Forgive Me, father II

I came back the next day same time. Same skirt No panties.

The church was quiet, just like before hauntingly still, like the walls remembered what we did yesterday. And maybe they did. Maybe the stained glass blushed each time I walked past.

But I didn’t go to the confessional.

Not today.

Today, I walked straight down the center aisle.

To the altar.

I wasn’t sure what I was doing until I saw him standing there, behind the pulpit. Black shirt. Collar stiff. Hands folded. And those sinful eyes, watching me like I was the offering he’d been waiting for.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said softly, but there was no conviction in his voice. Just tension. Lust.

Heat.

I stepped up the first marble step, slow and steady. “You let me in.”

He didn’t move. “This is the altar.”

“I know.”

“It’s sacred.”

“So am I,” I whispered. “You just haven’t worshipped me properly yet.”

His eyes darkened.

And the next second, he was in front of me.

His hands gripped my waist as he turned and walked me backward—step by step—until my ass hit the edge of the altar table.

He didn’t say another word.

Just lifted me up.

Laid me flat on the cold, polished surface.

I gasped, the chill biting into my skin as my skirt rode up around my hips. I felt exposed. Dirty. Reverent.

And I loved it.

He stood between my legs, silent, staring down at me like I was the final test of his faith.

“What are you waiting for?” I whispered, breath catching. “Take me.”

“I’m not going to fuck you,” he said.

My heart dropped. “What?”

“Not yet.”

Then his hands slid under my thighs and pulled me to the edge of the altar so close his breath hit my slick folds.

“You came to be worshipped, didn’t you?”

Before I could answer, his mouth was on me.

My head snapped back. “Oh—God. . .”

His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up my pussy. Then again. Then again, each one deeper, hungrier, filthier.

He wasn’t gentle.

He devoured me.

Like he was proving something. Like he needed me to drown in the pleasure only he could give. His fingers dug into my thighs as he sucked my clit, fast and brutal, then slowed down just to tease me with his tongue again.

“Look at you,” he muttered into me. “Spread open on the altar. Dripping.”

I whimpered, one hand gripping the white cloth beneath me. “Please—Father…”

He groaned. “Say it louder.”

“Father,” I cried. “Please, fuck.”

Two fingers plunged inside me.

I arched off the altar, moaning so loud the sound echoed in the high ceilings above us.

“Stay still,” he growled, fingers curling inside me as his mouth went right back to my clit. “You wanted this. You begged for this.”

I was shaking.

He didn’t stop.

Over and over, he pushed me toward the edge, until my body couldn’t take it anymore.

I came so hard I nearly sobbed.

But he didn’t let up.

He kept licking. Kept fucking me with his fingers while I writhed on the altar like a girl possessed.

When I finally collapsed, limp and ruined, he rose to his feet.

Eyes dark. Lips wet.

Then, slowly, he undid his belt.

My breath hitched as his cock sprung free hard, red, leaking at the tip.

“Now,” he said, voice thick and low. “Now I fuck you.”

He pulled my hips to the edge, lined himself up, and without warning, He slammed inside.

The altar shook beneath me.

I screamed.

And he didn’t stop.

His cock drove into me so deep I swore the church shook with every thrust.

My back arched against the altar, legs spread wide, and his hands gripped my thighs like he was holding down a sinner who needed to be punished and purified at the same time.

“Fuck.” I gasped. “So deep.”

“You take it like a good little offering,” he growled, thrusting harder. “Look at you. My filthy, sacred whore.”

I moaned, loud and shameless, head tilted back so far I could see the stained-glass ceiling above. The Virgin Mary watched me while her priest ruined me on the very table where holy hands once blessed wine.

The irony only made me wetter.

He pulled my wrists above my head, pinning them against the altar. “Keep them there.”

His cock slammed into me again.

“F-Fuck!” I cried, legs trembling, completely at his mercy.

“Sacrifice,” he whispered against my ear, breath hot. “That’s what you are now.”

He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t sweet.

He was savage.

Unrelenting.

Every thrust punished me. Every inch buried inside me burned with pleasure. His skin slapped against mine, his grunts deep and raw, his body pressing mine into the altar like he wanted to fuck the purity out of me.

“You begged for this,” he snarled. “Now take it.”

“I am,” I whimpered. “Please don’t stop father”

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Father.”

He groaned like the words alone pushed him deeper.

Then he grabbed my chin and forced my eyes on him. “No more pretending. No more hiding behind that skirt and innocence. You’re mine now. My sin.”

My pussy clenched around him, hard.

I was close.

Too close.

And he knew it.

He let go of my wrists just to grab my throat, squeezing lightly—not enough to cut breath, but enough to make me feel every beat of my pulse pounding under his grip.

“You gonna come for me on this altar?” he growled. “While God watches?”

“Yes, Father—yes—”

He fucked me harder.

Faster.

His cock hit that spot inside me that made my toes curl, his grip on my neck tightening just a little more, just enough to make me gasp.

“I want you to scream when you come,” he rasped. “Let the angels hear what I’ve done to you.”

I broke.

With a loud, shaking cry, my orgasm tore through me violent and hot, rippling up my spine as my pussy spasmed around his cock.

He growled, fucking me through it, until his thrusts turned erratic.

Then he shoved deep one final time.

And came inside me.

Hot. Endless. Filling me with every pulse of his cock.

He didn’t pull out.

He stayed buried, breathing hard, both our bodies slick with sweat, pressed against each other on that desecrated altar.

Neither of us said a word.

Until he leaned down and whispered in my ear:

“You’ll be back tomorrow.”