Forbidden Reading

by Lisette Ashton

*

  ‘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.
/>   ‘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 along the fingers embedded in her cleft. The priest’s tongue remained a warm wet balm against the split of her labia and his penetrative kisses inspired flurries of wicked and wanton responses. Justine struggled to remain silent beneath his tongue and bit back every gratified sob that rose to the back of her throat.

  The priest raised his head from between her legs and glared at the grille. Momentarily his fingers stopped squirming in Justine’s sex as he lifted his face to hers. He was panting with arousal and, when he placed his mouth against her ear, Justine could feel that the wetness of her sex had dampened his lips, chin and cheek. The intimacy of that sensation made her excitement grow more profound.

  ‘This worthless putain is fucking her sister’s husband,’ he explained.

  Justine nodded, realising she had understood that small part of the penitent’s confession. Her concern for the woman’s sin was barely negligible. In her heightened state of arousal Justine thought the penitent could have fucked her way through the entire village and she would have cared less. She was more focused on having the priest satisfy those needs that lingered in the fetid warmth of her loins. Nevertheless she forced herself to listen to him when he pushed his mouth closer to her ear.

  ‘I do not want to absolve her of her sins,’ he breathed. ‘There are not enough penances to atone for such deviance. I want to punish this putain the way I would punish you. What do you suggest?’

  She hesitated before trying to think of a response. It was clear that the priest genuinely did want her input and she surmised this was another aspect of the test she was undergoing. Racking her brains for the right way to reply, trying to think of an answer that would show him she was worthy of acquiring La Coste, Justine was delighted when inspiration finally struck.

  Pushing her mouth over the priest’s ear, cupping a hand against the side of his head so there was no danger of her voice escaping, she whispered, ‘Tell her to show you her bare backside.’

  The priest pulled away from her for a moment, and then raised an eyebrow.

  Justine pushed her mouth over his ear and urgently whispered the remainder of her plan. All the time she was talking she was painfully aware of the priest’s body pressing against hers. He still wore his vestments, the pectoral cross continued to stick painfully into one of her breasts, but his nearness was as sexually stimulating as the two fingers he continued to wriggle inside her pussy. His chest was broad and manly and it crushed heavily against her breasts. Stiffness had returned to his length and she could feel the pulse of his eager shaft through the coarse fabric of his cassock. Their half of the confessional booth was sultry with the heat from their passion and the scents of her arousal tinged every breath. Equally exciting was the daring of her plan to punish and subjugate the woman on the other side of the confessional’s grille. She didn’t know if the priest would follow her suggestions but she couldn’t deny that there was a thrill in dictating a penitent’s fate.

  The priest pulled himself away from Justine’s mouth. His dark smile glinted in the confessional’s gloom. Turning to the grille, he barked a series of gruff instructions through the small window. Justine could hear shock and incredulity in the woman’s responses but she had heard the note of acquiescence in her tone long before she saw the buttocks being pressed against the open grille.

  The penitent’s backside was bare. The split of her sex was pushed up against the small opening and, when the priest slid the grille aside, Justine was shocked to find herself staring at a stranger’s pussy. Although her idea for punishment had been exciting, and seemed appropriate at the time, she hadn’t expected the priest to really use one of his parishioners in such a perverted manner. But the thoughts of her own depravity were quickly brushed aside. She inhaled the heady perfume of the woman’s musk and peered at the delicate wet labia surrounding her soft undulating hole.

  The priest glanced at Justine. He waited until she had nodded approval before stroking a finger against the woman’s pussy. In the thickening silence of the confessional booth they both heard the parishioner moan when he touched her. The delicate flesh of her sex flushed to a darker hue and Justine watched the lips grow shinier in the darkness as they were freshly polished with a new lacquer of arousal.

  Silently, the priest encouraged Justine to do as he had done. Before she realised she was obeying him, Justine watched her own hand stroke the curly tendrils of hair covering the woman’s cleft. Enthralled by the daring of her actions, she slid the tip of her finger along the split of the penitent’s pussy lips. When she heard the woman sigh with fresh enthusiasm, Justine dared to push a finger into her cleft.

  The arousal inside her was almost too powerful to contain.

  The priest’s fingers remained inside Justine’s pussy and his thumb occasionally rubbed back and forth over her clitoris. She already knew that the stimulation was more than enough to satisfy her burgeoning appetite for depravity, but touching the stranger provided more excitement than she had ever conceived she would enjoy. The perversity of being abused by a priest; the sacrilege of hearing someone else’s confession; and the enchanting sensation of warm wet pussy muscles engulfing her finger; all blended to make her feel sick with an overload of arousal. Nevertheless, although she couldn’t recall ever experiencing such furious excitement, she fought to contain her response and merely teased the gaping cleft that had been pushed at the confessional’s grille.

  ‘Retournez à votre soeur,’ the priest growled.

  Justine quivered when she heard him speaking. She didn’t know what he was saying but the music of his gruff voice trembled through the fingers in her sex. The prospect of another climax loomed closer and she slid a second finger alongside the one she already held in the penitent’s pussy. The parishioner sobbed with delight and Justine briefly envied the woman her freedom to voice her responses. She quietly yearned to cry out in gratitude for the ecstasy she was enjoying and could have screamed from the combination of injustice and frustration.

  The priest traced his tongue against the labia at the grille, then barked another instruction to the penitent. Justine heard him use the word putain, and she guessed he was following the exact plan she had suggested. A fresh flutter of arousal churned through her sex. Her pleasure was exacerbated by th
e priest’s fingers tickling deeper. In the tense silence of the confessional she could hear her labia slurping wetly around his hand.

  The penitent moaned, her cries coming from somewhere between arousal and mortification. Justine had suggested she should be made to go home and confess her sins to her sister. She had then said the woman should beg her sister to stripe her backside as punishment for her infidelity. It had seemed like a cruel punishment, and she thought the priest would appreciate her innovation. But, because he had now been speaking for so long, Justine guessed he was saying something more and she wondered if he was elaborating on her idea.

  ‘Alors, reviens ici si je peux voir qu’il a été fait.’

  He pushed his mouth over Justine’s ear and whispered, ‘I have told her to come back here once her backside has been striped, so I can see that the punishment has been meted.’

  The image was too much for Justine. She could easily picture red weals emblazoned across the woman’s buttocks and that thought pushed her excitement beyond being bearable. She squeezed her sex hungrily around the priest’s fingers, pushed her hand deeper into the penitent’s pussy and allowed the thrill of another release to quiver through her body.

  She snatched her hand away and forced herself to remain still while the priest repeated his instructions, and listened as the penitent mumbled mortified agreement. The last thing she heard, before the grille was snapped closed, was the woman whispering, ‘Oui, mon Père. Merci, mon Père.’

  ‘That was nicely vindictive,’ the priest chuckled.

  Once again, his mouth was over Justine’s ear and his breath heated each word. She trembled against him, not sure why he triggered such a lecherous response and not wanting to rationalise her feelings. It was more satisfying simply to press into his embrace and relish the myriad delights he tormented from her body.

  ‘I think I might abuse her fully when the putain returns to show me her punished arse,’ the priest confided. ‘You really are a deviant.’