Chapter 14
I'm standing in a sex chapel disguised as Catholic cosplay, seventeen candles burning behind me like some kind of confession board tracking my failures, and a half-naked Irishman in a crimson monk robe just called me "beloved" while his dick is visibly hard underneath the fabric of his robe.
This is it. Rock bottom has a basement, and that basement is a sex chapel with a dominant monk who gets off on being prayed to.
Saint Lorcan steps into the prie-dieu behind me—actually inside the kneeling space, which I didn't realize was possible until his legs bracket mine, his chest brushing against my bare shoulders.
Oh. I see. This is why it's so wide.
It's designed for two bodies.
One kneeling.
One standing behind.
My brain does that thing where it tries to be helpful by supplying extremely unwelcome information: This is sacrilege. You're literally desecrating Catholic prayer furniture for kinky sex rituals. Your Nana Rourke is spinning in her grave so fast she could power a small city.
But my pussy doesn't care about Nana Rourke's eternal disappointment.
My pussy is, however, very interested in whatever Saint Lorcan is about to do.
"That's good, a stór," he murmurs, and his voice has dropped into that command register that makes my knees want to buckle instead of straighten. "Now we're goin' to learn Position Secunda."
Position Secunda sounds suspiciously like a Harry Potter spell for summoning orgasms.
But I don't say that because my mouth has finally learned to shut up when dominants are touching me, which is either personal growth or complete psychological breakdown. The jury's still out.
Saint Lorcan's hands slide up my sides, skimming my ribs, then back down to my hips. "This position is about surrender, lass. About offerin' yerself for correction while maintainin' yer devotion."
His fingers press into my hip bones, guiding me forward slightly until my pelvis tilts.
"Bend," he says. "From the hips. Keep yer spine straight."
I fold forward, my torso lowering over the prayer desk, and—
Jesus Christ.
My ass is in the air.
Like, way in the air.
And my pussy is just... on display. Completely exposed. Anatomically featured in this little Catholic sex show like I'm the main attraction at the Museum of Terrible Decisions.
"Wider," Saint Lorcan instructs, and his hands move to the inside of my thighs, pressing outward. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Or wider, if ya can manage."
I shift my stance, legs spreading, and the cool air of the chapel hits my wet pussy in a way that makes me want to die of embarrassment and also maybe come immediately.
"Forehead down," Saint Lorcan says, and I press my face against the slanted wood, just like Position Prima. "Arms extended. Palms together."
I stretch my arms forward along the desk, pressing my hands together in prayer position, thumbs finding my forehead.
And just like that, I'm back in a posture I know—the safe, familiar prayer position—except now I'm standing instead of kneeling, and my entire lower half is completely vulnerable.
Welcome to Catholicism: Kink Edition. Now with 100% more ass exposure.
"Eyes closed," Saint Lorcan murmurs.
I let them fall shut.
For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of my own breathing and the faint crackle of seventeen candles burning my sins into existence.
Then Saint Lorcan edges up behind me.
And my entire nervous system detonates.
I don't know what I was expecting—maybe gradual arousal, maybe a slow build—but what happens instead is that my body goes from zero to oh my god I'm going to die if someone doesn't fuck me right now in approximately half a second.
It's so sudden, so overwhelming, that my knees actually buckle.
I start to collapse—
But Saint Lorcan's hands are there, catching my hips, steadying me with firm pressure.
"Easy, beloved," he says, and his voice has gone soft. Soothing. "I've got ya. You're safe."
Safe. Sure. That's definitely the word for being bent over naked in a sex chapel while experiencing a full-body meltdown.
But his hands... they don't grab or demand or punish.
They just hold.
One palm flat against my lower belly, the other braced on my hip, keeping me upright while my legs remember how to function.
"Breathe," he tells me. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth."
I drag in air—shaky, uneven—and let it out.
"Good girl," Saint Lorcan murmurs. "Again."
I breathe.
He pets me.
Not sexually—at least not overtly sexually—but like he's gentling a spooked animal. His palm slides from my belly to my side, then up my ribs in a slow, grounding stroke. Down my spine. Along my hip.
"You're doin' so well, a stór," he says quietly. "Just need to get used to the position. To the vulnerability. Give yerself a moment."
There's no impatience in his voice.
No frustration.
No disappointment.
I feel the shift inside the prie-dieu as he settles into the seat behind me, an Irish throne, if you will. I register the faint creak of old wood, the rustle of fabric. His knees must be on either side of mine now, his body positioned so he can reach me easily.
"That's it," he murmurs, and his hand slides down the back of my thigh—slow, deliberate, letting me feel every inch of contact. "You're goin' to learn my touch, lass. Before we begin, ya need to know my hands."
His palm cups the front of my knee.
Slides up my thigh.
Curves over my hip.
Trails along my ribs.
Every touch is measured. Intentional. Not teasing—teaching.
He wants me to recognize his hands. To know the weight and pressure and rhythm of him before he starts delivering consequences.
His fingers skim the underside of my breast, and I bite down on a whimper.
"Good," Saint Lorcan says. "Ya feel that? How your body responds to touch when you're not fightin' it?"
I'm not fighting it because I'm too busy having a religious crisis while being fondled by a man in a monk costume.
His hand moves lower, sliding between my thighs, and I tense—
But he doesn't push inside me.
Just lets his fingers rest there, barely grazing my pussy, the touch so light it's almost not there.
"This is mine to touch," he says quietly. "Mine to care for. Mine to punish or pleasure as I see fit. Do ya understand?"
"Yes, my Saint," I whisper.
Wow, Emmaleen. 'Yes, my Saint' to a stranger fondling your vagina in a chapel. Really setting the bar high for personal dignity.
His hand moves again—up my belly, along my ribs, cupping my breast with careful pressure.
"And this," he murmurs. "Mine."
"Yes, my Saint."
He leans forward slightly, and I feel the brush of his robe against my bare ass, the heat of his body radiating through the fabric.
"Now," Saint Lorcan says, "we're goin' to learn a new prayer. One for penance."
Of course there's a prayer. Because why have regular BDSM when you can have BDSM with a liturgical soundtrack?
"Repeat after me," he says. "I am held."
"I am held," I whisper.
"I am seen."
"I am seen."
"I am forgiven."
My throat tightens. "I am forgiven."
"I am yours."
Oh god.
"I am yours."
"Good girl," Saint Lorcan murmurs. "Now again. All of it. Find the rhythm."
I take a breath.
"I am held. I am seen. I am forgiven. I am yours."
"Again."
"I am held. I am seen. I am forgiven. I am yours."
"Louder, a stór. Let me hear ya mean it."
I push more air behind the words. "I am held. I am seen. I am forgiven. I am yours."
"Perfect," he says.
And then his palm cracks across my ass—hard, sudden, loud in the quiet chapel.
I yelp, my whole body jerking forward, hands scrambling against the prayer desk.
JESUS FUCK—
"Pray," Saint Lorcan commands. "Don't stop."
My brain is static and alarm bells and ow ow ow, but I force the words out. "I am—I am held—"
Another strike. Same cheek. Just as hard.
"Fuck!"
"Pray harder, Emmaleen. Louder."
"I am held! I am seen!"
CRACK.
The next one lands on my other cheek, and tears spring to my eyes immediately.
"I am forgiven! I am—"
CRACK.
"—yours!"
"Again," he says, and there's no mercy in his voice now. Just calm, relentless authority.
"I am held—"
CRACK.
"—I am seen—"
CRACK.
"—I am forgiven—"
CRACK.
My voice breaks on the last line. "I am—I am—"
CRACK.
"Yours!"
Tears are streaming down my face now, my ass is on fire, and I can't remember what comes next in the prayer because my brain has officially abandoned ship.
"I am—Saint Lorcan, I can't—"
The strikes stop. Immediately. Saint Lorcan's hands settle on my hips again—gentle, grounding. "Easy, beloved," he murmurs. "Breathe for me."
I'm sobbing into the prayer desk, my whole body shaking, and he just... pets me.
Strokes my back.
Cups my hip.
Waits.
"Focus, a stór," he says quietly. "The prayer is your anchor. When the pain gets too much, the words hold ya steady. But ya have to trust the words. Trust that they're true."
His hand slides between my thighs again—not sexual, just there. Grounding me.
"I am held," he says. "Do ya feel my hands on ya?"
"Yes," I whisper.
"Then you're held. Say it."
"I am held."
"I am seen," he continues. "Do I see ya, lass? Every part of ya—the fear, the need, the tears?"
"Yes."
"Then you're seen. Say it."
"I am seen."
His thumb strokes along my inner thigh. "I am forgiven. When ya fail, when ya break, when ya can't remember the words—do I punish ya for it, or do I stop and help ya?"
My breath hitches. "You help me."
"Then you're forgiven. Say it."
"I am forgiven."
"And the last line," Saint Lorcan murmurs. "I am yours. Not because I own ya, lass. Because you've given yourself to me. Freely. Do ya understand the difference?"
I nod against the wood.
"Say it," he commands.
"I am yours."
"Good girl," he says. "Now we're goin' to try again. And this time, when the pain comes, ye'll let the prayer hold ya instead of fightin' it. If it overwhelms ya, I'll stop again and we'll have a moment. I'll always give ya what ya need, Emmaleen."
I let out a long breath, his words gentling me. Helping me relax. Then—suddenly he's right there, leaning over me, his chest pressed against my back, his cock hard and thick beneath the robe, pressing against my ass.
I freeze.