P-3

Lola had then turned and walked out of the sacristy quickly without looking back, leaving Father Marcus just standing there.

His cassock was still bunched around his waist, his cock wet and cooling in the open air, he stared at the closed door. The taste of her mouth lingered on his skin. The click of the latch seemed to echo long after she was gone.

He cleaned himself with shaking hands, pulled his clothes back into place, and sat on the small wooden stool until the light outside had fully died. He did not pray. He could not form the words. It all felt wrong.

The next day was Wednesday. Mid week Mass passed in a haze. Marcus’s voice remained monotonous through the readings and the consecration, but his eyes kept finding Lola among the ushers.

She moved with the same efficiency as always, and stood motionless during the Eucharistic prayer with her eyes everywhere but on him.

When their gazes finally met across the altar, neither looked away at once.

After the final blessing the church emptied at a snail’s pace. He found Lola tidying up and signed with deliberate hands: Stay. Please.

Lola waited until the last parishioner had gone and the main doors were locked. She followed Father Marcus into the sacristy. This time he locked the door himself, no more carelessness.

The room was dim, the afternoon light filtered through the high window. Marcus turned to her. For a moment neither moved. Then he closed the distance in two strides, cupped her face in both hands, and kissed her hard.

The kiss was not gentle. His mouth opened against hers, tongue pushing in, tasting her.

Lola’s hands rose to his chest, fingers curling into the black fabric of his cassock. She kissed him back with equal force, her body pressing forward until they were flush against each other.

He could feel the soft give of her breasts, the quick rise and fall of her breathing. His cock, already half hard from the mere sight of her, stiffened fully between them.

He walked her backward until her shoulders met the vestment cabinet.

One hand slid down her side, found the hem of her skirt, and dragged it up. She wore plain cotton underwear. He pushed it aside with two fingers and stroked through the wetness already gathered there.

Lola’s hips jerked. A soft, wordless sound vibrated in her throat, something she could not hear but he felt against his mouth.

Marcus broke the kiss only long enough to free himself. He shoved his cassock and trousers down just enough. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed. He hooked one of her legs up around his hip, aligned himself, and thrust in with a single hard stroke.

Lola’s head tipped back against the wood. Her mouth opened. He watched the shape of a silent cry form on her lips. She was tight, hot, and so wet that the first few thrusts made soft, slick sounds in the quiet room.

He fucked her in short, desperate strokes, forehead pressed to hers, eyes open so he could see every flicker of expression. Her hands gripped his shoulders hard enough to leave marks through the cloth.

Guilt sat heavy in his chest but the guilt only sharpened every sensation. Every time he buried himself to the hilt he felt the wrongness of it like a second pulse, and it made him harder.

Lola’s inner walls fluttered around him. She came first, thighs shaking, body clamping down in rhythmic waves. The sight of her silent climax dragged him over the edge. He thrust deep and held, spilling inside her with a broken groan she could feel.

They stayed locked together for long seconds, breathing hard. When he finally eased out, come slipped down the inside of her thigh. He watched it, something dark and possessive turning over in him.

Lola straightened her clothes with steady hands. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen. She signed one word before unlocking the door and leaving: Again.

From that day onward they began meeting in secret.

Behind the altar after evening prayer became the first regular place. The church would be empty, the sanctuary lamp the only light. Marcus would wait until the last footsteps faded, then sign for her to follow.

They would kneel on the cold stone as if in prayer, her skirt already rucked up, his cassock open. He would enter her from behind, one hand over her mouth even though she made almost no sound, the other braced against the marble.

The hard floor bit into their knees. Every thrust was hurried, the risk of discovery a constant pressure that made them both come faster and harder.

Afterward they would straighten each other’s clothing in silence, hearts still racing, and walk out separately into the night.

The confession booth was next. Curtain drawn, the narrow space smelling of old wood and incense. Lola would sit on the penitent’s side. Marcus would open the screen, but instead of listening he would reach through, pull her closer, and take her mouth first.

Deep, filthy kisses that left her lips wet. Then he would guide her to turn, kneel, brace her hands on the seat. The wooden grille pressed against her cheek as he pushed into her from behind.

The confined space forced them close; every movement was muffled and intense.

He whispered her name against the back of her neck, words she felt more than heard. When they finished he would stay inside her a moment longer, forehead against her shoulder, both of them trembling.

Late at night the rectory kitchen became theirs. After the housekeeper had gone home, Lola would slip in through the side door. Marcus would be waiting in the dark, already hard. They fucked against the counter, her legs wrapped around his waist, the cool tile under her thighs.

Sometimes he lifted her onto the table and ate her out until she shook, then stood and drove into her while her heels dug into his back.

The only light came from the streetlamp outside the window. They never turned on the overhead bulb.

Guilt and need mixed until they were the same feeling, each orgasm edged with the knowledge that what they were doing could destroy them both.

Every encounter remained desperate and hurried. They never had the luxury of slow exploration or soft words. Time was always short; discovery always possible.

The forbidden nature of it only heightened the need. Marcus would wake in the night already hard from dreaming of her. Lola would touch herself in her own bed, remembering the exact feel of him inside her, and come with his name shaped silently on her lips.

They lived for the next moment, knowing that every thrust carried them further from the lives they were supposed to lead, and closer to each other.