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The Sanctum’s library was silent, dust motes dancing in the late afternoon sun. Sylus stood by the high window, his black blazer a stark silhouette against the light. “Be strong and courageous,” his voice, a low rumble, filled the quiet space. “Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you.” He turned, his sharp red eyes finding you where you sat at the heavy oak table. “Deuteronomy 31:6. Do you understand its application, child?”
You shifted, the parchments before you blurring. “I… I think so, Father Sylus. In times of trial.”
“In all times.” He moved closer, the scent of old books and something sharper, like ozone, washing over you. His finger tilted your chin up. “Especially when one’s own desires feel like a trial.” His thumb brushed your lower lip. The touch was electric, utterly inappropriate, and your breath caught. “Your pulse is racing. What frightens you?”
“This,” you whispered, the word hanging between you.
His smile was a slow, wicked curve. “This is not fear. It’s anticipation.” His mouth covered yours.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a claiming. His lips were firm, demanding yours to part, and when they did, his tongue swept in, hot and deliberate. You melted into the table’s edge, a soft whimper escaping you as his hands cradled your face. He tasted of sacrament wine and power. He pulled back, a string of saliva connecting you for a fleeting second. “You see? No forsaking. Only feeling.”
His hands moved to the buttons of your simple tunic. “Let us study a different text.” The fabric parted, and his gaze dropped to your breasts, heaving against your cotton bra. “Magnificent.” The word was a reverent prayer. He peeled the bra down, and your tits spilled into his waiting palms. They were full, heavy, the dark brown nipples already pebbled tight under the cool air. “Look at these,” he murmured, his thumbs circling the stiff peaks. “Perfect offerings.”
He bent, taking one nipple into his mouth. The heat of his tongue, the gentle scrape of his teeth, made you arch off the table with a sharp cry. “Father!”
He suckled hard, pulling a deep, aching pleasure from your core. Shlick, shlick. The wet, filthy sounds filled the quiet library. He switched to the other, lavishing it with the same hungry attention. “Your body is a temple,” he growled against your skin, his hands kneading the soft, heavy weight of you. “And I intend to worship at its altar. Fully.”
He straightened, his own breathing ragged. His cock was a thick, blatant ridge against his tailored trousers. He guided your hand to it. “Feel what you do to me. Feel the sin you inspire.”
You wrapped your fingers around him through the fabric, gasping at the hard, massive heat. He hissed, his composure cracking. “Enough.” He lifted you onto the cleared table, the wood cold against your bare ass. He pushed your skirts up, his red eyes burning as he took in the sight of your panties, already damp. He hooked his fingers in the sides and tore them away with a rough rip.
He knelt.
His breath fanned over your cunt. “Open for me.”
Trembling, you let your knees fall apart. His gaze was predatory, intense. Your pussy lips were a darker shade of brown, plump and glistening with your arousal. He traced your slit with a single finger, collecting your wetness. “So ready. So fucking eager for your priest.”
Then his mouth was on you.
His tongue was flat and broad, licking a long, slow stripe from your aching hole to your throbbing clit. You screamed, your hands flying to his silver hair. He ate you like a man starved, his tongue fucking into your hole, then swirling around your clit with relentless precision. Squelch. Slurp. The sounds were obscene. “Taste like heaven,” he grunted, his nose buried in your curls. “Gonna make you come on my face.”
He did. He sucked your clit between his lips, applying a rhythmic pressure that built a coil of white-hot tension in your belly. Your hips jerked, fucking yourself against his mouth. “Sylus! I’m gonna—!”
Your orgasm ripped through you, a blinding, shuddering wave. Your cunt clenched around nothing, gushing wet against his chin. He drank it down, moaning into you, not stopping, not even as you sobbed and tried to push his head away.
“No, no, sweet thing,” he crooned, pinning your hips to the table. “We’re just beginning.” He licked through your oversensitivity, the stimulation a sharp, exquisite torture that made you writhe. “One is never enough. Not for a sinner like you.”
He stood, unbuckling his belt. His cock sprang free, and your eyes widened. It was huge, thick and long, the head a ruddy purple, veins standing out along the shaft. He stroked it, a bead of pre-cum welling at the tip. “It will hurt,” he said, not unkindly. “And then it will ruin you for anything else.”
He positioned himself, the broad head nudging your soaked entrance. He pushed. Your tight cunt stretched, burning, as the thick crown forced its way inside. You cried out, a mix of pain and overwhelming fullness.
“Fuck,” he snarled, his priestly cadence gone, replaced by raw lust. “You’re so fucking tight. Taking me so well.” He shoved deeper, an inch, then two, your body fighting to accommodate him. He stilled, letting you adjust, his forehead damp against yours. “Breathe, my darling. Breathe.”
When the sting faded into a deep, pervasive ache, you nodded. He moved, a slow, grinding retreat and advance. The friction was incredible, every ridge of his cock dragging against your inner walls. He picked up speed, his hips snapping against yours in a hard, driving rhythm. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. The table groaned beneath you.
“Look at those tits,” he commanded, his hands squeezing them roughly as they bounced with each thrust. “Watch them jiggle while I fuck you. That’s my cock filling you up. Stretching this perfect cunt.”
He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss as he fucked you harder, deeper. You could feel him in your womb. He laced his fingers with yours, pinning your hands beside your head. The intertwined hands anchored you as he pounded into you, the connection making your tears flow for a new reason.
“Gonna breed you,” he gasped into your ear, his pace turning brutal. “Gonna pump this cunt full of my cum. Plant my seed so deep in your womb you’ll feel it for days. You want that? Want me to knock you up right here on the holy scriptures?”
“Yes! God, yes!” you chanted, lost to everything but the sensation of him splitting you open.
“Then come for me. Come on my cock.”
Your second climax was a tidal wave, stronger than the first. Your cunt spasmed around him, milking his length, and a hot gush of fluid—your squirt—erupted, soaking his balls and the wood beneath you. Splurt.
The feeling of you clenching around him tore his own release from him. “Fuck!” he roared, his hips stuttering. He slammed home, hilting himself inside you as his cock pulsed, jet after hot jet of cum flooding your depths. You felt it, a scalding rush filling you up, spilling out around where you were joined.
He collapsed over you, breathing ragged, still buried inside you. The library was silent again, save for the sound of your panting and the wet, sticky sound of your joined bodies. Slowly, he pulled out, a mixture of your spend and his dripping from your well-used hole onto the table.
He gathered you into his arms, his blazer wrapping around your shoulders. He carried you to a plush chair by the cold fireplace, settling you on his lap. With a tenderness that contrasted violently with his prior ferocity, he produced a soft cloth and began to clean between your legs, wiping away the evidence of your shared sin.
“Be strong and courageous,” he whispered into your hair, his voice once again the calm, measured tone of Father Sylus. “For I am with you. And I will not forsake you.” His kiss to your temple was gentle. “Rest now.”