Punishing me for wanting something so sinful.
942 Words
Serafina’s Pov ♡
Serafina’s Pov ♡
I walked slowly to where the sound came from, my bare feet padding softly on the ancient concrete floor.
The convent was black as a tomb, only the faint light of the sanctuary lamp reflecting in the hallway. My heart pounded with every step, a mix of fear and something darker pulling me forward.
I turned the corner.
And stopped dead.
Father Matteo stood in the shadowed alcove just outside the sacristy, back pressed against the stone wall. His cassock was parted, pushed aside, hanging open.
What I saw next almost made me screech.
His hand was wrapped around his c**k. Fat massive c**k that I didn't think existed.
Oh my! What was I watching? Was it a dream? Or was it just my nymphomaniac-induced imagination? But the more I watched him, the more I realized it was real.
I watched as he stroked himself—slow, deliberate pulls from base to tip, his thumb circling the slick head on every upstroke. His head was tipped back, his eyes closed, lips parted in a silent groan like his climax was close.
Moonlight spilled through the high window, painting silver across his exposed throat, the sharp line of his jaw, the rise and fall of his chest.
He didn’t know I was there.
And I couldn’t force myself to move. I knew it was wrong…watching a priest masturbate close to the altar. It was blasphemy, it was everything against my journey. But yet, I stood rooted in the ground.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up.
Heat exploded low in my belly, fierce and immediate. My n*****s tightened painfully against the rough wool of my habit, aching for touch. I clenched my thighs together, but it only made the throb between them worse—sharp, insistent, wet.
I was soaking wet.
Already.
Just from watching him stroke his massive c**k.
My hands trembled at my sides. I didn't want to indulge. I should walk away from this scene and act like it never happened .
But deep down I knew I wanted to touch myself. Needed to. The urge was overwhelming, a fire I’d spent years trying to smother.
I couldn’t look away.
His hand moved faster now, grip tightening. The soft, slick sound of skin on skin filled the quiet. His hips rolled forward slightly, chasing his own fist.
I bit my lips, feeling that low throb in my p***y.
No, this couldn't be happening. But it was.
A low groan escaped him—rough, and restrained.
My knees nearly buckled as I pressed my palm to my boobs, my n*****s painfully swollen.
I bit my lip hard to stay silent, tasting blood.
My p***y clenched around nothing, desperate and dripping for my attention– his attention. I could feel the wetness sliding down my inner thighs, soaking my panties.
I hated this.
I hated how my body betrayed me every time.
How one glimpse of him—his hand on himself, the raw need on his face—turned me into this trembling, aching mess.
I was a nymphomaniac.
I knew it.
I’d run to the convent to escape it.
But he made it worse.
So much worse.
I noticed his pace quickened, and his breath came ragged.
I pressed my thighs tighter, trying to ease the ache, but it only made me want more. God… what on earth was this man? How did he hold so much power over my body?
I rubbed my thighs together, desperate to feel friction rub against the aching swell of my c**t… something to soothe the need. But it wasn't enough.
I wanted his hand instead of mine.
His mouth.
His c**k.
Inside me.
Filling me.
Punishing me for wanting something so sinful.
A moment earlier I had sworn I wouldn't give into this curse that I bore, this needy desire that was threatening to eat me up…but here I was now, dripping like a w***e in the house of God.
A whimper escaped before I could stop it.
His head turned and our eyes met.
Golden hazel and steel-gray locked on mine in the dark.
But he didn’t stop the movement like I expected. Instead he kept his eyes on me, his c**k dripping with precum and something that resembled saliva.
My legs ached to move towards him, kneel in front of him and take his long shaft into my mouth and taste how salty he was.
He held my gaze and stroked himself once more—slow, deliberate, like he was daring me to do what was on my mind.
Like he knew exactly what I was thinking and feeling.
My face burned.
My body burned.
So I turned and ran.
Back to my cell. Back to the prison I had built for myself.
I fell onto my bed, my habit bunched at my waist, hand shoving under my panties before I could think.
I was drenched like an animal in heat. But the good thing about it was that I didn't have to struggle before my finger slid into my aching hole.
Fingers slid through my folds easily, circling my c**t with desperate need.
I imagined his hand.
No, his c**k.
Him watching me like he’d just watched himself.
I came hard and fast, biting the pillow to muffle the moan, body shaking, my thighs slick with my own arousal.
And even after, fingers still buried inside me, I couldn’t stop the whisper that escaped my lips.
“Forgive me, Father…”
Because I already knew. I was never going to stop wanting him.
And now he knew I’d seen him.
- Writer
