Blasphemy, the sinful words that make my pussy throb. The audacity, the shamelessness, the utter disregard for all that’s holy – it’s intoxicating.
As I kneel before Father Michael, his crisp white collar a stark contrast to the black lace of my bra, I can barely contain my excitement. “Forgive me father, for I have sinned,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. But it’s not repentance I crave, it’s defiance.
With a sly smirk, I begin to unbutton his shirt, my fingers lingering on the fabric as I imagine the sacrilegious act about to unfold. “I’ve been blaspheming in my thoughts, Father. Using your title to describe the men who bring me pleasure…” I trail off, watching for his reaction.
A flicker of outrage crosses his face, but it’s quickly replaced by a thirst for more. “Go on,” he growls, his voice thick with lust. “Tell me of your blasphemies.”
As I describe the depraved fantasies that have been my secret vice, his hands roam my body, fingers pinching my nipples through the lace. “You’re a wicked temptress,” he hisses, but his arousal is evident in the bulge straining against his pants.
When we finally take each other, it’s with a frenzied intensity that borders on sacrilegious. I moan his name, a profane prayer, as he thrusts into me with a fervor that makes me scream. In that moment, the lines between sin and pleasure blur, and I am lost in a haze of blasphemy and ecstasy.