Taboo: Ties and Sins のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 171 - チャプター 180

The morning sun filtered through the church's stained glass, casting mosaics of red and blue light onto the stone floor, as if heaven itself were trying to purify what had happened the night before. Father Gabriel knelt before the altar, the rosary clenched between his fingers, each bead a vain attempt to erase Lívia's note, still burning in his pocket: "I'll come back tomorrow, Father. Don't pray so much." He tried to pray, to murmur Hail Marys, but Ana's words—"I think of him fucking me, opening me up"—and Lívia's feline gaze echoed louder than any prayer. His body, treacherous, still reacted, his cock half-hard beneath the cassock, a cruel reminder of his weakness. Gabriel, at 30, had the face of a carved angel, but his brown eyes carried shadows he hid even from himself. The sparse, poorly trimmed beard betrayed sleepless nights, and his slightly disheveled brown hair gave him an air of being too human for a man who was supposed to be holy. He stood up, the black cloth of the cass

The sacristy smelled of melted wax and old wood, the air saturated by the weight of a silence that seemed to await sin. The candles in the candelabra flickered, casting shadows that writhed on the walls, as if the carved saints knew what was coming. Father Gabriel stood before the polished wooden table, his cassock unbuttoned at the collar, his broad chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. The rosary with the scent of Ana and Lívia - vanilla and clove - still weighed in his pocket, next to the black panties, a reminder of his weakness. He had tried to pray after the last confession, but Lívia's words - "you want to see me on my knees, sucking that cock" - and Ana's hungry kiss haunted him, his cock throbbing under the black fabric like a constant betrayal.The tower clock struck one in the morning, the deep sound echoing through the empty church. Gabriel should have locked the doors, but he hadn't. The promise to "talk" with Ana and Lívia was a lie he could no longer sustain. The

The subway doors closed with the metallic hiss that always seemed the same, indifferent to who entered or left. The repetitive sound of the tracks vibrated beneath the passengers' feet, lulling them into a collective trance of weariness. Camila Duarte was there, as she had been every night for the past five years, occupying the same seat near the window. There was no surprise, no novelty—only the same mechanical sequence of steps, schedules, and bored breaths.At twenty-nine, Camila had grown accustomed to this nightly ritual: leaving the downtown office, walking to the crowded station, enduring the shoving match of rush hour, finding a spot almost by luck, and letting the train carry her to the neighborhood where she lived. It was predictable, automatic, suffocating.On the outside, she seemed the woman everyone expected: the proper executive, straight hair pulled into an always impeccable ponytail, a light silk shirt matching a dark pencil skirt, low heels that never betrayed haste.

The subway cut through the tunnels with a constant roar, the swaying of the cars like a heartbeat that seemed to echo Camila Duarte's racing pulse. Sitting on the cold plastic seat, she felt her body vibrating with the tension the stranger had ignited. The pencil skirt, once a symbol of her rigid routine, now felt like a barrier too thin, the fabric brushing against her thighs in an almost torturous way. Her green eyes, once dulled by boredom, now shone with a mixture of fear and arousal, fixed on the dark window where the reflection of the empty car trembled.The stranger was closer now, just a few seats away, his imposing body occupying the space with a presence that seemed to suck the air out of the car. His dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, revealed the curve of his muscular chest, and his dark hair fell over his forehead, giving him an air of someone who defied rules effortlessly. He wasn't looking directly at her, but Camila felt his eyes, like an invisible caress, tracing

The subway tore through the tunnels with a hungry roar, the sway of the cars a wild pulse that echoed the storm inside Camila Duarte. Sunk into the plastic seat, now warm and slippery under her sweaty skin, she fought to catch her breath, the pencil skirt bunched at her waist, the silk blouse torn open exposing her full breasts, the twisted bra hanging like a flag of surrender. Her brown hair, freed from its bun, cascaded in damp strands over her shoulders, sticking to her sweaty neck, and her green eyes, once bound to monotony, burned with an animal voracity, inflamed by the climax that had devastated her minutes before.He stood before her, his imposing silhouette blocking the harsh light of the car, his dress shirt wide open revealing his sculpted torso, veins standing out under bronze skin, his firm abdomen glistening with droplets of sweat. His dark hair clung to his forehead, and the sparse stubble on his angular jaw seemed sharper under the unforgiving lights. His cock, still s