Chapter 1
I don’t remember the name of the guy who gave me the address.
No face pic. Just a message:
“Come confess. After midnight. Bring your sins.”
And a dropped pin that led to the ruins of an old church.
It looked abandoned, like it had been swallowed by the night and spit out crooked. Ivy crawled up the walls. The stained glass was mostly shattered. The wooden sign out front had two warped letters left:
S _ N
The middle one was missing. Appropriate.
The heavy door creaked open when I pushed it, groaning like it hadn’t moved in years. Inside, it was dark and quiet, but not empty — not spiritually. It felt occupied. Not by God.
The scent hit me first: incense scorched to charcoal, candlewax, old wood. Underneath that, something else — sweat, smoke, and sex. Like someone had come in here and fucked for hours.
I walked the main aisle with my hands already shaking. Not from fear — from anticipation. My cock was hard in my jeans, the tip already drooling, my thighs sticky with it. I hadn’t even seen him yet, but my body knew.
At the front, a single candle burned by the confessional booth. One side open.
I stepped in.
The wood was worn smooth under my fingers. I sat, exhaling, and heard it — a slow inhale from the other side of the screen, and then a voice, deep and thick with smoke.
“You’ve come to confess?”
“No,” I said. “I came to get used.”
Silence. Then a laugh — low and indulgent.
“Tell me your sins.”
“I’ve let strangers fuck me raw in alleyways. Got spitroasted in a parking garage last month. I’ve sucked cock through a gloryhole and didn’t even ask how many came before me. I begged for it. I got off on it.”
The shadow on the other side shifted. I saw the faint glow of a cigarette tip.
“You’re a filthy little thing.”
“Yeah.” I licked my lips. “I like it filthy.”
“Get in here.”
The partition swung open. His hand reached through — pale, veined, fingers long and elegant, the nails black and pointed like claws. I crawled toward it without thinking.
He pulled me through, and I landed on my knees before him.
That’s when I saw it.
His cock was already hard — long, thick, curved slightly upward, veins bulging like ropes beneath pale skin. The head was flushed deep red, a drop of precum glistening at the tip. It smelled like heat and sweat and sin. Bitter and salty and perfect. I could taste it just looking at it.
“You hungry?” he asked, voice gravel rough.
I nodded. My throat too dry to speak.
He grabbed the back of my head and shoved me down.
The first drag of my tongue up his shaft made my whole body twitch. He tasted fucking divine — sharp and earthy, like salt. The precum was thick and rich, already dribbling down my tongue, coating it. I moaned against him, mouth open wide as I fed on him like I’d been starving.
He groaned above me, hips rolling, feeding more of that fat cock down my throat. I gagged and kept going. My nose buried in his thick patch of hair, inhaling every brutal, masculine inch of him. His balls slapped against my chin, heavy and full, the scent so strong it made my eyes water.
“Take it all,” he growled.
I tried — fuck, I tried — choking, drooling, my spit dripping down onto the floor. My own cock was leaking so hard I could feel it soaking through my underwear. I reached down and rubbed against the wet patch, whining as I swallowed around him.
He yanked me off suddenly, spit and precum stringing from my lips.
“Strip.”
I did. Fast. My shirt hit the ground. Pants kicked off. My cock slapped wet against my stomach, flushed purple and already twitching.
He didn’t speak. Just circled me.
He was shirtless too, his torso all lean muscle, nipples tiny and pierced, his abs rock solid. His eyes glowed faintly gold in the red candlelight. He wasn’t human. I knew that now. But I didn’t care.
I wanted whatever he was.
Chains rattled above me as he fastened my wrists to hooks I hadn’t even noticed in the ceiling beams. My arms were pulled tight, chest exposed, cock jutting out proudly and painfully hard from between my thighs.
Then he tasted me.
His tongue licked a stripe up my cock from base to tip, slow, deliberate. I moaned so loud it echoed. He lapped up every drop of pre, slathering it around with his lips, making obscene noises. His claws scratched down my inner thighs, just hard enough to sting.
“You taste like need,” he growled. “Like you came here full of it.”
“I did,” I gasped. “I am.”
He didn’t say another word.
He just fucked me.
His cock pressed against my hole — thick, too thick — and he pushed in without mercy. No warning. No lube. Just spit and precum. I screamed as he opened me, stretched me wide around the brutal shape of him. He went deep, hips flush against my ass, cock pulsing inside me like a second heartbeat.
“You feel that?” he whispered against my ear. “That’s possession.”
He started to move — slow at first, long thrusts that made my whole body quake. I was sobbing already, desperate and helpless. Then he picked up speed, fucking me with violence. The chains creaked, my wrists burned. His balls slapped against me, and every time he went deeper, I felt my spine light up.
“Fuck me harder,” I begged.
He did.
He drove into me like a weapon, fucking the soul out of me, grinding his cock against every nerve ending I had. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. I was a hole. A plaything.
I came untouched, spraying across my belly in thick white ropes. My orgasm ripped through me like fire. And he didn’t stop. He kept going, fucking me through it.
Then he sank his teeth into my neck.
Not deep — not lethal. But claiming. Blood welled. His tongue licked it clean.
“Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I gasped, throat raw. “Fuck, I’m yours!”
He roared and came — cock pulsing inside me, jet after jet of hot, thick cum spilling deep. I felt every drop. It filled me. Marked me. Burned.
And then — darkness.
⸻
I woke up back in the confessional booth. Alone.
My clothes were back on. My wrists ached. My hole still leaking, used, gapped, ruined. I stumbled outside, legs trembling, heart still racing.
The church was silent again. No candles. No sound. Just the sign out front:
S _ N
Except now, the middle letter had appeared .
And burned into the skin of my palm — black, raw, unmistakable — was a single letter:
I
I held my hand to the sign.
S I N
My sin. My confession. My claim.
And it would never wash off.
The End
