Chapter 7 - Gabriel #2
The contact sends electricity straight to my cock. Three seconds of her skin on mine and I'm fully hard, grateful the counter hides it. We stand there, connected by ceramic and caffeine and skin contact that rewrites my entire nervous system.
We drink in silence. The silence says everything. About Saturday night. About the way I looked at her Sunday. About the fact that I'm imagining bending her over this counter, fucking her while she screams my name. The coffee tastes like temptation.
She shifts, and I catch it—the way she presses her thighs together. She's wet. Standing here in the parish kitchen, she's wet for me. The knowledge nearly makes me come in my pants like a teenager.
"Have you seen anyone following you?" I ask quietly. "Since Thursday?"
She shakes her head. "Not since you…" She doesn't finish, but we both remember. Me putting that man on his knees. Her watching with heat in her eyes.
"They'll be back," I say. "Soon."
"I know."
The weight of it sits between us. Time running out. Danger closing in. And us, circling each other while the clock ticks.
Wednesday afternoon. Stops. Looks at me. Opens her mouth. I watch her throat work, watch her swallow whatever she was going to say. My eyes drop to her chest—her nipples are hard again, visible through her bra and shirt. She sees me looking. Her breath catches.
Then, quietly: "See you tonight, Father."
The word Father lands like a hand on my cock. She knows exactly what she's doing—the way her voice drops on the title, making it sound like a bedroom word, like something she'd moan while I'm inside her. She's turned my collar into foreplay.
Seven PM. I sit in the confessional. My cock is already half-hard just from anticipation. My regulars come and go. Mrs. Alvarez with her loneliness. Mr. Gutierrez with his twelve-step struggle. The teenage girl who started cutting again but won't tell her parents.
Eight o'clock. Scheduled end. She hasn't come. I'm achingly hard now, my cock pulsing with each heartbeat. I tell myself I'm relieved. Start to close up.
The door opens.
I know it's her before she speaks. The way the air changes when she enters a space. The careful way she settles on the kneeler. The quality of her breathing in the dark. My cock throbs.
She doesn't bother with "Bless me, Father." She breathes. Then:
"I need to tell you what I left out last time. About Julian."
My hands find the armrest. Grip hard. My cock strains against my pants. She knows exactly who she's talking to—Sera talking to Gabriel through the safety of the screen, using the confessional as permission to say things that would make us both combust in daylight.
"Julian in the bedroom," she says, and my whole body tightens. "The commands. The way he said kneel and I knelt. The way he said come here and I came. Every order bypassed my mind and went straight to my pussy."
Jesus Christ. She said pussy. In the confessional. My cock pulses so hard I see stars.
"I got soaking wet every time. My pussy would clench before he even touched me, just from his voice. I'd come so hard I'd black out. The craving was real—my body needed it, craved it, would do anything for it."
I'm gripping the armrest so hard the wood creaks. Pre-cum soaks through my underwear. The confessional is too small, too warm, and she's three feet away describing exactly what makes her pussy wet.
"I'm afraid the wiring is fused," she continues, her voice dropping lower.
"That I can't want authority without wanting captivity.
When Gabriel Delgado kissed me at that gala—my body did exactly what it used to do with Julian.
My nipples got hard. My pussy clenched. I was so wet I was afraid it would show through my dress. "
She's testing me. Saying my full name, acknowledging she knows who I am, that the priest and the Delgado are the same man. The deliberateness of it makes my cock pulse.
"But it felt different. With Julian, I disappeared. With you—with Gabriel—I felt more present. More me. And I've been touching myself every night since, thinking about your hands, your mouth, what your cock would feel like inside me."
The sound that escapes me is inhuman. Raw. Desperate.
"I need to know if it's different," she says. "Or if I'm just finding a prettier cage."
The silence stretches. Both of us breathing hard. The confessional holding our need like a vessel about to splinter.
"Stay there."
Not a decision. Complete structural collapse.
My confessional door bangs open. My footsteps echo in the empty church. Her door opens. I'm standing in the doorway, filling it, the church dark around us except for the sanctuary lamp throwing red shadows.
She looks up at me. Not surprised—she's been waiting for this door to open. Every word was aimed at this moment.
"I should tell you to leave," I say, my voice rough with need.
"But you're not going to."
"No."
She stands. The confessional is tiny—barely room for both of us. I can smell her arousal, sweet and musky. My mouth waters.
I say her name. Her full name. "Seraphina."
She drops to her knees.
Christ. Just drops. No hesitation. Looking up at me with those amber eyes that have been haunting my dreams. The position puts her face level with my cock, which is straining visibly against my pants.
"I've been thinking about this," she says, her hands finding my belt. "About having you in my mouth. About making you lose control."
My breath catches. My hand moves to her hair—silk between my fingers. "Sera…"
"Tell me to stop." Her hands work my belt open, then my zipper. "Tell me this is wrong."
"It is wrong." My voice is wrecked. "I don't care."
She frees my cock and we both groan. I'm painfully hard, the head dark and swollen, pre-cum beading at the tip. She looks at it like she's starving.
"You're bigger than I imagined," she says, wrapping her hand around the base. "And I imagined a lot."
Then she takes me in her mouth.
The wet heat of it makes my knees buckle. She takes me deep, her throat working, and I have to brace myself on the doorframe to stay standing. Her mouth is impossibly hot, impossibly soft. She sucks hard, her tongue swirling around the head before taking me deep again.
"Fuck," I groan, my hand tightening in her hair. "Your mouth…"
She moans around my cock, the vibration making me see stars. She's not tentative, not exploring—she's devouring me with single-minded focus. Her hand works what her mouth can't reach, twisting on each stroke. Her other hand cups my balls, rolling them gently.
I look down and nearly come from the sight alone. Sera on her knees in a confessional, my cock disappearing into her mouth, her eyes locked on mine while she destroys me. The sanctuary lamp paints everything red—her hair, her skin, the spit-slick shine of my cock when she pulls back.
"I've wanted this since the first day," she says, pulling off just long enough to speak. "Wanted to see you come apart. Wanted to taste you."
She takes me deep again, deeper, her throat opening to accommodate me. I feel her gag slightly and the sound goes straight to my balls.
"Sera…" Her name comes out as a warning. "I'm going to…"
She doesn't stop. If anything she sucks harder, her hand pumping faster, and my orgasm hits like lightning.
The intensity rivals anything from before the priesthood—eight years of denial releasing all at once.
I come in powerful pulses, her throat working to swallow while my vision tunnels.
She takes everything, moaning like she loves the taste.
When she finally releases me, we're both panting. A string of saliva and cum connects her lips to my cock for a moment before breaking. The sight makes my spent cock twitch.
Silence. The church. The crucifix watching from the wall. The confessional door standing open like evidence.
I slide down the doorframe. End up on the floor, back against wood, legs unable to hold me. She's still there, kneeling, lips swollen and pink. We're both in the doorway, breathing hard, the taste of sacrilege thick as incense.
I look at her and see my cum on her lips, see the wet spot on her jeans where she's soaked through, see the hunger still burning in her eyes. No shame. No regret. Just satisfaction and a promise of more.
She sees the apology forming—must see it on my face—and cuts it off.
"Don't." Her voice is steady, sure. "Don't make it into something you did wrong. You didn't tell me to do anything. I chose to kneel. I chose to suck your cock. That was mine."
The distinction matters. The difference between this and Julian is everything.
I touch her face. Thumb along her cheekbone, then down to her lips, still wet with my release. She catches my thumb between her teeth, bites gently, and my cock starts to harden again.
"Go home," I say quietly. "Please. Before I do something we can't take back."
"Like what?" Challenge in her voice.
"Like fuck you on the altar."
The words hang between us. She shivers, her thighs pressing together.
"Go home," I repeat. A plea. She hears the desperation.
She stands. Looks at me for a long moment—the priest on the floor, destroyed, cock still half-out, begging her to leave not as punishment but as mercy. Then she goes. I watch her walk through the dark church. Listen to her car start. Listen to the silence after.
I drag myself to the nearest pew. Look up at the crucifix. For the first time in forever, I don't say "God forgive me." Because I'm not sorry. Because I'd do it again. Because the taste of her is still in the air and I want more.
Tomorrow is Thursday. The food pantry. The kitchen where she made me coffee. The hallway where she called me Father like a weapon.
How do I look at her now? How do I pretend this didn't happen when I can still feel her mouth on me, when I know what she looks like with my cock in her throat, when the absence of her is a physical ache?
I don't have answers. Just silence and darkness and the terrible freedom of a man who's stopped asking permission. And the certainty that this is just the beginning. That I'm going to have her. All of her. Every way I've imagined and ways I haven't thought of yet.
God help us both.