*Bivona, Sicily, 1963. August.*
You splash water in your face, run the razor one last time over your jawline and then put it away in its delicate, silk-inlaid box. The sun is already high and warm on the morning sky, and you revel in the sensation of it caressing your skin as you walk naked back into your spartan bedroom. Clothes, black on black, are laid on out on the dresser; the frock hangs separately on its hanger, the last thing you will don before venturing out to tend to your flock.
Socks first; you revel in your own nudity, and is loathe to restrict what is, unarguably, a pretty impressive member. In its current state, the last of the morning glory fading, it swings heavy and semi-hard between your thighs, with the soft sack a nice, plump handful underneath. You let the sun roast your tan skin for a few seconds more before reaching down and pulling on your trousers, the soft, black slacks nestling around your muscular thighs and firm buttocks with a reassuring tightness. You might be a priest, but no one can deny that you look good. Damn good.
After buttoning your trousers, you pull on your shirt and then go for the frock to finish the look. Not much choice of style in the life you’ve chosen, but so far, you’ve yet to rely on clothes to seal the deal. In the two years you’ve tended to the spiritual health of the small village, you’ve found the local population *very* receptive of your particular brand of ecclesial nourishment. The women in particular. Being young, handsome and backed by God himself doesn’t hurt, either. Dark hair, brown eyes and a jawline that could cut glass; some people might wonder why you’d choose the priesthood over a life of hedonistic debauchery. Which, of course, only goes to show how little they know.
One last look at the mirror, fixing an errant strand of hair, and then the final addition of your collar and necklace, the small, silver cross that marks you as a man most holy. Then you push out of the door, hand clutching the rosary beads in your pocket. It’s a beautiful day, and as you walk the grounds of the church the smell of flowers and fresh grass fills your nostrils. The groundskeeper nods at you as you pass, and you smile in return, a beatific crease of your lips that shows anyone watching you that God in on your side in all matters, physical and spiritual. Even the inside of the church is warmer than usual, the smooth bricks solemnly echoing your footsteps as you cross to the alter to make your obeisance. Then you cross over to the confessional and shut the door behind you, settling into the darkness to wait. Your parish knows the hours you keep, and how fastidious you are about it. They will come, as surely as the Lord has built it.
You don’t have to wait long. Delicate footsteps cross the stone floor, the heavy sound of the church door a quiet rumble in the background. The other door of the confessional opens and shuts quietly, and you hear the telltale shuffling of feet in the other compartment. After a brief pause, you slide open the hatch that bridges the two compartments. You are ready, full of purpose and pent-up energy. Let come what may. You, preferably.
“Welcome, my child.”
A brief silence. Then a familiar voice replies; it is Veronia Estucci, the grocer’s wife. You smirk to yourself.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
You nod, although she cannot see you, and quietly reach down to unbutton your trousers. “*Mia caro*, this is a place of forgiveness. Confess your sins, and God will see that your slate is wiped clean.”
It’s practically a game to you, now; a recital of some implicit script that you both know to a tee. A lot of song and dance for no good reason, perhaps, but it’s the way these things have to be. It’s part of the game. Confession first, and then… atonement.
“It has been seven days since my last confession, Father, and these are my sins.”
Her voice is soft, and you can easily picture her plump, luscious lips molding around every syllable. Thirty-two years old, practically a fawn compared to her ageing husband; you’ve gazed at her many times on your trips to the store, cherished her body from afar. And given the state of her marriage, it’s no wonder that her confessions are always worth the wait. Not that you ever really have to wait all that long.
“Lay bare your sins, my child.” You are already rock hard as the last button comes undone. Idly, you begin to stroke it as the woman recounts her latest foibles.
“I spoke out of turn to my husband, and I defied him. I rejected his advances for selfish reasons.”
You can barely contain your laughter; no doubt you are aware of her ‘selfish reasons’; you’re holding them in your hand, throbbing and hungry to be touched. Still, the show must go on. You clear your throat, and nod sagely.
“A woman’s place is by her husband. To defy him in marriage is to defy the Lord. An unruly woman will not see her way into God’s kingdom.”
She sighs audibly, and you can hear her shuffle slightly against the pillow beneath her knees. Once more, you have to wonder who was the genius who invented these things. Putting women in that position from the get-go? What could they possibly have intended but what you are doing? After a brief pause, she replies.
“I understand. May my penance purify me in the name of the Lord.”
Penance. That’s the notion. With a sly grin you reach down and unhook the second hatch, the one you put in at crotch height. With the sound of wood against wood, the thin sheet slides to the side, and the dim light from the other side shines through. Shifting yourself slightly, you line up your thick cock with the hole and push it through. Your words drift through the upper grate, soft and honeyed, as the cool air of the confessional caresses your manhood.
“Your penance is simple. Know your place and let the instrument of the Lord purify your mouth. Serve, and service, as a good wife should.”
You receive no reply. Nor were you expecting one. A few seconds later, however, you feel something warm and wet close around the tip of your cock, and with a contented sigh you lean against the plywood wall and focus on the sensation of Mrs. Estucci’s lips and tongue playing over your cock. In no time flat she has engulfed the entire head, and as the suction grows harder, more earnest, you pick up a flurry of soft, muffled moans from the other side. The bitch must be flicking her bean while she is doing her good, Catholic duty; you grunt with amusement and pleasure, and shrug mentally. What’s the harm?
Gradually, Veronica moves deeper onto you, her tongue rubbing tight, wet circles around the mushroom head as inch after inch disappears into her mouth. Every now and again she pulls back, the loud slurping betraying the thick layer of spit that is starting to coat your member. Her breathing grows more ragged by the minute, and you can hear her needy panting every time she gulps down another mouthful of air, her lips never wavering from your cock. But try as she might, she cannot swallow the entirety of you, and you feel her gag and struggle as the tip of your cock strains against the opening of her throat. Over and over and over again she tries, and thick ribbons of drool soon cover your heavy sack as the sloppy blowjob grows more feverish. You tense your cock and thrill in hearing her gurgle and gasp around the shaft. Such a good girl. So devoted to her faith.
It’s no wonder she can’t contain it, though, given your size. It’s always been a source of irony to you how God granted a massive manhood to the one man he had slated to never use it. Even so, you admire the good grocer’s wife her tenacity, and as her dutiful bobbing continues, you feel yourself growing steadily closer to the peak. It’s difficult to keep still now, and the sound of your muffled grunts as her tongue massages the underside of your cock head mixes with the wet, rhythmic slurping from the other side of the plywood wall. The warm seal of her lips moves with delicate, deliberate effort to engulf your girth, and as Veronica smears a thick coating of spit over you, you can’t help but buck your hips a little, further forcing the strained gagging that erupts from the industrious little sinner.
“Are you ready to receive your benediction,” you manage to rasp out as the tense warmth in your balls threaten to spill over. A second’s hesitation, and then you hear her muffled “m-hmm”, which reverberates through your shaft. God and all the Saints, this woman could suck the Holy Spirit straight out of you and still come back hungry for more..! You begin to thrust in earnest, feeling yourself rise towards your peak, and her efforts seem to grow more intense as the end draws near. You are practically throat-fucking her now, the wet noises penetrating the thin wooden walls, and you can’t help but admire this woman’s dedication to her craft, refusing to budge as you pump firmly against the hole and push the full head of your cock against the opening of her throat. One thrust, another, a flurry that suddenly becomes a staccato as liquid heat spills from you, the sensation overwhelming you and forcing a moaning gasp from your lips.
Her lips, in the meantime, clamp around your shaft as she continues to bob her head over you. Thick ropes of cum spurt over her tongue and straight down her throat as you unleash the torrent of seed that has been building for days inside you. Masturbation, after all, is a sin, and now you finally find relief between the full lips of the grocer’s wife. Only when the flow ends and you feel the tension drain out of your body does she relent, and allow your cock to slip from her mouth with a muted *pop*. You shudder, the sensitive flesh of your manhood suddenly exposed to the open air, a thick sheen of cum-infused spit coating you. You hold your position against the wall, basking in the afterglow of your orgasm, and after a few seconds you feel her lips return, kissing and licking the shaft with an almost reverent softness that sends a thrill through your body. Here is a woman who knows how to worship a cock. A true faithful.
She continues to pleasure you until your cock goes limp, and you reluctantly pull back. A minute later, you hear the door to the confessional open and close, and you zip up your trousers, smoothing over the folds of your clothing to make sure nothing looks off. You can still feel the buzz of orgasm coursing through you, even as you step out into the church and sigh contentedly. A good start to a day, certainly. A soul saved, a sinner pardoned. You consider paying the grocer a visit, maybe pick up a loaf of bread or some such, but decide against it. There are other women in the parish you require your attention, and looking the good grocer in the eyes while his wife’s spit is still drying on your dick is unnecessary, bordering on cruel. Another day, perhaps– any other day, frankly. It is no wonder that little Veronica has grown so skilled at her penance, considering the practice she’s had. You chuckle and head for the door, content to let the grocer go another day without humiliation. For now, the parish beckons.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/64vasm/mf_oral_forgive_me_father_for_i_have_sinned
Amen!
Would love to see a sequel on this!