Her

She didn't belong there, it was honesty on his part.

She stuck out like a sore thumb, she was angelic.

Sylvia was her name. She was tall and pale with long white hair that fell in waves down her back, her eyes were a bright green and she had freckles splattered upon her face. Sylvia preferred the studio in which she sewed the clothes for the clergy. She was still of the Christian faith so she didn't go to mass.

Such a shame, he would've loved to see her writhe and squirm during the rituals.

Papa couldn't help but allow his mind to wander, had she been bedded before?

Sitting in his office he pondered this, as the French girl had been on her mind ever since his brother had hired her

“Such a pretty girl, with doll like features.” He remembered the third say to her. Sylvia almost dwarfed his brother in size. Sylvia was tall and willowy. “Ah monsieur,” she said softly- her voice was soft, it reminded him of watercolors in a way, her accent was very thick and noticeable, he had heard her confide in a sister- telling her that Sylvia hadn't been speaking English for very long.

The second emeritus set down the pen he was using to sign some documents. Perhaps it was her innocence that drove him to her, perhaps it was him hearing her pray to a nonexistent god. He wanted to corrupt her, make her his little pet. A smirk came across emeritus’s usually stoic features at the thought. Her crawling to him and begging, he'd want to see her beg. Perhaps he'd take her on an altar and have her stare up at the statue of their infernal father.

“Oh m-Monsieur emeritus… ah~! I'm..” She would attempt to say, her body convulsing in pleasure and her chest heaved. His larger hand held onto her thigh and he growled into her ear “Not yet-” he hissed out and she would let out a choked sob, her eyes would close and he'd glance down at the crucifix he wore “o-oh my g-g-god~” she moaned then a loud gasp would escape her when his hand would shoot up at her throat “No.” He would snarl “You will NOT call his name here, girl. You are mine tonight,” he would snarl into her ear, he groaned as he listened to her whimper out in French and the hand on her thigh slowly gripped at her hair and tugged it.

Papa felt a stirring in his pants, it wasn't unusual he would fantasize about people within the church, men and women alike.

That was it. He stood up and a growl escaped his lips. He was going to her. He was going to claim her as his, he was going to ravish her.

He decided he'd claim her in her studio, a smirk on his face at the thought, he would make her lay on the fabrics. He would love to see her expression when she would cum on her beloved fabrics. He wanted to see the embarrassment on her pretty face.

A reminder it would be, perhaps he'd instruct her to make the fabrics into some pretty dresses for her to wear, a groan escaped his lips, how dirty that was.

He had got up from the leather chair he sat at. He walked out and headed to the studio.

She had requested her studio be on the top floor so she could get optimum sunlight. When he opened the door he saw her working on fixing a ghoul’s robe; Terra’s perhaps. He probably ripped it when he was moving medicine to the new medical wing.

“Miss. Kane.” His voice was deep, it was the kind that would unravel you with only his words. Sylvia let out a gasp and she perked up and she turned to see the emeritus “oh! Bon matin Monsieur, did you sleep well?” She asked and he nodded “Yes. I did.” He said to her, how could he initiate it? He knew she wouldn't, anytime an advance was made upon her she'd just blush and thank him.