Fanny Needs a Father

Author's note: This is a contest entry, so please give it a vote. It's a noncon about a girl that trusts a priest too much. I hope you like it.

"Oh, Father Harris," Fanny whispers, her voice lowering in shame. "I did it again." The final word is barely out of her mouth before she starts softly keening.

Fanny is a sweet girl.

Pretty.

Dark wavy hair and an engaging smile. Each week she kneels in the shadowy confessional, sharing her sins with Father Ned Harris. She is eighteen, the priest fifty. He sits quietly on his side of the booth. Cold blue eyes and a strong calculating chin. He waits for her to compose herself.

"Same boy?" he asks.

Her sobbing grows stronger. "No," she finally whimpers. A snort of laughter without any joy. Wiping her nose with the back of her hand, she whispers: "Someone else."

He doles out the forgiveness, as he does each week.

On Tuesday, he goes for a stroll through Carnal, wearing his black outfit with the stiff white collar. He meets Joe Murphy, a regular at the Sunday morning service. Joe looks pleased. They discuss the things men talk about on sunny afternoons in small towns. Soon the priest turns to go, but then he stops. Scratching the back of his neck, he winces.

"You know Fanny?" the priest asks. "The Franklin girl?"

Joe nods.

Fanny and his daughter are best friends. Everyone knows this.

The priest says Fanny's father has left his wife. Joe furrows his brow, looking the priest up and down. Harry Franklin left weeks ago. Everyone knows this, too. Small towns are like that.

"Fanny's malleable," the priest says. "Adjusting."

He purses his lips and lets his gaze wander. It's against the code to mention things from inside the box, but sometimes men break the code. Placing his hand on Joe's shoulder, the priest leans in.

"Promiscuous." He enunciates the word.

Joe's eyes widen.

Father Harris averts his gaze. "If you could reach out to her," he says.

"Me?" Joe scoffs.

The priest shrugs.

"Ned." Joe uses the priest's first name. These two have known one another a very long time. Joe looks down the street.

"Me?"

"It's a lot to ask," the priest says. "Think about it."

Father Harris turns on his heel and strolls off. Everyone knows Joe is a good man. And like all good men, he has his weaknesses. But sometimes the weak man is perfect for a delicate job.

Two weeks later, Fanny slips into the back seat of Joe's car with her best friend Tammy. Joe is at the wheel. It's late, and Fanny is high on ecstasy, sucking her thumb.

Tammy nibbles Fanny's ear. "I'm so wasted," Tammy whispers.

Joe is watching them in the rearview mirror.

Fanny squeezes Tammy's thigh, grateful she was with her tonight. The last few hours Fanny spent grinding her pussy against some boy's thigh. If Tammy hadn't been with her, Fanny would surely have sucked another cock. She makes a hum somewhere between disappointment and loneliness, nuzzling sweet Tammy's neck. Fanny puts her thumb back into her mouth.

"Daddy can you take me home before Fanny?"

At Joe's house, the girls hold one another before Tammy gets out. The overhead light makes Fanny wince. On the way to her house, she watches Joe from the backseat. He's got dark hair, dark eyes. A chin covered in stubble. He looks in the rearview and his eyes find hers.

He grins. "Have fun tonight?"

She pops her thumb out of her mouth to answer. They chat about nothing and then the car goes quiet, except for the radio. It's a comfortable silence. From out of nowhere she mentions the thing everybody already knows.

"My dad left," she says.

Joe meets her eyes. He says his dad did the same thing.

She's not sure why she told him about her dad. He reaches over the back of the seat, opening and closing his hand. She's not sure what he wants. Taking her thumb from her mouth, she presses her fist awkwardly against his palm. He takes her hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

He lets go of her hand to make the turn onto her street.

"Is your thumb wet?" he asks.

She makes a noisy snort around her thumb. "Yes," she laughs, apologizing, even though she's not really sorry. With ecstasy, she needs the comfort her thumb provides, but she doesn't tell him this.

He pulls over too soon. Her house is still a little ways up the block. Staring out the front windshield, he asks if they can talk before she goes home.

"Sure," she says around her thumb.

He turns off the car.

"Come up here," he says, toying with the radio.

When she slides toward the door, he asks her to just climb over. She starts to clamber over the seat and then stops.

"I'm wearing a skirt," she says.

He smiles, waving his hand in a gesture both inviting and dismissive.

There is something reassuring about the way he looks at her, the wave of his hand. She dives over the seat head first, then brings her feet over. He is gazing between her legs. When her bottom is on the seat, she swings her feet past his face. Grinning, he tilts his head to see her crotch.

"Good thing you're wearing underwear."

Her pussy throbs with forbidden desire, but her mind is muddled by the drug and she can't be sure if she's reading the situation correctly. Drawing her feet up on the seat, she puts her thumb back in her mouth. Her thigh and panties are exposed, but he's already seen more.

"Mr. Murphy, I . . . I didn't know you felt that way about me."

"Oh, honey." He slides closer, his arm on the seat behind her. He is gazing down into her cleavage. "You're an incredibly attractive girl, Fanny."

She can feel herself melting a little.

He compliments the size and shape of her breasts. He says that he has been watching her body develop and that she has blossomed into a beautiful young woman. Letting her thumb drop into her lap, she sits with her mouth open. Her breathing is coming fast and hard.

He asks to touch her breasts.

Before she can say anything his hands are on them, kneading and caressing them through her tank top. He wants to know if she met any boys tonight. Closing her mouth, she nods. Squeezing her thighs together, her hips have started to rock in time with her hard breathing. He wants to know if she has satisfied herself with the boys. Has she taken care of her needs. She creases her brow. Satisfied herself? Needs? Boys?

"Wait, what are you asking me?" she wants to know.

His hand is between her legs, pressing against her swollen clitoris. It's so hard to think. She lets her knees fall open, raising her bottom.

He is looking at her.

"Did you fuck? Did you suck cock?"

"Oh!" His directness startles her. But then she wraps her mind around what he is asking her. Needs. She places her hand over his, guiding him to where she wants contact.

"No," she says. "No, no. We didn't do anything."

He sits back in his seat and opens his pants. "Do you want to?" he asks. His cock is long and hard and beautiful. "You like sucking, don't you?"

"Yes," she mumbles. "I mean," she pauses to think.

Her religious training kicks in.

"No, no, no."

"It's okay, baby. It's okay." He puts his hand behind her neck, tugging her face towards his cock. She resists but he's strong. Much stronger than she is. He has her head halfway to his cock and then he stops.

"Hey," he says.

She stops resisting, looking up into his eyes. "Fanny," he says. There is a beat and no one says anything.

"You can suck the cock."

He says it in his authoritative voice. It's the dad voice. It's the voice that lets you know it's okay to submit to someone else. It's the voice that encourages you to try your best.

It's a voice you trust.

She whimpers. She wants to suck cock so bad. Scrambling onto her knees, she puts her head in his lap, his cock in her mouth. It's thick and warm and fills her entire mouth completely.

"Oh, good girl, good girl." He takes her head in both hands.

She loves hearing him say she is a good girl. It's not something she would ever admit to anyone, but hearing it makes her body tingle. He repeats it over and over, egging her on. Good girl, good girl, good girl, her head bobbing in his lap. She sends his fat cock to the back of her mouth, using both hands to pump his shaft. She slobbers all over his cock, making sloppy wet sounds with her mouth.

He reaches between her legs, rubbing the crotch of her panties. She is close to an orgasm. Taking his cock from her mouth, she closes her eyes and presses his shaft against her cheek. His finger slips under her panties, finding her hot fuck hole. He oils her clitoris with juice from her cunt. His fingers find her swollen clit and then she calls out, breaking the quiet of the car.

"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!"

Her orgasm is intense and satisfying. When it's over, she is panting with her head in his lap, his hard cock pressed against her face.

"We're not done yet, sweetie."

He takes her hair in his fist and plants his cock in her mouth. "Suck it. Suck all that cum out of me."

He is jacking his cock into her mouth.

As her orgasm recedes, guilt fills her up. Slut. Little fucking slut. All she can do is kneel, his cock in her mouth, waiting for him to finish.

He grunts, his fist a blur.

"Slut!" he husks.

His cock spurts and she swallows it right down. He called her a slut in his authoritative daddy voice and it's shocking and familiar all at the same time. In her drug-addled mind, hearing him say those words trips some primal response about being recognized by a parent, a father figure. Daddy knows his little girl. He knows.

Fanny grabs his cock, pumping his shaft.

"Little fucking slut!" he says, holding her head onto his spurting cock.

She swallows and swallows.

Yes, Daddy, yes! It's me, it's me! I am your little girl! I am your little girl! She has a hand on his balls and another on his shaft. She won't stop sucking. He has long since stopped squirting his juice, but her lips remain latched to his cock. Joe has to pry her head from his cock. She returns to her seat, saliva running down her chin. They are both without words, breathing hard.

He starts the car.

He apologizes. She laughs, wiping her face with her palms. Looking chagrined, he mentions an upcoming father daughter social at the church. He says he is available to take both her and Tammy. He shrugs, looking embarrassed.

Fanny doesn't know how to respond.

She thanks him, slipping out of the car. Her legs weak and wobbly, she goes home. In the morning, she doesn't tell Tammy.

She doesn't tell Mom.

Fanny knows who she must tell.

Saturday evening, Fanny slips into the confessional booth.

Her heart is racing.

She utters the preamble willing herself not to cry. This is the worst sin she has ever confessed. "Father," she whispers. "I did something terrible."

He mumbles something about mercy and courage, but she isn't listening. She is building her courage. She abruptly starts her confession, cutting him off. She tells him about the dance, the drugs. She doesn't want him to think any less of her. She doesn't know how to say what she must say, so instead she tells him about meeting those boys, about resisting temptation. Suddenly, in her mind's eye, she sees a picture of herself grinding her cunt against one of those boys on the dance floor. She sees herself hunched over the center console, sucking Mr. Murphy's cock.

Slut. Little fucking slut.

Father Harris says nothing, sitting in silence. Somehow his stillness combined with her own stark self-appraisal gives her strength. "Mr. Murphy, Father," she husks, making a big sigh. "I sinned with Joe Murphy."

No one says anything for a long time.

Her mind starts to wander. Already she feels relief from having given up her burden. The small space is quiet for so long that she begins to feel slightly aroused, a byproduct of having anyone scrutinize her modesty. It's disturbing and she fidgets on her knees.

"Tammy's father?"

"Yes, Father."

"Tammy, your best friend's father?"

Fanny gasps, surprised he would take things in this direction. "Yes," her voice falters, but she catches herself. "Yes, Father."

"One minute," he says, exiting the booth.

She is alone. This is not how she imagined things would go. He opens the door and motions with his arm, inviting her out.

She emerges, blinking her eyes to adjust to the light.

Others are waiting, and they stare blankly at her. She has never even heard of this happening to anyone before. A light sheen of sweat covers her brow, the back of her neck.

He leads her to a bench, indicating she should kneel. He whispers she should not speak. She must only wait.

The church is big and lonely, with a high ceiling.

He finishes with the others and comes for her. He silently leads her to the back of the church, past the altar. Through a maze of back rooms with boxes stacked high, desks overflowing with paperwork. They go down a set of stairs, and he opens a door. He stands at the door and motions her inside. She longs for him to speak to her.

It's a small space with a desk and not much else.

"You know what your sin is?" he asks. He stands, hands behind his back. His head bowed.

"Fornication," she says quickly.

He doesn't move. She knows this means he wants more.

"Adultery," she adds, biting her lip. He remains unmoved. Panic rising, she isn't sure what else to list. "Coveting my--"

"Sodomy?" He proposes, cutting her off.

"Sodomy," she repeats, voice wavering a little.

"You sodomized him?" he looks at her, his eyes widening. She turns to the wall, her cheeks red with shame.

"Do you understand what you're saying? You're saying you used your mouth to stimulate his cock. You put his cock into your mouth in front of God Almighty. You prostrated yourself before your best friend's father. You used the miracle of a tongue that God gave you to lick his cock. You consumed semen. You nourished your body with sperm from his cock."

"Father," she gasps. "It wasn't like that."

"No?" He snorts. "Tell me," he says, fists on his hips. "Tell me how it was."

Her shoulders slump.

The room goes silent in the wake of his outburst.

"I sodomized him, Father."

"Yes," he says.

He places his palms together and rubs them.

Hot tears roll down her cheeks.

He says more, but she doesn't follow it. Her scalp is hot. Her palms are moist. She holds her arms.

"What penance should I give you?"

She says it should be something relevant that will help her grow. Something that will make her reflect upon her error. It's a textbook answer.

He points to the desk.

This gesture means he intends to spank her. Her time for this type punishment has long since passed, but she doesn't balk. Wordlessly she places her hands on the desk, bending at the waist. Her head is bowed. He steps around the desk, takes her hands in his, and tugs her forward. She must lie flat across the desk, her cheek against the desktop. He repositions her hands so they are slightly past her shoulders. This creates a more difficult position for her to sustain.

He leaves her there.

His leather shoes snap softly on the tile floor. He lays a yardstick on the desk. Taking her hips in his hands, he jerks her tights down past her bottom. He positions her pants at her knees.

He tugs her panties down.

This is unacceptable in any grade, but she doesn't want to provoke him. Clenching her ass, she holds her thighs together. He picks up the yardstick and she closes her eyes. The first blow lands. She gasps, her ass stinging. The strokes rain down.

"Count," he says.

The yardstick slices through the air.

"One Father," she gasps.

"We're at twenty-nine."

He strikes her again.

"Thirty Father," she whispers. And so it goes. She chews her lower lip, naming each blow. At seventy-five, along with the number, he asks her to thank him. This slows the work considerably. At ninety-six, he doesn't wait for her responses anymore, instead just delivering hit after hit. She rises on her toes to distribute the strikes.

He finally stops.

She has lost count of the number. "Thank you, Father," her voice is weak. "Thank you," she says.

The yardstick clatters onto the desk. He breathes hard for a few minutes, then leaves the room. She rises, huddled over to hide her vagina. She tugs her panties over her hips, then pulls her leggings up.

Her bottom is raw and hot.

He comes back in the room carrying an army cot. His shirt is stained with sweat. He places the cot next to the desk. Taking her shoulders, he guides her to the cot. It's a conciliatory gesture and this sets her at ease. She fully expects him to apologize, or at least admit he lost his temper.

He produces a jar of Vaseline, placing it on the floor beside the cot. He takes the waist of her leggings and she flinches. His impunity absolute, he scowls, tugging her leggings and panties down to her knees. She allows it, shamed into silence by his entitlement. He has already taken them down once, she reasons. Besides, all the better to let him see what he has done to her bottom.

He purses his lips, assessing her below the waist. Inhaling deeply, he smears the jelly on her inflamed skin. He works deftly, his face neutral.

He takes a rag from a bag at his feet and wipes his hands.

It's weird and embarrassing to have Father Harris perform first aid on her bare bottom. Feeling a throbbing between her legs, she works hard to suppress a coy smile. He takes her wrists, lays them across one another, and then lashes them together with something he pulled from the bag. Confused, she tries to rise, but the leggings and underwear at her knees make it hard to move. He puts his knee on her shoulder. She throws her head back and sees that he has tied her hands together. He tugs a cord and to her great surprise her elbows straighten, and her wrists rise. She is lying on her back, her front completely exposed from the waist down.

"Father, Father," she whimpers.

He goes to work on her legs, bending one at the knee, lashing her thigh to her calf. She whispers to him, but he doesn't answer. She wishes she had not let him pull her panties down. She wishes she had not sucked Mr. Murphy's cock. She wishes she had never told anyone her slutty desires.

Father Harris removes her sneaker and leggings, one leg at a time. She considers kicking him but doesn't. She's not sure why. By the time he moves to the second leg, she has fallen silent, a grudging acceptance. Her mind won't think rape, but she knows something is going to happen. Something big. Soon she is splayed out, frogtied.

He stands, unbuttons his shirt. He has the body of an old man. Fat in the middle. Saggy chest and biceps. He lets his clothes fall in a pile on the floor.

His cock is hard, bobbing before him.

He tugs her shirt up, exposing her bra. Reaching behind her, he unhooks her bra and pushes the cups up under her chin. He palms her breasts. Kneeling between her legs, he suckles one, then the other.

Sobbing, her bladder suddenly lets go.

A puddle grows under her bottom, soiling the cot. A fountain of urine squirts up, like a little spring. He puts his hand between her legs, groping her wet cunt. Her water splashes his groin.

"I'm sorry, Father. I'm sorry."

He stands.

He gets a bottle from the bottom drawer and fills a small glass. Tilting it to his lips, he downs the brown liquid in a single gulp.

She lets her knees fall to the side, her heels at her bottom. With her legs tied this way, it's like she is no longer a person, but some other thing. She is not sure what other thing she has become. Her sobbing has stopped. It occurs to her that she could scream, but she doesn't want to scream. The last thing she wants is for anyone to see her this way.