Chapter Text
Mildred had died giving birth to sweet Sarah. It nearly broke John Pruitt, seeing his daughter all alone with no method of giving his sweet girl the comfort she deserved without revealing their secret. He was forced to watch from afar, supporting her education in the form of “scholarships” donated from the church as an act of charity. It wasn’t hard, seeing as there weren't many college-goers on the island. The people of Crockett island were more than happy to donate to help Sarah get her doctorate with the promise that she would return to care for them as well as her ex-navy “father.” He got to watch her grow from afar, graduate high school and then from a prestigious medical school as an esteemed physician and return to her people.
And with her, Sarah brought you.
You were a friend of Sarah’s. Studying in the nursing program and just a few years behind her in your studies. The two of you had made an excellent pair as doctor and nurse and became fast friends, so much so that the offer of helping her out and adopting the same quaint island life seemed like a good idea.
You had had enough of the city life, as well as city hospitals. That was how Sarah had explained it when people asked about the new nurse in town. The pace of the city got to you, you always had time to treat patients, never enough to see them flourish and heal after their injuries and sickness. Things like that got to you after a while, so the idea of a quiet, intimate island life seemed perfect.
She had warned you beforehand about St. Patrick’s and the old fashioned religious tradition that much of the town adopted with it. You had told her it was of little issue, wasn’t anything you hadn’t overcome with the religiousness of your own Baptist family back home.
What you weren’t expecting was Monsignor John Pruitt.
The man was invented before the wheel itself and you were convinced he was there for the birth of Jesus as well - or maybe even the writing of the Bible seeing how well he knew it front to back.
He was an honest enough man, when he was lucid. Dementia had hit him harder than Beverly fucking Keane allowed the people of the island to let on. You were fully convinced that she had sent him on the trip that incited this whole nightmare with the new Father Paul in an attempt to finally push John Pruitt into the arms of death.
You were put in charge of his treatment during his final years on the island, even becoming a comfort to the Father given all the time you spent with him in the evenings. You were single, so you had plenty of spare time in the evenings - and your bleeding heart meant you tended to give extra care to your patients. You had never regretted it. Not for a single moment.
Needless to say, you were saddened when you heard John Pruitt wouldn’t return from the mainland. He was a sweet man, and you had fought tooth and nail against Beverly to keep him from leaving the island to do God knows what in God knows where. You had a few nights where you felt like it was your fault, that you should have fought harder on his behalf.
And with this news came Father Paul Hill and his arrival on Crockett Island, startling the island and bringing the sad news that he would be replacing Monsignor Pruitt temporarily.
Nothing about it felt right. Father Paul was… different yet so, so familiar. You weren’t a church-goer - you should have only been seeing him in passing here and there on the island, but you seemed to see him everywhere you went. Every grocery run, every town meeting, every innocent walk in the park or to your job you seemed to catch a glimpse of those dark, deep eyes and carelessly styled brown hair. He was everywhere, and you never could escape that low, level voice of his. You always heard it first in a crowd, and he always, always bid you goodbye last when you left.
You were at a crossroads. You didn’t want to trust him, but you had yet to have any reason to distrust him. There was just something so off about him.
With the arrival of Father Paul Hill, things start getting strange on the island. When Sarah had called you about Leeza’s sudden recovery, you had dropped your basket where you stood in the supermarket and hurried immediately to Sarah and your office. People started feeling better. You didn’t see Eddie Flynn for his back anymore, and you rarely saw any of the kids for colds and coughs and what not. Everyone was lively, bustling, energetic and thriving. You weren’t mad about it by any means, but the shift was palpable.
No, you never did go to St. Patricks to join the congregation, but you did go frequently after mass to meet with Erin Greene. The two of you had grown close after her return to the island in your mutual distaste for Beverly Keane. Why Erin continued to attend mass despite Bev’s regular appearance there never did make any sense to you, but you could thank Beverly regardless for bringing you and Erin closer as friends.
So when you saw Father Hill exit St. Patrick’s after the group of islanders instead of Beverly, who had exited first in order to open the church doors, you were shocked. Erin had come barreling towards you with a look of excitement on her face to rival your look of bewilderment - one very similar to the face she made when Beverly said another out of pocket comment that she just had to tell you about.
“You see him, right?” she hissed as she grabbed your arm, jostling you out of your surprise. “Isn’t that crazy! Poor Monsignor Pruitt isn’t doing so well on the mainland, so Father Hill is filling in until he is better.”
“Yeah…” you breathed out, furrowing your brows, “that’s crazy… Erin, we should go--” You were starting to feel that weighty guilt again for not protesting against Pruitt’s trip enough when you heard the crunch of grass underneath polite footsteps as well as the calling of your name.
The first thing you noticed was his height, a little less than a whole foot taller than yourself and subtle confidence despite his polite stance, hands folded together in front of him. He smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, that of which were full of a slew of different emotions entirely. Concern, warmth, inquisitivity.
“Oh, hello,” you greeted, slight confusion as to how he knew your name. “You must be Father Hill, Erin was just telling me about you.”
“Yes, I’m glad Erin was able to attend- I’m thankful for all of the congregation. We had a lovely service despite my little…” he cleared his throat, “my little surprise, I guess is how you would phrase it.”
There was a beat of silence as you and Erin gave a small laugh, the ice between you and Father Hill melting just a bit - but you still couldn’t shake the terrible paradoxical aura you caught from him. Outwardly, he projected relatability. He seemed harmless, comedical even, but you could tell there was a pretense there that he was waiting to drop.
“It’s good to finally meet you, as creepy as that sounds.” The three of you chuckled just a bit at his admittance, “It's just - Monsignor Pruitt spoke about you quite a bit. He was very fond of you - as he was with much of his congregation. It sounds like you two spent quite a bit of time together.”
You nodded, a little warmer towards the priest with how fondly he talked about the Monsignor. Erin decided it was time to excuse herself to go chat with Riley Flynn, an old friend of hers who had only recently returned to Crockett. “Yes, I kept him company frequently in the evenings. If I had to guess, I’d say it brought me just as much comfort as it brought him. Even if he wasn’t lucid all of the time, he always had wise words to offer.”
Father Hill’s expression changed into something unreadable before returning to the warm front he had expressed before. “It's good to know there is such a comforting presence on the island such as yourself. I hope to see you at the next mass, I’m sure the rest of the St. Patrick’s congregation would feel the same.”
You stammered a bit, having known this topic would probably enter the conversation but still unprepared for it nonetheless. “I’m sorry, Father, I’m-- um, I’m not exactly the religious type, but I appreciate the invitation.”
“No need to apologize, that’s all it is - an invitation. You should feel free to take it or leave it as you please. Just know the house of the lord is always open to you if you feel the call.” He smiled, and with it came a strange, creeping sensation on the back of your neck. Father Hill pushed back the sleeve of his chasuble to take a look at the watch on his wrist.
“Look at the time, I ought to help Bev clean up the service. It was nice talking to you,” he intoned in that level voice of his before offering his hand to shake your own. You accepted and he turned and took a solitary step before adding-- “and please, call me Father Paul.”
As you watched him leave, you could tell there was something else he had wanted to say. It didn’t matter, you weren’t intending on making a habit of having those little chats with him.
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It was astounding to see you like this, through new eyes - youthful eyes. Before, you were like a dream, and now you were tangible. He could sense you properly, could reach out and touch you if he wanted to and God forgive him he wanted to. Not now, though, he couldn’t touch you yet. You wouldn’t understand how the angel had blessed your union, had blessed the future that would soon unfold and how you would join him in creating the new army of the Lord. You wouldn’t understand how he could care for you, had always cared for you. How he would return you to the picture of your youth, although he thought you were perfect just the way you are now despite it.
But you would understand. You would come to understand and he would plan and wait patiently until he was able to help you come around towards the path of the righteous. You were so close, so close and he would take your hand and guide you towards the blessing that was the light of God and his new offering of rebirth. He would cleanse you of sin and together you would cleanse Crockett Island of those very same sins without judgement or hatred.
You would be perfect. The two of you. Together.
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If only you had gone to mass. If only you hadn’t avoided him everywhere you went and refused to even look him in the eye when you ended up in the same space. If it weren’t for Erin, you wouldn’t go near St. Patrick’s at all.
Maybe if you had gone to mass, given him what he wanted, the power wouldn’t be out right now. You wouldn’t be struggling to fill out paperwork by the limited light of your candles and the dim brightness of your laptop screen. Maybe if you had gone, the cell towers wouldn’t be down, or the air wouldn’t have gone so still that you had gotten up and locked all your doors and windows and drawn your curtains closed.
Maybe there wouldn’t be a shrill scream in the distance that startled you out of your reverie and put your hair standing on end as you darted towards the window. There wasn’t much you could make out in the darkness besides three figures running along one of the many hills of Crockett before they disappeared over the crest of the earth.
Something in the back of your brain had told you to stay inside. To blow out all of your candles, keep the doors locked, close the curtains tightly once more and back away from the door even as you hear another shrill scream sound off in the distance and the shuffling of feet running past your house on rough gravel roads. There is every piece of evidence to suggest that something is happening outside these walls of your comfortable home, and it only gets more intense as you retreat to your kitchen to grab a knife and prepare for a worst-case scenario.
People are chasing each other outside in the distance, dragging islanders out of their home and doing God knows what - you can’t really make out anything in the darkness. As you are sneaking a peek out of your window once more, you are startled by a pair of glowing eyes in the distance, floating just next to the house across the road. You jump back, and gasp as a loud and frantic knock sounds at your front door.
You approach the door as quietly as you can, knife in hand as you peek through the peephole to see Father Paul standing outside. He is sweating and frazzled as though he had been running, hair in disarray along with wrinkles in his typically neatly ironed shirt. He called your name quietly, as though he was trying not to be heard by the participants of whatever was going on outside.
“Are-- Are you in there? Please o-open the door, I don’t know how long they’ll--” he stammered, frantically looking over each shoulder.
His performance had been so convincing. Convincing enough to quell the little voice in the back of your brain making you think that his appearance was just a little, tiny bit suspicious - but if you had yet to be attacked, what was to say that he wasn’t in the same boat?
So your hands drifted down and unlocked the deadbolt on the door without a second thought on what consequences might follow before they found the knob and turned the metal there. He pushed the door open as soon as you cracked it, pushing past you and shutting it firmly before locking the door behind him. He was convincing, so, so convincing as he sighed a breath of relief and panted as though he had been running for hours.
“Thank you--” he panted out, leaning heavily against the wood of your door.
“Father, w-what is going on out there? I keep seeing people running around and hear screaming and-- and--” you stammered out, and he put a hand on each shoulder to lead you away from the locked door and windows. In any other situation, his touch would have been the grounding touch of a shepherding pastor trying to keep his sheep calm - but you couldn’t help but notice the firmness of his fingers, the strength that you could tell was hiding behind the guiding touch as he smoothly removed the knife from your hand and placed it on the coffee table on your way past.
He corralled you towards the dining room table, sitting you down as he kneeled in front of you and tried to gather his thoughts. “I-I don’t-- I’m not sure. We were at Easter mass and somebody barrelled into the church doors and started-- started to--”
His voice faded away in your ears as your eyes landed on his shirt, on the one little droplet of blood on his clerical collar. When you noticed that droplet, the blood that soaked one shoulder of his shirt and down the right side of his torso was a lot more noticeable despite the black fabric and the darkness of the room. Your eyes zeroed in on that detail and your brain started processing. Maybe it was someone else’s... or maybe you had just let one of those psychoes into your house or--
You didn’t realize he had gone quiet, you hadn’t noticed when he stopped talking and his eyes followed your line of sight to the fabric of his collar and the blood that adorned it.
“Oh.” He uttered, almost dumbly. You wondered why he did that. Pretended to be so innocent and casual when you could now see the malicious intent and carefully planned actions behind those dark eyes. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that.”
There was a beat of silence as his hands trailed down from the grounding touch on your shoulders to a different touch on your knees and back up, big hands spreading out over the expanse of the tops of your thighs. The touch was likely meant to keep you sitting, planted firmly in the wooden chair as the priest turned predator got as close as he liked. A moment of offered security and comfort disguising Father Paul’s maneuvering to get you right where he wanted you. You finally saw the way his eyes reflected in the darkness as he looked up to you, your candles having since long burned out.
Your body became your own again and finally responded to your brain as you jumped up out of your chair and away from the pastor, the chair screeching as it was jolted from you and tipped backwards. He had allowed you to move, you could feel it, could see it in those same eyes that kept slowly losing the concern of a pastor and betrayed the cold, calculating thoughts of a hunter. He stood with you, only more slowly. There was a beat of stillness before he took one step towards you.
“Look, I know you’re afraid--” he offered, clearly trying to pacify you as you took a step back in response to his advance. “It’s hard to understand now the actions of the Lord, as he acts in ways mysterious to us at times, but we are meant to face this challenge together.” Paul outstretched his hands toward you carefully, offering you this chance to reach out and accept whatever it is he was trying to convince you of. “I know we are meant to face this new covenant of the Lord together, and- and I know you said you weren’t the religious type but you are simply without sustenance - without proof wrought from living without faith and that's okay,” he soothed.
He had all of the control in this situation, and still he was putting on that same pretense of friendly concern - as though he were your life long friend and you were just scared and confused. As though seeing you scared and confused hurt him more than anything that could ever hurt him and it was his job to make it better.
Your cat and mouse game had migrated from the dining room slowly towards the kitchen, with Paul at first bending at the waist to appear smaller, to meet your eye line in a desperate attempt to connect with you as he explained your future, God’s plan for the two of you - his posture began to straighten as he pushed you towards the darkened kitchen, a cut off gasp leaving you as your hip met the counter and he was suddenly a lot closer, far too close.
You tried to inch to the right, towards your back door when he took a larger step forward and blocked that path with his hand.
“Whoa, whoa… now, I wouldn’t, uh, wouldn’t go out there right now if I were you. Bad idea.” Your brow furrowed hard and he was closing in on you with nowhere to go as his left hand blocked the open space on that side as well. He didn’t lay a hand on the counter yet to physically keep you boxed in where he wanted you, but the hands hovering outstretched at either side of you made the threat clear. If you tried to run, he would catch you. “Trust me. You’re a lot safer here with me.”
You couldn’t help but bite off a scoff at that, reluctant to move, “Forgive me, Father Paul, if I d-don’t exactly believe you.” You sneered out his name about as much as you could given the general nervousness in your voice. He gave a laugh at the comment, nodding in understanding.
“Now, come on, don’t be naive,” he mused as he tilted his head curiously, “You know who I am-- who I really am. I could see it in your face the first time we spoke after I returned to Crockett. You could see it in my eyes and I could see it in yours.”
You were quiet for a moment, your brain stopping in its tracks. You had known he was familiar, that his eyes chilled you to the bone and stuck with you for hours after you had finished your conversation.
“Come on, call me by my name!” He urged firmly and took another step towards you as he did. You felt the pressure he was imposing with the demand, and flinched away.
“John--” you bit out, trying to appease him before he came any closer. “John. John Pruitt. Y-Yes, I know.”
You had left your knife on the table in a moment of naive comfort with Paul-- John’s entrance into your home, and now you were sorely missing its presence in your hands. You weren’t sure how much good it would have done, but it would have at least put some distance between the two of you. You knew he wouldn’t let you move to grab another one from the wooden knife block on the counter, the space between you two was small enough that he could stop you easily-- but if you could push him off balance and get to the table… If you could get to your knife on the table and make some space, you might stand a chance.
He let out a sigh of relief at your answer and a small smile adorned his face, the first genuine expression he had offered you yet. John nodded, satisfied with your answer as he lowered his arms slowly. You were finally opening up to him-- finally being truthful to yourself. The two of you were getting somewhere.
“Good, good. I knew you wouldn’t forget me. Just like I know you’ll come to understand our purpose together. Why God has blessed our union, why God has given you to me--”
You made a split second decision based on that comment, pushing yourself off of the counter as you threw your weight forward with the intention of roughly shouldering past him. What you weren’t counting on, however, were John’s quick reflexes. He stepped back just soon enough to avoid a shoulder in his chest as you barrelled past him.
It wasn’t your fault, you quelled internally, you didn’t know about the advantages John had over you-- didn’t know how he would have won every time whether it be in strength or agility or speed. You couldn’t have anticipated the way his arm would wrap around your middle to stop your path of unchecked momentum, keeping you from meeting the floor as he lifted you easily into his chest.
“Alright, enough,” he grunted, pulling you off of your feet and you squealed in surprise, “Enough of that, this is getting tiresome.” You squirmed and pushed against him as you hissed at him to let you go.
“Get your hands off me! Don’t touch me, don’t--” Why was he so strong? He wasn’t exactly gaunt, but he wasn’t a powerlifter, either. It was like he didn’t feel your fist beating against him as he wrestled you to the ground. He had the two of you leaning against the couch on the soft carpet of your home, with his back to the couch and your back to his chest.
“As I-- quit, struggling--” he growled as he gathered your limbs and pinned them against your own body with the weight of his own, “As I was saying, the Angel has blessed our union-- has spoken the word of God into my ear and told me to take you as my own. As a gift, a miracle. For He said ‘Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church. He gave up his life for her--’”
You shook your head as he continued with his rambling, turning away from him as he leaned in - trying to chase the limited eye contact he could get with you at this angle, to connect with you and help you understand his point before he finally released one of your hands to grab your jaw and turn your face awkwardly towards him. You screwed your eyes shut as he did, your free hand pulling at the hand holding your jaw.
“No, no-- Don’t shut me out,” he commanded, squeezing your jaw more firmly as he gave you a shake, “Open your eyes!” His tone elevated, and you reluctantly cracked them open. He gave a relieved smile, those dark, reflective eyes staring down at you and into your very soul. It terrified you, chilled you to the bone.
“What the hell are you?” You breathed out as his eyes seemed to swallow your consciousness whole, and he leaned back only slightly - his form and presence still encompassing you in a mixture of scent that could only be described as Father John and blood. His frustration had turned into an expression of revelation at your question, as though you had finally reached the point he was trying to lead you to.
“I am blessed by God.” He answered simply, his hand trailing from your jaw down your neck and stopping at your collarbone. “And you will be blessed too. I’ll make sure of it. We were meant to be together…” He leaned in to touch his temple to yours, “I gave up my life for you.”
There was no need for words after that - his lips brushing against yours lightly as he craned his head downward before kissing you again, more firmly this time. With each second, the passion behind his affections seemed to ramp up until he was devouring your kisses fervently and he had turned you slightly in his arms to better access you.
John kissed like a storm, at first innocent and light before escalating into a whirlwind of activity, nipping at your lips, your jaw, the junction of your neck with teeth that felt sharper than they had looked before. His hand was still at your collarbone, stroking at the skin there and upward to grasp dangerously at your neck. You whimpered as his free hand slid to curl around your jaw, turning your head to the side as he pulled you impossibly closer, his nose trailing from your neck to your ear - where your scent was the strongest - and he shushed you quietly.
“I know. I know--” he quelled as you whimpered once more, your unpinned hand grasping at the forearms of his offending limbs in a pathetic attempt to push him off of you as you fought away tears. “It’s a lot, I know - but I’m here, darling, I’ll help you.”
John had moved his hand pinning down your wrist to interlace your fingers, pressing it firmly into the shoulder of his black cardigan so you could feel the softness there as he used his free hand to remove his bloodstained clerical collar and start undoing the buttons of his dress shirt. His free hand captured yours once more, guiding you to brush your knuckles on the skin beneath his partially undone shirt to feel along the flesh there - you could feel that he was feverish and alive with excitement that seemed to strike fear in you all the more.
“Touch me,” he intoned into your ear, his voice heavy with lust and quiet like he was sharing a secret as he dragged your hand to press firmly into his flesh. “Touch me and perceive my power - share my power and become holy.” He guided your other hand up to his cheek, caressing it on his cheekbone and kissing at your knuckles before he returned his lips to your own in what seemed like a chaste imitation of a kiss.
Your struggles had become muted, your body’s fight or flight instinct having disappeared entirely in favor of a metaphorical backup plan of submitting to the apex predator in hopes of being shown mercy. He had abandoned holding your hands to his skin in favor of trailing them to the bottom of your tee-shirt, a clothing choice made for comfort as you finished your evening work. Now, John’s hands were crawling underneath it and up your waist as he bunched the fabric over your breasts. You hadn’t worn a bra today, didn’t think you needed to, and you could hear his groan of pleasure at the sight of your bare chest.
When his eyes met the smooth expanse of your skin, the invigoration there meant the rest of your clothes didn’t stand a chance in Hell against John’s plight to expose every inch of your divine body to his greedy eyes. Your sweatpants and panties reduced to halves under his enhanced strength, and now John’s fingers were upon you - sliding down from your ribcage, to the jut of your hips, to the soft mound of your pussy and the sensitive flesh that existed there.
Each time you tried to close your eyes, he would shake you out of your mental disconnect and bring you back to the act at hand. He had given you two choices: you either look at him, into those haunting eyes that soaked up any modicum of light within the darkness that was swallowing the two of you up, or you looked at the fingers that were now spreading your labia so that he could delve deeper - one big, tanned finger dipping into your entrance to gather the reluctant moisture there before dragging it up to circle your sensitive clit.
You choked out a pleasured whimper and he nodded his head minutely, almost to himself, and let out a noise of pitied understanding. As if he was expecting this, like you were some fine-tuned instrument that he played every single day of his life - that of which he would continue to play to completion at this very moment. You didn’t know what kind of monstrous or otherworldly qualities he held through his “godly powers” that allowed him to read you like a goddamned book, allowed him to understand how your body was confusing pleasure with fear and how he could use it to make your hips buck and your thighs shake against your own will.
Somehow, his hands were everything and nothing that you would expect from a priest. In one moment, they were sinfully dexterous and knew every pulse of your body like he could hear your heartbeat in his ears as he beckoned you towards that awful knot of pleasure. Hell, maybe he could hear your heartbeat pounding in your chest. The next moment, his hands carried concern and a gentle, grounding guidance to lead you firmly onward. His fingers brushed away the tresses of your hair from your face as he plunged another finger into your weeping core and curled them upwards into some hidden spot that made you squeal and move to cover your mouth with one trembling hand.
He wasn’t keen on that, using the hand not currently fingerfucking you towards a swift orgasm to wrap his fingers around your neck - squeezing only just enough to send a message. “Don’t silence yourself, darling--” he muttered smoothly into your ear, the fingers at your pussy spending extra time on your clit as your hips rose upward involuntarily. “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”
You were letting out little staccato whimpers and moans as he antagonized the wave in your core, slowly feeding into the crest that you felt was on the precipice of crashing over you when his hands slowed considerably. A breathy gasp of surprise left you as the crest abated, your hand unconsciously flying to his wrist in a shameful hope that he would continue.
“Confess your sins.” He commanded, and you shook your head fervently. That earned you a deep chuckle that you could feel through your back as the hand at your neck migrated up to stroke your hair out of your face. “You know denying me isn’t an option. Confess your sins to me and together we’ll cleanse you of unrighteousness.”
His hand picked up again, two fingers returning to their steady pace plunging in and out of you while his thumb circled along the sensitive underside of your clit. The attack of sensations had your thighs shaking, the only thing holding you back from curling in on yourself was John’s grounding hand at your neck - keeping you pressed firmly into his embrace.
John sighed in your ear, as though disappointed it was taking you so long to give into his command. The hand at your neck, previously sitting benight on the column of your throat, decided now was the time to squeeze down on your neck. You squeaked in surprise as he cut off your air - your hand grasping at his wrist as you began to panic, his fingers at your pussy abandoning your soaked entrance in favor of rubbing ardently at your clit as he urged you quickly to your crest.
The lack of air intensified the stimulation at your core, tears springing in your eyes as he overwhelmed you with pleasure that you didn’t know how to process. You shook your head desperately and his fingers slowed torturously once more, the hand at your neck releasing your throat as you gasped noisily for air between tears.
He shushed you, pressing a kiss to your tear stained cheek to comfort you. “Come on, you know what to do,” he encouraged, his hands stilled and expectantly waiting for your reply.
You took one more gasp before you confessed, babbling out every lie you had told, every terrible thought you had ever had, every time you hadn’t obeyed or had done something you shouldn’t have.
“And?” he inquired, and you bit down on your lip as you whined miserably. You knew what he wanted to hear.
“Forgive m-me, forgive me Father. I-I repent for--” you sniffled pathetically, “for every t-time I touched... touched myself.”
You could feel his lips turn upwards into a smile against your cheekbone, and his hands were in motion again. The perpetual edging had you hurtling towards your crest in record time, a choked noise of confused surprise leaving you as John’s hand tensed around your neck once more, like a viper striking you as your hips lifted upward once more into his hand - your body finally reaching that pinnacle of pleasure as your eyes rolled upward and you mouth fell open, thighs moving to press closed around his hand stopped short by his leg pinning yours down to keep you open.
Your struggles had returned as his hand continued to stimulate you through your orgasm and into the grounds of overstimulation and he finally released your throat. You gasped, begging him to stop as the pleasure became white hot and too much to bear, and he finally stopped his ministrations.
The two of you panted in rhythm, with John holding you close like something precious before he finally spoke again. “And so, beloved, let us cleanse ourselves from every defilement of body and spirit, bringing holiness to completion in the fear of God.”
“Amen.” You breathed out shakily.