Part 03

Days passed, and Harsha tried to push the encounter from his mind. He went through the motions of his life: breakfast with his wife, work at the office, evenings spent in quiet conversation. But everywhere he went, he saw Malsha. Her face haunted him, her voice echoed in his ears, and her touch lingered on his skin like a brand.

One evening, after yet another restless night, he found himself standing outside the church, the cool air doing so little to the the storm raging inside him. He hadn’t planned to come back to the church, hadn’t even realized where his feet were taking him until he stood before the familiar giant wooden doors.

The church was empty at that particular time. Harsha hesitated, then pushed open the door and stepped inside. The sound of his footsteps echoed through the sanctuary, each step bringing him closer to the truth he was trying so hard to ignore.

And then he saw her.

Sister Malsha knelt at the foot of the altar, her head bowed in prayer. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across her face, illuminating the curve of her cheek, the soft line of her lips. She looked serene, holy—but Harsha knew better. Beneath that serene exterior lay a woman who had awakened something primal, something forbidden within him.

He approached quietly, unsure if he should interrupt her. But before he could decide, she spoke without looking up.

“I wondered if you’d come back,” she said, her voice carrying a note of satisfaction. She rose gracefully to her feet, turning to face him. “Couldn’t stay away from me, could you?”

Harsha swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I don’t know why I’m here,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sister Malsha smiled,looked around to see if anyone else is in the church and stepping closer until they were mere inches apart. “Yes, you do,” she murmured, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw with her thumb. “You’re here because you want to feel alive once again. To be wanted. To be needed.”

Her words struck a chord deep within him, and he closed his eyes, struggling to hold onto the threads of his resolve. “This is wrong,” he said again, though the protest sounded hollow even to his own ears.

“Wrong?” Malsha repeated, her voice dripping with irony. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered, “Or is it just... different?”

Harsha’s breath caught, his hands trembling at his sides. He wanted to pull away, to run, to leave this place and never look back. But instead, he found himself leaning into her, his body reacting instinctively to her closeness.

When her lips met his, any remaining resistance crumbled. The kiss was hungry, desperate, full of all the longing and guilt and need they had both been suppressing. Their hands roamed greedily, pulling at clothes, seeking skin, as if they could erase the world around them with nothing more than heat and friction.

“Tell me you want this,” Sister Malsha breathed between kisses, her voice a command rather than a question. “Tell me you want me.”

Harsha groaned, his hands tightening around her waist. “I want you,” he confessed, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “God help me, I want you.”

Malsha smiled, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Then take me,” she whispered, guiding his hands to the edge of her habit. “Let go of everything else and just... feel.”

And so, under the watchful gaze of the saints and the flickering light of the altar candles, Harsha gave in once more to the unsacred passion that burned between them. Once again both Harsha and Sister Malsha went inside Father Patrick's office to explore each other.

Harsha sat stiffly on the chair, his hands gripping the edge of the wooden chair as Sister Malsha paced slowly in front of him after locking the door. The room felt smaller than usual, the air thick with tension and the faint scent of incense from earlier prayers. His heart pounded in his chest, a rhythm that matched the slow, deliberate click of her heels on the polished floor.

“You look so tense Harsha,” she murmured, her voice low and velvety, like a secret too dangerous to speak aloud. “Is it guilt? Or… is it something else?” She stopped walking and turned to face him, her gaze piercing through him as if she could see every forbidden thought he’d tried to bury.

Harsha cleared his throat, his voice shaky. “I—I don’t know what you mean, Sister. I Just came in for another confession.”

Malsha tilted her head, a sly smile curling at the corners of her lips. ”Confession?” she repeated, drawing out the word as if it were a joke only they understood. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” She took a step closer, the hem of her habit brushing against his knee. He flinched, but didn’t pull away.

He swallowed hard, his palms slick with sweat. “Sister, please… I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t right.”

Her laugh was soft, almost musical, but there was an edge to it that sent a shiver down his spine. “And yet, here you are,” she said, leaning down slightly so her face was level with his. Her breath was warm against his skin, and he could smell the faint sweetness of her perfume—something floral, innocent, but entirely contradicting the way her eyes burned into his. “Tell me, Harsha… do you really want to leave?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out. His mind screamed at him to stand up, to walk out, to forget this ever happened. But his body betrayed him, rooted to the spot as if held by some invisible force.

Sister Malsha straightened, her smile widening. “That’s what I thought,” she said, her tone dripping with satisfaction. She reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against his cheek, and he shuddered at the contact. “You can’t resist me, can you? Even when you know it’s wrong… even when you know it’s a sin. You want me. Don’t you?”

His breath hitched, and he closed his eyes, trying to block out the overwhelming mix of shame and desire coursing through him. But it was no use. The memory of their previous encounters flooded his mind—the way her lips felt against his, the heat of her body pressed against his own, the sinful pleasure that followed with every touch. He never felt like this in his life even when he is with his wife.

“Answer me,” she demanded, her voice firm now, cutting through his inner turmoil.

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I… I want this.”

Her fingers trailed down his jawline, over his throat, and came to rest on his chest, where his heart raced beneath her palm. “Good,” she purred. “Because I’ve been thinking about you too. Thinking about how much you need me since our last encounter… how much you crave a horny nun's touch.”

Her hand moved lower, slipping beneath the collar of his shirt, and he gasped as her cool fingers made contact with his heated skin. “Sister—” he started, but she cut him off with a sharp look.

“Don’t,” she said firmly. “Don’t call me ‘Sister’ when we’re alone like this. Not now. Right now, I’m not your sister in faith. I’m just… Malsha. And your soul and body belongs to me now, not your wife.”

The way she said her name—low, intimate, possessive—sent a jolt of electricity straight to his core. He nodded weakly, unable to argue, unable to think clearly.

She stepped back, her hands moving to the belt of her habit. With a practiced ease, she undid the knot and let the garment fall to the floor, revealing the simple black panty she wore underneath and nothing more.

Harsha’s eyes widened, and he quickly looked away, his cheeks burning. “M-Malsha, we shouldn’t—”

“Look at me,” she commanded, her voice sharp enough to make him obey instantly. When his eyes met hers again, she smirked. “Better. Now… tell me what you see.”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering over her body before settling on her face. “I see… temptation,” he admitted hoarsely.

Her laugh was soft, almost approving. “Very good. And what does temptation make you feel?”

He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms as he struggled to find the right words. “It makes me feel… weak. Like I can’t control myself anymore.”

She stepped closer, her hips swaying gently with each step, until she was standing directly in front of him. “Do you want to resist me?” she asked, her voice a sultry murmur as she placed one knee on the chair beside him, effectively trapping him in place.

He shook his head, his resolve crumbling with every passing second. “No,” he whispered.

“Louder,” she insisted, her hands coming to rest on either side of his head, caging him in.

“No,” he repeated, louder this time, his voice trembling with the weight of his confession.

“Good boy,” she praised, her lips brushing against his ear as she spoke. Her words sent a thrill through him, and he couldn’t suppress the moan that escaped his lips.

Her hands moved to his tie, loosening it with practiced ease before tossing it aside. She unbuttoned his shirt slowly, her fingers lingering over each button as if savoring the moment. When she finally pushed the fabric open, she ran her hands over his chest, her touch light but electrifying.

“You belong to me, Harsha,” she murmured, her lips trailing kisses along his collarbone. “Say it.”

He hesitated for only a moment before answering, his voice raw with emotion. “I… I belong to you, Malsha.”

She smiled against his skin, clearly pleased with his submission. “Now…” she said, pulling back to meet his gaze once more. “Show me how much you mean it.”

Without waiting for his response, she climbed onto his lap, straddling him with effortless grace. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer until their lips were mere inches apart. “Kiss me,” she ordered, her breath hot against his mouth.

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Their lips crashed together in a frenzy of pent-up desire, their movements urgent and desperate. Harsha’s hands found her waist, gripping her tightly as if afraid she might slip away. Malsha deepened the kiss, her tongue sliding against his, claiming him in a way that left no room for doubt.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless, their foreheads resting together as they tried to steady themselves.

“Touch me,” she whispered, her voice thick with need. “Show me how much you want this.”

His hands trembled as they moved to the hem of her dress, pushing it upward inch by agonizing inch. When his fingers finally brushed against the soft skin of her thighs, she let out a soft sigh of approval, encouraging him to go further.

But just as he was about to slip his hand beneath the fabric, there was a sharp knock at the door.

Both of them froze, their hearts pounding in unison as footsteps echoed outside the room.

“Father Patrick?” Harsha whispered, panic clawing at his chest.

Malsha’s eyes narrowed, her expression hardening with determination. “Stay quiet,” she hissed, pressing a finger to his lips.

The knob rattled, and then a deep voice called out, “Sister Malsha? Are you in there?”

Harsha’s breath caught in his throat, his mind racing as he tried to figure out what to do. But Malsha seemed unfazed. She leaned in close, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered, “Don’t move. Don’t breathe. No matter what happens… you’re mine.”

Before he could respond, she stood up, dressed up her habit and striding toward the door with a confidence that left him speechless.

The door creaked open, and Harsha squeezed his eyes shut, praying silently for the first time in what felt like forever.

To Be Continued.