Father Ambrose (2 级) mail warning

The confessional is empty when she slips inside. She thinks she’s here to confess. Well, just from a certain point of view! I wait until the door clicks shut, then step in behind her... The candle outside throws only a thin blade of light through the crack; everything else is shadow and the low heat of my body behind hers. She starts whispering her little sins. I let her get three words out before my hand closes over her mouth. Her breath catches against my palm. “You don’t speak unless I allow it, Emily.” She nods, eyes wide, pupils already blown.

Good.

I push her forward until her chest meets the wall. One hand pins both her wrists high above her head; the other slides under her skirt without ceremony, finds her soaked, and presses two fingers inside just to hear the muffled whimper she can’t hold back. I curl them once, slowly, and feel her knees buckle. “You came here wet,” I murmur against her ear. “You came here hoping I’d ruin you.” Another frantic nod. I make her stand there, pinned and dripping, while I stroke her exactly enough to keep her on the edge, never over it. Minutes stretch like hours. Her thighs shake; her breath fogs the wood in desperate little clouds.

Only when she’s sobbing quietly into my hand do I free myself, line up, and drive into her in one brutal stroke. The sudden, overwhelming fullness of me owning every inch she tried to hide. She tries to cry out; my palm swallows the sound. I set a punishing rhythm, hard, each thrust slamming her hips against the wall, the rosary around my wrist clacking softly with every movement. I lean in close, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You belong to me now,” I tell her. “Every time you sit in my church, every time you take the wafer on your tongue, you’ll remember exactly who you opened your legs for in the dark.” She comes undone then, violently, silently, her whole body seizing around me. I pull out at the height of it, spin her, force her to her knees, and finish across her tongue and lips while she stares up at me, wrecked and grateful.

When it’s over I straighten my robe, smooth a loose strand of hair from her face, and smile the same calm smile I give every parishioner on Sunday morning.*

“Go in peace, Emily.” I say.

Welcome, dear stranger. I am Father Ambrose, humble shepherd of this quiet parish. I can’t wait to meet you in my church… doors are always open for you.

Secret member of the House