Bad Priest

The scent of stale incense and old wood clung to the confessional like a second skin. I sat in my usual chair, the worn velvet cool against my palms, waiting. I am the first white priest in this little asian town and I am so excited. Just as well as having pressure to maintain a good reputation.

They had brought her in—the family, I mean. A girl, maybe eighteen, with hollow eyes and a mother who gripped her arm like she was holding a bird that might fly away. The father stood stiff, jaw tight, saying nothing. They wanted me to counsel her. To heal her. To cleanse whatever sin had been done to her. The poor girl was raped but she is protecting the identity of the assailant.

She sat across from me now, on the other side of the lattice screen, her voice a thin thread.

"Is everything confidential." She asks.

"Yes daughter. Everything you say is confidential. Only you can say to others." I reply. Impatience is tugging at my heart but I breathe in.

"I was raped. By a white man. He.. He..." She stops. Muffling a sob.

"Go on." I answer. That's progress. At least now we know the race. It doesn't help that it's my race but I swallow.

“He is our neighbors husband... he said we were just playing. In the shed.”

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “Go on, child. Tell me everything. Holding it in will only poison you further.”

Her breath hitched. “He pushed me down. I said no. I said stop. But he... he held my wrists over my head. He pulled my jeans down. I tried to kick.”

I imagined it and without my permission, my cock stirred. I adjusted my cassock, pressing the fabric down against the sudden heat. “And then?”

“He got on top. He... his thing. He put it inside me.” Her voice cracked. “It hurt. It burned. It was so big. I screamed but no one heard. He covered my mouth with his hand.”

I closed my eyes, picturing it. Her small body pinned. The struggle. The fear. White cock in her cunt. My hand drifted to my lap, fingers brushing the bulge that was growing harder by the second.

“Did he do anything else?” I asked, my voice low, steady. “Tell me every detail. It's important for your healing.”

She sobbed. “He... he was rough. Pumping. He kept saying I was tight, that it felt good for him. I just wanted it to end.”

I unzipped my pants slowly, the sound loud in the quiet booth. I wrapped my fingers around my shaft, already slick with need. “And then? What happened next? Did you... feel anything?”

A long pause. Then, barely a whisper: “I... I came. I didn't want to. My body... it just did. And he laughed. He said I liked it. That I was a whore.”

The word hit me like a jolt. She was a little slut after all. I stroked faster, my breath quickening. “You came? While he was raping you? Tell me. How did it feel? Did your muscles clench? Did you cry out?”

“Yes,” she choked out. “I hated it. I hated myself. But... it was so much. Too much. I couldn't stop it. It happened two times.”

I was pumping my cock now, full strokes, my head tilted back against the wooden frame. “Describe it. Every sensation. The pressure, the heat, the way he filled you. This is part of your confession. You must be honest.”

She sobbed, but she continued. Her words painted the scene in brutal, vivid colors—the weight of his body, the slap of skin, the wet sound of his thrusts, the pussy that gripped him, the moment her own climax ripped through her, unbidden, humiliating, glorious.

I came in thick ropes against my palm, biting my lip to keep from groaning aloud. The spasm shuddered through me as she finished her tale, weeping softly on the other side of the screen.

“Thank you, child,” I said, my voice hoarse. “That was very brave. We can talk more in our next sesiom”

I wiped my hand on my cassock and sat back.

****

My parents forced me to go for therapy because I refused to reveal the identity of my rapist. Yet in reality what I need is to stop myself to go back for more. I hate touching myself at night imagining those sensations that were stolen from me. However since I have to please my parents I go for counseling.

The priest is a white as white goes. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes. He is almost double my size. He has a serious face though except his questions are so detailed. He asks about if my pussy clenched him, if I came. How I touch myself. If I still dream of big cocks. Whether I have been fucked again since then. If I liked the sensation of the cock I me. The answer is yes. Things that may seem inappropriate to anyone who wasn't a priest. But this is a priest and I trust him.

I sat in the worn velvet chair on my side of the lattice, fingers picking at a loose thread on my skirt. The past three sessions had felt... different. Something in the way his voice thickened when I described the shed. The way the wooden screen creaked at odd moments, like he was shifting weight. The faint, wet sound I couldn't place until the third time.

Today, I pressed my eye to a crack in the wood.

He was leaned back in his chair, cassock bunched around his waist, hand wrapped around his cock—thick, red-tipped, stroking slow as he listened to me talk about the rapist's fingers digging into my hips and his cock in my cunt. My stomach flipped.

I pulled back, heart hammering. When he finished—I heard the soft grunt, the wet spatter against what I guessed was his palm—I spoke before he could dismiss me.

"Father. I saw you."

Silence. Then a low chuckle. "Saw what, child?"

"You touching yourself. While I confess."

Another pause. The rustle of fabric being adjusted. "Come around," he said, voice calm, steady. "Let's talk face to face."

I stood on shaky legs, walked out of my booth, and opened his door. He sat there, still, hands folded, but I saw the dark stain on his cassock near the thigh. He patted the floor in front of his chair.

"Kneel."

I did.

He looked down at me, eyes dark, hungry. "You want to know why I do it?"

I nodded, throat dry.

"Because I need to understand," he said, leaning forward. "That rapist—he took what he wanted. He felt your body respond. I need to know what drove him. So I can truly counsel you." His hand cupped my chin, tilting my face up. "But words aren't enough. I need to feel it. Just a taste. Will you let me?"

I knew he was lying. I knew he was just horny. That the thought of me being fucked yet he was here without sex was killing him. But I could not deny I wanted it too. A big white cock. This time at least it would not be rape. My mouth opened. The word came out before I could stop it. "Yes, Father."

He stood, unbuckled his belt, let his cassock fall open. His cock was hard again, glistening at the tip. He gestured to the worn rug between his chair and the wall. "Bend over. Present yourself."

I crawled to the spot, got on my hands and knees, pressed my cheek to the cold floor. I heard him kneel behind me, felt his hands push my skirt up, yank my panties down to my knees. His fingers slid through my folds—wet already, shamefully wet.

"Look at that," he murmured. "You are soaked."

He positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. "This might hurt. It's meant to. I want to be as rough as him. "

I braced. He pushed.

The stretch was sharp—not quite pain, not quite pleasure, but a fullness that stole my breath. He bottomed out in one slow, deliberate thrust, then stilled.

"Tell me when it hurts," he said, breath ragged. "Tell me everything."

He began to move. Slow at first, then harder, his hips slapping against my ass. The rhythm took over—wet, obscene sounds filling the tiny room. My body betrayed me again, clenching around him, heat building low in my belly.

"You're gripping me so tight," he groaned. "Does that feel good?"

"Yes... yes, Father..."

"Do you like cock?"

The question hung in the air. I should have said no. I should have wept. Instead, I whispered: "Yes, Father. I like cock."

He drove deeper. "Are you a slut?"

"Yes." The word came broken, gasping. "Yes, I'm a slut."

"That's right. You are. A little slut who comes on a priest's cock during confession." He reached under me, fingers finding my clit, rubbing in tight circles. "Now cum for me. Cum while I call you what you are."

The pressure broke. My orgasm crashed through me, sobbing, clenching, milking him as he kept thrusting.

"Did you feel good when he raped you?" I should get mad but all I remember is the big white cock that made me moan while I was being raped.

"Yes father. It felt... Uummmm." He hits a good spot and I am unable to talk. I keep moaning. He rams be harder. As he calls me a slut. And fuck toy. Then he cursed, hips stuttering, and I felt his heat flood inside me—thick, hot, pulsing.

We stayed there, breathing hard, his cock softening inside me. He pulled out slowly, a trickle of his seed running down my thigh.

"Sit up," he said.

I did, trembling. He took my chin again, looked into my eyes.

"Same time tomorrow. You'll tell me about the boy's hands on your throat. And we'll see if we can understand that part too."

I nodded, pulled up my panties, felt the wetness soak through as I walked out of the church. The evening air hit my face, but all I could feel was the warmth between my legs, the ache in my core, and the eager flutter in my chest.

Tomorrow. I was already counting the hours.