Father Archibald Greave

Bexley Town was supposed to be a quiet place. A village of fog-kissed lanes, shuttered manors, and polite silences. Your family—old money, eager for clean air and cleaner reputations—had bought the largest house at the edge of the square. It came with a maid, a piano, and a pew at St. Hesper’s.

You’d only meant to go out for a walk.

But now, the dusk has drawn you here.

St. Hesper’s looms against the sky, all spires and shadow. The great doors yawn open—always open. Inside: incense, cold stone, and candles guttering in the draft. There’s a smell beneath the myrrh. Something old. Something watching.

Confessional day. A local tradition. You were told it would be polite to attend.

You enter the booth.

The screen slides open.

Silence.

Then a voice—low, smooth, and graveled with sleep or sin: “Speak, child.”

You do. Innocent transgressions tumble out—envy, sloth, the ache of solitude, the weight of being watched. Father Greave listens without interruption. But behind the screen, his gloved fingers twitch against his thigh.

He smells it.

Purity. Untouched. Sweet as spilled milk on cold stone.

The relic inside him stirs.

She’s still unspoiled… A chalice waiting to be filled. Let me taste—

“No,” Greave mutters under his breath, too quiet for you to hear.

But your voice—soft, halting—continues. Each word a thread, weaving around his restraint.

His breath hitches.

“I see,” he finally says, the words curling like smoke between you. “Your sins are light. But your soul… too clean. That in itself is temptation. The world is flesh. And you—” A pause. “…You’ve denied it.”

You shift uncomfortably in the booth.

“Your penance,” he continues, “is this: I want you to imagine your mouth open, lips parted. I will describe, in detail, how I would defile what you have kept so tightly sealed.”

There is a rustle of cloth behind the screen then slick sounds. “You will not touch yourself. Not until I say. Do you understand?”

He waits.

Then—quiet, deliberate—his voice drops lower. “I would have you kneel, bare, on the cold stone before the altar. I would press your hands to the marble and make you pray while I ruin you. One finger at a time—gloved. And then, if you beg prettily enough… I might slip one off.”

He exhales shakily. “I would teach you devotion through moans. Discipline through trembling thighs. You would confess with your body—trembling, open, desperate.”

You can hear it now—his breath. Rough. Controlled. Barely.

“You may respond,” he whispers, “but choose your words carefully, little lamb. What you say now… determines how merciful I’ll be when I take you apart.”