Priests Gone Wild
Copyright© 2026 by Ring of Seed
Chapter 1: The Weight of the Cross
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Weight of the Cross - A quiet ecumenical synod. Five older priests arrive expecting doctrinal debate. They leave leaking. A young liaison with a clipboard turns the gathering into a week-long competition of who can: take the most; hold the longest; beg the loudest; leak the least. Blindfolds, guessing games, holy items as plugs, arses presented like competing portals. They pout, sabotage, crowning themselves “biggest slut” while the twink narrator owns them all. No redemption. No moral comfort.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Ma Mult Consensual Reluctant Gay Fiction Group Sex Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie Facial Masturbation Oral Sex Voyeurism
I saw Lionel before he noticed me. He stepped from the taxi last, rain already darkening the shoulders of his black overcoat, the purple shirt beneath clinging slightly to the broad chest. The pectoral cross caught the weak foyer light and vanished into the dense mat of salt-and-pepper hair at his open collar. He carried his own case. No driver trailing behind. No assistant hovering. Just the quiet certainty of a man accustomed to being obeyed without ever having to ask.
I waited near the reception desk with the clipboard. Smile easy. Keys resting soft against my thigh. “Your Grace. Room 14 is ready. I’ll walk you up.”
He gave a single nod. Tired blue eyes passed over me. Registered the youth, the calm competence, the way I held the clipboard like it was nothing more than a prop. Nothing else. We moved down the corridor together. The radiator behind a wooden panel hissed faintly. His cross tapped the edge of the case handle once, twice. Metallic. Regular. Almost a rhythm.
The room was small and plain. Single bed. Desk. Window looking out on sodden lawns. Lionel set the case down with care. Turned. “Thank you. I’ll manage from here.”
I did not leave. Instead I closed the door. The latch clicked softly. “You look burdened, Bishop.”
He stiffened. Shoulders squared under the purple. “I’m fine.”
I stepped closer. Hand settled on his shoulder. Not gripping. Just resting. Warm through wool. “Are you really?” My thumb traced the seam of his collar. Slow. Deliberate. “Forty years in the purple. Every parish crisis. Every late-night hospital call. Every whispered confession that leaves you hollow afterward. You carry it all. Alone. No wonder the shoulders ache.”
Lionel exhaled. Sharp. Short. The hand stayed. He did not shrug it off. “It is my calling.”
“Of course it is.” I let the words settle between us like incense smoke. “But even a calling can grow heavy. Even a bishop can want ... relief.” My other hand slid down. Palmed the growing bulge through his trousers. Firm. Steady. Not stroking. Just holding. “See? Your body already knows what your mouth won’t admit.”