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As Sister Anita knelt before the altar, she trembled, chafing her knees on the floor. The young nun bit her lip, eyes fixated on the dark, polished wood before her. Shaking, she lifted the skirts of her habit, the cool fabric trailing along her thighs. In the shadowy, deserted chapel, Anita moaned. Her voice echoed off the high ceiling, reverberating off cold stone and unyielding wooden pews.
Anita was the youngest nun in the convent by at least thirty years. Her pretty face and deep brown eyes had captured the hearts of nearly half the young men in her village, and musical voice had attracted most of the rest. But there were no young men to sing her praises here. Not in a nunnery. The moonlight, filtered through stained glass windows, gave her pale a skin an unearthly, ethereal glow as she bent backward.
Thin lips parted below wide eyes. She ignored the ache in her thighs and the burning in her arms; her mind was intent on the heat resting beneath her legs. Anita groaned again and bent forward, so low her nose brushed the floor in front of her. Wet sounds echoed faintly in the enormous chapel.
They’d begged her not to join, all the handsome young men in the village. So did her parents, pleading on their knees and weeping. But Anita refused to listen. The Lord had appeared to her, she told them, and ordered her to become a nun. So, in spite of the wailing and begging and tears, she’d left her home and joined a convent. But she had a problem.
At twenty-one, Anita had more than sufficient experience with the boys in the village, and she had developed a healthy appetite for a man’s touch. But the nuns…disapproved of her “carnal acts,” and it had taken only one man being caught in her bed, naked, for the sisters to undertake extreme measures. She was kept under constant surveillance and banned from leaving the grounds, to ensure she didn’t deviate from more…godly pursuits.
Anita smirked, then bit her lip to stifle a moan. Her teeth dug into the soft skin and she tasted blood. The young nun opened her mouth, threw her head back, and let out an animal groan. The other nuns were older, they slept deeper (and longer) than she did—nighttime was the only way she could steal herself some privacy. Every few nights, Anita snuck out of her dormitory and down to the chapel, where she touched herself, kneeling on the floor between the pews. If she were ever caught, she’d claim she couldn’t sleep and had been in “intense prayer.” Her trembling and moaning would pass for religious rapture, she was certain.
She slid another finger inside herself, grimacing in a mixture of pleasure and pain–she was stretching herself now. Three fingers worked into her pussy, curling and thrusting in and out, covering her palm with her juices. The stone beneath her spread legs was stained dark, her faint musk overcoming the deep-ingrained scents of dust and ancient Bibles.
She lifted her halter even higher, leaning back until her thighs burned and her shoulders scraped the stone behind her. Her bare stomach heaved with irregular, jagged breaths. Anita whimpered, clutching her breast with her free hand. The rough fabric crumpled in her palm, abrasive against her sensitive nipples. Her mouth and eyes shot open in a soundless gasp–
Wind tore through the cathedral, tousling her hair. Anita froze, standing still with her hand between her legs, fingers buried deep. Her robe and breast beneath it were still clasped in her fingers as a column of wind whirled above the altar. Dust and spare papers hurtled through the sanctuary, whistling in the air
On either side of the maelstrom, a pair of iron-gray wings opened. Between them, as the wind dissipated, a bronze-skinned man emerged, falling and landing on the ancient, dusty altar. He hopped down, clattering to the floor, and stared imperiously at the cathedral. He was naked from the waist up, barefoot, with silver chainmail covering his legs. It clanked as he stepped toward, turning his head and scrutinizing the dim, gray chapel.
His silver eyes found her brown ones and bored into them, his gaze powerful, dangerous. She trembled, stock-still, waiting. He took a laborious step forward, never taking his eyes from hers. His muscles rippled as he moved, lithe and strong beneath bronze skin. His wings rustled, the edges of his feathers brushing the pews alongside the aisle as he walked closer…closer. Every step reverberated through the dark cathedral, each footfall echoing with terrible, incredible strength.
Anita fell forward, her palms landing with a splat as she prostrated herself before him. He was terrible and alluring, full of power and majesty and awful beauty. She mouthed prayers under her breath, English and Latin blurring together in a desperate, terrified babble. His knelt before her, the scent of oiled skin and polished metal filling her nostrils.
His hands, heavy and powerful, but incredibly gentle, landed on her shoulders, and lifted her to her feet. He set her down delicately, holding her firmly until her trembling ceased.
She looked him up and down, breathing fast, eyes still wide with fear. She was close enough to see the silver veins standing out on his banded arms and broad shoulders. His long, black hair brushed his shoulders, and iron-gray eyes drilled into hers. His face was chiseled and hard, with a strong, shaven jaw and solid, powerful features. Then he smiled.
His entire face changed. His eyes softened, the skin around them crinkling. His teeth, straight and pearly white, shone from behind his lips. Warmth replaced the iron in his gaze as he looked at her–no. He looked into her.
“Sister Anita,” he sighed, shaking his head. “What were you doing?” His hair rustled as he moved, the sleek black wave cascading down his neck. She gulped and shook her herself, silently chiding herself.
“Ah…nothing?” The angel’s wings folded behind him as he crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. She swallowed again, louder, and backed away, retreating until her feet bumped into a pew. “I–I was just in…intense…prayer…that’s all.” Even to her, the lie sounded pathetic. An elderly nun might believe her, but not an angel.
He snorted, scowling. “Prayer does not wet a woman of the cloth’s fingers between her legs.” Anita glanced at the offending fingers, coated in warm, wet liquid. They smelled like her, and the scent was strong–strong enough she could clearly smell her musky, dark tang from arm’s length. She bit her lip, looking up at him.
“But…even the most pious person can deviate from God’s commands now and then, right?” Anita raised her eyebrows, trying to look as pitiful as possible. The angel stared down at her, his imperious, unreadable expression chiseled into his face again. Then he raised his eyebrows and chuckled warmly. His voice was as warm as a hot bowl of soup on a summer’s day–it permeated the very fabric of her being.
“Yes, of course,” he whispered. Anita took a step closer to him, his hands still resting on her shoulders. He was warm–the heat emanated from his body like a bonfire, and Anita shuddered. It felt good, and clean, and masculine. “The Lord our God, our Father and Savior, forgives all things. But he doesn’t know I’m here. I am…drawn to you. I am Zaaphiel, angel of love and lusts. And your passion, here at this altar…it called me.”
Anita swallowed. “Really? I called you? My…lusts…called you?” She bit her lip, and looked down his body. Zaaphiel’s arms were thick and strong, his chest sculpted and powerful. His stomach, inches away from hers, was a mass of lines, guiding her eyes downward…where they stopped at the armored belt holding his chainmail pants. She frowned, irritated. She wanted it gone. She wanted him.
“It has,” he murmured, tilting his head closer to her. His hair brushed her neck, tickling the flesh between her halter and her veil. It smelled sharp, acrid, and powerful, an ebony curtain surrounding their faces.
“Your desire, Sister Anita…it fills me.” He was close to her, so close she could feel his hot breath on her forehead. A bead of sweat rolled down her jaw, and a trail of liquid ran down her thigh. Her legs trembled, making her entire body shake.
“Please…” he whispered. An undercurrent of desperation filled his voice now, dark and powerful and full of desire. “Release me from it.” Anita shuddered and stepped closer, pressing her hand against his armored thigh. The metal was cool in the night air.
“So, even angels have needs.” He nodded once, biting his lip. His chin was aligned with her forehead, and he was massive, but in that moment, Anita held power over him. The nun slid her hand up the angel’s thigh as his hands moved down her body, pressing her halter to her ribs and feeling her soft curves. She shivered, and let lust overtake her. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps as he scraped her robe over her body.
Anita stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. Zaaphiel cupped her chin in one hand and kissed back, hard, his tongue poking between her lips. She opened her mouth, yielding to him, and pressed her body to his. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, tangling her hands in his iron-gray feathers. His powerful arms wrapped around her, holding her in a tight, firm embrace as they ground against each other.
He broke away from her, leaving her flushed and trembling. He trailed a soft line of kisses down her neck, stopping at the collar of her robe. Blushing a brilliant scarlet, she lifted her halter over her head, exposing the bare, pale body beneath. She threw the robe to the side and stood before him, legs open.
The world twisted and bent. The roar of a storm filled her ears, a thousand colors swirled across her vision, and her mind exploded. Time and space ceased to exist, everything and nothing filled her mind. Then the world reassembled. When she came to, Anita screamed.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/26noog/the_angel_of_lust