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He told me not to laugh.
“I’m… a priest,” he said softly. “And I know I shouldn’t be calling.”
That’s exactly why he had to call.
There was something in his voice — that strained mix of guilt and arousal — that made me want to push every button he was trying not to admit he had.
“I see,” I purred. “Are you here to confess, Father?”
He groaned, and I knew I had him.
I slipped into role immediately — the sinner kneeling at the altar, the wicked temptation he couldn’t resist.
He told me he hadn’t touched himself in weeks. That he’d resisted. Prayed. Tried to bury it.
But temptation always wins in the end, doesn’t it?
I made him imagine I was in the front pew, legs crossed, short skirt, no knickers.
How I’d lean forward while he delivered his sermon, showing just enough to keep him flustered. Distracted. Hard.
He told me he’d stared at me from the pulpit for weeks.
So I told him what I’d do if we were alone in the vestry — lips trailing down his collar, hands finding the bulge beneath his robes, mouth wrapping around something far more sinful than scripture.
His breathing was ragged. He was trying to hold back.
“You know this is wrong,” I whispered.
“I know,” he gasped. “That’s why it feels so fucking good.”
When he came, it was with a half-moan, half-prayer.
“Forgive me,” he muttered.
“Oh, Father,” I said. “You’ll have to call again for that.”
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