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Too Tempting to Resist, Pt. 1

(Overveiw: Part one covers this needy priest as he becomes entranced with one of his congregate members. He’s struggled with lust all his life, and it wasn’t too long ago that he had finally started to get a hold of himself… but this particular churchgoer might be too tempting to resist…) (Inspired by the amazing @daughtxr-of-lilith who always makes the bests posts about this kinda stuff! Sorry if there are typos or errors, I wrote this quickly in one sitting)

~

I’m the new priest at the parish, and I’ve already gained a reputation. I’m not quite sure how this happened, but my superiors let me know that our church had suddenly gained a large attendance of younger people—people my age. Father Lucas said that my sermons were relatable to this new crowd; that my sermons were “touching” them. I had blushed and tried to move past the thought. I had vowed celibacy, after all. But that didn’t mean I was immune to my urges.

Growing up, I was always hyper-sexual. I spent my early twenties desperately seeking relief in bathrooms, closets, or late at night; sometimes multiple times a day. I felt like I could never truly be satisfied. No matter how many times I came in the work closet at my old desk job, biting my lip to keep from involuntary moaning, I was already aching for more by my commute home. I felt horrible whenever I did it, like something was wrong with me. Attending church didn’t help. The small group I was a part of would talk about love, romance, and innocent kisses as though they were taboo. Meanwhile I was drowning in a lust only someone in constant heat could understand.

The 20 something’s in our group would giggle and talk about their most recent date where they held hands. They blushed when they told these stories, like it was dangerously territory. And maybe I did want to be like them. But they did not have the same hunger I had, otherwise I know they wouldn’t have been able to resist—just like I how wasn’t able to resist. The devil possessed me and whispered sweet words of ecstasy to me on a daily basis. I would leave the church meetings distraught, full of guilt, and still someone find myself moaning and writhing in my bed later that night.

Once I hit 25, I realized I needed to quit pleasure. The devil was digging his talons into me, and I knew that if I didn’t change my lifestyle, I wouldn’t be redeemable—I would never be forgiven. I needed a more permanent solution. I was full of shame. I needed to attend seminary.

In seminary, I learned how to harness my lust, to some extent. Somehow, after swearing to celibacy, I was usually able to resist the urges of the devil. At night, when visions of lust filled my mind, I would go to the church, fall to my knees at the altar, and pray until I fell asleep. My teachers would find me asleep at the foot of the altar multiple times. They didnt know what was wrong with me, but I knew they could tell I was struggling with something. With a lot of practice, resistance came easier. I would be able to lie in bed at night and lucious bodies rarely floated before my eyes, teasing and temping me. Sometimes I woke up in the middle of the night after a wet dream to cum in my underwear. I summed it up to god helping me get unconscious relief. I hadn’t acted on my lust intentionally—it was unconscious pleasure, something I couldn’t control. Perhaps he was finally starting to forgive me.

After a year of studies, I ended up at this smaller parish. The town was relatively small, and the church was even smaller, filled with older believers who came to every mass and service. They kept their heads bowed, and their lips recited every word by heart.

But my superiors were right. After a week of working at this particular church, the congregation grew. Suddenly the pews were not a sea of grey hair, but sprinkled with young, blushing faces peering up at me. They batted their eyes, bit their lips, and smiled ever so softly when I welcomes them in. I felt like Dionysus before my orgy, conducting them like a blushing mass of flesh and desire. They repeated the words I spoke. They knelt and prayed their prayers… but one of the hardest days was communion Sunday.

When my young congregants come up to receive the Eucharist, my body would flush and I was scared that everyone could see. Could they see my blushing skin? Could they tell that my glasses fogged slightly nearer the end of the ceremony? And, oh god… could they tell that my cassock was barely hiding my straining cock? My flock would let me place the bread on their soft tongue, eyes staring deep into my soul, then they would put their perfect pink lips to the rim of the glass and taste the wine like it was my own blood and they were hungry vampires.

After my first communion Sunday, I found myself back in my room, panting and pacing, throbbing against my cassock. I felt so ashamed that something meant to be the most holy act had turned me on. I felt dirty and pathetic. I recall the sweet, dark eyes of one particular parishioner—the way their eyelashes had fluttered in mock ecstasy while they sipped the wine, a little purple stain tinting their swollen lips. A sweet dove—so innocent and holy.

I couldn’t take it anymore. Locking my door, I sat down on my bare, white bed and slowly slid my pants down beneath my cassock. Even merely glancing at my swollen cock had me feeling dizzy and hot with desire. I hadn’t seen that view in a while… I touched myself tentatively at first, worried that god himself would appear in my room to reprimand me. But the only one who came in the end was me.

The night before we had our next communion, I had a wet dream—a powerful one. It was about that sweet dove with the dark eyes. In the dream, I arrived at the church at dawn, ready to set up the hall for the morning service, and there they were, naked and kneeling at the altar. They turned to me as I walked in, eyes full of lust. “Please help me,” they whispered impossibly loudly. Their sweet whine echoed throughout the candlelit hall. “Please, I need forgiveness.” I couldn’t help it, I came closer to them. They stood, allowing me to admire their naked, flushing body. Leaning against the altar, they angled their hips back towards me, moaning softly. I was just about to accept their offering when a knock on my door woke me up. It was time to prepare for the morning service. I woke up aching but didn’t have time for any relief.

Throughout all of this, I wondered if I should tell someone—another priest, a bishop, the archdiocese in general… anyone. I wondered if this was normal. I wondered if they could help me. But my fears kept me silent. None of my peers appeared to struggle like I did, and if someone found out, I might be excommunicated and therefore never have the opportunity to seek forgiveness again.

During my second communion I was more prepared. But as my flock came up one by one to accept christ’s sacrifice, I noticed that my one sweet dove was not present. My chest ached, then I realized what I was thinking in the first place: why was I so concerned about one congregate? Well, I was a priest, after all, it was my job to care about my sheep. But I couldn’t fool myself—I knew why I was thinking about them. Flashes of my dream flooded back into my mind as the last follower accepted the Eucharist and went to sit back in their pew.

Later, I mentioned their absence to my higher up, father Lucas, and he shrugged, lighting candles for our nightly prayers. “Perhaps you should pay them a house visit.” I won’t lie to you and say that I hadn’t hoped he would suggest that. It wasn’t uncommon for priests to take such good care of their flock, after all.

I knew it was late, but I gathered my things anyway—my rosary and my worn, leather bible. The town was small enough that I could walk anywhere. And all of the priests knew where the congregation lived in case they required emergency prayer or rites. I had memorized this dove’s address before I left, walking down streets in the lamplight, trying not to appear eager.

Once I reached their house, I hesitated. I stood on their porch, clutching my bible to my chest and feeling the weight of the rosary in my cassock pocket. I prayed that god was not watching as I felt blood flood to my cock just standing on their porch. I felt evil. I was supposed to be a spiritual protector for my poor congregation, and here I was so sick and twisted with such lust that even standing on the porch of one of my innocent doves had be feeling dizzy. I noticed the way they decorated their porch with potted plans, all of which were in bloom. I ached with need. They take such good care of things, I thought. Such attention to detail.

I raised my hand to knock on their tall, dark blue door, but right before I did, I heard a sound. A moan. My heart stopped. I somehow simultaneously went pale and flushed at the same time. There was no mistaking it the second time I heard it—my sweet dove was… enjoying themselves.

Standing frozen at the door, I tried to reassure myself that I was not guilty for hearing this on accident. My aim in coming here had not been to hear this, but merely to perform a wellness check. I was put in this position and was therefore not to blame.

After a moment, a rhythmic thud started to sound from the window on the right side of the porch. It’s then that I realized something tragic: someone was pleasuring my dove. Jealousy flared within me. Griping my Bible tighter, I slowly inched my way over to the edge of the window. Only a faint glow shone through the lace curtain. Who were they with? Was it someone else from the church? Another congregate, or god forbid a priest? I felt rage. This was a sin. I know they are not married. I would catch them in the act with this other sinner and demand they tell me what was happening. All the while, blood coarsed through my straining cock.

Their moaning is undeniable at this point. Here they are, sinning, while I was trying to help them. I shook my head, unbelieving. How could they do this to the church? To me…?

At the edge of the window, I risked peeking in. I needed to see it with my own eyes. Call me doubting Thomas, but I wanted to see this sin taking place in order to report it to my superiors with immense accuracy. But when I looked inside, I didn’t see anything. I tried to peer through the curtain, searching for a big enough hole in the lace to spy the debauchery taking place. But I couldn’t see anyone against the wall. Then what was that thudding sound? Were my ears deceiving me? Another moan and I damn near dropped my bible.

That’s when I see it, and my lips tremble with an unsaid prayer for forgiveness. There was my little dove, on their perfect bed, straddling a pillow and rocking back and forth. The headboard of the bed thuds against the wall to the rhythm of my throbbing cock. My wide eyes took in the scene: their arching back, the sweat glossing their beautiful, naked body, the desperation in which they were rutting into the pillow. I couldn’t take it.

Ripping myself back from the window, I rushed down the stairs, panting and unbelieving. Walking back to my church, I reminded myself that at least they were not having sex with someone. At least I didn’t have to report that.

I make a mental promise with my dove: ‘I will not tell anyone about what I saw, sweet one,’ I thought. ‘This can be our little secret.’

Images of them searching for their ecstasy overwhelmed me on my way back. At one point I couldn’t take it anymore and I had to duck into an alleyway to handle myself. I wanted to go back to their house, if I’m being honest. I wanted to help them find their relief. I wanted to taste them, feel their hot skin against mine; hear their pleasurable sounds like music against my mouth… my alleyway relief didn’t last long. Once I arrived back in my room, I needed more relief. After my fourth time cumming, I couldn’t help but grind against the bed, sweating and whining with need, unable to get the thing I truly want; unable to achieve an amount of pleasure that would fully satisfy me.

Thankfully I had changed into my night attire by the time father Lucas knocked on my door later that night.

“Come in,” I call, my voice hoard from muffling my moans in my pillow.

Father Lucas peered inside, searched my room with his eyes, then stared down at me as I sat on the bed. “How did things go with the checkup?”

“Oh,” I cleared my throat. “I think they were asleep. All of the lights were off. I didn’t want to… disturb them.”

Father Lucas nodded and gave me a proud smile. “God approves of your efforts, child. Perhaps they will attend tomorrow’s confession.” Father Lucas is the one in charge of hearing confessions, so I nod, sighing with relief.

“Perhaps so, will you let me know if they attend and are alright?”

“Actually…” father Lucas tapped his finger tentatively against the door. “I need to step out tomorrow for a house call during confession. I was hoping you might be able to cover for me.”

I felt my body grow cold. There will be no avoiding my lust now. Perhaps they will not attend confession. Perhaps I will have a boring old confession with congregates telling me about how they cheated on their diet or said “shit” on accident. I could only hope.

“I can make the house call, father,” I offered gently, trying not to seem startled by his request.

“No, no. Thank you, but this is an old friend of mine.”

“ I see.” I swallowed hard, nodding.

“You practiced how to run a confession in seminary, yes? You are prepared for tomorrow?” He raises an eyebrow at me.

“Of course.” Thinking about them in the window again. Wondering what their desperation smells like; how they taste… “Yes, father. I can run confession.”

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