P-5

The confession booth smelled of incense, and the faint trace of candle smoke that never left the church. With the curtain drawn, the narrow space forced them close.

Lola straddled Father Marcus on the penitent’s bench, her skirt bunched around her hips, plain cotton underwear shoved aside. His cassock was open just enough. She sank down onto his cock in one smooth motion, taking every thick inch until she was seated fully against him.

She was fully clothed. Blouse and cardigan still neat and buttoned, the only evidence of what they were doing hidden beneath the fabric of her skirt.

Marcus’s hands gripped her waist beneath the clothing, guiding her as she began to move. Slow at first rolling her hips, grinding her clit against the base of his cock, feeling him throb deep inside her pussy. The wooden grille pressed against her shoulder. Every shift of her body made the bench creak faintly.

Marcus watched her face in the dim light filtering through the curtain. Her lips parted. Silent. He could feel the heat of her, the slick grip of her cunt as she rose and dropped again, taking him deeper.

Guilt sat heavy in his chest, but the it only made his cock harder. He thrust up to meet her, short and urgent, the confined space muffling everything except the wet sound of her pussy sliding along his shaft.

Then the outer door of the church opened.

Footsteps, slow and deliberate. A man’s voice called out across the empty nave.

“Father Marcus?”

Silence.

Father Marcus are you here?”

Lola froze for half a second, still impaled on him. Marcus’s hands tightened on her hips. Neither of them moved.

The parishioner’s steps drew closer to the confessionals. The man tried the curtain of the next booth, then the one after.

“Father? I need a word about the upcoming fundraising.”

Marcus thrust up into her. Hard. Lola’s eyes locked on his. She began to move again, riding him in tight circles, her pussy clenching around his cock with every rise and fall.

The thrill of the discovery only a thin curtain away flooded through them both. Her breath hitched. He felt the vibration of a soft, wordless sound in her throat as she ground down harder.

The parishioner stopped right outside their booth.

“Father Marcus?”

Marcus kept fucking her. Slow, deep strokes that made her thighs tremble. Lola’s hands braced on his shoulders, her body rocking above him, the fabric of her skirt shifting with every motion.

Precum and her wetness slicked the join of their bodies. She was soaked, dripping down onto his balls. His cock swelled thicker inside her. She rode him faster, chasing the edge, the nearness of the other man making her cunt pulse greedily around him.

The footsteps finally moved away. The outer door closed again.

They did not stop. Marcus gripped her ass beneath the skirt and drove up into her until she came, silent and shaking, her pussy clamping down in hard rhythmic waves.

The sight of her climax dragged him over. He buried himself to the hilt and spilled deep inside her, pulsing thick ropes of come into her cunt while the parishioner’s voice still echoed faintly in his memory.

They stayed locked together for long seconds, breathing hard, hearts racing.

When she finally lifted off him, come slipped down the inside of her thigh. She straightened her underwear and skirt. Her cheeks were flushed. She smiled and signed: That was nice.

That night in the rectory, after the housekeeper had gone, Lola signed to him in the low light of the study: I have never felt more alive.

Marcus caught her wrists, pulled her against him, and answered by pushing her back onto the desk. He fucked her there until the wood creaked and her silent cries vibrated against his mouth.

After the last baptism of the day, when the parents and godparents had left and the church stood empty again, Marcus locked the side door and led her to the baptismal font.

The marble was cool and smooth under the late afternoon light. Lola braced her hands on the edge. He lifted her skirt, shoved her underwear aside, and thrust into her from behind in one hard stroke.

She was already wet for him. Always wet for him now. Her pussy took him greedily, the slick heat of her gripping every inch as he fucked her against the font.

Water from the earlier rite still clung to the marble. Her fingers dug into the stone, knuckles whitening. Marcus reached around and rubbed her clit in firm circles while he drove into her, the forbidden setting making every thrust filthier.

Lola’s head dropped forward. Her mouth opened on a silent cry he could feel through the tension in her body. He fucked her harder, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing faintly in the empty church.

This was the place of new life, of sacred water but the wrongness of it all only made his cock throb thicker inside her.

She came first, thighs shaking, cunt clamping down around him in hard pulses. Her hands gripped the marble so tightly until her fingers ached.

Marcus followed, burying himself deep and spilling into her with a broken groan.

He stayed inside her while the last tremors faded, forehead pressed to the back of her neck, both of them trembling.

Lola’s breathing slowed. She turned her head enough for him to see the shape of private smile on her lips that belonged only to him. She had never been happier.