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Last Sunday in the wee hours of the Morning I made my pact with the sinful sides of the Church. Meeting up with the pastor Father Damien, I Sister Irene had some worship to fulfill.

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Father Damien emerged from the sacristy, his cassock unbuttoned. And bare his chest tattooed with sigils no holy man should bear. “You’re late,” he growled, his voice a sin unto itself. I smirked, rising to my feet, and my habit slipping open. Exposing a thigh adorned with a garter shaped like a pentagram. “I was confessing… to myself,” I purred, my fingers trailing the altar cloth.

Damien’s eyes darkened with lust as he approached. With the crucifix above us trembling. “Blasphemy suits you,” he said, pulling me close.

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Now our lips crashed together, a mockery of the Eucharist—tongues dancing where hymns should live. As I pushed him onto the altar, the chalice clattering to the floor, spilling consecrated wine like blood.

I laughed and straddled him. With my rosary beads dangling, brushing his skin as I whispered, “Forgive me, Father, for I’m about to sin.”

The stained-glass saints watched in silent judgment as my hands worked sacrilege, unzipping his trousers with the reverence of a heretic. Damien groaned, a prayer to a darker god, as I moved with unholy rhythm, our bodies desecrating the sacred space.

Above, the crucifix glowed faintly—or was it a trick of the candlelight? Neither cared. We were too far gone, lost in our profane communion. Pure unholy filthy sexual sinning of the cloth. As the echoes of our moans a twisted hymn that would damn us both.

In that moment, heaven wept, and hell applauded. And my unholy cunt took the shaft of the lord of darkness within and all of that sweet delicious sin filled me.