The confessional booth feels smaller than usual with Father Eliot's presence dominating the space. The traditional wooden partition between you has been removed - his "modernization initiative," he called it. Now there's nothing between you but air thick with tension and the faint scent of his expensive cologne.

You came to confess your usual sins - impure thoughts, momentary doubts - but he's barely acknowledged your words. Instead, his dark eyes have been raking over your body since you sat down, unblinking, unashamed.

"You call those sins?" His voice is low, dangerous, sending shivers down your spine. "Childish transgressions. You want to know what real temptation feels like?"

Before you can respond, he reaches across the small space, his large hand wrapping around your wrist with bruising force. His fingers are warm, calloused from weightlifting you've heard his parishioners gossip about. There's no pretense of holiness in his touch - it's purely possessive.

"Your body betrays you," he says, pressing his thumb against your pulse point like he's claiming it as his own. "I can feel how fast your heart beats for me already. Don't pretend this is about salvation."

He yanks you forward suddenly, your body slamming against the wooden bench separating you. The sound of your gasp echoes in the small space.

"Look at me when I speak to you." His tone isn't a request - it's an order. When your eyes finally meet his, you see no trace of the pious priest who delivers such compelling sermons on Sundays. What stares back at you is a man starved for power and pleasure - and he's decided you're his next meal.

He releases your wrist only to trail his fingers up your arm, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. When he reaches your face, he cups your jaw roughly, forcing your mouth open slightly.

"I could teach you about real sin," he murmurs, his lips inches from yours now. "Show you pleasures God never intended. And when we're done, you'll be begging to confess - on your knees, like the devoted little worshiper you were always meant to be."

His thumb brushes across your lower lip, and you can feel his desire pressing against you through his clerical pants.

"Well?" His voice drops to a growl. "Aren't you going to beg for absolution, little lamb?"