new a discovery to her as the works of de Sade and the pleasure was a revelation. The mental pictures of how she had satisfied her needs were so clear Justine feared they would glow like a TV screen in the dark and allow the priest to see exactly what she had been doing. The shame of sharing those private moments made her lips burn with fresh wetness.
He began to tell her about the severity of the sins she had committed .
And, while he spoke, Justine had been appalled to discover she was touching herself. It was only a surreptitious contact – the slightest caress of her hand against her crotch – but it was enough to have her teetering on the brink of climax. She struggled to stifle a shiver and bit back the urge to cry out with joy .
The priest told her to pray for guidance. He advised avoiding such unpalatable literature in future and suggested she should never commit the sin of self-pleasure ever again. Justine had continued to touch herself while she listened, aware that she wasn’t going to follow any of his advice. She could see no point in praying for guidance because she already knew what she wanted. Her interest in de Sade was still voracious and she vowed to read everything he had ever written. And it would do no good to promise that she would never pleasure herself again because her body was already teetering on the brink of orgasm. Embarrassed, frustrated and confused, Justine had fled from the confessional booth.
* * *
Listening to the heavy sigh of the penitent on the other side of the grille, Justine realised this was the first time she had attended confession since that moment.
The priest raised a finger to his lips and fixed Justine with a warning glare that told her to remain silent. In a soft, almost understanding voice, he addressed his parishioner. Justine didn’t want to hear what was being said but she knew she had no option except to remain where she was until the priest allowed her to escape. Frightened of being overheard, she held her breath and closed her eyes as the priest encouraged the penitent to continue. She half-expected to be held in a purgatory of stillness and silence until the final confession had been heard, and she braced herself for the prospect of an hour or more of sitting in one place and suffering the priest’s invasive nearness.
But, when the priest pushed two fingers into her pussy, she realised she had underestimated the torment he wanted to inflict. The sudden intrusion came without warning and was far more than she had expected. Both digits slipped easily into her wetness and slid up to the knuckle and beyond. His hands were large, the fingers broad, and she didn’t think the small hole of her cleft had been designed to accommodate such widths without some sort of preparation.
It took every effort not to shriek in protest.
She clutched her hands against her thighs and tried not to move as he urged his fingers deeper. Rather than give in to the need to make an exclamation, she buried her fingernails into the soft flesh of her inner thighs and grimaced against the pleasurable onslaught of arousal. Her teeth were clenched tight together and her brow was furrowed as she concentrated on remaining silent.
The penitent babbled in a low and understated tone. Justine couldn’t catch a decipherable word but it only took one glance at the priest and she knew he understood every syllable. Even without any knowledge of French she could hear the inflection of guilt in the man’s tone and, again, she was tormented by the knowledge that she shouldn’t be desecrating the privacy of the confessional booth.
The priest wriggled his fingers inside her cleft.
A flurry of delicious sensations bristled through her sex and made her long to cry out in delight. As well as having two thick fingers buried deep in her wetness, the priest had started to rub his thumb against her clitoris. The stimulation wasn’t subtle but her body was now beyond the need for mild
He began to tell her about the severity of the sins she had committed .
And, while he spoke, Justine had been appalled to discover she was touching herself. It was only a surreptitious contact – the slightest caress of her hand against her crotch – but it was enough to have her teetering on the brink of climax. She struggled to stifle a shiver and bit back the urge to cry out with joy .
The priest told her to pray for guidance. He advised avoiding such unpalatable literature in future and suggested she should never commit the sin of self-pleasure ever again. Justine had continued to touch herself while she listened, aware that she wasn’t going to follow any of his advice. She could see no point in praying for guidance because she already knew what she wanted. Her interest in de Sade was still voracious and she vowed to read everything he had ever written. And it would do no good to promise that she would never pleasure herself again because her body was already teetering on the brink of orgasm. Embarrassed, frustrated and confused, Justine had fled from the confessional booth.
* * *
Listening to the heavy sigh of the penitent on the other side of the grille, Justine realised this was the first time she had attended confession since that moment.
The priest raised a finger to his lips and fixed Justine with a warning glare that told her to remain silent. In a soft, almost understanding voice, he addressed his parishioner. Justine didn’t want to hear what was being said but she knew she had no option except to remain where she was until the priest allowed her to escape. Frightened of being overheard, she held her breath and closed her eyes as the priest encouraged the penitent to continue. She half-expected to be held in a purgatory of stillness and silence until the final confession had been heard, and she braced herself for the prospect of an hour or more of sitting in one place and suffering the priest’s invasive nearness.
But, when the priest pushed two fingers into her pussy, she realised she had underestimated the torment he wanted to inflict. The sudden intrusion came without warning and was far more than she had expected. Both digits slipped easily into her wetness and slid up to the knuckle and beyond. His hands were large, the fingers broad, and she didn’t think the small hole of her cleft had been designed to accommodate such widths without some sort of preparation.
It took every effort not to shriek in protest.
She clutched her hands against her thighs and tried not to move as he urged his fingers deeper. Rather than give in to the need to make an exclamation, she buried her fingernails into the soft flesh of her inner thighs and grimaced against the pleasurable onslaught of arousal. Her teeth were clenched tight together and her brow was furrowed as she concentrated on remaining silent.
The penitent babbled in a low and understated tone. Justine couldn’t catch a decipherable word but it only took one glance at the priest and she knew he understood every syllable. Even without any knowledge of French she could hear the inflection of guilt in the man’s tone and, again, she was tormented by the knowledge that she shouldn’t be desecrating the privacy of the confessional booth.
The priest wriggled his fingers inside her cleft.
A flurry of delicious sensations bristled through her sex and made her long to cry out in delight. As well as having two thick fingers buried deep in her wetness, the priest had started to rub his thumb against her clitoris. The stimulation wasn’t subtle but her body was now beyond the need for mild
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