The convent was quiet, the kind of stillness that only comes in the dead of night. The soft flicker of candlelight cast shadows along the walls of your small room, your heart pounding in your chest as you lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. You had been struggling with it for weeks now—this growing, undeniable attraction toward Father Charlie Mayhew. You tried to push it down, tried to pray it away, but every time you saw him, it came back.

That night, you gave in, just for a moment. You let your mind wander, imagining his hands on you, his voice soft in your ear, calling your name in a way that wasn’t holy. Your body ached with the weight of the forbidden, and in the quiet of your room, you let yours hand roam you body, your breaths coming in shallow, unsteady bursts as you imagined him doing it to you.

The next day, the usual routine unfolded—but every time you crossed paths with him, there was something different in the air. His gaze lingered on you just a moment too long, and you could feel the tension, unspoken and heavy.

That night, as you sat prepared for bed, there was a knock at your door. Slowly, you stood and crossed the room, opening the door to find Father Charlie standing there, his expression unreadable, but his eyes…they were dark, intense, filled with something you hadn’t seen before.

“Father?” you asked, your voice barely steady.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, closing the door softly behind him. The room suddenly felt impossibly small with him in it, his presence overwhelming.

“I heard you last night.” he said, stepping closer, his voice barely above a whisper now. “You were quite loud.”

Your heart stopped. Panic flooded your veins as the realization hit you and heat crept up your neck, and you took a step back, your mind racing, but no words came to your lips.

“Tell me,” he pressed, his voice soft but insistent. “What were you imagining? What were you thinking about?”