It was so wrong.
So, so wrong.
Yet you couldn't help yourself.
He was beautiful. His dark brown hair. His stormy blue eyes. His full lips. And his hands, oh my God, those hands.
The way he spoke, the words so seamless. The timbre of his voice. You couldn't control the sinful thoughts every Sunday morning. You wanted to, you knew it was bad.
But you couldn't.
Confession was torture. How could you possibly tell this man the truth, that you lusted over him? That you thought about him when you were alone. That you imagined how his lips would feel on your skin?
How those long fingers could bring you so much pleasure?
You couldn't, so you lied.
That made it worse. The guilt ate at you. You were supposed to be a good girl. A good Catholic girl. Not here, sinning so deeply, fantasizing about the priest.
And to top it off? It's like he knew. His eyes and touches would linger a bit too long for your liking. His voice would drop an octave when he spoke to you. His gaze would trail over your body, leaving you weak in the knees.
But he couldn't know, could he?
No, he was a man of the cloth. A man or God. A good, chaste man. He'd never lead you on. He'd never lead you into temptation. He'd never think unclean thoughts about you. So you tried to push it out of your mind.
You tried.
Really you did.
Yet here you were. Underneath him. Panting, breathing heavily. Moaning his name over and over like some kind of sinful prayer. He reached deeper and deeper and it still wasn't enough for you. You needed more.
And it was like he knew.
Again, like he could read your mind.
He lifted your legs over his shoulders, gripping your thighs tight enough, sure to leave bruises. And you didn't mind. No, the carnal pleasure was too much. It clouded your mind, every thought, every word was incoherent.
"You feel like pure heaven," he panted, leaning over to kiss at your breasts, taking his time, swirling his tongue over the buds, almost as if he needed so badly to taste you. "So sweet...," he moaned against you and you whimpered, carding your fingers through his hair.
"So desperate...so needy, aren't you?," he teased, lifting your hips just enough, repeatedly hitting your g-spot, making you scream out. He slapped his hand over your mouth, muffling the sounds. "Don't want anyone else to hear those sounds," he whispered and you nodded.
"Oh no, sweetheart. Those are for my ears only."
He picked up speed, sweat rolling down the sides of his face. You looked up into his eyes, the blue almost completely gone. He looked completely wrecked and you couldn't help but whine at the sight. Your priest, you had him. He had you.
It was the ultimate sin. The sounds that filled the room, skin on skin. The sound of him pushing in and out of your wet heat. The moans, the whimpers. Begging for more. Oh, you needed more. "Oh God!...," you cried out, nearly reaching your release and he slapped his hand over your mouth once more.
"There's no God here," he breathed in your ear, "not right now, little girl." You whimpered again, one more hard thrust of his hips, his lips pressed against your neck, and your release washed over you, digging your nails into his back, sure to leave marks.
"Hold on, sweetheart," he panted and you could feel him twitching inside you, knowing he was close. His hips stuttered, unintelligible words fell from his lips and you so badly wanted to kiss them.
"Hold on...," he repeated, the wrecked tone nearly causing you to cum again. "Oh baby...oh fuck," he whined, a blissed out look on his face, cumming with a loud shout, his fingers digging into your hips deeper.
You laid together for awhile, unsure of what would happen now, eventually falling asleep in his strong arms. He woke you, softly kissing at your neck, setting you on fire again. "Wake up, beautiful...," he whispered in your ear.
"Let me take you to church again."
