The priest's confession- Chapter 3- The crypt of the Damned

The Crypt of the Damned.

At Midnight, two nights later.

Father Elias descended the narrow stone stairs beneath the sacristy carrying only a single beeswax candle. The flame trembled in his fist the way his soul now trembled constantly. He had not worn the cassock since the altar. Tonight he was naked beneath a long black coat, cock already aching, leaking steadily into the wool lining.

Delphine waited at the bottom.

She stood in the center of the ancient crypt, surrounded by the stoned coffin of long-dead bishops and nuns. Iron candle holders had been lit; their guttering flames painted the walls with shadows that writhed like demons.

She wore a blood-red velvet cloak and nothing else. The hood was thrown back, hair loose and wild, lips painted black. Between her breasts hung an inverted crucifix on a chain of human finger bones she had told him earlier it belonged to a 14th-century heretic bishop.

On one hand she held a riding crop.

“You’re late, Father,” she purred. “I’ve been warming myself on Bishop Aldric’s tomb.”

She turned slightly, revealing the slick shine on her inner thighs.

Elias’s coat hit the floor. His cock jutted upward, flushed angry red, veins throbbing. Two days of constant arousal and no release had left him half-mad.

Delphine smiled and crooked a finger.

“Kneel.”

He dropped to the cold stone in front of her.

She opened the cloak. Her cunt was bare, swollen and already dripping. She had shaved herself completely that afternoon smooth as a child’s, obscene against her womanly curves.

“First,” she said, “you will taste where your seed has been living.”

She pushed two fingers inside herself, pumped once, twice, then brought them to his mouth. Elias sucked greedily, moaning at the mingled flavor of her arousal and his own dried cum still inside her from the altar.

“Good priest,” she praised, voice dripping mockery. “Now crawl to Bishop Aldric and lick the stone clean where I just came.”

She pointed to a stoned coffin carved with angels. A glistening wet streak marred the lid.

Elias crawled on hands and knees across the crypt floor, cock swinging heavily beneath him. When he reached the tomb he pressed his tongue to the cold marble and lapped at her juices like a dog. The stone tasted of dust, death, and Delphine.

Behind him the riding crop whistled through air and cracked across his ass. He yelped, back arching.

“Again,” she commanded. “Until it’s spotless.”

Ten stinging lashes later the stone gleamed with only his saliva.

Delphine straddled the stoned coffin lid, legs spread wide, cloak falling open.

“Mount me here,” she said. “Fuck me on a dead bishop while his bones rot beneath us.”

Elias rose, gripped her hips, and drove into her in one brutal thrust. She was scalding, impossibly wet. She screamed a raw, animal sound that bounced off the crypt walls and came back as a chorus of damned souls.

He fucked her like a man possessed, hips slamming, balls slapping against the stone with every stroke. The stoned coffin lid rocked beneath them.

“Yes,” she hissed, nails raking his back until blood welled. “Harder. Split me open on your priestly cock. Fill the tomb with the sounds of blasphemy.”

She wrapped her legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass, forcing him deeper. Her cunt clenched rhythmically, milking him.

“I want your cum dripping into his bones,” she panted. “I want him to feel it through the stone when you breed me.”

Elias lost language. Only animal grunts escaped as he pounded into her. The candle on the floor guttered, shadows leaping wildly.

Delphine suddenly shoved him off, spun, and bent over the next stoned coffin this one belonging to nun Clothilde, 1632. She spread her ass cheeks with both hands.

“Here,” she ordered. “Take my virgin ass on a nun’s grave.”

He had never imagined such a thing. The sight of her tight, pink hole winking above her dripping cunt nearly undid him.

He spat on his cock, still slick from her juices, lined up, and pushed.

Delphine screamed pain and triumph as the head popped past the ring of muscle. She bore down, forcing him deeper, until his hips met her ass and he was buried to the hilt in forbidden heat.

“Move,” she snarled through clenched teeth. “Ruin me.”

He did. Long, punishing strokes that made her whole body jolt. The slap of flesh on flesh echoed like gunshots in the crypt.

She reached beneath and rubbed her clit frantically.

“I’m going to come with a priest’s cock in my ass,” she sobbed. “While a dead nun watches.”

Her orgasm hit like a seizure. Her ass clamped down so hard Elias saw stars. He roared and emptied himself inside her bowels, pulse after thick pulse, until cum leaked out around his shaft and ran down her thighs in thick white rivers.

They stayed locked together, shaking, until his cock softened and slipped free with a wet sound.

Delphine turned, pushed him to his knees again, and fed him his own cum straight from her gaping asshole. He swallowed every drop, eyes glazed.

But she was not finished.

She dragged him to the largest tomb in the center the founder of the abbey, St. Augustine himself.

The lid was carved with the saint ascending to heaven.

Delphine climbed atop it, lay on her back, and spread her legs wide.

“One more time,” she whispered. “Breed me properly. Put a child in me right here, under the eyes of your precious saint.”

Elias climbed over her, cock already hardening again despite the agony of overstimulation. He slid into her cunt loose, sloppy, overflowing with their earlier spendings and began to fuck her slow and deep.

She wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding him close, lips against his ear.

“Give me your bastard,” she chanted softly, rhythmically, matching his thrusts. “Give me a child conceived on a saint’s tomb. Let the whole village whisper about the priest who knocked up the widowed harlot.”

The blasphemy, the filth, the sheer wrongness of it shredded the last of his resistance. He came with a broken sob, pumping what felt like the last of his soul directly into her womb.

Delphine held him inside her long after, stroking his hair, crooning Latin profanities like lullabies.

When he finally pulled out, she scooped the leaking cum with two fingers and pushed it back inside herself, plugging her cunt with her own hand.

“Nine months from tonight,” she promised, “I will bring our son here and baptize him in the font with the same water you pissed your vows away in.”

She stood, cum still dripping down her thighs, and kissed his forehead like a mother blessing a child.

“Go now, Father,” she said tenderly. “Tomorrow is Sunday. You have Mass at dawn. Try to keep a straight face when you raise the Host with my ass still sore from your cock and your seed swimming toward my womb.”

She left him naked and shivering among the tombs, a candle burned down to a stub, the scent of sex and death thick in the air.

Elias curled on the crypt floor and wept not for forgiveness, but because he already knew he would crawl back to her the moment she called.