Mass had been a torment. Kneeling in the front pew, I kept my eyes downcast, but I felt his gaze on me, heavy and knowing, as he intoned the liturgy. My n*****s hardened beneath the coarse wool, rubbing painfully with each shift, and a fresh trickle of arousal dampened my undergarments. How could I face him? Yet the pull was magnetic, a sinful gravity drawing me back to the edge of damnation. After the congregation dispersed, I lingered in the sacristy, folding linens with trembling hands, hoping—dreading—he'd appear.
He did. The door creaked open, and there he stood, Father Elias, his cassock impeccable, but his eyes smoldering with the same hunger that had undone me last night. 'Sister Maureen,' he said, his voice low, laced with authority. 'A word.'
My heart hammered as I followed him
