sensations. Powerful charges of euphoria blistered her with each caress. Justine bit the insides of her cheeks to stop herself from making any sound that might alert the parishioner that the priest was not alone. Sure any sigh she made would become a groan, she deliberately held her breath.
The priest spoke – low guttural French that she knew wasn’t addressed to her – and Justine managed to snatch a soft gasp of air beneath the volume of his words. His thumb continued to rub back and forth and she was dizzied by the ease with which he was increasing her excitement. The friction was tantalisingly soft – his touch was far more delicate than she would have imagined from someone so cruel and domineering – and her body hurtled toward a furious peak of orgasm.
The priest and penitent were involved in a mumbled exchange and, at the back of her mind, Justine reasoned that absolution and terms of penance were being given. But she couldn’t properly concentrate on anything beyond the swirl of giddy delight that flowered from her pussy. The priest’s fingers slid lightly back and forth and the tips stroked softly on a pad of super-sensitive flesh inside her sex. His thumb continued to wring whorls of joy from her clitoris and her inner muscles turned to a syrupy smouldering fluid.
The onset of orgasm struck her with cruel haste and she tried to hold herself rigid in the facile belief that she could contain the explosion. A panicked perspiration drenched her body; her cheeks flushed crimson; and she tensed every muscle in an effort to stave off the bliss of climax.
‘ Merci, mon Père ,’ the penitent whispered.
The priest grunted a noncommittal sound and Justine listened as the grille was pulled closed. Through the flimsy wall of the confessional she heard the door being opened and knew the parishioner was going out into the church. She still didn’t dare to make any sound but, now that he was out of earshot, she allowed herself to breathe and suffer the searing climax that the priest had wrung from her. A wealth of tingling joy tumbled through her frame and the waves of glorious satisfaction shivered from her pussy.
‘Dirty bastard,’ the priest mumbled.
He was glancing toward the grille and Justine realised he was talking about the parishioner. Curiosity made her want to ask what the man’s confession had been but she didn’t dare voice that question. There were already sounds coming from behind the grille. The shuffling of feet, and movement of the small grille, alerted them both to the presence of the next penitent.
‘ Père, pardonnez-moi car j’ai péché .’
It was a woman’s voice. Justine strained to see the shape of her silhouette but the booth was too dark. Before she could fix her efforts on gleaning something discernible from the woman, the priest had encouraged his parishioner to speak. As she began to babble fluently in a sensuous French dialect, he started to lower his face down Justine’s body.
She held herself motionless.
Her breasts ached to be touched but he seemed deliberately to ignore their demands. His tongue traced a snail-trail down her chest, over her stomach, and toward her cleft. The two fingers he had pushed into her pussy remained deep inside and, when his tongue connected with the outer lips of her sex, he wriggled them gently.
Justine opened her eyes wide. She almost choked in her urgency not to make any sound as he lapped daintily at her labia and fired her sex with fresh blisters of bliss. Placing gentle kisses against her pussy, fuelling her with an insatiable need to feel his fingers tickle deep against the neck of her womb, he occasionally interrupted the penitent while rubbing his nose against Justine’s clitoris.
‘ Le mari de ma soeur ,’ the woman mumbled.
Justine thought she understood the words but her attention was more directed toward the delicious havoc being wrought in her sex. The threat of another orgasm blossomed quickly and she writhed subtly
The priest spoke – low guttural French that she knew wasn’t addressed to her – and Justine managed to snatch a soft gasp of air beneath the volume of his words. His thumb continued to rub back and forth and she was dizzied by the ease with which he was increasing her excitement. The friction was tantalisingly soft – his touch was far more delicate than she would have imagined from someone so cruel and domineering – and her body hurtled toward a furious peak of orgasm.
The priest and penitent were involved in a mumbled exchange and, at the back of her mind, Justine reasoned that absolution and terms of penance were being given. But she couldn’t properly concentrate on anything beyond the swirl of giddy delight that flowered from her pussy. The priest’s fingers slid lightly back and forth and the tips stroked softly on a pad of super-sensitive flesh inside her sex. His thumb continued to wring whorls of joy from her clitoris and her inner muscles turned to a syrupy smouldering fluid.
The onset of orgasm struck her with cruel haste and she tried to hold herself rigid in the facile belief that she could contain the explosion. A panicked perspiration drenched her body; her cheeks flushed crimson; and she tensed every muscle in an effort to stave off the bliss of climax.
‘ Merci, mon Père ,’ the penitent whispered.
The priest grunted a noncommittal sound and Justine listened as the grille was pulled closed. Through the flimsy wall of the confessional she heard the door being opened and knew the parishioner was going out into the church. She still didn’t dare to make any sound but, now that he was out of earshot, she allowed herself to breathe and suffer the searing climax that the priest had wrung from her. A wealth of tingling joy tumbled through her frame and the waves of glorious satisfaction shivered from her pussy.
‘Dirty bastard,’ the priest mumbled.
He was glancing toward the grille and Justine realised he was talking about the parishioner. Curiosity made her want to ask what the man’s confession had been but she didn’t dare voice that question. There were already sounds coming from behind the grille. The shuffling of feet, and movement of the small grille, alerted them both to the presence of the next penitent.
‘ Père, pardonnez-moi car j’ai péché .’
It was a woman’s voice. Justine strained to see the shape of her silhouette but the booth was too dark. Before she could fix her efforts on gleaning something discernible from the woman, the priest had encouraged his parishioner to speak. As she began to babble fluently in a sensuous French dialect, he started to lower his face down Justine’s body.
She held herself motionless.
Her breasts ached to be touched but he seemed deliberately to ignore their demands. His tongue traced a snail-trail down her chest, over her stomach, and toward her cleft. The two fingers he had pushed into her pussy remained deep inside and, when his tongue connected with the outer lips of her sex, he wriggled them gently.
Justine opened her eyes wide. She almost choked in her urgency not to make any sound as he lapped daintily at her labia and fired her sex with fresh blisters of bliss. Placing gentle kisses against her pussy, fuelling her with an insatiable need to feel his fingers tickle deep against the neck of her womb, he occasionally interrupted the penitent while rubbing his nose against Justine’s clitoris.
‘ Le mari de ma soeur ,’ the woman mumbled.
Justine thought she understood the words but her attention was more directed toward the delicious havoc being wrought in her sex. The threat of another orgasm blossomed quickly and she writhed subtly
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