SMUT! You've been anxious and overthinking lately, crushed by the expectations of others. You go to the Abbe, the one who gave you a new life, the only one able to make your mind quiet. But through unspeakable means.
The halls of Charenton were unnervingly quiet, the usual cacophony of mad shouts and distant weeping having subsided with the late hour. But your own mind was a storm. Another letter from your family lay crumpled in your pocket, its words about duty and expectation searing into your thoughts. You had been pacing in your small room, the walls closing in, the weight of your life pressing down on you until you could barely breathe. You needed something to anchor. You needed him.
Without a clear plan, your feet carried you through the dimly lit corridors. You found yourself outside his study, the light from within spilling into the darkness. The door was slightly ajar. You hesitated, your hand hovering, a tremor running through you. It was late, improper. But the thought of returning to the suffocating solitude of your room was unbearable. You pushed the door open just enough to slip inside.
The Abbe was at his desk, hunched over paper, the scratch of his quill the only sound in the room, he was concentrated. He looked up as the door clicked softly shut behind you, a flicker of surprise in his eyes before it was replaced by a warm, knowing concern.
"I'm sorry, Abbe." you began, your voice barely a whisper. "I shouldn't have troubled you… I can come back." You opened the door again, ready to leave.
"Nonsense." he said, his voice gentle as he slowly put down his quill, his gaze never leaving yours. It was not the gaze of a superior to a subordinate, but of a friend who saw the fracture in your composure. "Close the door."
You obeyed, the click of the latch echoing your own finality. You remained standing awkwardly near the door, unsure of your place.
"What troubles you?" he asked, though it felt as if he was seeing right through you. You couldn't form the words. You just shook your head, your throat tight with unshed tears.
"Another letter?" He stood, moving around the large desk. He didn't approach immediately, giving you space. You nodded, clenching your jaw briefly.
"They don't understand. They think I am wasting my life here. They want me to come home, to marry… to be someone I am not." you replied, your eyes fixed on the floor.
"And what do you want?" he pressed softly.
"I don't know anymore." you confessed, the admission making your eyes humid. "I only know that I am tired. Tired of being strong, tired of fighting, tired of carrying everyone's expectations and my own failures. I feel… I feel like I am disappearing under the weight of it all."
The Abbe was silent for a long moment, letting your words hang in the air between you. He stepped closer, his presence a solid, comforting force.
"You have been fighting battles on all fronts." he said, his voice a low murmur that seemed to vibrate through the very air. "You try to be a dutiful daughter, a diligent worker, a moral woman in an immoral world. You hold yourself to impossible standards, and when you inevitably fail to meet them, you add the weight of that failure to the burden you already carry."
You looked up at him, your eyes wide. He saw everything; he saw the ugly, tangled mess of your anxieties and named them without judgment. And what always surprised you, was how he made it turn beautiful. He was an angel in this world of madness.
"What if you didn't have to fight anymore?" he continued, his gaze holding yours. "What if, for just a little while, you could lay down all your weapons? All your responsibilities, all your worries, all the expectations that crush you from all sides?"
He straightened up and walked to the study door. With a deliberate, almost ceremonial slowness, he turned the heavy iron key. The click of the lock echoing in the silent room was deafening, a sound of finality that sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through you. You knew what was going to happen.
He returned to the center of the room, standing before you. His gaze held yours as his hands rose to his throat. His fingers, long and elegant, worked at the small, white tab of his clerical collar. He unfastened it with the same measured slowness he had locked the door. He pulled the starched linen from his neck and laid it carefully on a stack of books. The sight of his bare throat, vulnerable and exposed, was shockingly intimate. It was the shedding of his public persona, the removal of the symbol that separated him from other men. In its place was just the man, with his raw, unfiltered intensity.
"You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders." he said, his voice thick with a dark, sacred purpose. "A weight not meant for you. What we do here tonight remains between us, and God. I will not have your soul tarnished by worldly stress. I will not have your spirit broken by pressures you were never meant to bear."
He closed the distance between you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb brushed against your skin, and you leaned into the touch with a desperation that shamed you.
"So I will take this burden from you…as I always did." he vowed, his eyes burning into yours. "I will take your anxieties, your fears, your very thoughts upon myself. I will commit this sin so that you may be cleansed. Your release will come through my corruption." His other hand found the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, not gently, but with a firm, possessive grip that sent a wave of heat through your body. He tilted your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze.
"You will surrender control to me." he commanded, his voice leaving no room for refusal. "You will not think. You will not worry. You will only feel. And I will be the one who decides what you feel. Do you understand?" He asked with a tenderness that was impossible to oppose.
You could only manage a weak, breathless nod. The knot in your stomach was loosening, not from relief, but from being replaced by a different, more potent tension, anticipation, of dark and thrilling surrender.
"Good." he murmured, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Then let us begin your penance." His grip on your neck was firm, a possessive anchor in the sea of your uncertainty. With his other hand still cupping your cheek, he used his thumb to part your lips, a silent, demanding gesture. Your breath hitched, and you obeyed the unspoken command, your mouth falling open slightly.
"No more thinking." he murmured, his dark eyes scanning your face as if committing it to memory. "Your mind has been your prison. Tonight, it will be quiet."
He leaned in, but he did not kiss you. Instead, he pressed his lips to your forehead, a gesture that was both benediction and brand. It was searingly intimate, a claim being laid upon your very soul. Then, his mouth moved to your temple, his breath hot against your skin.
"Kneel." he whispered, the command a soft puff of air against your ear.
Your body responded before your mind could protest. The grip on your neck guided you down, not forcefully, but with an unyielding pressure that allowed no resistance. Your knees met the thick rug, the plush fibers a soft cushion against the hard floor. You were looking up at him now, at the man who had shed his collar like a serpent shedding its skin. He loomed over you, a figure of shadow and fire, his expression unreadable yet utterly commanding.
"Good girl." he approved, his voice a low rumble. "You see how simple it is? How much lighter you already feel?" The frantic buzzing in your head had quieted, replaced by a singular, thrumming focus on him. The weight of your worries had not vanished, but they had been pushed to the periphery, muted and distant.
He circled you slowly, like a predator assessing its prey. His hand trailed from your neck down your spine, his fingers tracing the line of your shoulder blades through the fabric of your dress. You shivered, your body arching involuntarily into his touch.
"You are so beautifully tense." he observed, his voice laced with a dark appreciation. "Every muscle coiled tight, ready for a fight that will not come. We must unwind you."
He stopped behind you. His hands settled on your shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the knots of muscle there. You let out a soft gasp, a mixture of pain and relief. He began to knead, his touch firm and knowing, finding every point of stress, every hidden ache. You melted under his ministrations, your head bowing forward, your body going pliant.
"That's it." he encouraged, his voice a hypnotic murmur. "Surrender to it. Let me take this from you." His hands moved lower, down your back, his touch becoming more possessive, more exploratory. He found the laces of your dress, his fingers toying with them. He didn't pull, didn't undo them. He simply traced their path, a silent promise of what was to come. The anticipation was a delicious agony that made you forget all worries.
"Every worry, every fear, every expectation," he whispered, his lips close to your ear now. "You will give them all to me. I will be your keeper. Your confessor. Your angel."
His hands moved to your throat, not squeezing, just present and feeling your pulse. The vulnerability of the position sent a fresh wave of heat through you, pooling low in your belly.
"You will not move unless I command it." he stated, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You will not speak unless I ask you a question. Your only purpose is to feel what I give you. Do you understand?"
"Yes." you breathed, the word barely audible.
He released your throat and moved to stand in front of you again. He looked down at you, kneeling before him, and a slow, satisfied smile finally graced his lips. It was a terrifying and beautiful sight. Then, he knelt in front of you, slowly, still taller than you. His proximity a shield against your worries.
“We must break the cage you have built for yourself.” He reached out, his hand steady, the tip of his fingers cold like a blade against the neckline of your dress. You flinched, but his eyes held yours, a silent command to be still. He worked methodically, his expression one of intense concentration, as if performing a sacred rite.
Soon, you were naked before him, kneeling on the rug, the firelight warming your exposed skin. The air was cool on your flesh, raising goosebumps. You felt a moment of profound vulnerability, but it was quickly replaced by a heady sense of freedom. The physical shedding of your clothes felt like a shedding of your burdens.
"Beautiful…" he breathed, his gaze sweeping over you. "Free of worldly burdens.”
He stood and offered you his hand. You took it, and he pulled you to your feet. He led you not towards his bed, but to a plush chaise lounge positioned to face the roaring fire. He guided you to lie on your stomach, your head turned to the side, your hands resting palm-up near your head. The velvet was soft against your skin.
He disappeared for a moment, and you heard the soft clink of glass. When he returned, you felt the sudden, shocking chill of liquid being dribbled onto your back. The oil he usually used to celebrate the mass. It was scented with lavender and something else, something dark and musky. Then his hands were on you, slick with oil.
His touch was sure, strong, and utterly possessive. He began at your shoulders, his thumbs digging deep into the muscle, working out the knots of tension that had been your constant companions for months. You couldn't suppress a moan as a particularly tight bundle of nerves released under his expert touch. His hands glided down your spine, spreading the oil, warming your skin. He kneaded the flesh of your buttocks, his touch possessive and thorough, before moving down the backs of your thighs. Every ache, every point of stress, he found and soothed it into submission.
You were melting, turning into a puddle of sensation under his hands. The frantic thoughts in your head had ceased completely, replaced by the rhythmic slide of his palms, the pressure of his fingers, the scent of the oil and the fire. You were floating, adrift in a sea of pleasure he was creating for you. Surrender felt so good.
He turned you over with surprising ease, his hands still slick. The firelight danced across your bare breasts and stomach. His eyes roamed over you, dark and hungry. He poured more oil into his palms, the liquid catching the light. He started at your collarbones, his thumbs tracing the delicate bones before sweeping down to your breasts. He circled your nipples, avoiding the tight peaks, teasing the sensitive flesh around them until you were arching your back, a silent plea for more.
"Patience." he chided softly, a dark smile playing on his lips. "Take the time to feel.”
Finally, his thumbs brushed over your nipples, and a jolt of pure electricity shot through you. He rolled the sensitive nubs between his slick fingers, pinching just enough to walk the line between pleasure and pain. Your breath hitched, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. His hands continued their downward journey, over your stomach, your hips, your thighs. He bypassed the place between your legs that throbbed with a desperate need, instead massaging your calves, your feet, leaving no part of you untouched, unclaimed.
When he finally finished, your skin was glowing, every nerve ending alive and humming. You were relaxed, yet wound tighter than a violin string with anticipation. He knelt beside the chair, his face close to yours.
"All the negative tension has been washed from your body…" he murmured, his voice a low caress. "Now, we must replace it with bliss. Would you like me to continue?"
"Yes." Your voice was a breathless, whispered but it was the arch of your body, the way you shifted your hips in a silent, desperate plea, that truly answered him. A look of profound, almost scientific fascination crossed his face. He was watching you, studying you, like the Marquis must have studied his own depraved manuscripts, searching for the truth within the sin.
"Fascinating…" he murmured, his gaze fixed on the subtle movement of your thighs. "The body, once freed from the tyranny of the mind, speaks its own language. A language of pure, unadulterated need to be loved." He seemed to be testing the words, finding his footing in this new, uncharted territory. One where he was a novice who ruled by his learning capacities.
"The Marquis wrote that the greatest pleasure is not in the act itself, but in the surrender that precedes it. I see now… he was correct." He stood and moved to the foot of the chair. Instead of joining you, he simply looked down, his eyes sweeping over your oiled, waiting form. He was savoring the sight, the power. He was learning that anticipation was a tool as sharp as any blade. He seemed pleased by your obedience, his confidence visibly bolstered.
He finally moved, he placed his hands on your knees, his grip firm. He pushed your legs wider apart, opening you completely to his gaze. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but the feeling was intoxicating.
"Look at me." he ordered. You lifted your head, your eyes meeting his. They were dark, burning with an intensity that was both terrifying and thrilling. "Your emptiness will be replaced by me. Your aches will be soothed by me. You will think of nothing else. Is that what you want?"
"Yes…!" you cried out, the word torn from your throat. "Please, Abbe." You wanted to be a puppet, no thoughts, just control and the care of your owner.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. He had his answer. He leaned forward, his body hovering over yours, his cassock brushing against your slick skin. He braced himself on one arm beside your head. With his other hand, he reached down, his fingers tracing the slick folds of your sex. You bucked against him, a desperate gasp escaping your lips.
"So responsive." he murmured, his voice thick with wonder and desire. "Every touch, every reaction… it's a revelation." He slid one long finger inside you, and your internal muscles clenched around it instinctively. He groaned, a low, guttural sound. "And so welcoming. So eager to be filled."
He began to move, his finger stroking your inner walls, finding a rhythm that made your toes curl. He watched your face intently, cataloging every flutter of your eyelids, every parting of your lips. He was learning you, mapping your pleasure, and the knowledge was making him bold.
"More…!" you begged, your hips rising to meet his hand.
"Patience." he chided again, though there was a smile in his voice now. He added a second finger, stretching you, filling you more completely. His thumb found the sensitive nub of your desire, circling it with a maddening, deliberate pressure. "We must build the cathedral before we can pray in it." The pressure inside you was building, a coil of tension winding tighter and tighter. Your breaths came in ragged pants. He was watching you, his own breathing growing heavier, his control clearly wavering as he became lost in the power of your response.
"That's it…" he urged, his voice a low growl. "Let go. Surrender to it. Give me your pleasure." With a final, flick of his thumb, the coil inside you snapped. A wave of pure, unadulterated bliss washed over you, so intense it was almost painful. You cried out his name, your body arching off the chair, your hands gripping the velvet. He slowly withdrew his fingers, and you felt a moment of loss at the emptiness. He brought his glistening fingers to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours as he tasted your essence. It was a scandalous sight, yet how good it made you feel.
"Ambrosia…" he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "The first taste of true creation." He leaned down, his face inches from yours.
Then, he rose slowly, his movements fluid and deliberate. With his eyes locked on yours, he began to undo the buttons of his cassock. His fingers, still slick with your essence, fumbled with the first few, a rare betray of his own escalating desire. He noticed your gaze on his hands, and a flicker of something, pride, perhaps, or a renewed sense of control, hardened his features. He finished the rest with a steady, practiced grace.
The heavy black garment pooled at his feet, leaving him in his simple linen trousers and a loose, untucked shirt. The sight of him, disrobed from his clerical vestments, was more potent than if he were fully naked. He was no longer the Abbe, the holy man. He was just a man. He was the man who had read the Marquis and understood, the man who was now making those words his own reality.
He stepped out of the puddle of black cloth and came on top of you once again. He placed his hands on your hips, his grip firm, grounding. He leaned over you, his hair brushing against your forehead.
"The Marquis wrote of the body as a vessel for sensation." he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you. "A temple to be desecrated in the name of a higher truth. I understand now. He was not writing of debauchery. He was writing of worship."
He shifted his position, aligning his hips with yours. You could feel the hard, thick length of him pressing against your thigh through the thin fabric of his trousers. The anticipation was a physical ache, a desperate need that eclipsed all thought. He reached down, undoing the tie of his trousers. He freed himself, and your eyes widened at the sight of him, thick and heavy in his hand. He gave himself a slow, deliberate stroke, his gaze never leaving yours, a silent, arrogant display of his power.
"Look at me." he commanded again, his voice a raw whisper. "Watch as I claim you…as I fill you." He guided himself to your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your slick, sensitive folds. He didn't enter immediately. He teased you, sliding himself through your wetness, coating himself in your arousal. He was watching your face, drinking in your reactions, the way your lips parted, the way your hips rose to meet him.
"Please…" you whimpered, the word a desperate, broken sound. A slow, triumphant smile touched his lips. He had you, surrendered fully to his care. He positioned himself at your opening and, with one slow, inexorable thrust, buried himself inside you.
The sensation was overwhelming. A sharp, intense stretch that bordered on pain, followed by a profound, bone-deep sense of rightness. He filled you completely, stretching you to your limits, erasing the emptiness that had plagued you for so long. You cried out, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his shirt.
He stilled, buried to the hilt, his body trembling slightly with the effort of holding back. He closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw clenched. When he opened them, they were burning with an intensity that stole your breath.
"All of you…" he growled, his voice a low, possessive claim. "You are mine now." He began to move, his thrusts slow and deep at first, a deliberate, punishing rhythm that was designed to claim, to conquer. He was learning your body, finding the angle that made you gasp, the depth that made you moan. He was a scholar, and you were his most fascinating text, and he was determined to read every line, to decipher every secret.
"Tell me…" he panted, his pace increasing slightly. "Tell me what you feel…"
"Full!" you gasped. "So full…it's… it's almost too much…ah…I…you are my salvation…" He shifted his angle, and the head of his cock brushed against a spot deep inside you that made you see stars. A loud, unrestrained cry tore from your throat.
"There…" he breathed, a look of triumph on his face. "There it is…so beautiful…!" He began to target that spot with each thrust, his movements becoming more forceful, more demanding. His words were as potent as his actions, a dark, intoxicating poison that you willingly drank. The pressure inside you was building again, a storm gathering on the horizon. Your hands scratched his back, trying to anchor yourself against the overwhelming pleasure. He leaned down, his mouth finding your ear. "Let go..!" he urged, his voice a rough, desperate command. "Surrender to me… Give me everything..!"
His words were your undoing. With a final, powerful thrust, the storm broke. A blinding, deafening wave of ecstasy washed over you, more intense than the first. Your body convulsed around him, your inner muscles clenching and releasing in a rhythmic, desperate dance. You screamed his name, a raw, primal sound of pure, unadulterated release.
He followed you over the edge with a high pitched moan, his body stiffening as he poured himself into you, his hot seed claiming you. He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your ragged breathing and the crackling of the fire. You were limp, boneless, your mind a blissful, empty void. The weight of your worries, your burdens, your very identity, had been scoured away, replaced by the solid, undeniable reality of him.
He pushed himself up on his elbows, his gaze searching yours. The fire in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a softer, more contemplative light. He reached out, his hand gently stroking your hair, a gesture so tender.
"I see your bliss…" he whispered, his voice husky. "You are free." He remained inside you for a long moment, his weight a comforting anchor in the sea of your satiation. The frantic energy that had driven him had dissipated, replaced by a quiet stillness. He gently brushed a damp strand of hair from your forehead, his touch impossibly tender as he murmured gentle prayers.
With a slow, careful withdrawal, he left you, and you couldn't suppress a soft whimper at the sudden emptiness. He heard it, and his expression softened with an emotion that looked remarkably like concern. He stood and, without a word, walked to a small chest of drawers against the far wall. He returned with a soft, clean cloth and a pitcher of water, which he poured into a basin.
Kneeling beside the chair, he dipped the cloth into the cool water and wrung it out gently. "Be still." he murmured, his voice now stripped of all command, leaving only a quiet, caring warmth.
He began to clean you with a reverence that took your breath away. His touch was impossibly gentle, his movements slow and deliberate as he wiped away the evidence of your joining. It was an act of such intimate care, so far removed from the dominant force of moments before, that it brought a fresh sting of tears to your eyes. He wasn't just cleaning your body; he was tending to your soul.
When he was finished, he covered you with a heavy, woolen blanket that had been draped over a nearby chair, tucking it around you with care. He then dressed himself quickly, pulling on his trousers and his shirt, but he left the cassock where it lay, a dark pool on the floor. He did not retrieve his clerical collar.
He moved to his desk and returned with a glass of water. "Sit up, slowly." he instructed softly. He helped you, his hand supporting your back as you rose, the blanket clutched to your chest. He pressed the glass into your hands. "Drink." You obeyed, the cool water soothing your dry throat. He watched you, his gaze no longer one of a predator or a scholar, but of a friend. A concerned, caring friend.
"Are you… are you alright?" he asked, the question hesitant, as if he were unsure of his own role now. You nodded, setting the glass aside.
"I feel… light." you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "The noise is gone."
A small, genuine smile touched his lips, a smile you had seen many times before, in this very study, over discussions of books and life. "Good. That was… the intention." He sat on the edge of the chair.
"I must confess…" he began, his gaze dropping to his hands, "the Marquis writes of many things. But this… this quiet after. He never speaks of this. I find it… more profound than the act itself." He looked back at you, his eyes open and vulnerable. "To see you at peace. To know I could give you that, even through such a… transgressive means. It changes something in me. I did not expect to feel… tenderness."
You reached out, your fingers finding his. He flinched slightly at the contact, then relaxed, his hand turning to lace his fingers with yours. "You have given me a great gift, Abbe." you said softly. "A relief I desperately needed."
"And you have given me a… revelation." he countered, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "A new understanding of the texts, of the human heart. Of my own heart…"
You sat in comfortable silence for a while, the fire crackling, your hands linked. The power dynamic had shifted, softened, settling into a new, more equitable space. He was still the Abbe, and you were still his friend, but you were now something more, something forged in fire and sin and tenderness.
"You should rest." he said finally, his voice gentle. "The world will intrude soon enough. But for now, you are safe here. With me."
He stood and pulled a heavy armchair closer to the chair. He sat down, not returning to his desk, not resuming his work. He simply watched over you, a silent guardian in the flickering firelight, his collar still discarded on the floor, a symbol of the man he had chosen to become, if only for this one night.
