Priest (Priest, #1)

by Sierra Simone

Several months ago, I broke my vow of celibacy on the altar of my own church, and God help me, I would do it again. I am a priest and this is my confession.

“You may not ever be able to get out of bed in the morning with that security. That moment of okay may never come. All you can do is try to find a new balance, a new starting point. Find whatever love is left in your life and hold on to it tightly. And one day, things will have gotten less gray, less dull. One day, you might find that you have a life again. A life that makes you happy.”

And somehow that made everything so much worse, because now it was only the thin line of my self-control that kept me from bending her over a pew and spanking that creamy white ass for making me hard when I didn’t want to be, for making me think about her naughty mouth when I should be thinking about her eternal soul.

The thought came out of nowhere, unbidden but refusing to leave, whispering itself over and over again in my mind. Dirty, filthy girl.

I could breathe and taste was her, and then I looked up and saw the crucifix at the front of the church—a tragic, agonized god hanging in sacrifice—and my heart lurched. What the hell was I doing? Anybody could walk in right now, walk in the front door, and see their priest with a woman bent over the piano, kneeling as if he were praying to her cunt, kneeling with his face buried in her ass.

“But I won’t lie. It makes me hard as fuck knowing that I was the first man to taste you.”

“You are a good priest, Father Bell,” she said, her hand moving down to explore lower, cupping me. “But you’re also a good man. And doesn’t a good man deserve a little indulgence every now and then?” She gripped me tighter, started to stroke in earnest now. I watched her hand moving up and down my shaft like a man hypnotized.

It was so goddamn wet, and with all the pressure, her full body weight pressing against my cock, it was such a close approximation to the real thing, maybe too close, but it still wasn’t technically sex, I lied to myself, maybe it wouldn’t count, maybe I wasn’t sinning. But even if I was, holy fuck, I was not stopping.

And at that moment—at the peak of my high, at the peak of her greedy triumph—our eyes locked and we surged past every barrier—stranger and stranger, priest and penitent, Tyler and Poppy. We were simply male and female, as God had made us, Adam and Eve, in the most elemental and fundamental form. We were biology, we were creation incarnate, and I saw the moment she felt it too—that we were fused somehow. Irrevocably and undeniably fused together into something singular and whole.

“I shouldn’t put you over my lap and spank your ass for being a brazen little slut and coming here without a bra,” I growled in her ear. “I shouldn’t twist ropes around your wrists and ankles until your cunt is exposed and then screw you until you can’t walk anymore. I shouldn’t flip you over and fuck your ass until your eyes water. I shouldn’t drive you down to the strip club and fuck you in the back room, so that you’ll forget all about Sterling and the only name you’ll remember to say is mine.” I lightly bit her nipple again. “Or God’s.”

“One more. Give me one more.” One more what? I wondered even as I spoke. One more orgasm? For her? For me? One more chance? One more glimpse, one more taste, one more minute to pretend that there was nothing in the way of us being together?

I liked being dressed when I fucked, I always had; there was no bigger turn-on than having a naked woman climbing all over you, purring at your feet and squealing in your lap, all while you were fully dressed. (And yes, I recognize that’s also fucked up in terms of feminism and all that. I’m sorry.)

Both of us just stared down at it, this impossible sight: me inside of her, a priest tasting the forbidden fruit and barely able to keep himself from eating it all. “How does it feel?” she whispered. “It feels…” My voice was barely more than a gasp at this point. “It feels like heaven.”

One and a half inches of damnation, and all I could think about was sinking deeper into hell.

“Stay the fuck still, or I’m going to come before I want to, and if that happens, then I will take you over my knee and spank your ass until you learn how to listen,” I said sternly.

Death by perpetual erection.

Sacred and profane were blending and blurring together, fusing and welding themselves into something new and whole and singular, and if this was what love was, then I didn’t know how anyone could bear the weight of it.

It was perfect, and I was fucking that perfection, and I didn’t give a fuck about anything else but it and my dick and filling this woman with my cum, and why the hell did damnation feel so fucking good?

I gave a few last thrusts, milking every last throb out of my climax, every last drop out of myself, and then I raised myself up on my hands to look down at her. She was smiling a lazy, sated smile, and then she said, “Amen.”

So here’s my final confession. I knelt on my bedroom floor like I was going to pray, but instead of praying, I spread my legs and fucked myself with my fingers, pretending it was you. And when I climaxed, I hoped to God that you would be able to hear me calling your name.