Page 97 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

I fumble at the ruined buttons of my shirt and tear it off. Trousers and boxers are next, rosary falling to the floor, and then I’m in the shower, cranking the faucet to cold. I palm my erection and jerk hard enough to hurt. Another shuddering groan rips from somewhere deep in my lungs.

I forgot to lock the church doors. Someone could walk in. Someone could hear. The fleeting thoughts evaporate when I stroke again, summoning her in my mind.

Red hair.

Luscious body.

Soft skin.

That face, that smirk—beautiful, defiant, mischievous.

I should stop.

I should kneel on the tile until my knees split. I should pray a rosary on the slick floor and let the cold water freeze the want out of me. I should remember that I am a priest sworn to celibacy and that this hardness is the devil testing the hinges of his cage.

I brace my forearm against the shower wall, drop my head, and stroke again, from root to tip, imagining it’s her hand, not mine. And again. And again. Dio, she feels so good.

She’s working me fast and then slow, teasing me and taunting me. She makes me suffer, but then I make her pay for it. I teach her exactly how I like it, the angle with which to hold my cock, the force, and speed.

I praise her when she gets it right. She returns a wanton smile, and I savor it.

It’s not enough.

Nothing is enough.

She rises, hair falling over her creamy tits, nipples hard and flushed as she spins to straddle me in reverse. I have her hands behind her back—no, bound by my collar, wrists pinned together in white by my fist. She’s riding me, fleshy ass cheeks wobbling, moaning my name.

Cisco.

Father.

Fucking Padre.

My fist chokes my shaft, pumping faster. The cold water turns scalding in my mind. I want it all, and I want it savagely. I want to hear her cry out. Want to break her on my cock, make her weep, make her laugh through the tears because she knows I can’t stay away.

The Fathers wrote about this—Augustine knew. Aquinas knew. The body is not the enemy, but when the will obeys it instead of God? That’s the fall. That’s every fall.

Just stop.

Just—

Are you going to spank me, Father?

I come so hard my vision goes white. Cum spatters the tile, and I gasp, pant, whimper. My cheeks are on fire, shame already rolling in before the spasms stop. But I keep stroking, desperate for relief, until there is nothing. The ache returns bigger, hungrier, and scratching at my insides.

I lean my head against my arm, still braced on the tiles. Cold water runs over me, freezing out the last of the tremors. Every tattoo in my vision stands out against the chill. Underneath the ink, shadows writhe. Spiked horns move. The strange, living hunger beneath them is still waiting for its next meal. A meal Mercy cheated it out of.

Do you want more?

I sink to sit on the floor, back to the cold tile, water pounding my head.

You’ll always want more, and you’ll never deserve it.

When the last remnants of pleasure leave, and I can breathe again, that’s when it really starts to hurt. A great void opens in my chest and expands.

I touch my throat, tracing fingers along the raw wound she marked me with. The stinging pain lasts a second, and then I scrub my face to shake myself out of this embarrassing stupor.

Forcing myself up, I turn off the faucet, grab a towel, and dry off as best I can.