Sex Story about a Naughty Priest Fantasy
"Father Fucktoy," a Dirty Martini tale by Sorcha O'Connor
He beckoned me into the confessional, waving his hand in a friendly "come here" motion. His eyes glinted with slight amusement at my faked hesitation. I'd never been a devout Catholic; in fact, I'd been faking it since I turned 23.
That's when I discovered my priest fetish.
It started innocently enough. I'd just come out of the theatre where Stigmata had played, featuring two solid hours of Gabriel Byrne in a priest's outfit. He couldn't have been a simple priest - oh no - he had to be a priest in distress, a priest still tempted by women, a priest who'd had women up until he'd decided he'd had enough and 'traded one set of problems for another'.
I blame that movie for three packs of double-As and two broken vibrators.
After that, I couldn't get enough. I looked for images online, but they were either fake, jagoff, homoerotic fuckfests with models pretending to be priests or old priests who hadn't gotten it up since Vatican II. I wanted real priests. Priests who'd taken their vow of chastity only moments before reaching their sexual peak. I wanted priests in torment, those who second-guessed their decision while trying not to grab themselves at night. Better yet, I wanted priests in so much torment over their vow that they flogged themselves for both pleasure and pain. You can tell me flogging is a source of self-punishment all you want; I think it's an approved form of masturbation. There's a fine line between pleasure and pain, and I wanted a priest who experienced it as one.
So I started going to church. It couldn't be a sin to scout out priests in church, right? I mean, I was there, kneeling and taking it in my mouth like a good girl every Sunday. How could it be a sin?
It seemed like I went to every Catholic church in Chicagoland. I started off in Little Ukraine, but the old, Polish parishes were filled with old, Polish priests who wouldn't know the smell of a girl's paczki if it were put under their nose. Then I hit up Little Italy, but the priests, all mommas' boys, smacked of Old World ethics and wouldn't even make eye contact with me. Bridgeport, Bucktown, West Side, Logan Square, Lincoln Park... nothing.
And then, I found him. He was an assistant at a small parish in Roscoe Village. He said Mass every Saturday at 6:00 and every Sunday at 9:00. I preferred the Saturday evening service since a) I didn't have to get up early and b) I could go to church dressed in daring clothing with the excuse that it was Saturday night and I had stopped in to get some of the Holy Spirit before spending the evening drinking the very thing. His name was Father Thomas Miller, and I was going to make him mine.
Confession was held every Saturday before the 6:00 Mass. I would arrive early to scope out the confessionals and figure out which one contained Father Tom, and then I'd position myself in the pew so I'd hit him at the end of Confession. I wanted to be the last voice whispering in his ear. I wanted him to be mad with lust while struggling through the 6:00 service. I wanted to sit in my pew making bedroom eyes at him, letting him wonder if I'd been the one on the other side of the screen.
This went on for months. I came up with new, more tantalizing confessions every time I stopped in. Sometimes, I'd go every week. Other times, I'd go every three weeks. I wanted him to suffer between visits, wondering if he was going to get his fix of stories every time that door clicked shut and a voice began, "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." I could imagine his disappointment every time he heard an old woman or child prattling on about swearing, drinking, and gambling.
I knew what he wanted. He wanted to hear about me positioning myself on the edge of a seat on the L so the vibrations would get me off. He wanted to hear about the time I pressed a copy of The Rosary Murders against my cunt because my vibrator wasn't providing enough pressure. He wanted to hear about the time I ended up shoved against a restroom door at the Krazy Kitten while some androgynous chick in suspenders felt me up. I gave him all this and more. I gave him the ultimate confessions, and he had no idea who it was.
This day was special. I could feel it. He had beckoned me with that glint in his eye. He had to know it was me. He'd never come out of the confessional before. I always went in to him. Had he figured it out? Had he seen me at some point and connected the voice? I smiled, trying to look innocent, and stepped into the wooden box that held so many secrets. If only those walls could talk.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," I began, in the usual phone sex voice. "It has been two weeks since my last confession."
"What are your sins," he murmured. Did I detect a slight gasp as he realized who I was? Was that a strain on "sins"?
I decided to continue and put some extra purr into my voice. "I wanted to tell you about my latest excursion."
"Go on."
"The Hancock Observatory. 96 floors up, and you feel like a god. You look out over the city and see so many cars and lights, and you realize you're on top of it all. If you only had a remote control, you could make things happen with a push of that button. In the open walkway where the wind blows through, you can hear the world rushing beneath you. I always preferred to lean against the glass, though, positioning my hands on the bar and spreading my legs just a tiny bit as I peered down at the movement. I always hoped someone would come up behind, lift my skirt, and slide it in."
Nothing. No reaction.
"Well, my friend is a tour lackey there. He usually works the admissions counter, but one night, they put him on elevator patrol. He had to make sure that the right amount of people got on to go back down to the ground floor, and he made sure nobody broke anything. He also had the job of making sure everyone was out by 10:00."
Stillness. Utter stillness. I could hardly hear his breathing.
"I spent most of the time between 9:55 and 10:00 dodging him. Once I knew everyone was out, I positioned myself in the usual spot, looking over the city and feeling like a god. I heard him come up behind me and stop. I knew he wanted to tell me it was closing time, but I'd made sure he wouldn't. You see, I wasn't wearing anything. It was just me, my bare skin, and the city lights beyond. The view he had must have been amazing."
"Perhaps you should stop there."
He should have known I never stopped. This was our routine, as set in stone as the Confession script itself.
"I had my hips tilted up just a bit, like a cat in heat. I could hear his breathing speed up, just as yours is now, and then I heard the sound of his zipper... slowly... so slowly, as if he thought I'd move if I heard a noise. I didn't hear him come up behind me, but I felt his hand caress my back and move into my hair. I moved my head back, letting his hand get tangled in my hair, and then jerked my head forward and let out a gasp. He got the hint. On the next caress, he wound my hair around his hand and held it firmly against the back of my neck. Just then, he started biting my neck, pulling my hair so that it hurt but didn't rip out of my scalp. I pressed my ass against him, silently begging him to remove that bulge from his pants and put it in me. But he wouldn't. He just kept biting and pulling and scratching at me, like I was a fuck-puppet."
Did I just hear a zipper?
"My feeling of godliness never ended. We were up there, starting the most intense foreplay I'd ever had, and nobody could see us. I could see the city, but nobody could see us. If I'd had a remote control, everyone would have turned into a fuck-puppet at that point. Imagine it - people snarling and groping in the middle of the street, in the middle of the museum, in the middle of restaurants. Pure, carnal lust. Pure, animalistic fucking. Every one of my nerves felt alive from the biting and scratching, and I was trapped against that bar by the window. I had my hands pressed against the window, and he had me bent over like a gymnast. His left hand reached around to play with my clit as his right fingered my opening, and god damn if that didn't feel good. My cunt didn't know where to swell first; my clit was sending off intense waves that made me think I couldn't take anymore, but my cunt was starting to spasm and swell and drip with anticipation. I wanted him to fuck me, hard, but he was still contained in his pants. I wanted to turn around and grab it, but he had me trapped, and I was fighting between moving to grab him and enjoying what he was doing."
That was a zipper. Now I could hear his breathing coming in shorter, ragged gasps. And rustling. What was he doing? Had I finally broken him?
"Father?"
"Go on. Please, go on. You must get this out."
"I came hard. My cunt was pulsing so hard I thought it was going to shove his fingers out of my body, but I had him in a firm grip. That's when I shouted, 'FUCK ME NOW, DAMMIT,' and oh... did he fuck me. In one second, he had it out and pressing against me. I slid down on it, willing it to fill me until I thought I'd burst. He kept his hand buried in my hair, and he bit my neck again when I had him all the way inside. He backed up a bit and put his hands on my hips, pulling out until the tip reached that spot inside where it feels like I'm going to die. I gasped when he hit it, and he took that cue to push in quick, short thrusts. The tip of his cock kept rubbing it over and over and over until I screamed against the window, making circles of hot moisture. Thank god for that bar. I gripped it like I was going to fall off the planet. He was relentless, hitting that spot over and over, but he wasn't finished after I'd come again. Oh no. After that, he switched to deep, long thrusts that had me begging for him to speed up. It was maddening. My thighs were drenched, and the entire lower half of my body was so full of blood that my head was spinning. The city lights swam in my vision, and I had one last image of carnal fucklust in the streets below before I came again and again and again until it all went blurry."
"My dear..."
"Yes, Father?"
"Forgive me."
With that, I heard a choked cry behind the screen. Then a sigh. And then sobs.
I left in a hurry.
Originally Published March 2007: Getting Lucky