All Chapters of Forbidden collection : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

I kept him in my mouth longer than I needed to. Father Elias’s hand stayed buried in my hair, fingers tight against my scalp. His cock rested heavy on my tongue, thick enough that my jaw already ached. I took him deeper, letting spit run down the shaft and over my fingers. Every time I looked up through my lashes, his eyes were fixed on me—dark, wide, watching his cock disappear between my lips. A low sound left his throat. His hips shifted once, pushing farther into my mouth. I moaned around him on purpose and felt him throb against my tongue. “Grace…” His voice came out rough. “We can’t do this.” I pulled off slowly, still stroking him with my wet hand. The head of his cock was flushed dark and shiny with spit. A thin string of it connected my lower lip to the tip before it broke. “You already are,” I said. I licked a long, deliberate stripe up the underside, then took him back in. This time I sucked harder. I hollowed my cheeks and worked him the way I had practiced alone in

I came back the next night before the last of the lights were turned off. Father Elias was waiting in the sacristy this time instead of the confessional. The small room behind the altar smelled like old wood and candle wax. He stood with his back to the door, hands braced on the table where the vestments were folded. When he heard me close the door he didn’t turn around right away. “Lock it,” he said. I turned the lock. The soft click sounded final in the quiet room. He faced me then. The white collar was gone. His black shirt was open at the throat. He looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with the late hour. I walked to him without speaking. He watched me the whole way. I reached up and started unbuttoning his shirt. He let me. When I pushed it off his shoulders I saw the lean muscle underneath, the dark hair on his chest, the way his stomach tightened when my fingers brushed it. I leaned in and kissed the center of his chest. His hand came up and rested on the ba

My husband hadn’t touched me in eleven weeks. He came home late, kissed the top of my head, and fell asleep almost immediately. I stopped reaching for him after the fifth or sixth quiet rejection. It was easier that way. I waited until his breathing deepened, then slid my hand between my legs under the covers. Two fingers. Quick, practiced circles. I came with my face turned into the pillow and wiped my hand on the sheet afterward. Some nights even that felt mechanical. On the worse nights I waited until he left for work, locked the bedroom door, and opened my laptop. I searched for the videos I never admitted to wanting—women with short hair and steady hands, women who knew exactly how to touch another woman. Volume low. One hand in my underwear. I came harder those times, thighs shaking, then closed every tab and cleared the history. I was still doing that when Harper Quinn started staying after seminar. She was one of my stronger graduate students. Twenty-four. Openly lesbian.

My husband left Friday morning for a three-day conference. He kissed my cheek at the door, already checking his phone, and told me not to wait up Sunday night. The house felt larger the moment the car pulled away. I stood in the quiet kitchen with a cold cup of coffee and tried not to think about the fact that I had canceled my afternoon appointments. Harper texted once, late Friday evening. Address. I stared at the message for a long time before I typed it out and hit send. My hands were unsteady. I told myself I could still change my mind. I could lock the doors and ignore the knock. Instead I showered, left my hair damp, and put on a soft sweater with nothing underneath. She arrived at nine. I opened the door before she could knock a second time. Harper stood on the porch in a dark jacket and the same black button-down, the night air cool behind her. She looked at me the way she always did—steady, unsurprised, already certain. “You going to let me in, Professor?”

My husband came home Sunday night. I heard the key in the lock while I was still standing in the shower, washing the weekend off my skin. The water ran hot over the bruises on my inner thighs and the faint red marks Harper’s mouth had left on my breasts. I stayed under the spray until it turned lukewarm, then stepped out, dried off, and put on the softest pajamas I owned. He was in the kitchen, suitcase open on the floor, scrolling through emails. “Hey,” he said without looking up. “Miss me?” “Of course.” He kissed my cheek the way he always did—quick, distracted—and went back to his phone. I watched him from the doorway for a long moment. The same man. The same distance. Nothing had changed for him. Everything had changed for me. Monday I taught my morning seminar on autopilot. Harper sat in her usual seat, black button-down, sleeves rolled, quiet and watchful. She didn’t stay after class. She simply packed her bag, met my eyes once across the emptying room, and left.