Chapter 78 A sexy priest: Baptism
He freed himself from the cassock. His cock sprang out, thick and angry, the head already slick.
He dragged it up and down her slit, coating himself in her arousal.
“Beg for your punishment.”
“Please,” she whimpered. “Please, Father Elias, punish me.”
He drove into her in one merciless thrust.
Isabella screamed, the sound swallowed by vaulted stone.
Water sloshed over the edge as he fucked her hard, hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.
Each stroke pushed her breasts against cold marble, nipples scraping deliciously.
“You’ll wear white again,” he snarled between thrusts, “but next time nothing underneath. Do you understand?”
“Yes…yes, Father…oh…God…”
He reached around and pinched her clit. She came instantly, clenching around him so violently he almost followed.
But he pulled out, denying himself, and flipped her to her back on the wide marble rim. Her legs fell open helplessly.
He pushed back inside, slower now, letting her feel every inch.
Water lapped at their joined bodies. He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a bruising kiss as he rolled his hips.
“Say the Act of Contrition while I fuck the sin out of you.”
Her voice shook as she began, “O my God, I am heartily sorry…”
He thrust deep on every word, turning prayer into blasphemy.
When she reached “because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell,” her second orgasm crashed through her, back arching clear off the stone.
This time he let himself go. He buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside her, pulse after pulse, claiming her in the most sacred place in the parish.
When he finally pulled out, his cum mixed with baptismal water ran down her thighs in slow rivulets.
He lifted her gently, wrapping the torn robe around her like a blanket, and carried her to the sacristy.
There he dried her with soft towels, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered, murmuring Latin benedictions against her lips.
“You are reborn tonight,” he whispered, laying her on the velvet chaise.
“And every year on this night you will return to this font. Naked. So I can make sure the grace still holds.”
Isabella, dazed and glowing, could only nod.
A sexy priest : Correction
The convent of Santa Teresa sat high on the cliff above the sea, silent except for gulls and the endless crash of waves.
Sister Lucia had been sent there for “spiritual correction” after certain… irregularities were discovered in her former parish in Naples.
Twenty-eight years old, still beautiful in a way that made older nuns clutch their rosaries tighter, she had taken her final vows only six months earlier.
Father Elias arrived on a storm-lashed evening, black coat whipping around his ankles, sent by the bishop himself to “examine the state of discipline” at Santa Teresa.
The Mother Superior greeted him with trembling hands and immediately surrendered every key.
That first night he walked the cloister alone.
Rain drummed on the tiled roof.
He found Sister Lucia in the chapel, kneeling before the Blessed Sacrament in nothing but her thin white nightgown, doing penance on the cold stone.
Her veil was off; dark hair spilled down her back like ink.
He stood behind her a long time, watching the candlelight play over the curve of hip and breast outlined beneath damp cotton.
“You were told to wear the full habit for night office,” he said at last.
She was startled but did not rise. “Forgive me, Father. The wool chafes my skin raw. I thought God would understand.”
“God understands,” Elias said, stepping closer. “But I do not.”
He reached down, grasped a fistful of her hair, and pulled her gently but inexorably to her feet.
Her gasp echoed off the vaulted stone. Up close he could smell lavender soap and the faint salt of nervous sweat.
“Turn around.”
She obeyed.
The nightgown clung everywhere the rain from the open cloister door had touched her.
He circled slowly, taking in the stiff peaks of her nipples, the shadow between her thighs.
“You were sent here because you let a priest in Naples put his hands beneath your habit,” he said softly. “Is that correct?”
Her throat worked. “Yes, Father.”
“And did you confess it?”
“Every week. I still burn with shame.”
He stopped in front of her again. “Shame is useless unless it is purged.”
He took her hand and led her out of the chapel, down the winding corridor to the old chapter house no one used anymore.
Inside stood a single wooden punishment bench, a relic of harsher centuries. He closed the door.
“Remove the gown.”
Lucia’s fingers shook, but she pulled the garment over her head and let it drop.
Beneath it she was naked, skin luminous in the moonlight that poured through the high window.
Full breasts, narrow waist, the dark triangle between her legs, every inch a temptation the Church had tried and failed to bury.
Elias shrugged out of his coat and rolled up his sleeves. The white of his collar glowed like a brand.
“Over the bench.”
She draped herself across it, breasts hanging heavy, ass lifted.
He walked behind her and laid one hand between her shoulder blades, pinning her.
“You will receive thirty strokes. After each one you will say, very sincerely, thank God for His mercy.”
The first crack of his palm against her bare skin made her cry out.
By the tenth her ass was crimson and she was sobbing the words like a broken litany. At fifteen her thighs were slick; arousal dripped shamelessly onto the stone floor.
He paused, tracing the welts with almost tender fingers.
“Still burning, Sister?”
“Yes, Father,” she whimpered.
“Good.”
He unfastened his trousers. His cock sprang free, flushed dark, a bead of pre-cum already pearling at the tip.
He stepped between her spread legs and dragged the head through her soaked folds.
“This,” he said, voice rough, “is the only fire that truly cleanses.”
He thrust into her in one slow, relentless push.
Lucia screamed into the wood, back arching.
He gave her no mercy, long, punishing strokes that slammed her hips against the bench with every thrust.
The slap of wet flesh echoed louder than any bell.
He reached beneath her and pinched her clit hard.
She came instantly, violently, walls milking him in rhythmic pulses.
He kept fucking her through it, drawing it out until she was sobbing again, this time from overstimulation.
Only then did he let himself go. He pulled out at the last second and painted thick ropes of cum across her welted ass and lower back, marking her like a brand.
When he was spent he leaned over her, lips to her ear.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered, “you will wear your habit with nothing underneath. And every time the wool scratches your nipples that are still swollen from tonight, you will remember who owns your penance now.”
He straightened, tucked himself away, and left her there, naked, dripping, shaking while thunder rolled over the sea.