Alle Kapitel von 50 SHADES OF SINFUL PRESSURE : Kapitel 111 – Kapitel 120

The air inside the confessional was thick with the scent of old wood, incense, and something far more dangerous—desire. I knelt on the threadbare velvet cushion, my knees already aching in the most delicious way. The black lace dress I’d chosen clung to my body like a second skin, the hem riding dangerously high on my thighs. At twenty-six, I knew exactly what I looked like: a sinner wrapped in temptation, dark waves of hair cascading over one shoulder, full lips painted blood-red, and eyes that had stopped pretending to seek forgiveness years ago. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I whispered, my voice low and husky, designed to slip through the latticed screen like smoke. On the other side, I heard him shift. Father Julian Cross. Thirty-seven. Handsome in that tortured, forbidden way that made my pulse throb between my legs. I could picture him perfectly even without seeing him—sharp jaw clenched, stormy gray eyes darkened with the war he was losing, black cassock stret

The guilt should have eaten him alive after that first night. Instead, it only made him hungrier. Two days passed in agonizing silence. I didn’t go to confession. I didn’t text or call. I let the absence fester like an open wound. During Sunday Mass, I sat in the third pew with my mother, wearing a modest black dress that still managed to cling to my curves. My thighs were still bruised from Julian’s fingerprints, my pussy still tender from how brutally he’d used me. Every time he glanced toward the congregation, his stormy gray eyes found me instantly. I crossed my legs slowly, letting the hem ride up just enough, and watched his jaw tighten. He stumbled over the Gospel reading. The good parishioners didn’t notice, but I did. I smiled behind my missal, knowing his cock was probably thickening under that cassock as he remembered flooding my cunt with his cum. After the final blessing, my mother dragged me to speak with him like the dutiful daughter she thought I was. Elena Ros

The walls were closing in, but the danger only made me wetter. My mother, Elena Rossi, wasn’t a fool. Devout, yes. Blind, no. She noticed the fading bite marks on my neck that makeup couldn’t fully hide. She saw how I glowed with that freshly-fucked radiance every time I came back from “evening walks.” And worst of all, she noticed how Father Julian’s eyes lingered on me during Mass, dark and hungry instead of holy. “You’ve changed, Gabriella,” she said one afternoon in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with sharp, angry strokes. “There’s sin on you. I can smell it.” I leaned against the counter in a thin tank top and shorts, my nipples still sensitive from Julian sucking them raw the night before. “Maybe I’m just becoming a woman, Mama.” She slammed the knife down. “You will go to confession tomorrow. Real confession. Father Julian is a good man. He will guide you back to the light.” I almost laughed in her face. Good man. The same man who had fucked my ass in this very kitc

was twenty years old, stubborn as hell, and completely fucked. The hiking trip had sounded perfect on paper—get away from campus, clear my head after finals, post some aesthetic forest pics for the gram. But I’d ignored every warning sign, wandered off the marked trail chasing a foggy ridgeline that looked Instagram-worthy, and now Mother Nature was punishing me for it. Rain came down in sheets, cold and relentless, soaking through my thin jacket and turning the forest floor into a slick, muddy trap. My boots slipped with every step. My phone had died hours ago, no signal anyway, and the backpack straps were cutting into my shoulders like icy knives. Trees loomed taller and darker the deeper I pushed, their branches whipping at my face. I was shivering hard, teeth chattering, cursing under my breath. Then, through a break in the pines, I saw it: a sturdy log cabin nestled against a rocky outcrop. Smoke curled lazily from the stone chimney despite the downpour, and a single warm

Morning light filtered weakly through the small windows, gray and washed out by the endless rain. I woke up tangled in the heavy blankets, my body aching in ways that had nothing to do with the hike. The flannel shirt had ridden up during the night, bunching around my waist, and the cool air kissed my bare skin. For a moment I just lay there, listening. The storm had settled into a steady, drumming downpour—no thunder, just relentless water turning the forest into a swamp. No chance of leaving today. My mind replayed every second of last night: Jack’s gravel voice telling me to go back to bed, the heavy warmth of his hand on my face, the way my fingers had desperately worked between my thighs afterward. Shame burned in my chest, but so did something hotter. I pressed my thighs together and forced myself to climb down the ladder before I did anything stupid again. Jack was already moving around the cabin like the weather didn’t exist. He’d clearly been outside—his flannel was dam