Father of the Flock

Story by Wolvun


“Go forth and enjoy the coming season.”

Father Hampton bows his head. A final silent bow of the head waves through the small Chapel in the Town of Samhein. Quickly followed by the shuffle of feet intermingled with the chatter of his congregation. Closing his weathered book and stepping down from the pulpit. Communing with his flock. Catching up, hearing their stories and worries and wonderings if what is to come. This is what the Father had come to love about his job here.

As the town grow, so did his chapel. Standing as place of comfort and invitation amongst the growing sea of new faces. Older folk who had been in Samhein for generations along with younger attendants in need of a safe place. The Father welcomed each and every one of these wonderful people to his flock.

The families and couples, those that came with or came alone, filed from the building. Leaving Father standing alone to go about his finishing business. Returning books and wiping down the pews and pulpit. Leaving the candle to last as he quietly waited. Purposefully ignoring the the figure still seated in the back. 

He hadn’t made mention of her. Nor did the regulars. For she would appear on her own. Always alone and find the quietest spot on the furthest pew. Sometimes the newer members of the congregation would move to include her, but each time an older member would silently stop them. She didn’t come here to be included. She only wanted to be present.

“Hello Natalie. Did you enjoy the sermon?” Each of his steps muffled by the carpet and padded soles. Something to make him more approachable.

“Yes Father Hampton,” Closing the book gently and replacing it. Standing up with her hands in her lap, a hood still covering much of her face. “I appreciate you staying behind for me.”

“Of course my child.” The Father nods. Walking with practice along the way to a small booth.

“Would you like to talk about something?” His question is soft. A light invitation. She did not say anything. The hood shifting. An indication of a nod. The Father smiled to himself. Continuing his duties as the woman continued to sit


When the Father had first taken his oath, this confessional booth had been in the chapel. A hold over by the original owners most likely. Often left locked and to the side. Now, it was used it only for this purpose. 

Pocketing each lock one by one, the Father took his place. Watching the outline of this stray lamb though the mesh window. He was never quite comfortable with a traditional confessional as this, but he knew it was important to Natalie, even if he didn’t know why this in particular was so crucial to her.

“I’m here for you, child”

“Father.. Forgive me for I have sinned…” Father nodded as Natalie began to speak.

Even as a man of faith expected to ease the consciousness of his flock, he never would have expected what this lamb would describe in such detail. The way the shape in the other booth bowed further and further. The weight of her actions. The weight of what she said, and confessed. The depraved nature of such things. Dark, sexual, carnal acts none of which he had ever heard of except through Natalie’s lips. Violent, painful things, things that should never be described alongside acts of love. Nightmarish, horrific things that don’t belong in this mortal world.

Yet he held his calm, for this had not been the first time he had heard this. Year after year, Natalie would come. Year after year, she would confess what she had done. And year after year, he would forgive her, clear her conscious, and take her sins onto him. Each and every time, every year, he would take her burdens and carry them for her.

“You are forgiven, child. I forgive you, and you may forgive yourself.” He told her, keeping the quiver in his voice steady for her comfort.

“Thank you Father Hampton. You don’t know how much I need this. I don’t know what would happen if I could not be pure again”

“Wait Natalie. If you could-“ The shape of his stray lamb moves. Opening the door to the confessional. Micheal Hampton opened his as well.

The door banging open suddenly. Each time this would happen each time he would try and learn more. Stepping out of the confessional, he was not sure what he would do if he caught her in time. What he would ask her.

But alas, it hardly mattered if he was the established Father of this Chapel or the fresh faced young man taking his first confused and heartbreaking confessional, that same lamb would slip away into the streets of Samhein, fleeing the safety of the Chapel, into the thick of the trees, stray once more.


Nearby, another Chapel takes congregation in the season of the Harvest. One that has no community, nor has it a comforting, supportive figure like Father Hampton. Instead it has one cold, commanding figure of authority, the Maid of Meditation. Not here to share comfort, but to share discipline, silence, contemplation, and obedience. And when the time comes, when her flock comes, she is here to lead a hymn of screams.

There is a single large room yet there are no pews or podium. Instead, hooded figures of flesh and pleasure stand and wait, barely clad, silent. Present, and here to be included in every twisted way conceivable. Here to tempt, and cast sins onto the congregation. The defile and sin them, so that they may beg the Maid of Meditation for forgiveness.

And in Misery Chapel, forgiveness can only be bought.

Once the congregation gathers in Misery Chapel and the Maid of Meditation has spoken, and thanked the Harvest Moon for this season of tithes and gathering, she calls forth her chained and hooded lines of flesh and pleasure to spread sins, and collect tithes.

A dark, groaning orgy quickly erupts. Screaming, crying, lashes and smacks. Shadows that creep out of the corners and reach into the room. Dark, sexual, carnal acts. Violent, painful things. Nightmarish, horrific things that don’t belong in this mortal world. Demonic figures, enormous, merciless, relentless.

In Misery Chapel there is no confessional booth, but there are small, private rooms that circle out the demonic orgy. Some of the congregation like to select a tempress to take into a room. Often used over and over. Given rest only so long as it takes for the next person to enter, or to be dragged back out into the screaming nightmare.

“Ah yes. My favourite,” the old, wrinkled man says, lifting up the hood of his chosen temptress “I’m glad I found you before that mess out there defiled you.”

The strike of his paddle caused her breasts to quiver. Behind them, one of many collection slaves. Each of them bound in place. Nipples pierced, blindfolds in places, bowls for tithes and payments hanging from piercings in their bodies. Awaiting the collection from the man, the payment to cleanse him of what he’s about to do. To leave his sins with his donations in the bowl of the slave, a burden for them to carry instead of him. So he may leave tonight forgiven for his coming sins against the hooded girl in front of him.

“Yes Sir. No one has touched or defiled me. I’m here, for you to do as you wish” The woman pants, her breasts wrapped around the man’s member. A confused mixed of moaning, crying out and attempting to please the swollen tip pressed into her face.

“Hehe, indeed indeed. Tell me dear girl. Are you Pure? I do hate the idea that I’d ever have to share you.” The man leers. 

His favourite thing about Misery Chapel wasn’t just the freedom to violate the slaves here as he wished, but that they were always innocent, clean, pure.

“Yes Sir. I am pure…I am pure…I am pure…” The woman says kissing the cock tip. A trickle of moisture dribbling from under her blindfold as she kisses. 

Like every year before. She was pure.