Of all the flock in my care, Sister Alice is the most troubled. She’s running from something. Hiding from her past. Always has. From the little I've been able to encourage her to share over the years, I can't say I blame her.

Even from that first night she showed up at the church door, all blotchy-eyed and sniveling with torn clothes, I thought twice about letting her in. It wasn't solely the Catholic cross tattooed on the back of her right hand that gave me pause. I could sense unrest. Conflict.

But God doesn't judge. God forgives. God offers sanctity and redemption. A chance to shed the shackles of any previous existence, any mistakes, whatever walk of life, and start again with a fresh slate.

So we took her in. Nurtured her. Rebuilt her confidence and sought to temper the flames of desire that clawed at her insides.

Over time, her life turned around. She took her vows. Performed missionary work with vulnerable adults in the community. Became a figurehead of virtue, yet never truly fit in.

She was prone to bouts of silence. Perhaps never fully escaped her demons. And Lord only knows what she did to herself behind closed doors. We all heard the lashes and stifled cries after hours, but any marks remained hidden.

I always held the impression there was something bubbling away behind those soulful eyes. A darkness. As if she was forged from the very same volcanic activity that spat out the dazzling peridot that circled her pupils.

If the eyes truly are windows to the soul, Sister Alice is a cauldron of repressed need that's ripe for rekindling. The late night self-flaggelations have ceased, her demeanour has altered and I’ve become increasingly worried that it’s only a matter of time before the dam breaks.

Today, it seems, is that day.

Sunday. Of course.

Mass is over, the meet and greet from the congregation done. I was in my office penning the next sermon before she knocked and sashayed in with the kind of purpose that would shame diplomats. Immaculate, as always, but with ruby lipstick and a dark eyeliner to accentuate her long, natural lashes. The shadows formed by the fat candles on the shelves behind me give the illusion of mascara, but she wears none.

Less than a minute later, she's coaxed me from behind my desk and kneels before me. Her ceremonial scapular is not draped over her tunic, and she's gazing up at me like God is but a secondary idol. Seeking approval she knows I cannot sanction for the acts I know she craves.

I most certainly do not approve of the way she’s removed her guimpe and opened the wimple shrouding her head to reveal the heavy cross nestled in her creamy cleavage, hanging from a choker. Nor do I approve of the predatory hunger in her expression. But my cock thinks differently. It betrays me, and she licks her lips at its involuntarily stirring, like the devil himself has leached into my blood.

Taking my treacherous hardening as a green light to proceed, she slithers hands up my thighs, unbuckles the belt and whispers, “Yesss. It's been so long since I felt…” Reaching in, she strokes my firming shaft through the white cotton underwear. “Flesh.”

“Sister Alice…”

“Father Kiernan. You're so,” she rolls down the waistband of my underwear and smirks as I spring free. “Big.”

Her hand encases my meat and strokes it. She's warm and the gasp I emit comes from nowhere, the skin rippling up over my glans at her touches. I inhale through my teeth. “We shou… you should not be doing this. It’s—”

The softest breaths playing over the tip of my dick silence me. And when her lips encase the thick bulb, I'm reduced to a series of low moans instead of the protestations I should voice.

Popping me free and jacking the shaft, she grins. “Oh cum now, Father. You’ve been celibate for how many years now? Eight?”

“Nine.”

“Nine.” She swoops her tongue around the head, sucks and lets go. “In all that time, you must have thought of this.” Her lips swallow the entire head and nibble the ridge as I groan before she pulls clear. “Of me.”

I try to regain composure. “We can't—”

“What? Exercise free will within these holy walls?”

The warmth of her mouth descends and my breath stutters as I nudge the roof of her mouth. “N…. no. There are rules. Covenants.”

Holding me in the entrance to her throat long enough for saliva to drip, she drags free, gasping. Pauses a beat to catch her breath then plunges again until she chokes around the base and withdraws, coughing. Her voice is a hoarse whisper as she smears her spit up and down the length of my steel. “God I've missed that.”

“Don't take the Lord's name in vain.”

Her chuckle is followed by rhythmic squeezes of my rigid pole in her grasp. “Or what, hmm? Even the Dead Sea Scrolls don't say why. Just obey, obey, obey.”

Extending her tongue, she scoops a dot of clear pre-cum oozing from the tip. Savours it, eyes shining. “I've dedicated years to Him.” Her eyes flick skyward. “Been a good girl for the promise of a better existence in the next life.” She sucks the tip of my cock and swirls her tongue. “But what about this one? Hmm? What good is a promise if it can't be cashed until I'm dead?”

I squeeze my eyes shut as if it would make it all a dream, but she's still there when they open. “I could have you cast from the church. A decision I would take with a heavy heart, I might add. You have a good soul yet, clearly, you're still troubled and require guidance.”

She blinks. “You'd send me back out there? To my previous life? To all those… men? The ones I let take pleasure from my body without regard?”

“It would be a last resort.” I sigh deeply. “But the church has values to uphold and this,” I wave down vaguely in her direction, “violates them all.”

That seems to amuse her. “You would need Sister Yasmin’s approval. And let me tell you one thing.” She leans in and hovers her mouth over my flared shaft. “You're missing out. She tastes deee-vine.”

My jaw slackens as she wraps my firm head in a ruby ‘O’ and descends, sucking as she goes, the faintest scrape of her teeth on the way back up before popping free and grinning.

“Yasmin is sweet but I've craved something… savoury these past few months. Something hard. Something that hurts.” She flutters her lashes. “I've thought of you. Reawakened myself, touched myself, imagining your hands on my body. Around my throat. Your hard cock ravaging me, making me…” she laps her tongue from base to tip, “endlessly cum.”

“Sister Alice. I will do no such thing. That is highly inappropriate.”

“Mmmm,” she breathes. “It is. And yet,” she rubs my stalk and flutters her tongue under the ridge, “here we are.”

I reach for my underwear to reseat it, and she bats my hands away. Kisses my tip. Sits back on her haunches and tosses me puppydog eyes. I shiver.

As much as it scares me, the unexpected absence of her touch leaves me wanting. My cock flags a fraction, but then she lifts her hands and sweeps the coif and veil fully away from her face. Shaking obsidian tresses free, the strands brush my cock moments before her mouth engulfs it.

I gasp and reharden, hands flapping uselessly for purchase on nothing, the oak desk an arm's length too far away. I settle on clutching her head for stability. Before I know it, I've laced her hair in my fingertips, becoming complicit against my better judgement, encouraging her to take me deeper.

When she surfaces, hauling in oxygen, she resumes pumping my shaft, wet clicks of saliva and pre-cum scattering off the bookshelves and desk in the otherwise quiet office.

I cradle her cheek and her eyes find mine. “See? You want this as much as I do. But you're torn between disciplining me and fucking me.” She kisses my crown. “For the record, I'm fine with your hand, your belt or this magnificent cock.” To emphasise the point, she strokes it fully. “After all these years of neglect, can you imagine how tight my perfect little... cunt is? How much this big dick will stretch me as I cry out for more? How much I'll beg for you to fill me? To thrash me? Mark me? Hmm?"

I swell in her grip and she kisses my shaft, nibbling the edges up and down, her monologue continuing. “I shaved for you last night. Everything. There's not a wisp on my tight little slit. Imagine how sweet my wet bare skin will taste as you devour me and I clutch your head to it.”

“Sister Alice…”

“Shhh. Today I'm just Alice. Say it.”

“Sister Alice…” I insist. Like it's not already semantics.

She wags her fingertip. Connects it with the head of my dick and smears, then stands and sucks it clean. Eyes me as she lifts off her headgear and discards it. Then glides hands down her hourglass and unties the cincture from her waist, draping the ceremonial rope into the crease where my shaft joins my body.

With deliberate slowness, she unpins the tunic, shucks the garment and lets it pool around her bare feet. There's not a stitch underneath, and my gasp is not only for her flawless, svelte frame, but for the fact her pussy glistens in the flickering candlelight. Wet. Inviting. Deadly.

Sinful streaks of wayward juices coat her inner thighs and she trails a fingertip through them. Lifts the wet digit and paints my lips with it.

“Breathe in, Father. Smell that? That need? It's all yours. I'm all yours.” Her voice drops to a whisper, chin dipping in reverence, focus staying glued to mine. “Take me. Ruin me.”

I daren’t inhale. To do so will spell the end. But I can't hold my breath indefinitely. My lungs complain, heart rate elevating as my body craves fresh oxygen to keep me alive. Perhaps that's her point? To demonstrate need versus free will.

I hold back, splutter, twitch, then give up, hauling in air and, with it, the dizzying scent of a woman in heat. 

She's right insofar as it's intoxicating. Power surges through me as her essence infiltrates my senses. I fight the urge to grab her, shove her back on the desk and feast, but she has other ideas to try and break me. Sinks to her knees again, lazy loops one end of the cincture around my base like a makeshift cock ring, and tugs both ends down, right-angling my stiffness before swallowing its entirety.

The groan rings out and I desperately try to stifle it, becoming a sustained moan as she slobbers back and forth, tip to base, sucking me over and over. I swear I enter her throat on each in-stroke and that thought alone has me teetering on the edge of cumming.

“Oh. Fff… oh.”

She tears away from me and tightens her hold on the cincture. Frothy saliva is caught behind the prominent veins that pulse and throb, the blood unable to return due to her strangulation. It's clear she knows what she's doing, and my power to resist ebbs.

“Come on, Father. I know you want me.”

She engulfs my prick again. Again. Again. My body convulses as she gags and moans around my engorged girth. Driving me insane with desire until I fear I'll implode. Until I'm a groaning wreck.

Until I lose control.

Almost without thought, I grab a fistful of her hair, yank her off my enraged cock and haul her standing. I steer us both towards my desk and shove her forwards over it as she whispers encouragement alongside the wood. “Yeah, that's it. Fucking take me. Fucking own me.”

I grit my teeth and hiss, “Shut up,” tightening my grip on the ponytail I've created.

“Oh yess. That's it. I'm your little slut. Your playth—”

“I said: Shut. Up.” I punctuate each word with an almighty slap to her upturned rear and she cries out as each sting lands and heat spreads beneath my palm. Her moans skitter off the desk surface.

“Fuck yes. Give it to me. I've fucking missed being used.”

I lean down to her ear. “You’re a disobedient little thing aren't you? Do I have to gag you?”

She sighs, whether out of approval or the fact I position my hips so my pre-cum smears her pussy lips, I'll never find out. But she remains mostly silent when I drive myself in to the hilt, draw out and pound back in, the knots above the cincture’s tassels rhythmically thumping the desk side.

Her moans are muted, probably biting her lip to keep a lid on them, but I'm past caring. The sensation of being buried in her tight, bare pussy—the first I've had in nearly ten years—is overwhelming. I clutch her hips, repeatedly slam her against the desk and sporadically issue stinging spanks to her reddening bottom, making her gasp and groan.

Clapping flesh on flesh joins the repetitive clack of the necklace pendant against the desk and the sustained growl forming in her throat. I grab her shoulders and shove her forward, tits spreading to peep either side of her body.

The wet squelches of my hardness displacing her juice are eclipsed by the rising cadence of her climax. She stiffens in my grip and gasps, arms spreading, knocking over the pen pot as she grapples the desk edges and cums hard. Her rippling and the sheer depravity of our act sends me hurtling over the precipice too and my fingertips whiten on her shoulder blades as I pulse inside her sodden snatch, filling her.

My heart rate thunders. Spurt upon spurt of pent-up spunk lash her walls, and I'm unable to stay quiet as I unload. “Yes. Take it, my little ss…” My voice catches and I dry swallow. “Little... slut.”

Alice coos with delight at the name calling. She definitely has issues, and as the waves of euphoria fade, waves of guilt well to replace them. What have I done? Decimated my faith. Taken advantage of this woman when she was probably in a highly vulnerable state. Brought shame upon myself and the church I proclaim to represent. Can I ever recover from this ungodly blip, or does it spell the end for my tenure?

Panic rises. The saving grace—if it can be called that—is it's our secret. I’ll certainly take this experience to my grave. Alice… Sister Alice… is more of a wildcard, more unpredictable, so I will have to find a way to encourage her to remain quiet.

Somehow.

When she's recovered.

Withdrawing my spent phallus, it slaps my leg, a thick globule of cream forming at her entrance in its wake and drizzling down her thigh. The cincture slithers to the floor at my feet and I ease her upright. She turns to face me and I offer a weak smile. Her jaw slackens, focus beyond me, and her eyes widen.

I go cold. Whirl. Sister Yasmin is propped against the doorframe, gazing in at us. But instead of fury, there's rapture on her features, hand pressed to her groin, grinding her pussy through her habit.

I open my mouth to speak, “It’s not what you think. I can explai—”

The Sister holds a finger up to silence me. Stares at the perfect specimen I just ruined, roving her gaze up and down the naked siren, taking in every delicate curve. There's not much to tell them apart, though Yasmin is slightly more... womanly. Curvier and a shade older. The two of them lock gazes another moment, then Alice breezes past me, striding to the doorway, droplets of cum peppering the carpet behind her.

When she reaches the masturbating woman, she stoops to grab her wrist. Tugs it across the space and plants it on her hairless, spunk-soaked snatch. Then she lifts the front of the habit and digs her own hand into the thigh gap.

The women both start to moan as they finger one another. Had I not recently cum, I'd have hardened instantly at the sight. And the sounds. My goodness, the sounds. I've no idea how long she was watching, but Sister Yasmin is clearly very close, her mewls rising fast, interspersed with the filthy wet suction from Alice's driving fingers. She tips her head back, mouth a loose oval as she succumbs to her colleague's relentless insistence.

I'm not sure if Alice cums a second time or it's aftershocks from the first, but she quakes as Sister Yasmin groans, stiffens and releases rhythmic gasps, clutching the doorframe with her free hand.

I stand, dumbfounded, glistening cock still on display as the women bask in their moment. There doesn't appear to be a protocol for how to react so I just let them ride out whatever they're experiencing. Watch them rise, peak, then drift down the other side. Connected. Sated. Dripping with sin.

Eventually, they part. Feed each other the essence coating their fingertips, and it's clear they've been lovers some time. There's an ease, a familiarity to their strokes; their kiss loaded with tongues and raw heat. I daren't admit it's exciting, but I'm riveted at the raw lust, the sheer love they share.

There's a dawning realisation that the weekly teachings I deliver embody love—for God, for humanity—and are meant to spread joy to the congregation. Yet the church forbids such emotion on many levels or, at best, smothers it with fear of sin and damnation. Witnessing the passion between the women, my own endorphins still coursing my veins, and the dichotomy it all presents, scrambles my head.

I'm still in a daze when Sister Alice returns, brushing me en route to her clothing. Sister Yasmin makes herself presentable and approaches. “What do you think, Ali? Shall we keep him?”

She stops by my thigh and traces a fingertip up my body to hover under my nose. It reeks of cum.

Her partially-dressed colleague takes up residence at my other thigh and does the same, Yasmin's earthier scent floating. “I'm not sure. He wanted me to leave earlier.”

“Is that so? That would...