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I did not plan on calling her mine, but better she knows it now. It took every fiber of my being to leave through June’s window, to not storm out into the hallway, find that fucker of a stepfather, and force him on his knees, begging her forgiveness, before I ripped his fucking eyes out of his skull.

I wanted to take her away, to steal her from that place and keep her with me. But I’ll settle for that kiss, for her tongue on mine, even with the material between us.

It’s all I can think of the whole way back to the church, as I try to fall asleep, as I don my collar the next morning—all the way to the bells chiming for Friday’s Mass.

The hall is empty, but I hear chatter come from the sanctuary—the parish slithering in. Just as I’m about to join the masses, my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text from Rodrigo.

Rodrigo: Anything?

Me: Nothing confirmed but I feel something here.

I’m ashamed to say my mind has been . . . elsewhere—apparently too busy following my dick than my holy duty. I’m usually in and out of these jobs, a few days max. But the way this has been going, the way my mind is very un invested, I can’t begin to say how long it might take. Which will just make Rodrigo ask more questions, more often.

Me: Hoping to find something tonight.

Rodrigo: Vaya con dios.

I shove my phone in my pocket, already upset I won’t be able to sneak into my little songbird’s room and see her in the underwear I bought her tonight. My cock is rock hard simply imagining the lace covering her tits, her hard nipples teasing me underneath, the straps of the thong melting into the soft curves of her skin.

God, she’d look like a fucking saint. And now I have to stand her up while she waits for me.

Fuck work. Fuck demons. And fuck cultists.

I adjust my dick, the image of her still tickling my mind, and push my way into the sanctuary. It’s packed, more so than the last two mornings I’ve watched over, but my eyes glaze over every single sinner here, searching for the one good thing in this place.

And they find her. June is side stepping into a pew, her perfect tits bouncing with each step under another frumpy gray sweater, her mother and Daren filing in just behind her.

So, she’s not playing today.

Her mother side eyes her as she sits, and shoves a Bible into June’s lap, before practically turning her back to her daughter. I watch as June’s eyes fall to her lap, her shoulders slumping—the shell slowly closing in around her.

The welts last night were bad. I’m no stranger to whippings. In my years before taking my vows, I tried many things. I know the intensity needed to break skin with such a thing. I recognize the cuts of a buckle instead of leather. June’s mother does more than she needs to. Especially considering she’s beating her adult daughter.

It’s vile and evil. I'd almost think the supposed demon in St. Mary’s was her—but she is an evil only sick humanity can breed.

The bells chime again, signaling Mass is about to start, but my eyes still don’t break from June, not as she finally looks up and meets my eyes.

She’s stunning, those dark blue doe eyes, the light brown hair and pale skin, perfect lips. God, how’d they feel around my dick. I want to shove myself to the back of her throat, feel those cheeks hollow around me. I want to hear her gag and moan and cry, her eyes tearing up from how much of me she’ll take.

I just know she’d be perfect at it.

“Father Marcelo,” Father Callum says, placing a hand on my shoulder and pulling me back into reality. June’s eyes are still on mine. A small, shy smile saying hello appears on her lips, before she lets her head fall back down.

I can’t help but grind my teeth, mentally cursing Callum for ruining that moment I had.

“One of the altar boys is sick today. Will you help with Mass?”

I put on the mask—the fake me, the obeying priest, the good, smiling man, knowing full well the real me is the one that wears the leather, the one that kills in the name of God, the one that sneaks into June’s room at night and touches her aching body.

“Of course. What can I do?”

My eyes haven’t left June. Not as I stand off to the side for the two-hour long Mass, assisting where I am needed. Her eyes have met mine a handful of times, but each time she blushes and quickly looks away. And each time, I catch either her mother or Daren spotting the eye contact. I tell myself to be careful, to keep in mind I won’t be the one punished for these stolen glances—but I can’t help it. June has my full, undivided attention. Something about her calls to me, draws me in. She’s so fucking gorgeous, and she doesn’t know it. I want to tell her—to show her just how stunning she is.

But more than that, her soul is a fucking wonder. The glimpses I’ve seen of it are enough to bring the strongest to their knees. It’s hidden, caged behind iron bars, but I’m going to break them. I’m going to break her —in order to set her free.

It may have been years since I’ve been with a woman, years since I’ve pleasured myself—Hell, it’s been years since I’ve felt the need to. But before my vows, I was . . . active. Rebellious youth with a taste for pain and violence. I lost my virginity six months after it happened, when I was fourteen, and I didn’t stop having sex till my vows. I fucked some one-night stand the night before my ceremony—thirteen years ago—and while I can’t remember her face or name, I do remember the hand prints I left on her ass.

And in the last few days, that lingering memory has shifted. It’s now June’s ass I see my hand on.

Sex is a beautiful fucking thing. It brings pleasure and joy to both parties, how the human bodies can even entwine like so is a work of art. The idea that God would consider it a sin has always been lost on me. But still, I upheld the vow of celibacy, and now—I’m starting to understand why.

Do not worship false idols. Don’t worship anything or anyone but God.

I am ready to drop to my knees and sing praise for this woman to simply give me a taste of the forbidden nectar between her legs. I want my tongue on her, my fingers in her, my cock filling her.

I’d give anything.

June looks up at me again, blinking those long, dark lashes, and I have never been more thankful for the ridiculous, oversized robes—chasubles—we wear for Mass. The green flowing fabric, hopefully, covers my straining cock. I smile at her, and the pink returns to her cheeks before her eyes turn to the center of the sanctuary.

I had forgotten what blue balls felt like, but fuck. Every night since seeing her in that confessional, I’m plagued with a pain strong enough to keel me over. It feels like the hand of Satan is squeezing them till they pop, and every shift or rub against my pants feels like being stabbed by a billion angry hornets.

Fuck, I really need to get off.

But June had somehow slipped into my very being. She was more than just a rogue fantasy, more than just someone to get my dick wet with. I may not believe in them much, but I committed to my vows. And I dignified myself in being a man of my word.

I’ve seen beautiful women in the thirteen years I’ve been a priest. I’ve had women throw themselves at me—but never once have I even been tempted.

Which is why June has stricken me so hard.

I need her like I need air, and it is absolutely terrifying. But more than that, I want to protect her from myself. She has all but given herself to the masked man—a man she doesn’t know, a man that could be a monster in the dark. And she has offered herself so . . . willingly. It takes everything in my power not to fuck her senseless in her bedroom every night, a gag stuffed in her sweet mouth so her parents won’t hear and interrupt us.

But I can’t do that to her. I won’t do that to her.

“Through Christ our Lord, Amen,” Father Callum says, bowing his head and signing the cross. I mimic him, as does the entire parish. “Now, we will take Communion and end for the day.”

As one, the parish rises, and lines up in the center of the aisle between the pews. Callum ushers me over and hands me the golden chalice filled with the bread, as he carries a similar chalice of the wine and stands next to me before the parish.

I’ve held Communion enough times to autopilot through the ritual. I wait for the bow, they drop to their knees, and either hold their hands up or open their mouths.

“The body of Christ,” I whisper.

“Amen,” they reply.

The bread is stiff between my fingers and so damn breakable. It always surprises me that the body of our Christ can feel like little more than sandpaper and taste just as similar.

It isn’t long before June’s mother is the one next to stand before me. She smiles, her lipstick smearing along her teeth, and drops to her knees, keeping her eyes locked on mine. Slowly, she sticks her tongue out, a smirk still curving her lips and her eyes still trying to lock on mine.

She makes me feel sick.

“The body of Christ,” I mumble, and practically toss the host into her awaiting mouth, my fingers going nowhere near her.

She coughs as the host hits the back of her throat and then stands. “Amen.”

I hold the next host up for the next person—Daren. He bows but that is as close to the ritual as he gets. As he steps closer, I smell the stale beer on his breath, see the crusts from sleep and dried drool still on his face. He’s . . . crusty. Disgusting. If grime could be a person, it’d be him. His hazy blue eyes are locked on mine, eyebrows furled.

I match his expression, resisting every twitch in my body screaming at me to rip this guy’s head off.

He wants me to be his. June’s voice filters through my ears from last night, with the quiet, terrified expression on her face.

The host cracks between my fingers, but Daren snatches the two halves from me, shoving them in his mouth and stomping toward Callum.

A sharp exhale escapes my nose and my teeth grind together. How I’d love for the masked man to pay him a fucking visit.

“Father Marcelo?” a small voice whispers before me.

June shuffles on both feet before me, and drops to her knees as my gaze settles on her, her tits bouncing all along the way.

Fuck, she looks so God damn gorgeous on her knees. Her breathing is quick, sharp, and I can see her chest rise and fall in quick bursts.

It’s only a moment, but it feels like an eternity as I watch her—just her —in this room. Her eyes dilate, and under the long droopy skirt, she clenches her thighs together—just as she did last night in her bedroom.

I don’t know what compels me, but I hold up the host, and demand, “Open your mouth, June.”

Her full lips part on a small gasp, but then she does as I say, sticking that sweet tongue out for me like the good girl she is.

She’s panting now, waiting, and seeing her like this—on her knees before me, obeying me, her tongue out and ready for me —I just can’t stop myself, I can’t protect her, I can’t stop.

I drop the host at my feet, tossing the rest of the chalice behind me. Gasps rise from the parish and Father Callum turns to me, but nothing matters now that my songbird is kneeling, begging, waiting to please me. I rip the green chasuble over my head and throw it at the person standing in shock behind June.

“Will you take this offering?” I ask, unbuckling my belt and stepping closer to her. She nods feverishly, begging.

I pull myself out, and—of course—I’m already hard from the simple sight of her. The parish gasps again, but they might as well not exist. No one moves to stop us. They just watch, transfixed, as if what we were doing was the vilest show they couldn’t take their eyes off.

June’s beautiful doe eyes grow wider at the sight of me, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I reason that this must be the first cock she’s actually seen.

She sticks her tongue out farther, trying desperately to close the space between us. I stroke myself, groaning at the sensation I haven’t felt in too fucking long, but I can’t tear my eyes off hers, seeing how hungry she is for me.

“Please,” she begs.

And I obey. I shove my free hand in her hair, gripping it at the base of her neck.

“Taste me, little songbird.”

She pokes the tip of my cock with her tongue, testing, shuddering everywhere. Then she takes more, she sucks my head into her mouth, and fuck , is she hot and slippery and desperate . She sucks me down a little farther, startling when her lips meet metal. She pulls back and sees the Jacob’s ladder piercings I got on my eighteenth birthday. Two piercings, four small silver balls just along the frenum of my dick. Her eyes go wide, starving, as a small, insidious smile curves her lips.

June doesn’t hesitate. She wraps her hot tongue around me, toying with the piercings, and I guide her head forward. I want to feel the back of her throat. I want to feel my piercings on the flat of her tongue. I want her to take all of me.

I fuck her mouth in front of everyone. Her hands dig into my ass, as small gags come from her.

“Fuck, yes,” I breathe, and I love the slurping, wet sounds her tongue makes as she drinks me in. “You’re doing so fucking good.” I slam my hips forward, shoving my cock farther, farther.

It’s only been two fucking minutes and I feel the tension build in my back, my legs—I’m going to fucking come all over my little songbird, and I want her to swallow every single drop of me.

Her hot mouth closes around me and . . .

“Amen,” she says before her plump lips wrap around my thumb, the host separating her sweet tongue from my skin.

Her blue eyes aren’t on me, they’re dazed, unfocused, and staring at the cross tattooed on my index finger. But her lips— fuck —her perfect lips are wrapped around my thumb.

Not my cock.

I blink. And blink again.

I’m still wearing the green chasuble, white knuckling the chalice, the parish going about their own business.

None of that was real.

My cock was never in her mouth.

But . . . my thumb is .

I give myself a moment to feel how her lips really feel around me. Soft, pliable, fuckable. Just like in my fantasy, they’re hot and wet, and desperate.

She releases me with a pop , and as she pulls away, her gaze slowly, painfully, refocuses on me.

And I can see the moment sheer terror corrupts that blissful expression.

June abruptly stands, her cheeks on fire. “Ah—I am—I’m so sorry.” Her doe eyes don’t meet mine. I can practically hear the iron cage door that had just been open for me slam shut in my face. She hurriedly steps away from me, not saying a word more, taking the fastest sip of the wine, and running from the room, past her parents, and out of sight.

I jolt—ready to run after her—but beside the door she just ran through stands a dark, tall, oppressing figure.

A figure with horns.

A figure that fades through the door June just ran through.