Twisted Ecstasy

F*ck Me, Father, For I Have Sinned (Part 2)

A few weeks have passed since that night in the confessional. I throw myself into work and prayer harder than ever. Extra Masses, long hours hearing ordinary sins from ordinary people, visits to the sick. The dreams still come sometimes, but I wake up, anoint myself, and push through. No more voices. No more scents of honey and smoke. I start to believe I won. God protected me. The thing moved on to easier prey.

Today the senior priests gather in the common room beside the sacristy. Father Bernard, the rector, called us together to discuss repairs to the old roof and plans for the upcoming feast day. Four of us sit around the heavy oak table with papers and cups of tea. Sunlight comes through the tall windows and warms the room. I feel steady for the first time in weeks. Normal.

Father Joseph sits to my right, nodding as Bernard talks about funding. I sip my tea and add a comment about scheduling volunteers. Everything feels right. The weight that had pressed on my chest lifts. Maybe it was just exhaustion before. Maybe my mind played tricks.

Then I hear it.

Clear as day, a woman’s voice comes from the corner of the room.

“Miss me, Elias?”

My head snaps toward the tall statue of Saint Peter standing against the wall. The stone figure holds his keys, eyes fixed forward like always. But the voice comes from its direction. From its mouth.

I stare. My pulse jumps.

Father Joseph notices. “Everything alright?”

I point with my chin. “Do you… hear anything from over there? From the statue?”

He glances at it, then back at me with a frown. The look on his face says I have lost my mind. “No. What would I hear?”

Bernard and the others glance over too. I force a small laugh and shake my head. “Nothing. I thought I heard a creak. Must be the old floorboards. Sorry. Go on.”

They continue talking about the feast day schedule. I try to focus. My hands grip the edge of the table. For a moment it stays quiet. I breathe out slowly. Just my imagination. Stress.

Then her voice returns, richer this time, sliding right into my ear even though her words seem to echo from the statue.

“I found a young priest in a mountain monastery last winter. He had taken a vow of silence. I broke it by sliding into his bed at night and wrapping my mouth around his untouched c**k. He stayed mute at first, biting his own arm until it bled. But when I climbed on top and sank down on him, he broke screaming every filthy word he had held inside for years. He wanted me to ride him faster while the others slept. He came so many times he could barely walk to morning prayer.”

Heat rushes to my face. My c**k stirs fast under my cassock. I shift in my chair and cross my legs. No. Not here. Not now.

I mutter a quick prayer under my breath and reach into my pocket for the small vial of holy oil I started carrying everywhere. I dab some on my thumb and press it to my forehead without drawing too much attention.

“In the name of Jesus Christ, be silent,” I whisper.

She laughs. The sound comes straight from the statue’s stone mouth. A low, delighted chuckle that fills the room for me alone.

Father Bernard stops mid-sentence. “Elias? You look pale.”

I wave him off. “Just a headache. Please continue.”

The invisible touch starts then. Warm fingers slide up my thigh under the table. I jerk and nearly knock over my tea. I slap at my own leg, then quickly flick holy water from the tiny bottle I keep beside the oil. Drops hit my cassock. I rub more oil on my wrists and forehead.

The touch fades for a second, then returns stronger. It cups my balls through my clothes and squeezes gently. My c**k throbs painfully, fully hard now, leaking against the fabric. Shame burns my cheeks.

“Stop,” I hiss under my breath.

But she keeps going.

“There was the mother superior in a convent outside Rome. I possessed her favorite novice and made the girl seduce her in the garden. I had that pure woman on her knees between the novice’s thighs, licking with tears running down her face. Then I made the novice strap on a carved wooden phallus and f**k her superior against a tree while the rest of the sisters prayed nearby. The superior came so hard she bit through her lip.”

My breathing turns rough. I can almost hear the wet sounds she describes. My shaft pulses with every heartbeat. I press the heel of my hand against it under the table, trying to hide the movement. The others keep talking about roof tiles and budgets. They have no idea.

I dab more oil, trace the cross on my forehead again, then on my throat. “Depart from me, unclean spirit.”

She laughs louder. The statue’s stone face seems to shift, lips curving slightly. I know it does not move. It cannot. But it feels like it does.

The invisible hand strokes me now, firm and slow, base to tip. Perfect pressure. I grit my teeth and fight the groan rising in my throat.

“Father Elias?” Joseph says. He touches my arm.

I flinch. “What?”

All four of them stare at me. I realize I have been shifting in my seat and whispering. My forehead glistens with oil. A drop runs down my temple.

“You were talking to yourself,” Bernard says carefully. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“I’m fine,” I snap. Too sharp. I soften my voice. “Just tired. Continue, please.”

I try to sit still. The stroking continues. She squeezes the head of my c**k on every upstroke, spreading the wetness leaking out of me. My balls draw tight. Pleasure coils low in my gut. I hate how good it feels. I hate my body for responding.

As I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, she drops the next one.

“I spent a month with a married deacon and his wife. I made him watch while I took her in their marriage bed. I taught her things no decent woman should know. How to ride a c**k reverse so her husband could see everything. How to beg for it in her ass while calling on the saints. He sat in the chair and stroked himself raw while she screamed my name instead of his. In the end he joined us. He held her down while I made her come over and over. Their marriage never recovered. They still attend your services every Sunday, Elias. Smiling like nothing happened.”

My stomach churns. I know that couple. I have heard their confessions. The images she paints make me throb harder despite the revulsion.

Her voice drops to that velvet tone again.

“Let me tell you about your mentor, Father Phillip. The day I took him on his own altar. He did not just f**k me, Elias. He confessed everything while he was still inside me. He told me how you came to him as a young man, troubled by urges you could not name. How you cried in his arms after you admitted you sometimes touched yourself thinking of forbidden things. He told me your greatest fear. That you became a priest partly to punish yourself. Partly to run from what you truly wanted.”

Cold dread hits me. I know what comes next. I shake my head.

She continues, amused.

“But here is the part that will break you. I was there when your mother conceived you. I rode your father in the chapel of the hospital while your mother lay sick in the next room. He spilled inside me right before he went back to her bed. That sin lives in your blood, Elias. That is why you fight so hard. Because part of you already belongs to me.”

The words slam into me like a fist. My mother. My very beginning. A demon claiming involvement in my creation. Horror and rage explode in my chest.

“No!” I shout. I surge up from my chair, knocking it backward. “You lie! Get out of my head!”

The room goes dead silent. All of them stare at me with wide eyes. Joseph reaches for me. Bernard stands up slowly.

“Elias, what is happening?” Joseph asks.

I don’t hear them at first. I point at the statue. “You will not speak those things. I cast you out by the blood of Christ!”

The invisible hand strokes faster. I groan and double over, gripping the table. Holy oil spills from the vial as I fumble for it. I pour some on my head, rub it frantically over my face and neck. I flick the last holy water toward the statue.

“Leave this place! Leave me!”

Strong hands grab my shoulders. Joseph and Bernard shake me.

“Elias! Look at me!” Bernard’s voice cuts through. “Stop this!”

I blink. The room swims back into focus. All four priests surround me. Their faces show shock and worry. One of them has knocked the statue over in the struggle. It lies on its side on the ground. My cassock has wet spots from holy water and oil. My c**k still strains hard, aching, hidden but obvious in the way I stand hunched.

Joseph’s hand stays on my arm. “You were shouting at the statue. You said… terrible things.”

I look at their faces. The concern. The confusion. The fear that their brother has cracked.

My legs shake. I sink back into the chair, head in my hands. Oil and sweat mix on my skin.

“I need saving,” I mutter. “Something has followed me. It speaks. It touches. I am losing my mind. God help me, I am losing everything.”

Bernard kneels beside me. “We will pray together. Right now. Whatever this is, we will face it as brothers.”

I nod, but deep down I know the truth. She is still here. Her laughter echoes softly inside my skull, pleased and patient, like she already knows I am losing this battle. The final confession about my parents burns through my thoughts. If it is true, then my entire life rests on a foundation of sin.

Part of me wonders how much longer I can keep fighting before I break completely.