Authors: Lisette Ashton
But the priest was either oblivious to the approaching strangers or unmindful of being discovered. He continued to ride in and out, holding her hips with renewed force and virtually shaking her to and fro as he came close to his own climax. ‘Finish it, you little harlot,’ he demanded. There was so much force in his words that Justine could feel them trembling along the length of the shaft in her pussy. ‘Finish it now!’
‘
Amen
,’ she gasped.
He ejaculated as soon as she released the last word.
The throbbing of his muscle triggered her own orgasm and she revelled in a multitude of bliss as his shaft pumped urgently into her confines. The hot fluid of his spend thrilled her with its warmth and made her ache from the bombardment of pleasure. She gripped more tightly onto the feet of the Madonna, not sure if she was still praying or merely basking in the aftermath of the most depraved climax she had ever enjoyed. Her heartbeat raced faster than ever and she faltered giddily as she tried to remain standing while the eddies of joy continued to wash through her sex.
The waves of delight only began to recede as the night’s cool chill took control of her body. When she thought she had enough strength to control her legs, Justine pulled herself from the Dupont memorial. After all that she had just endured, she thought it would have been impossible to contain the shiver of disgust that wanted to tremble through her frame.
The priest tugged his spent length from her pussy and hid it back inside his cassock. When Justine dared to glance at him he was considering her with an expression that she hadn’t seen him wear before. Aside from the contempt, which she guessed might be a permanent attribute to his face, she could see a tinge of something else in his surly smile.
A part of her wanted to believe she was seeing his grudging acceptance but she warned herself against being too optimistic. From the little she had gleaned so far, Justine knew she was expected to have her suitability tested by three representatives of the manuscript’s seller. Common sense told her it would be simpler if, rather than trying to pre-guess her tormentors, she just did as she was told. It would certainly make life easier if she stopped trying to find signs of approval in their every facial expression.
The priest shook his head and then snapped his fingers as he turned his back on her. Considering his businesslike attitude and cool demeanour, Justine found it hard to believe the man had just been riding her pussy with such brutal vigour. His indifference inspired another rush of loathsome excitement and she lowered her gaze and blushed.
‘Come back to the church,’ he demanded. ‘Do not bother collecting your clothes. They should still be out here when I have finished with you.’
He said something else but the combination of his thick accent, and the fact that he had his back to her, made Justine uncertain about what he had said. For a bizarre moment, she had thought he was demanding she join him while he listened to the confessions of his parishioners.
‘You’ll remain silent while you’re in here,’ the priest whispered.
Justine nodded.
She was still naked, and silently fretting about the clothes she had left in the cemetery, but the idea of disobeying him was no longer an issue. Cramped into the claustrophobic confines of the confessional her body was pressed tight against his. She held herself rigid, trying to keep her breath below a whisper, and perpetually glancing toward the grilled window that separated her and the priest from the penitent’s half of the box.
‘Make a sound and I’ll deem you unworthy,’ the priest pressed.
His mouth was over her ear. Every word he muttered was deafening in the silence and thrilled her with his warmth and nearness. Over one breast she could feel the chilly weight of his silver pectoral cross resting against her flesh. Although it was icy cold against the sweat of her skin, she felt sure the crucifix should be burning her for the irreverence she had already shown.
‘Speak, groan or sigh and you will never get your hands on
La Coste
,’ he growled. ‘Do you understand?’
Despising the injustice of that condition, Justine glared at him. But, in the dark confines of the confessional, she felt sure he didn’t see. The sound of movement from the penitent’s side of the confessional made them both start. The grilled window shifted and its rasp made Justine want to squeal in surprise. The silhouette of a stranger’s face loomed behind the grille of the small opening.
‘
Père, pardonnez-moi car j’ai péché
.’
Justine swallowed, understanding the sentiment even though she didn’t know the words. She supposed it was the same apology spoken by her fellow Catholics throughout the world:
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned
. Thoughts of her sacrilege turned to guilt and unease as she realised she would be listening to the confession of the man on the other side of the grille. She tried to calm her anxiety with the argument that she couldn’t understand what the penitent was saying. But nothing would sway her thoughts from the knowledge that she was somewhere she shouldn’t be and doing something she shouldn’t do.
It was all too easy to remember the last time she had been to confession. The event had happened so long ago it should have been forgotten, but she supposed the musty scent of the confessional booth and the feelings of guilt and anxiety were enough to bring it back with vivid force.
* * *
‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’
The priest on the other side of the booth encouraged her to continue
.
Justine pressed her thighs together, despising the guilt and hating the fact that she had to admit to what had happened. She swallowed, straightened her back, and felt sick when she realised her nipples stood erect. The slightest movement made her blouse rub against the sensitive tips. Her cheeks turned crimson in the dark and she momentarily forgot what she had been about to say
.
With only the subtlest inflection of impatience, the priest again encouraged her to continue
.
‘I’ve been having improper thoughts,’ she said quickly. The silence that lingered between them stretched out until Justine expanded on her sin. ‘For part of my university course I’ve been studying the work of the Marquis de Sade. I had to read one of his volumes and I found the words…’ She blushed deeper – unfastened a button at her collar and then fastened it again – and tried to find the courage to say the word to the priest behind the grille. ‘I found the words…’
‘Arousing?’ the priest suggested
.
She considered his suggestion for a moment, sure that it said what she hadn’t been able to say but certain it didn’t go far enough. The word arousing didn’t explain the urgent and overwhelming rush of desire that she had suffered while reading. Nor did it impart the sensations of unsatisfied lust that she wanted to fulfil. But, with a shameful heat smouldering between her legs, Justine couldn’t think of another word that would suffice. She drew a deep breath, nodded, then said softly, ‘Yes, Father. It was arousing.’
‘Have you sinned because of what you read?’
‘Yes.’
‘With someone else?’
Her thighs were crushed together so hard the muscles began to ache. Even thinking about de Sade’s writing was enough to make her sweat with a fresh and hungry need for satisfaction. Talking about the subject, particularly talking about it with a priest, evoked a furiously exciting shame. ‘Not with someone else,’ she confided. She had never spoken so quietly in the confessional. ‘Just on my own.’ Saying the words conjured up the memory of the hours she had spent teasing her sex, filling herself with dildos and wallowing in the sweated bliss of bitter climaxes. Masturbation was as 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 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.