The final “confession” was supposed to be our most dangerous yet. Father Elias had texted me explicit instructions: wear nothing under my modest Sunday dress, arrive early for evening Mass, and meet him behind the heavy velvet curtain that separated the side altar alcove from the main nave where the congregation would soon sit. My hands shook as I slipped into the church, the fabric of my dress rubbing against my already dripping p***y and the dried c*m from our previous encounters still flaking on my skin. I felt like a soul already damned—addicted, filthy, and craving the man who was supposed to guide me to heaven but instead dragged me deeper into hell.
He was waiting. The moment I stepped behind the thick red curtain, Father Elias grabbed me by the throat and slammed me against the st
