Priest: A Love Story

Your hand is clapped over my mouth as your other hand digs under layers of lace and tulle to find my pussy—bare at your request. Bare precisely for this moment.

Outside, the guests are beginning to filter into the church, a Catholic church despite my parents’ playful protests, and in exchange for having a Catholic wedding, they extracted from us a grudging acceptance to let them throw the lavish affair they wanted to throw for their princess—fireworks and gallons of champagne and strings of lights under a starry Rhode Island sky.

But I’m nobody’s princess right now. I’m a panting lamb, squirming as your fingers find my clit—already ripe and swollen—and pinch it, gently. There are thousands of dollars of designer lace and silk pooled around my waist and I want you to rip it all off, expose my garter and stockings and naked cunt to the air. But you don’t.

Instead, you murmur in my ear, “You did as you were told. Good lamb.” You drop your hand from my mouth to cup my breast.

I lean back against you. “Isn’t there something about not seeing the bride before the wedding?”

“It’s bad luck, they say, but I think starting married life with a fuck is nothing but lucky, don’t you?”

We’re in a small chapel off the main room, with a screened window that opens onto the sanctuary. It’s difficult to see inside and we’ve locked the thin wooden door, but it does nothing to muffle the sounds, and as quiet as I am, there’s no mistaking the rustle of my dress and my frantic breathing as your fingers move past my clit to the wet folds of my cunt.

Then you spin me around, drinking me in with hungry green eyes. You shaved this morning, your square jaw smooth and stubble-free, and even though I know your mother fussed over your hair earlier, a few stray locks have fallen over your forehead. I reach to tug on them but you catch my wrist in your hand before I do. Not necessarily to stop me, but so you can yank me closer to you, making the delicate skin of my pussy rub against your tuxedo pants. I feel your erection there—a hot, rigid length—and I moan.

The hand comes over my mouth again, and your normally smiling face is serious. “One more noise, Mrs. Bell,” you hiss in my ear, “and it will be your ass I’m fucking instead.”

Is that supposed to be a punishment? “I’m not Mrs. Bell yet,” I tease.

“But you still belong to me.”

There’s no arguing that. I’ve belonged to you since the first time I sat down in your confession booth.

The dress—a v-necked affair belted at the waist and skirted with a layer of fine, gauzy tulle—is a cloud around my hips, and it blocks my view of your hand reaching down to free your cock. Then your arm is sliding past my waist to my legs and I’m being half lifted, half shoved into the wall.

I feel the wide head of your cock notching into my folds, and you don’t give me a moment to catch my breath, you simply pierce me without preamble, and I’m trying so hard not to moan, but it’s so delicious, you in your tux and my wedding dress hiked up like a teenager’s dress in a prom hotel and your hand so firm and insistent against my mouth as you pound into me with rough, uncaring strokes.

“All those people out there,” you breathe, “they have no idea you’re so close to them, getting fucked so hard. Fucked in your wedding dress, like a little whore who can’t help herself.”

My heart is pounding like a bird in a cage—fast and fluttery—and my inner thighs are tensing against the abrasive fabric of your tuxedo pants. I’ve long since stopped trying to figure out why I like it so much when you call me these names, especially since outside of the bedroom you are so unfailingly respectful and adoring. Maybe it’s the naughty-priest-vibe that your new academic career hasn’t been able to strip away from you, or maybe it’s that you’re such a good person and it’s thrilling to see you lose control and act more like a sinner than a saint. Whatever it is, it drives me crazy, and you know it, and you whisper all sorts of awful things in my ear, take it and dirty fucking girl and come for me, you better fucking come for me.

I do, my moans swallowed by your hand, as you continue to pump into me, each thrust pinning me harder against the wall, and each thrust drawing my climax further and further out, and then you look up and meet my eyes. You’re so close, and I think of all the times we’ve screwed, of all the times I’ve woken to your mouth flickering hot and wet between my legs, all the times where it felt like we’d fucked each other right out of the real, ordinary world and into someplace new and shimmering and magical. I feel like that now, actually, as I search your gaze, and watch you bite your lip as you fight to hold it back.

“Si vis amari, ama,” you tell me. If you wish to be loved, love.

Words we’d exchanged what feels like a million years ago.

It was your love that had brought us back together, your unflagging love that lasted through my deception and my seclusion. I’d thought I was making the right sacrifices for you to be with God, but I’d been wrong the whole time. Now we are both with God and we are together, giving up our individual lives today to fuse into one eternal soul.

No greater love than this… I think dreamily as you lose all control now, your hand moving from my mouth to my other leg so you can hold me up and open as you chase your release, your dark head nestled into my neck, kissing and biting.

“Te amo,” you’re saying in my ear. Latin for I love you. “Te amo, te amo, te amo.”

Fuck, I love you too, and then you’re coming so hard, your whole body is shuddering and your hands digging into my stockinged thighs, and your climax sends another orgasm chasing through me. Together we pulse, like a shared heartbeat, like the powerful waves of a single ocean, until we come down together with a sigh.

Somewhere in the church, an organ starts to play something pretty and light, walking-in-and-finding-a-seat music. My bridesmaids and mother are probably panicking.

You set me down and use the silk handkerchief in your tuxedo pocket to clean the traces of you from my legs. Then you fold it back up and replace it in your pocket—from the outside, perfectly clean and tidy, but we both know what’s hidden inside. “Just a little reminder,” you tell me with a dimpled smile, patting the pocket.

“A trophy, you mean.”

You don’t refute this, still grinning your adorable Irish grin as you help me rearrange my dress and straighten the cathedral-length veil.

You look down at your palm, stained with my lipstick, and your lips part and your eyes darken. I swear I can see you get hard again. “You might want to check on your makeup,” you say, and your eyes linger around my mouth. I have to push you away though, because if you kiss me again, I won’t be able to say no, and then we’ll be late for our own wedding.

“What should we tell them we were doing?”

You are now all zipped up and rearranged too, looking totally composed save for the possessive glint in your eyes. “It’s a chapel. We’ll say that we were praying.”

“Think they’ll believe us?”

Irish grin again. “Well, I was a priest once, you know.”

I think about this as the rest of the day unfolds, as my lipstick is freshened and then my father walks me down the aisle, and as I see you blinking back tears when Dad places my hand in yours. As we take communion, both of us remembering a very different kind of communion shared between us. And then as you kiss me, deep and long and searchingly, a kiss that make my cunt wet and nipples hard, even in the house of God.

You were a priest once.

I still mourn that sometimes, but I realize now that what we have together is just as holy, just as profound. Someday, we will start a family. We will be creating life together, which is perhaps the most God-like thing any human can do, and I wonder, as we dance together under the gentle May sky, if we will have a son.

Maybe he’ll become a priest too.