This is part 2 of why should we call ourselves sinners?
Warning – if you are a devout Christian, you might not want to read this fictional tale.
Christina and the Priest ~ Sinners Part Two
The afternoon for my scripture seminar with you arrived. Sister Belinda was on her way over to the priory from the convent, so dropped me off.
“Now Christina, you behave yourself and don’t be giving Father Jermanus any trouble, be a good girl.” Sister Belinda had a twinkle in her eye.
“I’m always a good girl, Sister.” I smiled and tentatively knocked on the door.
Entering the room my heart leapt when you said it would be wise for me to lock it as you had a present for me.
Now I was intrigued. And hopeful.
“Father Murphy wants me to go away for the summer to the mission in Africa. He feels it will be good for my soul.”
Your sharp eyes searched mine.
“I’m not sure I will want to learn any more about giving my life to Jesus with you gone. Besides, with my A’levels coming up next month I won’t have much time for the church. But I will miss you.” I was a little sad and somewhat disappointed.
You understood what I meant immediately, knowing I didn’t particularly care for the scriptures. I was there for you. Chemistry and need passed between us.
“Now then, Christina. It was a wonderful gift you gave me last time. I have pondered over it at length in my bed at night. You are a very special young lady. I have got something for you. When you wear it think about me.”
You produced the most beautiful rosary from your pocket. My mind jumped elsewhere for a moment as I wondered why cassocks have pockets but skirts don’t?
“Father, I will treasure it.” Placing it around my neck where it nuzzled against my crisp white school blouse.
“Would you mind if I took a photo of you wearing it to help me through the long summer nights?”
I agreed. Picking up your phone you snapped a few images, checking them in your gallery.
“Very good, very good. But the cross can hardly be seen against your blouse. The colour is not contrasting and it’s hidden within the cotton. Take your blouse off Christina. Do it now.” You literally bellowed before leaning forward and removing the rosary from around my neck.
I was in no doubt that this was an order. Happy to oblige I slowly and deliberately undid the buttons and let the shirt fall from my shoulders. Nipples already alert, pert against the fabric of my bra.
Replacing the rosary around my neck you sat back.
“Oh that is perfect Christina, let me change my camera phone setting to video. I can tell your nipples are cold. Why don’t you show me how you warm them up.”
Wrapping the rosary beads around my fingers I put my hand inside the lace cup, stroking the breast and nipple, head falling back slightly, lips parted as I became aroused by my touch and knowing you were filming. Swiftly I removed my bra and as I let the necklace fall the stations of the cross lay perfectly in the crevice between my boobs. Jesus facing in against my skin just above the belt of my kilt.
“Ah, now that’s the photo I want.”
I can’t tell you how hot it felt. You snapping away whilst I caressed my tits. Bare for you to feast on. I moved and posed for your pleasure. Feeling powerful and wanton. Shifting in my seat as desire dampened my panties.
You put the phone down, pulling me towards you. I found myself on your knee. Your breath warm against my neck. Arms around me, squeezing my boobs in unison.
“You like that Christina? Can you feel what you are doing to me?”
Your cock was digging into my leg from beneath the robe. Your hand intruded under my kilt, stroking my thigh and then grasping the knicker’s gusset. Fingers teasing the flesh around my cunt before owning it and sinking in. Pulling out. Repeat.
Raising my hips I began to ride your hand, my titties jiggling as I moved.
“Oh, you bad, bad girl.” Growling.
Pushing me face down onto the desk you lifted the back of my skirt and yanked off my panties in one movement. Then picking up a ruler you repeatedly spanked my bum. With each thrash, I could feel my holes opening and closing – wanting to be filled by you.
“Look what you made me do.” You hissed.
I felt a breeze as the folds of your cassock spread over my back, almost engulfing me completely, and your cock pierced my sex. I moaned loudly as you pushed in all the way, stretching me, larger and fuller than my boyfriend.
You stroked my hair gently, whispering, “now you are being such a good girl.”
My cunt squelched as your cock pummelled it into submission. Wet and throbbing. You showed no mercy. My face side on plastered to your desktop. Tits cold against the wood. Looking down on me with purpose as if nothing else mattered. Fucking me as if I was the last girl on earth. With each bang, I came nearer to exploding.
As I cried out, “Oh god,” ripples of joy flooding my body, you joined in and finally slumped onto me, my cunt tightening around your dick. We were spent.
Once I had dressed and we were sitting opposite each other once more, you asked if I would think of you over the summer. Write, perhaps.
As I left you called my name. Turning you asked,
“Why should we call ourselves sinners Christina? Pleasures should be taken and absorbed.”
Have a read of the Priests version here from Cousin Pons…