Taboo Chronicles: A collection of dark erotic stories

BOOK 1: THE SHEPHERD'S SIN 

SYNOPSIS:

"Some sins are too delicious to confess. Enter at your own risk. Once you cross the line, there is no going back.”

Step into a world where the lines between pleasure and pain are blurred, and the word 'forbidden' is merely an invitation. The Taboo Chronicles is a curated collection of dark, twisted, and unapologetically erotic stories designed to push the boundaries of conventional desire.

From the sacred halls of a silent church to the high-stakes shadows of obsessive power plays, these stories explore the raw, unyielding side of human hunger. Whether it’s the thrill of a secret shared in the dark or the surrender of a soul to a dominant force, nothing is off-limits.

Warning: This collection is intended for mature audiences only. It features high-heat, explicit content, including; taboo & forbidden relationships, power dynamics (CNC, BDSM, and roleplay), psychological thrills (mind alterations and obsessive themes), and diverse pairings (straight, MM, reverse harem, and harem dynamics).

Trope: Religious Taboo / Age-Gap / Corruption kink / Forbidden (pastor x member), (father’s best friend) 

BURLB 

Jade is home for the summer, and her only goal is to corrupt the man who is supposed to be her community’s moral compass, Father Elias Thorne. Elias is a pillar of the community, a man of God who has spent fifteen years burying his Playboy past under holy robes. But when a storm traps him and his best friend’s daughter alone, the Shepherd discovers that this lamb is one with the sharpest teeth.

Warning: This story contains explicit content, including; religious taboo (Pastor/Parishioner), age-gap (19 & 44), corruption, public risk & voyeurism, rough, choking & impact play, dirty talk

CHAPTER 1: THE VIEW FROM THE PEW

“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for thy love is better than wine.” Father Elias’ voice droned on.

I jolted as her mom suddenly elbowed her in the side. “I wasn’t sleeping,” I whined under her breath.

“Stop squirming, young woman.” My mom hissed back, her eyes still focused on the altar. 

I rolled my eyes and focused on the main reason I had even agreed to come to church. Actually, the only reason I had even come home for the holidays… Father Elias Thorne.

His voice was a deep baritone that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards, up the wooden pews of the first row, and settle directly in the marrow of my bones, making me cross my legs tightly as the heat between them grew stronger.

He was speaking of salvation, love, and the light of the spirit, but all I could focus on was the way his large, veiny hands gripped the edges of the mahogany pulpit. Those hands were capable of so much. I had seen them hold a hymnal with reverence; I had seen them pat my father’s shoulder in comfort, hold babies during baptism, and repair things around the church. 

Now, all I could imagine was them wrapped firmly around my waist, pulling me against the fit body I knew was under his priestly robes from all the times I had spied on him and my dad working out together like they used to do when I was younger.

He and my father had been childhood best friends. I grew up with him at our place all the time, even when he was in the seminary. But for some reason, he had stopped coming around so much when I turned sixteen or so. 

I adjusted my position again, making the fabric of my sundress slide provocatively against my skin. Usually, the atmosphere made me feel sleepy, but it was like all my senses were dialed up today. 

Fuck, it must be some sort of sin to be this horny in church. 

The source of my predicament leaned forward, his eyes scanning the congregation with that steady, pastoral warmth. 

Then his gaze snagged on mine, and I felt a jolt of electricity.

The sermon stuttered, and for a heartbeat, everything in the room seemed to vanish, and what was left was only us. 

He blinked and recovered instantly, smoothing over the lapse with a practiced grace that only a man of his stature possessed. But I saw the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his knuckles turned white against the wood, as if he was trying to ground himself like he knew the thoughts that were swirling behind my wide, innocent eyes. 

I was nineteen now, no longer the little girl who ran through these halls with scraped knees. I was home from my first year of university, and I had returned with a library of fantasies that all featured a man behind a pulpit.

I leaned back, my eyes tracing the line of his throat as he spoke, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed with every sanctified word. To the rest of the congregation, he was the pillar of the community, the man who had led this flock for fifteen years with an iron will and a gentle hand. But I knew a different version of Elias. I had seen the faded Polaroids in my father’s old photo album from the late nineties, where a younger, wilder Elias stood with his arm around two women, a cigarette dangling from his smirk and a roguish glint in his eyes. 

Back then, he hadn't been a Shepherd; he had been a wolf. My father used to laugh about their "sowing oats" days, calling Elias the biggest Playboy in the tri-state area before he "found the light." Looking at him now, draped in his black pastoral robes, I wondered if the light had truly extinguished that fire, or if he had simply learned to hide the embers.

I looked down at his long fingers, imagining how they would feel inside me, and I shifted again as the heat in my lower belly grew. Unfortunately for me, I had worn a silk blouse with a thin lace bra underneath, and I could feel my hardened nipples rubbing against them. 

"The heart is a temple," Elias continued, his gaze sweeping across the room. "But even a temple can be desecrated by the whispers of the flesh."

As his eyes passed over me again, I felt a jolt of satisfaction when his eyes darted down to my chest. I smirked when he took in a sharp, shallow breath. 

He saw exactly what I was doing to him, and for the first time, I saw the wolf flicker behind his blue eyes.

The sermon ended with a call for Communion. My pulse hammered in my ears as the line formed. 

Usually, the ritual felt tedious, but today, it was a countdown to contact. When it was finally my turn, I knelt at the altar rail, looking up at him from beneath my lashes. 

"The body of Christ, broken for you," he whispered, holding the wafer-thin bread to my lips.

His calloused fingertips brushed against the wet heat of my inner lip as he placed the wafer on my tongue and then, slowly, they slid further in.

I stared directly into his eyes, and I let my tongue teasingly swirl around the tip of his finger. Then I closed my mouth gently and sucked.

A microscopic tremor ran down his body. He let out a breath that was more of a growl than a prayer and pulled back his hand into the folds of his robe, but I could see the way his fingers curled into a fist. 

He moved to the next person in line, his movements stiff. 

After the service, I watched Elias as he made his way toward the back of the church to greet the departing parishioners. He looked composed again, the mask of the holy man firmly back in place, but I knew better.

I turned toward the quiet, carpeted hallway where the church offices and the private restrooms were located, my breath coming in shallow, jagged gasps. I needed to ease the tension before I lost my mind and did something stupid. 

I looked at myself in the restroom mirror, my cheeks flushed, my eyes bright with a feverish intensity. 

I looked like a girl who had just found God, but the spirit moving through me was anything but holy.

I thought about the playboy in the photos: the man who looked like he knew how to make a woman scream. I thought about the weight of his finger on my tongue, the rough texture of his skin against my lips. 

I rushed into a stall, my hand trembling as it reached for the hem of my skirt and lifted it.

I needed to extinguish the fire he had started, or it would burn me alive. I closed my eyes, almost feeling the weight of his presence, the scent of his cologne, the deep, raspy sound of his voice.

"Elias," I whispered into the silence of the restroom, my fingers stroking my slick folds.

The name felt heavy on my tongue, a forbidden fruit I had been longing to taste since I was sixteen. 

I let my fingers slide downwards and dip into my sopping pussy, curved it, and started thrusting in and out.  

Slowly drawing pleasure out. 

Just as I closed my eyes and started stroking my clit faster, I heard the restroom door open. 

A set of footsteps approached, then stopped right outside my door.

I froze, my fingers still against my skin, my heart stopping in my chest.

"Jade?" Elias' voice called out. “I saw you come in. Are you in there?”

My breath hitched as my pleasure rose higher.

He was right there. And the door suddenly felt very, very thin.