Page 39 of Midnight Mass (Priest 1.50)
Tonight, we are here to play.
I slide closer to you, making a show of adjusting my skirt so that you can see the top of my stocking and the clip of my garter belt. Your breath catches and our gazes meet momentarily. Then you blink away and clear your throat. “I’m happy to give any guidance you might like.”
“And company too?” I let my hand drift over yours for the barest second before pulling it away. “I’m so lonely.”
“Your loneliness can be cured through worship. And discipline.” Your voice goes dangerous on that last word, and I shiver.
“Discipline?” I say in my breathiest voice, the one I know drives you mad.
“Spiritual discipline,” you clarify sternly.
I unfasten the top two buttons of my sheer white blouse, reaching past the expensive fabric to run my fingers along my neck. You watch those fingers with intensity, swallowing as I dip my fingers lower to trace along the lacy edges of my bra. I let my legs uncross and begin to fall open…
“Enough,” you say, truly stern now, those green eyes flashing. “Do you think it’s acceptable to tempt a man of God? To torment him?”
Torment him, torment him.
The words reverberate throughout the room, furious echoes coming back to rebuke me. Searing rage rolls off you in waves and you abruptly stand, the outline of that delicious cock straining against your pants. You grab my wrist and yank me roughly to my feet, dragging me away from the pew and into the wide center aisle, where you throw me onto my knees.
This is part of it, I know, a part we had discussed and set boundaries for. But your anger feels so real right now, and my blood is pounding with equal parts adrenaline and lust, and I can’t help but wonder if this fury you’re summoning comes from a real place, real memories. Did you feel like I was some sort of Jezebel come to torment you back when we first met? I often felt like I was, and sometimes I still feel like that. But as you’ve told me, where there’s guilt, there’s grace, and right now my grace is fisting a hand in my hair and forcing me to look up.
I smile—I can’t help it. You’re so fucking handsome and strong right now, so forbidden in that collar, and I love that you’re mine. I love it so damn much that it’s hard to breathe sometimes.
You frown at my smile. Your face is kinglike, displeased and radiating with power, and your pulse jumps on the side of your throat. “Is this amusing to you?” you demand, pulling my hair harder.
I wince but my smile recovers. I can’t help it, really. “I’m just happy,” I confess.
For a moment, your authoritative veneer thins and the sweet, tender man inside shines through it like a light. I know what I said has nestled itself against your heart. You give me an almost imperceptible wink followed by a swift grin, and then you’re back to business, back to your role as my personal sex apostle. “Are you happy to be on your knees?” you growl.
I nod, licking my lips.
You growl again, this time without words, the
hand not in my hair reaching for your belt buckle. With a few deft moves, your buckle and zipper are open and your fly is parted. Now my mouth really is watering, and you tease me, drawing out your cock but at first only tracing the tip along my lips, rubbing the underside of your shaft on my face. “Open,” you say, and I do. You shove in rough and hard, and I moan at the silky feel of your skin, the way my tongue can trace the wandering paths of your veins.
“You’re enjoying this,” you accuse. “Slut.”
Oh God. My panties. So wet at that one terrible word.
You withdraw, your cock jutting up wet and dark from your pants. “What to do with a bad girl who enjoys her punishments, hmm? I could fuck your mouth, but I already know you like that too much. I could fuck your cunt, but a whore like you would get off on that, wouldn’t she?”
Slut. Bad girl. Whore.
Awful words. Disrespectful words. But when the man I love calls me these things in private, my body responds enthusiastically.
You squat and reach under my skirt, impatiently nudging my knees farther apart with your hand. And then a finger is there, pushing aside my soaked panties and probing up. I gasp.
“So wet,” you say, disgusted. You add another finger, your thumb working on my clit, and I can feel how slippery my pussy is, how it’s making your skin slippery too. You know what you’re doing as you crook your fingers and press into my secret spot, but you still glare at me as my cunt clenches around your fingers and as I ride out the waves on your hand. Your dick is practically carved from granite right now, stone hard and darker than the rest of you. I can see beads of pre-cum leaking from the tip. I want to lick them.
You notice where my eyes are going. “No. You can’t have it.”
It’s hard to manage a pout while my body is still coming down from climax, but I do it, and I see the ghost of a smirk on your lips before you regain control. You stand up and grab my elbows, forcing me to my feet as well.
“It’s time to confess your sins, little one,” you say ominously. And then we’re going toward the confessional.
This is the most pre-meditated part of our night together—lube, baby wipes and a towel are tucked under the confessional bench—yet I find myself completely lost in the moment as you drag me to the small wooden stall.
You sit, still keeping hold of me, and then you spin me so that I’m facing away from you. My skirt is pulled down and my panties torn off (I’ve learned to buy cheap ones when I know I’ll be fucking you.) The garters and stockings stay.
