“Calla lilies today, huh,” I said, tilting my head in an attempt to nudge a stray curl off of my face. It was too damn windy for huge, curly hair like mine today; I knew I shouldn’t have left my hat in the car. I smiled and presented him with the final three hefty bouquets of his order. “So pretty.”
Father Tiefer’s smile was strained as he nodded, extending long arms to relieve me of my floral burden. “There’s a wake tonight, and a funeral service tomorrow.”
“Perfect,” I said, regretting the word as soon as it left my lips. With a smirk, the priest regarded me, calculated amusement in his eyes.
“Oh,” I said, biting back a laugh and averting my eyes. “I mean…not perfect. Sorry. I just meant, ah…fitting.”
“Yeah, I figured that’s what you meant,” he replied with another tight smile. His face was so handsome, but he always looked like he was struggling to conceal great disdain…like he was smelling something rancid, but wanted to be polite about it. His brow was nearly always furrowed as he peered down at me patiently with cold, world-weary eyes. It was deeply perplexing: there was something unreadable and invasive in his gaze, like he could see right through me… and was judging me. It was kind of thrilling.
Who knows, maybe he was like that with everyone. Maybe not. Some days his eyes seemed softer than others, though never less world-weary. I wondered how much he slept.
I’d been wondering a lot of things about Father Tiefer recently.
The good Father and I had been exchanging little more than pleasantries every Friday morning for the past eight months. At ten forty-five A.M. exactly, I drove the eight minutes from my friend’s flower shop, Lydia’s Garden, to the front door of Our Lady of Perpetual Suffering to deliver the church’s weekly flower arrangements. It had never occurred to me that churches regularly ordered flowers before I started working with Lydia, but I guess it made sense. Especially right before all the weekend services.
Besides, I would never pass up an opportunity to interact with Father Tiefer.
He wasn’t exactly your typical priest—not that I was particularly well versed in the matter, mind you, but I wouldn’t even classify him as a typical fellow. He stood an imposing head and shoulders (and then some) over my five foot, five inch frame, with shocking, silvery-blonde hair, a slender build, and cheekbones that could cut fucking glass. There was a seriousness and rigidity to his comportment: his back was always ramrod straight, and he rarely cracked a smile. I was never quite sure if I was annoying him or entertaining him, an unnerving sentiment that piqued my interest.
Then, three weeks ago, he’d actually laughed at one of my feeble attempts at a joke. Of course, I couldn’t remember what I’d said for the life of me, but I could remember that the moment his laughter left his lips was the exact moment that I realized I wanted him. In a way that no one should ever want a priest.
“You’ve been comin’ here for a while now, but I never see you at mass,” he said, his deep, Southern drawl pulling me from my thoughts.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, shoving my gloved hands into the pockets of my pea coat and offering him an uncertain smile.
“Well, if you ever find yourself in need of confession, you know where to come,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand.
I returned the gesture with an awkward chuckle. Get it together, I repeated over and over in my head, trying not to shudder at the feeling of his cool fingers brushing the back of my hand.
“Uh, thanks, but… I’m not really religious,” I replied with a slight shrug. Averting my eyes, I fidgeted with the fraying end of my purple scarf. “I think the last time I was actually in church for a service was on Christmas Eve a few years ago.”
He smiled again, wider this time. “Of course. That’s alright. Thank you for the flowers.”
“With pleasure, Father. Same time next week?” I raised my eyebrows, hoping that the motion would drive some of the blood out of my blushing cheeks.
He nodded and opened the painted red front door for me. “Same time next week.”
I waited another week and some change before I did something stupid. I knew it was only a matter of time before I got way too bold--be it on my own or with the assistance of a controlled substance--and made a grand, unseemly gesture.
Although, I must say, everything that I had ever done before paled in comparison to the…outrageously inappropriate decision that I made that fateful Sunday.
I wasn’t what you would call drunk, necessarily, but in no world would it be considered sober. I don’t know, I had met up with some of my friends that I hadn’t seen in a few months for brunch, and we had ordered quite a few beverages—how could I say no to Sunday morning specials?
Four strong bellinis and not nearly enough food later, I stumbled into the winter chill. I told myself that I should just walk home, but I found myself wondering if Father Tiefer ever had brunch, or if every single Sunday of his life was devoted entirely to God things. Before I knew it, I was standing outside of Our Lady of Perpetual Suffering, gazing soporifically up at the stone building.
It was windy, yet the chill barely registered as I pulled my phone from my coat pocket. 14:45. I chewed my lip and shifted my weight. I guess there was no harm in seeing if he was in there, right? He was probably in there. I would have been surprised to find out that he didn’t live at the rectory. Besides, he had encouraged my confession.
In my woozy state, I was feeling loquacious and overly penitent. Ha. Overly penitent. Smirking at the thought, I pushed open the door. It smelled like such a church inside, I couldn’t help but wrinkle my nose: slightly musty, with residual incense hanging in the air from 11:45 mass.
Pulling off my hat and gloves and unbuttoning my jacket, I stepped into the transitory space that was the church sans service, sans parishioner. Sans Father Tiefer, from the looks of it.
My name in his soft drawl behind me sent shivers up my spine.
“Hello, Father,” I said with what was surely a lopsided smile, steadying myself on the nearest pew. My bleary eyes wandered skyward, lingering on the ornate stained glass portrait of Jesus Christ in the window over the pulpit. “I was in the neighborhood and I’d…I’d like to confess something to you.”
He nodded. “Of course, my child. Follow me.”
I didn’t know if my face burned from the booze or the proximity as I followed him through the rows and rows of empty pews to the confessional booth at the back of the church.
My knees hit the uncomfortable, upholstered bench as I squinted, adjusting to the darkness. Father Tiefer’s profile was visible through the grate that separated us and I could hear him settling into his chair. He had not closed the curtain all the way, allowing a sliver of sunlight to trickle in through the gap, illuminating such copious quantities of dust that they looked almost colloidal suspended in the air. Guess this booth didn’t get a ton of traffic. I sniffed and hastily shoved my hat and gloves into my pocket.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I started, remembering lyrics to a Cradle of Filth song as the foreign words rolled off my tongue. The pastor at my church growing up had told us about taking confession, but having been raised by a fairly lax pair of pseudo-Episcopalians, I had never actually done it.
“How long has it been since your last confession?” came his deep voice, rich and thick like honey, seeping through the partition.
“I’ve, uh, well, I haven’t really, uh…never, Father,” I admitted.
“Never? Well get on with it, then, we might be here for some time.” Warmth flooded my cheeks at the obvious smile in his voice. “Unburden yourself, my child.”
I licked my lips and said lowly, “I’ve had impure thoughts. Very impure thoughts. About a man.”
The priest’s head tilted slightly, his chin poised tentatively. He held his silence. I inhaled deeply, my heart racing. “He’s terribly unavailable,” I continued, my breath catching in my throat as I realized that I could smell him: I had never been this close to him for such a long period of time, his scent had always eluded me. He smelled of manufactured cleanliness, drugstore shampoo, punctuated by traces of incense and cigarette smoke. Blood rushed between my thighs.
“I’ve known him for a while, I guess, but I don’t really know him. You know? Like…he’s an acquaintance, I suppose. We’ve exchanged pleasantries and small talk once a week for the past eight months, sometimes twice a week. Well. Most weeks,” I continued, leaning closer.
Father Tiefer’s cassock rustled against his matted seat cover as he shifted and cleared his throat.
“He’s a good man…at least I think. From what I can tell. But there’s more to him…something in his eyes. I can’t put my finger on it. I dunno, you know?”
Fuck, had it always been this hot in here? I shrugged out of my coat, letting it slide haphazardly to the floor of the oppressively tiny, confining space of the confessional. The motion threw off my already precarious balance—shit—I reached up, my fingers latching onto the wooden lattice. Father Tiefer’s head jerked back, startled by the movement.
“What else?” he asked.
Dizzy from the intimate proximity to the object of my desire, head full of booze and devoid of inhibition, I pulled my body flush with the wall of the confessional.
“Can I tell you my thoughts?” I whispered, brushing a black curl behind my ear with a tremulous finger.
“Of course. You can tell me anything, my child,” he murmured, his parted lips catching my eye through the partition.
Wetness gathered between my thighs as my grip tightened on the barrier. “I’ve thought about the way his hands would feel in my hair,” I murmured, my free hand balling into a fist at my side. Releasing the fist, I traced my fingers slowly over my hipbone. “Specifically pulling my hair.”
The priest was silent; I knew his lips were pressed together in a tight line, the way he always looked when he was waiting for something. Emboldened, I dipped my fingers beneath the waistband of my leggings, my long fingernails grazing the sensitive flesh of my lower abdomen. My gut flip-flopped and my heart pounded, but words burst forth from me of their own volition as my hand wriggled lower.
“I’ve thought about the way his body looks under his clothes, the way his hands would feel on my flesh....” Biting my inner cheek to stifle a sigh, I pressed at my hot, aching sex through thin underwear. Fuck, I was gonna burst.
“Father,” I whispered, ignoring the dull pain in my knees from kneeling. “I love his hands…specifically his fingers. They’re so long, I think about what they would feel like touching me…slipping inside of me…”
I exhaled audibly and pressed my head to the grate. Father Tiefer remained silent, though the intense energy of his presence scorched through the thin wall between us.
My fingers slid across the entrance to my body without pause, slicking immediately with my copious arousal. I shuddered. “God…Father, I want him so much…ah, I just—“ I squeezed my clitoris between my middle and index fingers and rubbed, slamming my eyes shut as electricity shot through my body. A moan escaped my lips as I caught a whiff of his scent and I rubbed harder, yearning to pull the barrier down and sit on his cock, claw at his flesh, riding him until our sins converged and dripped down my thighs in thick, viscous rivulets…
I must have said some of this aloud, because a sharp intake of breath was audible on the opposite side of the confessional. Father Tiefer’s lips parted to say something, but my eyes rolled back in my head and I jerked forward and continued my confession.
“I want to fuck him,” I whispered hoarsely, the flesh on my thighs quavering as I increased the speed of my fingers against my swollen clit. “I want his mouth on me, his tongue licking into me, his cock filling me until I come…”
Heat pooled steadily behind my belly button. My knuckles tightened in the grate until they were white. “Father…Father…” I groaned. “It’s so terrible, I’m so wicked, I want him so much.”
Shockingly, Father Tiefer said nothing, yet he was close enough that I could feel his breath ghosting across the tips of my fingers. I had long since abandoned any stock once placed in social decency (in any decency, really), driven nearly mad by the persistent ache between my thighs and raw desire, reservations so dulled they were nearly nonexistent. “I want you so much,” I whimpered, self-loathing and need rippling through me as I circled my hips, grinding my clit against my fingers. “God, Father, please…”
I gazed beseechingly through the grate as I rubbed myself faster. I bit my lip at the sight of his face, half hidden in shadow, bearing an inscrutable expression as the sunlight caught on his lovely, pale eyelashes, and that was it: I surrendered to my sinful physicality. I gasped his name and shuddered as my orgasm washed over me, baptizing me in the flames of my own carnality.
When it was over, I slumped against the wall, my back curved, my chest heaving as I struggled to regain my breath. The post-climactic afterglow that had just heated my blood turned cold as the realization of what I had done began to set in, sobering me.
After what seemed like an interminable silence, Father Tiefer cleared his throat and drawled, “Do you seek forgiveness for your sins?”
I languidly withdrew my fingers from their stronghold on the lattice that separated penitent from priest. “Yes,” I said hoarsely. “I seek forgiveness for my sins, Father.”
A long exhale. “Ten Hail Mary’s, ten Our Fathers.”
I pursed my lips and frowned, slightly confused, slightly relieved. Was he going to pretend that I hadn’t just gotten myself off in his confessional, like the next parishioner he received would not kneel where I had knelt, perhaps even touching the partition that I had clutched as I shook with pleasure in the house of God?
My skin crawled, like millions of little bugs’ legs were scuttling over every inch of me. My mind raced not with coherent thoughts, only the overwhelming message of: fuck.
“I will repent for my misdeeds,” I mumbled, afraid to look anywhere near him as I hastily buttoned my pea coat over my ample breasts.
“Good. In the name of the Father, the son, the Holy Spirit, I…I absolve you of your sins.”
I muttered, “Thank you, Father,” as I rose to my feet and flung the curtain open. Sparing only a nanosecond to pause, I added (pathetically), “Sorry.”
I crossed the length of the church so quickly that I stumbled twice, blinded by the necessary urge to escape as soon as possible. I flung the red doors open, wincing in the sunlight, refusing to look back at the undoubtedly baffled priest emerging from the confessional.
I had attempted to delay Friday morning—and the inevitable delivery it brought in with it-- as long as humanly possible, but despite my best efforts to slow time, it came anyway.
“Girl, it’s ten forty-five,” said Lydia, slightly annoyed as she leaned on the counter. “You gotta take the flowers over to Father Tiefer.”
My stomach turned over at the mention of his name. It wasn’t that I had kept him from my thoughts (quite the opposite, actually), rather that I had absolutely no idea how I was going to face the man after the inexcusable, drunken nightmare that had been last weekend. I’d thought about this all week: thick waves of soul-crushing embarrassment rolled over me, accompanied nearly always by a cold anchor of dread settling in my stomach.
Possibly even more disturbing were the hot, dark pangs of desire that rounded out my triad of confusing emotions. He had known what I was doing, he could have stopped me at any time, but he didn’t so much as utter a single word as I feverishly rutted in the booth beside him.
Oh, God. My face burned at the memory. How had I fucked up this badly? The eight-minute drive from the florist to the church passed far too quickly, and before I knew it, I was walking from the car to the ominous red doors, cold sweat dampening the inside of my gloves and the underarms of my black velvet dress.
Surely, Father Tiefer had heard some atrocities in his lengthy career as a man of the cloth. Even if last week had been an unprecedented affair for him (which, fuck, I’m sure it was), he was no stranger to hearing about humanity’s basest failings, right? It wasn’t like I had confessed to killing someone, or wanting to kill someone—or gotten off to that. All things considered, it wasn’t really that bad, right?
No, no. There was no way to reconcile this. This was bad. Really, really bad. I shook my head. Get it together.
Relief and disappointment hit me in equal measures when no one greeted me in the modest entryway. I frowned. This wasn’t the first time that he hadn’t been available to take the delivery right away. Heart pounding, I made my way to the back of the church, towards the unassuming door of Father Tiefer’s office. I nearly passed out at the realization that it was cracked ever so slightly. Bracing myself, I pressed my shoulder to the door and slowly eased it open.
A breath I hadn’t realized I was holding rushed from my lips. Maybe I could just drop the flowers off, leave, and we would never, ever speak of my indiscretion ever again, because he would never receive deliveries from me in person ever again. Perhaps this was the beginning of a tacit agreement to never face one another ever again. He’d already paid for them, so…technically, if he kept this up, we could just do this whole passing-each-other-like-ships-in-the-night thing forever.
(Or at least until I died of embarrassment and/or guilt.)
Best not press my luck. I quickly arranged the vases and bouquets on his desk, careful not to disturb anything, before turning on my heel and hurrying out.
Inexplicably, I felt compelled to slow my rapid stride as I crossed the front of the church. It was surreal to see it so empty, a liminal space filled with rows of gaping pews, haunted by ghosts of prayers left unanswered. I hadn’t really taken the time to appreciate it when I had been tipsy the week before. With a surreptitious glance, I moved slowly away from the pews towards the altar. It was strange to see it adorned with only a simple white cloth. No monstrance, no goblets, no flowers… I grazed my fingertips across the surface. I shouldn’t have been touching it, probably, especially not after what had happened--
“Hello, my child,” came the voice that I would have rather not heard from behind me. I tensed as cold sweat slicking my palms.
Steeling myself, I turned around. There stood Father Tiefer, not more than a few yards from me at the base of the three short steps leading up to the altar, looking as priestly as ever in his black cassock with his light hair neatly combed back, his lips quirked up in the beginnings of a smile.
“Uh, hi,” I said, my voice rocketing about three octaves higher than its normal pitch. Trying to appear unaffected, I leaned back against the altar. “You scared me.”
His smile widened, stretching his lips thin as he studied me with cold eyes. “Have you come in for another confession?” he asked, extending his arms in a welcoming gesture, almost as if he expected me to run into them. He made the short ascent towards me with slow, measured strides.
Fuck. I furrowed my brow, shrinking back as he approached. Inhaling deeply, I tried, “God—gosh, Father Tiefer, I…I don’t really know where to begin. I am so sorry about everything I said, I just—“
“Oh, no need for apologies,” he said abruptly, looking down at me through those long, white eyelashes. Any kindness that I’d ever seen in his eyes was gone, leaving in its stead a devious, almost reptilian apathy that forced every hair on the back of my neck to attention. Panic began to set in—I don’t quite know what I had expected of our interaction, but it had not been this.
“Come on,” he continued, cocking a pale eyebrow and stepping closer. “I imagine that you’ve got much more to tell me. You were so eager to…bare yourself entirely last week.”
I barked out a nervous laugh, fixing my eyes on the tips of my black combat boots as I sidestepped him, attempting to put distance between us.
One of his long arms shot out, knocking into my own arm as he spread his large palm on the altar. Alarm bells clamored in my head as the pit of my stomach dropped.
“You think you can come into my church, make a fucking spectacle of confession, ‘confess’ your nasty, sinful sexual fantasies about me, a priest, to my face as you get yourself off?” he hissed, caging me with his body. My eyes flitted around the room, unseeing as my nerves usurped any capacity to search for an out.
“Have you even repented?” he whispered, the sharp points of his canines glinting in the dim light that filtered through the stained glass window.
Shit. Shit shit shit. There was that scent again: the clean smell of his shampoo and faint smoke barely masking the natural scent of his skin…my inner thigh muscles squeezed together as my body responded in kind, suspended in an incongruous mélange of fear and arousal that erected itself like a massive roadblock at the forefront of my rational mind.
The soft, unmistakable snikt of a switchblade opening halted the words forming in my throat. Blood froze in my veins as my eyes met Father Tiefer’s. There was that ineffable look-- the one I’d struggled to describe during my drunken confession— magnified tenfold. His smile widened as he brandished the shiny knife. I flinched as he leaned in, close enough that our lips nearly touched, his eyes searing into my soul. “Have you fucking repented or not?”
My mind raced as I scrambled to grab onto any semblance of rational thought and process this horrific, other side of the quiet, older priest I’d thought I’d known materialized before my very eyes. Was this a dream?
“Y-yes,” I stammered, bracing myself on the altar with trembling hands. “I said the Hail Mary’s, and all that…”
Something terrifying flashed across his eyes before he laughed: it was a sweet, authentic sound, unsuited for the moment, which sent a fresh bout of confusing arousal coursing through me. “’And all that?’ Do you even remember the penitence I gave you?” He narrowed his eyes. “Bullshit.”
A strange, dreadful defeat settled over me as he pressed the cool blade against the burning flesh of my cheek—the air was stifling, too fucking hot, igniting my flesh with an infuriating itch. I thought I might die if I didn’t shed my coat, or flee from the church screaming…maybe a combination of both.
He grinned in earnest and deftly maneuvered the blade under one loose, thick, spiral of my hair. “Come on,” he sneered, flicking his wrist and severing the length of the curl. My bottom lip trembled--that blade was sharp as hell. “Why don’t you treat me to another one of those honest confessions? And this time, I’ll be sure to give you penitence that’ll actually fucking stick.”
“Father, please, don’t,” I whispered, my heart not fully in it, my eyelids fluttering and my blood pressure spiking as he began deftly unbuttoning my pea coat.
He pushed the coat over my shoulders, letting it slide to the floor along with my black cardigan to reveal my crushed velvet black dress, black tights, and combat boots. I whimpered and steeled myself, but he just looked at me expectantly.
“Well, get up there,” he snapped, gesturing to the altar with his knife.
I looked at him incredulously. “What?”
The priest’s mouth twisted in a sneer and he pressed the knife to the soft underside of my chin. “Get up there, or I’ll fuckin’ hurt you.”
Oh, Jesus. Swallowing thickly, I hoisted myself onto the altar in compliance. “Please…stop…” I begged, staring at the sunlight-dappled church ceiling as he roughly pushed me onto my back.
“Why should I?” he spat, wrenching my thighs apart. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
I slammed my eyes shut, half irrationally praying that Father Tiefer wouldn’t be there when I reopened them, half praying that he would. Fuck. I didn’t want this, but…I did. I did want this. I did want him, and I fucking hated myself for it. When I reopened my eyes, he stood between my thighs, towering over me with a wretched, crooked smile on his face.
Relishing in my fear, he slowly danced his blade across the thin nylon of my stockings, moving upwards to my quivering inner thigh. My fingers caught in the tablecloth as I desperately attempted to scramble backwards, but to no avail—the cool, inexorable steel finally found the throbbing heat of my sex.
“God, please don’t!” I yelled, frantically trying to shut my legs against his bony elbows. I reached forward to pull at him, but he was too fast—his hand caught my wrist, eyes so alight with rage they nearly glowed red. He wrenched my arm and twisted with a force I hadn’t expected from him—I saw stars, crying out as he hunched over me, forcing my hands over my head.
“Test me again and you’ll fucking regret it,” he said softly, his breath hot on my face. His fingers tightened on my wrists. “Understand?”
Paralyzed, I nodded stiffly. He released my arms and knelt between my legs; my eyes were fixed on his blade as he trailed it down my body, across my heaving breasts, over my stomach, lower, and lower, until…
The distinct sound of nylon splitting apart—he flicked his wrist and sliced, just deep enough to cut a wide hole into the crotch of my tights—my lower lip trembled. He wasn’t going to stop.
“Start fucking confessing,” he commanded, sliding the knife into the thin fabric of my black thong and cutting. I whimpered as my cunt was exposed to the cool air, and cried out again in shock at the feeling of the blade against my labia. He curled his fingers in the nylon and ripped my stockings even wider. “Start. Fucking. Confessing.”
“Oh, God,” I gasped, suspended in disbelief, hovering between wanting to grab him by the hair and kiss him kiss him kiss him and wanting to thrust that knife right into his evil eye.
Suddenly, white-hot pain shot through me, compelling my fingers to clench at the white tablecloth. Craning my neck, I saw his knife, tinted red, a fresh gash to my inner thigh oozing thick blood.
“Start confessing, you filthy little slut, or you will regret it,” he warned, pushing my thighs so wide my hips ached.
Heart pounding, I grasped for the right words. “Forgive me, F-Father, for I have sinned,” I whimpered, my eyes fixed on the roof of the church.
“Good. Go on,” he murmured, a cruel smile in his voice as he dipped his head.
“Even though I confessed last week, I’ve still been having those impure thoughts about—ah! Father!” My back bowed off the altar, hands clawing at the lip of the table as I felt two of those long fingers part my pussy lips before his hot, wet tongue licked at my swollen clit. It wasn’t furtive or experimental, either, no—he lapped at me with the confidence of someone who had done this many times before.
“Fuck,” I whimpered, turning my head to muffle my voice in my bicep as my body twisted. He was relentless, using his entire mouth to lick and suck the words-and sense-- right out of me through my cunt until I was chanting “Father” like an incantation.
He stopped briefly to press the wet knife to my clit, inducing a full body spasm before he barked, “Continue.”
An unnatural, warm terror inundated me as I tried desperately to anchor myself in the reality of the situation, but I slipped—holding on by just a thread, I babbled, “Oh, Father, I’ve…I’ve thought about you while touching myself, so many—ah! So many times.”
He hummed against me before dipping his tongue into my dripping entrance, licking teasingly once, twice, then plunging its length inside of me. My periphery clouded with spots, blurring the sight of the wooden beams above me.
Another sharp pain pulled me back to earth from the intensity of my blissful ascent—I cried out as hot, viscous fluid dripped down my other inner thigh, seeping into the nylon before falling to splatter onto the church’s matted carpet.
“More,” he growled, wiping his mouth on his sleeve before rising and positioning himself between my trembling legs. He lifted his cassock and pulled out his cock. Holy shit—My eyes widened and my cunt clenched at the size of the thing as I watched him stroke himself. I wondered with a fleeting delirium why he would waste such an endowment on a vow of celibacy and a life devoid of earthly pleasure.
“Father, please,” I groaned, undulating my hips, stroking my hands over my breasts. To my chagrin, a thrill danced up my spine at the thought of him cutting my dress off with that fucking switchblade.
As if he could read my shameful thoughts, he hauled back and slapped me across the face so hard that my vision swam and the metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth. I let out a strangled groan as his large, clammy palm spanned the length of my throat and squeezed.
“More,” he repeated through clenched teeth, rubbing the thick head of his cock against my wet, yielding cunt.
Frantically attempting to simultaneously pry his fingers from my throat and wrapping my legs around his waist, I gasped, “I’ve thought about you…f-fucking me…ah, nonstop, since the last time—fuck, God!”
I threw my head back and screamed as he released my throat, pinned my hands over my head, and pushed his length inside of me in one swift motion. “Mmm, Father,” I moaned, bucking my hips as I deliriously attempted to acclimate to the girth of his cock as it stretched me open.
Father Tiefer gripped my jaw tightly, his eyes burning into mine as he forced me to meet his predatory gaze. “Was it just like this?” he cooed tenderly, increasing the intensity of his grip--he rocked his hips forward (God, so fucking right), driving himself right into that spot -- “Did I fuck you just like this in your filthy little fantasy?”
“N-not quite like this,” I murmured, tightening my thighs around his slender waist, relishing in the sting of my open wounds rubbing against the fabric of his cassock. I wanted nothing more than to stare at the ceiling, at anything but him, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away…I’d imagined this so many times: the micro expressions, the thin sheen of perspiration on his forehead, the locks of mussed silvery-blonde hair falling across his face…
God, and he could fuck, too—much better than I had dared to dream. Though he was incredibly rough, he moved his slim hips expertly, the depth of each thrust forcing cries for a God I doubted existed from my throat. My heart clenched in my chest as delicious heat blossomed between my legs, that sweet, telltale ache building up as he held my hands above my head, my wrists digging painfully into the wood. I rolled my hips up to meet his and crossed my ankles at his lower back, impelling him forward, driving him deeper inside of me.
Hurriedly gathering both of my wrists in one hand, Father Tiefer gripped my jaw viciously, squeezing until my lips parted in a lopsided O. My eyelids fluttered deliriously as new pain mixed with forced pleasure.
“That’s it, open up that fucking mouth, cunt,” he commanded with a thrust so brutal and perfect that my eyes rolled back into my head and I saw stars. With a snarl, he curled his upper lip, leaned forward, and spat a copious globule of saliva into my waiting mouth.
Tears pricked my eyes as I choked on the spit, yet my traitorous cunt squeezed around the length inside of me. I let out a forceful cry as I drowned in Father Tiefer—the smell of his sweat, the look on his face, the taste of his spit, the sting of his knife wounds, the indescribable feeling of him splitting me open as he held my aching jaw...
“G-God,” I breathed, barely audibly. He grit his teeth, his eyes burning into mine and he thrust into me deep, and that was it-- shuddering violently against the altar, I tipped over the edge, crying out his name over and over, my toes curling and tears streaming down my cheeks as my orgasm tore through me in explosive, agonizing waves and my cunt covered his thick cock in evidence of my lust.
“Filthy girl,” he spat, increasing the speed of his thrusts. “Filthy little heretic cunt.”
Releasing my hands, he found his switchblade, decorated in the drying blood of my thighs. Yanking my hair back, he pressed the blade directly to my jugular.
“Fuck!” I cried, my own sweaty fingers clutching weakly at his wrist as my limp, spent body trembled in the wake of his wrath. Father Tiefer seemed a man possessed, his red eyes brimming with malevolence as he grit his teeth and pressed the blade against the thin skin of my neck, hard enough to draw blood, and rammed his cock deep inside of me over and over until finally, his hand shook and he threw his head back and came deep inside of me with a thick grunt.
Panting hard, he returned to himself much quicker than I had, grinning as he removed his knife from my throat and brought it to his lips. His long, pink tongue darted out between his swollen lips to lap at the drying blood as he smiled.
“Tasty,” he murmured hoarsely. He eased himself out of me, frowning down in disgust at his wet, softening cock before stroking the evidence of our shared orgasm from it and wiping it slowly across my lips and chin.
He tucked himself away, straightened his cassock, and smoothed his hair back as I struggled to process what had just happened. He stood before me, looking as unsullied as ever—the only indicator that he had just fucked vigorously was a slight blush high on his cheekbones. Face stoic, he stowed his switchblade and regarded me disdainfully as I lay atop the altar, bleeding thighs spread wide, stockings ripped beyond repair, his copious release dribbling out of my cunt and down my ass crack as my chest heaved with pants and weak, choked out sobs. (Though I couldn’t quite discern if I was crying from the agony and the ecstasy of the sex, or from the realization that I’d just been violently ravished by the good Father.)
“Clean yourself up and get the fuck out,” he instructed, his drawl soft and unassuming as he walked the length of the altar. “The boys’ choir rehearses here in an hour, and I won’t have my church reeking of slut.”
“Fuck!” I yelled as he yanked my hair back, forcing my head over the edge of the table.
“I’ll be thinkin’ about all of those little facial expressions, all those slutty little noises you made as I fucked you raw all week. Until I can have you again, just like you want,” he whispered throatily in my ear, stroking soft pads of his fingers across the length of my exposed, sore neck. “Besides,” he continued, his lips brushing the shell of my ear—he tightened his grip in my hair. “No one would ever believe you.”
With that, he released me, straightened his cassock, and turned on his heel.
“Oh,” he said, an afterthought. I sat up to gape at him dazedly as I shakily wiped my face on my forearm.
He grinned treacherously. “Ten Hail Mary’s, ten Our Father’s. I absolve you of your sins.”