Chapter 77 A sexy priest : Confession (2)
She looked utterly ruined and utterly beautiful.
He tangled his fingers in her hair and used her until his balls drew up tight, then yanked out at the last second.
“Not in your mouth,” he rasped. “Not tonight.”
He hauled her up, spun her around, and bent her over the confessional bench.
Her skirt was still rucked around her waist, ass bare and perfect. He kicked her feet wider.
“Hands on the wall. Don’t move them.”
She braced herself, forehead pressed to the wood, shaking.
He dragged the head of his cock through her slick folds once, twice, coating himself.
“Tell me what you want, Sophia.”
Her voice broke. “I want you inside me, Father. Please.”
“Beg like you mean it.”
“Please, Father Elias, please fuck me. Cleanse me. I’ll do anything.”
He slammed into her in one brutal thrust.
She screamed into her forearm to muffle it. He gave her no time to adjust, just gripped her hips and set a punishing rhythm.
The confessional creaked and rocked with every stroke.
Her pussy clenched around him like a fist, so tight he saw stars.
“Fuck, yes, take it. Take God’s cock like the greedy little sinner you are.”
Sophia’s moans turned into broken sobs of pleasure.
He reached around and found her clit, rubbing hard circles until her whole body seized.
“Come for me now,” he snarled.
She shattered, walls spasming around him, a gush of wetness soaking his balls.
The sight of her coming undone pushed him over.
He buried himself to the hilt and spilled deep inside her, pulse after pulse, marking her in the most profane way possible.
For a long moment the only sound was their ragged breathing.
He pulled out slowly, watching his cum drip down her thighs. She stayed bent over, trembling.
Gently now, he turned her and tucked her against his chest, stroking her hair.
“You did so well, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You’re forgiven.”
Sophia clung to him, face hidden against his cassock. “Will… will I need to confess again next week?”
He smiled into her hair and pressed a kiss to her temple.
“Every week,” he said. “Until you’re absolutely pure.”
A sexy priest : Baptism
The baptismal font stood at the back of the empty church, a deep marble pool fed by an ancient spring.
Moonlight slanted through the high windows and turned the water silver.
Father Elias had dismissed the parishioners hours ago; only he and Isabella remained.
Isabella was twenty-one, newly returned from university for the Easter vigil.
She had asked for a private adult baptism full immersion, the old way.
Elias had agreed with a smile that never reached his eyes.
Now she stood at the edge of the pool in the traditional white baptismal robe, barefoot, hair loose down her back.
The garment was modest enough dry, high neck, long sleeves, falling to her ankles but Elias had chosen the thinnest linen the sacristy owned.
He had known exactly what would happen when it met water.
“Step in, child,” he said, voice echoing softly under the vaulted ceiling.
Isabella obeyed. The water lapped at her calves, her thighs, her waist as she descended the three shallow steps.
When it reached her chest she turned to him, expectant.
Elias rolled up the sleeves of his cassock and waded in after her, the black cloth floating like oil around his legs.
He placed one hand on her forehead, the other at the small of her back.
“Isabella Maria Rossi, do you renounce Satan and all his works?”
“I do,” she whispered.
He pushed.
She went under completely, robe billowing like a jellyfish before the weight of the water dragged it down.
When he pulled her up, gasping, back into the air, the transformation was instant and devastating.
The white linen had turned transparent. It clung to every curve, every breath.
Beneath it she wore only a pale-pink string bikini, two tiny triangles over her breasts, another barely covering the slit between her legs.
The soaked fabric of the robe molded to her skin so perfectly that the bikini might as well have been painted on.
Her nipples, stiff from cold and nerves, poked obscenely against the cloth.
The neckline of the robe had slipped during the immersion; one breast was almost completely exposed, only the edge of the pink cup keeping it from spilling free.
Isabella’s hands flew up to cover herself, cheeks flaming.
“Father, I, I didn’t know it would…”
Elias caught her wrists and forced them gently but firmly back to her sides.
“You came to be cleansed wearing this?” His voice was velvet over steel. “Pink satin, cut like a harlot’s? You dare stand before God half-naked?”
Tears welled in her eyes. “It was the only clean bathing suit I had. I thought the robe would…”
“The robe,” he interrupted, “is meant to symbolize purity. You have defiled the sacrament.”
He stepped closer. Water dripped from his lashes. “There is only one way to correct this.”
Isabella tried to back away, but the edge of the pool stopped her. “Please, Father, I’ll go change…”
“No.” He cupped her chin, tilting her face up. “You will receive corrections here. Now.”
Before she could speak again, he hooked his fingers on the neckline of the ruined robe and ripped.
The wet fabric tore easily down the front, peeling away to reveal the scandalous bikini in full.
Isabella cried out, arms crossing over her chest, but Elias caught her wrists again and pinned them behind her back with one hand.
With the other he traced the edge of the pink triangle covering her left breast.
“So small,” he murmured. “Barely containing you.”
He tugged the cup down. Her breast spilled out, heavy and perfect, nipple dark rose against pale skin.
Cold air and his stare made it pebble tighter.
He bent and took it into his mouth without warning, sucking hard.
Isabella’s head fell back, a broken moan echoing off stone.
He moved to the other breast, freeing it the same way, until both cups hung useless beneath her chest and her breasts were completely exposed, wet and gleaming.
Water trickled down her stomach and disappeared into the tiny bikini bottoms.
Elias straightened. His cassock clung to his thighs, the ridge of his erection unmistakable.
He released her wrists only to spin her around and bend her over the marble rim of the pool.
The position thrust her ass upward; the pink string disappeared between her cheeks.
“Count the strokes,” he ordered, voice rough. “Ten for vanity. Ten for disobedience.”
His palm cracked against her wet skin. The sound ricocheted like a gunshot. Isabella yelped.
“One,” she sobbed.
He didn’t hold back. Each slap turned her ass pinker, then red.
Water splashed with every blow. By fifteen she was crying openly, but her hips had begun to roll back to meet his hand.
At twenty he stopped. His fingers slipped between her thighs and found the bikini bottoms soaked through not just from the font.
He pulled the strings at her hips; the scrap of pink fell away.
“Look at you,” he growled. “Dripping like a whore in church.”