squirmed as he inserted a wet finger, then another, moving them back and forth inside to stretch her, stimulating her until he had room for a third.
She groaned at the exquisite pressure and forced her bottom closer to his mouth. Her stretched anus felt like it was on fire. With one hand Jilly finger-fucked her pout while bracing herself against the chair with the other.
At last, when her slit thrummed from the stimulation of her backside, he removed his fingers. She heard him spit and felt his warm saliva in her crack. Then, with a little gasp, he pressed the head of his cock into her hole. Finally, with a grunt and a shove, he was in, pushing her face hard against the chair that smelled like her cunt.
Then, to her surprise, he began to stuff the rosary beads into her pussy with each thrust until only the crucifix dangled from her vulva. The fullness of her cunt and her arsehole, combined with the movement of the beads with each thrust, was beyond maddening. The priest humped harder and faster. His balls slapped against her bottom. With each thrust, he grunted breathlessly, ‘Oh God, oh God!’
She joined the chant. ‘Oh God, oh God!’
With a thrust that she feared would split her in two, he exploded inside her. At the same instant, he grabbed the crucifix like the pin of a hand grenade and yanked the beads from her pussy. The explosion nearly knocked the confessional over.
When they were dressed again, he kissed the rosary and placed it over her head. ‘I can’t grant you absolution when I know you’re not repentant.’
She chuckled softly. ‘I came for the confession, not the absolution.’ She wrapped her pussy-stained scarf around his neck and drew him into a kiss.
‘Will I see you next week?’ he breathed when she pulled away.
‘Afraid not, padre. There’s a church across town I’ve got my eye on. I hear the priest there believes in heavy penance for sinners like me, and thanks to you, I have so much more to confess.’ She sighed and laid her hand against her breasts. ‘Heavens. I don’t know if I can wait till next week. She turned and walked out of the deserted church.
Excavations
‘Go on, Gina,’ Mike said, nodding to the small stand of oak and beech trees where the Professor stood having what he no doubt thought was a private moment. ‘I dare you.’
‘Shut up,’ I hissed. ‘He’ll hear us.’
‘If you can’t heat up the Ice Man, who can? I know you want to.’ Mike gave me a playful shove in the Professor’s direction, and I responded with an elbow in his ribs resulting in a low grunt. I couldn’t take my eyes off the man in the trees giving himself a good grope. He’d asked us to call him Ed, but since I was only a lowly volunteer who never got close enough to have a real conversation with him, I still thought of him as the Professor. Seeing him this way was like a fantasy come true. Possibly he had stepped into the trees for a pee, but he certainly wasn’t anxious to zip up and get back to work. I wasn’t sure he could even if he’d wanted to. He leant back against a tree. His eyes were closed, his fly was open. His cock was at full attention in one hand. The other scooped in his pants to ease his balls from their constraint. For ages he stood there motionless, chest rising and falling in deep breaths, just holding himself.
He was unshaven, hair slightly mussed, like he’d just got out of bed. He always looked that way, and I fantasised that it was my bed he’d just gotten out of. His T-shirt was pushed up to reveal the hard slope of his belly and the inviting path of dark hair that led down from his navel to his cock. The ache in my pussy had me shifting from foot to foot, and in sudden danger of hyperventilating. I wouldn’t have given Mike a second glance if I’d had any indication that the Professor was even slightly interested in me.
‘Jesus,’ Mike whispered. ‘He’s so caught up in his work, who’d have thought he even had a sex drive?’ He nudged me
C. J. Cherryh
Learning to Kill: Stories
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Brenda Sinclair
Christopher George
Stephen Lloyd Jones
Karl Iagnemma
Celya Bowers
Jill Gregory
Aria Cunningham