SACRILEGIOUS 3

Agnes pov

I felt the heavy, hot weight of him against my bare ass. He was big. Bigger than I'd ever imagined. 

He slid himself between my wet folds, not entering me, just teasing, coating himself with my arousal. I pushed back against him, a silent, desperate plea.

"Tell me you want this," he growled, his hands gripping my hips, holding me still.

"I want it," I moaned, the words muffled by the desk. "Please, Michael. I want it."

With a guttural groan, he pushed inside me.

I screamed. It was a sharp, piercing sound of pain and shocking, exquisite pleasure. 

He filled me completely, stretching me, claiming every inch of my insides. He paused for a second, letting me adjust, his breathing ragged behind me.

"Damn Sister," he choked out. "You're so tight. So fucking perfect."

Then he began to move. He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back into me, the force of it pushing me against the table, the hardwood bruising my hips. 

He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust deep, hard, absolute. There was no gentleness, no hesitation–this was him taking what he wanted, it was raw, primal, and it was everything I had ever secretly craved.

"You feel that?" he grunted, punctuating his words with another sharp thrust. "This is a man fucking you. Not in your dreams. Not a fantasy. This is real."

"Yes," I gasped, my hands scrabbling to steady myself on the hardwood. "Oh yes! It's so real."

He reached around, his fingers finding my clit again, rubbing it in circles fast. The dual sensation was too much. The deep, overwhelming fullness of him inside me, combined with the sharp, focused pleasure on the outside, was pushing me to the edge again.

"Who’s fucking you?" he demanded, his voice rough, strained.

"You…Yes You! I," I cried out.

"Say my name again." He grunted, his hand coming down on my bottom. Hard.

"Michael! Oh, Michael!"

"That's right," he snarled, his thrusts becoming faster, more erratic. 

He was close. I could feel it in the desperation of his movements, in the way his fingers tightened on my hips. "I'm going to fill you up. I'm going to ruin you for anyone else. You'll never be able to pray again without thinking of my cock inside you."

His filthy words were my undoing. The second orgasm hit me even harder than the first, a blinding, mind-numbing wave of ecstasy that made my whole body convulse. I sobbed his name, over and over, a prayer to a new, darker feeling.

With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself deep inside me and roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated release. I felt his dick pulse, and then a hot flood of his seed filled me, marking me….Claiming me. 

It felt so wrong, so lewd to have this happen in a place so close to the chapel, so close to christ. And it was the most intensely erotic thing I had ever felt.

He collapsed on top of me, his heavy weight pinning me to the desk, our sweaty bodies heaving together, trying to catch our breath. The room was silent now, except for the sound of our panting. 

The scent of sex, sweat, and incense hung heavy in the air. For a long moment, we just lay there, two shattered people, two broken vows.

Then, slowly, he pushed himself up. He pulled out of me, and all I felt was sudden emptiness. I could feel his thick cum beginning to trickle down my inner thigh, a sticky, shameful reminder of what we had done.

 I stayed bent over the desk, unable to move, my body bones feeling like jelly, my mind completely blank.

I heard the sound of him zipping up his pants, the rustle of his cassock. Then, silence.

 I didn't dare look up for fear of what I might see on his face. Regret? Disgust? 

Had he gotten what he wanted and was now repulsed by the naked, used nun on his desk?

I heard him move, but not toward the door. He was walking toward the bookshelf. 

I risked a glance, turning my head just enough to see. He wasn't looking at me. He was standing with his back to me, looking at a small, ornate crucifix that was hanging on the wall above a row of ancient-looking texts. 

His shoulders were slumped, and his head was bowed.

The sight of him praying, or seeming to pray, after what we had just done, sent a jolt of something–fear, shame, maybe even a little bit of anger through me.

I pushed myself up slowly, my body aching. My habit was a ripped pile of black wool on the floor, while my shift and panties were somewhere else. 

I was still clad, and I had absolutely nothing to wear.

 I grabbed the heavy leather-bound book that had been knocked to the floor during our frenzy and held it in front of me like a flimsy shield.

"Michael," I whispered, my voice hoarse.

He didn't turn. "You should go."

The words were cold. Final. 

It felt like a bucket of ice water over the fire he had just ignited in me. I felt a lump form in my throat, as my eyes began to sting. "What?" I breathed. "But… I don't understand."

He finally turned to face me, and the look in his eyes made me flinch. The hunger was gone, replaced by a deep, soul-crushing despair.

"Go, Sister," he said, his tone flat. "Put your clothes on and go back to your cell. Pray for forgiveness. I know I will."

"But… I thought… You said…" I stammered, feeling like a fool, a cheap, used fool. "You said I was yours."

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped his lips. "And you are," he said, his voice dripping with self-loathing. "You're mine to damn. Did you think this was a fairy tale? That we would fall in love and run away together? I just fucked a nun on my desk, a foot away from the Eucharist. I didn't save you. I just dragged you down into the pit with me, Angela–the one I've been rotting in for years."