NO SAINTS HERE

No Saints Here – A sinful story collection

It was nearly 10 PM when the cathedral doors creaked open. The wind pushed them just enough for the scent of rain and something forbidden to slip inside. The Friday confessions were over hours ago, and the candles on the altar had long since burned out.

Father Matteo had stayed behind. Again.

His fingers were knotted around the rosary beads in his lap, whispering quiet Hail Marys, hoping the rhythm would drown out the ache in his body a craving that had nothing to do with hunger or sleep.

Then he heard it.

Heels clicking across the marble floor.

Slow. Deliberate. Female.

Matteo's fingers froze mid-prayer.

The confessional booth creaked open on the other side. Someone had stepped inside.

He hesitated. "Confession is closed," he called, voice low but steady.

No response.

Only silence, heavy and seductive.

Drawn by something darker than duty, he entered the booth and slid the screen open. "It's late," he said.

A voice purred through the screen. Soft. Feminine. Familiar.

"Forgive me, Father, for I am about to sin."

His throat dried. He recognized her voice Luciana D'Amico. Twenty-three. Daughter of a wealthy patron. Devout, spoiled, untouchable.

And dangerously beautiful.

"I've done something wicked," she continued, voice almost a whisper. "But not wicked enough."

"What... have you done?" he asked, torn between fear and fascination.

She exhaled. "I touched myself in your pew. Thought of your hands. Your lips. Thought of how your collar would look... undone."

His stomach tightened. Heat pooled below the waistline of his black clerical pants.

"Luciana" he began.

"Do you want me to stop, Father?"

She was toying with him. Testing the limits of the collar he wore and the man beneath it.

He should have walked away. Shut the screen. Prayed harder.

Instead, he leaned in.

"Tell me everything," he said, voice barely audible.

She smiled behind the screen. He could feel it. "I slid my hand beneath my skirt while you gave communion last Sunday. The bread melted on my tongue... and so did I."

He shuddered.

"I imagined you leaning over me," she went on, "whispering Latin prayers against my bare skin."

"Luciana, this isn't right," he rasped, hand gripping the edge of the screen so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"But it feels right," she whispered. "I'm dripping, Father. I didn't wear any panties under this coat."

His eyes closed, head tipping back against the wooden wall.

"Do you want to see me?" she asked softly.

"God help me" he breathed.

She stood and stepped out before he could stop her.

Moments later, the velvet curtain of the confessional booth rustled.

And then she was in his side of the booth.

Luciana dropped her coat. All she wore was sin.

She straddled him before he could protest, pressing her warm, naked skin to his black cassock. His resistance was thin. Shattered.

Their lips collided. Her hands found the back of his neck. His mouth devoured hers like the Eucharist had never existed.

"Forgive me, Father," she whispered, rocking her hips against him, "but I'm not confessing because I regret it."

He pressed his lips to her throat, voice thick with desire. "You will after this."

She grabbed his face and stared into his eyes. "No," she said. "You will."

His collar came undone. Buttons scattered. Her moans echoed through the empty cathedral like a prayer no saint would dare answer.

And when it was over, sweat, breath, and guilt tangled between them he looked into her eyes and realized something terrifying.

This wasn't her first confession.

And it wouldn't be her last.

Freshman year.

New school. New dorm. New rules.

But Maya hadn't expected her new life to begin with a soundtrack of soft gasps and stifled moans behind the wall.

The first time it happened, she thought it was just the floor above.

The second time, she realized it was coming from her own room.

And the third time she pressed her ear to the thin curtain separating her bed from her roommate's side and listened.

Her roommate Amira was wild in all the ways Maya wasn't. Confident. Carefree. A second-year with tattoos she traced like stories on her skin, and a laugh that made everyone turn around.

They weren't close. Amira kept to herself and came home late. But one night, Maya woke up to soft breathing, ragged, rhythmic, intimate.

Then came the whisper.

"Harder..."

A second voice joined in. A girl's.

Maya's thighs clenched involuntarily.

She shouldn't be listening.

She shouldn't feel wet just hearing it.

She shouldn't imagine her roommate's fingers curling between another girl's legs.

But she did.

Maya lay still in her bed, wide-eyed, breath shallow, heart racing. The moans got louder, rougher. Wet sounds echoed. A headboard creaked. She bit her lower lip and squeezed her thighs together, trying not to touch herself.

Then someone whispered, "She's listening."

The sounds stopped.

Maya's entire body tensed.

Footsteps.

Amira's curtain was pulled back slowly.

She stood there half-naked, sweat-slicked skin glowing under the dim light, her lips parted in amusement. A girl behind her, tangled in sheets, flushed and panting.

"You liked that, didn't you?" Amira asked softly.

Maya couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Her blanket clung to her chest like a barrier.

"You could've said something," Amira murmured, climbing onto Maya's bed like a lioness stalking her prey. "You want to try?"

"You liked what you heard." Amira leaned in, their faces inches apart.

"I... I don't know," Maya whispered.

"Yes, you do," Amira said, brushing her lips across Maya's cheek. "And you want to feel it. Don't you?"

Maya didn't answer with words.

She just nodded.

The blanket slid away.

Amira's hands pushed up her camisole, exposing soft skin. Her mouth followed, kissing gently then lower. She looked back once more.

"Come join us," she called out.

The other girl still naked rose from the bed and crawled across to Maya's side like a kitten in heat. Her fingers found Maya's hand, guiding it to her own chest.

"You're so pretty when you're nervous," she said.

And together, they began to undress her. Slowly. Lovingly.

No rush. No shame. Just wet kisses and soft sighs and fingers that knew where to touch.

Maya gasped when Amira's tongue reached her inner thigh, arching up into every sensation. She clutched the pillow, her moans tangled with theirs.

They made love like a ceremony. With Maya in the center.

When she came shuddering, crying out into the dimly lit room both girls were holding her, kissing her, tasting her like something divine.

By dawn, Maya had forgotten who she was before that night.

There was only Amira's mouth, the wet trail down her stomach, and the feel of another girl's tongue exploring places Maya didn't know could feel that good.

And when Amira whispered, "We do this every weekend," Maya smiled sleepily and replied,

"Then I'm never going home."

"Some girls chase grades. Some make them bend."

Professor Richard Callahan wasn't just feared. He was respected.

Strict grading. Iron discipline. No makeup tests. No sympathy.

He was also undeniably hot.

Late forties, salt and pepper beard, button-down shirts that clung to biceps he didn't show off but couldn't hide, and that low, gravel-smooth voice that made students sit up straighter or cross their legs tighter.

Alina Reyes never thought she'd be one of those girls.

The type who flirted for a grade.

The type who stayed after class, batted her lashes, and bit her lip while asking for "extra credit."

But desperate times made sinners of saints.

She was one mistake away from losing her scholarship, and Callahan's class was her undoing. Logic and Reason. Dry. Brutal. Heavy on Aristotle, light on forgiveness.

She'd aced every course before this one. But he saw through her charm, her short skirts, her eyelashes fluttering behind thick glasses.

Until that Friday.

Until she knocked on his office door and walked in with nothing under her coat.

"Close the door," he said, eyes still on a stack of blue books.

She obeyed. Locked it.

He didn't look up. "If you're here to beg for a B, don't waste my time."

"I'm not here to beg," Alina said, stepping closer.

His pen paused.

"I'm here to earn it," she added, letting her coat slip down her arms.

His eyes lifted slowly.

The pen dropped.

She was completely bare. Breasts high, nipples taut from the air conditioning, thighs smooth and glistening.

He leaned back in his chair, appraising her like an object he wasn't supposed to want.

"This is inappropriate," he said flatly.

"But not uninvited," she replied, stepping between his knees.

He didn't stop her when she unbuckled his belt.

"Tell me what I need to learn," she whispered, fingers wrapping around him. "I'll study every inch."

He inhaled sharply as she dropped to her knees, mouth brushing his tip.

"Alina..."

But her tongue silenced him.

She took him slow, eager, eyes locked with his as she hollowed her cheeks and let him slide deep. His hands twitched but didn't push her away. Not anymore. Not after the first groan escaped him.

His head fell back. "God forgive me."

She pulled away with a smirk. "There are no saints here, Professor."

He grabbed her, dragged her up to straddle him, pinning her against the wall of his office. Books fell. Papers scattered.

His mouth found her breast, his hands her hips. She gasped as he entered her in one hard thrust, her nails raking down his back through his shirt.

Each grind, each thrust, felt like rebellion.

She wasn't just riding him she was taking back control.

"Say it," she whispered.

"What?"

"That I'm on your list."

He gripped her tighter, growled into her throat. "You're on the top."

She came first. Clenching around him, legs shaking, head thrown back as his desk creaked under them.

When he followed, panting against her neck, he held her close like he hadn't just sinned but prayed with her body.

Monday.

She got her grade back.

A bold red A, circled at the top.