Sanctuary
Part 3 of A Priest Tempted - A Freaky Friday Short
New here? Read parts 1 and 2: Part 1: A Priest Tempted | Part 2: For Thine is the Glory
Father Michael waited in the confessional for three hours after the Saturday evening rush.
Old Mrs. Rossi and her venial gossip. Mr. Delgado and his gambling. Teenagers giggling about French kisses behind the bleachers.
She never came. Elena had not confessed her sins.
Relief flooded him first, followed immediately by a hollow ache so sharp it felt like he was having withdrawals. He told himself it was mercy. God had answered at least one prayer.
He said the 8 a.m. Sunday Mass on autopilot, struggling to show passion to his eager parishioners. When he turned to proclaim the Gospel, his gaze swept the sparse congregation and snagged on the last pew.
She was there.
Her long, dark hair was twisted up, hands folded like any good Catholic wife. She wore a deeply cut charcoal gray dress. The red slash of lipstick and the way she met his eyes had drawn his attention.
He stumbled over the words of consecration.
After Mass, he walked past her to say his farewells. His heart hammered in his chest as her eyes followed him, a sly grin on her lips. He stood at the door in his green chasuble, murmuring the usual “Peace be with you” and “See you next week,” working hard to cover his unease.
One by one, the parishioners left. With each farewell, his anxiety grew, knowing Elena was still inside. Why hadn’t she come out yet? Usually, those in the last pews were the first to leave.
Just when he thought there couldn’t possibly be anyone left inside, she finally emerged. She squinted in the sunshine, a stark contrast to the dimly lit hall inside, pausing just long enough to let her fingers brush his when she shook his hand.
“Thank you, Father,” she said.
She walked out into the brisk December air. Was she headed back to the gloryhole?
His heart slammed against his ribs.
He waited 30 seconds before bolting into the sacristy. He tore off the chasuble and threw on his black overcoat and scarf. Collar hidden, he slipped out the side door like a thief.
He walked fast, head down, scanning every corner. Ten minutes. Fifteen. The city swallowed her. No flash of a charcoal dress, no click of heels. Nothing. He was too late, too slow. She was gone.
It had begun to mist, a cold, clinging veil. He stopped under a dripping awning, breath sawing hot in and out, small white puffs blooming and dying in the cold air.
Good. She’s gone. It’s a sign. Of course, it’s a sign. Go home. Kneel. Pray until your knees bleed.
He squeezed his eyes shut and sighed.
Just head back to the rectory. Forget her. Nothing good will come of this.
He turned and began walking again, defeated.
In front of him, she stepped out of the bodega on the corner, paper bag in one arm, phone in the other. Same modest dress, hair now loose and damp from the mist.
Michael froze. His heart thundered against his ribs.
She looked down at her phone and frowned before slipping it into her pocket. She pulled her coat tight around her and began walking, taking no notice of him as she hurried through the wet weather. Suddenly, her heel caught in an iron sidewalk grate. The bag flew. She went down hard, palms skidding, knee splitting open on wet concrete. She let out a sharp cry in surprise.
Michael froze.
She was ten yards away. He could see the blood blooming on her knee as she inspected the damage.
Walk away. She’ll know you followed her.
The blood kept coming.
Against his better judgment, he crossed the distance in six strides. He couldn’t leave her without helping.
“Elena.”
She looked up, startled. “Father Michael.” A breathless laugh. “Are you omnipresent or something?” she joked.
He crouched, ignoring her little joke, his long coat pooling in a puddle. “Let me see.”
She tried to stand with his help. She let out a sharp hiss, wincing in pain. The cut was deep, gravel embedded, blood running freely down her shin.
“You can’t walk like this,” said Father Michael, wincing along with her, feeling her pain deep in his groin.
“I’ll manage,” she said wryly, struggling to stand straight.
“You won’t.” He glanced around, no cabs, no one offering help, just Sunday-quiet streets and cold mist. “The rectory is four blocks. I have a first-aid kit.”
A beat. Rain beaded on her lashes.
“Lead the way, Father.”
Every step was agony.
Her arm looped through his, weight leaning heavily. The scent of her curled inside his lungs. He kept his eyes on the sidewalk, repeating the Hail Mary on a loop.
Inside the rectory, he flicked on the kitchen light and pointed to the oak table. “Sit on the table.”
This time she obeyed.
He knelt again, this time in his own house, coat still dripping on the floor. His fingers shook as he eased the fabric over the curve of her knee, revealing the ugly cut through her torn sheer stocking. The lace at the top of her stocking was just visible, pressed against her flesh.
She watched him, unnaturally still. He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen.
“We need to get this off you,” he rasped, barely recognizing his own voice.
Her eyes were closed, lips parted on a soft, pained breath. “Please,” she whispered. “Take it off for me.”
The plea detonated inside his chest. His heart slammed against his ribs so violently he could feel it in his throat, in his ears, in the sudden throb behind his zipper.
He reached down and pulled off her heels, placing them neatly to the side. Trembling fingers gathered the hem of her dress and pushed it higher, slowly, until it slid over the lace band of her stocking and revealed the skin above it. His knuckles brushed the satin heat of her thigh, the contact feeling electric. His fingers were shaking badly, but he managed to hook two fingers beneath the delicate edge and slowly peeled it down.
Warm, impossibly soft skin slid beneath his touch. He eased the stocking away from the raw wound, his whole body tensing every time she flinched. He continued to slide the stocking down, past the curve of her calf, over the delicate bone of her ankle, off her heel. The silk whispered free of her toes and pooled on the floor.
He stayed on his knees, hands resting on his thighs, staring at the pale, perfect foot he’d just bared as if he’d never seen a woman before.
God help me.
He soaked gauze in antiseptic. His trembling hand hovered, hesitant to cause her any pain.
“Do it,” she whispered.
He gently pressed the cloth to the gash. She hissed, thighs tensing. The sound went straight to his cock.
He worked in silence, forcing himself to focus on the job, cleaning, irrigating, every swipe of gauze an act of contrition. As he wrapped a clean gauze around her knee, his thumb brushed the soft skin just above the wound once more.
Elena gasped softly.
His fingers, still trembling, slid higher, drawn by her heat.
“We…we should take the other stocking off,” he managed, the excuse sounding thin even to him. “It’s torn, too.”
She gave the smallest nod, eyes half-lidded, watching him like she already knew how this ended.
He let his hand drift higher than strictly necessary, knuckles grazing the soft inside of her thigh until the lace band kissed his fingertips. The contact jolted through him like a live wire.
Slowly, he hooked the delicate edge and peeled the stocking down, inch by torturous inch, exposing flawless skin to the cool kitchen air. The silk sighed free and fluttered to the floor, joining its ruined mate.
His pulse thundered so loudly he was sure she could hear it.
“Look at me,” she said.
He did.
Her eyes were dark, pupils blown. “You followed me.”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I followed you.” The confession scraped his throat raw.
A slow smile. “Then finish what you started.”
He didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Lord, forgive me. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never…
But his body knew, even if his vows screamed otherwise. His cock strained painfully against his slacks, throbbing with every heartbeat.
Elena shifted, parting her knees wider. No panties. Her folds glistened, swollen and inviting. The sight hit him like a thunderbolt.
“Touch me,” she murmured, voice soft but commanding. “Right there, Father. Just your fingers, softly. Slide them over me…feel how wet I am for you.”
He shook his head, but his hand moved anyway, fingertips brushing her outer lips. So soft. So warm. Slick with arousal that smeared onto his skin.
A groan tore from his throat. His hips jerked involuntarily, grinding against nothing. The friction was too much. Every heartbeat throbbed between his legs until the world narrowed to that single, unbearable point.
“That’s it,” she whispered, voice catching as his shaking fingers circled her clit. “Slower, Michael…just like that. Feel how wet I am? That’s all for you. Only you.”
He was panting, clumsy, reverent, terrified. The sound of his name on her lips sent a jolt right through him. His fingertips traced her entrance, slipped just barely inside, and her soft moan snapped something sacred deep inside him.
He came instantly.
A choked sound tore from his throat as his cock jerked in his slacks, pulse after thick pulse soaking through wool and cotton. The pleasure was violent, humiliating. His forehead dropped to her bare thigh; he shuddered there, hips twitching helplessly, breath hot and ragged against her soft skin.
Elena threaded gentle fingers through his hair. “Good boy,” she murmured, stroking him like he was something precious and ruined at the same time.
The praise sank into him like communion wine on an empty stomach, warm, dizzying, impossible to refuse. Heat flooded his face. “I…I didn’t mean…” His voice cracked. “I’ve never…”
“Shh…” She kept petting him, nails grazing his scalp in slow, addictive circles. “So eager…so honest. Don’t you dare be sorry. And don’t you worry. I’m going to get what I want from you.”
He stayed on his knees, still trembling, cum cooling against his skin. He knew he would give her anything she asked.
Anything.
Elena’s fingers tightened in his hair, gentle but firm. She shifted on the table, spreading her thighs wider, the blood-streaked hem of her dress rucked high. The movement made her wince, but her eyes stayed locked on his, dark and certain.
“Come here, Michael.”
He rose on shaking legs, hands braced on either side of her hips like a supplicant at the altar. The table edge pressed into his thighs; his soaked slacks clung obscenely. He couldn’t bring himself to care.
She cupped his jaw, thumb sweeping the corner of his mouth. “Take me out of this dress. Slowly. I want to feel your hands shake the whole time.”
His fingers obeyed before his brain caught up. Buttons slipped free one by one, the fabric parting like a curtain. When the dress slid off her shoulders, he realized she had worn nothing beneath it except the ruined stockings, now pooled on the floor. Her breasts were full, nipples tight.
He made a helpless sound.
“Touch me,” she whispered. “Anywhere you want. Everywhere.”
He started slowly, timidly, his palms gliding over her collarbones, down the slope of her breasts, thumbs brushing nipples that peaked harder under his clumsy worship. She let him explore, let him learn the weight of her, the softness. His breath stuttered when he cupped her and squeezed for the first time in his life.
She arched and slid her hand behind his neck, guiding him lower, lower, until his lips closed over one stiff peak. He sucked awkwardly, eagerly, teeth grazing, and she moaned his name.
“Lower,” she urged, voice husky. “Use your mouth again. Taste how ready I am.”
He sank back to his knees without thinking. The scent of her arousal surrounded him. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss on her hairy mound, tentatively.
She rolled her hips upward until her clit reached his lips. He kissed the tender area gently.
“Use your tongue and slide it around right there,” she instructed.
His tongue pressed forward until it met her clit, swollen with need. He licked gently as she rocked her hips.
“Inside,” she breathed. “Tongue first. Then fingers. Show me how grateful you are.”
He obeyed, licking into her with desperate, grateful strokes, tasting everything he’d only ever imagined in fevered, guilty dreams. She was slick, swollen, impossibly hot. When he slid one careful finger inside, her body clutched at him greedily, and he groaned against her clit.
“Another,” she ordered softly. “Curl them. Right, oh God, right there.”
She shoved his face harder against her, fingers twisted tight in his hair, forcing his mouth exactly where she needed it.
“Stay there… curl them deeper… yes, like that.”
He obeyed, crooking his fingers inside her slick heat, stroking that swollen spot that made her entire body jerk. He felt it start, an impossible tightening around his fingers, a flutter that grew into a fierce, rolling clench. Her walls pulsed, milking him in rhythmic waves so strong he could count her heartbeat through them.
Elena’s breath fractured into a high, desperate whine. Her thighs locked around his ears, trembling violently. She ground against his tongue, riding his face with shameless urgency.
“Flat,” she gasped, voice raw. “Hold your tongue flat, right there, don’t move.”
He flattened it against her clit, unmoving, letting her use him. The clench became a throb, heavy, deliberate, each contraction dragging a broken moan from her throat. He felt every one: the hard pulse, the slower aftershocks, the final soft flutters that left her shaking and dripping over his chin.
When the last tremor faded, she finally loosened her grip, fingers stroking through his hair almost tenderly.
“Good, good boy,” she whispered, voice hoarse and fond. “You just made me come so hard I think I saw God.”
He stayed on his knees, lips still against her, tasting her release like it was the only communion he’d ever need again.
Only then did she pull him up, kissing him deep and slow, tasting herself on his tongue. The act was so dirty, so naughty, he thought he was going to come again.
“Now,” she said against his mouth, “fuck me on this table, Father. Right where you eat your lonely dinners. I want to feel you lose the last piece of your soul inside me.”
He didn’t argue.
He shoved his ruined slacks down just far enough, lined up with shaking hands, and pushed into her in one long, trembling thrust.
They both cried out together.
She was tight, scalding, perfect. He moved instinctively, hips snapping, the table creaking beneath them, her injured leg carefully hooked over his forearm. Every stroke dragged a soft moan from his throat.
He felt it begin briefly before it took him. It started as a low, liquid bloom behind his navel and balls, warm and treacherous, spreading outward like molten wax. Every slow drag of his cock through her slick heat pulled that warmth tighter, coiling it into something bright and unbearable. His hips found a rhythm he hadn’t known he possessed: deep strokes that ended with a helpless grind, as if he could fuse himself to her and never be torn away. He couldn’t get close enough, deep enough. He wanted to crawl inside of her.
With each thrust, the coil wound higher, threading fire up his spine, down his thighs, into the soles of his feet. His breath fractured into soft, desperate sounds he didn’t recognize as his own. Sweat gathered at his temples, slid down the side of his throat, soaked the edge of his Roman collar until the starched linen clung to his skin.
He tried to hold back; he truly did. Whispered broken fragments of Latin against her neck, bargaining with a God he was no longer sure was listening. But her body answered every plea with a deliberate clench, a soft roll of her hips, a hushed, wicked “Michael…give it to me.”
“I…I can’t…I” he stuttered, on the brink of ruin.
“You’re going to fill me up, Michael,” she breathed.
The coil snapped taut.
Pleasure surged, sudden and merciless, a white-hot wave that rose from the root of him and crashed upward. His vision tunneled; the world narrowed to the wet clutch of her around him, the frantic drum of his pulse, the salt of tears, and her skin on his tongue.
He drove deep one final time and broke.
The first pulse was blinding: a thick, searing jet that tore a raw cry from his throat. Then another, and another, each one ripping through him like lightning, his cock jerking helplessly inside her as he spilled in long, shuddering ropes. His whole body seized, hips locked, back arched, tears spilling freely now as the pleasure crested again and again, wringing him dry, wringing every ounce from him.
He sobbed her name into the curve of her neck, trembling violently, every muscle singing with release and ruin. When the last pulse finally ebbed, he stayed buried deep, shaking, terrified to move, terrified to stay, utterly and beautifully lost.
Elena cradled his head, fingers gentle in his sweat-damp hair, and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his temple.
“There you are,” she whispered, voice soft as candle-smoke. “That’s my good boy.”
Michael’s breath hitched on a quiet, broken sound. He turned his face into the hollow of her throat, hiding there the way he once hid in the shadow of the tabernacle, and let the tears fall.
She held him while they fell. He cried silent, scalding tears that tasted of years of loneliness, of every isolated meal at this table, of every night he had knelt alone and begged to feel something other than emptiness.
She brushed her lips across his damp cheek and spoke softly against his skin. He closed his eyes, arms tightening around her as if she were the only thing keeping him from drifting into the void.
Outside, the mist turned to real rain, tapping gently on the kitchen window like a gentle applause.
Inside, on the scarred oak table where he had eaten a thousand solitary breakfasts, Father Michael rested his head over her heartbeat and, for the first time in his life, felt forgiven.