In Love With My Spiritual Father

Pat was already soaking wet, her underwear completely drenched as he fondled her, spreading her legs wide across the bed. Pastor Timothy didn't miss a beat. He slid his right hand down from her breast, pressing hard over her wet panties and rubbing her clitoris straight through the fabric. He was supposed to be off-limits—a holy man, a pillar of the church, the kind of saint everyone looked up to without question. Yet here he was, with his face buried deep between her thighs, eating her out with a desperate hunger and giving her the most mind-blowing oral sex she had ever had in her life.

For Pat, church hadn't been about actual prayer in a long, long time. She sat right there in the second row with her spine straight and her hands folded neatly over her black Bible—the exact, sickening picture of Deacon Matthew’s respectable daughter.

The congregation called her pure, modest, and well-behaved, a shining example for the younger kids in youth fellowship whose parents ate those compliments up while her father beamed every single time someone reminded him how deeply grounded his daughter was in the faith. God, if any of those hypocrites could actually read her mind during a two-hour Sunday service, they would have lost their minds and probably called an exorcist.

A baby let out a loud cry from the back of the church. The mother bounced him gently against her shoulder while an usher quietly made his way over to help. For a few seconds, the pastor paused to let the noise die down before continuing as though nothing had happened.

Pat’s attention had already wandered back to him.

Brother Alex had stood near the front leading the responsive reading, wearing a plain white shirt with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. No flash, no desperate need for eyes to be on him.

Yet he somehow owned the room so completely that when a couple of rowdy boys in the back started whispering and laughing over the scripture, Alex didn't yell or slam his hand on the podium. He just stopped, lifted a steady gaze straight toward them, and made the whole back row shut up instantly.

Pat hadn't missed a second of it. She noticed the way his thumb turned a page, the tiny pause before he answered a question from an elder, and the flat, unshakeable calm in his voice while everyone else around him seemed high-strung and frantic.

It made her tune out the actual words long before the sermon even wrapped up. Her eyes stayed glued to him while her head remained miles away, wondering what he was actually like behind closed doors.

Was he always this quiet, or did he ever snap? Did he talk in that same low voice when nobody was watching him? She tried to picture him in a normal room out of the white shirt and church clothes, sweaty and naked, but the damn picture just wouldn't stick. That blank space pissed her off.

Then her eyes drifted up past the pews straight to the raised wooden platform where Pastor Timothy sat. He looked untouchable from down where she sat, every single move deliberate and weighed down by an inherited authority that made people drop their gaze the second he walked past.

The church didn't just respect him; they were low-key scared of him as they handed him their deepest secrets, their marital dirt, and all their heavy spiritual baggage, completely convinced he was above human mess.

Looking at them sitting up there, a dirty, mocking thought popped into her head, sharp and uninvited. Look at them. They keep acting like they don’t even have sex. They act like the holiest of holies, pretending they don’t even know what goes on in a regular bedroom.

Her gaze lingered on Timothy’s broad shoulders and stiff posture, a wicked smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth. I’m sure somebody like Tim would be an absolute beast, a total horse behind closed doors. Look at him pretending like he's the holiest man of them all.

She shifted slightly against the stiff wood of the pew, letting her eyes drift back to the pastor's wife. Her mind kept spinning, throwing out messy, unfiltered questions about what life in the parsonage was actually like.

Has she even ever had an orgasm? Does she even know what that actually feels like with a man like that, or do they need to stop and pray for the Holy Spirit to instruct them on positions before they even touch each other?

Her eyes darted back up to Pastor Timothy, her imagination running completely wild now, picturing him naked beneath those heavy suits. Just how big is his dick? Is it massive, or is he all talk? How many rounds can he even go, or does he need to pop blue pills just to keep it hard? Does he even have real sexual energy left after all that shouting on the altar?

She looked back at the pastor's wife again, watching her adjust her big skirt and massive Sunday hat as she moved around the altar. Look at her, acting like a holy angel who doesn't even know what sex is. But I bet behind closed doors, people like that turn into absolute freaks in the bedroom.

Watching him, Pat felt a sharp, reckless spike of irritation mixed with a filthy, consuming heat that wouldn't go away. Why did men like this always act like stone monuments? Why did everyone around them pretend holiness made them immune to the same ugly, basic lust as everyone else? She caught herself running through thoughts that would have given the church women an absolute heart attack right then and there on the pews.

What did Pastor Timothy actually look like naked, sweating, and driving into a woman with his hands clamped around her hips? Was he always so rigid and calculated with every breath, or did all that strict control completely shatter when he was stripped of his title? What was hiding under those tailored suits? Was he rough and dominant, or was he surprisingly wild when nobody was watching?

Glancing sideways at the pastor’s wife—who sat a few rows over adjusting the stiff brim of her oversized Sunday hat, just as polished and just as untouchable—Pat couldn't help wondering what actually went down in the parsonage at night.

Did she actually get anything real out of a man who treated every minute like a Sunday service, or did she lay awake wondering if there was any actual heat under all those Bible verses? Staring at the back of the pastor's head with a hot, sweaty pull settling low in her stomach, she knew she didn't want his blessings or his prayers. She wanted to test the fire they all pretended wasn't there. She wanted to see if a man who thought he was above temptation would break just as fast as anyone else—and if dragging him down into the dirt would let her steal a piece of that power for herself.