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Everything seems to be in order. Your throat is constricted by a high, snug collar of a turtleneck sweater, the warm fabric hugging your body and itching along the seams. You do not fidget, however. You… try not to, anyway—you mostly succeed. Nobody is here to watch you though. You sit alone in your room, the lights dimmed and the scent of clean linens floating in the air from the freshly made bed.
You find your fingers on the pendant hanging around your neck. It's new. A gift. The Byzantine cross weighs down your neck despite it weighing barely anything, but the smooth gold surface is a welcome texture against your antsy fingertips. Were you nervous, or were you just playing nervous?
The door. Your front door, that had to have been its creaking. Your heart leaps into your throat and, fearing your nerves would be caught, your hands move from the cross to instead grip at the floor length skirt obscuring your legs. The color is actually a dark Pentecostal green, but in the warm low light it looks inky black. A shaky breath fills your lungs and you exhale it out, listening to footsteps slowly make their way from your front door to your stairs, to the bathroom down the hall, and finally pausing directly in front of your door.
It's seconds—or maybe it's hours—later that you hear a gentle knock.
"Come in!"
The tension snaps in your chest and you almost yelp the answer, cheeks lighting up red from embarrassment. Definitely actually nervous.
The figure in the doorway fills the space with a presence that causes your spine to straighten, not cowering but showing that you were paying full attention to his actions. A black robe— cassock, his voice echoes in your mind—drapes over his shoulders and only stops when it brushes at the tops of his boots. A solid gold cross lays against his chest, the chain glimmering in the light. He holds a book under his arm and there's a briefcase in his other hand, black leather and gold clasps and pure professionalism.
"I came as soon as I could." That voice makes your nerves spike and soothe at the same time in a paradoxical flux, the familiarity and the anticipation causing a knowing flush to warm your body. You nod and go to stand but his hand comes up and stops your movement in its tracks. Your eyes lock onto it, tracking it as he walks closer and rests it on your head. Warmth touches your scalp and he strokes down, rubbing the smoothed down hair and brushing the neat bun at the nape of your neck. "My child… if this is an emergency like you claimed, we must get to work."
Your heart thumps and as his fingers touch your neck you swear he can feel your heart quicken.
"Yes, Father."
The Father shifts his posture, placing the briefcase on the bed. "Kneel, face me. Recite Psalm 23 while I prepare."
His voice is husky, terse; he's not annoyed with you , you know that—he's deadly serious about what he's here to do. You turn and kneel on the floor a few feet away from the bed, taking your cross between your hands and bowing your head as you began to recite the verses softly.
" Here ," A rosary, black beads and heavy ceramic crucifix, are pressed into your hands by larger, warmer ones. You begin again, lips brushing the clay beads that have a faint reminder of heat from the Father's hands. You can hear pages rustling, faint thuds of items being adjusted and placed on the bed.
"... Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. " You finish and open your eyes, keeping them low, focusing on the Father's shoes as they turn around and settle across from you. He's sitting on the bed now and your eyes crawl up, meeting his own and his stoic face. The long eyelashes that frame soft brown eyes gaze down at you and you see a flash of something… darker. It passes and he settles his hands on his thighs, watching you as you adjust how you're kneeling.
"My child… you spoke of something serious to me. Possession is not something the Church takes lightly , not in the slightest. I need you to start from the beginning, detail to me these… thoughts , you've been having."
Is there a smirk in his voice or are you just too eager?
"I," You begin with a waver in your voice, hands slowly lowering to your lap with the rosary still clutched between them. "I don't know exactly when they started but they just won't stop. Father I hear this voice, feel this presence in my mind and body and it tells me to do… things ."
" Things? " There's definitely a smirk in his voice but his face is stoic as ever.
"F… filthy things, Father. Debaucherous things. It's speaking to me now, it was speaking to me as I waited for you after I called, it tells me how I should abandon my faith, abandon all I've worked for and fff—" You break eye contact and you just can't bring yourself to say any more until the velvety tone brings you back again.
"I can't help you unless you tell me everything, my child. If we misunderstand the severity of the possession… what I try might not work."
You nod and swallow thickly, steeling yourself.
"I couldn't stop thinking about you after I'd called. I wanted to feel your hands on my body, I wanted you to strip me of my clothes and bend me over my bed and fuck me senseless. I haven't been able to sleep, Father, my dreams are haunted by this lust. I wake and my hands are pleasuring myself unbidden, or I've already finished and my bed is messed." The words pour from your mouth and you fall into describing a fantasy.
"The dreams are the same… I call you and I seduce you, I strip down and I force your cock into me, I swallow your cock whole, or I use your face. Or I possess you and I make you cum inside of me, marking my womb as yours and yours alone…" Your breath hitches and you bow your head, losing strength and simply letting it hang, chin to your chest.
"I don't know what to do, Father. Please, sir, help me."
Internally, you're satisfied by the flush on the Father's face from the hedonistic words. Your own expression is one of what you hope is pleading and fear, desperation. His Adams apple bobs as he swallows and it takes a second for his words to come out.
"This is worse than I thought. We have to act immediately. The demon inside of you is one of lust, Lucifer's own hands twisting your very soul. Tell me, have you noticed anything changes physically?"
You nod and the Father prompts you to show him with a simple gesture of his hand. You stand, hands moving to the small clasp that cinches the waist of your skirt tight. It opens with a small click and the heavy fabric falls to the floor. His gaze is curious, interested clinically if anything. The underwear beneath your overly modest skirt is tiny, lacy and black . If it isn't exquisite lace it's sheer, barely covering your most delicate places. The beginnings of an image peek out from the hem of your sweater and slowly you pull it up and over your head, shaking your head to clear wisps of hair from your face displaced by the tug of the garment's tight collar.
In the dim light the black bra stands out against your fair skin even more. What's more eye catching is the painstakingly drawn tattoo that you've marked yourself with, the infinity symbol at the base with a line through it vertically, hatched twice.
A Satanic cross.
Red looks at home on your skin in the warmth of the room. His fingers reach out and you flinch from the touch—he's so warm . He scowls and stands, dwarfing you as he took your chin in one hand and planting his other palm on your stomach.
"When did this happen." There was a darkness in his tone and god you just want to kiss him already. Your hands come up and rest on his biceps, not pushing him away but stabilizing yourself.
You can't answer, your words caught in your throat. What was the story supposed to be again?
"It's getting dangerously bad, now. We need to help you immediately. Lay down, this is going to be a process." He guides you not to the bed but to a space in the middle of your floor, the cool hardwood leaching through your socked feet. You're putty in his hands, the only fight you have left going to refusing to let go of the firm arms underneath his vestments.
" Please , please help me, Father, it invades my dreams." Your brain catches up to your place in the scene and you shiver as the Father's warm hands settle on your now bare shoulders.
His gaze is stern but kind just like the pressure he applies to your shoulders. "Kneel, my child. Kneel. If it's taken such a hold of you, the demonic infection must be cleansed from the inside out. I'll prepare the ritual. Prepare yourself to confess. And…" He looks down at you as you're sinking to the floor, silhouetted by the lights in the ceiling above him.
"Take those sinful things off."
Your attention temporarily leaves the Father as it turns to the clothes you still wore, scant as they are. Your arms twist behind yourself and unclasp the bra, baring your chest to the world. Next is your underwear, and you dutifully ignore the spot of darker fabric in the crotch. The Father would discover it soon enough, anyway. You peel the socks off and roll them up, placing everything to the side and leaving yourself nude on the floor. The paint on your torso shines faintly in the light and you stare at it for a moment before raising your gaze to the Father.
He’s hunched over the bed and rifling through the briefcase again, the tension in the room rising slowly but tangibly. You shift uncomfortably on the floor, knees pressed into the hardwood. It’s a long minute of silence before he brings items over to you, beginning the ritual in earnest. White chalk in a circle around you. Small candles, lit with a metal lighter that flips open with a soft clink . He kneels in front of you outside of the circle and reaches across the white line to smear something on your forehead before settling back onto his knees, raising a book in his left hand and holding the two fingers of his right in front of his chest.
“In order to drive the demon out of you, we must show it that your soul belongs to the Lord.” The Father speaks quietly, his dark eyes trained on yours. You meet his gaze and hold it, taking in the softness of his jaw and the long, almost girlish lashes that framed his burning eyes. You swallow but your throat feels like it can’t force anything down. You're trapped in place, weak to the husky tones of his voice and the way his words lilt here and there.
“Are you ready?”
You nod. The room feels hot but your skin feels so cold.
He turns his eyes to the book every few seconds as he begins to recite, knowing the text seemingly mostly by heart.
"Ave Maria, gratia plena,
Dominus tecum.
Benedicta tu in mulieribus,
et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus.
Sancta Maria, Mater Dei
ora pro nobis peccatoribus,
nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen."
It’s low in his chest, the words spoken with a deep reverence and conviction you rarely hear from him. He’s concentrating on the pronunciation and going slowly, his hand repeatedly making the symbol of the cross just a few inches away from your naked form. Latin isn't a language you understand but words stand out to you that are unmistakable— Dominus, Sancta Maria… Mortis. He draws in a breath as if the effort is exhausting, and leans closer. His face is barely a foot away from yours. You feel hot breath brush over your collarbones.
“What do you feel, my child?”
You answer earnestly. “No change, Father. It’s… strong, I feel it flexing its power over me. But the prayer, it—” You fall silent, face flushing again as your resolve crumples.
The Father scowls and reaches out to take your cross in hand, his knuckles resting in the center of your breasts and smearing the top of the painted leviathan cross painted on your skin. His brows furrow and he speaks in a voice not directed to you, but to your affliction. To your dark passenger.
“You will release her, beast. You foul creature. Let her confess, in the name of the Lord I command you.”
You let out a cry and slump forward some, bowing your head to let it rest on the Father’s hand. “There’s something inside of me, Father.”
Righteous fury alights in him, audible in the form of a hissed "what?". You bring your eyes up and his are full of anger, of holy rage. You continue on.
“I wasn’t allowed to say. I tried to cover up what it had done because it wouldn’t let me remove it. Please, Father—” You don’t get to finish the sentence before he’s moving into the circle, forcing you to bend backwards to accommodate him entering your space. Your knees come apart and with a slight adjustment they rise, spread; your feet plant on the floor. He still has you by the chain around your throat and the black fabric draping from his form brushes over your skin, swallowing you in its warmth. He lets go only to place the book he was reading from on your chest as his hands roam down your body. His eyes close and you shudder involuntarily. In the gentle, flickering light of the candles you can see the skin of your nethers is slick with arousal, made worse by the gentle touches and sultry voice.
His hands draw lower.
You feel the first electric touch on your inner thighs and you jolt, fingers clenching into fists briefly. His hands are clinical yet cautious in their exploration, searching for what he’s supposed to find. It’s obvious once his hand cups your swollen, sticky cunt: a faint vibration buzzes against his fingers. You cover your face with your hands but he forces them away, grabs both your wrists and holds them against the floor above your head.
“No.”
You squirm as he presses a finger inside, slow and borderline painful from how little the stimulation actually is. You’ve been craving more than the tiny toy inside of you for an hour or so now and it’s getting to the point where you’re afraid this will end in your orgasm being ruined. Your eyes shut and the Father growls at you, a command that sends a shiver from your cheeks down your spine to settle in your guts.
“Look at me.”
As he slowly pulls the toy out you whimper and look into his eyes, breathing getting faster as he soon leaves you with no stimulation at all. No. No, you bastard, give it back!
“There. Isn’t that much better now?” Fucker, you swear at him again in your mind. You nod, though, but it soon turns to shaking your head no. “No, Father. I need— I need more , Father… I need something else. I need—”
The Father interrupts you with a smirk he isn’t even trying to suppress. “You need to be cleansed. From the inside, out.” With that he releases your wrists and rocks back onto his heels, settling himself as he unzips the cassock and reveals the outfit underneath. A black button-up with that plastic collar, and black pants that were far too tight in the crotch. The silver belt buckle jingles as he unclasps it and tugs the fabric apart, eyes locked on the book placed across your breasts.
“Recite with me, my child. We will drive the Devil out of you.”
You gulp and nod, hungrily watching him push his pants down to rest around his thighs. He’s been able to hide his arousal under the robes this entire time but now you see it in its full glory. Your breath hitches as you know what’s coming—the stretch isn’t unfamiliar to you anymore but it’s been a little while since he was last able to get you like this. You’re so horny right now it doesn’t matter though, he could be twice his size and you’d make it fit just so you could have a chance at orgasm.
He pushes inside and you moan out, matching his soft grunt of effort as he tugs your legs around him.
“Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict,” He takes a moment to begin the recitation but once he’s inside of you you take even longer. It’s only with a prompting from the Father you’re able to speak as he had.
“Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict,”
“Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God restrain him, we humbly pray,” As he moves further into the prayer he starts up at a slow but steady pace, more of a grind than a thrust.
“B-Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God… May God restrain him, we humbly pray,”
“Good. Keep going. And do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God—” he withdraws almost all the way and snaps his hips forward, “thrust Satan down to hell.”
You moan out as he sinks deep inside, burying himself completely inside of you and pressing his hips to yours. You try to speak but it’s getting more difficult to remember the prayer as you finally, finally get the pleasure you’ve been craving.
“You can do it,” faster, now. He's starting to get that breathiness in his voice that makes you melt inside, that makes your body yearn for anything he can give you.
“And do thou— oh, God, fff— O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of Go-od, thrust Satan down to hell, oh how much longer is this prayer—”
He breaks just a little bit and laughs, once, making you blush with embarrassment. He continues on after a moment to compose himself, reaching a hand into his robe to withdraw a small vial of water. A crucifix adorns the bottle. He twists the cap with one hand and drizzles the water, warm from being stored next to his body, down your stomach. The rivulets turn light pink as they mix with the paint and he smears the symbol with his palm.
“And with him,” He pauses and it feels so good to see him struggling to get through it too, to know you’re affecting him just as much, “those other wicked spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.”
This was going to be the death of you. He has his hand on the lower part of your abdomen, forcing you tighter around him as he fucks into you properly now. Your back arches and your spine is taut as a bowstring, mouth open as you give in to the urge to borderline sob in pleasure. “I can’t— I can’t oh Father it’s too much, I—”
“You must,” his voice is firm and the thumb that had been inching towards your swollen clit stops in its tracks. You know you have to comply to get it, but words don’t seem to be coming to you.
“Try for me. Slow. And with him,” He’s drawing it out, slowing his own pace down to let some of the fog clear from your head.
“A-And with him,” you mumble, body relaxing back to lie flat against the floor. Your eyes are closed so you can focus and he doesn’t begrudge you it. He is, however, using it to his advantage, removing the book from your chest and waiting a moment before cupping one breast in his warm, wet hand.
“Those other wicked spirits who wander through the world,”
“Those other… those other, wicked spirits who wander— spirits who wander through the world,”
“Good girl. Good. Almost done. For the ruin of souls.” You feel the thumb finally press down on your oversensitive button and you shudder, bucking your hips up against the pressure and attempting to fuck yourself on him just to get a little more. He doesn't press down harder, but he doesn’t move away either.
“For the ruin of souls…!” Your voice is starting to pitch up and you’re losing control over the volume as the Father finally goes back to that fast pace, as fast as he can go while still pressing against the deepest parts of you with every thrust.
“Amen. There you go.” He finally, finally begins to rub you in earnest and your body begins to tense. It’s drawing closer, that beautiful point of no return, and you only have one thing to say.
“Amen!”
You sob that word, over and over again. You can feel his hair tickle your chest and the warm, sticky skin of his sweat slicked forehead rest on your collarbone as he gives in to the pleasure and fucks you through the orgasm that shatters any coherent thoughts you had into nothingness. Your body spasms again and again, arms coming up and locking around his shoulders, fingers gripping his robes to try and anchor yourself as you fall into a haze of pleasure.
He’s starting to lose himself and you can feel it in the way his rhythm falters, the way he’s not trying to speak— he can’t do anything but pant your name into your chest, force his mouth against your neck and sink his teeth into the delicate skin to make you let out a throaty wail. You’re locked against him, legs hooked behind his hips to ensure there’s no way he can move away. Not that he wants to.
With a growl that makes your body clench around him the Father drives himself deep into you and comes, hips jerking out of rhythm as he spills himself inside. You’ve never felt more full, already feeling the excess start to drip out of you as he gives a few more thrusts to milk every last drop out. Slowly he withdraws and pulls himself free, your legs relaxing and the heat of the moment fading away.
It's a few moments before you come back to consciousness from the wobbly, not-quite-there place your mind was in. Slowly the stickiness of your nude form against the hardwood becomes more prominent and the smell of smoke wafts across your nose. Your boyfriend is blowing out the candles and trying to fix his curls that have become unruly, out of place again. You offer a hairtie that never leaves your wrist and he takes it.
"Thanks, You, uh," He ties up the overgrown locks and the little bun on top of his head is cuter than it has any right to be. "You good there, babe? How long did you have that in for?"
You shrug and peel yourself off the floor, hunching over and scooting back to catch a sight of the thick white liquid oozing slowly from your entrance. "Like an hour maybe? Enough that I hate it now, to be honest." Your hips hurt, your skin is rubbed red and raw but the sting is worth the pleasure you just felt. "Was that... fun? It wasn't too much, was it? Because holy fuck, Jay, that was like, stupidly hot."
He laughs, a genuine one, and plucks at the robe he still wore. "I mean, feels fucked up and wrong, but in a good way, if that makes sense." You nod and he leans in, pressing a quick kiss to your lips.
"Consider yourself exorcised."
"Sexorcised," you correct him with a grin and he wrinkles his nose at the joke, pretending like he isn't smiling.