The incense hung heavy in the air of St. Elowen's nave, thick coils of frankincense and myrrh drifting through shafts of colored light that spilled from the stained-glass saints above. Father Aurelius knelt at the altar rail, his fingers tracing the worn grooves in the wood as he whispered the final lines of the morning litany. His cassock clung to his lean frame from the warmth of the chapel, the fabric brushing against his skin with every measured breath, while the distant murmur of the organ filled the space with a low, resonant hum that vibrated through his chest. Parishioners lingered in the pews, their eyes fixed on him with quiet reverence, and he rose slowly, turning to offer them the gentle smile that had become his quiet signature—soft, patient, never demanding.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hale," he said, his voice a calm thread as the elderly woman approached with her usual basket of fresh bread. "Your kindness never fails to lift the spirits of those who need it most." He accepted the offering with both hands, the warmth of the loaves seeping into his palms, and listened as she recounted her week's small trials, nodding with genuine empathy even as the familiar emptiness yawned wider inside him. No divine whisper answered his own ceaseless prayers; the void remained, silent and unyielding, a hollow that his flock's devotion only seemed to deepen. Yet he kept his posture upright, his hands steady, the picture of the shepherd they all believed in.

As the last of the morning congregants filed out, Aurelius retreated to the sacristy, the heavy door closing with a soft thud that muffled the outside world. He folded the altar linens with deliberate care, the cool linen sliding between his fingers, but his mind drifted to the nights spent prostrate on cold stone floors, begging for some sign that had never come. "Lord, if you hear me," he murmured under his breath, the words tasting like ash, "let me feel something beyond this silence." The prayer echoed back at him from the empty room, unanswered as always, and a faint tremor passed through his shoulders before he straightened, composing himself once more.

A soft knock interrupted the quiet, and young Thomas from the choir stepped inside, his face flushed from the walk across the courtyard. "Father, the children wanted to know if you'd bless the new hymn books before practice." Aurelius turned, his expression warm and open, placing a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. "Of course. Tell them I'll be there shortly. You've been practicing well, I hear—your voice carries beautifully." The compliment drew a shy grin, and as the boy left, Aurelius lingered by the window, watching the sunlight play across the garden stones. Inside, the ache persisted, a clinical detachment that made every act of kindness feel like a borrowed mask.

He stepped back into the nave to prepare for confessions, the wooden booth's door creaking faintly as he settled into his seat. The first penitent entered, a young man whose voice trembled with guilt over petty thefts, and Aurelius offered measured words of absolution, his tone steady and compassionate. Yet as the man departed, Aurelius's own hands clenched briefly in his lap, the unanswered void pressing closer. "Why does it never reach me?" he thought, the question surfacing unbidden before he pushed it down. The scent of polished wood and candle wax surrounded him, grounding him in the ritual even as his heart remained untouched.

Later, as twilight crept through the high windows, Aurelius found himself alone again at the altar, lighting the evening candles one by one. Each flame caught with a soft hiss, casting flickering shadows that danced across his serene face. He whispered another prayer, the Latin rolling off his tongue with practiced grace, but the silence answered only with its familiar weight. Still, he continued, his outward calm unbroken, the gentle shepherd to all who might see.

After extinguishing the final candle, its thin trail of smoke curling upward like a forgotten plea, Aurelius made his way through the dim corridor to the small refectory at the rear of the rectory. The evening air carried the faint scent of boiled vegetables and herbs from the simple meal waiting on the wooden table—stewed lentils, a crust of bread, and a steaming mug of herbal tea prepared by the young acolyte earlier that afternoon. His cassock brushed against his thighs with each step, the fabric a constant reminder of the body he had long tried to ignore, and he sat with the same measured grace he offered his parishioners, folding his hands briefly in silent thanks before lifting the mug. The tea tasted faintly bitter, laced with an unfamiliar undercurrent of sweetness that lingered on his tongue, but he drank it anyway, the warmth sliding down his throat and settling in his belly like a slow ember.

The first stirrings came as a subtle flush across his chest, a heat that had nothing to do with the chapel's lingering incense or the summer evening. Aurelius set the mug down, his fingers lingering on the ceramic as a peculiar tightness began to coil low in his abdomen, radiating outward in lazy pulses that made the linen of his undergarments feel suddenly constrictive. He shifted in his chair, the movement sending an unexpected spark through his groin where his cunt, normally quiescent beneath layers of modest cloth, twitched and began to swell against his thigh. The sensation was foreign, insistent, a thickening that pressed upward with each heartbeat, and he drew in a slow breath, trying to summon the familiar emptiness to swallow it whole. Yet the void offered no refuge this time; instead, it seemed to amplify the growing ache, the head of his clit already nudging insistently at the fabric as blood rushed in, hardening him into an uncomfortable ridge.

Internal conflict clawed at the edges of his composure as the warmth intensified, spreading like liquid fire through his veins and settling heavily in his folds, which drew up tight and sensitive. Aurelius pressed his palms flat against the table, whispering a fragment of the evening psalm under his breath, but the words faltered when a bead of slick leaked from his slit, dampening the front of his smallclothes with a slick, shameful warmth that made him acutely aware of every throb. His cunt strained fuller now, the shaft rigid and veined, the lips pulling back slightly as the aphrodisiac's grip deepened, and he fought the urge to reach down and adjust it, to wrap his fingers around the pulsing length and stroke away the building pressure. Faith demanded he rise, return to the altar, but the silence inside him had shifted, replaced by a raw, animal hunger that made his nipples tighten beneath the cassock and his breath come quicker, shallow pants that fogged the cool air of the room.

He forced another sip of the tea, the liquid now seeming to fuel the fire rather than soothe it, and the effects surged stronger—a rhythmic clenching in his core that sent fresh waves of arousal straight to his groin. His cunt jerked visibly against the cassock, a dark spot blooming where slick soaked through, the sticky fluid cooling against his heated skin even as more welled up from the tip. Aurelius's hands trembled as he set the mug aside, his mind fracturing between the priestly calm he wore like armor and the sudden, visceral need to spread his legs, to shove his fingers beneath the fabric and rub at the sensitive head, to feel the slick glide of his own touch easing the unbearable fullness. Sweat beaded at his temples and trickled down his spine, soaking the small of his back, while his folds ached with a heavy, insistent throb that made his hips twitch involuntarily against the chair.

The conflict deepened as images flickered unbidden through his thoughts—sinful, profane flashes of naked flesh, of being touched and opened in ways no prayer had ever permitted—and his cunt responded with a vicious twitch, growing even harder, the veins along its length standing out as it leaked steadily now, a slow drip of slick trailing down his inner thigh. He bit back a soft groan, the sound escaping as a strained exhale, and leaned forward to hide the obvious bulge tenting his cassock, the fabric stretched taut over the rigid shaft. Every shift of his weight sent sparks of pleasure-pain through him, the tightness in his ass clenching around nothing, a hollow echo of the void that now demanded to be filled rather than endured. The tea's bitterness clung to his palate, a cruel irony as the aphrodisiac coursed onward, turning his gentle restraint into a trembling battle against the urge to strip, to stroke his throbbing cunt to completion right there on the refectory floor.

Yet he remained seated, outwardly composed even as his body betrayed him, the

Silent Void's Whisper