The rain tapped against the stained glass like a prayer, gentle and insistent. The room pulsed with its own rhythm, a mix of the divine and the profane.
Candlelight flickered across the dark wood panels, casting long shadows that danced with the scent of incense—lavender, rosemary, and the sharp undercurrent of something darker, something more forbidden. The sanctum had been transformed: a confessional chamber, yes, but more—a place of transformation.
Dr. Adrian Lush stood behind the desk, his hands steady as he prepared the next ritual. The air was thick with anticipation and a trace of Maria's ghost still lingered, an ethereal presence that seemed to whisper from the corners of the room. Maria had been his first. The one who had shown him what power lay in pleasure—what he could control and what could slip away in an instant.
Her memory haunted him, but tonight, he had a new subject. A new soul to mold.
Sister Catherine, 28, a woman of faith, yet bound by a force far greater than God: her own desires. A nun, dedicated to her vows, yet consumed by visions of angels and forbidden lust. She had arrived with a file that dripped with her confessions—compulsions so deep that even she was afraid of what they would make her do.
Her steps echoed softly as she entered the room, wet from the rain, her habit clinging to her body like a second skin. The white of it was innocent, but Lush knew better. Her body—perfectly shaped, graceful, but filled with a desire she could not contain—betrayed the surface of her piety. Her fingers trembled as she gripped the rosary in her hands, eyes downcast as if afraid of what might happen if she looked up.
Lush watched her closely. He had seen women like her before—broken by their own holiness, desperate to surrender, to be claimed.
"Please," she whispered, her voice trembling as it slipped through the heavy silence of the room. "Forgive me."
The words were familiar, yet the tone was not—different. This time, the request didn't feel like a plea for salvation. It felt like an invitation.
Lush smiled softly. "You've come to the right place, Sister. Tonight, there is no need for guilt. Only the truth."
He gestured to the confessional chair, the leather gleaming in the dim light. The space was set for ritual—incense burning, the inhaler cross placed on the table between them. Everything was prepared to release her.
Catherine hesitated for only a moment before lowering herself into the chair, her eyes flickering to Lush with a kind of helpless hunger. She held the rosary tighter, her body stiff, but beneath the layers of habit, Lush could see the way her chest rose and fell quicker. The war between faith and desire played out on her flushed face.
"This is your chance," Lush said, moving toward her, his tone gentle but commanding. "To be free. To speak what has long been hidden."
Her fingers trembled as she placed the rosary on the table. Her eyes met his briefly, and then she looked down again, her body betraying her as it shifted in the seat. Lush could see the tension in her legs, how she kept them pressed together—yet her body called out for release.
"I... I dream of angels," she whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of something that had been festering behind lips stitched shut by doctrine. "But they aren't the angels from the stories... they don't bring peace. They bring fire."
Lush leaned forward in the dim candlelight, the heat from her confessional booth thick with incense, sweat, and the faintest tang of arousal blooming like a secret flower. "Go on," he said, voice low, velvet-laced.
Catherine's knuckles clutched the rosary like it was the only tether keeping her from being swept away by the storm of her own confessions. Her breath shuddered.
"They tie me," she continued, eyes staring past the grate as if seeing another world. "They lash my limbs open across a wooden cross... not a crucifix, no... more primal, splintered, like something torn from the Garden before Eve had a name. And I'm naked. Entirely. Exposed to heaven, to hell, to myself."
Her thighs pressed together involuntarily, but Lush saw the tremble. Felt it.
She inhaled, deeply. "They don't speak. These angels... their wings brush across me. Feathers like silk, like breath. But when they touch me, I feel everything—I feel them teasing my nipples until they ache, feel the brush of wingtip and wind along the slit between my legs... and then they open me."
A flush broke across her chest, creeping up her throat like the bloom of guilt and arousal in tandem.
"They spread me wide," she breathed, her voice now thinner, higher. "And I think they'll bless me. But it's not oil they pour over me. It's heat. It's need. And then I feel them—hands? Claws? I don't know—but they scrape along my thighs, inside them. Tearing—not violently, but with purpose. As if they're opening me like a book, reading every chapter of shame I've tried to hide."
Her voice cracked.
"They claw their way up, slowly... slowly... until I feel them between my folds, dragging pain so sharp it makes me scream. But I don't wake up. I don't want to. Because it doesn't hurt. It... it feels good. It feels like every sin I've never had the courage to commit is being fucked into me, carved into my skin with burning nails of desire."
Lush was silent, but his cock pulsed hard behind the grate. Catherine was dissolving before him—not in madness, but in revelation. The kind only a soul long-starved could taste.
She swallowed hard. "One of them kneels before me. A fallen angel, perhaps. His eyes are black, bottomless. And he presses his mouth to me, down there. On the cross. In front of all the others. And they watch. And I burn. I burn from the inside out as his tongue parts me like a sacrament."
She closed her eyes, as if seeing it again.
"I come," she whispered, "not once. Over and over. They don't stop. I beg them not to stop. I cry. And then the demons come."
Lush leaned in. "Tell me."
"They crawl up from below the altar. Black, oiled skin and wicked horns. Claws like razors and cocks so thick I couldn't speak if I wanted to. And they take me. Not gently. Not lovingly. They use me. Three at once. Four. One in my mouth, one behind me, two inside me." Her voice trembled as tears streamed down her cheeks, but they were not tears of sorrow. "And the angels watch. Smiling."
Her knuckles loosened their grip on the rosary.
"I come again," she said. "And again. And I think—this is hell. But then I see Him. Or Her. A figure wrapped in light. And she looks like me. Like another me. And she whispers, 'You were always meant for this.'"
Lush's breath caught.
Maria.
Catherine opened her eyes, meeting his gaze through the confessional grate. "I wake up soaked. Legs shaking. I can still feel them. Sometimes I can still taste the blood. Or is it wine?"
Lush's voice slid through the screen like a blade sheathed in velvet. "You are a woman first," he said. "A woman with needs. And those needs are not sinful. They are sacred."
Catherine shivered.
He continued, stepping closer, just a shadow behind the grate. "Your dreams aren't evil. They're honest. Your angels weren't demons. They were you—set free. Every scratch, every moan, every unholy touch was your body screaming for liberation."
Her lip quivered. "But I'm a nun."
He leaned forward. "You're a woman who's been denied herself. What you dreamed... that was your body remembering what the Church told it to forget."
She sagged against the booth, legs spread slightly now, rosary slipping to the floor. Her breath came fast, hot, desperate.
"What if... what if I want to feel it again?" she asked, voice broken, raw.
Lush smiled behind the grate. "Then breathe," he whispered. "And let L-9 show you the gospel of your own flesh."
Lush extended the inhaler, the silver cross glinting in the flickering candlelight. Sister Catherine accepted it with trembling reverence, the weight of it heavy in more ways than one. Her lips parted, plush and dry, and she drew in a slow, deliberate breath.
The reaction was immediate.
Her spine arched ever so slightly as if caught by an invisible thread. Pupils dilated, cheeks flushed—an almost fevered bloom rising through her skin. Her breath hitched, not out of fear, but anticipation. A trembling began at her knees and spread upward, like fire licking the insides of her thighs.
She gasped, fingers instinctively moving to the edge of her sodden habit, brushing across the wet wool clinging to her skin from the rain. But this wetness was something new. Something born from within. The coarse fabric darkened subtly between her legs—just a shade deeper, a suggestion of heat that soaked the inner folds of her garment.
A low, aching moan escaped her lips—unintended, unfiltered.
Lush said nothing. He simply watched, a dark sentinel on the other side of the confessional grate, as the drug unlocked the vault she had sealed with rosaries and penance. Her thighs pressed together, trying—failing—to contain the wave building within her.
She doubled slightly, hands gripping the pew as her breath came in short, frantic bursts. The L-9 worked not with brute force but with precise seduction—fanning the flames of every hidden thought, every whispered prayer she'd twisted into guilt.
And then it happened.
Her knees buckled. A sharp cry, muffled by the wooden screen, slipped from her throat. The tension in her thighs gave way to trembling release. There was no scream—just a whimper of surrender and the unmistakable sound of her breath catching in bliss.
Lush could see it clearly: the fabric between her legs darkened further, clinging tight to the shape of her trembling climaxes. The rain had once dampened her habit, but this… this was something holy, raw, and entirely hers.
"Tell me, Sister," he said, his voice low and coaxing. "What do you feel now?"
Her voice trembled as she answered, "I... feel alive. My body... it burns. But I cannot stop it."
Lush smiled. "No need to stop it, Sister. Let it burn."
---
The moment the inhaler left her lips, Catherine's body began to betray her in earnest. The sensation was too much, too fast. It wasn't just pleasure; it was revelation. Every breath was filled with the weight of it, a shift in her very core. Her body arched in response, seeking release, yet fearful of it.
"I've tried to be good," she whispered, as if confessing to the very air. "I've tried to stay pure. But... it's like a beast inside me, Father."
Lush's gaze never left her, his hands steady, heart beating with a fierce anticipation. This is where it began—the true test of her willingness to accept pleasure, to surrender to it. The L-9 would show her what she was capable of.
"Tell me, Sister," Lush pressed, his voice commanding yet warm. "What does that beast feel like?"
She gasped as her hands moved of their own accord, pulling at the hem of her habit. Her eyes squeezed shut, and she breathed deep, as though to steady herself. Her body trembled, as though every part of her was waking from a long, cold sleep.
"I... I feel it," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's inside me... pulling... pleasing me. But I'm not supposed to feel this way."
Her knees trembled as she knelt, one hand slipping under her robe, finding her own heat. The shame was still there—lingering—but it was no longer the driving force. Now, it was pleasure. Pure, unrelenting.
Lush watched her, his breath shallow. He stepped closer, but still kept a reverent distance—like a priest presiding over a mass not of repentance, but of revelation. The scent of her arousal mingled with the incense, thickening the air into something sacred and profane.
"Is this your confession?" he asked, voice low, threading between shadow and flame. "That you want more?"
Her head tilted back, lashes fluttering, a breathless laugh escaping her lips like a whispered hymn. "Yes, Father," she gasped. "Yes... I need more."
The confession had begun—but it was no longer about repentance. It had become a rite of release. A resurrection of urges long entombed beneath catechism and candlelight.
And in that moment, Lush allowed himself to reflect—not clinically, but philosophically.
Why is it, he wondered, that lust is so readily condemned? Entire theologies built around its rejection. Scriptures bristling with warnings. Churches draped in images of suffering for those who dared to feel too much. Lust had become synonymous with ruin—branded as one of the cardinal sins, when in truth, it was one of the purest expressions of life.
He thought of wine—how it could warm a soul or destroy it. Thought of fire—how it could cleanse, or consume. Was it the thing itself that was evil? Or the way it was wielded?
Was it lust that damned the faithful… or the denial of it that warped them?
He stared at the trembling woman kneeling before him, her habit soaked, her thighs slick with a pleasure no prayer had ever granted her. She wasn't corrupted. She has awakened.
"Is it sin to feel this?" he asked, half to her, half to himself.
She didn't answer with words.
She simply moaned, and in that sound was her answer.
No sin. No shame. Only truth.
And in truth, perhaps… salvation.