Lily had always been the obedient type. Twenty years old, raised by her grandmother in a strict Southern home where every skirt had to touch her knees and every thought had to be scrubbed clean by prayer. She sang in the choir, helped with the offering trays, and still blushed when anyone looked at her too long. But lately, something had shifted. Her body buzzed with needs she didn’t fully understand, and it was getting harder to pretend she didn’t feel it—especially on Sunday mornings.

Especially around him

Pastor Elijah was nothing like the dusty preachers from her childhood. He was in his forties, tall, commanding, his voice a deep Southern drawl that wrapped around scripture like molasses and heat. His sermons stirred something dark and strange inside her, something that curled in her belly and pulsed between her thighs. He was strict, but soft-spoken, powerful, but gentle—and when his eyes landed on her in the front pew, she swore her whole body went still.

She'd catch him watching her sometimes. During the choir hymns. During the quiet moments after prayer. His gaze lingered—on her parted lips, her collarbone, the way her dress clung just slightly when she shifted in the heat. It made her breath catch. It made her wonder.

That Sunday, the sanctuary was half-empty. Thunderstorms had rolled through the county all morning, and most folks stayed home. But Lily came, rain-damp hair curling at her temples, dress clinging to her hips in the humidity. She didn't know why she felt bolder, braver—but something about the stormy air made her stay behind after service. Just to see what would happen.

She was gathering her things when Pastor Elijah called to her from the front of the church.

“Lily? Can I have a word before you go?”

Her fingers froze on her Bible. Her pulse kicked up, throat suddenly dry. “Yes, Pastor,” she said softly, walking toward him.

He stood by the altar, arms crossed, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His presence filled the space. He didn't smile.

“You’ve been on my mind lately.”

Her brows lifted slightly. “I have?”

He nodded, eyes dark. “You’ve been showing up here week after week, sitting in the same pew, singing your little songs. But something’s shifted. I see it in you.”

She swallowed hard, hugging her Bible closer. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’ve got an ache in you,” he said, stepping closer. “You come here hoping the Lord will take it away. But He gave it to you, Lily. That hunger? That’s not sin. That’s nature.”

Her breath caught. Her thighs pressed together without thinking.

He tilted his head. “Tell me the truth, Lily. You ever touched yourself?”

Her face flushed deep crimson. “I try not to.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I… I haven’t,” she said finally, voice shaking. “Sometimes I get tempted. But I pray.”

He stepped close enough for her to smell his cologne—warm spice and leather. “And what do you feel when you pray like that? Down there.”

She looked away, but her voice was barely a whisper. “It throbs.”

“Mmhmm,” he murmured, low and approving. “And do you feel guilty after?”

“Yes,” she said, breath trembling. “I always do.”

“You shouldn’t.” His hand brushed her jaw, just a touch, but it made her knees feel weak. “God made you that way. Soft. Wet. Hungry.”

She couldn’t breathe. The air was thick with tension, the sanctuary suddenly too quiet, too warm.

He leaned in closer, his voice like gravel and silk. “Do you trust me?”

Her lashes fluttered. “Yes.”

“Then let me help you understand what He gave you.” He stepped back, eyes raking down her body. “Take off your panties.”

The words dropped like thunder.

Lily blinked, stunned. “W-what?”

“You heard me,” he said calmly. “Right now. Here. In front of the altar. Let me see what no one else has.”

She stared at him, heart slamming in her chest. She should run. She should scream. But her hands were already moving.

Her fingers slid under her dress. Slowly, nervously, she peeled her panties down her thighs—white cotton, damp from more than just the storm—and stepped out of them.

He knelt and picked them up from the floor, holding them between two fingers. Then he brought them to his nose and inhaled. His eyes closed for a moment.

“Christ,” he muttered. “You smell like heaven.”

Lily’s breath hitched. Her thighs trembled. She had never felt so exposed—and never so alive.

He looked up at her, voice rough now. “I’m gonna taste you, Lily. Right here. You ready for that?”

She nodded, barely able to speak. “Yes, Pastor.”

He eased her back against the altar, hands sliding up under her dress. When he reached the top of her thighs and spread them open, she gasped.

“No one’s ever touched me,” she whispered.

He met her eyes. “I know. And I’m gonna be the first.”

Then he leaned in—and his mouth met her virgin pussy.

She cried out, hands gripping the edge of the altar as his tongue dragged slow and thick through her folds. He groaned against her, tongue working her open, lips sealing around her clit like he was feeding on her soul. She’d never felt anything like it. Her hips bucked. Her voice broke.

“Oh God…”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t let up. One hand held her hip down while the other slipped a finger between her slick folds, teasing her entrance, stretching her gently.

She was panting now, moaning, dizzy from pleasure. “I—I think I’m gonna—”

“Let it happen, baby,” he growled against her. “Give it to me.”

When she came, it was with a sob and a shudder, thighs clenching around his head, back arching off the altar. She felt split open and whole all at once.

Elijah rose slowly, licking his lips, watching her with dark, satisfied eyes.

“That was just the beginning,” he said, voice low and rough. “Next time, I’m gonna take all of you. Every inch. Every cry. Every sin.”