Chapter 5 Pater Noster #2
‘Then pull down your dress and let me see your nipples. Let me see what this sinful desire does to your body.’
I freeze.
He exhales, and it’s the sound of a man pushed beyond all limits.
‘For the love of God. I said show me.’
* * *
It’s the need in his voice that undoes me.
Whatever he thinks he’s doing, it’s clear in this moment he’s simply a flesh-and-blood man.
I lift my hands and hook my fingers through the tiny straps of my dress, letting them fall from my shoulders. The entire dress slithers off my body, pooling where I’m kneeling. To all intents and purposes, I’m naked. Not that Fr Rafe can see much below my chest.
Those black eyes are fixated on my bare breasts. If he had any doubt that I was telling the truth about my arousal, it must be clear to him now.
‘Dear sweet Lord above,’ he groans, and the delicious anguish in his voice moves me. Tectonic plates shift beneath me. The air seems to swirl, to dance around me as he takes me in.
I wait.
‘Stand up,’ he orders. ‘As far back as you can, so I can see you.’
I get to my feet, stepping out of the heap of pooled silk and hitting the back wall of the booth.
It’s only a couple of feet back from where I was kneeling, but I hope it gives him a decent eyeful of my naked body.
I love nothing more than flesh against flesh, but the unwilling, anguished stare of this celibate man burns my skin like nothing else.
That it costs him so much to yield to this reaction he’s having to me has power and desire and yearning rushing, hot and heady, through my veins.
‘So beautiful,’ he says mournfully on an exhale. ‘I knew it. I knew as soon as you told me your terrible sins that you must have a face and body made to bring men to their knees. That you’d be so beautiful they’d turn their back on salvation without a backwards glance.’
I’m unclear on whether this is a compliment or a condemnation.
Probably both.
‘Show me how they touch you,’ he orders. ‘Show me how they play with your breasts.’
I bring my hands to my breasts and run a finger along the silky underside of each before cupping them gently. Then I allow myself to strum my aching nipples. The shot of pure pleasure to my clit has me inhaling sharply and arching my back.
‘How does that feel?’ he demands.
‘Amazing,’ I tell him.
‘Wrong?’
‘No.’ The pleasure I’m enjoying at my own hands has me forcing the point. ‘It feels far too good to be wrong.’
‘That’s where you’re mistaken, you poor little sinner,’ he says. ‘But I bet you like it when they pinch your nipples hard, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do it.’
I pinch the taut little buds. I roll them. I rub them. Jesus Christ, my fingers and his burning gaze have me hot as hell.
‘Do you let two men suck on them at once?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I tell him. I used to, anyway. ‘And it’s the best feeling in the world.’
Two mouths are better than one.
A wise man gave me a maths lesson once, and I’ve never forgotten it.
‘Let me,’ he says. His voice is rough. Full of heat and friction and raw, masculine need. ‘I need a taste. I need to know how you’ll feel between my lips as my teeth graze you and my tongue laves you as hard as it can. Come here. Stand up on the kneeler.’
I do as he says, and he scrambles to his feet. I lean forward so I can press my breasts against the fretwork. The diamonds are large-ish, probably a couple of inches across. I cup my breasts and feed my nipples through the holes.
He swipes a fingertip roughly over each nipple, his head dropping to the screen with a dull thud as he does.
The sensation of his hands on me is so perfect and so fleeting I gasp.
I lay my forehead against the wood, too, driven by a need to be as close as possible to him.
I can’t see his face clearly like this, but our breaths are mingling.
‘You’ve been in here two minutes,’ he rasps, ‘and already you’ve driven me to sin. You’re some kind of unholy siren, and I’m completely powerless against you. Look at you. Jesus Christ. I should be horrified by your wanton promiscuity, but I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life.’
He reaches up again and tweaks my nipples. Hard. Viciously, almost. I sense he means it as a punishment, or at least as retaliation for the effect I’m having on him, but his undoing is my undoing, and I arch into the staggering pleasure his touch gives me.
He keeps rubbing. Pinching. My nipples, which were sore in my first trimester and are now needy as fuck, send sharp jolts of arousal to my clit. I stand there, my forehead against the screen, my moans turning to whimpers as he works me relentlessly and my legs widening of their own accord.
Then he’s lifting his head and stooping and sealing his lips around one nipple as his fingers fondle the other.
He’s true to his promise. He snags my nipple lightly between his teeth as the flat of his tongue works over it roughly.
Desperately. He hums, low and hungrily, in the back of his throat. Mmm, he says. Mmm.
My hands claw at the fretwork. My fingers dig through it, but I can’t reach him. He breaks the seal of his mouth on my skin for a moment.
‘I bet this is making you sinfully wet in that greedy little pussy,’ he growls against my breast.
‘It is,’ I gasp. ‘So wet.’ Wet and achy and needy and empty. So empty. So bereft. It’s clear I won’t find salvation today, and I don’t care. Nothing matters in this moment except getting this beautiful, conflicted, agonised man’s hands and mouth and dick on and in every part of my body.
‘Give me a taste,’ he commands. ‘Slide a finger through that slick pussy and let me taste you.’
I do as he says, shuddering as my finger swipes through the parts of me that need so badly to be touched, violated, more thoroughly before sticking it through a diamond-shaped hole.
His mouth closes over it, hot and hungry, sucking me in hard as his teeth hold me in place and his taut tongue devours every last drop of my arousal. His mouth is so warm. So soft. I feel the power of his sucks everywhere. I need his mouth on my pussy more than I need oxygen.
He’s still working my other nipple with firm pinches and decadent sweeps and rolls of his fingers. I’m drowning and floating, my noises growing breathier and needier with every one of his ministrations.
And then he’s pulling away, leaving my finger cold and wet.
‘Look down,’ he orders.
The crown of his dick is poised at one of the diamonds, moisture beading alluringly at its tip.
I don’t think.
I don’t ask.
I kneel back down, and bend my head, and indulge in lavish sweeps of my tongue through the beads of liquid before swirling it around his red, angry crown.
‘Fuuuuuuck!’ he grits out, and the sound is helpless and furious and primal and so male that I practically pass out from the heady rush of power it gives me.
Next thing, he’s withdrawing, and stumbling noisily out of his booth, and dragging my curtain open, and grabbing me by the arm and onto my feet and out of the confessional.
I blink, not expecting to have been transported from a church to a bedroom where candlelight flickers intimately and a huge dark bed offers the opportunity for us to instantly alleviate our needs and purge ourselves of this ungodly desire.
We stare at each other. He’s fully dressed in his austere, all-black weekday ensemble, dog collar in place, but the infernal look in his eyes has him resembling Lucifer himself.
His eyes are bottomless black pits of sin; his facial expression more fraught with diabolical intent than I’ve seen on any of the other sinners with whom I’ve indulged in unspeakable acts.
He lowers his face to mine and snags my lower lip between his teeth, tugging at it before plunging his tongue into my mouth.
One hand goes to fist my hair at the nape of my neck and the other roams firmly, possessively over the skin of my stomach.
It reaches lower, lower, and I widen my stance in the hope that he’ll claim my pussy like this and give me what I need, but the man is too restrained, too self-controlled, for his own good or mine, because it stops just north of my tidy landing strip.
‘On your knees,’ he growls, releasing my mouth too soon.
But I sink to my knees gratefully, because if he won’t touch me, then at least I’ll have the pleasure of undoing him.
I’m ashamed to say he’s the greatest prize of all.
Not just on account of his stupendous looks, but because he doesn’t want to be won.
The others have all come willingly.
He’s been resisting, trying to hold himself off, and it’s arousing and adorable in equal measure.
I’m going to make it so good for him.
I’m going to make him forget his own name, let alone his vows.
I’m going to make every sin he commits tonight so worth his while that he can’t possibly find it in himself to repent.
His dick is poking out from under his shirt tails. I get my body as close to his as I can and rub my nipples against the abrasive fabric of his trousers.
And then I take him in my mouth.
God, he smells and tastes and feels amazing.
He’s huge and satiny and so fucking hard I’m almost scared on his behalf.
I’m worried about his ability to stay conscious with this much blood in his cock.
But he’s gripping the post at the foot of the bed for support with one hand as he winds my long hair around his other one.
I suck. I lick. I move my mouth over him as extravagantly as I can, and he growls. He groans. He pulls my hair.
My clit pulsates as I work him. My nipples throb. I need a seeing-to so badly it’s not funny. I pull away from him and look up. He’s staring down at me in a way that’s hopeless and ecstatic all in one.
‘Do you want me to swallow, Father?’ I ask, running a finger through his weeping slit. His dick twitches in my hand, and I smile to myself. ‘Or do you want to give me a pearl necklace? Because you can do what you like to me. You can use me however you want. I told you—I love that.’