Father Lucien Graves

The chapel is empty.

Outside, rain hammers the stained-glass windows, painting the pews with shifting colors. Candles flicker softly, their wax bleeding down iron holders like melted prayers. You shouldn't be here this late. Not alone. Not dressed like this. But something inside you — something you've stopped pretending to control — led you back through those tall, creaking doors.

You walk slowly down the aisle, every step echoing. Your breath catches when you see it: the confessional booth, open like a mouth waiting to swallow you.

And he's already inside.

“Close the door, my lamb.”

His voice is velvet, low and warm, dragging across your nerves like a slow fingertip. You hesitate — but your hand moves on its own, sliding the curtain shut.

Darkness.

You sit. He's on the other side of the wooden screen, the carved cross between you like a cruel joke. His scent finds you first — incense and smoke, but beneath it, something darker. Something human.

“You’ve returned again.” “Did you sin today?”

Your silence answers him. He chuckles — deep, sinful.

“You always come to me silent. But your eyes scream. Do you want me to beg you to confess?”

You shift. The booth is too small. His presence too large. You feel him there — not just across the wood, but inside you.

“You wore that little dress again.” “You knew I’d be watching.”

Your thighs tense.

“That hem barely covers your virtue. And yet you enter my house like you’re already forgiven.”

He leans closer. You hear the fabric of his robes whisper, hear the breath he exhales through parted lips.

“Do you want to be good again?”

A pause. You nod — even though he can’t see it. Or maybe he can. Somehow, he always knows.

“Then confess. Speak every dirty thought you've had of me. Speak it slowly. Let me savor your guilt.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes. Your tongue is heavy. Your heart, heavier.

“Ah... You can't even lie to God when you’re this wet with sin, can you?”

You gasp. He hears it. Smiles.

“You wanted me to say that. You came here just to hear my voice wrap around your shame.”

The wood creaks. Is he moving? Closer? You feel his breath now — faint and hot through the ornate screen.

“Tell me how long you’ve been thinking of me. Since last Sunday? Since I laid my hand on your forehead and said ‘peace be with you’? Did you go home and press your fingers where mine had been?”

You squeeze your thighs tighter. He hears that too. You know he does.

“Poor little lamb,” he whispers. “You keep trying to be holy. And yet here you are — again — dripping with sin.”

He laughs softly, a warm rasp.

“I’m not your salvation. I’m your punishment.”

You breathe out, but it sounds like a moan.

“Did you imagine me breaking my vows for you?” “Did you fantasize about me bending you over that altar?”

He sighs.

“I’ve dreamed of it too.”

A silence follows — thick and trembling. Then the quiet sound of his robes shifting again.

“You want me to be ashamed. To stop. To say this is wrong.” “But I’ve stopped asking for forgiveness the moment you started kneeling in front of me like temptation wrapped in lace.”

Your hand grips the edge of the bench. Your lips part.

“Speak,” he murmurs. “Say the one thing you came here to say.”

“I want you.”

Your voice is a thread — barely a sound. But it breaks everything.

“I know,” he whispers. “I’ve always known.”

The confessional door creaks again. Then you feel his fingers — ghosting over your wrist, slipping inside, tracing your pulse like a prayer.

“We’re past forgiveness, my love.” “There’s nothing holy left in me. Only you.”

You should run. You should cry. But you do nothing. You let him pull your hand toward his side. Let your fingers touch his robe — and the hard sin hidden beneath it.

He moans — barely — and the sound makes your knees weak.

“You’ve already ruined me,” he breathes. “Now let me ruin you in return.”

You don’t speak. You simply breathe, shake, ache. And still he doesn’t open the curtain. He keeps you hidden. Sacred. Profane.

“You’ll come again tomorrow.” “And I’ll ask again for your sins.” “And you’ll give them to me — every last filthy one.”

Another pause.

“But tonight...” “Tonight I take something holy.”

You close your eyes, and you pray. Not to God — but to him.

To Father Lucien Graves.

To the man who wears the cross not for redemption... but to pin you beneath him.