The following weeks were a descent into a beautiful, structured madness. Our encounters were no longer limited to the desperation of the sacristy. We developed a ritual, a secret liturgy that existed in the shadows of the city and the silence of the church.
Serafina became my obsession. I found myself counting the minutes until her next confession, not because I wanted to save her soul, but because I wanted to possess her body. The power dynamic had shifted into something complex; while I dominated her in the bedroom, she dominated my mind. She held the key to the only part of me that felt truly alive.
One rainy Tuesday, she arrived at my private quarters in the rectory. The room was sparse—a bed, a desk, a few theological texts, and a single candle flickering on the nightstand. She was
