In Love With My Spiritual Father

PAT’S POV_

I was already soaking wet, my underwear completely drenched as he fondled me, spreading my legs wide across the bed. Pastor Timothy didn't miss a beat. He slid his right hand down from my breast, pressing hard over my wet panties and rubbing my 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 my thighs, eating me out with a desperate hunger and giving me the most mind-blowing oral sex i had ever had in my life.

Sweat was still drying on my skin when I locked the vestry door from the inside, clicking the heavy metal bolt home with a sharp, echoing sound that made the man standing by the filing cabinets freeze.

Brother Alex turned around slowly, his chest rising and falling beneath a rumpled white shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. No holy calm left on his face now. No polite, maddening parish smile. Just a raw, dark edge in his eyes as I watched him look down at me.

"Pat," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing that clean Sunday school cadence entirely. "You shouldn't be back here."

"And you shouldn't have spent the entire afternoon staring at me like you wanted to tear my clothes off," I shot back, stepping closer, closing the distance between us until I could smell his skin—hot, musk, and pure panic.

I reached out, my fingers catching the collar of his shirt, pulling him down just an inch. "Open your mouth and tell me I'm wrong, Alex. Go on. Call me your sister again."

He didn't move away. I watched him stare down at my mouth, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek, standing right on the razor edge of snapping.

A week earlier, the sanctuary was buzzing with its usual Sunday morning performance.

I sat dead center in the second row, my spine locked straight, my hands folded neatly over a black Bible—wearing my father’s favorite mask of innocent, untouched piety. The congregation called me pure, modest, and well-behaved, a shining example for the kids in youth fellowship. My father beamed every single time someone reminded him how deeply grounded his daughter was in the faith.

If any of those hypocrites could hear the dirty, desperate thoughts hammering inside my head while the opening hymn dragged on, they’d have dragged me straight out of the pews and called an exorcist.

While the choir droned on, my thoughts were a complete gutter of hot, unholy obsession. I wasn’t listening to the lyrics. My eyes were locked on the raised wooden platform where Pastor Timothy sat, radiating an untouchable, heavy authority.

*Look at them,* I thought, a wicked smirk pulling at the corners of my mouth as my gaze flicked to the pastor’s wife adjusting her massive Sunday hat. *They act like holiness makes them immune to the same ugly, basic lust as everyone else. I bet a man like Timothy is an absolute beast behind closed doors—rigid and calculating until you strip that title away and leave him sweating, gasping, and driving into a woman with his hands clamped around her hips.*

I didn't want their blessings. I wanted to test the fire they all pretended wasn't there. I wanted to see if a man who thought he was above temptation would shatter the second I sank my claws into him—and if dragging him down into the dirt would let me steal a piece of that power for myself.

If the sanctuary upstairs was a stage, the teen department classroom downstairs was where I fed my real obsessions.

While the rest of my house was dead to the world, I had been awake since dawn, scrubbing myself raw, ironing my Sunday dress until the creases could cut skin, and pinning my hair back into the exact picture of devout perfection my deacon father loved to show off. I wasn't racing the clock for God; I was racing it for Brother Alex.

At twenty-nine, Alex carried himself with an effortless, maddening calm that drove me out of my mind. He was tall, lean, dark-skinned, and completely oblivious to the unholy heat he left in his wake. To him, I was just young Pat—the deacon’s dutiful daughter, a kid parked in a row of teenagers. And every single time he dropped that casual word—*sister*—it felt like a jagged piece of glass scraping against my raw nerves.

Standing at the front of the classroom a week ago, Alex droned on in a low, steady voice about biblical patience. I sat dead center in the front row, elbows propped up, chin resting right in my palms, playing the model student to absolute perfection.

Inside my head? Every drop of holy water had boiled completely away.

My eyes were locked hungrily on his mouth, tracking the slide of his tongue and the rich, deep rumble of his voice. I remembered a Sunday a few weeks back when a stray drop of spit had slipped from his lips during an intense sentence, landing right on my cheek. I hadn't wiped it off. I waited until he looked away, lifted my finger to trap the moisture, and sucked it straight off my skin, tasting him like salt and pure, filthy sin.

*You don’t see shit,* I thought, my chest tightening into a hard, angry knot as I stared right at him. *You look right through me like I'm a kid with pigtails. You have no damn idea what I'd let you do to me.*

When the lesson finally wrapped, the room erupted into the usual shuffling of notebooks as everyone scrambled upstairs for the main service. But I always planned ahead, ruthlessly slamming my heavy leather Bible onto the empty chair right beside me to stake my claim.

Sure enough, when Alex hurried back downstairs to grab his things, scanning the packed room for a spot, his eyes locked onto me.

“Is this seat taken, Sister Pat?” he asked, flashing that polite, infuriatingly brotherly smile.

I looked up, my heart hammering a violent rhythm against my ribs. I forced my face into a soft, demure nod and shoved my Bible an inch to the left. “No, Brother Alex. It’s for you.”

“Thank you, Sister Pat,” he murmured, sliding his long frame right into the chair beside me.

The word scraped raw against my nerves. *Stop calling me your sister, you idiot,* I screamed silently, my fingernails biting deep crescents into my palms beneath the wooden desk. *I don’t want to be your family. I want you to strip me bare, pin me down, and ruin me until I can't even remember my name.*

Determined to crack his armor, I executed my scheme.

Midway through the sermon, as Alex sat beside me taking neat, boring notes, I casually nudged my favorite silver pen off the edge of the desk. It clattered loudly against the concrete floor, bouncing right into the narrow gap between our shoes.

“Oops,” I gasped softly, pitching my voice just high enough to catch his ear, layering it with helpless embarrassment.

Naturally, Alex’s chivalrous reflex kicked in instantly. “Let me grab that,” he whispered, bending down at the exact same second I did.

Our shoulders slammed together in the tight, shadowed space beneath the desk. The solid, hot friction of his large, muscular arm brushing against mine sent a sharp shiver straight down my stomach, making my breath hitch violently. I caught a heavy hit of his scent—clean soap mixed with the musky, sweaty heat of a man working too hard. For one suspended second, hovering in the dark right beside him, I wanted to grab fistfuls of his shirt and pull him down into the shadows.

Instead, Alex’s long fingers wrapped around the silver pen. He straightened up smoothly, handing it back with a warm, totally oblivious smile. “Here you go, Pat.”

I took the pen, my fingertips deliberately dragging slow and heavy across his palm, trying to spark a fire. But Alex didn't catch a damn thing. He just gave a polite nod, turned his head straight back to the front, and started scribbling notes again like nothing had happened.

*Stupid bastard,* I thought, swallowing hard as a heavy, dragging ache settled low inside me.

I wasn't going to quit. If he wouldn't crack from a simple touch, I would back him into a corner he couldn't walk away from.

Now, back in the quiet shadows of the vestry, the heavy metal door clicked shut behind me, sealing us off from the rest of the world.

Alex stared at me, his breathing noticeably heavier, the rigid wall of his professional piety finally beginning to splinter.

"What are you doing, Pat?" he whispered, his voice dangerously low as he took a slow step toward me. "You're playing with fire."

"Then burn me," I murmured, my heart hammering a wild, reckless rhythm against my ribs as I waited for him to cross the final line—not knowing that the heavy metal door we had just bolted from the inside wasn't the only trap closing in around us.