It was past twelve in the midnight.
Hera had decided to go to bed early that night.
She had been feeling sick to her stomach two hours earlier, and she blamed it from eating the left over pizza from the night before. So she slept off.
The moon hung low in the night sky, casting silvery shadows through the cracked window of Hera's modest bedroom.
Father Richard moved like a shadow himself, his black cassock whispering against the floorboards as he slipped the door shut behind him. His heart pounded with a sinful thunder.
She lay there on the bed, her succulent body draped in a thin white nightgown that clung to her curves, her dark hair fanned out like a halo on the pillow. She stirred slightly, sensing the presence of a man even in sleep.
He couldn't stop. Not tonight.
The sermons,
