All Chapters of Forbidden Taboos : Steamy dark stories : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The following night the church was colder, has the silence became heavier. Father Elias had spent the day in a haze of guilt and hunger. He heard every confession through a fog, gave absolution in a voice that cracked, and twice dropped the Host while his mind replayed the slick heat of Delphine’s cunt clenching around his fingers. At 11:30 p.m. he locked the main doors, turned the key with shaking hands, and left the side entrance to the sacristy unlocked. He had obeyed her. Beneath the black cassock he was naked, cock already half-hard from the mere brush of wool against his skin. He had not cum since the previous night, had not dared touch himself, so the head of his dick was swollen, slick with hours of denied pre-cum. He waited in the sanctuary, candlelight flickering across the marble altar. The crucifix above looked down in silent judgment. Footsteps. Soft and deliberate. The click of a woman’s heels on a stone. Delphine appeared at the top of the center aisle wea

Nine months later. Easter Sunday eve, midnight. The old manor house on the outskirts of the village stood wrapped in moonlight, windows shuttered against the world. Inside the master bedroom, a single beeswax candle flickered on the nightstand, its golden flame dancing across tangled silk sheets soaked in sweat and desire. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine, rosewater, and raw, unending sex. Father Elias Moreau—no longer bound by any title but forever transformed by his surrender—knelt naked at the foot of the massive four-poster bed, wrists bound behind him with the soft silk sash from Delphine’s robe. His body had changed in these months of constant, consuming passion: leaner, harder, every muscle sculpted from nights spent buried inside her, days spent aching for her touch. His cock stood rigid against his belly, flushed dark and leaking steadily, untouched for weeks by her teasing command. The denial only made him hungrier. Delphine lay propped against a mountain of

The Temple of Dendur glowed under amber spotlights, ancient stone bathed in golden light while champagne flutes clinked and society whispers drifted like smoke. Saint Valenti moved through the crowd like he owned the room, because he did. Charcoal Tom Ford tuxedo tailored to perfection, black silk shirt open at the collar, platinum cufflinks glinting like tiny blades. His hand never left the small of Raven’s back, thumb tracing slow, possessive circles over the bare skin where the dress dipped dangerously low. The dress he’d chosen was pure weapon: black silk so thin it clung like liquid shadow, backless to the dimples above her ass, slit to the hip so every step flashed the lace tops of her thigh-high garter stockings. No bra. No panties. Just the platinum choker locked around her throat—wide enough to be a collar, with a discreet O-ring at the front. The key dangled between his shirt buttons, warm against his chest. “Behave,” he’d murmured in the limo while clicking the choker

It was now December 22, 2025. At Blackwood University, students’ final grades were posted online at exactly midnight. 19 years old Ivy Moreau refreshed the portal at 12:01 a.m. in her cramped single dorm room, the blue glow of her laptop was the only light in the darkness. Her name appeared beside Comparative Literature 402: 28/100 – F. Below it, Dr. Gabriel Thorne’s comment in cold red ink: See me. Immediately. Office 312. Do not delay or the consequences will be permanent. The scholarship revocation email unexpectedly arrived at exactly 12:03. Effective immediately: Your tuition must be paid in full by January 15, or your enrollment will be terminated and all forms of appeal denied. Ivy stared in disbelief until the words blurred. She had three weeks of meal-plan credit and $247 in her bank account. Her mother worked double night shifts cleaning corporate offices; there was no family safety net, no rich uncle, no fallback. That alphabet F on her transcript meant expulsi

Ivy sat on the edge of her narrow bed, knees drawn up, staring at the text that had arrived at 11:42 p.m.: My office. Now. Wear the items in the gift box and the choker. The door will be unlocked. Knock once. If you’re late, the Dean receives the file at 8 a.m. sharp. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She had spent the last forty-eight hours in a fog of paranoia and unwanted arousal. Every time she passed a mirror, the platinum choker glinted—subtle enough to pass as jewelry to anyone else, but to her it screamed owned. More like a sex doll, avidly awaiting the touch of her Master. She had caught herself touching it absentmindedly in class, fingers tracing the lock, remembering the click when he’d fastened it. She hated how wet it made her. She hated how she hadn’t taken it off, even to shower. She had considered running—packing a bag, taking the late bus to her mother’s, disappearing. But every time she reached for her suitcase, she remembered his words in the office: “I have r