l**Higher Power – Side Story** **“Confession of the Flesh”**

l**Higher Power – Side Story**

**“Confession of the Flesh”**

*(A standalone expansion of the Devin Dickie / Iranon “Higher Power” comic. Archetype-driven. Over 9,000 words. Explicit NTR, religious taboo, exhibitionism, internal monologue, and dialogue.)*

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The church smelled of old wood, candle wax, and the faint sweetness of lilies left over from Sunday’s service. Afternoon light filtered through the stained-glass windows in long colored bars that painted the empty pews red and gold and deep blue. Dust motes drifted in the shafts like slow confetti. It was the kind of quiet that made every small sound feel louder than it should—the creak of a floorboard, the soft tick of the wall clock in the vestibule, the distant hum of traffic beyond the heavy oak doors.

She stood just inside those doors for a long moment, heart beating harder than the walk from the parking lot warranted. Her name was not important; the comic never needed one. She was simply the Wife. Thirty-eight. Blonde hair that still caught the light the way it had at twenty-five. A body that had softened and ripened after two children and years of comfortable marriage—heavy breasts that strained the modest blouse she had chosen, a waist that still nipped in before flaring into wide, soft hips, an ass that filled the pencil skirt in a way that made the fabric whisper when she walked. She wore no stockings today. The decision had felt deliberate when she dressed that morning.

Her husband was at work. He always was on Thursdays. He believed she came here for the women’s prayer circle, or to speak with Father about the charity drive, or simply to sit in the quiet and feel closer to God. He believed a great many convenient things.

She walked down the center aisle, heels clicking softly on the stone. Each step sent a small echo up into the vaulted ceiling. Her thoughts ran in parallel tracks, the way they had for weeks now.

*I shouldn’t be here again. I told myself last time was the last time. I knelt in our bedroom that night and prayed for strength while he slept beside me. I meant it. I always mean it in the moment.*

*But the moment passes. The ache doesn’t.*

Father Michael was in the confessional. She knew the schedule by heart. Thursdays between two and four he kept the booth open for anyone who needed it. Most weeks no one came. The parish was small, respectable, the kind of place where sins were quiet and private. She had counted on that.

She slipped into the wooden booth, pulled the little door shut, and knelt on the worn cushion. The screen between them was old latticework, the kind that blurred faces into suggestions. She could see the dark outline of his cassock, the pale shape of his hands folded on the small shelf.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she said. Her voice came out lower than she intended. “It has been one week since my last confession.”

A soft rustle on the other side. His voice was measured, practiced, the voice of a man who had spent years listening to ordinary failures.

“What troubles you, my child?”

She closed her eyes. The words she had rehearsed dissolved. What came out instead was the truth she had been carrying like a second heartbeat.

“I keep thinking about what we did. In the sacristy. Against the vesting cabinet. I keep feeling it when I’m at home. When I’m cooking dinner for my husband. When I’m helping the children with homework. When he reaches for me at night and I… I let him, but it’s not the same. It’s never the same anymore.”

Silence stretched. She heard him shift. The lattice creaked.

“You came here to confess that,” he said finally. Not a question.

“I came here because I can’t stop.” Her fingers tightened on the little ledge. “I told myself I would ask for penance. Real penance. Something that would make it stop. But the moment I sat down I started remembering the way you felt. The way you sounded when you broke. The way the cross above the cabinet watched us.”

Another long pause. Then the soft click of the confessional door on his side. She heard him stand. Footsteps moved around the booth. The outer door of her side opened.

Father Michael stood there in the colored light, cassock still buttoned to the throat, face composed in the way men of the cloth practiced until it became armor. He was younger than most priests in the diocese—mid-forties, dark hair going silver at the temples, a body kept lean by long walks and the kind of discipline that usually held. Usually.

“Not here,” he said quietly. “The sacristy. Now.”

She rose on unsteady legs. The walk from the confessional to the side door felt endless and far too short at once. Every pew they passed was a witness. Every statue of a saint seemed to turn its plaster eyes. She kept her gaze forward, but her thoughts raced.

*He’s going to tell me this ends today. He’s going to say the words that put the wall back up. And I’m going to nod and go home and try to be the wife my husband deserves.*

*Or he’s going to lock the door behind us again.*

The sacristy was a narrow room lined with cabinets, a long counter for preparing the vessels, a single high window of frosted glass that let in white light but no view of the outside. The air smelled of starch and old incense and the faint metallic tang of the chalices. He closed the door. The lock turned with a sound that seemed to echo in her bones.

For a moment they only looked at each other.

Then she stepped forward, closed the distance, and kissed him the way she had the first time—hungry, almost angry at how much she needed it. His hands found her waist, then slid down to the full curve of her ass, gripping hard enough to make the fabric of the skirt bunch. She felt him already hardening against her stomach through the layers of the cassock.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he murmured against her mouth, even as his fingers dug deeper.

“I know.” She bit his lower lip. “Say the words and I’ll leave.”

He didn’t say the words.

Instead he turned her, pressed her back against the tall oak vesting cabinet that held the albs and stoles. The wood was cool through her blouse. He kissed down her throat while his hands worked the buttons. One. Two. Three. The blouse fell open. The bra she had chosen was the black lace one her husband never saw; she saved it for these afternoons. He stared for a long second, then lowered his head and took one heavy breast into his mouth, sucking hard enough to make her gasp.

*He’s a priest. He’s supposed to be above this. I’m a married woman. I’m supposed to be above this. The only thing either of us is above right now is the floor.*

Her hands found the cincture at his waist, tugged the knot loose, pushed the cassock open. Underneath he wore ordinary black trousers and a clerical shirt. She freed him with the same urgency she had the first time—thick, already leaking, the head flushed dark. She stroked him once, twice, feeling the weight of him in her palm, and the familiar sharp thrill shot through her.

*My husband’s is smaller. I’ve always known it. I’ve never said it out loud until the night I came home with Father’s cum still inside me and let him make love to me anyway. He didn’t notice. Or he pretended not to.*

She dropped to her knees on the sacristy floor. The stone was hard, unforgiving. She didn’t care. She took him into her mouth the way she had learned he liked—deep, wet, no teasing. The head pushed past her soft palate and into her throat. She breathed through her nose and held him there, eyes watering, until he groaned above her. Then she pulled back, dragged her tongue along the underside, and took him deep again.

His hands settled in her blonde hair, not forcing, only steadying. The wet sounds of her mouth filled the small room. Outside, somewhere in the church proper, a door opened and closed. Footsteps moved down a side aisle. Both of them froze for a heartbeat. The footsteps continued past the sacristy door and faded toward the offices.

She looked up at him, lips shiny, and whispered, “Lock held.”

He answered by pulling her up, spinning her again, and yanking the pencil skirt up over her hips. No panties. She had left them in the car. The cool air of the sacristy kissed her bare cunt for half a second before his fingers replaced it—two of them, thick, sliding into the slick heat that had been building since she left the house.

“Already soaked,” he muttered. “You walked into the house of God like this.”

“I walked in hoping you’d notice.”

He freed himself fully, guided the head of his cock to her entrance, and pushed in with one long, relentless stroke. The stretch made her cry out—softly, into the crook of her arm. He filled her the way her husband never quite managed, thick enough that the first thrust always stole her breath. He bottomed out and held there, forehead against the back of her neck, breathing hard.

“Hail Mary,” he whispered, almost to himself, and then he began to move.

The rhythm started slow, deep, the kind of fucking that felt like a claim. Each thrust pushed her against the cabinet; the wood creaked in time. Her heavy breasts swayed and slapped softly against the oak. She braced one hand on the counter, the other reaching back to grip his hip, pulling him harder.

*This is a sin. This is a mortal sin. I’m going to hell for this and I don’t care. I care about the way he feels when he bottoms out. I care about the way my husband will kiss me tonight and taste nothing because I brushed my teeth twice. I care about the risk that someone will open that door and see the priest’s cock buried in the married woman from the third pew.*

He reached around and found her clit, rubbing in tight circles while he fucked her. The dual sensation made her knees weak. She came hard, cunt clamping around him, a broken moan muffled against her own forearm. He didn’t stop. He kept the same deep pace through the aftershocks until she was shaking and begging in soft, incoherent fragments.

“Please—Father—don’t stop—harder—”

He gave her harder. The cabinet rattled. A stole slipped from its hanger and pooled on the floor like a discarded vow. He pulled out suddenly, spun her, lifted her onto the edge of the counter, and sank back in while she wrapped her legs around him. Face to face now. She could see the conflict in his eyes—the priest and the man at war—and she kissed him so he wouldn’t have to look at it.

They fucked like that until the light through the frosted window began to shift toward late afternoon. He came with a low, almost pained sound, buried to the hilt, flooding her in thick pulses. She felt every spurt, felt the heat of it, and came again around him just from the knowledge of what he was leaving inside her.

They stayed locked together for a long minute, breathing. Then he eased out. She felt the immediate warm trickle down her inner thigh. He watched it for a second, something dark and possessive flickering across his face, then reached for a clean corporal cloth from the drawer and gently wiped her. The care in the gesture almost undid her more than the fucking had.

“You should go,” he said quietly. “The evening Mass setup starts in an hour.”

She slid off the counter on unsteady legs, smoothed the skirt down, buttoned the blouse with fingers that still trembled. Her reflection in the small mirror above the sink looked wrecked in the best way—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with the particular clarity that only came after being thoroughly used.

“Same time next Thursday?” she asked.

He met her gaze in the mirror. For a moment the priest won. Then the man answered.

“Same time. And wear the blue dress. The one that buttons down the front.”

She smiled, small and secret, and slipped out of the sacristy before either of them could take it back.

---

The drive home was a study in dual consciousness.

On the surface she was the Wife again—checking the rearview, signaling, stopping for milk because they were low. Underneath, her body still hummed. Every shift of the seat reminded her of the thick stretch, the wet heat still leaking into the folded tissue she had pressed between her thighs. She thought of her husband the way she always did after: with a complicated tenderness that included guilt and a sharper, colder awareness of what he could never give her.

*He loves me. He provides. He’s gentle in bed the way he thinks I want. He has no idea that gentle is the last thing I need anymore. He has no idea that while he was in a budget meeting I was bent over the same cabinet where the altar wine is stored, taking a priest’s cock like it was the only sacrament left that mattered.*

She parked in the driveway of the neat two-story house with the tidy lawn. The children’s bikes lay on their sides near the garage. Through the kitchen window she could see her husband at the table with a laptop, glasses low on his nose, the ordinary domestic picture that still made something in her chest twist.

She walked in smelling of church and sex and the faint metallic scent of the corporal cloth. He looked up and smiled the same smile he had given her for fifteen years.

“How was prayer circle?”

“Quiet,” she said, and kissed him on the mouth. She wondered if he could taste the other man. Apparently not. He deepened the kiss for a moment, then pulled back with a soft sound of contentment.

“Kids are at soccer until six. I thought maybe we could…” He trailed off, hopeful, already reaching for her waist.

She let him. She always let him. She guided him to the couch, straddled him, and took him inside her while he was still half-soft, while Father’s load was still warm and slippery inside her. He groaned at the wet heat and never asked why she was so ready. She rode him with her face turned toward the window so he wouldn’t see the way her eyes unfocused, the way she was remembering a thicker cock, a harder rhythm, a locked sacristy door.

When he finished she held him and stroked his hair and whispered the ordinary loving things wives whisper. Inside she was already counting the days until Thursday.

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The following Thursday she wore the blue dress.

It buttoned from throat to hem, modest enough for church, thin enough that the outline of her braless breasts was visible if the light hit right. She left the car in the far corner of the lot and walked in through the side entrance that led directly toward the sacristy corridor. The main sanctuary was empty. A single candle burned near the altar.

Father Michael was waiting. He locked the door the moment she stepped inside. No preamble this time. He pushed her back against it, kissed her like a man starving, and began unbuttoning the blue dress with hands that shook only a little. When it fell open he simply looked for a long moment—heavy bare breasts, soft stomach, the bare mound already glistening.

“On your knees,” he said, voice rough. “I want to feel that mouth before I ruin you properly.”

She dropped. The stone was colder today. She took him deep immediately, throat relaxing around the thick shaft, spit already running down her chin. He held her head and fucked her mouth with short, controlled thrusts, watching her eyes water, watching the way her heavy breasts swayed with every movement. When he pulled out she gasped for air, strings of spit connecting her lips to the flushed head.

“Please,” she whispered. “I need it inside me. I’ve been thinking about it all week. Every time my husband touched me I was imagining this.”

He lifted her, carried her to the counter again, and set her on the edge. This time he turned her so she faced the small mirror. She watched their reflection while he pushed into her from behind—her own face slack with pleasure, his darker one intent, the blue dress hanging open like a ruined banner. He fucked her hard enough that the counter edge bit into her thighs. She came twice before he pulled out, spun her, and lifted one of her legs high against his shoulder so he could drive even deeper.

The risk felt sharper today. Somewhere beyond the locked door a vacuum cleaner started up in the sanctuary. The distant roar only made the wet sounds of their fucking seem louder. She bit his shoulder to keep from crying out when the third orgasm hit.

He finished inside her again, grinding deep, flooding her while the vacuum continued its oblivious path up the center aisle. They stayed joined until the machine shut off and the church fell quiet once more.

Afterward she cleaned up with the same careful ritual—tissue, mouthwash from the small bottle she now kept in her purse, a quick check in the mirror. He watched her dress in silence.

“This has to stop,” he said eventually, the words automatic.

She buttoned the last button of the blue dress and looked at him over her shoulder.

“Then stop me from coming back next week.”

He said nothing.

She left through the side door, the inside of her thighs still sticky, the blue dress smelling faintly of incense and sex. In the car she sat for a full minute with her hands on the wheel before starting the engine. Her thoughts were calm in a way that would have frightened her a month ago.

*I’m going to keep doing this until something forces it to end. Until someone walks in. Until my husband finds the tissues in the glove box or the way I flinch when he tries to go down on me because I’m still sore from someone thicker. Until Father Michael’s guilt finally outweighs the way he looks at me when I’m on my knees. Until then… I belong to the sacristy on Thursdays. The rest of the week I can pretend.*

She drove home to the ordinary house and the ordinary husband and the ordinary dinner that tasted like nothing compared to the memory of a priest’s cock still pulsing inside her.

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The weeks settled into a rhythm more dangerous than either of them admitted.

Some Thursdays they barely spoke. She would arrive, lock the door, and drop to her knees without a word. Other days he would make her confess first—detail every filthy thought she had carried since the last time, every moment she had sat across from her husband at dinner and felt the ghost of a thicker cock stretching her. The more she spoke, the harder he became. The more he listened, the less the cassock seemed to matter.

One afternoon the risk nearly caught them.

They were in the middle of it—her bent over the counter, dress hiked, his cock buried deep—when the outer handle of the sacristy door turned. Both of them froze. The lock held. A voice on the other side, elderly, female: “Father Michael? Are you in there? I brought the altar linens.”

He cleared his throat, still fully inside her, and called back in a remarkably steady voice, “Leave them by the door, Mrs. Hensley. I’m… preparing the vessels. I’ll bring them in shortly.”

Footsteps retreated. Silence.

He didn’t pull out. He simply resumed the deep, slow thrusts while she trembled between terror and the sharpest arousal she had ever felt. She came with her fist pressed to her mouth, eyes wide, the near-discovery pushing her over harder than any deliberate technique. When he finished he stayed buried and whispered against her ear,

“Next time I won’t lock it.”

The words lodged in her like a second heartbeat.

---

At home the cracks began to show in quieter ways.

Her husband noticed she was distracted. He noticed she sometimes flinched when he touched her between her legs too soon after Thursday. He noticed the new blue dress that appeared in her closet and the way she only wore it on certain days. He never asked the direct question. Perhaps he was afraid of the answer. Perhaps some part of him already knew and preferred the comfort of not knowing.

She started leaving small evidence without quite meaning to. A faint bruise on her inner thigh that he kissed without comment. The smell of church incense on her skin that lingered even after a shower. One night she came to bed still wet from the afternoon and let him push into her while Father’s cum was still inside. He groaned at the slickness and she stared at the cceiling and wondered how long a man could remain willfully blind.

He loves me enough to not look too closely. Or he loves the idea of me enough. Either way, I’m using that love like a shield while I keep walking back into that sacristy.

The guilt was real. It simply no longer outweighed the need.

The afternoon everything shifted began like the others.

She wore a soft gray sweater dress that clung to every curve and zipped down the front. No bra. No panties. She walked into the church with her head high and her cunt already wet. Father Michael was in the sanctuary this time, arranging hymnals. When he saw her he simply nodded toward the sacristy. She went. He followed. The lock turned.

They didn’t make it to the counter.

He pushed her against the door, unzipped the dress in one long motion, and dropped to his knees. The sight of a priest on his knees with his mouth on a married woman’s cunt was almost enough to make her come before he even properly started. He licked her with the same focused intensity he once reserved for prayer, two fingers curling inside her, until she was shaking and dripping down his chin. Only then did he stand, free himself, and lift one of her legs high.

He fucked her against the door hard enough that the wood groaned. Every thrust made her heavy breasts bounce. She locked her arms around his neck and held on, whispering filthy encouragement mixed with the broken fragments of prayers she no longer believed in the same way.

“Forgive me Father for I am sinning—harder—please—use me—”

He came with a low cry that sounded like surrender. She felt the pulses and clenched around him deliberately, milking every drop. They stayed joined, breathing, until a soft knock sounded on the outer church door and a voice called for Father Michael about the weekend schedule.

He pulled out. She felt the immediate rush of seed down her thigh. They cleaned up in frantic silence. She zipped the dress, smoothed her hair, and slipped out the side entrance while he composed himself and went to answer the call.

In the car she sat with her legs pressed together and laughed softly, a little wildly. The near-miss had only sharpened everything. She drove home with his cum still inside her and a new certainty settling in her chest.

I’m not going to stop. He’s not going to stop. Something will force an ending eventually—discovery, transfer, a crisis of faith that finally wins. Until then I will keep walking into that church on Thursdays and letting a man of God ruin me on the same floor where the body of Christ is prepared. And when I go home I will kiss my husband with the same mouth and let him believe the quiet version of me is the only one that exists.

That night she made love to her husband with unusual intensity. She rode him until he finished, then kept moving until she came again, thinking of the sacristy door and the locked lock and the way Father Michael had looked at her when he said he might not lock it next time. Afterward she lay with her head on her husband’s chest and listened to his heartbeat and felt the double life settle more comfortably around her than it ever had.

The church bells rang the hour in the distance. She closed her eyes and already began counting the days until Thursday.