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The air outside is fresh – a chill flows through the small town this night, gently frosting over blades of grass and old door hinges. Stars string across the night sky, it’s not particularly late in the evening but the early winter sheen coats the down in a muted blue hue.
Though, you wouldn’t think it winter from the heat radiating from the pastor's car, practically melting the rime that wraps itself around the curbside. His windows coated with a thick fog of condensation, water forming and running to pool in his vents sync with the sweat emanating from his temples and find itself lost in his salt and peppered beard. A large lump resides in his throat only making the ongoing pounding of his heart echo louder in his silent car – his radio long broken but even then, couldn’t be heard through blood rushed ears. It truly was a sight to see Shiro so unkempt, his white skin flushed a warm pink as every breath rattles its way out of his chest; the only thing keeping him together was the unmoving gaze he kept on the road following each turn to his apartment complexes parking lot where he now finds himself.
With desperate deliberation, Shiro swings open his car door – transporting himself from car to flat so hurriedly it was almost a blur. But he couldn’t be any slower, no, his mind had been torturing him since before leaving the chapel and he just needed to be alone. Once more Fern had come to visit him after service had completed; he imagined he’d never see her again after the night when she so desperately banged on the doors of the church – not begging for forgiveness but needing help with her broken down car, and he was certain he wasn’t seeing her again after she returned the following evening with a gift to thank him for his help. He found himself mistaken, a few times a week since she would come in the evening and join Shiro during his prayer or help him with cleaning duties. The company was greatly appreciated, however, most of the other fathers despised keeping his company which is why he indulged in prayer late at night on his own.
Usually, she doesn’t join him in religious practice – often just sitting with him to keep company and ask questions less about the church but more about him – but tonight she did. She even incited it, asking about communion services and asking for him to host one just for them – just for her. And he did, Fern had sat at the front eyes never leaving his as he carried out a fake sermon just for her, there was no one else to witness so he spoke only to her. It was intimate strangely, no matter how much or where he paced his eyes never left her and she just looked up to him through half-lidded eyes, head tilted, and arms pushed tight together – Shiro had to do his very best to not let eyes wander. The air hung with short, heavy silence before Shiro quickly left and returned with the items for communion; the wafers, a small rag and the chalice filled partially with cranberry juice – usually for it they would use wine, but Fern confided in him her aversion to alcohol and they simply had not grape juice at hand.
She had asked - innocently – what she needed to do for communion to which Shiro only responded in his standard monotonous way of being.
“Come here and get on your knees.”
He pointed to the plush mat that resided at the bottom of the stage and had never seen somebody so quick to kneel for communion – it was almost admirable, almost desperate. Setting example, he took first communion; uttering blessing before eating the body wafer and again before taking the chalice to his lips – since it was only the two of them, he didn’t need to be conservative with the amount he drank – and wiping the edge with the cloth he brought. He looked down to Fern, those big brown looking up to him through her heavy lashes inspired his heart to beat hard and his ears to flush.
Even now as he moves hastily to his bedroom- he thinks of those eyes. When he collapses to his knees at the side of his bed, neatly fitting into the long worn-down grooves in his wood flooring from many nights of desperate prayer- he thinks of her face flushed and breath hitched when he told her to open her mouth. When it’s too far past the point of avoiding the feeling of blood rushing to his head, pooling in his ears as trousers steadily becoming tight and uncomfortable – thinks of her open mouth and the way her tongue instinctively curled upwards when he placed the holy wafer her mouth; her eyes not daring to shift from his own as a small trail of saliva connects her tongue to his knuckle. As his hands hurriedly race to undo the buttons of his cassock, to the buckle of his belt and pulling down his trousers, exposing himself fully erect – he thinks of the way her eyes flittered upwards as he used his hand to help guide her head backwards to take the communion ‘wine’, how the wine ran fast from chalice; pooling in the corner of her mouth and dancing down her chin and the look she gave him once he took the chalice from her lips, wiping her face with the back of her hands.
Keeping their eyes locked the whole time.
Through shaking breaths, his hand wraps around the base of his length; deep regret and shame of such sin pulls on his chest like an anchor tethering a ship - but the harder he tries to sink these lustful thoughts the worse they appear. Shiro hadn’t watched porn since he was a teen, it was one of the things he gave up in his vow of abstinence when he became a priest, but the heat and need that was burning in his mind at the thought of Fern was the all the same as how he felt back then. Slowly, his hand works its way up and down the length of his dick ,base to tip, as one low, guttural moan fights its way out of his mouth. It’s beyond inappropriate to be doing this -it’s beyond sinful- but every inch of his body is begging for him to continue. Fern still continues to haunt his mind, but it’s no longer the events of earlier that play out. It’s her on her back, legs splayed around his kneeling own, inching closer to his person until they’re wrapped around the small of his waist and pulling him in closer. She works her trousers down and glides those soft, tan hands of hers over to his trousers - messing with the zip and pulling them down; all the while looking up at him with that same half-lidded stare. Her hands flow upwards, tracing the curvatures of his chest to back muscles - landing at the base of the back of Shiro’s neck, pulling him in close with light pressure and trapping him in with a slow kiss full of need.
Their hips collide in tandem with their lips fitting together perfectly -like they were made for each other, lock and key; Shiro pushing himself deep inside of Fern, her hips bucking upwards and head pushing backwards onto the sheets. They’re simple, plain sheets but Shiro can tell they're his. Rhythmically, Shiro’s hips rock back and forth, his large hands wrap around Fern’s hips, his fingers meeting at the back and her olive skin turning pale from the pressure of his thumbs. He rubs his thumb over the smooth skin of her stomach, feeling himself through the slight bulge running through the base of it. She looks perfect, of course she does – it’s Fern, but really – God- she looks perfect. The way she looks so beautiful so undone: head back, lips parted half panting – half moaning, hips rocking with such desperate need for friction, legs trembling and skin coated in such a perfect sheen of sweat you would think she wasn’t real. Her legs stay wrapped tightly around his waist, every short second of Shiro’s pull back is met with a desperate whine and a tightened clam – Fern desperate for closeness and contact.
Shiro’s grasp around himself tightens, his pace quickening as he continues to pump his hand up and down. His face red and his hand slick with precum that continues to leak from his tip. The act almost seems painful the way his forehead is pressed to the end of his mattress and the grip his free hand has on it, his knuckles turning white. Low groans and growls stay stifled in his chest, fighting through the mental turmoil of pleasure and guilt of partaking in such lustful desires and the barrier of his well bitten lip – now throbbing and bleeding slightly.
The more he gets off, the more his mind races. Fern’s moans echo's through his brain, they’re low and loud – just like her voice. Her fingers lace round brown and white hairs, tugging desperately at them whilst pushing his face further into her lower half. Two large fingers work their way deep into her, rubbing slightly on her inner walls as he pulls back and spreading slightly as he pushes back inside. All while his tongue glides up and down the outside of her vagina, running upwards to circle her clit – earning him a responsive hair tug- and cheeks slightly hollowing as he sucks on it; leaving his chin and beard soaked. He looks up to her, watching how her body twitches and jitters with every slight change of pressure and speed and how her chest heaves and lip's part the rougher he works; seeing her hips roll rhythmically as she grinds into his face. You would think he’s watching an artist at work with the way he’s watching so intensively – eyes never daring to leave the sight of her body – or even a masterpiece strung on the walls of the Louvre. Even in his mind he looks to Fern as if beauty was founded in her image - and even in his mind his hand rests on his own lower half, palming himself through the rough denim of his jeans – the sensation of the friction sending his brain to blur.
“Fuck.... Shiro...ngh...”
Fern whines, head lulling backwards and rolling from shoulder to the neck; her grasp on Shiro’s hair turns from laced fingers to a fist, pulling hard with intent and desire.
Blood rushes to Shiro’s ears and his vision goes white, his name always sounded better coming from Fern’s mouth – even when he was only Father Williams to her- but fuck did it sound good wrapped in her moans. It loops in his mind like a broken record, it’s all that can possess his thoughts as his hands work faster getting himself off. He writhes in place, unable to force down his low, crackly groans of pleasure; his mouth slack as a trail of saliva falls from his bottom lip.His strokes lose what initial intention he barely had at the start, now moving with nothing but pure lust and desperation – chest heaving as he chokes out another deep moan. The guilt of sin fights with the bubbling pleasure rising within him, like oil in water, but he’s far too deep in the devil’s temptations to stop – all he can do is atone.
“Hail-Hail, Mary, -hah... full of Grace...”
The words fight their way out of his mouth, it’s better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission – no?
“...the lord...is wit-with thee...”
Fern stays in his mind, any which position they could be in as long as he can see her face, as long as he can hear her praise his name, as long as he can see the same half-lidded stare that got him into this predicament in the first place. On her back – her legs thrown over his shoulders, watching her stomach ripple as he pushes himself in and out. On his lap – knees locked around his, crashing hips into each other as they grind against each other like horny teenagers. Or on her knees, eyes streaming taking as much as she can as she looks up to him with her pretty, little mouth wrapped around the width of his....
“Blessed art ah..ngh.. thou... amongst hah women-”
His hand works harder, pumping up and down, as his other hand finally frees itself from clamping on the edge of the bed - moving upwards to the white of his collar, hooking a finger over it and removing the plastic infill in one swift motion. It didn’t quite seem appropriate to don the full apparel.
“and-ah-and blessed... is the fruit of t-thy womb, Jesus..”
Each sentence he manages to choke out is laced with growls and whines, legs beginning to tremble and eyes so tightly shut in an overwhelm of pleasure.
“Holy Mary-fu- fuck!- Mother of Go-God”
She’s under him again, arms latched round his shoulders as her back arches upwards to him – folding in pleasure as she takes every inch of him. Their mouths connected with a thick rope of saliva as the room fills with noises of grunts and pants – it’s desperate – animalistic – it's pure need. She pulls him closer, lips to ear, and begs for him, moaning his name and claiming him – saying he’s all hers and she’s all his – like he’s a dog without an owner.
“Pray-pray for -f-fuck-god- us sinners,”
Her teeth tug on his earlobe, running it back and forth between them and sending a chill down his spine and a deep groan from his chest. Shiro pushes himself back, making them forehead to forehead and just watching each other in the moment. He watches the sweat drip from her brow, moans getting higher in pitch as she reaches her climax. Profanity paired with ‘please’ and ‘Shiro’ litter the air as he feels her walls tighten around himself, her head parting from his own as it pushed back to the mattress in pleasure.
“N-no-now at- god-hah- the hour of- Fern-fuck- ngh- our fuck!death-”
Brow's furrowing as he moans loudly, tears starting to form and fall down his cheeks – the overwhelm of pleasure and guilt of his wrong doings sending his brain to overdrive. Ears ringing, lip trembling, legs buckling – it's all too much.
“A-Amen-”
With him finishing his Hail Mary, Shiro reaches his climax – working his hand up the length of his dick one last time before he ejaculates with a loud groan, sticky, white cum oozing from his tip onto the already well-coated floor. His chests heaves up and down in an almost strenuous way- deep, heavy pants fight their way out of his mouth; grounding him back to reality. He stays knelt still for a while; body exhausted from the expel of energy and trapped in place by shame and guilt. He took a vow of abstinence – a vow of dedication and loyalty to God- but here he stays knelt, not for his God, but for a woman he barely knows. Years of loyalty and faithfulness undone because of one longing look. He needs to repent, to beg for forgiveness - but – not before he cleans up this mess.