MasukFiona. That night, the convent was wrapped in its usual hush—only the old pipes creaking and the wind rattling the stained-glass windows.My cell felt smaller than ever. The sheets were twisted around my legs like restraints, and every time I closed my eyes I saw Father Dean’s face inches from mine, felt the phantom weight of his thumb pressing my lip, heard that low, filthy promise: Eight o’clock.. Habit. Nothing underneath.The clock on my nightstand crawled toward 7:45. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes until I either damned myself forever or chickened out and spent the rest of my life wondering.I sat up, heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. My palms were slick with sweat. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t not do it. The ache between my legs had turned vicious—sharp, constant pulses that made me squeeze my thighs together just to keep from whimpering out loud.Then—footsteps in the corridor. Soft, hurried. I flew out of bed, still in my thin cotton pajamas, an
Fiona.“Go down?” I stuttered, the words barely a whisper, as if they couldn’t have possibly come from his mouth. From Father Dean. From the man whose voice had just read the Gospel like it was holy scripture, and now sounded like pure sin.My pussy answered for me: a hard, greedy throb that made my knees buckle slightly, a fresh rush of slick soaking straight through my panties. My eyes darted to the door, to the narrow windows high on the wall, anyone could walk in, any sister, any groundskeeper, but the library felt a thousand miles from the rest of the convent.He didn’t repeat himself. He simply watched me, one dark brow raised, thumb still brushing my lower lip like he already owned it.“Don’t you want your penance, Sister Fiona?” His voice was velvet and gravel, soft enough that only I could hear. His thumb pressed a little harder, slipping just past my lips, resting on my tongue for a heartbeat. “On your knees, sister . My cock will be your absolution for all that dirty
Fiona. The next day, Mass ended with the usual rustle of hymnals closing and footsteps echoing toward the doors. I lingered near the back pew, fingers twisting the cord of my rosary like it could anchor me. Everyone else filed out in quiet clusters, but my gaze stayed locked on Father Dean as he greeted the last parishioners at the entrance—handshakes, soft blessings, that warm smile that never quite reached the storm in his eyes when they found mine.Those ocean eyes. God, the way they pinned me across the nave felt indecent—like he was staring straight through my habit, past skin and bone, right into the slick heat pulsing between my thighs. My pussy clenched hard, a greedy, aching spasm that made my knees threaten to buckle. I hated myself for it, hated the rush of wetness that soaked my cotton panties the instant his gaze touched me, but I was already moving, drawn forward like a moth too stupid to fear the flame.I needed to be near him. Needed to feel what my body did when
Fiona. Getting into the convent was supposed to be my salvation, my clean slate, the place where every filthy thought would finally be starved out of me. I thought vows and silence and cold stone walls would kill the hunger. They didn’t. They made it worse.At first it was manageable. A quick squeeze of my thighs during morning prayer when the memory of some boy’s hand on my skin flashed uninvited. A sharp inhale when the scratchy wool habit brushed my nipples too roughly. I told myself it was residual sin, the last fumes of a life I’d left behind. Butthe fumes never cleared. They thickened, curled inside me like smoke, settling heavy between my legs until I ached constantly.By the third month I was sneaking into the supply closet at night, heart hammering, fingers trembling as I unwrapped the package I’d had delivered under a false name. The first vibrator was small, discreet, a pale pink lie I told myself was just for “relief.” I’d kneel on the hard wooden floor of my ce
Jake. I keep fucking her so rough and hard the headboard slams the wall like a battering ram, each thrust driving her forward until her tits scrape the mattress, nipples dragging raw. Her ass ripples with every impact, cheeks glowing red from my palms, and still she begs.“Please… let me cum… I can’t… harder… fuck me harder!”I fist her hair, yank her head back until her spine bows perfect, and spit—thick, hot—right across her cheek. It drips down her jaw as I rim her hole again, cockhead teasing the stretched ring, pushing just the crown in and out, torturing us both.“You don’t cum until I say,” I snarled, slamming deep in one brutal stroke. She screamed, the sound muffled into the sheets, pussy and ass clenching so tight I saw stars.My free hand shoots under her, grabbing both breasts through the soaked shirt—squeezing them together vicious, thumbs digging into nipples, twisting until she sobs. The fabric is ruined, coffee and sweat and her own slick, but I don’t care; I us
Jake.As if my words were some dark spell unraveling her last thread of resistance or maybe it had just been too damn long since dad had touched her. Julie’s eyes glazed over with pure, shameless hunger. I never imagined I’d be balls-deep in my own stepmother, the woman my father had left warming his bed while he jetted off on another “business trip.” If he knew his precious wife was about to take her stepson’s cock in every greedy hole, he’d probably choke on his own ego. But right now, none of that mattered. I’d claimed her, and I was nowhere near finished.She scrambled onto the bed, flinging herself onto her back, thighs falling open so wide her knees almost touched the mattress on either side. Her pussy glistened, swollen and dripping, but her eyes were locked on my cock like it was the only thing keeping her alive.“You can’t wait to have my cock, Mummy, is that it?” I rasped, stalking to the edge of the bed, letting her drink in the sight of me stroking myself slow. “Yo






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