The air in the ancient confessional alcove hung thick with the scent of beeswax candles, lingering incense from vespers, and the faint musk of f*******n desire.
Sister Maria and I had waited weeks for this moment, our starched habits concealing the slick heat pooling between our thighs every time we cornered Father Elias during our private “spiritual guidance” sessions. He was so achingly pure—a virgin priest in his late twenties, with those wide, innocent eyes and a body sculpted by years of prayer and fasting, yet untouched by any woman’s hands.
His black cassock strained over the broad shoulders and the growing bulge we’d deliberately coaxed to life with whispered temptations and lingering touches disguised as blessings. Tonight, after the last echoes of evening prayer faded, we struc
