Priest

by Sierra Simone

  Holy shit.

  Holy shit, that felt good.

  It had only been since Saturday, and yet I’d forgotten that this woman’s mouth was like a slice of heaven, warm and wet and with that flicking, fluttering tongue that danced along the underside of my dick.

  I laced my hands through her hair—fucking up whatever adorable hairstyle she’d had it in—and then slowly withdrew, savoring every single second as her lips and tongue kissed against my skin. And then I slid in again, less gently this time, my eyes darting from her lips to her heels to the way her hand circled her clit as I slowly fucked her mouth.

  She kept her eyes pinned to mine, peering up at me through those long dark eyelashes, and I thought about all the times they’d distracted the hell out of me and all the times that I’d wanted to fuck her brains out (and then paddle her sweet ass for making me so goddamned crazy about her.)

  I tightened my grip in her hair. I wanted to go hard, I wanted to make her eyes water, I wanted to thrust until I reached the point where I could barely hold back from shooting down her throat. “Ready?” I whispered to her, still wanting to tread on the side of consent and caution.

  And then she groaned a frustrated groan, as if annoyed that I was asking again.

  “Bad lamb,” I said and thrust hard into her mouth. I heard her choke as I hit the back of her throat, but I only gave her a minute before I pushed in again, and again. I knew I was longer and wider than most men, I knew I was harder to take, but I wasn’t going to cut her any slack unless she asked for it, not after that stunt.

  “You like being bad? You like making me punish you?”

  She managed to nod, her watery eyes blinking up at me in this honest, impeaching way, and I knew it was true.

  I swore. “You’re going to make me crazy.”

  She smiled around my cock, and fuck, I had to be absolved of all these sins because Saint Peter himself wouldn’t have been able to deny himself this woman. I drove into her mouth several more times, right up until I could feel that familiar clench in my belly and then I pulled out, my breathing ragged from the effort it took not to come all over that gorgeous face.

  Instead, I used my thumb to wipe at Poppy’s eyes, which were now smudged with makeup and tears. The ever-so-slightly smeared lipstick I left the way it was.

  In fact, it was too tempting not to kiss and lick and nibble at, and I picked her up so I could do just that while I walked her over to the altar. Her lips were swollen from my assault and yet so yielding to my kiss, so deliciously soft. I groaned into her mouth as she licked past my teeth and tasted my tongue, and I moved my mouth harder against hers. Harder and more and I could barely breathe for kissing this woman.

  I set her down on the altar but didn’t end the kiss, stroking around her breasts and hips. It was damn near impossible to stop, but I was getting to the point where little else mattered apart from getting inside her, and so I did stop.

  “Lay back,” I said as I broke our kiss, holding my hand behind her head so that she wouldn’t hurt it accidentally.

  It was a long altar, and she wasn’t a tall woman, and so she was able to arrange herself comfortably with room to spare. I trailed one hand along her stomach as I walked around the back, facing the sanctuary as if I were beginning the communion rite. Except instead of the body and blood of Christ spread before me, I had Poppy Danforth.

  I ran the tip of my nose along her jaw, oh so slowly down and across her body, loving the way she arched and tilted to my touch, so greedy. She was a feast to me—creases and hollows and supple curves—and having her like this was like the first gasp of oxygen after surfacing from the water, powerful and instinctual, and I didn’t give a fuck about all the sins I was currently committing, I was going to revel in every minute of it.

  I bit at the inside of her thighs. I circled every inch of her pussy with my tongue. I kneaded her breasts with rough hands until she squeaked, and I nibbled at the dip of her navel and sucked on each nipple until she was writhing on the altar. I took kisses from her rather than sharing them with her. I slid my fingers in her cunt not to make her feel good, but so that I could relish the sensation of the slickness against my fingertips.

  I knew she was getting pleasure from all this, and I did want her to come, often and hard, when she was with me. But this moment? Where I was groping and squeezing and inhaling her scent and feeding on her sighs? This was for me.

  And after I was done taking what I wanted, when I was so hard that I couldn’t think straight, I climbed up on the altar with her, kneeling between her parted legs.

  I waited, a hairbreadth of a second, waited for God’s voice to come thundering down, waited for a heavenly intervention like when Abraham had his only child bound and ready for sacrifice. But it never came. There was only Poppy and her heaving chest as she murmured, “Please please please…”

  I didn’t know how anyone could so callously dismiss Poppy as simply a woman who always wanted it, as nothing more than a whore born into a debutante’s body. Because right now, with her eyes so dark and her skin so flushed, she was the holiest thing I’d ever seen. A miracle made flesh, waiting for my flesh to join with it.

  “You are truly beautiful,” I said, running a finger down her jaw. And then I reached for her hand, lacing my fingers through hers. “Whatever happens after this, I just want you to know that this was worth it. You were worth it. You were worth everything.”

  She opened her mouth and then shut it again, as if she couldn’t find the right words to say. A single tear spilled out of the corner of her eye and I leaned over her to kiss it away.

  “Tyler…” she started but I silenced her with a kiss.

  “Just listen,” I said, lowering myself between her legs. She shivered as the head of my cock pressed against her entrance.

  “This,” I said, and I pushed partly into her, barely able to breathe for how tight she was around me. “This is your body.”

  I leaned my head down and caught the delicate skin of her neck in my teeth. “This is your blood,” I whispered in her ear.

  I shoved all the way in, and she cried out as her back arched off the altar.

  “This is you,” I told her and the empty sanctuary, “this is you, given up for me.”

  We stayed still after that, absorbing the new feeling of each other, the feeling of my hips pressed to her softness, the feeling of her tight, tight channel around me. I was worried I was going to come just being like this, just being inside.

  But then I noticed that she was biting her lip and breathing shakily, and I realized that she was adjusting to my size. I could hardly fit, and what’s worse, that was what made it feel so fucking good.

  God, I was such an asshole. I hadn’t made her ready enough and part of me found that hot, so hot that I was barely able to attend to her the way a good man should. I had to lean down and bite her neck and shoulders repeatedly to force myself to stay still—all I wanted to do was pound into her like she was a little fuckdoll, pump into her like nothing existed except for her pussy.

  But no, this was not how our first time should be. I told her I wanted to be rough, but the rough fucking I was dying to give her would be too much, and I couldn’t bear to abuse my lamb like that.

  Finally mastering myself a little, I pulled out halfway, reaching down to rub her clit, thinking I would get her off and then finish another way that wouldn’t hurt her. She caught my hand. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t be the good guy. I told you what I wanted. Now give it to me.”

  “But I want you to enjoy it too.”

  “I will,” she said, her eyes wide and open and fervent. “Give me what I want, Tyler. I want this. Please.”

  I groaned at her words, my dick surging, and I sank back into her slowly. My thighs and arms were trembling with the suppressed need, but I couldn’t be that guy, I didn’t want to be that guy, the guy who used a woman for himself and didn’t make it good for her. She said she wanted it, and I know I’d asked for and gotten permission, but still
, she didn’t know how rough I could be, how hard I could go.

  She slid her arms around my neck and pulled herself up to speak in my ear. “How can I push you over the edge? Hmm?” She wriggled underneath me, and I sucked in a breath, the sudden motion after the stillness almost too much.

  “How can I convince you to tear me apart?”

  Well, shit.

  “I can tell that’s what you want,” she continued, purring in my ear. “I can feel you shaking. Do it. Just pull out and then push back in. Doesn’t that feel good?”

  Fuck yes, it did. It felt so good that I did it again, and again, closing my eyes and exhaling slow ragged breaths. Each time I pushed in, I ground myself against her clit, pulling out slowly to drag against her g-spot, some gallant voice telling me to make sure that she would come, the rest of me fighting that voice and pleading with me to screw her mindlessly.

  “Where’s the man who spanked me?” she asked. “Where’s the man who fucked my throat until my eyes watered?”

  My eyes were still closed, but I opened them now, meeting her gaze. “Don’t want to hurt you,” I said, my voice rough with the effort of my restraint. “I care about you too much.”

  “Tyler,” she begged. “You’ve done it before with me.”

  “Not like this.”

  “Look,” she demanded. “Look down at us.”

  I did, withdrawing out to the tip, and it was a mistake because seeing where we were joined was so hot, so primal, and it clawed its way up my spine, and I didn’t even know what it was—lust or love or biology or fate—but my attempt at nobility fractured and the beast within broke through.

  “Forgive me,” I muttered and then rammed myself home. She moaned in surprise and then I laid my body on top of hers, supporting myself with only my forearms now, our chests and stomachs pressed together, my hips digging into her inner thighs. Pinning her down like this, I stabbed into her over and over and over again, burying myself repeatedly in that velvet pussy.

  “More,” she moaned, and I gave it to her.

  I heard her heels tumble off and fall to the floor, and the altar cloth was sliding I was driving into her so hard, but I didn’t care, I was lost to myself, lost to her and lost to the world and everything except her grunts and squeals in my ear and the wet cunt underneath me.

  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 don’t even know what I was saying as I rutted into her, Jesus, please and I’m sorry and you’re so tight and I have to I have to I have to.

  And she was saying words back, words that spilled out in gasps and grunts and pants, right there and harder and close, I’m so close.

  Deeper, I had to get deeper even though I knew there was no actual, physical way I could be deeper, and then I took her mouth, kissing her with something violent and furious and worshipful. We could both hardly breathe but we refused to stop and I fucked her all the while, feeling her tighten and writhe and finally break underneath me. She bucked, crying out against my mouth, her fingernails gouging red lines of pain down my back, and we rode out her orgasm together because she was a wild thing, a woman possessed, and it was like having a tigress underneath me, but I kept riding her and then it was there, it was there, it was there and I still had her mouth as I jabbed in a final time and came.

  Excruciatingly, I came.

  Every pulse of my dick was like a pulse of my soul, and every muscle tightening and contracting was like a punch to the gut, and I was so bare with this woman in every way, my nerves flayed raw and my heart wide open and my eternal soul right alongside my bruising hips and thrusting dick and the cum that was now spilling everywhere, leaking onto the white altar cloth, and yes, this is why the Church wanted marriage and sex to go hand in hand because I felt as married to her right now as a man could be married to a woman.

  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.”

  I went into the sacristy and came out with a small rectangle of white cloth, a purificator. It was normally used to wipe the communion chalice after every sip of wine.

  Tonight, I used it to clean Poppy.

  You might think that having sex on my altar, using sacred things normally meant for rituals of the highest order, meant that I wasn’t taking my faith seriously, that I had slid straight past sin and into sacrilege, but that wasn’t the truth. Or it wasn’t the whole truth, at least. I couldn’t explain it, but it was like somehow it was all holy, the altar and the relic within and us on top of it. I knew that outside of this moment there would be guilt. There would be consequences. There would be the memory of Lizzy and all the things I had wanted to fight for.

  But right now, with Poppy’s scent on my skin, with her taste on my lips, I only felt connection and love and the promise of something vivid and colorful.

  After I finished cleaning her, I wrapped her in the altar cloth and carried her to the edge of the stairs, where I sat. I cradled her in my arms, brushing my lips against her hair and eyelids, murmuring the words I thought she should hear: how beautiful she was, how stunning, and how perfect.

  I wanted to say I’m sorry, although my mind and soul still spun in dazzled wonder with it all, so I wasn’t sure if I was sorry I’d lost control and gotten so rough with her, or if I was sorry that we’d had sex at all.

  Except I wasn’t. Because more than the transformative sex that we’d just had, this moment was worth sinning for. This moment where she was curled in my arms, her head on my chest, breathing contentedly against me. Where the altar cloth covered her in long, draping folds, but slips of pale skin still showed through.

  She slid her fingers up my chest, resting them on my collarbone, and I held her close, as if I could press her straight through my skin and into my soul.

  “You broke your vow,” she said finally.

  I glanced down at her; she was both sleepy and sad. I pressed my lips against her forehead.

  “I know,” I finally replied. “I know.”

  “What happens now?”

  “What do you want to happen?”

  She blinked up at me. “I want to fuck you again.”

  I laughed. “Like now?”

  “Yes, like now.”

  She twisted in my arms until she was straddling my legs, and it only took one of her deep kisses to make me hard again. I lifted her up and guided myself inside, groaning quietly into her neck as she sat back down.

  Slivers of sensation became known to me. Warmth and wetness. Her ass against my thighs. Her tits so close to my mouth.

  “What do you want to happen next, Tyler?” she asked me, and I couldn’t believe she was asking me this now, while she was riding me, but then as I tried to answer, I realized why. She didn’t want me to be guarded, she wanted me to be honest and raw and like this, I couldn’t possibly be anything else.

  “I don’t want us to stop,” I admitted. She rolled her hips back and forth over me, and I did press my face in her chest then, feeling my climax building too fast, much too fast. “I feel like I…”

  But I couldn’t say it. Not even now, when she had me completely at her mercy. It was simply too soon—and not to mention ridiculous.

  Priests weren’t allowed to fall in love.

  I wasn’t allowed to fall in love.

  Her fingers twined through my hair and she pulled my head back so she could look at me. “I’ll say it if you won’t,” she said.

  “Poppy…”

  “I want to know everything about you. I want you to tell me what you think about politics, and I want you to read Scriptures to me, and I want to have conversations in Latin. I want to fuck you every day. I fantasize constantly about us moving in together, living every moment together. What is that,
Tyler, if it’s not—”

  I clapped my hand over her mouth, and in an instant, had her on her back with me pushing into her.

  “Don’t say it,” I told her. “Not yet.”

  “Why?” she whispered, her eyes wide and a little hurt. “Why not?”

  “Because once you say it, once I say it, then everything has to change.”

  “Hasn’t it already?”

  She was right. It had changed the moment I kissed her in the presence of God. It had changed the moment I bent her over that piano. Maybe it had even changed the moment she stepped into my confessional booth.

  But if I loved her…if she loved me…what did that mean for all of my work here? I couldn’t carry on a secret affair and still crusade against sexual immorality in the clergy—but if I walked away from my vocation, then I would lose the ability to crusade at all. I would lose the man I was.

  The only other choice was losing Poppy, and I wasn’t ready to think about that yet. So instead of answering her question, I pulled out and flipped her over, driving into her from behind while I slid a hand around her hip and found her clit. Only three or four strokes like this and she was there, like I knew she would be; the more aggressive I was, the faster she came.

  I followed her over the edge, chanting her name like a prayer and pumping the whole time, as if I could fuck the future and its horrible choices away.

  Oh, God, what I would give for that to be true.

  “I still can’t believe how clean your house is,” Poppy said.

  We were in my bed after cleaning up the sanctuary and sneaking over to the rectory. I was fingering her hair with a fascination that bordered on reverence, worshiping those long, dark tresses with curls of my finger and brushes of my lips. We’d been talking lazy pillow talk, drifting from The Walking Dead speculations and favorite Latin texts to hushed recountings of all the ways we’d suffered in wanting each other this last month.