Slightly distracted by her raised eyebrow, I continue, “I don’t like to sleep my Sunday away…”
I’m even more distracted by how she’s checking off each of my points in the air.
“None of this lazy Sunday morning, brunch at two, got it?”
Her dark eyes shine. One last check mark. “Got it.”
We’ll see.
She said she got it. So now I roll over, look into her sleeping face, her expression fetching and proud, her brow furrowing even in sleep, and consider my possibilities. She has this edge about her—not completely hard yet deeply masculine. This is the edge where my lust resides. She is not exactly my opposite but rather my complement: thuddy biker boots to my strappy Fluevog heels, bien morena to my slightly lighter hue, the curve of her biceps to that of my hips. Her masculinity takes my high femme to greater heights. Our complementary natures play into each other, coloring outside of the lines. We look real good together. More importantly, we feel exquisite.
I start to go in for a kiss but just before disturbing her sleeping lips, I decide on a different tactic and roll over once again. I slowly back up, deliberately pressing my ass up against her boxers; gently at first, then with just enough pressure so that she’ll start to get the idea. She grumbles a slight groan.
10:41. Shit, I’ve got to work faster. I take hold of her free hand, interlace my fingers with hers and draw her fingertips across my skin skirting the edge of my panties, gliding up my chest, grabbing one breast firmly, dragging her palm across my erect nipple and finally bringing her fingers up to my mouth. It’s just two fingertips; at first my tongue teases them—I can tell she’s definitely awake now but not quite yet there—then I lick down the crack between the two, tracing back up and sliding both into my mouth. I suck and work my tongue, all the while still pressing back into her, as she’s now beginning to press into me, moaning as though it were her cock instead of her fingers that I’ve wrapped my tongue around.
10:45. I’m a little later than I’d like to be…but this’ll work. I run her moistened fingers back down along my chest. Teasing time is over. I slip the thin strap of lace on my panties to the side and guide her fingers into my already wet cunt. As I inhale audibly, she positions herself to take control, her teeth digging into my shoulder and then growls, “Fuck, baby, what’s got you going this morning? Still reeling from last night?”
Perhaps, but that’s not what’s made me quite so wet this morning in particular, though I don’t dare tell her that. Instead of playing along with her game, I make it clear that I’m in no mood to talk, arch my hips and slam myself down on her fingers. She’s quickly forgotten she ever asked me a question in the first place, scooting down to get better leverage, fucking me harder, deeper.
10:55. Perfect.
She knows exactly how to work my pussy—how to get me going like no other and get me off such that my mind stops its obsessive running and I practically forget my name. I’m getting incredibly close now—the timing has seemed to work out to my advantage…until I hear her say, “Baby, I need to fuck you with my cock….”
10:58. Fuck.
“N-n-n-n-n-no…keep going… Please don’t stop please…”
She looks down at me with that half-cocked grin. “Darlin’, you know how I love it when you beg, but Papi knows best and, trust me, I definitely need to fuck you with my cock. My hard-on is raging.” She’s already flipped her legs over the side of the bed and is rummaging deep into the pant legs of her jeans to find last night’s discarded strap-on.
10:59. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I flicker my eyes closed and take a deep breath just as she steals a glance back at me—did she see my eyes start to roll back? It doesn’t matter now because the bells begin to toll and I try desperately to regain my composure.
Ding-dong. I bite my lip. Ding-dong. Squeeze my thighs together. Ding-dong. Suck in more air. Ding-dong. Bite down harder. Ding-dong. My hips involuntarily raise…just…barely… But it’s too late—a slight whimper escapes my lips. Ding-dong. I’m greeted by her eyes penetrating me. Ding-dong. Shit, she’s been watching the entire time. Ding-dong.
She cocks her head, taking in the sound in the distance; it’s finally striking her what’s going on. “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”
“I—I…what?” Fuckin’ stammering—it’s my tell. “No…”
“Yes. Yes, you are. You’re fucking getting off on those church bells tolling.” I see an explosion of thought as her eyes light up with a wildness, her brain going crazy with where she wants to take this.
This. My…secret.
Ever since the first time I faked sick (when I was not quite yet done with my morning session, my mother walked in on me, saw my face flushed, my forehead sweaty and hot, and, lucky for me, immediately decided that I must be coming down with something), I’ve eroticized those bells. In my bed, alone again at last (“We’ll be home soon,” my mother said, as she closed the door behind her), I started over what had previously been interrupted. It wasn’t long before I heard those church bells tolling from several blocks away and I was coming harder than ever…Ridden with Catholic guilt, I thought of all the parishioners entering the church, dipping fingertips into the holy water, making themselves pure with the sign of the cross, finishing it off with a besito, first finger crossed over the thumb…all the while I was here, my hand down my panties, doing extremely impure things to myself.
I learned two lessons that morning: 1) Being made to wait (no matter the reason) for my orgasm made me come all the harder; 2) I was a very dirty girl. (I would discover later in life just how dirty I was, gain language and lovers to assist in the process and fully submit to my filthy role-playing desires. But I’d never before allowed any of said lovers access to this particular, very peculiar turn-on.)
11:01. Normally I’m coming right now, thrashing about in the sheets, my body a creature of habit; after so many years it’s more than difficult to control. My lover is staring down at me, grinning wickedly as she reads it all over me—witnessing just how hard it is for me to stave off that orgasm. I’m her own personal open-fuckin’-book and she’s enjoying the read just a little too much.
“Go put on your uniform.” Before I can even protest, drop to my knees, do anything to distract her (she’s getting to know me a little too well), she gives me that stern look that always makes me weak (obedient) and raises her eyebrows with the Am-I-really-going-to-have-to-say-it-again? look and I’m up, heading toward the closet.
She’s creative as hell when it comes to this stuff and quick as fuck, I can tell her mind has taken off into a full sprint as she leaves the room to collect whatever props she can find that will help bring the swiftly mounting fantasy in her head to life. She looked into my mind through my body’s divulgences, revealed my secret and immediately ran with it, didn’t even hesitate for a second. If she had, I would have feared judgment; instead I feel completely at ease, protected and cherished. Her presence and demeanor make this place safe for me. Of course she wants to go there with me.
Wondering just what she’ll come up with, I finish pulling off my red lacy thong (definitely not part of the uniform) and I’m about to switch it out with the white cotton panties when it hits me and I slide the more scandalous version back on. Sure, we’ve played around with the naughty schoolgirl fantasy plenty… but never before have we done any specifically Catholic play…and I have a feeling this defiance might just bring it to another level.
When my lover reenters the room, dressed in head-to-toe black with a white “collar”—Where the hell did she get that?—I’m taken aback and only slightly scandalized that with her short, dark hair slicked back like that and her confident, broad-shouldered stance, she takes on a surprising resemblance to Padre José Manuel, the priest of my childhood who insisted that we all call him Padre Manolo. This role-play wouldn’t work for me if it weren’t for the queer masculinity she brings to it. Never once had I thought of Padre Manolo in an erotic way, but because it is my lover p
laying at this, the role of priest is suddenly turned on its head, queered, and hence, exciting. Since she already looks the part, I decide to go with it, excitedly running up to her, calling out, “Padre Manolo! Padre Manolo!”
I’m met with a sinister grin. “No, my child. Your beloved Manolito is not here today. I will have to be the one who hears your confession.”
“My…?”
“Yes, my dear, your confession. I noted your absence at Mass this morning and yet, here you are, standing before me in good health. I presume you have much to confess.”
Dumbfounded and delighted, I struggle to find the words. “Uhh…yes…um, yes, Father,” I answer finally, bowing my head, my face hot with shame. I can tell that for her this is surface-level fun, but it strikes a deeper chord with me. She knows her way around the traditions from her studies, whereas with me, this was part of my culture growing up. It’s weighty and charged. And her detachment makes it all the hotter.
“Well, it’s good that you came.” She lays one hand firmly on my shoulder. “Let’s go into my private study.” I’m led into the office where she has created the desired scene, having cleared my desk completely. Suddenly changed, the room seems quite sparse. He closes the door, turns the lock and answers my questioning look, “So that we won’t be disturbed. Have a seat.” His tone, presence, his very nature contribute to how he queers gender, or any role he takes on, so delectably.
I sit opposite the desk and he pulls the bigger chair around, sitting down right at my side, such that he can look closely into my face. “Now tell me, my child, why you weren’t at Mass this morning.”
“Umm…well…my mom…she, um…she thought I was sick.”
“And why would she think that? You appear to be a vision of health.”
“Uhh…I don’t know…” I mumble.
More forcefully he continues, gaining momentum with each word, “Now, that simply cannot be the case. Clearly there must have been a reason. She wouldn’t just make up an illness to keep her daughter from going to church. Your mother is a devout Catholic woman, certainly she doesn’t want her daughter to go to hell!”
Seeing that I’m practically cowering in fear by this point, he takes a breath and starts over, more calmly, “My dear, I know that you are a good, Catholic girl at heart and you wouldn’t ever want to do anything to jeopardize your place in the Eternal Kingdom of Heaven with Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Savior, now would you?” I shake my head slowly. So he continues in a soothing tone, “Good. That’s very good. And so you know, as a good girl, that you must confess to me, right?” While I nod my head shyly, he goes on, “And that means you must tell me everything. All of your sins. No matter how bad you think they are.” I lower my eyes, certain he can read it all over my face. My mother did always call me a sinvergüenza—if only she could see me and my shame now. “And I promise you, no matter how bad, no matter how filthy dirty those sins are, I won’t be mad at you. Okay?” Barely nodding now, he takes my chin in his hand, raising it deliberately so that I’m forced to meet his gaze. And ever-so-gently he repeats, “Okay?”
“Okay.” I manage, barely audible. My eyes wide and sweet, I can tell he likes this innocent, slightly scared, little-girl look on my face.
“That’s a good girl.” And he gently rubs the back of his first two fingers across my cheek. “Okay then. We’ll have a formal confession and then I’m going to do everything in my power to free your soul of these impurities. And you must not be scared, you must trust me with all your heart. You must know that everything I do is in your best interest. Do you trust me?”
“Yes, Father.” I say meekly.
“Okay. Good. Then let’s begin.” And he waits for me to start.
The words rise up out of my throat and I’m surprised at how the memories flood back. Each sound comes to me as though this incantation was imbedded in the depths of my memory, has shaken free from the cobwebs and flows off my lips with ease. “Bendígame, Padre, porque he pecado. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three weeks since my last confession.”
Before I can continue, he breaks in and I can tell he wants to cut to the chase. “What are your sins, my child? Why did your mother presume you ill this morning?”
So I do my best to make haste. “Well, she walked into my room…and I…I was…well, my face…it was…all red and sweaty.”
“And what had left you in such a state?”
“Umm…well…I was…I mean, I had been…well, I was kinda touching myself.”
Some color has come into his face now and he’s getting agitated. “Where were you touching yourself? Tell me exactly where and how you were doing it,” he commands firmly.
“I…I was on my belly in my bed and I put my hand down there and”—I look up for a split second, long enough to know not to stop—“and I was rubbing my…my…mi cosita.” (My mother never did teach us the proper term for anything.)
“Tu cosita?” He tries to hide his amusement. “And why would you be rubbing down there? You know it’s a very naughty place that a young girl like you should never touch except to clean yourself, don’t you?”
“Sí, Padre…Es que…well, it just felt so good. Like it was… tingling. Like…I had to.”
“Like you had to.” It’s not even disguised as a question and I think he’s mocking me now. His face grows very grave and he shakes his head mournfully. “My child, I see now that this is much more serious than I had thought. We’re going to have to take some drastic measures to save your soul. You clearly have the devil inside you and we’re going to have to fill you with Christ. Now I need you to take off your panties.”
“But…I…”
He cuts me off before I can get anywhere, his voice harsh, speaking more vehemently now. “This is not the time to question me, my child. Your soul is in danger. You have the devil inside you! Do you want to go to hell?” I shake my head nervously and realize that I’m trembling all over, yet I can’t do what he’s told me to do. “Come here.” He pulls me toward him brusquely and yanks my skirt up, gasping once he sees my choice in undergarments. “I can’t believe this! What type of little girl would be wearing such things? This is disgusting!” And he rips them off of me, pushing me back up against the desk. “Do you realize that you look like a whore, wearing this filth?” He shakes the panties in my face to make his point before sliding them into his pocket.
I look over and see him reaching for…what is that? And then a flash of recognition. He’s grabbed my decorative cross that normally hangs on the wall and is rolling a condom over the long end. “My child, we’re going to have to fill you with Christ…”
Now this is really getting somewhere.
I try not to look excited as he catches my gaze, walking the few steps back around the desk. He plants each of his hands on either side of me, inching closer and closer, breath hot on my face, until I’m forced flat on my back against the desk without the slightest touch on his part. I’m slightly startled yet simultaneously delighted at where this is going and not wanting it to show. He stares intimidatingly into my eyes with such intensity that suddenly I’m back in the role—a scared little girl, shaking ever so slightly, nervous about what’s to come. “Please, Padre, please don’t…”
“I’m sorry, my dear, I see no other way. We will fill you with the love of Christ and drive the devil out of you.”
“I’m scared…”
“Don’t worry, sweet child, it will only hurt for a little while…” he tries to reassure me as he’s spreading my legs. I feel the chill of the instrument sliding up my thigh and a shiver ripples to my core. “You must take this like a good girl. I know you can…” And he’s pressing the tip against my opening, undeniably wet from all that had come before. The cross slides in without the slightest resistance, but I don’t want to make this quite so easy.
“No, no, no, please don’t…Nooo! You’re hurting me!” He continues despite my protests, going deeper and deeper unrelentingly. I can tell this is almost too much for him
and it’s taking everything in him not to shove it hard and fast.
“Hush now, mi cielita. We must drive out the devil. I can tell he has a strong hold on you.” And he begins to pump the cross in and out of me with greater force.
I’m so there, I start to shout out, “No! Stop! It hurts so bad! Please stop! Pleeease…” And with each of my protests, his fucking gets more and more vigorous. He’s thrusting in and out of me aggressively, each of my shouts fodder for him to give it to me harder.
“Can you feel it? Can you feel the Holy Spirit washing over you?” A bead of sweat drips from his forehead onto my thigh and it rolls down joining my dripping wetness.
“Ay, Padre! Ay-ay-I don’t know…I feel…something…” I can barely get a single word out now.
“That’s good, sweet girl, the Holy Spirit is going to enter and fill you, rush over you completely and wash away all your sins. Don’t resist it.”
“O-okay, Father. I’ll do whatever you say.”
“Yes, mi angelita, that’s veeery good. You do just as I say. You’re taking it so…fucking…well…” He’s slamming into me with each word as punctuation.
I’m so worked up I hardly even notice that he’s let profanity slip out in the heat of his passion. It’s only seconds before I feel my orgasm mounting. “Padre, I-I…I feel like I’m going to… explode!”
“Very good, my child, don’t resist it. Take it all. Let the Holy Spirit consume you.” And with his final command I’m coming so fucking hard, shaking to the point of practically falling off the desk. But he collapses on top of me, trapping me there, preventing me from going anywhere. We breathe hard in unison for a few beats before I feel him shifting a bit, propping himself up a bit on his elbow. “That…that was…very, very good…” He pushes a few strands of my hair back off my forehead as he starts to jack himself off with his other hand. “Now I have to finish me off…” The whole scene has gotten him so excited that he too is coming hard, in just a matter of seconds, feeling only slightly guilty for taking advantage of such a sweet, young girl. He collapses on me again, his weight pinning me against the desk and we lie there for a moment, coming down from the high.
Take Me There Page 7
