Possessed Pussy (5)

Possessed Pussy (5)
The cause of death wasn't a sudden illness. It was a fatal cardiac arrest brought on by severe physical exertion during sex.

It’s a secret I plan to uncover, but hearing her call that man holy grates on my nerves.

“I pray for every departed soul,” I say, pushing back my chair and stepping around the desk.

She doesn't flinch.

I stop behind her and rest a comforting hand on her shoulder. She's wearing a conservative yellow dress that covers every inch of her body, but somehow, the fabric does nothing to hide the exceptional shape beneath it.

“We pray for the saints too,” I murmur near her ear, “just as they pray for us.”

She turns her head to look up at me, tears glistening in her eyes. I remain planted behind her, my hand firm on her shoulder like a shepherd guiding its flock. She dabs at the corners of her eyes with my handkerchief.

“I understand, Father,” she says softly, rising slowly from her chair. “Now that you’re here, I trust you’ll be everything the old priest was to us.”

My eyebrows twitch upward.

I don’t know whether she means his sermons, his secrets, or something much worse.

But I’m sure time will tell.

She faces me, standing so close her warm breath grazes my throat.

Not afraid of me, I like that.

Her hand reaches up, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of my jawline.

Every instinct in me tells me to let her. But no. It’s too early. This could be a trap, for all I know.

I catch her wrist, forcing myself to meet her gaze instead of giving in to the warmth spreading through me.

“Stop,” I say, more firmly than I feel.

She studies me for a moment, and I hate how much I want her to ignore the warning.

“The old priest was my lover,” she whispers, dragging one finger slowly down my chest.

The room suddenly feels smaller.

Her lover?

Why would she tell me that so easily?

Is she... is she the one the priest was with before he died?

“I saw the autopsy report before the archdiocese confiscated it.” She continues.

A quiet thrill hits me.

She knows.

As the catechist’s wife, she may hold the keys to every dirty secret in this parish, provided she can manipulate them out of her husband.

“You shouldn't repeat those words to anyone,” I warn, keeping my voice low and stern.

“I know, Father,” she purrs, leaning closer. “I’m a nurse. The doctors at the clinic are close friends of mine. Even my husband doesn't suspect a thing—he thinks a demon took the priest's soul. But I know better. It was one of his women.”

One of his women.

What kind of life had this priest been living in this parish?

Her fingers trail across my cheek again, brushing against the short trim of my beard. A faint smile touches her lips.

She isn't here for confession or guidance.

“You’re the first Black priest this parish has ever seen, Father,” she whispers, her voice thick with dark promise. “Everyone is dying to taste you.” She casually slips her handbag off her shoulder, letting it drop onto the desk behind her. “I want to be first.”

I let the silence linger, waiting to see how far her bold streak goes.

I want to see what she’s made of before I break her in.

She closes the last bit of space between us, pressing her lips against mine in a sudden, deep kiss. My arms slide around her waist, pulling her flush against my body. The turn of her hips feels eerily familiar—strikingly like her daughter, Calista.

A dark pride swells in my chest.

Her hands tangle into the hair at the back of my head, deepening the kiss, claiming my mouth.

I take control, lifting her effortlessly by her thighs and setting her onto the edge of the desk.

Then I break away from her lips, trailing my mouth down the arch of her neck while my fingers find the zipper at the back of her dress.

She arches her back to help me, and the teeth yield in one quick motion. I unhook her bra, sliding the fabric off her shoulders and pulling the bright yellow dress down to her waist.

Her chest spills free.

Christ.

She hardly looks like a mother of two. Her breasts are still full and firm, her skin smooth, with dark rose nipples.

I lean down, burying my face against her breasts, my lips closing around one.

She gasps, her fingers digging into my shoulders as her hips arch off the wood.

My left hand moves down her thigh, gathering the hem of her dress to slide it upward. She catches my wrist, her breathing uneven, her eyes half-lidded.

“Kiss me,” she whispers, her teeth gritting against the sensation. “Slowly.”

A dark smile touches my lips.

If this is what she wants, then so be it. I can worry about my discipline afterward.

I reach up, grab the silk scarf wrapped around her head, and pull it free, tossing it onto the floor.

Then I cover her mouth with mine again, my hands roaming her bare skin, gripping her waist as the kiss turns greedy and rough.

When I feel her body softening, slick and ready beneath my touch, I shove the dress up past her hips and push her lace panties aside. I undo my belt, unzipping my trousers to free myself.

Before I can push into her, her palm presses flat against my chest, stopping me short.

“My body is my best offering to you, Father,” she breathes, her chest heaving. “Promise me you won't leave me wanting when I need more.”

I pull out my cock and wrap my hand around it, positioning myself at her entrance. I lean closer until my hot breath brushes her lips.

“I’ll fill you until you want no more.”