Possessed Pussy (2)

Possessed Pussy (2)
We stand on the stone steps of Saint Peter’s Church like an obedient army, waiting.

The main rumor spreading through the crowd today?

The new priest coming from the archdiocese isn't just a replacement—he’s an exorcist, sent to purge whatever dark things lurk around our church at night.

As the leader of the altar girls, I hold the front line with over fifty girls aged eighteen to twenty-three.

We carry pastel bouquets and practiced, saintly smiles. Behind us, the choir members clear their throats, ready to sing the same old welcome hymn.

Further out on the lawn, the townspeople cluster in whispers.

That religious fanatic is also near the courtyard, still loudly insisting that our late priest died fighting Lucifer himself.

I roll my eyes.

Moron.

A black car pulls up to the curb. Mrs. Monroe steps out, followed by a familiar figure.

My stomach drops when I recognize him as the naked man I saw in her house the other day, now dressed in a perfectly tailored suit.

“Who is he?” one of the women asks, eyeing the man like a tethered stray.

Mrs. Monroe flashes her signature brilliant smile. “My new aide. Marlon.”

The women accept the lie instantly, guiding her toward their circle while the car drives off.

“I think we should pray the demons don’t stop the priest on his way here,” says one of the girls behind me. “I hear they fly.”

Silly child.

“If they try, he’ll crush them,” another girl mutters back. “He’s an exorcist. Though I don't know why we need one. Late Father Romanus was just old.”

Someone clears their throat loudly, and the chatter dies.

A black sedan appears at the end of the long driveway.

My father, dressed in his formal catechist robes, steps forward with a tight smile. “The archdiocese has arrived,” he announces. “Everyone, in position.”

The choir bursts into a high-pitched anthem.

The women make joyful noises.

The altar boys stand rigid in formation.

The men line the pathway, ready to offer stiff handshakes.

The sedan glides to a stop. A driver in a grey suit steps out, rounds the hood, and opens the rear passenger door.

The cheerful noise reaches a crescendo—then cuts off abruptly, leaving behind complete, breathless silence.

A tall, broad-shouldered Black priest steps onto the gravel, holding a thick leather Bible and an exorcist's crucifix.

His gaze moves over the crowd, then settles on the church doors.

He studies them a moment too long.

Then his eyes return to us.

He’s striking.

Piercing, narrow eyes sweep over the crowd as if they can read every sin carved into our bones. His short, wavy hair is styled like the rappers whose music we secretly pass around at school.

A neat beard frames his jaw, giving his young face an edge that makes him seem older, harder, and more dangerous.

He looks like he belongs on a high-fashion poster, not trapped in our claustrophobic, backward town.

“He’s Black,” a girl behind me breathes in disbelief. “They sent us a Black priest...”

The choir struggles through the song. Half the congregation seems to have forgotten the words.

A Black priest in an all-white town.

The shock is written across almost every face.

Apparently, the archdiocese decided whatever is haunting this place needs a particularly intimidating man of God.

I break the awkward silence, stepping forward with the bouquet. My father forces a tight smile as he walks beside me.

We stop right in front of the new priest.

Up close, he towers over me.

“His name is Father Martins,” my father whispers, his voice strained.

I look up into Father Martins' eyes, and I don't have to fake my smile.

The books hidden beneath my mattress have taught me enough about men to know exactly how dangerous a body like his can be.

“Good morning, Father Martins,” I say, holding out the flowers. “Welcome to Saint Peter’s. We're honored to have you.”

He takes the bouquet, his fingers lightly brushing mine. A subtle, handsome smile touches his lips. “Thank you...”

“Calista,” my father fills in quickly.

“Calista,” Father Martins repeats. His deep voice vibrates through my chest.

I bow my head politely, but my eyes trace the line of his black cassock, wondering what lies hidden beneath all that sacred wool.

He places a hand lightly over my head in a silent blessing, then steps past me with my father.

His scent lingers behind—a mix of black tea, worn leather, and something faintly smoky. I take a deep breath, letting it fill my lungs.

He’s going to change everything here.

. . . .

“This is foul!” a man barks in our living room later that afternoon. “The archdiocese is playing games with us!”

The welcome mass is over, but the air in our house is suffocating.

The church elders are packed into our living room while my father sits on the main leather armchair, biting his thumbnail in thought.

“We’ve never had an exorcist in this parish,” the man continues, pacing back and forth. “Let alone a Black priest.”

I lean against the doorway, watching the hatred in their eyes.

Hypocrites.

“Are you really going to argue with the archdiocese?” another elder snaps. “They sent an exorcist to deal with whatever is haunting this place. Unless you’d rather face the demons that killed him yourself?”

The room erupts into raised voices and crossed arms. My father remains quiet until one of the men turns to him.

“Order! Let the catechist speak.”

My father sighs, straightening his back. “No one challenges the archdiocese,” he says, his deep voice cutting through the noise. “We adapt. We welcome Father Martins and give him our full support. End of discussion.”

Good. These bastards aren’t going to ruin this for me.

I walk away from the noise and slip into the kitchen.

Mom is at the stove, preparing dinner for us.

She looks tired. I know she’s still grieving the late priest. She probably misses him more than anyone in town—he was her frequent Monday guest.

“They hate the new priest,” I say quietly, leaning against the counter.

Mom turns around, her eyes hollow. “Don't mind those men,” she says softly. “They make a lot of noise, but they’ll fall in line. They’ve just never seen a Black priest grace the holy church.”

I nod.

But is the church even holy?

I doubt.

Not after what I did in the Priest's office.

“Is it really such a bad thing?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes. “Those fools aren't afraid of his skin color, Calista. They’re afraid an exorcist will expose their dark secrets.”

Maybe she’s right.

Well, I hope he likes the skeletons he finds in my cupboard—the ones I'll happily show him, of course.

I head back toward the hallway shortly after, just as the meeting breaks up. The men file toward the front door, but one lingers with my father near the entry table, speaking in a harsh whisper.

“You saw how he looks,” the man mutters bitterly. “That man will have every woman in this parish turning her head.”

My father places a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Have faith, brother. Father Martins is a disciplined man of God. Just like Father Romanus.”

The man grunts.

I almost laugh.

If only my father knew just how wrong he was.

I head to my bedroom, but somehow, Father Martins follows me there.

The scent of his cologne still feels pinned to my skin. His deep, composed voice echoes in my ears—but in my mind, I twist it.

I imagine that same voice dropping into a rough, breathless groan... his broad shoulders dripping with sweat, his strong hands pinning me down against the mattress.

A sudden ache stirs between my thighs.

My mouth goes dry.

Slowly, I slide my hand down my stomach. My fingers move over my damp panties before slipping underneath the lace.

I take a ragged breath as my fingers find my wet cunt. I circle slowly at first, spreading the slickness over my clit, then push two fingers deep inside.

The stretch makes me gasp.

I close my eyes and picture him hovering over me, his big black cock resting against my thigh, his dark eyes burning with dirty intent as he leans down, his lips brushing my ear.

The thought sends a fresh pulse of wetness coating my fingers.

I imagine the blunt head of him nudging against my entrance, and I push my fingers deeper, curling them the way I want him to fill me.

My thumb presses hard on my clit and starts rubbing in tight, desperate circles.

My knees fall wider.

I add a third finger, forcing the stretch until it burns just right.

My hand flies to my lips, desperately trying to silence the moans threatening to escape as my hips lift off the bed to meet every thrust.

My free hand slides up to pinch my nipple, twisting it the way I imagine he would.

The pressure builds fast.

My thighs start to shake.

“That’s it,” I imagine him growling against my neck. “Cum on my cock. Let me feel you.”

My fingers slam deeper. My thumb works my clit faster.

"Oh my God... yes, Father Martins..."

I keep thrusting, riding every throb until my legs tremble and my body goes soft.

I collapse back against the sheets, fingers still buried inside me, breathing hard.

But even after the pleasure fades, he doesn't.

His voice is still in my head. His eyes.

The way he looked at me.

I squeeze my thighs together, already feeling that ache return.

God help me.

I don't want some faceless fantasy.

I want him.

And judging by how badly my body betrays me at the thought of seeing him again, I have a feeling this is only the beginning.