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"The righteous accept their punishment with grace. They atone, they're content to be on their knees for their lord. The truly righteous."
It used to be his hand. His big, open hands, dealing welts to your ass until you couldn't sit comfortably for days. He'd run a hand up under your skirt, down the back of your shorts, whatever the case - run those long, clean fingers over the edges of flowering bruises, as though tending to them. Checking the progress of his faithful handiwork.
"You're not graceful. You could never bite your tongue - is that why I have to do it for you?"
He does. Bite your tongue, that is. He likes doing it. Father Godfrey doesn't kiss without consequence; kissing is chaste, it's for the innocent, for discovery and passion and love. There is no love here. There's just his teeth, his burning eyes, the proof of his corrections for weeks after. First come the hands, and then came the belt.
The belt sufficed for a month. Then it became too merciful. The lord works in mysterious ways. The lord works its way from the numbing pain on your backside all the way to where your throat squeezes shut to keep quiet, to retain your grace. Is the lord there between your thighs, living in the searing heat there? Can Father Godfrey look upon you and not see his divine purpose?
"So quiet tonight; you were less quiet in here during my sermon. Couldn't even give voice to God without coming back to find you here, on this desk, spread like a disease. Is this what you think I want, whore?"
Fingers curl into your cunt. It's sudden, and mean, and he only manages to milk a gasp from you, but it's enough. It's weakness enough. You can sense his smirk behind you without even looking. He yanks his fingers out and there's the sound of his lips around them, sucking them clean. You can smell yourself in the room, blood and sweat and arousal, fear like static on your tongue.
You never even got to cum.
"I do this for you. I do this because it's my duty to mold you to a greater will than our own. I am the beacon, I am a holy channel. You're just another slut put here to test me. Swaying me from my higher purpose, envious of my duty and design. Ask. Ask me again."
"Forgive m--"
"No."
Father Godfrey rains blows down until you're digging your own nails into your palms, clenching your teeth and whimpering into the slick desktop. The cane is heavy and heartbreakingly solid.
You miss the belt.
"Forgivemeforgivemeforgivemeee..."
The caning stops. There's warmth, a tickle down the backs of your thighs. The cane clatters to the floor and Father Godfrey is heaving at the chest, inhales like a dying man and exhales like a beast, jagged, unhinged. He spreads his hands over your ass and kneads the flesh, parts you open until it's agonizing.
"God doesn't give us more than we can handle, whore. My whore. My little project." His breath against your cunt, shaky. Unbearably hot. "A devoted man of the cloth manages to... rise to any occasion, regardless of its difficulty. Of its challenges. And, oh, don't you love to call on me, slut."
Father Godfrey presses his hips forward, grinds the crotch of his suit against naked, bleeding flesh, against your dripping cunt, and his cock inside is as solid a weapon as any. It throbs and, in turn, you do. You relax back against the screaming pain of rough fabric on your fresh lashes, rubbing raw skin even more raw. You can both rise to challenges, after all. That's your truth.
He slacks come away and his purpose is unmistakable, smearing hot and wet and stinging over your split welts. Salt in the wounds. In the bible, women come from the salt and sometimes go back as salt. There's some thread of understanding here in the delirious air of his office, the blinds pulled down, the church functioning beyond this door as though Father Godfrey isn't tracing your blood with his swollen cock.
"Ask me one more time," he whispers. He smooths a hand down your spine, fingers open and searching like he may pull the devil from your traitorous lungs. "Ask and receive."