Forbidden Reading (5 page)

A prickle of disquiet rumbled through her bowel. The inside of her mouth turned dry with anticipation and she didn’t dare swallow for fear of choking on the arid taste of dread. As she put the underwear with the rest of her clothes she noticed her hands shaking and knew it had nothing to do with the night’s cool breeze.

Her breathing had fallen to a sultry pant.

The wrongness of what she was doing struck her like a slap across the face. Standing naked – her pale body almost glowing in the moonlight, while the rest of the churchyard was held in shadows – made Justine feel like the world’s most depraved exhibitionist. She knew her slender figure and modest breasts looked attractive and exciting: the dusky swell of each breast was tipped with a stiff,
café au lait
tip that turned to
mocha
when she was excited. Her waist was narrow, her stomach flat, and she made a point of keeping her sex shaved and shamelessly free from hair. But, although she had previously admired the aesthetic perfection of her nudity in bathroom and bedroom mirrors, she had never expected to be displaying her secretly prized assets in a Provence churchyard.

Rubbing her arms to ward off the prickle of goose-flesh, she ignored the stiffness at her nipples and deliberately didn’t notice the darkening hue of her areolae. It was more of a struggle to disregard the smouldering heat at her sex but she wilfully closed it from her mind. Shuffling from one foot to the other she waited with growing trepidation for the priest to return.

Voices on the path made her momentarily breathless with fear.

It sounded like two women were approaching – she was sure neither could be the priest, both tones were too soft and feminine – and they spoke in the fluid indecipherable French of the local villagers. A cold sheet of panic embraced Justine’s naked body. She stood rigid, not knowing what to do for the best. In contrast to her immobility, her heart raced and her mind accelerated as she tried to work out the most prudent course of action. The priest had told her to stand by the Dupont stone but she wondered if he expected her to remain there and court the risk of discovery. Her own embarrassment at being seen would be crippling but Justine reasoned she might be jeopardising the priest’s reputation if she didn’t hide.

Before she could crouch behind the Dupont stone, her quicksilver doubts stung her with the idea that the priest might want her to suffer this impending humiliation. If he did have a reputation in the village, it wasn’t one that he had appeared to consider when he was forcing her to pleasure him in the church. The vivid memory of what she had done added shame to her panic and tinged her cheeks with a cerise blush.

Justine wanted to hide; she didn’t want to bring embarrassment on either herself or the priest; but she didn’t want to disobey him and jeopardise her chance of acquiring
La Coste
. She cursed the man for not explaining what to do, and then cursed herself for not thinking to ask. And, as her thoughts tumbled back and forth between the options of concealing herself behind the Dupont stone, or blatantly braving the attention of innocent passers-by, the voices drew closer.

She could easily imagine the outrage she would cause. The shocked expressions, the sneers of disgust, and the foreign cries of condemnation were all clear in her mind’s eye. But those thoughts only added to the wetness between her legs and did nothing to suggest what action she should take. Trying to retain some modesty, she folded one arm across her breasts and placed a demure hand over her cleft.

The footsteps trudged closer.

The voices were loud enough to shout through the stillness of the cemetery and Justine’s overactive imagination made her certain the strangers were bearing down on her. So far she had been unable to see who was approaching: the forest of tall stones kept her relatively sheltered from the view of the path. But she believed, as soon as they came alongside the row of graves where she stood, the approaching parishioners wouldn’t be able to miss her. The idea of being seen fuelled equal measures of dread and delight. Too frightened to concentrate, Justine couldn’t work out whether she was appalled at the prospect of being shamed, or growing wet from anticipation. Her inner thighs were sticky with excess rivulets of her own arousal.

A gloved hand fell on her shoulder.

Justine never understood how she was able to contain the scream. The mounting terror that tightened her chest had brought her to the brink of shrieking. When the priest grabbed her bare shoulder, then turned her so she was facing him, Justine came close to collapsing with a combination of fright, disappointment and relief.

‘You followed my instructions,’ he grunted. ‘I suppose that speaks in your favour.’

His absence of concern was chilling. She was equally unnerved by the lack of expression on his face. His gaze slipped down to appraise her nudity – Justine was appalled to realise her nipples were now standing fully erect – but she couldn’t detect any hint of a smile or even mild approval. She wanted to believe that the churchyard’s lack of light was making it hard to read his face but she knew it was more likely that he was simply unmoved or unimpressed by the sight of her naked body. He stared at her coldly, his gloved hand still resting on her shoulder, his dark gaze glowering with an unspoken threat of retribution.

It was only in that moment, when the silence between them was solid and uncomfortable, that Justine realised she could hear no one else in the churchyard. With the shock of having the priest surprise her she had forgotten about the parishioners. Listening intently, she could still hear the voices that had incited so much panic but they were now distant whispers, as though both the women had lowered their voices to enter the church. Thankful that she had avoided the crushing embarrassment of being observed, Justine sighed.

‘Turn around,’ the priest snapped. His crisp voice carried boldly through the night and she immediately understood he wasn’t worried about being discovered. That thought didn’t bode well. ‘Face away from me,’ he barked curtly. ‘Hold the Madonna’s feet. Part your legs.’

The terse instructions filled her with black excitement.

She briefly toyed with the idea of refusing but she knew the situation had gone beyond such an opportunity. Away from her need to acquire
La Coste
she was now driven by those desires he aroused within her. Her inner muscles were instantaneously transformed to a warm and fluid state, her pulse fluttered to match the urgent haste that beat between her legs, and she hurried to obey.

There was no doubt in her mind that what she was doing transcended sacrilege. She was standing naked in a churchyard and making herself sexually available for a depraved priest whom she barely knew. Touching the feet of the Virgin Mother’s statue only compounded that crime and she cringed from the deviance of her actions. But Justine couldn’t stop herself from doing exactly as the priest demanded. His voice carried instructions that she wanted to obey and his manner was so worldly and confident that disobedience simply wasn’t an alternative she wanted to consider.

And, savouring the delicious rush of expectation, growing acutely aware of the chill breeze that toyed with the split of her pussy lips, she knew her subservience was going to be pleasurable. The inner muscles of her sex were already clenching in small tight spasms of anticipation. Her labia were wet from arousal and sensitive to the lightest movement of air. The stiffness of her nipples ached to be released by the attention of a warm and welcoming mouth.

‘Bend forward,’ the priest demanded.

His gloved hands were on her hips, the soft leather smoothing against the swell of her buttocks. The coarse twill of his cassock brushed her backside and – shocking her with its hardness and heat – the priest’s erection nuzzled against her cleft. The breathlessness of her excitement returned with renewed force. The rush of arousal became a torrent and, as he stroked his length against her sex, a surge of animalistic pleasure overwhelmed Justine. His swollen glans slipped easily against her wet flesh. The friction of his broad dome against her glistening pussy was enough to inspire a deeper need inside her sex. Caught up in the heady thrill, she groaned hungrily.

He slapped one gloved hand against her rear. The echo rang loudly in her ears. The muffled burst of pain was enough to make her gasp again but this time without the same giddy rush of pleasure. ‘You are doing this for my satisfaction,’ he growled. ‘Not yours.’

It was sufficient warning to make her bite her lower lip rather than release another sound. Still quivering with her need for him, poignantly aware of her body’s desperate longing for orgasm, Justine tried not to squirm against him as he continued to rub his erection back and forth along the split of her sex.

‘Are you ready for this?’ he asked.

The head of his shaft rested over her hole. Her labia were already kissing a wet welcome to his glans and she contemplated pushing herself back against him. Knowing he would disapprove of such initiative, Justine tightened her grip on the feet of the Madonna and said, ‘Yes. I’m ready.’

His thick length easily plundered her sex. The broad shaft forced her pussy muscles wide apart and burrowed deep inside. The heat of his erection – and the delicious girth that filled her so easily – made for an intoxicating blend. Justine arched her back as he pushed deeper, relishing the penetration and marvelling at the sensations he evoked. When he began to slide back, easing out of her so he could penetrate again, she chugged breath as her body tried to deal with the onslaught of satisfying responses.

‘Putain cochonne
,’ he grunted.

The words still meant nothing to her and they were the only ones she could properly discern from the vitriolic outburst he hurled at her back. She understood that he wasn’t saying anything pleasant. And she wanted to be shocked or horrified that a priest would insult her with what she suspected were crude expletives. But it only added to her excitement that the priest was cursing her while he used her in the boundaries of his hallowed ground.

The slap of his hand against her backside snapped her thoughts back to the moment. He struck with a punishing force which, while it didn’t properly hurt, was uncomfortable enough to remind Justine that she was there for his convenience. She could hear him grunting and every other breath was accompanied by another foreign swear word. The sweat of his excitement radiated from him in waves, and she trembled as the exhilarating thrill buffeted her body. When he slapped his hand against her for a third time she realised he had stopped his guttural incantation at some point during her reverie and had been giving her an instruction.

‘Pray,’ he demanded. ‘I want to hear you pray.’

The hand slapped her rear again and this time she understood she must obey without hesitation. For a moment she was weak with confusion, not knowing which prayer to recite, or if she should be committing such a profanation. When he slapped her backside again the abused flesh bristled with discomfort. She glanced down at her hip and saw her buttock was now livid from the repeated punishment. The shape of his gloved hand was repeatedly emblazoned against her wan flesh.

‘Pray,’ he insisted. ‘I will not ask you again.’

He issued his command with a finality that made Justine certain he was on the verge of damning her as unworthy of retrieving
La Coste
. The thought of failing was enough of an impetus and Justine finally found the words for which she had been searching.

‘
Our father
,’ she began, ‘
who art in heaven
.’

He rode her so that each sentence of the Lord’s Prayer was thrust from her mouth with a small gasp. The sacrilege of what she was doing struck her harder than any of the slaps he had delivered to her rear. Each word she muttered – reminding Justine of all the times she had innocently knelt and prayed in her own church – felt like the vilest affront to God. Yet, for all her fears of eternal damnation, her body responded with a fresh surge of delight each time he pushed into her.

‘
Hallowed be thy name
,’ she gasped. The thrill of impending orgasm made her legs weak. The quick contractions of her pussy muscles grew faster and made her certain that her climax was only a breath away. ‘
Thy kingdom come
,’ she hissed.

‘Say it louder.’

Despite the night’s chill air a sheen of sweat lacquered her naked flesh. Tremors of euphoria bristled along her arms and down her shoulders as the priest continued to plough in and out of her hole. The promise of release inched perpetually closer and, throughout the ordeal, Justine heard herself reciting those same words that she had always considered sacred. ‘
Thy will be done
,’ she declared loudly. Raising her voice, trying to make herself heard to comply with the priest’s instruction, she called, ‘
On earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread
.’

The priest’s volley of insults had become an endless stream. She couldn’t understand what he was saying but she knew he was damning her with every despicable label at his disposal. His vigorous thrusting was equally unrelenting. A barrage of hateful pleasure was bludgeoned from her sex and Justine bit back cries of protest as she struggled to finish the prayer. ‘
Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us
,’ she bawled. ‘
And lead us not into temptation
.’

The irony of mentioning temptation made her feel ill. She squeezed her inner muscles around his shaft and groaned as an electric frisson of excitement tore through her hole. The prospect of orgasm loomed closer than ever and she renewed her grip on the feet of the Madonna.

‘
But deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom
.’

She hesitated; sure she had heard more footsteps on the gravel path. The idea that she might be seen still worried Justine, even though she believed her sacrilege had now taken her to previously unplumbed depths of degradation. It was only natural to lower her voice, and try to control the grunting cleric behind her.