Justine wouldn’t let herself dwell on the picture of the priest forcing the penitent to submit to his will. It was heady enough surrendering herself to the man. The idea of him tormenting another innocent victim was too arousing for her to entertain without suffering another thrill of satisfaction. She wanted to deny the priest’s accusation that she was a deviant, but there was already the sound of someone else entering the confessional and she bit her lower lip in an attempt to stay silent.
‘Père, pardonnez-moi car j’ai péché.’
The priest pushed his mouth close to Justine’s ear. She could detect the musk of her pussy on his breath when he spoke and the scent was maddeningly intoxicating. ‘What do you suggest I do with this one?’ he asked.
‘You don’t know what’s he’s done yet,’ she returned.
‘Does it matter?’
She caught her breath, enthralled by the idea of punishment without motive. Glancing toward the grille, intending to turn her thoughts to something truly twisted, she gasped when she saw the small window had been opened and a face was leering in at her.
The priest above her grinned and Justine instantly understood that he had been expecting this particular man. She glanced again at the newcomer’s porcine features and shrank from the lechery in his expression. He drew a dark pink tongue across thick over-ripe lips while appraising her heavily shadowed nudity. Without glancing in the direction of the priest he asked, ‘When can I use her?’
Justine shook her head and thought about protesting but she knew it would do no good. Squirming at the thought of what she might be expected to endure, she glanced helplessly at the priest and silently implored him to show mercy.
‘If you clear the church for me, Bishop, I shall bring the little slut out.’
Justine glanced from one to the other.
‘Consider it done,’ the bishop mumbled.
He broadened his grin as he appraised her body for a final time, and then drew his face away from the window. And, still cramped in the confines of the confessional, and growing more frightened than ever, Justine wondered what the pair would plan to do with her once they had her alone.
Four
The bishop opened the door to the confessional and pulled Justine into the church. He wasn’t dressed as she had expected: instead of wearing full ceremonial attire he simply wore a white collar, slacks and a sports jacket. His face was fat and piggish with beady eyes and a snout-like nose. The jacket was open to reveal a potbelly straining against the waist of his burgundy shirt. The lechery in his smile was disquieting.
‘Very good, Father.’ He flashed his grin at the priest behind Justine. ‘What do you want to do with her?’
The priest stepped out of the confessional and, dwarfed between the pair of them, Justine found herself growing more and more uneasy. They made a foreboding team and, because she was naked and standing in their church, she realised they had her at a definite disadvantage. Her hands began to tremble with fresh disquiet.
‘She wants to acquire La Coste,’ the priest explained to his colleague. ‘Shall we see what she is prepared to sacrifice to make that acquisition?’
Before Justine could think of trying to escape they had each grabbed a wrist. She struggled to pull herself free but they seemed united in their goal of leading her toward the front of the church. Her bare feet had no hope of gaining any traction on the cold stone floor and, as they dragged her past the rows of empty pews, she realised she was at their mercy. Genuine terror began to chill the heat of her arousal and she stared from one unsympathetic face to the other.
The bishop reached for one of her breasts. He squeezed and tugged brutally at the flesh. His plump fingers burrowed into the skin and the calloused pads rasped against her like sandpaper. Moments earlier she had been yearning for the priest to satisfy the unaddressed ache in her nipples. Her breasts had been throbbing with their plaintive need for attention. But, now that the repulsive bishop was toying with her, she simply wanted both men to leave her alone. There was something degrading in the way the bishop touched her and, although her body remained oily with the sweat from her most recent orgasm, she could no longer think beyond the notions of revulsion and sacrilege.
‘She’s looking for La Coste?’ the bishop asked incredulously. ‘She doesn’t stand a chance of getting her hands on it, does she?’
The priest’s shrug was indifferent. ‘She is on her way to acquiring it.’
The bishop looked surprised. One of the hands that held Justine’s wrist momentarily loosened. The fingers that kneaded at her breast were briefly held still. ‘You’re joking with me, aren’t you?’
The priest shook his head. ‘So far, she has deemed herself worthy. I have not yet seen a reason to refuse my blessing.’
The bishop looked aghast. ‘But she’s an English girl. Marais would never allow the manuscript to go to an English girl.’
‘Marais is selling La Coste. He is not giving it away to a worthy cause.’
‘But still…’ The revulsion in the bishop’s voice was obvious and he seemed at a loss for how to express his dismay. ‘…an English girl,’ he floundered.
The journey to the front of the church was swift but mortifying. Justine felt as though she was suffering the sneers of contempt from the surrounding statues and stained-glass frescoes. When she was dragged onto the altar, then laid on her back to stare up at the beams on the church’s ceiling, she began to fret about what the pair might be planning. Her hands were tied to an invisible point above her head. Her legs were spread open and her ankles secured on either side of the altar. The priest disappeared from Justine’s limited line of vision but the bishop continued to hover over her. He constantly licked his lips as his abrasive fingers scurried over her breasts. His caresses scratched against her sides and bare stomach before his hands slipped down to explore her cleft.
She stiffened.
If there had been any way for Justine to show her distaste for the man she would have pulled away from the altar at the first opportunity. Because the bindings at her wrists and ankles were inordinately tight, she could only lay where she was bound and suffer his unwanted exploration. Dry clumsy fingers plundered her sex. Whereas the priest’s touch had been sensitive and exciting, the bishop’s was coarse and hateful. His hands became dewy with the remnants of her wetness, and she could feel the greasy residue of her passion being used as a lubricant as he prodded the sensitive rim of her anus.
She almost choked on her sudden need to exclaim and tell him not to touch such an intimate place. But – remembering the silence that was expected from her, and the acquiescence the priest had demanded – Justine told herself there were no parts of her body that the bishop wasn’t allowed to explore.
The liturgical chant of a Latin prayer interrupted her thoughts. She could hear the priest’s mellifluous tones enunciating each word so it rang from the faraway beams in the ceiling. The tang of something different on the air made her sniff and she realised a dusky incense was now perfuming the church. Raising her head, looking beyond her own body as the bishop pawed at her cleft and breasts, she saw the priest was walking toward her with a swinging censer at his hip.
It was a horrible sight to behold: something she knew she shouldn’t have been seeing while she was naked and in the clutches of a black arousal. Guilt and self-loathing tormented her, all the time exacerbating her dark need for satisfaction. She started to lie back down and then noticed that, while he had been touching and stroking with one hand, the bishop had also been busy preparing Justine’s immediate surroundings. Votive candles, their soft flames guttering gently by her sides, stood precariously close to her bound body. She stared at the bishop with mounting panic and found no reassurance in his lascivious grin.
‘What are you prepared to sacrifice?’ he asked.
As he spoke, his hand slipped against her sex. The fingers moved easily over her sodden cleft and then returned to the tight ring of her anus. She stiffened at his touch, despising the bristle of pleasure that struck her.
When he pushed hard against her forbidden hole, forcing his finger to break past the barrier of muscle, she almost squealed.
The priest continued to chant his Latin prayer, the words adding a mysticism and air of religious authority that Justine felt shamed to be desecrating. She lay on an altar, beneath sorrowful figures of the Madonna and child and a crucified Christ, while a bishop fingered her anus. All those acts that she had done before – drinking the priest’s semen from the communion chalice, fucking over the consecrated ground of the Dupont grave, and even tormenting the penitent young woman in the confessional – now seemed like harmless pranks compared to the ungodliness of what she was enduring.
‘You want me to initiate her?’ the bishop asked the priest.
Justine raised her head so she could watch the exchange between the two men. The priest busied himself with his censer and his chant but he managed to nod consent in the bishop’s direction. She glanced at the piggy man looming over her and saw he had already released his erection from his pants.
The sight made her feel dizzy.
The length of pink flesh protruded from the dark trousers. The swollen end was a vicious purple and she could see the eye leaking a clear fluid of arousal. Her breathing quickened and fresh doubts returned as the bishop positioned himself between her legs. Unable to stop herself, Justine shook her head from side to side as though refusing him entry.
‘Don’t be such a prude,’ he growled. ‘I can see you want this.’
She swallowed and wondered if the terms she had agreed with the priest would allow her to refuse the bishop. She suspected that any protest would qualify her as unfit to acquire La Coste but, still, a part of her was desperate to make her reservations known.
He stood between her spread thighs, the back of one hand stroking absently against the smooth flesh. The contact was maddening: exciting her when she didn’t want to be aroused and making her resolve weaken. When he began to push his length closer, nudging the rounded end of his shaft nearer and nearer, she sighed with resignation and told herself she could tolerate whatever the pair planned. It was only when she felt the tip of the bishop’s erection touch the centre of her anus that all her doubts returned.
She pulled away from him as far as her bondage would allow.
A brief frowned crossed his face. It disappeared to be replaced by a twisted grin and he didn’t need to speak for Justine to understand he was going to take his pleasure from her suffering. Knowing she was in no position to refuse, Justine tried to remain calm and unaffected as he pushed into her forbidden hole.
The ring of muscle resisted at first but the bishop’s determination was strong. Within moments of him pressing his shaft against her, Justine felt the length plough into her rear. The muscle was forced open, she willed herself not to be won over by the delicious sensation of being violated. And she wouldn’t let her body willingly enjoy the penetration. She held her breath and bit her lower lip as the length pushed further inside.
He was not as broadly built as the priest but he was thick enough to inflict a good deal of discomfort. Admittedly there was a wealth of pleasure flourishing from her anus. The sensations were so intense Justine quickly grew giddy from the effort of trying to fight off the threat of orgasm.
‘Bless this godforsaken creature,’ the bishop murmured.
He was nestled so deep into her rear she could feel the cloth of his pants pressed against her buttocks. The inner muscles of her rectum bulged from the pressure of his shaft and she choked back the urge to cry out. The bishop’s porcine face loomed above hers, his eyelids heavy with bliss and his cheeks flushed with satisfaction. He made the sign of the cross as he spoke, droplets of sweat falling from his fingers like a spattering of Holy Water.
When he began to pull back, sliding his length from her sphincter, Justine wanted to groan. The penetration was painful – his shaft was thicker than anything she had ever dared insert into that particular place – but the experience wasn’t just an exercise in discomfort. She chugged breath in an effort to control her responses, resenting the rush of bliss that wanted to erupt from her bowel.
Behind the bishop, the priest continued to idle slowly up and down the empty aisle. He solemnly chanted his prayer and wafted his censer with the same majesty Justine suspected he would use in front of his congregation. The statues of Christ and the Madonna continued to frown down upon her, the bishop’s erection continued to plough in and out of her rear, and Justine couldn’t hide from the knowledge that she was desecrating something holy.
The first tremor of an impending orgasm began to tremble through her bound body. The bishop rode her anus with a slow build of speed, his length thickening as the moment of his climax drew closer. The large head of his glans felt infuriatingly divine in her rear and she braced herself for the impact of his eruption.
Her breath had fallen to a series of urgent grunts. Each animalistic cry echoed around the hollow acoustics of the church. Shivers of raw ecstasy made her tug aimlessly on the restraints and she savoured each fresh flourish of pain that was wrung from her ankles and wrists.
And, as the bishop continued to thrust into her, the swelling of pleasure in her bowel grew too large to contain. She clenched her teeth and tried to resist the pull of the orgasm. But the excitement was too intense. The bishop slid easily in and out of her backside, his pace as obvious and urgent as her own growing need. She could feel his length throbbing and knew he was on the verge of a climax, and in that instant the combination of pleasure, pain and degradation proved too much.
With a roar of satisfaction Justine allowed the climax to tear through her.
The bishop held himself still as she shivered and bucked around his shaft. Her anus squeezed and convulsed – she knew her sphincter would have expelled his length if he hadn’t been holding himself so deep inside – and another blistering wave of delight scourged her rear. She was madly wondering how he was able to contain his own explosion when his ejaculation pulsed and the hot sticky seed of his climax spurted into her. The combination of warmth and his tremors fuelled another surge of delight and she shrieked as the despicable joy struck again and again.
The fury of her orgasms left Justine’s cheeks flushed.
Tears streamed from her eyes and she sobbed with a mixture of satisfaction, relief and guilt. Even as the bishop slipped his spent shaft from her anus – his wetness making her feel repulsed and aroused in the same moment – Christ and the Madonna continued to glare down at Justine on the altar. Uneasily, she realised her shame and excitement had blended into one seamless response.
‘Continue blessing the church,’ the priest decided.
He pushed the bishop aside and placed himself between Justine’s legs. His erection, familiar to her now, already protruded from the folds of his cassock. Justine tried to squirm away as he pushed himself toward her but it was a half-hearted attempt at modesty and she didn’t try to make it look convincing. Her eagerness to experience more had reached a new level. Even though she felt degraded to have the priest’s entry lubricated by the bishop’s semen, the desire to have her anus filled was a greater driving force.
His hands went to her thighs and he held her legs apart as he pushed into her.
She gasped happily with delight.
His thick shaft was gloriously wide inside her anus and filled her with a far more satisfying presence than the bishop had managed. The swollen head of his glans felt much too large for her tight confines and she couldn’t imagine accommodating anything larger. But he rode her with patient vigour and slid easily in and out of her aching hole. His hands gripped loosely against her thighs, clutching the sensitive flesh and holding her in the position he desired, and he made each forward thrust fill her with his entire length.
This time Justine found the experience more satisfying.
The statues continued to look down on her and, while she could still see disapproval in their stony faces, she no longer found that hampered her ability to enjoy the moment. The priest cursed
her with a now familiar vitriol. He emphasised every harsh invective and sprayed her face with accidental droplets of spittle. As he slipped his length back and forth the waves of pleasure flowed through her with furious force.
Voices beyond her range of vision threatened to interrupt the moment but the priest’s thrusting quickly tore her attention back to the pleasure between her legs. He reached for her jaw with one hand, held her face so she was forced to stare into his eyes, and muttered something in an indecipherable grunt. Without understanding the words, Justine knew she had been told to ignore distractions and concentrate only on what he was doing for her.
He quickened his pace, hammering into her backside with a force that made her sick with delight. Tremors had begun to pulsate along his shaft and the prospect of his climax was infuriatingly imminent. Justine gritted her teeth, desperate to come again before the priest was spent. Now that she had found the ability to accept the religious paraphernalia around her, the need for orgasm struck her with punishing force. Tensing the muscles of her anus around the priest’s shaft, savouring every sordid sensation as he eased himself in and out, she choked back tears when the final eruption coursed through her. The orgasm was made perfect when the priest’s explosion filled her hole. The rush of his hot copious spend thrilled her and made her sob with gratitude.
It took her a moment to regain her bearings after the climax.
She expected to recover from a haze of delight while still laying on the altar but the priest quickly unfastened her bondage and dragged her away. She was deposited rudely on the chancel, poignantly aware of her nudity with icy fingers of guilt renewing their grip at her chest. The bishop and the priest loomed over her and, sitting beneath them, Justine saw the penitent young woman had returned to the church. Without the discretion of the confessional booth Justine now felt awkward beneath the woman’s sullen frown. The flush of the orgasm, the pleasure and decadence Justine had so recently enjoyed, ebbed away as she realised she remained at the mercy of the priest and his bishop.
Forbidden Reading Page 6
