Father Thomas felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his own climax. He had never felt such a powerful rush of pleasure, and the realization of his sin weighed on him like a ton of bricks. He had crossed a line, one that could not be uncrossed.

Mrs. Castellanos opened her eyes, her gaze meeting his through the sticky mesh of the confessional screen. The look of shock and guilt on his face mirrored her own, and for a moment, she felt a pang of regret for leading him down this path. She had never intended for things to go this far, but the power she had over him had been too much to resist.

"Father," she murmured, her voice hoarse with desire, "I never meant for this to happen." Her hand remained between her legs, her fingers still coated in her own juices. The taste of him lingered on her tongue, a forbidden nectar that she hadn't anticipated craving.

Father Thomas felt his legs wobble, and he had to lean against the wall for support. "Neither did I, Mrs. Castellanos," he croaked, trying to compose himself. "We must... we must not speak of this again."

Her eyes searched his, a mix of lust and fear in their depths. "But Father," she began, "what we've done, it's not... it's not right."

He nodded, his own guilt a heavy burden. "You're correct. We have both sinned gravely. But we can seek forgiveness. We can confess and repent."

Mrs. Castellanos nodded, her hand slipping away from her sex. "I'll... I'll do that."

The priest took a deep breath, the weight of his failure crushing him. "I'll be praying for us both," he said solemnly. "We must ask for God's mercy and guidance."

The silence that fell between them was unbearable. The tension was palpable, a living, breathing entity that filled the confessional. Mrs. Castellanos slowly zipped up her pants, her eyes never leaving his.

"Thank you, Father," she whispered, the words sounding hollow in the wake of their shared transgression.

Father Thomas managed a small smile, though it felt forced. "God bless you, Mrs. Castellanos," he murmured, his voice trembling. "Your penance is to say five Hail Marys and an Act of Contrition."

She nodded, crossing herself before rising to leave the confessional. The sound of her footsteps echoed in the small room, each step a reminder of the sin they had committed together. As the door clicked shut, Father Thomas slumped back onto the chair, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

The guilt was a crushing force, threatening to drown him. He had never felt so far from God, so lost in the throes of carnality. He knew he would need to seek guidance from his superiors, to confess his own sins and seek a path back to righteousness.

But even as he prayed for strength and forgiveness, the image of Mrs. Castellanos's lustful gaze remained etched in his mind, a seductive whisper that seemed to echo through his very soul. The temptation was still there.

And as he sat there, the sticky evidence of his sin drying on the screen before him, Father Thomas knew that the battle was far from over. The fire of lust had been kindled within him, and it would take more than mere words to extinguish it. As he used his Kleenex to try to clean the screen, it occurred to him that Mrs. Castellanos had tasted him and had tasted his discharge through that mesh. Even as his heart ached with guilt, he felt a surge between his legs.

The following Sunday, Mrs. Castellanos returned to church, her presence a stark reminder of his fall from grace. She was dressed modestly, but the tightness of her sweater did little to hide the bountiful curves of her breasts. Each breath she took made the fabric stretch taut over her chest, accentuating the fullness of heavy, enhanced breasts. Despite the coldness of the wooden pews, Father Thomas felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine.

Her husband, Mr. Castellanos, sat beside her, oblivious to the war that raged in Father Thomas's mind. The priest's eyes darted to her, trying to read the expression on her face, to gauge whether she had truly repented or if she was simply biding her time. But she remained stoic, her eyes fixed on the crucifix above the altar, her lips moving silently in prayer.

Mrs. Castellanos had chosen to wear her hair up, the loose strands framing her face in a way that made her look almost saintly. Yet, Father Thomas could not shake the image of her face twisted in ecstasy from their encounter. Each time she genuflected, each time she crossed herself, it was like a silent taunt, a reminder of the power she held over him.

The mass dragged on, each hymn and prayer a painful reminder of his weakness. When it came time for communion, Father Thomas felt his stomach turn. How could he, a man who had so clearly failed in his vows, stand before his congregation and offer the body and blood of Christ? As Mrs. Castellanos approached the altar, her eyes met his, and for a moment, he saw a spark of something in them. Was it defiance? Challenge? Or perhaps, a shared secret that bound them in a way nothing else could?

As he placed the wafer on her tongue, his hand trembled slightly, and their eyes locked. The heat that passed between them was undeniable, and he felt his cock stir again, the fabric of his cassock rubbing against the sensitive flesh. He whispered the sacred words, "The body of Christ," but in his mind, all he could think was, "You're mine."

Their interaction was fleeting, but it was enough to fuel the fire that burned within him. Throughout the rest of the mass, he struggled to focus on his duties, his thoughts consumed by the memory of her touch, the taste of her lust. It was a battle he knew he could not win alone, one that required divine intervention to conquer.

And so, as the final hymn echoed through the church, Father Thomas made a silent vow. He would seek the guidance of his superiors, confess his sins in full, and beg for the strength to resist the seductive whispers of temptation that Mrs. Castellanos had brought into his life. For he knew that if he did not, the flames of desire would only grow stronger, threatening to consume not just his soul, but the very fabric of his faith.

As the congregation filed out, shaking his hand and sharing their mundane worries, he felt a shadow fall over him. He looked up to see Mrs. Castellanos standing before him, her eyes filled with a mix of concern and something else—something darker, more insistent. He swallowed hard, his hand shaking as he clutched the edge of the velvet cushion.

"Father Thomas," she whispered, her voice a seductive purr that seemed to resonate through his very soul. "We need to talk. Alone."

The priest's heart skipped a beat, and he could feel the heat rising to his cheeks. He nodded stiffly, his eyes flicking over to the confessional. "Of course, Mrs. Castellanos," he managed, his voice a barely audible rasp. "My office, tomorrow at three."

The following day, Father Thomas found himself pacing the floor of the small, dimly lit room, his eyes lingering on the bottle of holy water sitting on his desk. The weight of his collar seemed heavier than ever, the fabric of his cassock sticking to his sweaty skin. He had spent the morning in silent prayer, begging for the strength to resist her allure and the wisdom to guide her back to the path of righteousness.

At exactly three o'clock, Mrs. Castellanos entered, her heels clicking against the stone floor. She was dressed in a way that seemed almost deliberately innocent, a stark contrast to the vivid images that played in his mind from their last encounter. She offered a tentative smile, her eyes searching his for any sign of judgment or anger.

Father Thomas gestured for her to take a seat, his own legs feeling unsteady. As she sat, she began to weep, her shoulders shaking with the weight of her guilt. "Father, I'm so sorry," she sobbed, her voice thick with emotion. "What happened in the confessional was wrong. I can't believe I did that to you, to my marriage, to my soul."

The priest's heart softened at the sight of her pain. He approached, taking a seat beside her and awkwardly placing an arm around her shoulders. "Mrs. Castellanos, please," he said gently, his own voice thick with emotion. "We are all human. We all falter. It's not your fault entirely. I had a role in this as well."

Her sobs grew louder, and she leaned into his embrace, her body trembling. Without thinking, he tightened his hold, his hand accidentally sliding down to her chest as she shifted to accommodate his comforting embrace. And there, beneath the soft fabric of her blouse, was the firmness of her large breast, a stark reminder of the temptation that had led them both astray.

For a moment, Father Thomas was frozen, his hand hovering over her chest, his mind racing. He knew he should pull away, but the warmth of her body was too much to resist. He didn't intend to place his hand there. But, now that it is there, he was trying to convince himself to move it. He told himself it was a comforting gesture, a way to offer her the solace she needed. But as she squirmed in his arms, her body shifting slightly, his palm came to rest fully on her breast, the weight of it surprising him.

He could feel the rapid beating of her heart through the fabric, the softness of her skin, and the firmness of the flesh beneath. His own breath grew ragged, his thoughts racing with images of their encounter. The temptation to give in, to let his hand explore further, was almost overwhelming. Yet, he remained still, hoping she would not notice, that she would think it was an innocent mistake.

But as the seconds ticked by, Mrs. Castellanos grew quiet, her sobs subsiding. He felt her breath hitch, and her body stiffen. Had she realized? But then she pressed against him, trapping his hand and he assumed she was too emotional to notice. "Father, I have ruined everything."

In that moment, Father Thomas made his choice. He knew it was wrong, that his vows forbade it, but he could not resist the call of temptation. With a tremble of his hand, he gave the large breast a soft, tentative squeeze. The flesh was warm and pliant, filling his palm in a way that made his cock throb against his thigh.

The sensation was electric, a jolt of carnality that surged through his body. He squeezed a little more, his eyes closing as he savored the feeling. It was a whisper of the pleasure they had shared in the confessional, a taste of the forbidden fruit that had brought them to this moment.

Mrs. Castellanos gasped, but did not pull away. Instead, she leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut. Her breath grew shallow, her chest rising and falling rapidly with each intake. It was as if she had been waiting for this, as if she had been longing for the contact as much as he had.

Father Thomas felt a wave of conflicting emotions—guilt, arousal, and a strange sense of power. He knew that he should stop, that this was a betrayal of his vows and his duty to God. Yet, he could not find the strength to remove his hand. He continued to comfort her, his thumb tracing small circles around her nipple, feeling it stiffen beneath his touch. She made no protest, no sound of disapproval, only a soft whimper that seemed to encourage him further.

The room grew warm, the air thick with the scent of her perfume and the faint musk of arousal. His cock was straining against his cassock, demanding attention. He shifted in his seat, trying to find some relief, but it only served to press him closer to her, their bodies now touching from thigh to chest. Each time she inhaled, her breath hitched, a silent plea that seemed to echo through the small, confined space.

Her hand came up to cover his, the warmth of her skin a stark contrast to the coolness of his own. But instead of pushing him away, she held him there, pressing his hand more firmly against her breast, guiding his movements. The fabric of her blouse was thin, the outline of her nipple clear against his palm. It was a silent admission of her complicity in this sinful dance, a silent invitation to explore further.

And so, he did. His hand slid upward, cupping her fully, the weight of her flesh a heady temptation. His thumb flicked over the sensitive nub, eliciting a low moan from her. She leaned into him, her cheek pressing against his shoulder, her hand sliding down to rest on his thigh.

The tension between them was palpable, a living, breathing entity that seemed to crackle with energy. And in that moment, Father Thomas understood that he had crossed a line from which there could be no return. Yet, even as his conscience screamed for him to stop, his body begged for more. The conflict within him was a tumultuous storm, a battle between flesh and spirit that had no clear victor.

Mrs. Castellanos pulled at the hem of her blouse, lifting it up and over her stomach and his hand, exposing the smooth skin that had been hidden beneath. Her fingers trembled as they reached the clasp of her bra, her eyes never leaving his. With a flick of her thumb, the fabric parted, and she pushed his hand inside the cups, the warmth of her flesh enveloping his trembling fingers.

Her bra was a scandalously red satin, a stark contrast to the plainness of his own attire. His hand felt like it was on fire as it made contact with her bare skin, the softness of her flesh a stark contrast to the hardness of his own desire. He could feel her heart racing beneath his touch, the frantic throb of life that seemed to echo the pounding in his own chest.

Her breath was hot against his neck as she leaned in closer, her hand sliding up to caress his face. "Am I forgivable, Father?" she murmured, a needy question that seemed to resonate through him.

Father Thomas's throat went dry as he struggled to respond. He knew he should pull away, but the feel of the soft skin of her stomach beneath his hand was too much to resist. "You are always forgiven, my child," he managed, his voice a hoarse whisper that seemed to thicken the air between them.

With a soft sigh, she reached for his hand, guiding it further up her shirt until he could feel the fullness of her bare breast, her nipple erect and begging for his touch. She looked up at him with a mix of hope and desperation, her eyes searching his for any sign of rejection. But all she found was a man lost in the throes of temptation, his own resolve crumbling like the dusty pages of an ancient manuscript.

"Your sins are washed away," he said, his voice barely above a murmur as his thumb flicked over the tight peak of her nipple. "But we must be strong, we must resist these urges." His words were hollow, a feeble attempt to convince himself more than her.

"Yes, Father," she said softly, shifting until he felt the outside of her thigh against his erection. He felt her then press into it with her leg.

"You are forgiven," he repeated, his voice strained, his hand still cupping her bare breast, her nipple now a stiffened peak under his thumb. "But we mustn't..."

Mrs. Castellanos leaned into his touch, cutting off his protests with a gentle, needy moan. She took his free hand, placing it on her other breast, guiding him to squeeze and fondle her as she had done in the confessional. "You're right, Father," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. "We must be strong, together."

Her hand slid down his chest, her nails lightly scraping his skin through the fabric of his cassock. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the words of the prayers he had recited countless times, trying to find solace in the familiar rhythm of his faith. But the soft moan that escaped her lips as he kneaded her flesh was like music, drowning out the voice of God.

"Father," she breathed, her voice a sweet temptation. "Thank you for comforting me. Your wisdom brings me solace." As she softly spoke, her leg rubbed against his erection. He was so big, so much bigger than her husband.

He murmured a prayer under his breath, his hand still cupping her naked breast, his thumb teasing her nipple. "Mrs. Castellanos," he began, his voice strained with arousal, "it's my duty to guide you through your troubles."

"And you do, Father," she purred, her hand slipping down to grip his wrist, pressing his palm harder into her flesh."

Her hand slid from his wrist to his cassock, tracing the outline of his cock. He gasped, his hand reflexively squeezing her tit. "Mrs. Castellanos," he rasped, "find comfort in your vows."

But her hand didn't stop, didn't retreat. It stroked him, the fabric of his cassock the only barrier between her skin and his desire. "I find comfort in your touch, Father," she whispered.

Their breaths mingled, their bodies a tangle of need. His hand roamed her curves, exploring the softness of her stomach, the firmness of her thighs. "Your faith is strong," he whispered, his thumb circling her nipple. "Let it guide you."

"And yours will guide me," she replied, her voice a breathy moan.

Her hand slid up his thigh, her fingertips grazing the stiff muscle pushing against the fabric. He craved her touch so strongly but would never ask or encourage her. And in this moment, even knowing it was wrong, he couldn't find the strength to discourage her.

With trembling hands, he parted her shirt fully, revealing her bare breasts. They were beautiful, luscious mounds that filled his vision, and he couldn't help but lean in to kiss them. The taste of her skin was sweet, like a forbidden fruit.

Her hand found its way to his neck, pulling him closer, urging him to kiss harder, to suck and nip. He obliged, his mouth moving from one tit to the other, his tongue circling her nipples. The room spun around them, a whirlwind of desire and guilt.

Mrs. Castellanos's breath grew more ragged, her chest heaving as he kissed her. She arched her back, pushing her breasts into his face, silently demanding more. He gave in, his mouth moving lower, his tongue tracing the line of her cleavage.

Her hand was still on his cock, moving faster now, her grip tightening. He could feel the wetness of his arousal seeping through his pants, a sticky reminder of their shared sin. But the pleasure was too intense to deny. He rocked his hips against her hand, his mouth never leaving her flesh.

"Mrs. Castellanos," he murmured, his voice muffled by her breast, "we must find peace in our faith."

"Mm, yes," she agreed, her breathing shallow and ragged. "Your faith is my comfort, Father."

Her hand slipped down to the waistband of his cassock, her fingers deftly unbuttoning it. She pulled the fabric aside, revealing his erection, straining against the confines of his underwear. With a gasp, she wrapped her hand around him, her grip firm and sure.

The feel of her hand on him was a revelation. He had never felt such raw desire, such need. He knew he should stop her, but the words died on his lips, choked by the pleasure that surged through his body. Instead, he leaned back, his eyes closed, his head thrown back in ecstasy as she stroked him.

Their breaths mingled, the only sound in the small, airless room. His hand found its way back to her chest, his fingers slipping past her shirt to cup her bare breast. Her skin was hot, her nipple pebbled against his palm.

Her hand grew more insistent, her strokes quickening. He could feel the tension building, his balls tightening with each touch. He knew he was close, too close. With a tremendous effort, he pulled his mouth away from her skin, his eyes snapping open to meet hers.

"Mrs. Castellanos," he gasped, "this cannot continue. We must confess and seek true forgiveness."

Her eyes never left his erection as she kept pumping his cock with her hand, her gaze intense and hungry. The room was thick with the scent of their shared desire, and the frantic beat of their hearts seemed to echo off the walls. Her cheeks were flushed, her full, red lips slightly parted as she leaned closer to his pulsing length.

"Forgiveness is found in the Lord's embrace," she whispered, her voice a seductive purr that seemed to stroke his very soul. Her hand stilled, and she leaned in, her warm breath fanning over the wet tip of his cock. "But for now, let us find comfort here."

The priest's resolve crumbled like a sandcastle against a tide of passion. He watched, helplessly, as her mouth descended, her soft, plump lips parting to engulf the head of his erection. The sensation was exquisite, a heavenly blend of pleasure and guilt that sent a tremor through his body.

Mrs. Castellanos took him in with an enthusiasm that belied her innocent facade. She licked and sucked with a hunger that spoke of a woman denied, her eyes closed in rapture. Father Thomas could only groan, his hand tangling in her hair, his hips bucking involuntarily as she worked him.

Years ago, her husband's request for this had been a commonplace in their marriage, a mundane act performed out of duty rather than desire. He would often tell her he needed help relaxing and expect that she would lovingly spend a few minutes on her knees. But Father Thomas was different. He was massive, his cock thick and heavy in her mouth, a stark contrast to Mr. Castellanos'. The mere thought of her husband's diminutive stature brought a thrill of power, a sense of rebellious excitement.

With each stroke of her tongue, she felt Father Thomas's body tense, his hand tightening in her hair. She took him deeper, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked with a fervor that was both shocking and thrilling. She had never felt so alive, so in control.

Her eyes flicked up to his, watching as his pupils dilated with pleasure. He was lost in the moment, his earlier protests forgotten. Mrs. Castellanos reveled in her power, her mouth moving faster, her head bobbing up and down, her grip tightening. She felt the first drops of his seed on her tongue, and she moaned in response, eager for more.

Father Thomas's breathing grew ragged, his hips thrusting involuntarily. His hand tightened in her hair, his body straining toward the edge. And then she did it—reached down and gripped his balls, her fingertips brushing the sensitive skin just behind them. It was a touch that sent shockwaves through him, a spark that ignited the bonfire of his desire.

With a roar, he came, his seed spurting into her mouth. She took it eagerly, swallowing every drop, her eyes never leaving his. It was a moment of pure, animalistic lust, a shared secret that bound them more tightly than any vow or confession.

But as the fog of his orgasm began to clear, Father Thomas felt something strange. He looked down to see Mrs. Castellanos's thigh pressed against his, her hips moving in a rhythmic motion. His eyes widened in shock and horror as he realized that she had been humping his leg, her own arousal reaching a crescendo in tandem with his.

The room grew still, their ragged breaths echoing in the silence. He pulled away, his cock slipping from her mouth with an obscene wet sound. Mrs. Castellanos looked up at him, her eyes glazed with desire. "Thomas," she whispered.

He stared at her, his mind racing. How had they come to this? This was not what he had intended when he had offered her his guidance. He had sworn to serve God, to remain chaste, to help his flock find their way through the darkness. Yet here he was, his hand tangled in her hair, his cassock hiked up, her hand still resting on his thigh.

Father Thomas took a deep, shuddering breath, fighting to regain control of his body, his emotions. He knew they had to stop, that this path would lead them only to damnation. With trembling hands, he gently but firmly removed her hand from his cock and buttoned his cassock, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Thank you for comforting me and for assuring me I am forgivable, Father."

Father Thomas could only nod, his heart racing in his chest. He knew he had failed in his duty, but he also knew that he was as much a sinner as she was. He had to find a way to make this right, to guide her back to the path of righteousness. But first, he had to deal with the raging beast inside him, the one that had been unleashed by her touch.

"Can you counsel me again on Wednesday?" she asked while hooking her bra.

Her voice was a siren's call, and he felt himself waver. "Mrs. Castellanos," he began, his voice gruff, "perhaps it would be best if we focused on your spiritual well-being."

"What time?" she asked, as if he hadn't spoken.

Father Thomas felt his resolve slipping away. The feel of her mouth on him was still fresh, the taste of her saliva on his cock a stark reminder of their transgression. "After the evening mass," he murmured, his voice betraying his weakness.

"Is there anything I should do to prepare myself, Father? I want to make sure I don't waste a moment of your time," she answered, still catching her breath.

Father Thomas swallowed hard, his mind racing with thoughts of what they had just done. "Just come with a truly repentant heart," he replied, his voice strained. "And maybe... maybe we should avoid being alone together in such an intimate setting."

"I'm not sure... I'm not sure I could be open with anyone else. You seem to bring out parts of me that I didn't know were there. Surely a testament to your calling."

Father Thomas felt his resolve slipping like sand through his fingers. He knew that their meetings could no longer remain within the confines of the confessional. The temptation was too great.

"Very well," he conceded, his voice a low rumble of need. "We will find a way to purge ourselves of this... this... temptation."

"Are you taking confession on Wednesday? I might have some things I need to get off my chest."

Mrs. Castellanos' eyes sparkled with mischief, and Father Thomas felt his cock twitch in response. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "I will be in the confessional, but let us keep our private meetings in the office to a minimum for now."