Holy Priest

Sister Maria

he cold stone floor of my cell is a constant reminder. The rough wool of my habit scratches my skin, a perpetual penance for a sin I haven't even committed yet. Not officially. My parents’ dream, this life of silent devotion, is my beautiful, gilded cage. I see my sisters, Mary and Marie, in my mind’s eye. Their laughter, the swell of their pregnant bellies, the sticky hands of their children clinging to their legs—a life of messy, glorious, chosen chaos. I have only this silence, this ache between my legs that is a hollow, empty chapel all its own.

Then he came. Father Morris Samson. Newly ordained, with eyes the color of storm clouds and a smile that felt like stolen sunlight. When he speaks during mass, his voice doesn’t chant; it connects. It’s a voice made for confession, for secrets. For me.

My fever was a blessing. A violent, shivering gift that left me alone in the infirmary. The other sisters kept their distance, a prudent quarantine. But he came. Morris. He brought cool cloths and broth, his large, warm hands brushing my forehead, my neck. The touch was clinical, meant to soothe, but it branded me. For three days, he was my only world outside the heat of my own body.

Tonight, the fever broke. A clarity, sharp and terrifying, flooded me. He was changing the cloth on my brow, his face close, his breath warm. I saw the faint stubble on his jaw, the pulse in his throat. I saw a man.

I didn’t think. I just moved.

My lips found his.

It was clumsy, desperate, a dry press of skin against skin. I froze, horror dawning. What have I done? I was a novice, kissing a priest. Damnation. Immediate, irrevocable.

But he didn’t pull away.

His body went rigid for a heartbeat, then a low groan vibrated from his chest into mine. His hands, which had been so gentle, fisted in the thin fabric of my sick-robe. And then he kissed me back.

It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry. His mouth opened over mine, his tongue sweeping in, tasting me, claiming me. It was wet, deep, and utterly filthy. My mind screamed prayers, but my body arched up off the cot, a silent, sinful amen.

We broke apart, panting. His storm-cloud eyes were black with a need I recognized because it mirrored my own.

“Maria,” he rasped, my name a profanity on his lips.

“I’m sorry, I’m—“

“Don’t.” His voice was rough. “Don’t apologize. I don’t want this life either.”

Those words shattered my last restraint. A sob tore from my throat, part relief, part wild desire. He kissed me again, harder. His hands slid from my back to my ass, gripping me through the robe, pulling me up against him. I could feel it then—the hard, thick length of his cock straining against the rough fabric of his trousers, pressed right against my belly. A real, living, wanting man.

“I’ve never…” I gasped into his mouth.

“I know,” he breathed, his lips trailing down my neck, biting, sucking. “I’ll show you. God help me, I’ll show you everything.”

He yanked the robe open. The cool night air hit my bare skin, my small breasts, my flat stomach. His gaze burned over me. “So beautiful,” he muttered, not like a prayer, but like a curse. He shoved the robe off my shoulders, baring me completely. Then his mouth was on my breast, his tongue lashing my nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak. A sharp, electric pleasure shot straight to my core. I cried out, my fingers tangling in his dark hair.

He pushed me back onto the cot, his body covering mine. The weight of him, the heat, was everything I’d dreamed of. His hands were everywhere—kneading my breasts, sliding down my ribs, over my hips. He hooked his fingers into the waist of my simple cotton underwear and tore them down my legs. The sound of the fabric ripping was the most erotic thing I’d ever heard.

Then his hand was there. Between my legs. On my pussy. A big, rough-skinned palm cupping me, his middle finger sliding through the wetness I couldn’t control.

“So wet for me,” he growled, his voice thick with lust. “So wet and tight and mine.”

He rubbed his finger over my clit, a slow, deliberate circle that made my legs jerk. I’d touched myself before, furtive, guilty strokes in the dark, but this… this was different. His touch was confident, demanding. It owned me. He pushed one thick finger inside me, and I gasped at the stretch, the unbelievable fullness. I was a virgin, and my body clenched around the intrusion, but the pain was a bright spark swallowed by the flood of pleasure as he began to pump it in and out.

“Morris… please…”

“Please what, Sister?” he taunted, adding a second finger. The stretch burned, but the feeling of being filled, opened, was all I wanted. He curled his fingers, rubbing a spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyelids. My hips bucked off the cot, fucking myself on his hand.

“I need… I need your cock,” I begged, the vulgar word leaving my lips like a true prayer. “Please, Father, fuck me.”

He withdrew his fingers, shiny with my wetness. He stood, tearing at his own clothes, his cassock flying off, his trousers and underwear shoved down. And there it was. His cock. Thick, long, veined, and jutting out from a thatch of dark hair. The head was flushed a deep red, leaking a pearly drop. It was terrifying. It was magnificent.

He came back over me, positioning himself between my spread thighs. The blunt, hot head of his cock pressed against my dripping entrance.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

I dragged my eyes from where our bodies were about to join up to his face. His expression was fierce, possessive, desperate.

“This is a sin,” he said, not as a warning, but as a promise.

“I don’t care,” I whispered.

He pushed.

The pain was sharp, a tearing, burning barrier giving way. I cried out, my nails digging into his shoulders. He stilled, buried deep inside me, my virginity stretched tight around his invading girth.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his body trembling with the effort to hold still. “You’re so fucking tight, Maria. Taking my whole cock so well.”

The initial pain began to fade, replaced by an overwhelming sense of fullness. He was in me. All of him. I could feel every inch, every pulse. I moved my hips experimentally, and a groan ripped from his throat.

He began to move. Slow, deep, dragging strokes that rubbed his cock against that incredible spot inside me with every thrust. The cot creaked a frantic rhythm against the stone wall. His pace quickened, turning rough, brutal. He was fucking me now in earnest, his hips slamming into mine, his balls slapping against my ass. The sound of skin on skin, of his grunts and my choked whimpers, filled the sterile room.

“Touch your clit,” he ordered, his voice ragged. “Make yourself cum on my cock.”

My hand flew down between our pounding bodies. My fingers found my swollen clit, rubbing in frantic circles as he pounded into me. The dual sensations—the deep, stretching invasion of his cock and the sharp, focused pleasure on my clit—coiled a tension in my belly, tighter and tighter.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he growled, his thrusts becoming erratic, harder. “Gonna pump my come deep inside your virgin pussy. Mark you.”

His words pushed me over the edge. My body clenched around his cock, a wave of pure, mind-shattering pleasure crashing through me. I screamed, my back arching, my pussy milking him in pulsating waves.

That triggered his own release. With a final, deep thrust that buried him to the hilt, he shouted, a raw, guttural sound, and I felt it—the hot, sudden flood of his cum erupting inside me, filling me up just as he promised. He pulsed and throbbed within me, and I held him tight, feeling his warmth spread inside my belly.

We collapsed, a tangled, sweating, sinful mess. His cock, still semi-hard, slipped out of me, followed by a trickle of our mixed wetness onto the cot. He rolled to his side, pulling me against his chest. We didn’t speak. We just breathed, in the dark, in the silence of the convent, now forever broken.