely warm, muffling the heat of his body beneath his cassock.

As they made their way to the mahogany casing of two cabins, a pair of glowing aureate orbs watched them from a corner soaked in darkness. The glittering spheres were soon adorned with a pearly smile full of sharp teeth.

Mateo felt the burning of eyes on the back of his neck.

The novice crossed herself with the sign of the cross and waited for the priest to enter the confessional so that she could do it herself. Entering the small darkroom, the young woman knelt in humility and listened intently to her own laboured breathing in that tiny confined space. She almost had the impression that at any moment, the cubicle walls would be so close together they would crush her.

Father Romero heard the rustle of the novice's clothes as she settled herself in the next cabin. He took a long breath. Inside the confessional, the infernal heat he felt seemed even worse, as if his own body was being consumed by flames. Carefully so that the young woman on the other side of the trellis would not notice, Mateo removed the white tunic, wrapping it minimally in his lap. Now only the blackened cassock remained.

There was a long silence.

The young novice held the trembling rosary tightly in her hands. Maybe not a good idea, she considered. The white noise of her blood running fast like horses at a racetrack reverberating against the walls and coming back to her. She had no reason to fear the man beside her. Even though she was only eight months into her preparation to profess, she had already learned that the priest would not judge her or reveal her secrets, he couldn't. She also knew that what mattered most at that moment was complete and absolute honesty.

She didn't commit many sins, not even the venial ones, however, since she'd laid eyes on the ebony-haired priest, lust had been her most present companion, the only sin that had sunk its claws into her. The impure thoughts that permeated her innocent mind night after night, robbing her of sleep and causing her to sin against her and against God every time she slipped her fingers into the throbbing heat between her legs…

A throat clearing came from the other side of the trellis. How long have I been silent? Clearing her throat, the novice clasped her hands together and looked up at the incomplete image of the priest's profile through the trellis.

“Father?”, she murmured in a shaky voice, considering her sins made her feel the familiar heat spiral in her belly. Another brief silence fell, the priest's slightly heavy breathing could be heard.

“Yes, my child?”, the comforting tone given to the priests sounded through the holes in the trellis, except that there was a certain tremor in his voice that was unusual for him. The heat in the wooden cabin seemed to emanate from hell itself. Cold sweat broke out on his pale forehead, the soft, dark strands of his hair sticking to his damp skin.

“Would you mind saying the Serenity Prayer? It's unusual, I know, but… I think… I need some confidence, for what I'm going to say.”, An embarrassed laugh escaped the novice's rosy lips. She, despite it being dark, still felt eyes on her, blood running down her neck and into her cheeks, painting her an embarrassed red.

“Okay.”, a moment of silence followed, a deep breath from both of them reverberated in the small confessional. “Grant us, Lord, the serenity necessary to accept the things we cannot change, the courage to change the ones we can, and the wisdom to distinguish one from the other.”, Mateo felt his breath drain away in such a short prayer. Just the close presence of the novice was all it took to make him almost delirious. Heat, heat as if his body were on fire. Every soft, pure word that escaped the novice's lips made him even more uneasy.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”, She took a deep breath, the rosary marking her threads in red, round spots on her palms by the force with which she held it. “I-It's been seven days since I confessed.”, Her sweet voice died in her throat.

Maybe I shouldn't do that, not with him-, her thought was cut off by the priest's heated tone, his comforting voice.

“How do you feel, my daughter?”, asked him in his slightly breathless, smoky voice. He waited for an answer. The clerical collar of the cassock nearly choked him, anxiety filling his chest under the watchful gaze of the novice watching him…and the hungry gaze of the hidden shadow.

“Well, anxious… anxious about what I have to tell you, and honestly, now that I'm here I wonder if I should.”, a nervous laugh leaves the young woman. Her eyes had grown used to the pitch in the cabin, and now she could make out the priest's flushed face through the trellis. He had thin lips parted as he drew in a generous breath of air, and his golden eyes were engulfed in an almost hungry darkness.

“You know you can trust me, I'm here to guide you, nothing you've done or said will be judged. Confess whatever is weighing on your mind, open your soul and your heart, my child, let God weigh your sins.”, he murmured in a way to comfort her. The priest leaned close to the trellis as he spoke.

The spicy smell of sandalwood, the sweetness of bergamot and the smoky smell of myrrh from the thurible invaded the young lady's nostrils. The novice felt her tense shoulders relax a little, and she moved her face from the trellis towards the comforting scent of the priest. Maybe she just needed his confirmation. Taking a long breath, the young woman wiped the sweat from the palms of her hands in her white robe and raised them again in prayer.

“Father, I have sinned against my vows… I have sinned against God and the most holy church.”, She swallowed in her shame. “I met a man, Father, a good man…”, the novice's voice cracked. How can I tell this without him knowing it's his I'm talking about? The thought suddenly occurred to her. Even so, she continued before she could stop herself. “H-he's kind to me, even when I'm being silly, or even when I say something I shouldn't…”, Another pause occurred, the novice moistened her lips, suddenly dry with worry.

Mateo felt the bitterness of bile boil in his throat at the thought of the novice falling for a man, for a man other than himself; jealousy. What a ridiculous feeling for a priest to have! Jealous of a girl he could never have, let alone a novice! For God!

Something inside him seemed to move, a weight in his chest, sinking deeper and deeper, making it difficult for him to breathe. Moistening his thin lips, Father Romero tensed his jaw and muttered a restrained 'go on'.

“I-I'm sorry, it's just that… well, there's a problem Father, he's a man of the clergy, a servant of God.”, Servant of God? He thought, the words echoing in his mind. Surely the novice shouldn't be talking about himself, isn’t? A childish glee welled up in the man's chest at the possibility, a gentle ardour in his heart, contrasting with the hellish flames that seemed to surround him in that little cabin soaked in dimness.

“He is such a good man, Father, so good. He cares so much for his congregation, even though he is always busy, he finds time for everyone who needs it. Whether it's a word of comfort or just a word of advice or conversation…”, the novice's gentle voice shivered at the memories of their peaceful meetings with the man in the cabin next door, the subtle little touches. “I ended up… falling in love I believe… Oh, but he's always so kind and has the sweetest smile I've ever seen.”, Mateo could hear the smile in her voice, so sweet it brought the warmth of his chest to his own cheeks. “I fear I feel jealous and resentful whenever I see his kind attentions in others than me…”, the novice, had her monologue interrupted by the smoky cadence of Father Romero's voice.

“Don't be afraid to be jealous or resentful, my child, it's natural, don't be afraid to be punished by God for feeling that way. You know, God made us in His image and likeness, every so-called flaw is there for a reason. Don't blame yourself, there's nothing to be ashamed of, God loves you anyway.”, the words of comfort escaped in a torrent. The novice felt the sparrow on her chest beat uncontrollably. “Even in the darkest moments, you can count on Him…and me…”, the breathless whisper slipped from the priest's lips without his consent. Romero begged her not to hear him.

Only the rustle of clothes and slow breathing answered him.

“I-I pray for him every night, Father… I pray that one day he will notice how I see him, that he will somehow know what I feel. I know it's a foolish wish, but I can't help it…”, the novice takes a long, shaky breath and continues. “He visits my thoughts at night, Father, in these thoughts he is no longer a clergyman, and I am no longer a novice… I often imagine how his hands would feel on me… These unholy thoughts haunt me, Father… there are nights when I dream of the heat of his body against mine…”, the familiar coil of heat tightened in the novice's core. The blush streaked across her cheeks. The novice was silent. Only their breaths answered the endless questions they had for each other.

Mateo trembled, at some point in the novice's anxious account he found himself in slightly tighter pants. The sweet, innocent voice of the young woman in the next cabin awakened the fire inside him, smouldering. The novice's sweetly breathless tone called his name. Taking a deep, gasping breath, the priest implored, his voice husky deep, his Spanish accent thicker than when he normally spoke, shaky words trickling past his thin lips.

“Stop.”, he asked, a shivering hand ran over his sweaty white forehead and smoothed his damp hair. “Please stop, I-I can't-”, the young novice felt her chest tighten at the desperate cadence in the priest's voice. “I mustn't hear this. Please leave.”, The drops of sweat ran icy down the young man's temples and the back of his neck, the cold dampness accumulating on his clerical collar.

“F-forgive me, it wasn't proper I-”, the young woman's apology died in her throat as Mateo's smoky, anxious voice cut her off. The sparrow eagerly on her chest beat its wings in anguish.

“Please leave, I-I need to pray.”, nervousness was stamped in Romero's voice. The novice's name slipped from his tongue in a distressed plea, Mateo didn't trust himself when he was in the girl's presence, he feared he wouldn't be able to contain himself if she remained, especially after such a confession.

The novice then understood that he knew who she was talking about. A wave of heat descended through both their bodies. Looking at the dark decal of the priest's silhouette through the trellis, the young woman noticed the slight bulge in Mateo's black lined trousers. A breathless moan left her as the novice pressed her thighs together under her habit to ease the stinging pain at the apex of her legs.

The pair of aureate orbs watched the celibate couple in ecstasy.

Rising from where she knelt and straightening to leave, the novice shivered, the joints of her knees cracking with the sudden movement. Before withdrawing from the haunted wooden cubicle, she felt compelled to whisper the priest's name in a seductively accusatory tone.

“Mateo, I wouldn't mind if you decided to visit me tonight, or in any other. Reciprocity must be considered… God would not condemn us for that.”, having said that, the novice strode off, without waiting for an answer from the priest. He was an intelligent man, her message was clear to a good connoisseur.

After the novice left, Mateo prayed fervently in the confessional booth until he almost fainted. When he crawled into his little parish room it was past midnight, the phalanxes of his fingers burned from the force with which he had held the rosary, his knees complaining of the hours kneeling against the hard wood in penance. Removing his sweat-soaked liturgical robes, he collapsed onto the bed, enjoying the cool night air against his warm skin.

Facing the ceiling, Father Romero entered a state of semi-consciousness in the darkness of the room. At some point, he can't remember, Mateo fell asleep. His sleep was restless as lusty nightmares sifted through his mind.

The young priest wondered what it would be like to touch the novice. What her skin would smell like, whether her hands were soft or calloused. What would her hair smell like, what colour would it be, was it brown? Red? Blond or black as coal? Would her breasts fit in his hands? What would the valley taste like between them? Mateo imagined what heavenly sounds she would make when he kissed her, when he placed himself between her thighs and tasted the sweetness of her nectar.

The shadow watched the young priest's lovely restlessness. Approaching the male figure stretched out on the bed in slender, infamous movements, the humanoid creature straddled its legs and sat down on the stiff bulk between Mateo's legs. Its sharp, pearly smile adorned its dark face, sordid intent in the golden gleam of its eyes.

Father Romero imagined the novice astride him. He could almost feel her pulse around him, her wet heat pressed against his length. The weight of a body on his, gentle hands holding his shoulders, he would sink his face into the valley of her breasts and inhale the scent of her soft skin…

An animalistic noise, like a growl, reached his ears, Mateo tried to move, but he couldn't, his limbs were glued to the mattress, as if gravity had sunk him into the bed. He felt paralysed, a moment of panic settling in his chest as his consciousness recovered.

He wasn't with the novice, he was alone, in his room in the parish, and something weighed on him in the darkness.

Even his mind's incessant orders for his body to move, he remained paralysed, nothing moved. In his mind, Mateo was screaming to wake up. Anxiety and panic rising in his chest. Wake up! Wake up! His inner voice roared in his head. A frightened shiver ran over his skin as the young man felt frigid claws seep into his shirt, sharp griffins scratching the warm white skin of his chest.

Opening his eyes even a fraction, Father Romero froze at the sight of an infernal creature sinfully rubbing itself against his rigidity. A moan escaped his thin lips, and his ebony orbs watched the dark figure's demonic gaze climb up his torso and lock into his eyes. The shadow tilted its head with interest, watching with a wide, satisfied smile the young priest's chest rise and fall in ragged breaths.

Those golden orbs were as deep as abysses, Mateo thought that if he got any closer, those eyes could swallow him whole and send him into the depths of hell. With the movements of its obscure hips slowing to a stop, the demonic shadow moved tortuously, climbing the priest's youthful body. Its dark claws had a ferrous smell that reminded of blood. Mateo wanted to scream, but not a single noise other than his panting breath escaped his lips. The amber orbs of shadow engulfed his entire field of vision, the creature was so close to him that the priest was able to feel the vernal ardour that emanated from his body, almost homogeneous in the darkness.

The priest, with a disorderly thrust of his hand, turned on the gaslight at his bedside. The blackened entity disappeared from above his body, its bizarrely wide smile appearing a moment later in a dimly lit corner of the room.

Its brooding form was voluptuous, the way its silhouette crossed its legs seductively, its dark claws extending beyond its long fingers. The curve of its bare breasts clouded by wounds, cut parallel, the yellowish and blood-stained scarlet bones of its ribs, exuberantly exposed as if they were royal adornments. Long hair that stretched in waves halfway down its spine, each bony disc of its spine bared. The crimson red lips and the uneven pearly teeth, canines, and wisdom teeth as sharp as spears. A turned pair of horns adorned its head. The heavy breathing made the man shiver.

The aureate eyes still sparked on the priest.

The man's trembling hand ran to the rosary at his neck, sitting on the bed soaked with the remnants of his restless sleep, Mateo whispered the purge prayer he had learned so many years ago and never expected to use.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica…”, the Latin words poured out of his mouth with fervour. A sibilation near a snake hiss resonated from the creature comfortably seated on the ground.

“You don't know how to play…”, the silhouette's voice was amused, almost sweet, the forked tongue of the shadow made room for its red lips with contempt. “You won't get much by saying those words, Father, it's just that, words.”, A disdainful laugh covered the prayer of the man huddled on the bed. The shape rose from its place on the floor and began to move lazily around the room.

“Who are you, demon?”, asked the young priest's hoarse, trembling voice. Each dancing step of the shadow toward him made him shiver and shift uncomfortably on the mattress. Chills ran terribly through every limb of his body, the young man could feel the cold bones.

The creature sneered as it allowed its hungry golden eyes to roam over the priest's form, he shivered in alarm at the sight of the demonic shadow. The silver cross of the rosary burned in his steady palm. There was a terrified sparrow in his chest, making it difficult for him to breathe. The demon sprawled across the bed, close enough that the clergyman could once again feel the heat emanating from its lascivious silhouette. Briefly escaping the creature's unholy heat, Mateo slid off the bed, his bare feet hesitantly touching the carpeted floor of the parish.

“I asked who you are, unworthy.”, the clergyman's whisper expressed order, as if he were the one in control of the situation. The demon laughed once more, an oddly healthy blush darkening its cheeks.

“I am the materialization of your lust, Mateo. The novice…”, a hand, claw, gestured towards the man of faith. “… your beloved novice has provoked my coming to you, your impure desires for her have brought about my coming.”, the disdain in the hellish creature's warm timbre sent a shiver down the parson's spine.

“Unholy creature…”, muttered Mateo, stepping back, his head moving incessantly in a negative nod. “Lies, lies flow from your demon mouth, I never did anything to the novice, ever.”, the outraged look of the priest never left the evil figure straddling his bed.

A derisive laugh echoed through the church structure into the young priest's bones.

“Hypocrisy doesn't suit you, Father. You know, there are no secrets for me. I've been in every dark corner of your mind, in every one of your dreams. I've peeked at everything and I know everything, don't deny anything to me. All the lies you've told, all the secrets you've left out, every impure, dirty, perverse thought that's ever passed through that pretty little head of yours, I know.”, Another sneer was present as the demon navigated around the frightened form of the priest, its humanoid shadow close to his ear. “I also know all the messes she wanted to do to you, daddy…”, the predatory voice of the entity didn't finish the biting whisper, the bachelor interrupted her abruptly.

“Don't say such nonsense! NO! She is pure, a good girl in heart and soul, her desires are perfectly natural, but she had the strength to resist them. I will not believe your lies, spawn of Satan!”, moving away from the place where he had been trapped between the bedside table and the shadow protruding, he took a deep breath. The once firm and reassuring voice failed to utter the words.

The shadow's pearly, toothy smile widened impossibly and its bizarre glowing eyes even more intense.

“Oh, Mateo… you can't be so innocent and believe that one of those 'good souls' in the convent next door will actually go to the so-called 'place of eternal bliss', can you? We know all good girls go to hell…”, the grimly dangerous and evil whisper resounded. The dark claws savagely caressed the young priest's flushed cheeks, scratching the pale skin, painting it with rosy marks.

“Blasphemy! A thousand times blasphemy, devil! God will always protect the good from the wicked, He has a good place kept for all who repent. A place of light you'll never reach, creature.”, Mateo spat the words out roughly. A swift flick of the demon's wrist landed a hard slap against Father Romero's face. His unsteady breath caught in his throat at the deadly glare the beast had given him.

“I am your death, Mateo, I was sent to take you. Where you are going is not a good place, I assure you, because that is where I came from.”, The threat danced hidden in its words. Romero shuddered and tried to pull away, only to be stopped by an inflexible barrier at his back. Trapped between the wall and the warm body of the creature that had positioned itself between his legs. “The second circle of hell awaits you, Father.”

“This is absurd! Demons don't come for mortals, that's not written, I had nev-”, the eager sigh left the young parishioner's lips as the insane depth of the entity's eyes became all he could see. Their bodies so pressed together that they could be one.

“Oh, Mateo, Mateo there is so much unwritten, so much that a mere glimpse of reality would destroy your poor mortal soul…”, a disdainful laugh reached the priest's ears. The golden orbs swallowed every coherent thought that the man of the clergy may have. “Would you like to glimpse what awaits you, good father? Do you want to hear the screams of the damned and the sultry smell of hell? The sickening sounds of bones being crushed by the incessant wind and the cry of more than a thousand souls torn apart by love? The playful moans of whores and the mournful wail of lovers? I can show you… I can guide you as Virgil guided Dante…”, the demon's sly whisper was sweet, tempting. The strangely comforting touch on his face, soothing the throb where he'd been hit.

Mateo leaned toward its crimson lips in a strange attraction. Those profane lips were magnetic, the young priest wondered what they would taste like. When their mouths were mere inches from touching, the demon turned away from his touch, an almost shy smile adorning its face.

“I cannot touch you if you don't give me a name.”, The words ran from its forked tongue like honey, its breath smelled of wine. “Mateo…”, continued the demon, its seductive voice a mere breathless whisper. “Say my name.”, Its voice, seemed to echo around the room, the order implicit in its command.

Mateo then somehow knew, his tongue sliding into his mouth, the tip tapping briefly behind his teeth as he serenely uttered the creature's name.

“Asmodeus.”, a Cheshire cat grin spread across the demon's face in understanding.

Gentle lips sealed with his.

The chaste kiss turned hungry, the creature greedily nibbled at the priest's lower lip, its sharp teeth breaking the delicate skin, the metallic taste of blood flooding its mouths. Romero shivered on a wave of pleasure as he felt the shadow's hand palm his still clad cock beneath his pants, he closed his eyes in appreciation. The demon swallowed his moans as it found an appropriate rhythm for its pulse strokes. Down a hungry trail of kisses along the jaw line and the column of the young priest's neck, the creature pressed against the firm thigh between his legs. A strangled gasp escaped the demon's scarlet-stained lips, a coil of heat forming a tiny bit in its lower belly.

Mateo opened his eyes with a guttural moan that resonated in his chest. His vision caught the youthful human form bathed in half light that the demon now displayed.

Her lacerated flesh had given way to soft, warm skin, her long claws shortened into dark, pointed nails, her wide smile torn across her angelic face was still there, but much more subtle, there were no more horns now and her golden orbs showed an inviting, cosy glow, like two pieces of gold.

Moving a firm hand up the side of the creature, the woman, now in front of him, Mateo squeezed the flesh of her hips, his brown eyes almost eclipsed with desire. The constant movements of the demon's pulse built a heat in his core. Her warm lips left dark marks across the young priest's white, spotted neck. A strangled moan escaped him as she bit down with particular force on the sweet spot where his neck met his shoulder.

Guilt filled Romero, the woman's open-mouthed kisses spread across his torso. Warm hands that pooled with the unholy heat of hell seeped under his shirt, the touch almost searing his white skin. The sharp edges of the nails left pinkish traces in their path. The young priest shivered as he felt the woman's fingertips curl into the waistband of his trousers. His member throbbing for contact.

Using her hips to press the priest where he needed it most, the demon used both hands to free Mateo of his clothes. The slightest touch of her fingers set fire to every corner that brushed the priest's skin. Goosebumps ran down his arms as the creature's warm breath spread across his bare shoulders as she lovingly sucked at a bruise on his wrist.

Leaving a trail of kisses down Mateo's chest and sucking dark bruises on her way, the demon stared hungrily at the lascivious stiffness between the priest's legs. Looking up through her long lashes, she parted her crimson lips and took in the regal outline of the fabric. Saliva and pre-cum soaked the fabric of his pants. The creature smiled minimally, being able to feel the heat emanating from him so well. Every lascivious noise and deep moan nearly made her come apart as she pressed her thighs together to ease the throbbing ache between them. A wave of pleasure coursed through the priest's body, his head lolled back against the wall and his mouth opened in a steady, husky moan.

“Oh my God…”, a languid, uneven sigh escaped him. His dark brows drawn together in effort, he'd never been touched, not once.

“Do not say His holy name in vain.”, A mischievous laugh emanated from the demon kneeling between his legs. Moist heat pooled between her thighs, every lilting noise that escaped the priest's thin lips sent a wave of delight to the creature's belly.

Infiltrating her slender fingers into the hem of the male figure's pants, she lowered them to mid-thigh. The woman's heavy, burning breath swept the sensitive skin of the lad's cock, a noise of pleasure reverberating in his throat. Carefully, Asmodeus guided the young man's cock into her mouth, outlining the flat of her tongue along its length. She could feel his pulse racing against her lips. The creature hungrily slid the tip of its tongue against the holy man's swollen, sensitive tip.

The acidic and slightly sweet taste invaded her red lips after a while, taking him into her mouth. He sounded so good to her ears. With particularly strong suction, he thrust against her face involuntarily. Repeating the gesture, the demon felt his cock twitch against her lips. His heavy breathing and guttural moans made her want to feel him inside.

Continuing the circular motions with her tongue, she felt his thighs tremble slightly as she ran her sharp nails over the pale skin. Pulling her mouth away from him for a moment, the creature gazed at his face, shrouded in the lustful mist of pleasure. Rising without warning, the woman laced her fingers in the priest's ebony waves and pulled him to her lips. Mateo could taste himself on her tongue. A husky gasp caught in his throat as he felt himself throb painfully. Before he could wrap his arms around her tenderly, Romero felt his back being pressed against the softness of the mattress. In order to continue kissing her, the young parish priest pulled her onto his lap. Using inhuman strength, Asmodeus pushed him onto the bed once more.

“Be good father, or I'll tie you up.”, the biting tone was lewd, setting the clergyman on fire.

Moving away from him, the shadow crept across the room with movements so fluid it looked like smoke on water. Her deft fingers caught on a chair in the corner, the purple girdle that Mateo wore over his cassock. A devilish smile once again spread across the entity's handsome features at the blasphemous idea that popped into her mind.

“Gird myself, Lord, with the girdle of purity, and extinguish in my loins the fire of passion, so that the virtue of continence and chastity may reside in me.”, the words of faith flowed from her demonic tongue with contempt. “What a hypocrisy…”, a nasal half-laugh, left her as she approached the priest with the liturgical girdle in hand. “Today, Father Romero, your chastity belt will have a much more…useful use.”, Her naked figure climbed onto the bed, straddling the holy man's hips for the second time that night.

Mateo's Adam's apple rose and fell slowly, his wide dark eyes watching in awe every subtle movement the lust demon made. The white chest speckled with a handful of auburn hair and flecks in an adorable constellation lifted and fell at an uneven pace. Extending the belt, the entity looped the priest's neck in a knit, the tightness of the noose lasciviously restricting the air in his lungs. He tensed his jaw in an unsuccessful attempt to contain a guttural growl as he felt the trickle of heat from the demonic woman pressing against him. One more loop, — this time looser —, around the column of his throat, and the warm whisper of the creature's boiling breath on his flushed cheeks caressed his ears.

“Give me your wrists, Father.”, she asked, the superior order hidden in the intricacies of the words.

Obediently, Mateo raised his fists in prayer. Her wide approving smile told him she approved of the submission of the gesture.

“I'll burn in hell for this.”, The young parson's trembling voice resonated hoarse with lust, the girdle loop tightening and marking the pale skin of his wrists and neck.

“Did you forgot Father? I came here to take you even before you give in to me. Before begging for my attentions like a whore.”, The insults made him vibrate against her. His swollen member throbbing painfully pressed against the weight of her hips, nestled deep in the damp slit.

Pulling hard on the knot of the girdle, testing its snare, the demon had its golden eyes engulfed by a heretical fire.

“Now, I'll make use of that chaste mouth of yours, heathen.”, The word echoed in his mind, a blazing fire burning in his lower belly, he could be undone with just her words.

With languid movements she climbed up his body, placing a knee on either side of the young priest's head, she tightened the knot of the girdle wrapped in her hand. Mateo salivating at the sight of the wet intimacy in front of his face, moistening his thin lips, he gasped heavily, the noose at his throat pulling him toward her.

A deep growl vibrated in the creature's chest as hesitantly and inexperienced Mateo traced with his hot tongue a streak in the damp crevice of the demon. Waves and waves of pleasure reverberated through the female figure, virginal strokes against her most sensitive spot making her shiver. The fiery spiral building inside her. Mateo was inexperienced, but his hunger made him a devoted lover, he paid attention to every shudder and moan she produced, aware of what made her hips rock against his angelic face more eagerly. He smiled proudly as he made her scream as he invaded her drenched core with his tongue.

Pulling his face away from her centre, the female figure slapped him two hard slaps on each of his cheeks, giving them a lovely crimson hue and warming his skin.

“Keep your arrogance to yourself and work, priest, arrogance makes us proud and pride is a sin.”, the timbre of superiority she wore made him moan against the soft flesh of one of her thighs where he had deposited a humble kiss.

Turning his doe eyes once more to her, through his long lashes he fed on her vision, tasting her sweet juices again. Her voluptuous body shuddered, the exposed breasts he so craved to sink into his face, to kiss and taste, vibrated with ragged breathing. Romero felt on the edge of the abyss, about to fall. The obscene sounds of his sanctified mouth against her heat and the whining noises that escaped her crimson lips made him rigid as a rock. Dragging his slightly crooked teeth across the sensitive bud, Mateo sucked his tongue into the boiling interior and repeated the action.

The apex formed a tight spiral in the woman's belly, its loud growls making the young priest's hips hit the air. Her ridge came, and she rode his youthful face flushed with exertion. He drank her juices hungrily, the acidic sweetness of her bathing his lips and chin. Descending from her top, the demon hung hungrily over the priest, her back arched in delight as she placed one hand supporting her weight above the lad's messy hair and the other over his heart, which throbbed madly like a sparrow caged in his chest.

Her hot puffs of breath swept the young parson's skin, damp with sweat and fluid. Bending over him, she peered intently at the rose that covered Mateo's cheekbones and neck, he watched her in ecstasy with his deep-set eyes half-closed. The dim light reflected a blind glow in the juices of her deliverance that painted so adorably the young priest's thin lips.

Romero was lost in the vivid fire of the creature's aureate orbs. At that moment nothing else seemed to matter, he had given himself to the devil body and soul. He wouldn't mind spending eternity drowning in those eyes.

Sliding a sneaky hand down the clergyman's eager torso, she caressed his hip bone and revelled in the strangled gasp that left Mateo's lips as she embraced the priest's swollen length. Very deftly she guided him cautiously to her entrance, brushing her wetness with it, listening pleasurably to the hoarse moan that slipped down the priest's sweet tongue and sank into him, watching him bite his lower lip in a failed attempt to contain his noises of pleasure. She felt so good around him, comfortably throbbing, vibrating with the stretch.

Mateo arched his back and rolled his eyes as she slid easily past him, riding at a slow pace. He had been on edge for so long, he didn't know how much more he would take. Unexpectedly gently, the demon untied the girdle of the priest's wrists with a flick of her fingers.

Dark nails that were once claws carved a thin cut into the clergyman's wrist. The sting of pain did not help the priest to contain himself, a low hiss escaping him. Scarlet blood ran in a trail down her target forearm, the creature's infernally hot tongue traced the crimson path across the skin, collecting. Sandalwood and blood mingled into a sweet, ironic taste in the demon's mouth. The slow thrust of his hips elicited deep moans from the cleric.

“L-our father… wh-… in heaven…”, the prayer melted away on his tongue, his soul too given up to be saved. His mind too lost on the hard, vague strokes of the woman's hips to regret it.

Running her nails over the sensitive skin of the priest's torso, she trailed kisses down his throat, the clicking of the wood of the bed, timed by her movements, joined with the watery sounds from where their bodies connected in an unholy symphony. Dark bruises formed under his jaw line, the cut on his wrist regurgitated blood greedily from the racing pulse, the entity's lips wrapped around the bloody wound, sucking hungrily. Oh, how sweet he was! So pure, so chaste. The simple idea of ​​corrupting him made her milk him in a shiver of pleasure. The spiral of lustful heat was gradually tightening in her core once more.

Mateo matched the woman's hips with effort, her hard thrusts carrying him to his release. The feel of her velvety walls welcoming him so deeply made him arch his back beautifully in awe. Running his strong hands, now loose, through the soft flesh of the entity's thighs, the priest moaned softly as he pulled her against him, going deeper. His restless hands stroked every part they could reach. Hungry, Romero captured one of the creature's breasts in his lips, sucking reddened marks, nipping at the skin and licking the valley between them, tasting the forbidden fruit.

Tipping her head back as the cleric's firm hands pressed eagerly into the flesh of her hips and his thin lips feasted on her bosom, the creature hissed sacrilegious as she held him. Mateo had been close for so long, she wouldn't stop him much longer. Moving quickly, the demon slid her hands over Father Romero's arms, until his beautiful hands, intertwining their fingers, Asmodeus pinned the priest's wrists above his tousled brown hair and took aggressive thrusts against him.

The young priest's guttural moans fanned the fire in her heart. Connecting their lips once more in a heated kiss, Mateo screamed hoarsely, intoxicated with the excessive stimulation. When the woman's sharp fangs sank into his lower lip and the metallic taste of blood soaked through his senses, a sure move of the creature's hips unravelled it. His hot charge painting the inside of the woman's velvety walls.

The demon didn't stop its movements.

Overstimulation tears ran from the corners of his brown eyes, sliding down his temples and getting lost in the dark strands of his locks. The excruciating pain of the coarse thrusts of her hips gradually turned pleasurable again, his length hardening within her heat unnaturally, as the glowing eyes of the demon looked deeply into his soul.

The demon smiled in ecstasy, sinfully seeking its own deliverance as it fed on the elder's pain. Her hot tongue traced the gleaming marks of the priest's tears, the salt from them burning down her throat. Pure tears, the creature reflected. The initial sweet rejoicing of the first instalment of the parish priest's soul. His salty taste, the pleasurable toil, was all she needed to reach the pinnacle again. Her walls so warm and inviting crushed him with the intense climax.

Mateo buried his face in the crook of the woman's neck and let out a tearful moan as he precipitated one last stammering thrusts, tearful he broke free inside her, his sore throat muted. His remaining breath was stolen from his lungs by a deep kiss. The taste of his tears and his blood mingling on their tongues.

His heartbeats quieted. The sparrow caged in his chest soothed, and the hellish warmth of the demon resting on him warmed his body. Regaining control of his mind, Mateo sobbed, the remnants of his faith getting the better of him, the priest prayed in a whisper to himself.

“Lord, I'm sorry I offended you. I hate all my sins because of your just punishment. But above all, because they offend you. Lord, who is all good and deserving of all my love. I am firmly resolved, with the help of your grace, to sin no more and to avoid the approaching occasion of sin… Amen.”, The words that once had so much meaning escaped his mouth worthless, the glittering pity that cascaded down his doe eyes salted the red lips of the devil that heretic was placing a kiss on the presbyter's damp temple.

Father Romero willingly entered the devil's arms and welcomed them as an old friend. From that day forward, every sin would be a gift, every sacrilege a pray.

Mateo became haunted in every sense of the word.

[cazimagines]

Hellfire

Synopsis: Father Daniel has some quite strong words to say about abnormal sex but when it comes down to you can he really listen to his own preaching or will his own devil let him fall into that irresistible temptation.

Word count: 4.6k

Author’s note: Welp here it is. This is based on a imagine post I put up on my side account, @sub-danny. The preach that Daniel gives at the beginning I actually took from a sermons website and the whole of it was... well I think the fact I am now using it for a pegging fic is fitting. This is very unholy so if you are strongly religious I might advise against reading this but you do you. See all of you guys in hell!

Warnings: f!reader, sub!priest Daniel, pegging, handjob, unholy use of holy water, religious kink, father kink???

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Cross-posted to ao3 under the same username

“Please hear me right, there is nothing wrong with sexual desire; it is a God-given gift – but when a person fulfils that desire in a forbidden, abnormal way – then it is wrong. Sexual encounters based on lust invariably lead to all sorts of problems. In this biblical example, it leads to David breaking the 6th, 7th, 9th and 10th commandment. This was a big problem at the time, unfortunately in our society, today sexually motivated lust is viewed as less of a problem, in fact in certain quarters it is practically encouraged.”

Father Daniel stood in front of the rows of seated people all captured by his compelling words, at least compelling to them, due to their narrow mindset towards lust. Before him was his stand which held his notes and bible that he continuously looked down to refer to. Even occasionally picking the bible up, holding it up for people to signify the importance of it. He wore his typical cassock which was just that little bit too short on him, at least in your opinion. The black material clung to him too tightly as if on purpose to show off the slight build up in his arms, the end of it hovering just around his ankles which picked up when he started to walk around the nave. He himself was still quite young, in his early 30’s and yet he had a very young-looking face. He had grown a slight stubble around his face and top lip which suited him. His hair was of average length brunette, the same colour of his warm eyes that looked over everyone. He held a polite smile as he addressed the crowd, but his words didn’t hold the same tone.

He stood at the top of a few steps and was able to look down upon them as he preached. To the right-hand side of him was the basin of holy water and to his left were the confession booths. Behind him was one of the most beautiful murals of Jesus you had ever seen. Made out of coloured glass, there were three sections of the window. On the far left was a picture of nativity, the middle and largest section which arched at the top was Jesus himself, looking down upon everyone in the church, yet his hand was raised to his face as if he was weeping. On the far right, the window displayed Jesus upon the cross, the last few breaths of his life fading away.

Your eyes fixed upon the window but were slowly drawn back to Father Daniel as he continued conducting mass. His arms were now raised, moving with every word he said, expressing everything he said with an incredible amount of emotional intensity.

However, as he preached about the sin of lust, and of abnormal sex, his eyes came and lingered on yours for just a few seconds before swiftly darting away to glance over to the rest of the crowd but the message was clear, the damage was done. It made a smirk come onto your face.

Sunday. You always come in on a Sunday. Was it a coincidence he decided today to conduct a mass on lust or was it perhaps more down to how the last conversation in his office went down? As you flexed your hand as if you could still feel the stickiness upon it.

“Firstly, and this is mainly to do with the lust of a sexual nature - we need to watch what we watch. Turn with me back to the Sermon on the Mount and Matthew 5:29-30. Is Jesus really suggesting we mutilate ourselves? If we take this passage in a literal sense we miss the point because believe me even people who are blind still lust. No, what Jesus is driving at here is dealing drastically with the thing that causes us to sin. Download the accountability software to your PC’s – don’t dwell on the attractive man or lady in the street – overt your eyes.”

As he speaks once again his eyes flicker back to linger upon yours. You meet him with passion, not willing to blink and lose this eye contact. With a slight hitch of his voice, his eyes leave yours again, his hands now going to grasp his stand which he held onto tightly with all the strength he had. He was preaching so much about how lust was sin, how abnormal sex was bad, and for a moment you worried that maybe bringing your bag was a bad idea. Your eyes flicker down to the black carrier bag which pressed to your side, and you could see the outline of the phallic toy pressed in it. The excitement sparked within you though and any guilt that might have amassed quickly vanished as soon as it came.

“Let me finish with a word of hope if you find yourself in the position of giving in to your lusts or snared in a pattern of behaviour that you know is unhelpful. There is a way back, and David who gave in to his sexual lusts with Bathsheba demonstrates it.”

Coming to the end of his mass, Father Daniel finally asks everyone to pray. All around you people close their eyes, raising their hands to press their palms together. Father Daniel joins them, starting to say out loud, “Our father, who art in heaven”

You close your eyes, to fit in. But your mind is not even mildly interested in praying away any sins you might have earned. Perhaps a few months ago you would have, but with the new arrival of Father Daniel to your church, after Father Ted had to leave, things had taken a drastic turn. Your mind focuses back on Father Daniel as you listen to the sweet melody of his voice. His voice was one of the first things that had attracted you to him, that and the irresistible body he had. His voice reminded you of the sound of rain on a wood cabin, giving you a feeling of warmth and comfort. You suppose that was what Priests are supposed to be like, a source of comfort. Yet it was more of that. As you listened to him speak your mind trailed back to the little gasps he would make as you brought him to the edge of his climax, the way his cheeks would flush bright red when his hips twitched involuntarily. It made you wonder how many times Daniel prayed to God after your encounters, begging for forgiveness. After a particularly intense session with him, you knew he felt tremendous guilt for betraying his religion, though that never seemed to stop him from going for a second time. A part of you wondered if today’s sermon was more for his own mind rather than anyone else.

You weren’t sure how he would react with what you had brought today, if he would be giving in to his slut nature again or if this might be too far for him. It was certainly new for him. You had squeezed his ass before in bypassing, seeing the way he would jolt, how his face would swiftly snap towards you, giving you a scandalised look though his cheeks lit up and a slight smile would twitch on his lips, but you had never touched him down there before. He might freak out at the thought, especially with what he was saying earlier. But you wanted to try. You knew deep down no matter how much he might preach, he would always be a whore for lust.

After five minutes of praying, people started to stand up and leave as the mass came to an end. You opened your eyes to watch how Daniel left his position to walk to the confession booth and stepped in, waiting to see if anyone had anything to confess.

An old lady Bess quickly went into the other cubical and a man waited outside of his turn. You continued to stay seated waiting for your chance to sneak into the booth when everyone else had taken their leave. You collected your bag, looking through all the toys you had brought and decided what you want to test out on him today.

After about ten minutes the man finally left the booth and you quickly opened the door and slipped into the booth. Though you couldn’t see him, knowing he was sitting in there, so close to you and yet not knowing it was you who was sitting there just yet, the thought of that thrilled you.

“What would you like to confess today?” his voice rings out from the other side.

“I’ve been having some sinful thoughts Father.”

You could hear his breath hitch within the confessional. He knew your voice almost better than he knew his own voice now, and as soon as you had spoken he knew who was on the side. With what you said he also knew the nature of what you were referring to. He couldn’t acknowledge it was you, however, for confessionals are meant to be anonymous, and to acknowledge you would be breaking one of his sacred values.

“Well, I hope today’s mass might have provided some guidance for you,” his voice gradually says, though it is a lot less louder than before.

“I’ll confess. Father, you’re words added to some of the sinful thoughts I’ve been having.”

“We can talk through a section in the bible I believe might help you with these thoughts-”

“Perhaps I can tell them to you, Father, and then you can offer guidance on what to do next.”

The tension in the air was thick and with every passing second, it felt like hours. You knew how his mind would be rushing with thoughts, his little Devil and angel debating on what he should say. Should he listen to you? Should he give in to the temptation of you? From the previous times you two have been in his office, they hadn’t been so holy and he knew what angle you were trying to go for by suggesting this, yet nevertheless the temptation of the Devil, well, even a Priest would find it so hard to resist.

“If it would help you to tell me…”

He didn’t need to say anymore, he has given into the trap you have woven for him.

“They are about you Father. I have lustful thoughts about you. I imagine you beneath me, calling out my name between your little pants and groans. I imagine defiling you within church, in front of Jesus.”

You could hear the way his breath had picked up and you knew how much your words were clearly affecting him.

“Most of all, I want to have your ass thrusted up before me and I want to be pummeling into it with my toy. I want to see you lose it by being full up, from being thrusted into. I want to see how your pretty asshole takes me in so nicely. I want to see you come apart on my toy.”

“Y/n I really don’t think this is appropriate-” he managed to stagger his words out of his shaking voice.

“Did you just say my name?”

He hadn’t even realised he’d used your name when clearly his rule was to not let it be known if he knew who was in the confessional booth. Inwardly he cursed at himself for his negligence to his duty though there was one significant reason to why he had not been paying too much attention to his words but he was desperately trying to ignore it.

“I offer my sincerest apologies, as you know it is my policy to keep confessions anonymous.”

He paused to hear what you would say back, but you didn’t give him a reply. Instead, he heard movement in the other confessional, a door opening and then suddenly the door of the booth he was in was pulled open, showering him in light. From where he was sitting he was forced to look up at you standing over him.

“My, my, what do we have here Father?”

He gulped, seeing how your eyes instantly trailed down to the fact that the crotch area had a prominent crease within the cassock. Daniel’s eyes briefly glanced down to it as well. He could feel himself becoming aroused at your words before, but actually seeing his shame was a whole other humiliation for him.

“Y/n, this isn’t, this isn’t right. We need to leave this as it is, not to tempt the devil.”

“Did you say that last time? Right before I had you cumming just from my hand?”

He swallows, remembering all too well the feeling of being brought to breaking point by your hand. You had worked wonders on him and he knew no amount of praying would ever be able to get the memory of the pleasure out of his mind but he was trying his best to withhold temptation again though seemingly failing miserably.

“Y/n, please we musn’t…”

He quickly clamped his jaw shut when he felt the way your fingers suddenly grasped the side of his face, slowly moving along his jawline. Your hand came to hold his chin, roughly forcing it up to stare you in the eye, and with a slight flicker you placed your thumb upon his lips, without even having to press down too hard, he let you push your thumb into his mouth.

He let out a muffled moan as he allowed your thumb to push into his mouth and gently he sucked it, feeling his insides flutter at the sensation.

When you pulled your thumb back out of his mouth, his chest heaved from the need to breathe and with a weak voice he whimpered out one last little protest,

“Y/n.”

Yet when you leaned down, your lips hovering over his, barely touching, he eagerly gave in to the desire to feel your lips upon his, to have them moving against him capturing all sorts of noises from his throat.

Without really thinking about it he was letting your hand slip around his waist, coxing him to stand up. As you backed up he eagerly followed your lips not wanting to lose the sensation. His eyes fluttered shut as he lost himself within the kiss and therefore he didn’t know where you were moving him to until your lips finally pulled away from his.

With your hand still wrapped around his waist, you place your other hand on his shoulder and slowly push him down and then turned him around, shoving him down further until you were able to position him to lie face down upon the stairs at the front of the church.

“Now you be a good boy, Father and stay there.”

His eyes watched you as you quickly hurried back to the confessional and leant in. Goosebumps rose up on his skin and he felt a shiver go through him as he saw you bring out a bag and he knew exactly what was inside.

“Get on your hands and knees for me Father.”

He hesitated for a second, just for a second but he gave into your commands and pulled himself up, placing his knees and the palms of his hands upon the cold stone stairs. His legs were shaking from his nerves due to never doing something like this before. He didn’t know what he should be expecting plus he knew he should be outright refusing to have any involvement in this especially after what he was preaching not only an hour before and yet the thought on you on top of him, within him, excited him to no end.

He waited patiently, unable to see you as you stood behind him but he could hear the way your steps echoed as you walked across the floor, pacing back and forth behind him.

“I didn’t bring any lube, but I did bring a bottle, I’ve just need to fill it with some water. I think this will do.”

Daniel dared to glance over his shoulder and saw you standing beside the basin of holy water. Your eyes caught his and a smirk came onto your face as you scooped some of the holy water into your bottle. He had blessed that water only this morning and now it was going to be used for one of the most unholy things he could imagine.

You disappeared from his field of vision again and he was left to try and guess what you were doing next. Your footsteps came nearer him again but then they ceased and he didn’t hear any sound of movement making dread slowly fill him up as he waited in anticipation.

When he felt his cassock suddenly being yanked over his hips, resting up against his waist exposing his legs and boxers underneath he let out a surprised yelp.

“I always find it odd that Priests wear boxers under such old clothing, it’s like a sense of realism.”

“You are one to speak of realism with what you are about to do with me,” he snaps back, the words spilling out of his mouth without even thinking of them.

“My, my Father, where has this come from? This isn’t the polite well-mannered man I usually know.”

His breath shudders as he lowers his head in defeat at your words, guilt creeping up in them.

“I apologise y/n I-”

He didn’t get any other words in before his voice was cut off with a yelp escaping his throat as you smacked him harshly on the ass. His whole body jolted forward from the sudden contact and he had to bite down on his lip to prevent any other sounds from coming out.

“Don’t apologise, father, I like it.”

Your fingers trailed up to his boxers, looping around the material and with a quick tug you pulled them down to his knees, exposing his ass for you. Feeling the fresh air on him made his skin break out into shivers and his heart rate increase as the reality of the situation, of what was about to happen to him came into play. Your cold hands clasped down upon his cheeks and slowly spread them apart, exposing his entrance to you. He hung his head down, embarrassed that you were seeing a whole new side to him no one else had ever seen before.

“There’s no need to be shy Father, you look so pretty. That little hole is puckering and just begging to be entered.”

“Please,” he finally managed to croak out, finding his voice again. He didn’t want to wait and be teased, he wanted this now, and he wanted it hard.

“Patience is a virtue Father, you need to be prepared first.”

Without any more warning, his back suddenly arched as he felt cold water spill over his ass, trailing all down his crack and onto his ballsack and without thinking he said the first thing that came into mind.

“Shit!”

“Such a dirty mouth Father, you should be punished for it.”

Your left hand went to grasp his hip to hold him steady and with the other hand, you pressed your index finger into his hole, prising it open. A whimper left his throat as his body tensed up feeling how your finger pushed into him as far as it could. The inside of him was so warm it was almost as if he was burning your finger as you kept it buried within him. Slowly you pulled your finger out most of the way before pressing it back into him again which caused him to groan.

You started with a slow pace at first, letting him get used to his inside being repeatedly pushed open and stretched, and when you felt the rim around your finger start to relax, you pushed your middle finger into him as well. Your scissored your fingers inside of him, so he would get used to being stretched open further. By now he was whimpering, his own hip occasionally twitched back onto your fingers, pushing them in further. When you pressed your third finger into him, creating a triangle shape within him, his legs started to quiver. The feeling of being penetrated was a feeling he was surprised he enjoyed so much and quietly he started to call out to you, “More.”

After a few more minutes fingering him, you pulled all three of your fingers out of him and watched the way his pretty, puffed up red hole clenched around nothing. He let out a pitiful cry from suddenly being empty and he thrusted his own back seeking you out again.

He didn’t have to wait long however as you stepped into the harness and then grasping the dildo with one hand you poured the rest of the holy water you had gathered onto it, getting on your knee’s lining up with his entrance. You took a hold of his hip again as you positioned the dildo on his hole and then slowly you pushed in.

Such a lewd moan left his lips as his entrance was forced open by you, being stretched further than it ever had before. He was panting for breath as it felt like it had been knocked out of him as you split him open and when you finally bottomed out within him, he could barely hold his weight and collapsed upon the top of the stairs. He could feel the coldness of the dildo pressing against his walls, the tip of it digging into that spot that could cause him so much pleasure.

“Now, now, we can’t be having that can we?”

Your right hand now free leaned forward and grasped the back of his neck, making sure not to hold it too tight but enough to raise his head off the ground and force him to look up.

“Look ahead of you Father, look at that picture of Jesus.”

He whimpered as reluctantly his eyes flickered up to take in the sight of the Jesus stained glass and how it seemed to be looking exactly down at him.

“Look at how Jesus is watching you take it up the ass, in your own church none the less and it feels good doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” he whispered, a few tears starting to swell up in his eyes.

“Tell him, tell Jesus how much you love it up the ass.”

“I love it, I love it,” he said in a slightly higher voice but it still wasn’t loud enough.

“I said,” you growled into his ear, slowly pulling out of him again until just the tip was within him. “Tell him how much you love it in the ass.”

You thrusted back into him as hard as you could, using your hand wrapped around his neck to pull his own body back into you. From the way he was pushed open so quickly again, how the dildo hit directly onto his prostate, it made Daniel cry out from the pleasure that crashed over him.

“Christ! I love it! I fucking love it!”

Your hand gripped his neck a bit tighter as you choose to thrust shortly but quickly into him, grunting every time your hips slapped into him, sending his body forward just for you to pull him back to you. He had no control over his own body anymore, all he could do was desperately put the palms of his hand upon the church floor to stop himself sliding too far on it. His knees were being scrubbed raw as you continued to push his body forward on the ground but however the much the pain might hurt, the pleasure of the dildo hitting into his prostate was enough for his mind to forget it.

“Blasphemy in a church? How sinful of you, Father.”

“It’s so good, I need it harder y/n, god, please.”

“If you so wish, Father.”

You picked up your pace, eager to hear every loud moan and gasp that escaped him and echoed loudly around the Chruch, you were convinced anyone within a miles radius of the Chruch would hear how slutty Daniel was being, but she was beyond the point of caring anymore.

You removed your hand from the back of his neck now as you changed to longer thrusts, trying to push as far as you could inside of him, with your other hand you reached beneath him and took his throbbing cock that was now dripping pre-cum into your hand and you started to pump it in time with your thrusts.

His jaw went slack with the sudden extra pleasure till now he could only exclaim “God” with every jolt of his hips but you still wanted to mess with him. He was already hard in your hand and as you started to move your hand along the skin, feeling the way it pulsed within your parm, the pre-cum flicking out and onto the floor below.

“Pray, Father. I want to hear you pray or I won’t allow you to come.”

“Y/n,” he whimpered, his body tensing again as he felt the pull of his release getting nearer but with him not listening to your order, you start to release his cock from your hand which made him cry out as his release was pulled away from him.

“W-Wait, Our f-father, who, who art in heaven, hall-llow be thy n-name,”

Smiling you put your hand back onto his cock and started to pump it, feeling it instantly harden again, occasionally swiping your thumb over his tip making him cry out between his words.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be do-done, on, on earth as it is in heaven.”

“Good boy, now carry on, I want you to get to the end of it before you come.”

It felt impossible as he was desperately trying to hold back from cumming all over your hand as you still pumped him while hitting his prostate in his ass causing more and more pleasure to roll over him likes waves in a sea.

“Give us this day, our, our, daily b-bread and forgive us our, tres-tres-trespasses, as we for-forgive those who, who trespass against us.”

“Would you say I trespass against you?” you teased, leaning into his back to press kisses onto his neck and get a better angle to thrust into him.

“And lead us not into temptation,” he whimpered, his face turning bright red from knowing how he had utterly given in to temptation, and the fact he could no longer speak a few words before gasping or moaning only added to it.

“But-but deliver us from the evil one.”

“Would you say I am the Devil, Father?”

His speech stopped for a moment as another groan pulled from his throat as he desperately tried to starve off his release but you could sense he was reaching his limit as his whole body trembled beneath you.

“For thine is the king-kingdom, and the p-p-power, and the glory, forever and ever.”

You gave one last deep thrust into him and he knew this was it for him, he couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Amen.” you both said together as he finally came in your hand, his whole body shaking from the swarms of pleasure that crashed over him and made him collapse onto the cold stone floor of the church. His hips still moved in time with the pumps of cum that leaked out of him, fucking himself back onto the dildo which you had stopped moving within him. His cum went everywhere over the chruch floor as well and he knew he would have to clean it up soon but for now, as he felt you slowly pull out of him, leaving him empty but satisfied, he was content in lying there and not caring about what the afterlife might have in store for him.

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[potentialproblem01]

More Padre!Domingo coming right up aka Daddy Sunday pt. 2

As per usual, all my immense love to @creme-bruhlee and my Daniel server for being a sounding board and to @gwaciechang cheering me on to the finish of this one. 

Contained herein is 1.7k of somnophilia, unprotected sex, ambiguously negotiated kink, and further disrespect to Spanish Catholicism. If you’d prefer ao3 and Part One. Stands alone. 

Rahab

Exodus 34, Joshua 6

You and Padre have been seeing each other for a while now, you’ve got a key to his place in the attic above the church. It’s a shame he’s an early riser since waking to the midmorning light above the city is one of the warmest things you’ve ever felt. 

Padre always gets up early for work and you always come in late from classes and there’s always so little time for the both of you. What little time you get to yourselves is used for fucking and sleeping, not that you really complain about it, it’s just how things are. 

It’s verging on summer, sticky heat tagging along to the end of the wet season. You’d gone out the night before and when you came in, he’d already been asleep. You were quiet, careful not to disturb his night before Mass beauty sleep. You had peeled off your boots by the door, yanked your socks and panties off and dived into bed still half clothed. He’d slung an arm around you, pulling you close, nuzzling into your sweat lank hair. The last uppers were worming their way through your system in a heady buzz as you snuggled into him like a second skin before conking out.

You woke when he got up for work the next morning, watching him dress lazily from the bed. Your head was cottony but you forced yourself up to hydrate and pull the rest of your clothes off. He watched you unzip your skirt, giving you a swat to the ass as you pulled it down. You gave him a filthy kiss before he headed out the door. 

You left your clothes on the floor and went to shower, scrubbing the grime from the club off. You towel off preliminarily, the heat of the day will dry you the rest of the way as you collapse back on top of the bed sheets to sleep the rest of the morning away.

---

The late spring sun rises through the upper windows, casting the afternoon in stained glass tinted light, not enough to wake you but enough that when Daniel comes in, your skin is painted in the most delicious colors. 

He undressed quietly, hanging his shirt up and dropping his slacks in the laundry basket before quietly coming up to where you’re sprawled face down on the bed, ankle twisted in the white sheets. He sits gently on the edge of the bed, sliding a hand from your ankle to knee, skin soft in sleep, clean of glitter and sweat. He traces the lax tendons on the back of your knee before travelling up, lingering on the inside of your thigh but you don’t wake. 

He watches you for a few minutes, tracing sigils into your thigh before nudging them apart, dipping into the crease of your thigh, rubbing smoothly. He keeps watch over your face, looking for signs of consciousness. All you do is readjust your head against the pillows. 

His finger gets more adventurous, skimming over your folds to tease at the other side, picking up a hint of damp. He smirks to himself before leaning over you, whispering into your ear “Good dreams, Princess?”

He shifts himself between your legs, careful not to disturb you before stroking himself as he dances fingers across your entrance before slowly inserting one, waiting for a reaction. When none comes he grows bolder, adding a second and gently pumping them, drawing out your wetness. 

You’re wet enough for him to not have to worry about lube but he goes for some anyway, wanting you to wake to his cock being fully seated in you and not a second before. He slicks himself generously before crawling up the bed with the grace of a polar bear on thin ice. He’s vigilant in positioning himself over your thighs to get the easy angle. He approaches haltingly, adjusting himself with one hand around the base of his cock to guide and the other holding your lips apart. 

He checks that you’re still sound asleep before he breaches you, hands falling to the sheets by your shoulders to avoid further stimuli that could wake you. It takes immeasurable self control on his part not to thrust in all at once. It’s smooth and a self-inflicted torture so severe it cancels out the sin of committing it. 

He comes to be fully sheathed in you. He lowers himself to his elbows, rosary falling against your back in a warm cascade of beads, his hot breath fanning over you. You twitch in your sleep but don’t wake. He breathes through another quirk of his lips, you were always such a sound sleeper, secure enough in your position with God to never worry if you’ll wake again. 

He straightens his back, moving to lay more fully over your back, dragging his rosary through your hair, shifting on his elbows to box in your head, pulling back a hand to loop his overly large heirloom rosary around your throat too. 

He pulls out and thrusts all the way back in with all the violence of a man trying to earn his place with a personal God. This is what wakes you with a disoriented moan, dreams blurring with reality. You go to push yourself up only to be restrained by the sharp scent of myrrh and smoke all around you, warm skin pressing you down, beard hair scratching at the side of your face. 

“Do you know what I preached about today, mi cielito?” A thrust, “Of course you don’t. Are you familiar with Rahab?”

You shake your head as he thrusts into you at a leisurely pace, soft and sleepy moans spilling from deep in your chest compressed between the pure sheets and his ribcage.

“The righteous harlot.” 

You roll your eyes and try to wiggle some space to stretch your staticky limbs but are restricted by his beads chaining you to him. He feels you pull on them and shifts his weight again, freeing a hand to put his first bead and cross in your hand. 

“Pray for me, Princess. Contemplate our sins for me.”

You make a half hearted sign of the cross, earning you a thrust and a kiss to the side of your neck. You begin to recite the Apostles Creed, each line earning you half a thrust. “Was crucified, died, and was buried- Fuck!” He pulled all the way out and proceeded to thrust back in with a rough surety, grinding down into you, digging his teeth into your shoulder. 

“I don’t think that’s part of it. Start over.”

You let out a sob as you start the Creed over, trying to hurry through as he resumes his half thrusts. You close with a slightly hysterical ‘amen,’ the last of the sleep warmth leaving you for the heat of passion. The blood flow is no longer sluggish but concentrated in your core, flaring out in need. You make it through the Our Father before another sob makes you deviate from the script. 

Daniel tuts in your ear, “Do you need to start over?”

“No, please. I’ll be good.”

“Are you sure? You keep messing up. Do you need a corrective hand, Princess?”

“No, no. I can do it.”

“Prove it.”

You struggle through the Hail Marys’ and pull in a shaking breath, really hoping he took Charity to heart. He hasn’t let up on his thrusts, he intentionally holds you in the limbo of regularity and almost but not enough. You know better than to beg, he’s given you an instruction and you have to thread the beads through your hand and pray. 

He nuzzles into your ear, telling you how good you’re being for him. You make it through the first Glory Be and go to announce the first Mystery before you can’t take it anymore and struggle under him, trying to force yourself back on his cock. He pulls out, worming a hand under you to paw at your breast, pull at your nipple, “Bad girl. You still have an Our Father.” He presses you up into his chest, kneading at your breast, “Be a good girl for me.”

You struggle, feeling empty without is cock but you make it, begging to be delivered from evil. When you finish, he mutters an ‘amen’ against your throat as he stuffs his cock back in you, pulling the rosary from his neck to leave on you as he sets his weight against your lower back, pinning you down. He widens his stance and drives into you without delay. 

The power in his momentum shakes the bed, causing the headboard to knock against the wall, a rhythmic tempo to accompany you being crushed into the mattress. 

The sheets stick to your clean sweat as you edge closer, breathing hard and inadequately through your pillow. You whimper with the strength he’s using, bending your spine, wetly slamming into you. 

Your orgasm sneaks up on you, shuddering through you in one violent motion before you go limp under him; underwhelming and way too much.

He nudges your legs closed and you let him, creating a tighter channel for him to fuck into. He rebalances, one hand planted on your back, the other climbing up into your hair, yanking it back on the knife’s edge of pain. 

His nails bite into your skin and the grip on your hair tightens before he lets out a long and low growl as he comes. He lets go of your hair but not before, “You’re my blessed whore aren’t you?”

“God, yes.” For that blasphemy he slaps the side of your face he can reach, the angle is awkward but the point is made, you wiggle your hips, clench around his spent cock, “But I’m still in your bed.”

He huffs out a derisive laugh, pulls out, “That you are.” 

The mess of come and lube starts to cool between your legs, sweat growing tacky. You pull the beads through your fingers again, suck the bottom of the cross into your mouth and give him a half lidded stare before rolling over into a dry spot. 

He leans down and licks a stripe up your stomach before latching onto a nipple before you swat at his head and he lets up, coming up to kiss you. He nips at your lips but you deny him, pushing his face away. 

He doesn’t listen, grabbing a tissue from the bedside table to wipe himself off with before laying down next to you, pulling you into an embrace and throwing an arm over his eyes, ready to fall asleep on a Sunday afternoon with you. 

Part 3

[ebiemidnightlibrarian]

𝕾𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖚𝖎𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖑𝖊𝖉𝖎𝖈𝖙𝖚𝖘 | 𝕰𝖓𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖍

𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | AO3

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕯𝖊𝖒𝖔𝖓, 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕳𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖙𝖎𝖈 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕮𝖔𝖗𝖗𝖚𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖉

𝕴𝖓 𝕹𝖔𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖒

𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌 Father Romero x Demon! Reader

𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖔𝖕𝖊 Mateo is a man of faith, a good pastor and a just presbytery. However, even on its pure surface, the good father concealed his impure thoughts towards the young novice who always attended his masses. On a particularly revealing night, the priest comes across the entity his repressed desires have invoked.

Shall he surrender to the unholy tongue of a demon?

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊𝖘 Horror, Fiction, Gore, Horror, Gothic Literature, Mystery, Thriller, Dark!Fanfiction.

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 Angst, Aggression, Blasphemy, BDSM, Heresy, Sacrilege, Blood, Sex (Explicit), Religious Images and Symbols, Smut, Priest Kink, Demon! Reader (Free-form), Disrespect for Religion, Suffocation, Masturbation, Oral Sex.

𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖘 COMPLETED

𝕽𝖊𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖊𝖒

𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌 Father Romero x Demon! Reader x OFC

𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖔𝖕𝖊 Nothing Yet =)

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊𝖘 Horror, Fiction, Gore, Horror, Gothic Literature, Mystery, Thriller, Dark!Fanfiction.

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 Angst, Aggression, Blasphemy, BDSM, Heresy, Sacrilege, Blood, Sex (Explicit), Religious Images and Symbols, Smut, Priest Kink, Demon! Reader (Free-form), Disrespect for Religion, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Possession, Slight Dub-Con, Catholic Guilt, Acid Humour.

𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖘 TBA

𝕷𝖚𝖝 𝕻𝖊𝖗𝖕𝖊𝖙𝖚𝖆 𝕷𝖚𝖈𝖊𝖆𝖙 𝕰𝖎𝖘

𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌 Father Romero x OFC x Implied Demon! Reader

𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖔𝖕𝖊 Nothing Yet =)

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊𝖘 Horror, Fiction, Gore, Horror, Gothic Literature, Mystery, Thriller, Dark!Fanfiction.

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 Angst, Aggression, Blasphemy, Heresy, Sacrilege, Blood, Religious Images and Symbols, Demon! Reader (Free-form), Disrespect for Religion, Possession, Catholic Guilt, Exorcism, Chase.

𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖘 TBA

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗'𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖊:

Mateo Romero is an OC created by me to write stories as a variant of the character “Padre Antônio” played by Daniel Brühl for the film Intruders (2011). This OC was also inspired by the Original Character “Father Daniel González/Domingo”, created by @creme-bruhlee.

English isn't my first language, so I'm deeply sorry for any writing mistakes you might find.

If you desire to be tagged use this Google form to inform me, please, so I can keep it organized =) The character has a playlist on Spotify, you can find it here, or just by searching for ‘father romero is a sinner’ in the search bar.

I won't omit anything, this is pure blasphemy! There is much disrespect for the Catholic faith and the use of symbolism typical of belief in situations that can be considered heretical. If that's not your thing, I honestly don't recommend you read it.

If you, dear reader, have decided to ignore all warnings about this story, you are on your own, I am not responsible for anything you find. By the way, minors, this is obviously not for you!

𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

@stardustandgunpowder

[ebiemidnightlibrarian]

In Noctem | Father Romero x Demon!Reader | Portuguese

(esse gif não me pertence, créditos ao dono)

SUMÁRIO | MASTERLIST

AVISOS: Desrespeito a Religião, BDSM (Leve), Sexo (Explícito), Sufocamento (para fins sexuais), Sangue, Masturbação (implícita), Sexo Oral (leitor afab), Heresia.

OBS.: Descrições de tonalidade de pele, cabelo e corpo foram propositalmente vagas para que todos os interessados possam ter sua vez.

Contagem de Palavras: 7.6K

N/A: Aqui está a minha contribuição para a spooky season! Aproveite!

A MISSA NOTURNA havia acabado de terminar quando o jovem padre de cabelos castanhos sentiu em seu âmago um calafrio obscuro lhe subir a espinha arrepiando cada fio dourado em sua nuca. Alguns dos últimos fiéis que haviam comparecido à missa deixavam a igreja, os bancos de mogno gradativamente esvaziando-se mais uma vez naquele dia. As luzes estavam apagadas e apenas algumas velas pontuais iluminavam com sua luz bruxuleante a ampla nave da igreja, permitindo que o lugar fosse engolfado na penumbra.

Despedindo-se pacientemente, o padre Mateo acenou para um casal de senhoras que haviam o cumprimentado pela bela missa. Seus profundos olhos de um marrom-ébano, então, captaram um movimento sutil de um vulto pálido à sua direita. Tornando o olhar caloroso para o dito vulto, Mateo avistou o rosto angelical da jovem que era noviça no convento próximo.

A jovem raramente perdia uma missa do padre Romero, mesmo que às vezes se atrasasse ou precisasse convencer a matrona que não se demoraria. As freiras de St. Agnes tinham sua própria missa no convento, mas a noviça nunca se deleitou com nenhuma delas como com as missas do padre da igreja ao lado. Para ela, Mateo Romero tinha um jeito especial com as palavras, um que fazia um calor pontuar dentro de si, em seu cerne. A noviça sempre se sentia mais perto de Deus naquela igreja, ouvindo as palavras doces de fé do jovem padre.

“Boa noite, padre Romero”, ela sorriu gentilmente, um rubor amável lhe cobrindo as bochechas, seu hábito branco como leite, puro, um rosário firmemente envolvido na mão. Aproximando-se lentamente, o padre a cumprimentou com um sorriso.

“Boa noite.”, falou o padre com sua voz rouca cadenciada. “O que posso fazer por você minha filha?”, ele indagou, suas palavras ecoando pela igreja vazia. Ele a estudava com os olhos, uma faísca por trás deles.

A jovem noviça não pôde evitar o pensamento de que o padre parecia atraente demais para um homem do clero, especialmente quando usava a Túnica Alva nas missas, seu coração pulou uma batida com o pensamento que permeou sua mente. Sem olhá-lo nos olhos, pois o rosário desgastado em sua mão parecia muito interessante de repente, ela continuou.

“Eu… Gostaria de me confessar padre.”, ela conta, o rubor em suas maçãs se tornando quase um escarlate na meia luz da penumbra. Mateo mal pôde conter a suave risada anasalada com a timidez da jovem. Ele se referia a ela sempre como se houvesse uma distância muito grande entre suas idades, mas ela era apenas alguns pouquíssimos anos mais nova. Para ele era uma forma de lembrá-lo que ela não era alcançável.

“Sabe que deve se confessar no convento, não é?”, o padre proferiu, seu tom ainda gentil, mas quase paternalista ao repreendê-la suavemente. As mãos enlaçadas à frente do corpo, ajeitando-se em uma postura reconfortante, o padre Romero guardava um sorriso amistoso na curva de seus lábios finos.

“Sim, eu sei… mas pensei, já que estou aqui…”, a jovem começa, a voz doce e gentil tremendo minimamente de ansiedade. Ela subiu os olhos amendoados para o homem do clero a sua frente, por um milésimo de segundo fazendo contato visual, as bochechas torrando em um vermelho que se destacava com o excesso de branco em suas vestes.

“Não irei repreendê-la por isso, afinal, é meu dever ouvi-la se assim desejar.”, a cadência tranquilizante no timbre masculino fez a jovem noviça acalmar-se ligeiramente. “Depois de você.”, com um manejo hábil de seu pulso, Mateo apontou o caminho por entre os bancos para o pequeno confessionário à direita do altar, ao canto. Tomando uma longa inspiração a noviça assentiu, apertando nervosamente o rosário em sua mão delicada.

O som dos passos reverberava pelas paredes. A jovem vestida em branco tinha a impressão que ouvia apenas seus próprios passos. O padre Mateo tinha passos leves como uma pena, quase como se flutuasse ao andar. A noviça podia ouvir por cima do andar compassado a batida irregular de seu coração, o sangue correndo por suas aurículas.

Mateo engoliu em seco sob o colarinho clerical, seu pomo de adão subindo e descendo devagar. Ele via a noviça diariamente, ao menos duas vezes por dia; na missa matutina e na missa noturna. Seu suplício diário para concentrar-se no sermão como um bom cristão, um bom pastor temente a Deus. Oh, como ela era um colírio para seus olhos cansados, mas também lenha para o fogo impuro que ardia dentro dele sempre que pousava seus orbes castanhos sobre ela. A túnica alva que usava parecia estranhamente quente, abafando o calor de seu corpo sob a batina.

Enquanto eles faziam seu caminho para o invólucro de mogno de duas cabines, um par de orbes brilhantes e dourados os observava de um canto embebido em escuridão. As esferas reluzentes foram logo adornadas por um sorriso perolado cheio de dentes afiados.

Mateo sentiu o queimar de olhos em sua nuca.

A noviça benzeu-se com o sinal da cruz e esperou que o padre adentrasse o confessionário para que ela mesma também o fizesse. Entrando na pequena câmara escura, a jovem ajoelhou-se em humildade e ouviu atentamente a própria respiração dificultosa naquele espaço mínimo confinado. Ela quase tinha a impressão de que a qualquer momento, as paredes do cubículo ficariam tão próximas que a esmagariam.

O padre Romero ouviu o farfalhar das roupas da noviça enquanto ela se acomodava na cabine ao lado. Ele tomou uma longa respiração. Dentro do confessionário o calor infernal que sentia parecia ainda pior, como se seu próprio corpo estivesse sendo consumido por chamas. Com cautela para que a jovem do outro lado da treliça não notasse, Mateo removeu a túnica alva, enrolando-a minimamente sobre o colo. Agora, apenas a batina escurecida permanecera.

Houve um longo silêncio.

A jovem noviça segurava com força o rosário trêmulo em suas mãos. Talvez não seja uma boa ideia, ela considerou. O ruído branco de seu sangue correndo acelerado como cavalos em um hipódromo reverberando contra as paredes e retornando para si. Ela não tinha razões para temer o homem ao lado. Mesmo estando a apenas oito meses em sua preparação para professar, ela já aprendera que o padre não a julgaria nem revelaria seus segredos, ele não podia, ela também sabia que o que mais importava naquele momento era a total e completa honestidade. Ela não cometia muitos pecados, nem mesmo os veniais, entretanto, desde que pousara os olhos no padre com os cabelos de ébano, a luxúria havia sido sua companhia mais presente, o único pecado que fincara garras nela. Os pensamentos impuros que permeavam sua mente inocente noite após noite, tirando-lhe o sono e fazendo-a pecar contra si e contra Deus cada vez que deslizava os dedos para o calor latejante entre as pernas…

Um pigarro veio do outro lado da treliça. A quanto tempo será que estou em silêncio? Limpando a garganta a noviça uniu as mãos com força e ergueu os olhos para a imagem incompleta do perfil do padre através da treliça.

“Padre?”, ela murmurou com a voz trêmula, considerar seus pecados a fez sentir a espiral de calor familiar em seu ventre. Outro silêncio breve se fez, a respiração ligeiramente pesada do padre podia se ouvir.

“Sim, minha filha?”, o tom reconfortante dado aos padres soou pelos buracos da treliça, exceto que havia um certo tremor em sua voz que lhe era incomum. O calor na cabine de madeira parecia emanar do próprio inferno. O suor frio brotava em sua testa pálida, os fios macios e escuros de seus cabelos grudando-se à pele úmida.

“Importar-se-ia de rezar a oração da serenidade? É incomum, eu sei, mas… acho… que preciso de alguma confiança, para o que direi.”, uma risada constrangida escapou pelos lábios róseos da noviça. Ela, apesar de estar escuro, ainda sentia olhos sobre ela, o sangue correndo pelo pescoço e para as bochechas, pintando-a de um vermelho envergonhado.

“Esta bem.”, um momento de silêncio se seguiu, uma respiração profunda de ambos reverberou no pequeno confessionário. “Concedei-nos, Senhor, a serenidade necessária para aceitar as coisas que não podemos mudar, coragem para mudar aquelas que podemos e sabedoria para distinguir umas das outras.”, Mateo sentiu seu fôlego se esvair em tão curta oração. Apenas a presença próxima da noviça era o necessário para quase enlouquecê-lo. Calor, calor como se seu corpo estivesse aceso em fogo. Cada palavra suave e pura que escapava dos lábios da noviça fazia-o ainda mais inquieto.

“Abençoe-me, padre, pois pequei.”, ela respirou profundamente, o rosário marcando suas cotas em manchas vermelhas e redondas nas palmas de suas mãos pela força com a qual o segurava. “J-Já faz sete dias desde que me confessei.”, sua voz doce morreu em sua garganta.

Talvez eu não devesse fazer isso, não com ele-, seu pensamento foi cortado com o tom acalorado do padre, sua voz reconfortante.

“Como se sente, minha filha?”, indagou sua voz esfumaçada ligeiramente ofegante. Ele esperou uma resposta. O colarinho clerical da batina quase o enforcava, a ansiedade preenchendo seu peito sob o olhar atento da noviça que o observava… e o olhar faminto da sombra oculta.

“Bem, ansiosa… ansiosa com o que tenho para lhe contar, e honestamente, agora que estou aqui pergunto-me se deveria.”, uma risada nervosa deixa a jovem. Seus olhos haviam se acostumado ao breu da cabine e agora ela conseguia distinguir o rosto corado do padre através da treliça. Ele tinha os lábios finos entreabertos enquanto puxava uma lufada generosa de ar e seus olhos dourados estavam engolfados por uma escuridão quase famélica.

“Sabe que pode confiar em mim, estou aqui para lhe orientar, nada que terá feito ou dito será julgado. Confesse o que estiver pesando em sua mente, abra sua alma e seu coração, minha criança, deixe que Deus pese seus pecados.”, ele murmurou de forma a confortá-la. O padre se inclinou perto da treliça enquanto falava.

O cheiro temperado do sândalo, o doce da bergamota e o esfumaçado da mirra do turíbulo invadiram as narinas da jovem. A noviça sentiu seus ombros tensos relaxarem minimamente e aproximou o rosto da treliça em direção ao perfume reconfortante do padre. Talvez ela apenas precisasse da confirmação dele. Tomando uma longa inspiração, a jovem enxugou o suor das palmas de suas mãos no hábito branco e ergueu-as novamente em oração.

“Padre, tenho pecado contra meus votos… Tenho pecado contra Deus e a santíssima igreja.”, ela engoliu em seco com sua vergonha. “Conheci um homem, padre, um homem bom…”, a voz da noviça falhou. Como contarei isso sem ele saber que é dele de quem falo? O pensamento lhe ocorreu de súbito. Mesmo assim, ela continuou antes que pudesse se conter. “E-ele é gentil comigo, mesmo quando estou sendo tola, ou mesmo quando digo algo que não deveria… ”, outra pausa ocorreu, a noviça umedeceu seus lábios de repente secos de preocupação.

Mateo sentiu o amargor da bile fervilhar em sua garganta com a ideia da noviça caindo por um homem, por outro homem que não ele próprio; ciúmes. Que sentimento ridículo para um padre ter! Ciúmes de uma jovem que ele jamais poderia ter, ainda mais uma noviça! Por Deus!

Algo dentro dele pareceu mover-se, um peso em seu peito, afundando mais e mais, dificultando-lhe a respiração. Umedecendo os lábios finos, o padre Romero tencionou a mandíbula e murmurou um ‘continue’ contido.

“P-perdão, é que… bem, há um problema padre, ele é um homem do clero, um servo de Deus.”, o tom sussurrado e cansado, quase sem fôlego, da noviça demarcou as últimas palavras. Servo de Deus?, pensou ele, as palavras ecoando em sua mente. Certamente a noviça não deveria estar falando dele próprio, não é? Uma alegria infantil brotou no peito do homem de batina com a possibilidade, um ardor gentil em seu cerne, contrastando com as chamas infernais que pareciam rodeá-lo naquela pequena cabine embebida em penumbra.

“Ele é um homem tão bom, padre, tão bom. Preocupa-se tanto com sua congregação, mesmo estando sempre ocupado ele encontra tempo para todos os que precisam, seja de uma palavra de conforto ou apenas de um conselho ou conversa… ”, a voz amável da noviça estremeceu com as memórias de seus encontros pacíficos com o homem da cabine ao lado, os pequenos toques sutis. “Acabei por… apaixonar-me acredito eu… Oh, mas ele é sempre tão gentil e tem o sorriso mais doce que já vi.”, Mateo podia perceber o sorriso em sua voz, tão meigo que levou a quentura de seu peito às suas bochechas. “Temo sentir-me enciumada e ressentida sempre que vejo suas boas atenções em outros que não em mim… ”, a noviça teve seu monólogo interrompido pela cadência esfumaçada da voz do padre Romero.

“Não tema sentir ciúmes ou ressentimento, minha criança, é natural, não tema ser punida por Deus por sentir-se de tal forma. Sabe, Deus nos fez à imagem e semelhança Dele, cada dita falha está lá por um motivo. Não se culpe, não há do que se envergonhar, Deus a ama de qualquer forma.”, as palavras de conforto escaparam em uma torrente. A noviça sentiu o pardal em seu peito bater asas incontrolavelmente. “Mesmo nos momentos mais sombrios pode contar com Ele… e comigo… ”, o sussurro sem fôlego escorregou pelos lábios do padre sem seu consentimento. Romero rogou para que ela não o ouvisse.

Apenas o farfalhar das roupas e as respirações lentas lhe responderam.

“E-eu oro por ele todas as noites, padre… oro para que um dia ele note como o vejo, para que de alguma forma saiba o que sinto. Sei que é um desejo tolo, mas não posso evitar… ”, a noviça toma uma longa respiração trêmula e continua. “Ele visita meus pensamentos a noite, padre, nesses pensamentos ele não é mais um homem do clero e eu não mais uma noviça… costumo imaginar como suas mãos se sentiriam sobre mim… Esses pensamentos profanos me assombram padre… há noites em quem sonho com o calor de seu corpo contra o meu… ”, a familiar espiral de calor apertou-se no âmago da noviça. O rubor torrava em suas bochechas. A noviça se calou. Apenas suas respirações lhes respondiam as infinitas perguntas que tinham um para o outro.

Mateo tremia, em algum ponto do relato ansioso da noviça, ele se viu em calças ligeiramente mais apertadas. A voz doce e inocente da jovem na cabine ao lado despertou o fogo em seu interior, queimando em brasa. O tom docemente ofegante da noviça chamou por seu nome. Tomando uma respiração profunda e arfante, o padre implorou, sua voz rouca funda, seu sotaque espanhol mais carregado do que quando normalmente falava, palavras trêmulas escorreram por seus lábios finos.

“Pare.”, ele pediu, uma mão estremecida percorreu a testa alva suada e retesou os cabelos úmidos. “Pare, por favor, e-eu não posso.”, a jovem noviça sentiu um aperto em seu peito com a cadência desesperada na voz do padre. “Não devo ouvir isso. Por favor, saia.”, as gotas de suor escorriam gélidas pelas têmporas e nuca do rapaz, a umidade fria acumulando-se no colarinho clerical.

“P-perdoe-me, não foi adequado eu-”, as desculpas da jovem morreram em sua garganta quando a voz esfumaçada e ansiosa de Mateo a cortou. O pardal afoito no peito dela batia asas angustiado.

“Por favor, saia, e-eu preciso rezar.”, o nervosismo estava estampado na voz de Romero. O nome da noviça escorreu de sua língua em um pedido aflito, Mateo não confiava em si mesmo quando estava na presença da jovem, ele temia não conseguir se conter se ela permanecesse, principalmente após tal confissão.

A noviça, então, compreendeu que ele sabia de quem ela falava. Uma onda de calor desceu pelo corpo de ambos. Observando o decalque escuro da silhueta do padre através da treliça, a jovem mulher percebeu o ligeiro volume nas negras calças alinhadas de Mateo. Um gemido ofegante deixou-a quando a noviça apertou as coxas juntas sob o hábito para aliviar a dor pungente no ápice de suas pernas.

O par de orbes dourados observava o casal celibatário em êxtase.

Levantando-se de onde se ajoelhava e endireitando-se para sair, a noviça estremeceu, as articulações dos joelhos estalando com o movimento brusco. Antes de retirar-se do cubículo de madeira assombrado ela se sentiu compelida a sussurrar o nome do padre com um tom sedutoramente acusatório.

“Mateo, eu não me importaria se decidisse me visitar esta noite, ou em qualquer outra. A reciprocidade deve ser considerada… Deus não nos condenaria por isso.”, dito isso, a noviça saiu em passadas largas, sem aguardar uma resposta do padre. Ele era um homem inteligente, sua mensagem estava clara para um bom entendedor.

Após a saída da noviça, Mateo orou fervorosamente na cabine do confessionário até quase desmaiar. Quando se arrastou para seu pequeno quarto na paróquia já passava da meia-noite, as falanges de seus dedos ardiam com a força com que havia segurado o rosário, seus joelhos reclamavam das horas ajoelhados contra a madeira dura em penitência. Removendo as vestes litúrgicas ensopadas de suor, ele desabou sobre a cama, aproveitando o ar frio da noite contra sua pele quente.

Encarando o teto, o padre Romero entrou em um estado de semiconsciência na escuridão do cômodo. Em algum dado momento do qual ele não se recorda, Mateo adormeceu. Seu sono foi inquieto à medida que pesadelos luxuriosos perscrutavam sua mente.

O jovem padre imaginou como seria tocar a noviça. Que cheiro teria sua pele, se suas mãos eram macias ou calejadas. Qual seria o perfume de seus cabelos, de que cor eles seriam, eram castanhos? Ruivos? Loiros ou negros como carvão? Seus seios caberiam em suas mãos? Qual seria o gosto do vale entre eles? Mateo imaginou que sons celestiais ela faria quando ele a beijasse, quando se pusesse entre suas coxas e provasse da doçura de seu néctar.

A sombra observava a adorável inquietude do jovem padre. Aproximando-se da figura masculina estendida sobre a cama em movimentos esguios e infames, a criatura humanoide escarranchou as pernas e sentou-se sobre o volume rígido dentre as pernas de Mateo. Seu sorriso afiado e perolado adornava o rosto obscuro, intenções sórdidas no brilho áureo de seus olhos.

O padre Romero imaginou a noviça montada sobre si. Ele quase podia senti-la pulsar ao seu redor, seu calor úmido pressionado contra seu comprimento. O peso de um corpo sobre o seu, mãos gentis segurando seus ombros, ele afundaria o rosto no vale de seus seios e inalaria o perfume da pele macia…

Um ruído animalesco, como um rosnado atingiu seus ouvidos, Mateo tentou se mover, mas ele não conseguia, seus membros estavam colados ao colchão, como se a gravidade o afundasse na cama. Ele se sentia paralisado, um momento de pânico se instalou em seu peito quando sua consciência se restaurou.

Ele não estava com a noviça, ele estava sozinho, em seu quarto na paróquia e algo pesava sobre ele na escuridão.

Mesmo as ordens incessantes de sua mente para que seu corpo se movesse, ele permaneceu paralisado, nada se movia. Em sua mente, Mateo gritava para acordar. A ansiedade e o pânico aflorando-se em seu peito. Acorde! Acorde! Sua voz interior rugia em sua cabeça. Um arrepio amedrontado lhe correu a pele quando o jovem sentiu garras frígidas infiltrarem-se por sua camisa, grifas afiadas arranhando a pele alva cálida de seu peito.

Abrindo minimamente os olhos, o padre Romero gelou ao avistar uma criatura infernal esfregando-se pecaminosamente em sua rigidez. Um gemido escapou de seus lábios finos e seus orbes cor-de-ébano observaram o olhar endiabrado da figura sombria subir por seu torso e prender-se aos seus olhos. A sombra inclinou a cabeça com interesse, assistindo com um largo sorriso satisfeito o peito do jovem padre subir e descer em uma respiração irregular.

Aqueles orbes dourados eram tão fundos quanto abismos, Mateo pensou que se chegasse mais perto aqueles olhos poderiam engoli-lo por inteiro enviando-o para as profundezas do inferno. Com os movimentos de seus quadris obscuros diminuindo de ritmo até parar, a sombra demoníaca moveu-se tortuosamente, escalando o corpo jovial do padre. Suas garras escuras possuíam um cheiro ferroso que lembrava sangue. Mateo queria gritar, mas nenhum único ruído além de sua respiração ofegante lhe escapou dos lábios. Os orbes âmbar da sombra engolfaram todo o seu campo de visão, a criatura estava tão próxima a ele que o padre era capaz de sentir o ardor avernal que emanava de seu corpo quase homogêneo à escuridão.

O padre, com um impulso desordenado de sua mão acendeu a luz a gás em sua cabeceira. A entidade enegrecida desapareceu de cima de seu corpo, seu sorriso bizarramente amplo surgindo pouco depois em um canto mal iluminado do quarto.

Sua forma taciturna era voluptuosa, a forma como sua silhueta cruzava as pernas sedutoramente, as garras escuras estendendo-se para além dos dedos longos. A curva dos seios nus nublados por feridas, cortadas paralelamente como rasgos, os ossos amarelados e manchados de sangue escarlate de suas costelas, exuberantemente expostos como se fossem adornos reais. Cabelos longos que se esticavam em ondas até a metade da espinha dorsal, cada disco ósseo de sua coluna à mostra. Os lábios encarnados com rubro e os dentes perolados desiguais, caninos e sisos afiados como lanças. Um par torneado de chifres adornava sua cabeça. A respiração pesada provocava calafrios no homem.

Os olhos dourados ainda faiscavam sobre o padre.

A mão trêmula do homem correu para o rosário em seu pescoço, sentando-se na cama ensopada com os resquícios de seu sono inquieto, Mateo sussurrou a oração de expurgo que aprendera há tantos anos e que nunca esperara usar.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica… ”, as palavras em latim escorreram de sua boca com fervor. Um chiado próximo a um sibilar de uma cobra ressoou da criatura confortavelmente sentada ao chão.

“Você não sabe brincar… ”, a voz da silhueta era divertida, quase doce, a língua bifurcada da sombra abriu espaço pelos lábios rubros com desprezo. “Não conseguirá muito dizendo essas palavras padre, são apenas isso, palavras.”, uma risada desdenhosa cobriu a oração do homem encolhido sobre a cama. A forma ergueu-se de seu lugar no chão e começou mover-se preguiçosamente pelo quarto.

“Quem é você, demônio?”, indagou a voz rouca e trêmula do jovem padre. Cada passo dançante da sombra em sua direção o fazia arrepiar-se e mover-se desconfortavelmente no colchão. Calafrios corriam terrivelmente por cada membro de seu corpo, o jovem podia sentir os ossos frios.

A criatura riu com escárnio enquanto permitia que os olhos áureos famintos percorressem a forma do padre, ele tremia assustado com a visão da sombra endiabrada. A cruz prateada do rosário queimava em sua palma firme. Havia um pardal apavorado em seu peito, dificultando-lhe a respiração. O demônio escarrachou-se sobre a cama, perto o suficiente para que o homem do clero pudesse sentir uma vez mais o calor emanar de sua silhueta lasciva. Fugindo brevemente do calor profano da criatura, Mateo deslizou para fora da cama, seus pés descalços tocando hesitantes o chão acarpetado da paróquia.

“Perguntei quem és, indigno.”, o sussurro do homem do clero exprimia ordem, como se fosse aquele no controle da situação. O demônio riu uma vez mais, um rubor estranhamente saudável escurecendo as bochechas.

“Sou a materialização da sua luxúria, Mateo. A noviça…”, uma mão, garra, gesticulou em direção ao homem de fé. “… sua amada noviça provocou minha vinda a ti, seus desejos impuros para com ela proporcionaram minha vinda.”, o desdém no timbre cálido da criatura infernal levou um calafrio a estender-se pela espinha do pároco.

“Criatura profana… ”, murmurou Mateo dando passos para trás, recuando, a cabeça movendo-se incessantemente em um aceno negativo. “Mentiras, mentiras escorrem da sua boca demônio, jamais fiz nada para a noviça, jamais.”, o olhar ultrajado do padre nunca deixou a figura maligna escarranchada em sua cama.

Uma risada de escárnio ecoou pela estrutura da igreja até o interior dos ossos do jovem padre.

“Hipocrisia não combina com você, padre. Saiba, não há segredos para mim. Já estive em cada canto escuro de sua mente, em cada um de seus sonhos, eu espreitei tudo e sei de tudo, não negue nada para mim. Sei de todas as mentiras que já contou, de todos os segredos que omitiu, cada pensamento impuro, sujo e perverso que já passou por essa sua linda cabecinha.”, outra risada de desdém se fez presente enquanto o demônio navegava ao redor da forma assustada do padre, sua sombra humanoide ficando rente ao ouvido dele. “Também sei de todas as sujeiras que ela quis fazer com você padrinho…”, a voz predatória da entidade não terminou o sussurro mordaz, o celibatário a interrompeu abruptamente.

“Não diga tal absurdo! NÃO! Ela é pura, uma jovem boa de coração e alma, seus desejos são perfeitamente naturais, mas ela teve a força para resistir-lhes, não acreditarei nas suas mentiras, cria de satã!”, afastando-se do lugar onde se encurralara entre a mesa de cabeceira e a sombra saliente, ele respirou fundo. A voz outrora firme e reconfortante falhou ao proferir as palavras.

O sorriso perolado e cheio de dentes da sombra se alargou impossivelmente e seus bizarros olhos brilhantes ainda mais intensos.

“Oh Mateo… não pode ser tão inocente e acreditar que alguma daquelas ‘boas almas’ no convento ao lado irá de fato para o dito ‘local de benção eterna’, não é? Sabemos que todas as boas meninas vão para o inferno…”, o sussurro severamente perigoso e maligno ressoou. As garras escuras acariciaram sordidamente as bochechas coradas do jovem padre, arranhando a pele alva, pintando-a com marcas rosadas.

“Blasfêmia! Mil vezes blasfêmia demônio! Deus sempre protegerá os bons dos ímpios, Ele tem um bom lugar guardado para todos os que se arrependem. Um lugar de luz que você jamais alcançará, criatura.”, Mateo cuspiu as palavras com rudeza. Um manejo célere do pulso do demônio acertou uma tapa rígida contra o rosto do padre Romero. Sua respiração descompassada prendeu-se em sua garganta com o olhar mortal que a besta lhe dera.

“Sou sua morte Mateo, fui enviada para levá-lo. Para onde vai não é um bom lugar, eu lhe garanto, pois, é de lá que vim.”, a ameaça dançava oculta em suas palavras. Romero estremeceu e tentou afastar-se, apenas para ser impedido por uma barreira inflexível às suas costas. Preso entre a parede e o corpo quente da criatura que se posicionara entre suas pernas. “O segundo círculo do inferno o aguarda, padre.”

“Isso é um absurdo! Demônios não vêm buscar mortais, isso não está escrito, jama-”, o suspiro sôfrego deixou os lábios do jovem paroquiano quando a profundidade insana dos olhos da entidade tornou-se tudo que ele podia ver, seus corpos tão pressionados um contra o outro que podiam ser um só.

“Oh, Mateo, Mateo há tanto que não está escrito, tanto que, um mero vislumbre da realidade destruiria sua pobre alma mortal… ”, um riso desdenhoso chegou aos ouvidos do padre, os orbes áureos engoliram cada pensamento coerente que o homem do clero pôde ter. “Gostaria de vislumbrar o que lhe aguarda bom padre? Deseja ouvir os gritos dos condenados e o cheiro enxofrado do inferno? Os sons nauseantes dos ossos sendo esmagados pela ventania incessante e o choro das mais de mil almas desfeitas pelo amor? Os gemidos lúdicos das prostitutas e o lamento lúgubre dos amantes? Posso mostrar a você… posso guiá-lo como Virgílio guiou Dante… ”, o sussurro ardiloso do demônio era doce, tentador. O toque estranhamente reconfortante em seu rosto, acalentando o latejar onde fora acertado.

Mateo inclinou-se na direção dos lábios rubros em uma estranha atração. Aqueles lábios profanos eram magnéticos, o jovem padre indagou-se que gosto teriam. Quando suas bocas estavam a meros centímetros de se tocarem, o demônio desviou de seu toque, um sorriso quase tímido adornou-lhe o rosto.

“Não posso tocar-te se não me deres um nome.”, as palavras escorriam de sua língua bifurcada como mel, seu hálito cheirava a vinho. “Mateo… ”, continuou o demônio, sua voz sedutora um mero sussurro ofegante. “Diga meu nome.”, sua voz pareceu ecoar pelo quarto, a ordem implícita em seu comando.

Mateo, então, de alguma forma soube, sua língua deslizou pela boca, a ponta batendo brevemente atrás dos dentes ao pronunciar serenamente o nome da criatura.

“Asmodeus.”, um sorriso do gato de Cheshire espalhou-se pelo rosto do demônio em compreensão.

Lábios gentis selaram-se com os seus.

O beijo casto tornou-se faminto, a criatura mordiscou lascivamente o lábio inferior do padre, seus dentes afiados rompendo a pele delicada, o gosto metálico do sangue inundando suas bocas. Romero estremeceu em uma onda de prazer ao sentir a mão da sombra espalmar seu membro ainda vestido sob as calças, ele fechou os olhos em apreciação. O demônio engoliu seus gemidos enquanto encontrava um ritmo apropriado para os manejos de seu pulso. Descendo uma trilha esfomeada de beijos pela linha da mandíbula e pela coluna do pescoço do jovem padre, a criatura pressionou-se contra a coxa firme entre suas pernas. Um suspiro estrangulado escapou dos lábios manchados de escarlate do demônio, uma espiral de calor formando-se minimamente no baixo ventre.

Mateo abriu os olhos com um gemido gutural que ressoou em seu peito. Sua visão captou a forma humana jovial banhada em meia luz que agora o demônio apresentava.

Sua carne lacerada dera lugar a uma pele macia e quente, suas garras longas se encurtaram em unhas escuras e pontiagudas, seu sorriso largo rasgado em seu rosto angelical ainda estava lá, porém muito mais sutil, não havia mais chifres agora e seus orbes dourados apresentavam um brilho convidativo e aconchegante, como duas peças de ouro.

Subindo uma mão firme pelo lado da criatura, da mulher, agora à sua frente, Mateo apertou a carne de seus quadris, seus olhos castanhos estavam quase eclipsados de desejo. Os movimentos constantes do pulso do demônio construíam um calor em seu âmago. Os lábios quentes dela deixavam marcas escuras pelo pescoço alvo e salpicado de pintas do jovem padre. Um gemido estrangulado escapou dele quando ela mordeu com particular força o ponto doce em que o pescoço encontra-se com o ombro.

A culpa preencheu Romero, os beijos de boca aberta da mulher estenderam-se por seu torso. Mãos quentes que acumulavam em si o calor profano do inferno infiltraram-se sob sua camisa, o toque quase queimando sua pele alva. As pontas afiadas das unhas deixando em seu caminho traçados róseos. O jovem padre estremeceu ao sentir as pontas dos dedos da mulher enrolarem-se no cós de suas calças. Seu membro latejando por contato.

Usando seus quadris para pressionar o padre onde ele mais precisava, o demônio usou ambas as mãos para livrar Mateo de suas roupas. O mínimo toque de seus dedos ateava fogo em cada canto que roçava a pele do pároco. Arrepios correndo por seus braços com o hálito quente da criatura espalhando-se pelos seus ombros nus enquanto ela sugava carinhosamente um hematoma em seu pulso.

Deixando um rastro de beijos pelo peito de Mateo e sugando hematomas escuros em seu caminho, o demônio encarou com fome a rigidez lasciva dentre as pernas do padre. Olhando para cima por entre os cílios longos, ela abriu os lábios rubros e abocanhou o contorno régio no tecido. A saliva e o pré-gozo encharcavam o tecido das calças. A criatura sorriu minimamente, podendo sentir tão bem o calor emanando dele. Cada ruído lascivo, e gemido fundo quase a fizeram se desfazer ao pressionar as coxas juntas para aliviar a dor latejante entre elas. Uma onda de prazer percorreu o corpo do padre, sua cabeça pendeu para trás contra a parede e sua boca abriu-se um gemido constante e rouco.

“Oh, Meu Deus… ”, um suspiro lânguido e descompassado escapou dele. Suas sobrancelhas morenas unidas em esforço, ele nunca havia sido tocado, nem uma vez.

“Não dizes o santo nome Dele em vão.”, uma risada perniciosa emanou do demônio ajoelhado entre suas pernas. O calor úmido acumulava-se entre as coxas femininas, cada ruído cadenciado que escapava dos lábios finos do padre enviava uma onda de deleite para o ventre da criatura.

Infiltrando os dedos finos na bainha das calças da figura masculina, ela desceu-a até a metade das coxas. A respiração pesada e ardente da mulher varreu a pele sensível do membro do rapaz, um ruído de prazer reverberando por sua garganta. Com cuidado, Asmodeus guiou o membro do rapaz em sua boca, contornando com a parte plana da língua na extensão de seu comprimento. Ela podia sentir o pulso acelerado dele contra os lábios. A criatura deslizou faminta a ponta da língua contra a extremidade inchada e sensível do homem santo.

O gosto ácido e ligeiramente adocicado invadiu os lábios rubros dela após algum tempo levando-o em sua boca. Ele soava tão bem aos seus ouvidos. Com uma sucção particularmente forte, ele investiu contra o rosto dela involuntariamente. Repetindo o gesto, o demônio sentiu o membro dele se contorcer contra seus lábios. A respiração pesada e os gemidos guturais a faziam querer senti-lo por dentro.

Continuando os movimentos circulares com a língua, ela sentiu as coxas dele tremerem ligeiramente quando correu as unhas afiadas pela pele alva. Afastando a boca dele por um momento, a criatura contemplou o rosto dele envolto na névoa lascívia do prazer. Erguendo-se sem aviso, a mulher enlaçou os dedos nas ondas cor-de-ébano do padre e puxou-o para seus lábios. Mateo podia sentir o próprio gosto em sua língua. Um suspiro rouco prendeu-se em sua garganta enquanto ele se sentia pulsar dolorosamente. Antes que pudesse envolvê-la em seus braços ternamente, Romero sentiu as costas serem pressionadas contra a maciez do colchão. Com o intuito de continuar a beijá-la, o jovem pároco puxou-a para seu colo. Usando de uma força inumana, Asmodeus empurrou-o para a cama uma vez mais.

“Comporte-se bom padre, ou vou amarrá-lo.”, o tom mordaz era lúbrico, deixando o homem do clero em chamas.

Afastando-se dele, a sombra esgueirou-se pelo quarto com movimentos tão fluidos que parecia fumaça em água. Seus dedos hábeis apanharam sobre uma poltrona no canto o cíngulo de tom roxo que Mateo usava sobre a batina. Um sorriso diabólico mais uma vez espalhou-se pelas feições belas da entidade com a ideia blasfema que surgiu em sua mente.

“Cingi-me, Senhor, com o cíngulo da pureza, e extingui nos meus rins o fogo da paixão, para que resida em mim a virtude da continência e da castidade.”, as palavras de fé escorreram de sua língua endiabrada com desprezo. “Quanta hipocrisia… ”, um meio riso anasalado a deixou enquanto ela se aproximava do padre com o cíngulo litúrgico em mãos. “Hoje, padre Romero, seu cinto de castidade terá um uso muito mais… útil.”, sua figura nua subia na cama, escarranchando-se nos quadris do homem santo pela segunda vez naquela noite.

O pomo de Adão de Mateo subiu e desceu lentamente, seus olhos escuros arregalados assistiam com admiração cada sutil movimento que o demônio da luxúria fazia. O peito alvo salpicado com um punhado de cabelos acobreados e pintas em uma constelação adorável subia e descia em um ritmo descompassado. Estendendo o cinto, a entidade enlaçou o pescoço do padre com uma volta, o aperto do laço restringia lascivamente o ar em seus pulmões. Ele tencionou a mandíbula em uma tentativa fracassada de conter um grunhido gutural ao sentir o calor gotejante da mulher endiabrada a pressionar-se contra ele. Mais uma volta, — desta vez mais folgada —, ao redor da coluna da garganta e o sussurro cálido do hálito fervente da criatura em suas bochechas coradas acariciou seus ouvidos.

"Dá-me teus pulsos padre.”, ela pediu, a ordem superior oculta nos meandros das palavras.

Obedientemente, Mateo ergueu os punhos em oração. O amplo sorriso de aprovação dela lhe disse que ela aprovava a submissão do gesto.

"Hei de arder no inferno por isso.”, a voz trêmula do jovem pároco ressoou rouca de luxúria. O laço do cíngulo apertando e marcando a pele pálida de seus pulsos e seu pescoço.

“Esqueceu-se padre? Vim aqui para levá-lo mesmo antes de ceder a mim. Antes de implorar por minhas atenções como uma prostituta.”, os insultos o fizeram vibrar contra ela. Seu membro intumescido pulsando dolorosamente pressionado contra o peso das ancas femininas, acolhido no cerne da fenda úmida.

Puxando com força o nó do cíngulo, testando seu enlaçado o demônio tinha seus olhos dourados engolfados por um fogo herético.

“Agora, darei uso a essa sua boca casta, pagão.”, a palavra ecoou em sua mente, um fogo ardente queimando em seu baixo ventre, ele poderia se desfazer apenas com suas palavras.

Com movimentos lânguidos ela escalou o corpo dele, dispondo um joelho em cada lado da cabeça do jovem padre, ela retesou o nó do cíngulo envolto em sua mão. Mateo salivou com a visão da intimidade úmida defronte a seu rosto, umedecendo os lábios finos, ele ofegou pesadamente, o laço em sua garganta puxando-o em direção a ela.

Um rosnado fundo vibrou no peito da criatura quando hesitante e inexperientemente Mateo traçou com a língua quente uma faixa na fenda úmida do demônio. Ondas e ondas de prazer reverberavam pela figura feminina, golpes virginais contra seu ponto mais sensível a faziam estremecer. A espiral ardente construindo-se dentro de si. Mateo era inexperiente, mas sua fome o tornava um amante dedicado, ele prestou atenção em cada tremor e gemido que ela produzia, atento ao que fazia seus quadris balançarem contra seu rosto angelical com mais ânsia. Ele sorriu orgulhoso ao fazê-la gritar ao invadir seu núcleo encharcado com a língua.

Puxando o rosto dele de seu centro, a figura feminina acertou-lhe dois tapas fortes em cada uma de suas bochechas, dando-lhes um tom escarlate adorável e esquentando a pele.

“Mantenha sua arrogância para si e trabalhe sacerdote, a arrogância nos torna orgulhosos e a soberba é um pecado.”, o timbre de superioridade que ela usava o fez gemer contra a carne macia da parte interna de uma de suas coxas onde ele depositara um beijo humilde.

Voltando os olhos de corça mais uma vez para ela, por dentre os longos cílios ele se alimentou da visão dela, tornando a provar seus doces sucos. O corpo voluptuoso estremecia, os seios expostos que ele tanto ansiava por afundar o rosto, por beijar e provar vibravam com a respiração irregular. Romero sentia-se à beira do abismo, prestes a cair. Os sons obscenos de sua boca santificada contra o calor dela e os ruídos lamuriosos que escapavam dos lábios rubros tornavam-no rígido como uma rocha. Arrastando os dentes ligeiramente tortos pelo botão sensível, Mateo sorveu a língua no interior fervente e repetiu a ação.

O ápice formava-se em uma espiral apertada no ventre da mulher, seus rosnados altos fizeram os quadris do jovem padre golpearem o ar. Seu cume veio e ela cavalgou o rosto jovial corado pelo esforço. Ele bebeu de seus sucos com fome, a doçura ácida dela banhando seus lábios e seu queixo. Descendo de seu alto, o demônio posicionou-se esfomeado sobre o padre, as costas arqueadas de deleite enquanto punha uma mão apoiando seu peso acima dos cabelos bagunçados do rapaz e a outra sobre seu coração, que pulsava enlouquecido como um pardal enjaulado em seu peito.

As baforadas quentes de seu hálito varrendo a pele úmida de suor e fluidos do jovem pároco. Curvada sobre ele, ela observou atentamente o rosa que cobria as maçãs e o pescoço de Mateo, ele a olhava em êxtase com os olhos fundos semicerrados. A pouca luz da penumbra refletia um brilho cego nos sumos de sua libertação que pintavam tão adoravelmente os lábios finos do jovem padre.

Romero se perdeu no lume vívido dos orbes dourados da criatura. Naquele momento nada mais parecia importar, ele se dera ao diabo de corpo e alma. Ele não se importaria de passar a eternidade afogado naqueles olhos.

Deslizando uma mão sorrateira pelo torso ansioso do homem do clero, ela acariciou osso se seu quadril e se deleitou com o suspiro estrangulado que deixou os lábios de Mateo quando ela enlaçou o comprimento intumescido do padre. Muito habilmente ela o guiou cautelosamente para sua entrada, pincelando sua umidade com ele, ouvindo prazerosamente o gemido rouco que escorregou pela língua doce do sacerdote e se afundou nele, vendo-o morder o lábio inferior em uma tentativa falha de conter seus ruídos de prazer. Ela se sentia tão bem ao redor dele, confortavelmente pulsante, vibrando com o alongamento.

Mateo arqueou as costas e revirou os olhos quando ela deslizou facilmente por ele, cavalgando em um ritmo lento. Ele estava no limite a tanto tempo, não sabia quanto mais ainda iria suportar. De forma inesperadamente gentil, o demônio desfez o laço do cíngulo dos pulsos do padre com um manejo de seus dedos.

A unhas escuras que eram outrora garras talharam um corte fino no punho do homem do clero. A picada de dor não auxiliou o padre a conter-se, um silvo baixo lhe escapando. O sangue escarlate escorreu em uma trilha pelo antebraço alvo, a língua infernalmente quente da criatura traçou o caminho rubro na pele, coletando. Sândalo e sangue mesclaram-se em um sabor doce e ferroso na boca do demônio. A investida lenta de suas ancas arrancando gemidos fundos do clérigo.

“P-pai nosso… qu-… stais- no céu… ”, a oração se desfez em sua língua, sua alma entregue demais para ser salva. Sua mente muito perdida nos golpes duros e vagos das ancas da mulher para arrepender-se.

Correndo as unhas pela pele sensível do torso do padre, ela desceu beijos pela garganta dele, os estalidos da madeira da cama, ritmados pelos seus movimentos, uniam-se com os sons aquosos de onde seus corpos se conectavam em uma sinfonia profana. Hematomas escuros se formavam sob a linha da mandíbula, o corte em seu pulso regurgitava sangue avidamente devido à pulsação acelerada, os lábios da entidade envolviam a ferida ensanguentada sugando famélica. Oh, como ele era doce! Tão puro, tão casto. A ideia simples de corrompê-lo a fez ordenhá-lo em um tremor de prazer. A espiral de calor lasciva apertava-se gradativamente em seu âmago mais uma vez.

Mateo correspondia com esforço aos movimentos das ancas da mulher, suas estocadas fortes carregando-o para sua liberação. Sentir as paredes aveludadas dela lhe acolhendo tão profundamente o fizeram arquear as costas lindamente em deslumbramento. Enveredando as mãos fortes, agora soltas, pela carne macia das coxas da entidade, o padre gemeu baixo ao puxá-la contra si, indo mais fundo. Suas mãos inquietas afagavam cada parte que podiam alcançar. Faminto, Romero capturou um dos seios da criatura em seus lábios, sugando marcas avermelhadas, mordiscando a pele e lambendo o vale entre eles, provando do fruto proibido.

Tombando para trás a cabeça, quando as mãos firmes do clérigo apertaram ansiosamente a carne de suas ancas e seus lábios finos banquetearam-se com seu busto, a criatura sibilou sacrilégios enquanto o comportava. Mateo estava perto a tanto tempo, ela não lhe impediria por muito mais. Movendo-se rapidamente, o demônio deslizou as mãos sobre os braços do padre Romero, até suas belas mãos, entrelaçando seus dedos, Asmodeus prendeu os pulsos do pároco acima de seus cabelos castanhos desordenados e tomou investidas agressivas contra ele.

Os gemidos guturais do jovem padre atiçaram o fogo em seu cerne. Conectando seus lábios mais uma vez em um beijo acalorado, Mateo gritava rouco, embriagado com os estímulos excessivos. Quando as presas afiadas da mulher afundaram em seu lábio inferior e o sabor metálico do sangue embebeu seus sentidos, um movimento certeiro dos quadris da criatura o desfez. Sua carga quente pintando o interior das paredes aveludadas da mulher.

O demônio não parou seus movimentos.

Lágrimas de super-estimulação corriam pelo canto de seus olhos castanhos, deslizando por suas têmporas e perdendo-se nos fios escuros de suas madeixas. A dor excruciante das investidas grosseiras das ancas femininas gradativamente tornaram-se prazerosas novamente, seu comprimento endurecendo-se anormalment dentro do calor dela, os olhos brilhantes do demônio encarando sua alma.

O demônio sorria em êxtase, buscando sua própria libertação pecaminosamente enquanto se alimentava da dor do presbítero. A língua quente traçou as marcas reluzentes das lágrimas do padre, o sal delas ardendo ao descer por sua garganta. Lágrimas puras, refletiu a criatura. O regozijo doce inicial da primeira parcela da alma do pároco. Seu sabor salgado, a labuta prazerosa, era tudo que ela precisava para atingir o ápice novamente. Suas paredes tão quentes e convidativas esmagaram-no com o clímax intenso.

Mateo afundou o rosto na curva do pescoço da mulher e soltando um gemido choroso enquanto precipitava estocadas gaguejantes uma última vez, lacrimoso ele se libertou dentro dela, sua garganta ferida muda. Seu fôlego restante foi roubado de seus pulmões por um beijo profundo. O sabor de suas lágrimas e de seu sangue misturando-se em suas línguas.

Seus batimentos se aquietaram. O pardal enjaulado em seu peito acalmou-se e a quentura infernal do demônio que descansava sobre ele o aquecia. Recuperando o controle de sua mente, Mateo soluçou, os resquícios de sua fé levando o melhor sobre ele, o padre orou em um sussurro para si.

“Meu Deus, sinto muito por ter te ofendido. Detesto todos os meus pecados devido ao seu justo castigo. Mas acima de tudo, porque te ofendem. Meu Deus, que é todo bom e merecedor de todo o meu amor. Estou firmemente decidido com a ajuda de tua graça, não pecar mais e evitar a ocasião próxima do pecado… Amém.”, as palavras que uma vez tiveram tanto significado escaparam de sua boca sem valor algum, a lástima reluzente que descia em cascata por seus olhos de corça salgou os lábios rubros do demônio que herético depositava um beijo na têmpora úmida do presbítero.

O padre Romero entrou de bom grado nos braços do diabo e o acolheu como um velho amigo. Daquele dia em diante, cada pecado seria uma dádiva, cada sacrilégio uma prece.

Mateo tornou-se assombrado em todos os sentidos da palavra.

[potentialproblem01]

Daddy Sunday

Come gets y’alls juice Padre Domingo smut. Special thanks to our favorite @creme-bruhlee​ and the Daniel server

Contained in here is 2.8k Padre Domingo x fem reader explicit smut. Featuring getting railed in a confession booth, a poor grasp of (Spanish) Catholicism, some light breath play, unprotected sex, and some slutty schoolgirl behavior. It’s really not that dicey all things considered, especially for me. It even includes an outfit board. Also on my ao3. Stands alone.

Holler if you see any glaring mistakes and remember to have fun and be safe.

He could see your white boots under the curtain, he could pretend to hear your fingers trailing along the dark stained wood, the quiet squeak of the door hinges as you let yourself into the booth, the whisper of them grasping the edge of his curtain to softly pass into his side of the confessional. 

You could hear the other parishioner, confessing to one dull sin or another. This lady has a gambling addiction but you’re into risk of a different kind. 

The booth is small, your knees bumping into his, too close; confined. It’s homely in a not-so-Godly way. He eyes you, head tilted up to where you tower over him and it’s no longer a look of surprise or exasperation or the hint of fear you’d inspired the first time you propositioned him. No, this is a look of expectation. 

You’d been at mass yesterday afternoon, in the very last pew rolling a lollipop across your lip. He’d been watching, he always did. Your attendance had been a warning of sorts, to know to expect you in for confession at some point. 

You’d come straight from your last lecture of the day. 

The notice pinned to the front doors stated confession would start at noon and last until 2. It was now 15 past. You had popped in a mint and took out your rosary from the pouch before shedding your hoodie. You left your school bag underneath the stained glass window depicting Mary, keeping light feet across the old stone floors. 

Now you make eye contact, his amber eyes flashing in the shadows. With one hand he moves to absolve the gambler and with the other he pulls you in by the hip, slotting your knees together, trailing a hand up across your midriff. He assigns penance, though you can tell he made the severity up, he’s too distracted by you tugging at the bow of your shirt lacing. 

He goes to recite the prayer of Absolution for the penitent but it feels like a personal worship as you slowly work the lace out of your shirt, letting the two halves fall apart. His hands come up to push the halves away, revealing your breasts- he stumbles in his prayer. “Through the death and resurrection…”

He lets out a soft exhalation before hurrying through the remains of the prayer, cupping your breasts and sliding a thumb across your nipples. He goes to make the sign of the cross, “I absolve you…”

The parishioner leaves. 

You kneel over his lap, hands on his shoulders, skirt rucking up across your thighs, faces a breath apart. Hushed, “Will you bless me Padre Domingo, for I am about to sin.”

“And how long has it been since your last confession?”

“Too long.” You slot in for a kiss, something chaste but designed to tempt. But this priest had been tempted the moment he moved to your town. Daniel César Martin Brühl González Domingo hadn’t stood a chance against you.

He pulls away from the kiss, “What sins are you confessing to today?” 

You run your hands down his chest, tugging at his rosary, and back up around his neck, pushing closer to him, feeling the lines and buttons of his shirt and the stone beads against the soft skin of your chest. “Why Father, lust of course. A good helping of greed too.” 

He tugs on your shirt, exposing more skin, a defined collarbone. He kisses it softly, lovingly. His stubble catches across your skin enough to set your nerves alight. 

There’s a shuffle outside. The next sinner is ready to confess. He breathes against your skin and moves to articulate the invitation so it isn’t muffled by you. 

There’s a wicked glint in his eye as he moves his hands, pushing you off his thighs. He pulls himself as far onto his seat as he can before grabbing you by the hips and turning you sideways, shifting you to the corner and then perpendicular to him. You start to understand where this is going and get with the program. You extend your arms down across his thighs, your own rosary sliding down over him, the clink of it’s black crystal beads against your daddy choker the only hint to your presence. The other parishioner begins the ritual cleansing. 

Padre Domingo begins by asking how long it’s been since they’ve last been in confession as you fold yourself in half over his lap. It’s tight. Your ankles strain in the heel of your boots and you have to hook your elbows under his knees to create space for your head in the bottom of the booth. Your crucifix thumps to the floor and you tuck it between your teeth to keep it from making any other noise. You have to keep very still not to hit your head on the shared wall. It’s a passing idle that yoga classes have been paying off if it means Padre Domingo can bend you in half over his lap with minimal effort. 

They begin to confess to their sins. Lust. How fitting. 

He flips the back of your purple skirt up over your ass, ruining the pleats and exposing the silky swell of your cheeks. With one hand he runs a hand under your shirt, pinning you to his legs in positions. With the other, he grabs a handful of your ass, testing the pliability and you have to keep your sound of pleasure to yourself, teeth singing against silver. 

He runs his hand over the lace band of your panties, over the side of your hipbones before tracking to the center of your back, teasing the short, sensitive hairs there. His hand travels again across the band before hooking into the thread of lace dipping between your cheeks, pulling it up until he gets to the string of pearls strung across your opening and clit. There’s an amused flutter of his fingers that are under your shirt. You’ll be hearing about your undergarments later.

The parishioner drones on about how they wish to sleep with the town's baker and a large part of you wants to encourage them to fuck and get over themselves but you keep quiet. Padre Domingo has been rubbing the pearls, pushing them into your heat and against your clit. You have to keep quiet, the taste of burnished metal in your mouth starts to hurt.

He keeps rubbing the pearls and they grow tacky as you get wet. You feel your abs flex and strain under your efforts to keep still and avoid bumping your head into the booth wall as he keeps teasing the pearls, never truly touching you. 

You're close to pinching at his leg in bratty frustration when he pulls his hand away, lightly snapping the pearls against you causing you to shiver lightly. He coaxes the parishioner to continue to confess as he gets both hands in the lace of the waistband and pulls them down over your hips and over your ass, pulling the pearls away from where they stick and situating the black lace mass at midthigh above your stockings. 

He runs both hands back up your thighs, playing at the crease where it swells, pushing up with his thumb and forefinger, rhythmically moving your cheeks together and apart. He assigns this confessor penance as he dips his thumbs in deeper between your thighs, manicured nails skating through the slick that’s been collecting, running lightly over your folds. 

The parishioner is now confessing to some light thievery. How boring. The blood collecting in your head is getting heavy, need flaring out through your bloodstream and doubling down on the heat in your head. Keeping your rosary in your mouth is getting difficult and it’s impossible to keep your spit from pooling and finally spilling out, webs of it trawling down the wire before falling to the wood below you. 

Light tremors begin to wrack your body and he takes pity, or maybe it’s personal impatience, and moves a comforting hand back up your spine, rubbing the knobs of your spine between your shoulder blades. He sneaks his other arm under your hips and cants them a few degrees more acutely, pressing down with his other hand to keep you there. It doesn’t quite feel like imagination when there's a soft whisper of fabric and good girl is being whispered into your hair.

He withdraws the hand supporting your hips and runs it once across the sharp relief of the bones in your pelvis before quickly moving back between your thighs, palm hovering over the last vertebrae, middle finger smoothly curling over your sex, a finger tip plunging in every other pass; the regularity of the movement is further frustration. 

You start to wiggle your hips, straining to push them up at an even sharper angle but he pushes down with the hand between your shoulders and slides his other hand up your backside, waiting for you to be done with your tantrum. 

He says something to the parishioner but you can’t concentrate on what. The parishioner responds and you still your movements, clamping down hard on your cross to ground yourself; you know you won’t find any satisfaction without his cooperation. 

The parishioner keeps talking about something but Padre Domingo finally resumes touching you, moving his hand across the back of your thighs before teasing a finger against your asshole before moving lower and resuming tracing your slit, gathering some of your slick before pushing a finger into you. It sinks in effortlessly, you’ve been ready for this since you left class and his teasing didn’t help. 

There’s no resistance, no friction, only a smooth glide as he shallowly moves his finger in and out of you, rubbing at your walls, failing to provide any sort of relief. He keeps his rhythm steady, intent on continuing to tease, the opposite of your last coupling which had been a hurried affair in an alcove after the late Sunday Mass. 

It starts to get a little hard to breath, the air in the booth becoming humid and cloying with your sweat and drool and wetness evaporating against his citrusy cologne. It’s difficult to remain silent as the parishioner finishes, asking how they can be absolved. Padre thinks for a moment, never ceasing the movement of his finger. As he goes to assign penance, he adds in a second finger. Both go in deeper, finally a sensation not overwhelmed by how wet you already are. 

The parishioner accepts their penance and Padre begins the Prayer. He pushes down on your high back, keeping you where he wants you as he absolves the parishioner of their lust and thievery, “...May God give you pardon and peace…” and he adds a third finger. You struggle to quiet your breathing, you’re getting closer to what you need: to be filled by him. His pace is still measured, his speech unaffected and the only reassurance you can feel is his hard cock straining against his slacks; the patience of a Saint. 

He finishes the Prayer with one hand in you and one hand making the sign of the cross. 

The parishioner leaves but he keeps thrusting his three fingers in and out, such a practised undulation. He returns his free hand to your back, caressing the sweating flesh. He moves higher, snaking a finger through your choker, pulling a little, making it even harder to breathe.

You remain like that for a while, seconds and minutes ticking by before he shifts under you, withdrawing a hand to peek out from the booth to find no one else waiting to be cleansed. 

He shifts back then, landing a single smack across your ass before leaning down and harshly whispering, “Up.” 

Your ankles protest greatly and your head is woozy, stuffed with the accumulated blood that hasn’t been hijacked by your core. You have to fight the wood paneling of the wall to right yourself and shove your panties all the way off. Quicker than you can catch, there’s hands on your waist pulling you in. 

Your knees hit the edge of the seat and you fall forward into his chest, the sharp edges of your rosary a trace of pain against your overheated flesh. You settle your knees on either side of him as he removes his hands to undo his slacks and pull his cock out. 

Your head, suddenly drained of blood, and light as God’s grace is sent spinning again as he manhandles your waist and positions you over his cock before he pulls you down onto him. 

It’s the only bliss you know how to achieve, the only time you’re interested in what God’s put on this earth, when Padre Domingo fills you completely, stretching you and making you take it.

His head makes a hollow noise as it falls back against the booth and you follow him back, braced against his chest, knees sliding further open, white boots obscene against the dark wood and his black ensemble. 

He flips your skirt back up and anchors his hands in the fat of your ass, guiding you in a punishing pace, up and down. You cooperate as best you can but your muscles won’t support it anymore, starved of blood and oxygen. You dig your hands into his shirt and try to keep up. 

Your head lolls against his shoulder and he turns to whisper filthy nothings into your hair as he lifts you up again and again. Calling you his gorgeous little princess as the wet sounds of your fucking echo around the booth. 

HIs breath hitches in a way that you know means he won’t last much longer. You convince one of your hands to unwind itself and snake downwards to pay attention to your clit. It won’t take much, you’ve been close for a small eternity. It takes only a few small circles before you’re coming. 

Whatever command you had of your body is gone as your orgasm vacillates through you, collapsing all your weight against him. You can feel yourself flutter around him as he thrusts up once, twice more before he inters himself in you, whole body tensing, leaving bruises where his finger tips are embedded in your flesh, as he comes, lingering in you. 

Aftershocks torment your body as he relaxes under you, hands soothing over what he’s damaged. He rains muffled praise into your neck as you recover against him. 

You’re not sure how long you stay together like that, long enough for you to notice him softening inside you and for you to take the hint and pull off. You’ll have to get the come out soon but for now you prop back on your knees to plant your feet back on the floor. 

You stretch out as much as you can, rolling your ankles and feeling your vertebrae pop back into place. You watch as he tucks himself back into his slacks. He notices you watching and he blushes, he’s always sweet in the afterglow. 

He pulls you back in, beginning to thread your lace back through the eyelets of your shirt. He goes slowly, making sure the lace lays smooth and that the luster faces out. He steals one last feel of your breasts before he laces it the rest of the way and tightens a bow. He fixes your skirt as best as he can, the pleats are rather ruined. 

You lean in for one last kiss, long and lingering; affectionate. 

He pulls away to breathe and you straighten up before turning around to make sure no one will catch you leaving the booth. He trails a finger up each of your thighs, sending another set of shivers through you before he lands one last swat on your ass. You let out a small squeak not expecting it but when you open the curtain, there’s no one outside to have heard. 

You open the door fully and step out, boots back on stone flooring. You hold the door open for him to step out. As he goes to close the booth he spots your panties still inside and bends to pick them up. He goes to give them back but you tuck them into his shirt pocket. You’ll get them back later. With a wink you start back toward doors to grab your bag and hoodie. He’s watching you go so you bend all the way over to pretend to look for something in your bag, giving him a full view of what will await him Sunday afternoon. 

You straighten back up, feeling the slick mess of come start to leak out. You really needed to get home. With a final sweep to pick up and sling your bag over your shoulder, you push open the door and head out into the afternoon sun, inner thighs slick with his come. 

Part Two (stands alone)

Part Three (stands alone)

End note: I’ve got some other ideas including Sunday afternoon somnophilia, the og seduction, the mentioned in story quickie, shower bj, and further improper use of a rosary

[potentialproblem01]

Come eat kids! Padre Domingo Part 3: Feast

Part three lets go! This wasn’t supposed to be this long but here we are, things get away from you sometimes lol. Usual acknowledgements to @creme-bruhlee for the invention and to my Daniel server fam for the encouragement, for this one particularly @daniielbruhl

This will stand alone, however there is other content in this universe:

Part One

Part Two

If you’d prefer to read on AO3

Herein contains: 7.3k of smut, continued disrespect to the Spanish Catholic church and its holidays, NEEDLES, breathplay, bondage, vibrator torture, wax play, improper use of a rosary, gags, oral, wine, nipple torture are the big ones I think. Also like, this is stylized sex so salt generously.

You had gone over to Padre Domingo’s house as usual only to be quickly ushered in and invited to disrobe. Your hoodie gets tossed towards a peg but misses and lands on the floor. Usually he wasn’t nearly so forward but today seemed to be special. 

The dining table had been cleared off of the place settings and table runner and ornaments. He stopped you at the head of the table, coming up behind you and running a hand over your shoulder, leaning in close to drag his nose along the low back of your shirt’s neckline. He runs a hand down to the hem before tugging it up. You get with the picture and raise your arms so he can take it off. 

You’re left in your skirt, boots, and bra. You lift your foot to the table to start working the laces undone before yanking the first one off and repeating the process as he runs his hands over your back before unhooking your bra and throwing that to the floor. 

You unzip your skirt and let it fall, stepping out of it and pushing your panties off. Completely nude in his dining room while he’s still in his pale button up and black slacks. He takes out his obsidian cufflinks, setting them on the side table and rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. His oversized rosary peeks out from his open collar. 

“On the table.”

You follow the order without hesitation, popping up on the table, swinging your legs over the side. 

“Flat out, Princess.”

You follow that too, laying down flat against the dark grain, keeping your eyes on him as he sweeps around the table, disappearing to the next room before returning with the ropes, worn smooth with oils and mileage. He moves to the head of the table, taking an arm and looping the wrist in a knot before tossing the length under the table. He crosses to the other side and bends down to retrieve the rope and loop it around your other wrist before pulling it taut and knotting it again before letting the excess fall to the floor. You pull on your left hand and feel it yank on your right wrist. In your periphery you can see him smirking. 

He grabs another rope and moves to the foot of the table, capturing your ankle and pulling it to the corner and tying it to the table leg as tight as he can. He repeats for the other ankle and you’re spread out on his table, a meal for one. 

He stands at the foot of the table, watching you, legs spread. “Do you know what day it is?”

You have a moment of panic, did you miss an anniversary? A birthday? A holiday? “December eleventh?”

“And what does that mean?”

“That it’s Friday?”

“That it’s my Feast Day.”

You had missed a holiday. “And you’re eating me.”

“Knew you’d catch up.” With one last look up your legs, he leaves again. You hear him rumbling around in the bedroom. 

He returns with his hands full: prayer candles in slim glasses, tapers, blindfold, gag, lighter, a wine bottle, wand vibrator. He sets his effects on the side table and goes to retrieve a wine glass from the kitchen rack. 

He pulls the cork and fills the glass before returning them to the side table. He retrieves another rope and the vibrator before perching on the edge of the table at your hip. He winds the rope around your thigh loosely and then slides the vibrator through the rope so it comes to rest against your clit. He tightens the rope while holding the wand's position, the pressure sending a light shiver through your pelvis, tensing your thighs as he cinches up on the rope, finally tying a knot in it to keep the wand in place. 

He flicks the switch to it’s low setting, vibrations humming up your body through your clit. It feels good but it’s not enough to get you off. You squirm in your restraints, trying to up the contact, create a contact rhythm. You can’t move much and earn a slap to the inside of your thigh for the effort. You wriggle a little more in protest, earning a slap to your other thigh. 

“Be good.”

“Yes, Padre.” And maybe you shouldn’t have said it like that as his warm eyes narrow and he glances at the side table, considering the O ring. He gets down off the table and grabs it, walking around to the head of the table, leaning over your face.

“Don’t interrupt.” He traces a finger over your smile before forcing a thumb in, pressing against your teeth and tongue, pushing at the piercing to try to force your tongue back. He levers your jaw open and places the ring against your top teeth, pulling his thumb away to be replaced by metal. He trails the wet thumb down your chin before using one hand to raise your head and the other to latch the buckle at the back of your head. 

“Better.” He walks away and you turn your head to track him. He grabs a chain from the supply pile, turning back around and cupping your breast before slapping it. He comes to twirl the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, coaxing it to hardness. He tugs on it a few times, pulling at the elastic skin before pinching it between a clamp. 

He reaches over you to play with your other nipple, running a fingernail across it before getting it between his thumb and forefinger, tugging on it. He retreats to massage the breast before placing a slightly harder hit to the underside, watching it jiggle. He twists lightly at the nipple before clamping this one too. He tugs on the connecting chain, the cold metal sending a shock through your chest. 

Next he grabs the silk blindfold, it’s a new one you note. A rich Byzantium purple. He leans over your head again, his rosary threatening to leave his shirt as he places the fabric. He lifts your head to knot it, the silk softly hissing against itself and your hair. He removes his hand and lets your head fall back to the table. The impact reverberates through you. 

He moves back to the side table, opening the drawer and pulling out his personal copy of the good book, the only thing that stays in that drawer. It sounds like he’s flipping to one of the many tabbed pages and then the scratch of one of the barstools as he sits on it. He sets his book on the counter, turning his back to you.

You hear the pages turning as you stay bound to the table, writhing against the low-grade clit torture, unable to see or move or speak. 

You're unsure how long he leaves you like that, but you heard the scratch of pen against paper, ostensibly to take notes for the weekend's sermon. You start to feel warmth ease out of you, dripping down your folds and pooling on the table, sticking in your thigh creases and crack. The head of the vibrator is starting to slip and slide and you wiggle trying to keep the contact maximized. He must hear you struggling as the barstool screeches as he pushes back and air is displaced at your hip as he arrives. 

He runs his hands over the rope tying the vibrator to you before turning it off and shifting it around your thigh, ceasing the delicious contact. He runs a finger through the mess, smearing it over your abused clit before drawing back down, teasing a finger at your entrance before plunging in with one finger and then another, his cool fingers a relief against your overheated cunt. He pumps twice before pulling them out, the sounds of him licking at your juices reaches your ears and you squirm again, trying to beg but coming out a mess of consonants. 

“Princess, you taste so good, all for your Saint Daniel.”

He moves again, to the foot of the table before getting on top of it and laying between your thighs, his shirt dragging against your skin with a cloud-soft touch. He rests his hands on your thighs, coaxing them farther apart as he dives in, gathering as much of your slick on his tongue as he can, stubble catching on delicate skin. 

He swallows and goes back in, lavishing your clit with attention, a persistent pressure as he eats you out. He moves his face down, curling his tongue to catch every last bit of your moisture, drinking it down. He goes to suck on your clit, a gentle vacuum causing you to wriggle. 

You’re getting close and trying to warn him, your toes beginning to curl inwards before he lets up and drags his teeth quick and vicious across your clit, the pain sharp against your arousal, pushing you into an orgasm. You thrash, trying to close your thighs but only being able to pull at your bindings, rubbing your wrists raw. He dives back in to lick out the newly released fluid, lapping at it with harsh flicks of his tongue.

His fingers bite into the fat of your thigh, kneading it before using it to push himself up from where he laid on the table. You hear the clinking of the wooden beads of his rosary as he fiddles with it, drawing it from his shirt and taking it off. 

His weight shifts, snaking over your body, beads trailing where his fist ghosts across your skin. A hand comes down by your ear to brace himself. You can feel his breath as he levels his face over yours, cool inside your held open mouth. If you had been able to see, you’d see the wicked little glint in his amber eyes. 

The beads slide down the side of your throat as he drags them to your lip before dropping the cross through the ring, the silver unpleasant and sickly sweet against your teeth. He holds it there, just inside your mouth for a second before he exhales a little harder and begins to lower it further. The taste of the worn and aged silver is acrid on the back of your tongue as it drops down your throat. The cross and beads chime against your bar. 

One of the arms catches on your molar, altering the even deployment down your mouth. The cross wobbles, descending the long way as the first of the oiled wooden beads slide on your tongue and past the cross, weighing the cross enough to dislodge it from your tooth. The silver and wood tangle together as they tumble down against the back of your throat. You try to be good and suppress the reflex to gag but you can’t. The silver and oil are unpalatable. Your body spasms once before you get your involuntary movements back under control.

He holds the rosary there, letting you struggle to contain your reactions, spit welling in your mouth as you resist swallowing it and the cross down. He shifts his weight again, setting the beads in the corner of your mouth and letting the rest trail across your cheek to the table, changing the way the cross sits in your mouth, beads between teeth. He runs a hand over your brow, teasing the edge of purple silk before he dips his head beside yours, nipping at your ear, “So good for me.”

He shifts again, the collar of his shirt a scant sensation on your overheated skin. He runs a finger over your lower teeth before a quick swish results in a wad of his spit dropping into your mouth, sliding down your tongue, the hint of ash and mint. 

He traces the ring before grabbing the train of beads and pulling on it, dragging the wood and silver across your tongue and teeth before removing it entirely. He winds it around his fist with a wet glide as your spit sticks to him. For good measure, he bites at your top lip before dropping another wad of his spit down your throat. You can’t stop the swallow. He sits back before trailing his beaded fist across your breasts, tugging at the clamps and chain, the drying spit a pleasant stick against your skin. 

He moves further down the table, setting himself between your legs again, coming level with your cunt once again. He licks at you again before bringing his rosary down your stomach and over your clit, still over-sensitive and swollen. 

He rubs the beads fisted in his palm, warm and wet wooden pearls, washing them slow and sure over you. You start to edge near another orgasm, the fluttering of your thigh muscles giving it away and he lifts the beads away. 

The rosary slinks off his hand, starting with the metallic clink of metal on wood before the dull thuds of the beads hit the table between your legs. 

He dives back in for another quick swipe of his tongue through your folds before inserting a single digit, swirling around in the heat of you. He withdraws it, sucking it into his mouth with an obscene slurp before the rattle of beads proceeds again. 

You feel the first bead as he slips it in and each subsequent pair as the rosary is pushed into you, clustering up right inside your entrance before he takes a finger and pushes them farther up your cunt. 

You're dripping for it but with such minimal preparation you start to feel stretched long before he nears the end of the beads. He keeps forcing them in, the wood spheres knocking against each other and into your walls smoothly in contrast to the rough twine stringing them together which absorbs your slick, causing a dry drag. 

The feel of his finger combined with the beads, the contrasting skin and wood grain driving you insane. The big center bead is roughly forced in, the angles of its triangle sharp as they breach you, his finger forcing it far up your channel. 

The rest of the pendant is drawn in as he inserts his finger as far as it can go and the cross catches, too wide to easily follow. He withdraws his finger before placing the cross between two fingers and easing them in, cunt admitting the cross with a gracious hand. He widens his fingers to pull them out and leave the cross inserted. The barest hint of the base is left visible. 

“Gorgeous,” he breathes, the ghost of his breath cooling the metal and dusting across the spread of your slick. 

You feel him tug on the vibrator again, moving it back into place and you whimper, nudging against your slit and the base which jostles the rest of the beads and you shiver. He snuggles it back against your clit and tightens the binding before flicking it back on the low setting. The vibrations run through your clit and spread through the sensitive and nerve dense tissue causing your muscles to spasm, the walls of your pussy fluttering and clenching around the beads. Your legs flex, pulling on the bonds but all you can manage is to move your arm over the edge to pull uncomfortably at the awkward bend of your wrist. 

You can hear the smile in his voice as he tells you how good you take his beads, how good you take his fingers, how delicious you taste, lilting as he moves around the table, examining you from every angle.

He returns to the side table. You hear the click of a lighter, the hiss of a fresh wick catching and burning. He doesn’t move, not that you can hear but the soft scent of warming paraffin wax filling the room. 

The whisper of heat draws closer and the first drop of wax causes you to flinch even though you knew it was coming. A large drop begins to gel in the center of your chest, dead between where gravity pulls your breasts toward the table, congealing and cooling to soothe the pleasant burn of it. 

Another splatter drips down into the hollow of your throat, the thin skin there heating up quickly and you struggle to stay still to keep it from running down your collar bones and making a mess. You’ve been punished for making messes with the wax before.

You breathe through it, careful to regulate it: exhale to relieve the tension, inhale to distract from the burn. It takes longer to cool, a thicker pour. It sticks and you can feel the glob every time you swallow. 

Next he trails an irregular spill down your stomach, letting some run and pool in your navel, the burn acute as the wax envelops the piercing there, a deep sting and you can’t help flexing your abs and arching off the table a little, pulling at your wrists. For your disobedience you receive a sharp slap to your breast and a quick flick to the clamp. Your muscles jump again and the vibrator makes a particularly delicious moment of contact with your clit with the movement and the unexpectedness of it sends you over the edge into a trembling orgasm. You strain against the table, actions no longer your own, involuntary convulsions radiating through you.

He laughs at you, “Unable to contain yourself today?” There’s a cruel edge to it, something dark lurking in the level accusation. “No restraint? No wonder you’ve fallen so deeply into sin.”

He moves back to the head of the table, tilting the burning candle carefully over your brow, a single melted tear landing in the middle of your forehead, a mockery of ash. You can’t contain the flinch when the wax hits you and he runs a thumb over your brow to hold you still, “You’re doing so well for me, Princess.”

He runs a finger down the silk covered bridge of your nose before dipping a finger into your mouth, the taste of wax clinging to his skin. He runs the finger over your tongue a few times, twiddling with the piercing there, before removing it. 

He moves down the table again, a hand skimming fingers and provoking shivers in its wake. A pinch here and there, a tug on the chain, a light slap, further tenderize you. 

He comes even with your hip, nails digging into the prominent bones of your pelvis. A splat of wax below your navel, another further south, a thin line tracking down across your bikini line and stopping before it reaches the head of the vibrator. 

You hear a whoosh as he extinguishes the flame and then you writhe as one last smear of wax is dumped from the rest of the melt perpendicular to the line, a desecrated cross. 

You hear him set the stub of the candle back on the table and then the clink of shifting glass: the thin prayer candle you saw him carry in. The tall, thin glass is set beside your ear as he carefully slides his hands under your head, searching for the latch of the gag before he undoes it. The leather comes away from your head. “Keep open,” and he pulls the ring from your mouth. You try to keep your mouth in the same shape but you still need to adjust your jaw. He tsks at you. 

You hear the metal parts of the gag on the wood of the side table where he tosses it. “Open wide for me.”

He picks up the candle and you feel the cold glass against your teeth, “Wider.” It compresses your tongue as he fits it in, the glass unpleasant against your teeth and clinking on your bar. He leaves it shallow, telling you to bite down to keep it in place. This candle is a special one with notches in the glass to fit your teeth against. He removes his hand, the full weight of the candle and glass resting in your mouth. There’s a whisper as he moves back to the side table for the lighter before there’s a spark of heat and flame above you as he gets the wick to catch. 

He sets two other prayer candles beside your head and lights them too, the wicks burning away with soft snaps.

He puts the lighter down and picks up the filled wine glass and goes to stand at the foot of the table. If you could see, you’d see him raise the glass with both hands, brown eyes closed. It’s quiet outside the buzzing of the vibrator and the occasional crackle of flame.

He begins: I yield Thee glory, Jesus Christ my God, for all the blessings which Thou hast heaped upon me, and for the grace which Thou hast given me that I should embrace this manner of life. But Thou knowest that in ascending this pillar, I lean on Thee alone, and that to Thee alone I look for the happy issue of mine undertaking. Accept, then, my object: strengthen me that I finish this painful course: give me grace to end it in holiness.

He drinks deeply of the wine, draining the glass. You hear the glass being set back on the table and the slosh of more wine being poured in. 

You also hear the stripping of plastic, the thin sterile kind you know the needles he orders come in. You hadn’t seen him bring those in. You could snap if you wanted to end it. You don’t.

You grit your teeth against the glass in your mouth, trying to ignore what the vibrator is doing to your clit. The first pop of a plastic cap sends a slow creep of fear through your core. Several other needles are removed from the protective casing. The pop of antiseptic bottle opening and the sharp alcohol cut through the heady scent of wine and smoke that permeate the room.

It freezes against your skin, so very different from the heat of the wax. He moves the doused cotton over your chest, swirling it around the clamps; alcohol squeaking against the metal. The evaporation further cools you and makes you shiver, softly pulling at your bindings. 

He pinches a layer of skin parallel to your collarbone, rolling it between his fingers. The anticipation of the pinch is worse than the actual sensation, the pierce and then the indistinct feel of metal gliding under your skin before the exit. He pushes it all the way through, until the plastic junction presses against the hole. He lets the skin go slack, the needle shifting under your skin. “Beautiful.”

He traces the length of the needle through your skin, his breath ghosting across the injury. 

He moves around the table to the other side, displacing the air behind your head in his swiftness. He picks up another needle. He slaps at your other collarbone before quickly pinching another inch of skin and sliding it right through. The skin stretches back into place before the bite of the slap subsides. He emits a sound from so deep in his chest it could constitute a purr. 

He reaches over you, grabbing another needle and discarding the cap. He scrunches up another section of skin at the top of your breast, parallel to the ones in place higher up. He draws the plastic end over the skin for a minute in a soothing and regular motion before in a moment of true dexterity he flips it around and rams it home, the delicate skin giving way to metal. A bead of blood wells. He swipes a finger to capture it before bringing it to his lips. 

He grabs another needle and lays his chin up against your side, the scratch of his scruff unpleasant to your oversensitive and abused skin. He reaches over you to grab the corresponding skin on your other side. He makes several attempts to grab the exact right skin, shifting his face and eyeing the angle. He shifts until he gets a good match before exhaling against you slowly and with the patience and deliberation of a saint tunnels through your skin. When it’s fully inserted he moves back and stands, admiring his work. 

He picks up another needle, moving to the head of the table and reaching down over you to align the next needle. It slides home through the center of the slope of your breast. Sharp and tender through such delectable real estate. He swiftly repeats the action on the other side, a ladder of needles up your chest. 

He rubs your areolae at the same time, the silky skin elastic for him, playing with the wrinkles he causes. He blows over one causing it to tighten further. He tugs on the chain before moving for more needles. 

He pinches again, thumb pressing into areola and forefinger rougher skin before running the length under the barrier between the two zones. It hurts. More than the last four needles and it makes you clench your teeth around the warm candle in your mouth. You try to breathe through your nose but it comes out shaking. He rubs apologetically at your shoulder, whispering about how good you are for him. 

It’s a distraction as he grabs hold of your other breast and with merciful cruelty slips the corresponding one through. “So close,” he kisses your hair. “Almost done.”

He moves back to the table and you hear the wine rolling around the glass as he lifts it and sips. He sets it back on the table with a soft impact. You know what comes next.

He fondles your breast, running over the ridges of embedded needle, twisting lightly at the clamp before doing the same on the other side. He pulls at the clamp, tugging it as far away from your body as it will go, stretching the delicate skin and tugging uncomfortably at the other needles in your breast. He picks up another needle, the sound of the plastic hitting the floor loud. “Breathe in, mi cielito.” 

It’s expected but the pain still burns as he pushes the needle through and it hurts more as it exits. He shushes the whimpers that escape your occupied mouth, raining praise and soft endearments. He is considerate in the rate he lets the skin return to it’s natural laxness. 

“Can you do one more for me?” It’s a rhetorical question.

He completes the artistry with one final needle through your other nipple, the pain sharp and bright and more intense with the blight of it heavy in your working memory. He releases his hold on the clamp and lets your skin revert. “So beautiful for me.” A hand brushes through your hair, petting at you. It retracts and you hear him walk away into the kitchen. The freezer door opens and the crush of ice is heard slipping around in a bowl. 

He comes back, setting the bowl radiating cold at your shoulder in opposition to the heat of candles at your ears. He fishes around in the bowl, trying to get ahold of a piece. 

When he applies it to the first set of needles below your collar, the frozen water quickly warms and melts, water running down your chest, channeling against the wax in the middle. 

He rubs another piece over your other collar, soothing the pinch, drowning it out in the cold. The water joins the other river through gaps in the wax, collecting enough to run all the way down your abdomen, pooling in the valley between your hips and falling back to the table, not getting to where you want it to fall. Your core is burning with the generated heat from the vibrator and your own slithering arousal and previous orgasms. You let out a frustrated noise and he shushes you again. 

He repeats the process, melting ice over the needles in the top of your breasts before quickly moving on to the ones under your areolae. The cold hurts, the skin having been subjected to pain and stretched to its limits repeatedly. He leaves the ice on for almost too long, cooling turning to burning but not quite making it to numbing. 

The cold water running over your body wracks you with shivers. The cold competes with your overheated body to dominate your nerves. It’s another added stress to the heated glass between your teeth and the heat between your legs and the shift of beads inside you.

The ice supercools the metal of the clamps, making them additionally unpleasant as he does both nipples at the same time. It soon turns to a modicum of relief as the pain still etching around your nerves is dulled by the chill. He waits for the ice to completely melt, dragging his wet fingers around your areolae before trailing them in the rivers of meltwater flowing over you. “So good for me,” he breathes, reverently, tugging at a solidified wax puddle. 

He stands up again, grabbing his glass and drinking again. You hear him refill it and when he stands behind your head and raises his cup once again and recites the Lord’s Prayer you can taste the wine on his breath with each word. When he finishes he blows the candles out. 

He removes the candle from your mouth, quickly setting the warm glass aside before it can damage his fingertips, and you instinctively go to work your jaw open and closed trying to relieve some of the stress it’s been under. He massages your jaw for you, wide fingertips digging into the joints. “Can you stay open another minute, Princess?” You want to please him, you really do, so you try to keep your mouth open. 

He picks his glass up and drinks again before he tips it over your mouth, the first bitter rivulet a surprise and you close your mouth causing him to miss, splashing it across your face and down your cheeks, gathering in your hair and on the table. He tuts at you, “Messy and ungrateful. Receive your blessing with more respect.” 

You obediently open again and this time when he pours, you swallow it all, mouth wide, fruity and bitter. “Good girl.” 

You close your mouth again. You hear him take another drink himself before he extends an arm over you. The splash of wine to the center of your chest is cooling, mixing with the leftover ice water and diluting from a plum to a pale ruby, rills of pink stain your skin.

The sound of a fingertip singing across the rim of the glass disrupts the low hum of the vibrator. He dips his fingers into the pool of red before a spray of red flecks across your body. You hiss when wine comes in contact with a needle hole, the sugar and alcohol stinging. He does it again, a sudden shower of wine sticking to your skin. 

He moves around the table, leaning down, his breath evident on your wet skin. His tongue darts out to lap at the fluid caught in the corner of your hip. You try to shift and get his face where you really want it but he holds you down with a hand to your thigh, pushing the vibrator further against you and changes the intensity to high. You convulse once before another shallow orgasm shakes through you, you don’t have enough left to give anymore. You flutter around the beads in you and hear the cross clink against the table followed by a few beads. 

He clicks his tongue before setting his glass aside and moving to access your cunt to shove them back inside. He fights against the involuntary aftershocks still coursing through you, the beads drenched and not wanting to stay in place anymore. He struggled for another moment before relenting and pulling the whole strand free. You shudder for a second longer before you fall limp to the table. 

He clicks off the vibrator, untying the rope and setting it aside with his free hand. You hear him slurping on the beads, sucking on the thoroughly coated rosary. He savors it, enjoying your taste as you recover from the last orgasm.

The rosary lands on your stomach when he’s done with it, wet with your juices and his spit. He picks up his wine glass again, chasing you with the blood of Christ. 

He splashes more over your chest. The poured wine stings the tunnels in your skin, the wounds darkening but you don’t have the energy to move anymore. The wine glass is set by your hip. You hear his belt unbuckle and the glide of leather on wool as he removes it and then there's the click of his button coming undone and the muted sound of fabric falling to the floor. The soft snick of buttons undone.

He climbs on top of the table, situating himself between your thighs. He runs a hand through the mess you’ve made of your cunt before inserting a finger and hooking up to rub at the rough patch. You’re too wrung out to stop him, forced to take what he gives you. He picks up the wine again, spilling the rest across your breasts, the alcohol stinging your abused nipples and astringent around the needles. 

He shuffles closer, hands finding your waist, and you can feel his cock slide around your entrance before he gets a hand on himself and pushes in past the initial resistance. He bottoms out with a wet noise, a loud groan escaping him. Your cunt is hot and slick and everything he wants. He pulls out and slams home again, gripping your waist. You cry out with the force of him. One of the hands leaves your waist as he sets a punishing pace. You hear the buzz of the vibrator as he returns it to your tortured clit. You smirk a little, this is a trick he only uses when he won’t last much longer and demands for you to come again. 

You can feel it building inside you, sluggish and dark and thick like molasses. But he’s close too, no regularity in his thrusts, frantic, chasing, searching. The peak of fanaticism and zealotry.

He shifts the hand on your waist, pulling you in close, crushing the head of the wand against you as he pounds away. The table shakes with it. He leans over you, hand moving from your waist to your throat both to support him and cut off the oxygen in your brain. 

You’re already so fucked out, so disconnected from your body that the next orgasm barely registers, a sudden clench of your muscles, wrists raw from pulling at the ropes, the pain of exerted tissue a clearer indicator than pleasure. You contract around him and his grip on your throat tightens before he pulls out of you, and grips his cock instead, allowing air back to your brain. He discards the wand before he strokes himself once before he’s shooting over your stomach mixing come with wax and wine. He comes for an age, ropes settling across your hips and the last spurts painting your entrance. 

He pushes his cock back in one more time, dragging some of his come inside feeling the last of your orgasm as his cock starts to soften. He pulls out and hangs his head, breathing hard. You lie limp on the table. 

He reaches up to remove the silk covering your eyes, the knot coming undone in his shaking hand. The light hurts, even through your eyelids. You’re slow to open them and when the world expands to include the rest of the room, the first thing you see is him hovering over you, blissed out smile adorning his face. 

You cough a few times before mumbling, “Was the feast to your liking?”

He huffs a laugh before pushing himself off the table, groaning as his ankles click to support his weight. He wobbles, clarity slowly returning to him. 

“Let’s clean you up, no?” He goes to the kitchen to grab a paper towel, the sound of ripped perforations seeming to echo. 

When he returns he sits on the edge of the table, mopping up the wine and water and come painting your abdomen. He’s careful as he peels the hardened wax away, mindful of where it clings to body fuzz. Each piece strips away, dropped onto the pile of dirty towels, a malleable white mountain. He picks at the pool on your forehead, looking you in the eye as he peels it away, an easy smile that you return. 

He places himself between your legs, kneeling as he works at the tiny dots making the cross above your cunt, touch placid and mindful of how sensitive the area is, the abuse he inflicted. It takes time to get it all and you float away as he works at it until he finishes by licking a broad stripe over your slit to gather up the wetness remaining there and a wave of heat crashes through you again, waking you back up. Evidently you’re not done with him yet. 

He gets up to throw the wax and towels away and he returns with the needle container. 

He moves to the foot of the table, yanking once on the knots binding your ankles to the legs of the table and letting the rope fall to the floor. He moves to undo your wrists one at a time before laying your arms palm up next to your body. Your joints are overcome with static as they come back to you, pins crawling up your legs and arms. You don’t try to move. 

He removes the paraphernalia by your head and climbs up behind you, setting your head in his lap. The scent of sex is strong. He leans down to press a kiss to your lips, languid and spirited, devoted. 

You can feel your hands enough to raise them and run them  through his hair, scratching at his scalp. He breaks the kiss and you drop your hands back to the table. 

He walks his fingers over your face before returning to your lips, seeming to admire the shape before running a fingertip along the seam and you open for him. An upside down smile, wicked for a blink before he’s letting his saliva ease into your mouth again. It collects on your tongue and when he closes his mouth you swallow, content. 

His fingers continue to wander, under your jaw, down your throat, rubbing at the red left by the wax in the hollow of your throat. They walk across your collar before arriving at the first needle. With one hand he tugs the skin smooth and with the other tugging the needle out in a measured and deliberate motion. 

The needle hums under your skin as it pulls free, somewhere between unfeeling and unpleasant, only registering since you know it’s happening. 

He discards it, the crisp sound of metal on metal as it drops into the container. He returns to pull the next one out, rubbing at your collarbone before pulling it out in the same agonizing fashion. Another chime as it joins the others. 

His hands separate as he prods at the ones atop your breast tissue. He catches your eye, holding it before he yanks the pair out. He sees you flinch clear as day, the slightly wicked shine returning to his eyes, an unapologetic, “Sorry.” You can feel his start to harden under your head.

He looks away to find the next set, the same spark of cruelty manifesting as he rips out the ones edging your areolae. These ones well with blood and weep with it. He bends over you to lick at it, a smear of blood visible on his lip as he pulls away before his tongue darts out to clean it off. He holds your gaze, heat curling in his eyes turning them dark. 

The needles through your nipples remain and he tugs at the clamps, jostling the metal complex torturing you. He pushes down on the clamp before he starts to pull the first one free. He makes it halfway before he pushes it back through. He teases it in and out, a fucked up bow through the instrument of your breast, path changing under the pressure from the clamp compressing tissue. 

It hurts. There’s no arousal to dull the pain, just steel ripping through nerves. You start to shake and he relents, sliding it free for good and discarding the needle and opening the clamp, the skin sticking to the pads and he has to manually peel it away. 

He leans in and attaches his mouth to the nipple, swirling his tongue around, lavishing it in heat, elements to soothe and elements to hurt as the saliva swishes around the holes. He nips once before pulling back, a strand of spit connecting to his lip before he breaks it. He’s fully hard again.

He’s kinder to the other nipple but not by much. You’re sweating again as he pulls the other needle out, wiggling it to cause a little more damage before it completely exits and he discards it. He removes the clamp and tosses the chain to the side table. 

He laves at that nipple in apology, running his hands over your chest, soothing your shakes away. Once they’ve subsided he lifts your head and folds himself out from under you, standing again. “Shower.”

Your limbs burn as you try to stand but he helps you, arm slinging around your waist and pulling you close, tucked into him. He helps you to the bathroom, turning the water on and helping you in before closing the glass door behind him. 

Steam fills the space and you feel a little woozy but the solid and thick mass of him supports you from behind as he washes the blood and come off you, rubbing between your legs and over your ribs to work at the wine stains. 

He soaps you up, his hands slipping over your warm and large and grinds his cock against you. He rinses you of soap, spinning you to get your back before he pushes at your shoulders. You can’t refuse, too tired to say no or stand on your own. 

The tiles are warm against your knees. His cock bobs free in front of your face and you open your mouth despite the ache. He rubs himself across your bottom lip before setting his cock over your tongue. 

He thrusts in gently, foreskin catching for the barest second on your piercing before you flick your tongue and free it. You don’t have the stamina to truly service him, a weak suction resulting in filthy noises as the air and saliva gets fucked around in your mouth. 

His hands bury in your hair and he moves your head for you. The water runs over your face, collecting in your mouth when he pulls out. The water and steam obscure your sight and the warm setting sun anoints him with a golden light, shining off his wet skin, a dark saint. 

He’s not desperate, taking his pleasure like he savors good liquor, the last course of a meal. 

The faintest twitch of his thighs is all the notice you get before he’s coming, declaring something about you being blessed to receive his wisdom and that he rewards his most loyal disciples. 

His come sits on your tongue before you remember how to swallow, light headed from the steam and exhaustion. He pushes your head back and tilts your face up to look at his. He thumbs as a smear of fluid that didn’t make it into your mouth and lets it wash away. He cups your jaw, pressing at your cheek. You can’t resist him. As much as you provoked him, he’s always been in control. 

“Mi cielito.”