Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6318946.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Petyr_Baelish/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Petyr_Baelish, Sansa_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Masturbation, Catholicism
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-03-21 Chapters: 1/? Words: 1659
****** Have a Little Priest ******
by articulatez
Summary
     Sansa goes to confession and must atone for her sins.
Petyr would enjoy his time manning the confessional, it was arguably one of his
favorite responsibilities as monsignor and he took it very seriously. He kept
records and he already had an impressive stack of notes from today's
confessions.
Sansa had examined herself in the mirror before leaving the house. She was
pristine in a pale blue dress that did not bring attention to her young body,
but in her heart she felt ill at ease. It was time to lay bare her sins before
a man of God, and it was with the purest intentions that she entered the
confessional. "It has been three months since my last confession, and that was
at another parish," she murmurs to the window.
Petyr peers through the screen at the young girl, pristine and nearly trembling
with the weight of her sin. He smiles to himself. "Three months is a long time,
my dear."
"Yes, Father..." His voice is lilting, almost kind. She offered no excuses,
though really her family had been busy in the move here, and it had been hard
to find time to get away.
"And what brings you back, child?"
"I..." If she says it, it will become more real than ever. Telling a stranger
her secrets. "I touched myself." The words hung in the air, surrounded by her
bashful silence, a flush rising to her pale cheeks.
He’s quiet for a moment before asking, “And do you know why that is sinful?”
“I should be saving myself for marriage,” she answers.
"That's right," Petyr says. "The discovery of your body is a sacred thing."
She exhales heavily, redfaced with embarrassment. "I knew it was wrong, every
time."
"Every time?" he asks, feigning shock. "More than once, then?"
"Yes," she admits.
"Oh dear…"
"What can I do?" she asks.
"That is quite serious," Petyr muses. "I'm afraid that in order to help you
I'll need to know a bit more..."
"What more must I tell you?"
"Did you remove clothing to do it?"
"I did."
"How much?"
"Just my underwear."
"I see. And what did you use?"
"... You don't mean you can use something besides fingers?"
"Oh, I'm afraid so," he says, with a husky sigh.
"O-oh. I only used my hand."
"Good, good. Any pleasure you gained from such a thing would be at great
spiritual cost, do you understand? I'm relieved you had the strength to keep
from rubbing yourself against the furniture or using other objects on
yourself."
She swallows hard. "Yes, Father, I understand." But now she can't help but
imagine it, wondering what else she could have done.
"Good. Now... did you only touch the outside?"
She stares at the screen, a pit sinking in her gut. "Does it matter?"
"Very much," he says solemnly. "Nothing you say will leave this booth, I am
only trying to help you find forgiveness in our Lord."
"I touched the inside..."
"Do you know that the inside is meant to be felt first by the man God gives you
to, whoever that may be?"
Tears well up in her eyes, her throat tight. "I do know that."
"There there, my child," he coaxes, "all is not lost."
"What do I do?"
"You must petition the Holy Mother to restore your lost innocence, that you
might be pure before God again. Your catechism can guide you, you ought to know
when your penance is complete."
She touches her silver crucifix where it hangs above her breasts. "Thank you,
Father." She rises to leave the booth.
Petyr turns off his tape recorder once she leaves. Sansa bows to pray, thumbing
her prayer beads, trying not to think about using things other than her hands
on herself... on the silky flesh between her legs and how it makes her
squirm... No, she tries to block
it all out and fill her mind with prayer and light and purity.
Petyr left the confessional to walk the church's sanctuary and what did he find
there but the redhead who had come to his booth earlier. A wicked curiosity led
him quietly nearer enough to see what she looked like without the screen. She
was about fifteen, her long hair held back from her face with a pearly
barrette, and white socks to her knee, her feet clad in Mary Janes. She had
been told that she looked like her mother, and there was very little of her
father in her sweet expression.
The sight of the girl’s face took him back, almost like being shown a window to
his childhood. It took the monsignor a moment to realize that he was not
looking at Katlyn Tully, but this girl unmistakably had the Tully look and,
well, Lysa had only the one child. No doubt, he had found Katlyn’s daughter on
her knees in supplication.
Sansa’s brow was knit in concentration. She knew she was alone; why, if she
wanted to, she could press her thighs together and feel so wonderful it felt
like her soul was flying. But the priest’s voice came back to her and she
almost wept with her own wickedness. Every time after she coaxed herself to
rocking with her fingers stiff inside herself, she was filled with grief and
rage, that she was so weak. And she was meant to be praying, but the murmurs
from her lips were empty words, hiding the wickedness in her mind.
Petyr moved closer to hear her prayers. He wondered if the seeds of perversion
he'd planted in her mind were taking root, if her imagination had found some
new sin to commit. Beneath his robes he was awaking and when his hand reaches
to palm his staff he doesn't stop it. She is bowed on her knees, hands clasped,
running beads between her fingers, murmuring to the Holy Mother, begging for
forgiveness for trespassing on her virginity. Her desperate prayers urge on his
arousal and he quietly reaches under his robe to stroke himself. In a moment of
daring decision he unzips his trousers and grips his staff tightly. She
hesitates a moment, lost as if in a trance, and – believing herself to be
alone—she slips a hand under the hem of her dress to brush the cotton of her
underwear. Almost as quickly, she retracts her hand, scolding herself.
He sees the moment that she sticks her fingers under her dress and grips
himself harder, gliding his fist down his cock with a harsh breath.
She hears a rustle and a sigh and turns around with a gasp and sees the
monsignor, his hand on his…
“Dear child….” The monsignor purrs, startled. Her softly open mouth and shocked
eyes make him throb. More sternly he says, “Turn back around and continue your
prayer.”
Her eyes take in his… appendage. There, hanging out of his robes. It frightens
her, but she can’t disobey, so she turns back around.
His heart is racing. “Pray,” he instructs.
She shuts her eyes and resumes her prayer. Petyr strokes himself as he listens
to her prayers. He reaches out to touch her Tully-red hair softly and lets the
strands slip through his fingers. Shaking, she tries to ignore what is
happening behind her, but it only
makes her flush. She isn’t alone in her sin. He saw her do it, what no one
should ever have seen, and he in turn was tempted because of her. The image of
his hand on himself is stuck in her memory, a grotesque thing that she was only
meant to see within a marriage bed but is now close enough to touch. She
shudders.
Petyr focuses on the fervency of her prayers as he strokes himself more
intently, small grunts leaving his throat. Sansa wants to stop and go home,
lock herself in her room and weep, as she can hear his passion growing. A man
of the cloth, touching himself to the sound of her prayers; no one would ever
believe this.
"Do you see how sin catches like a flame from one soul to the next?" he huffs.
She bites her lip and nods.
"This is why we must guard ourselves," he pants and works his scepter with an
increasing fury, the fire she's stirred in his belly overtaking him so
deliciously.
It’s impossible to not be affected by his words, his breathless, ragged voice.
Longing for the privacy of her bedroom, she presses her thighs together under
her dress.
"But I think you see now that even the best of us are merely human, how could a
man not succumb? Lift your dress, my child." Trembling, she raises the hem a
mere inch. "Further," he hisses.
She inhales sharply and drags her dress fluttering up her thighs, stopping just
before exposing her underwear. Strangely, a small part of her is thrilling to
his orders, her heart thudding in her breast and blood rushing to her throat
and cheeks.
"*This* is why we have forgiveness, because each of us needs it," he groans,
barely able to restrain himself until she has lifted her skirt out of danger.
He shudders forward with a grunt and a sticking moan as he spills his seed on
her milky white thighs.
Sansa gasps at the wet heat and squeezes the pleated fabric in her hands, tears
of shame and unholy lust pricking her eyes. She’s afraid to move, afraid his
need will trickle down her legs and stain her socks.
He pants for breath, watching his essence drip down her thighs as he softens in
his hand. Carefully, he covers himself again and says. "You must bury your sin
so it does not ignite other souls. Don't cause others to meet the same fate as
you and I. Understand?"
She nods, releasing her skirt to hide the evidence until she can find a
bathroom. “Forgive me,” she whispers.
"The mercy of the Father be upon you," he intones, hand on her shoulder, before
turning to leave her.
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