Rubbing her arms to ward off the prickle of goose-flesh, she ignored the stiffness at her nipples and deliberately didn’t notice the darkening hue of her areolae. It was more of a struggle to disregard the smouldering heat at her sex but she wilfully closed it from her mind. Shuffling from one foot to the other she waited with growing trepidation for the priest to return.
Voices on the path made her momentarily breathless with fear.
It sounded like two women were approaching – she was sure neither could be the priest, both tones were too soft and feminine – and they spoke in the fluid indecipherable French of the local villagers. A cold sheet of panic embraced Justine’s naked body. She stood rigid, not knowing what to do for the best. In contrast to her immobility, her heart raced and her mind accelerated as she tried to work out the most prudent course of action. The priest had told her to stand by the Dupont stone but she wondered if he expected her to remain there and court the risk of discovery. Her own embarrassment at being seen would be crippling but Justine reasoned she might be jeopardising the priest’s reputation if she didn’t hide.
Before she could crouch behind the Dupont stone, her quicksilver doubts stung her with the idea that the priest might want her to suffer this impending humiliation. If he did have a reputation in the village, it wasn’t one that he had appeared to consider when he was forcing her to pleasure him in the church. The vivid memory of what she had done added shame to her panic and tinged her cheeks with a cerise blush.
Justine wanted to hide; she didn’t want to bring embarrassment on either herself or the priest; but she didn’t want to disobey him and jeopardise her chance of acquiring La Coste. She cursed the man for not explaining what to do, and then cursed herself for not thinking to ask. And, as her thoughts tumbled back and forth between the options of concealing herself behind the Dupont stone, or blatantly braving the attention of innocent passers-by, the voices drew closer.
She could easily imagine the outrage she would cause. The shocked expressions, the sneers of disgust, and the foreign cries of condemnation were all clear in her mind’s eye. But those thoughts only added to the wetness between her legs and did nothing to suggest what action she should take. Trying to retain some modesty, she folded one arm across her breasts and placed a demure hand over her cleft.
The footsteps trudged closer.
The voices were loud enough to shout through the stillness of the cemetery and Justine’s overactive imagination made her certain the strangers were bearing down on her. So far she had been unable to see who was approaching: the forest of tall stones kept her relatively sheltered from the view of the path. But she believed, as soon as they came alongside the row of graves where she stood, the approaching parishioners wouldn’t be able to miss her. The idea of being seen fuelled equal measures of dread and delight. Too frightened to concentrate, Justine couldn’t work out whether she was appalled at the prospect of being shamed, or growing wet from anticipation. Her inner thighs were sticky with excess rivulets of her own arousal.
A gloved hand fell on her shoulder.
Justine never understood how she was able to contain the scream. The mounting terror that tightened her chest had brought her to the brink of shrieking. When the priest grabbed her bare shoulder, then turned her so she was facing him, Justine came close to collapsing with a combination of fright, disappointment and relief.
‘You followed my instructions,’ he grunted. ‘I suppose that speaks in your favour.’
His absence of concern was chilling. She was equally unnerved by the lack of expression on his face. His gaze slipped down to appraise her nudity – Justine was appalled to realise her nipples were now standing fully erect – but she couldn’t detect any hint of a smile or even mild approval. She wanted to believe that the churchyard’s lack of light was making it hard to read his face but she knew it was more likely that he was simply unmoved or unimpressed by the sight of her naked body. He stared at her coldly, his gloved hand still resting on her shoulder, his dark gaze glowering with an unspoken threat of retribution.
It was only in that moment, when the silence between them was solid and uncomfortable, that Justine realised she could hear no one else in the churchyard. With the shock of having the priest surprise her she had forgotten about the parishioners. Listening intently, she could still hear the voices that had incited so much panic but they were now distant whispers, as though both the women had lowered their voices to enter the church. Thankful that she had avoided the crushing embarrassment of being observed, Justine sighed.
‘Turn around,’ the priest snapped. His crisp voice carried boldly through the night and she immediately understood he wasn’t worried about being discovered. That thought didn’t bode well. ‘Face away from me,’ he barked curtly. ‘Hold the Madonna’s feet. Part your legs.’
The terse instructions filled her with black excitement.
She briefly toyed with the idea of refusing but she knew the situation had gone beyond such an opportunity. Away from her need to acquire La Coste she was now driven by those desires he aroused within her. Her inner muscles were instantaneously transformed to a warm and fluid state, her pulse fluttered to match the urgent haste that beat between her legs, and she hurried to obey.
There was no doubt in her mind that what she was doing transcended sacrilege. She was standing naked in a churchyard and making herself sexually available for a depraved priest whom she barely knew. Touching the feet of the Virgin Mother’s statue only compounded that crime and she cringed from the deviance of her actions. But Justine couldn’t stop herself from doing exactly as the priest demanded. His voice carried instructions that she wanted to obey and his manner was so worldly and confident that disobedience simply wasn’t an alternative she wanted to consider.
And, savouring the delicious rush of expectation, growing acutely aware of the chill breeze that toyed with the split of her pussy lips, she knew her subservience was going to be pleasurable. The inner muscles of her sex were already clenching in small tight spasms of anticipation. Her labia were wet from arousal and sensitive to the lightest movement of air. The stiffness of her nipples ached to be released by the attention of a warm and welcoming mouth.
‘Bend forward,’ the priest demanded.
His gloved hands were on her hips, the soft leather smoothing against the swell of her buttocks. The coarse twill of his cassock brushed her backside and – shocking her with its hardness and heat – the priest’s erection nuzzled against her cleft. The breathlessness of her excitement returned with renewed force. The rush of arousal became a torrent and, as he stroked his length against her sex, a surge of animalistic pleasure overwhelmed Justine. His swollen glans slipped easily against her wet flesh. The friction of his broad dome against her glistening pussy was enough to inspire a deeper need inside her sex. Caught up in the heady thrill, she groaned hungrily.
He slapped one gloved hand against her rear. The echo rang loudly in her ears. The muffled burst of pain was enough to make her gasp again but this time without the same giddy rush of pleasure. ‘You are doing this for my satisfaction,’ he growled. ‘Not yours.’
It was sufficient warning to make her bite her lower lip rather than release another sound. Still quivering with her need for him, poignantly aware of her body’s desperate longing for orgasm, Justine tried not to squirm against him as he continued to rub his erection back and forth along the split of her sex.
‘Are you ready for this?’ he asked.
The head of his shaft rested over her hole. Her labia were already kissing a wet welcome to his glans and she contemplated pushing herself back against him. Knowing he would disapprove of such initiative, Justine tightened her grip on the feet of the Madonna and said, ‘Yes. I’m ready.’
His thick length easily plundered her sex. The broad shaft forced her pussy muscles wide apart and burrowed deep inside. The heat of his erection – and the delicious girth that filled her so easily – made for an intoxicating blend. Justine arched her back as h
e pushed deeper, relishing the penetration and marvelling at the sensations he evoked. When he began to slide back, easing out of her so he could penetrate again, she chugged breath as her body tried to deal with the onslaught of satisfying responses.
‘Putain cochonne,’ he grunted.
The words still meant nothing to her and they were the only ones she could properly discern from the vitriolic outburst he hurled at her back. She understood that he wasn’t saying anything pleasant. And she wanted to be shocked or horrified that a priest would insult her with what she suspected were crude expletives. But it only added to her excitement that the priest was cursing her while he used her in the boundaries of his hallowed ground.
The slap of his hand against her backside snapped her thoughts back to the moment. He struck with a punishing force which, while it didn’t properly hurt, was uncomfortable enough to remind Justine that she was there for his convenience. She could hear him grunting and every other breath was accompanied by another foreign swear word. The sweat of his excitement radiated from him in waves, and she trembled as the exhilarating thrill buffeted her body. When he slapped his hand against her for a third time she realised he had stopped his guttural incantation at some point during her reverie and had been giving her an instruction.
‘Pray,’ he demanded. ‘I want to hear you pray.’
The hand slapped her rear again and this time she understood she must obey without hesitation. For a moment she was weak with confusion, not knowing which prayer to recite, or if she should be committing such a profanation. When he slapped her backside again the abused flesh bristled with discomfort. She glanced down at her hip and saw her buttock was now livid from the repeated punishment. The shape of his gloved hand was repeatedly emblazoned against her wan flesh.
‘Pray,’ he insisted. ‘I will not ask you again.’
He issued his command with a finality that made Justine certain he was on the verge of damning her as unworthy of retrieving La Coste. The thought of failing was enough of an impetus and Justine finally found the words for which she had been searching.
‘Our father,’ she began, ‘who art in heaven.’
He rode her so that each sentence of the Lord’s Prayer was thrust from her mouth with a small gasp. The sacrilege of what she was doing struck her harder than any of the slaps he had delivered to her rear. Each word she muttered – reminding Justine of all the times she had innocently knelt and prayed in her own church – felt like the vilest affront to God. Yet, for all her fears of eternal damnation, her body responded with a fresh surge of delight each time he pushed into her.
‘Hallowed be thy name,’ she gasped. The thrill of impending orgasm made her legs weak. The quick contractions of her pussy muscles grew faster and made her certain that her climax was only a breath away. ‘Thy kingdom come,’ she hissed.
‘Say it louder.’
Despite the night’s chill air a sheen of sweat lacquered her naked flesh. Tremors of euphoria bristled along her arms and down her shoulders as the priest continued to plough in and out of her hole. The promise of release inched perpetually closer and, throughout the ordeal, Justine heard herself reciting those same words that she had always considered sacred. ‘Thy will be done,’ she declared loudly. Raising her voice, trying to make herself heard to comply with the priest’s instruction, she called, ‘On earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread.’
The priest’s volley of insults had become an endless stream. She couldn’t understand what he was saying but she knew he was damning her with every despicable label at his disposal. His vigorous thrusting was equally unrelenting. A barrage of hateful pleasure was bludgeoned from her sex and Justine bit back cries of protest as she struggled to finish the prayer. ‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us,’ she bawled. ‘And lead us not into temptation.’
The irony of mentioning temptation made her feel ill. She squeezed her inner muscles around his shaft and groaned as an electric frisson of excitement tore through her hole. The prospect of orgasm loomed closer than ever and she renewed her grip on the feet of the Madonna.
‘But deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom.’
She hesitated; sure she had heard more footsteps on the gravel path. The idea that she might be seen still worried Justine, even though she believed her sacrilege had now taken her to previously unplumbed depths of degradation. It was only natural to lower her voice, and try to control the grunting cleric behind her.
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.
Three
‘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 un
worthy,’ 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.
Forbidden Reading Page 4
