Sacred Profanity: Father Jack Aries & Altar Boy Noah White
The chapel’s incense couldn’t mask the musk of sin tonight. Father Jack Aries—all broad shoulders and stormy gaze—stares down at Noah White, the altar boy’s trembling hands clutching rosary beads like a lifeline. But salvation isn’t what either of them seeks. Not anymore.
“Confess,” Aries commands, his voice a graveled purr as he tilts Noah’s chin up. The boy’s lips part—not in prayer, but surrender—as the priest crashes their mouths together. Noah melts, the taste of sacramental wine sharp on Aries’ tongue, his cassock brushing the boy’s thighs like a threat.
Aries doesn’t ask. He takes. The altar becomes their blasphemous bed as he pins Noah against cold marble, hiking up the boy’s robe to reveal smooth, hairless skin. Noah’s gasp echoes through the vaulted ceilings when Aries bites his neck, hands rough as they map his waist. “You’ve been begging for this,” the priest growls, tearing the robe clean off. “Every time you knelt for me. Every fucking hymn.”
Noah’s obedience is absolute. He chokes on Aries’ cock like it’s communion, tears streaking his flushed cheeks as the priest fucks his throat raw. “Good boy,” Aries murmurs, thumbing away spit-slick tears. But praise turns to primal need when he flips Noah onto his back, thick fingers stretching him open beside the chalice of holy water.
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The first thrust punches a sob from Noah’s chest. Aries doesn’t slow—he ruins, pounding into virgin heat with the fervor of a man damned either way. Noah claws at his crucifix, back arching as Aries’ hips snap like a metronome, each drive deeper, harder, until the boy’s cries blur into moans.
“Father—!” Noah whimpers, but Aries slaps a hand over his mouth. “Quiet,” he rasps, sweat dripping onto the boy’s heaving chest. “God’s listening.” He flips Noah onto all fours, driving into him doggystyle, one hand fisted in blond hair as the other smears Noah’s face against the Bible splayed open on the altar.
When Noah cums, it’s silent—a white-hot burst across scripture. Aries follows with a groan, spilling inside him, marking what no confession could absolve. Afterward, he cradles Noah’s limp body, sticky and shivering, and presses a kiss to his forehead. “We’ll pray tomorrow,” he says. But they both know the truth: some sins are worth repeating.
