DARK OBSESSIONS

The Priest’s Confession

Chapter 1 – The First Sin

The confessional at St. Augustine’s was ancient oak, worn smooth by centuries of whispered sins. At 11:47 p.m. the church was empty, moonlight slicing through the stained-glass rose window in bleeding shards of crimson and violet. Father Elias Moreau knelt on the priest’s side, the rosary wrapped so tightly around his knuckles the ivory beads had begun to cut.

He was twenty-nine, ordained two years, and had never once broken his vow of chastity. Not even in the seminary showers when the older boys laughed and stroked themselves under the spray.

He had simply closed his eyes and recited the Litany of the Saints until the urge passed. Tonight, the litany felt very far away.

The kneeler on the penitent side creaked.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

The voice was low, smoky, familiar. Delphine de Rochefort. Thirty-eight years old, widow of the Comte de Rochefort, died last six months. Every Sunday she sat in the front pew dressed in mourning black, veil so thick no one could see her eyes. Elias had noticed the way her gloved fingers worried the rosary, the way her full breasts rose and fell beneath bombazine when she breathed the responses.

“It has been… six months since my last confession,” she continued. “And every night since my husband died I have burned.”

Elias swallowed. “Go on, my child.”

A soft, almost amused exhale. “I am tormented by the flesh, Father. I lie in that cold marital bed and imagine the most depraved acts. I spread my legs and touch myself until I weep with shame. I picture a priest (young, handsome, forbidden) tearing his cassock open and forcing his cock into me while I beg forgiveness.”

The rosary snapped. Beads scattered across the stone floor like hailstones.

Elias’s cock surged against the rough wool of his habit, instant and agonizing. He had not had an erection this sudden, this violent, since he was fifteen. He shifted, trying to hide the ridge, but the movement only made the fabric drag across the sensitive head.

“These are grave temptations of the Devil,” he rasped

“They are not temptations,” Delphine murmured.

“They are hungry. Tonight I wore nothing beneath my dress. I sat in your church with my thighs open under the skirt, praying you would notice the scent of my cunt drifting up to the altar.”

His breath stopped entirely.

“I am wet right now, Father. Drenched. If you reached through this screen you could slide your fingers straight into me. I would come just from the blasphemy of your holy hand inside a sinner.”

Elias’s mouth went dry. “Child—”

“Say my name,” she interrupted softly. “Say it while you imagine tasting me.”

He should have rung the bell for the sacristan. Should have fled. Instead he heard himself whisper, “Delphine.”

A pleased hum. “Good boy. Now listen carefully, Father Elias. Every night I fuck myself with three fingers and pretend they are you. I whisper the Act of Contrition while I rub my clit raw. I come screaming your name into my pillow so the servants won’t hear. And every morning I kneel at your Mass with your seed still drying between my thighs, because I imagine you filled me the night before.”

The lattice between them suddenly felt paper-thin. He could smell her now: rosewater, church incense, and beneath it the unmistakable musk of an aroused woman.

“Tell me your penance,” she said, voice trembling with excitement. “Or I will stand in the square tomorrow and tell the entire village what I just confessed. Every detail.”

Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Then, so low only she could hear: “Open the door, Delphine. Just a crack.”

His hand moved without permission. The confessional door creaked open three inches. Moonlight spilled across her face. The black veil was pushed back; her lips were painted crimson, eyes glittering like a predator’s. She had breathtaking high cheekbones, creamy throat, the swell of her breasts straining against black silk.

Without breaking eye contact, she gathered her skirts to her waist. No petticoats. No drawers. Only smooth stocking thighs framing a bare, glistening cunt. Her inner lips were swollen, flushed dark rose, slick with arousal that gleamed in the colored light.

“Touch me,” she breathed. “One stroke. Then you may run if you still can.”

His trembling right hand crossed the threshold. The moment his fingertips brushed her, she sighed like a woman finally receiving communion. She was scalding, slippery, impossibly soft. He traced her seam once, twice. Her hips rolled forward greedily.

“Inside,” she commanded.

He pushed two fingers into her without thinking. She clenched hard, a broken moan escaping her throat. Her walls fluttered around him, hot and wet and alive.

“Yes… deeper, Father. Pretend it’s your cock violating every vow you ever made.”

He pumped helplessly, thumb finding the hard pearl of her clit. She rode his hand shamelessly, skirts bunched at her waist, breasts heaving.

Within a minute her thighs began to shake.

“I’m going to come on a priest’s fingers,” she panted. “In God’s house. While you watch.”

Her orgasm hit like a storm. She bit down on her own wrist to muffle the scream, but the wet sounds of his fingers fucking her through it echoed obscenely in the silent church. Juices flooded his palm, ran down his wrist, soaked the cuff of his cassock in damning evidence.

When the spasms finally faded, she pulled his hand free and brought it to her mouth. One by one she licked his fingers clean, tongue swirling, eyes locked on his the entire time.

“Tomorrow night,” she whispered, releasing him. “Leave the door unlocked. And wear nothing beneath your cassock, Father. I want to feel the skin God gave you when you damn us both.”

She stood, smoothed her skirts, and walked out without another word. The heavy church door thudded shut behind her.

Elias remained kneeling, hand still wet, cock throbbing so painfully he could barely breathe. He stared at the scattered rosary beads on the floor and realized he was already lost.

He did not sleep. He knelt before the tabernacle until dawn, forehead pressed to the cold marble step, whispering every prayer he knew while his untouched cock leaked steadily into his underclothes.

At 6:00 a.m. he celebrated Mass with her scent still on his fingers. When he raised the Host, his hands shook so badly the chalice veil slipped.

Delphine was in the front pew as always, veil lifted just enough for him to see her smile.

She mouthed two words he would carry like brands for the rest of his life:

Tonight, Father.