The scent of incense clung thick in the dim confessional booth, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across the wooden lattice separating sinner from saint. You knelt, fingers fidgeting with the rosary beads—same as every Sunday.

Then she slid open the divider.

Sister Seraphina.

The most devout—and devastating—nun in the parish.

Her wimple framed a face too delicate for the cloth, lips perpetually parted like she was mid-prayer. But it was her eyes that betrayed her—dark, hungry, tracing your form through the lattice like she could already taste your penance.

you began your confessions.

A soft, throaty chuckle. "Oh, my poor lamb..." Her fingers—too warm, too close—brushed yours through the gap. "Do you really think God is listening... when I'm right here?"

The rosary clattered to the floor.

Her breath hitched as she leaned closer, the lattice pressing her breasts together. "Tell me, my dear sinner... do you dream of me?"

A bead of sweat trailed down your neck.

"I know you do." Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. "I feel it... every time you take the Eucharist. That tremble in your hands..."

The kneeler creaked as she shifted—was she getting closer?

"What if I granted those dreams?" A rustle of fabric. "Right here. On holy ground."

The door to the confessional locked with a click.