I hear the unmistaken sound of his zipper being pulled down as I continue the torture against my flesh, flinching but never crying out, knowing that I deserve this pain. Father Thomas’s breathing is ragged.
“Crouch, Celeste.” He growls, and I obey, my breasts pressing against the cold tiles, my nipples hardening. His agonizing grunts fill the air as warm liquid coats my skin. I can’t breathe, I want to touch myself so bad, but I don’t dare. I close my eyes and shiver at his feet.
“You are forgiven, child.” He tells me, out of breath.
A few moments later, my door opens and clicks shut, but I don’t move for what seems like forever. I slip on my dress, traces of him still on me, as I climb into bed. The material clings to me, the cotton rubbing against the irritated skin on my back. I close my eyes, clenching my thighs together in agony.
This is my punishment.
Chapter Two
Priest
What the fuckdid I just witness? Sleep has been evading me since I arrived here, so I decided to take a walk around the convent instead of tossing and turning in bed until the sun appears on the horizon. Something I find myself doing since I took up a position as a groundskeeper, a week ago. This place is suffocating. The options were this or doing time behind bars. I would have chosen the latter, but my father would not hear of it. He is not having a criminal for a son. It wouldn’t do his precious political reputation any good. Kenneth Michaels is running for senate and the opposition would have a field day with that little bit of news. So, I was forced to leave my life of wealth and sin behind and devote it to God instead. At least, that’s what I thought I was doing.
I stand mesmerised by the nude nun literally devouring a man on the altar, her pale skin illuminated by moonlight as she rocks atop him, strangling him with a leather belt and slicing his skin with a knife. The man’s hands fall limply after she’s done, and I feel a rush of fear. But my concern for him is outweighed by my reaction to her. She is utter perfection. A dark goddess in this holy place. Father Thomas stands watching the scene, praying? What is this place? What are they doing? I cringe when I watch him finger fuck the little minx while she's splayed across the other man who still isn’t moving.
Father Thomas lets her leave, dejected and devastated when he wouldn’t take it further. Her eyes widen when she sees me, her arms wrapping around her clothing which she holds close to her small frame. I duck farther into the shadows as Father Thomas exits the church.
Soon after, two men enter the church and walk toward the bleeding man on the altar. I slip away quickly, intent on following her, only to backtrack when I see Father Thomas entering the room she just went into.
I’ll wait. I have to know more about her. I’m so hard when I reach my cottage, I have to take a cold shower , but not even that stops me from rubbing one off at the thought of her.
* * *
Father Thomas stands at the front of the church preaching death and damnation for sinners. What a hypocrite. After what I saw last night, how can I take him seriously? She stands from one of the front pews and walks toward the front of the church with a few other nuns, her head held high. The frustrating tunic she wears does nothing for the curves I know are hidden underneath. As if she senses my eyes on her, she turns, then stills when she spots me at the back of the room. Sister Mary Concessa subtly shoves her forward.Your secret is safe with me,I think to myself as I smirk at her. She glares at me before taking her place in the choir. When she opens her mouth, the most beautiful voice I have ever heard leaves her pouty lips. I can’t keep my eyes off her. After the service, I make my way to the front of church where she stands talking to another nun. Her back is to me, yet when I am just inches from her, she spins on her heel.
“Sisters.” I greet, stunned by her beautiful blue-grey eyes that seem to look into my soul. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Priest. Priest Michaels.” Up close, she is even more breath-taking, prominent cheek bones, pink pouty lips. She’s fucking perfect.
“Mr. Michaels, I’m Adele, and this is Celeste.” the other woman tells me.
My eyes lock on Celeste’s, and she doesn’t back down. “Mr. Michaels.” her voice is as sweet as her singing, “it's a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I nod.
“You’re new here.” she tells me.
“That obvious?” My eyes roam down her body, causing a flush to spread across her cheeks. She doesn’t answer me but looks at Adele who has moved on to greet some of the parishioners.
“I’ve lived here my whole life, there is rarely a face I don’t recognize. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Michaels-”
“You can call me, Priest.” I interrupt.
“Priest,” my name sounds like music when she says it. “Lunch will be served in the hall.” With that, she brushes past me. I catch Father Thomas glaring at me from the other side of the church, and I lift my hand in greeting.
Celeste sits with the other nuns at their lunch table on the far end of the room. She’s out of place amongst the other women. I watch her move her food around the plate, nodding along to something Adele says to her, her mind obviously elsewhere. I wonder if she’s thinking about last night. She offers me the briefest of glances. I cannot seem to get the image of her from last night out of my mind, and I’ve jerked off at least three times this morning alone.
The food here is bland, nothing like the feasts I grew accustomed to at home, so I eat as much as I can stomach then push the plate away. The priests and deacons at my table stare at me in dissatisfaction. Wastage is a cardinal sin here, so is conversation apparently. These men look at me like the outsider I am. Being a groundskeepers is pretty low on the value chain.
“If you’ll excuse me.” I politely stand gathering my plate.
I stalk out of the hall. I need to get outside, release this pent up frustration.
My cottage is on the grounds of the church, it’s far enough away to offer me privacy but close enough for them to keep an eye on me. It’s nothing fancy, a standard bedroom consisting of a double bed, desk and wardrobe, a small kitchenette with hardly any appliance, and a bathroom. I change out of my Sunday church clothes and into a t-shirt and work pants.
* * *
Sunday is ordinarily a day of rest, but I would much rather spend it in the sun, weeding the church garden under the sweltering hot sun. I’m sweating through my cotton T-shirt.