Snow blankets the Massif Central. I push open the heavy oak door of the church. Cold air rushes in, snuffing candles. Father Armand turns. His eyes widen. I know him from confessions—my tales of self-pleasure with church wax drove him mad. Today, my twentieth birthday, I claim him.
Cloaked in fine wool, scented with rare lavender oil, I glide past. The altar glows under fresh flames I light—twenty tapers, their honeyed wax dripping like liquid gold. Velvet hush envelops us. Elite sanctuaries thrive on such intimacy. No peasants. Just us.
The Privilege
I face him. Hood falls. Long brown hair cascades. Fingers undo pearl buttons. Cape pools at my feet—silk-lined luxury caressing stone floor. White lace gown clings. Deep cleavage strains against Chantilly threads, nipples hardening in chill air. His breath catches.
I take his hand. Lead to his sparse room. Moonlight filters through frosted glass, snow amplifying silver glow. Opulent in isolation. He sits on the narrow bed, linen crisp as hotel sheets. I turn. Straps slip. Gown teases down my back—perfect curve, dimples inviting. Breasts free it fully. Full, firm orbs thrust forward, rosy peaks erect.
Legs long, toned from village paths. I spin. Eyes drop to my mound—neat black triangle above slick lips. His gaze burns. I kneel. Hand on his crotch. Zipper yields. Cock springs, half-hard, veined, untouched for years. Mouth engulfs it. Tongue swirls. He swells, filling my throat. Thrusts shallow. Then eruption—thick ropes of pent-up seed flood me. Salty, viscous, endless. I swallow, savoring elite nectar.
He collapses. I strip him. Revive with lips. Now rigid again. I bend over bed. Ass high, cheeks parted. ‘Take me like a beast.’ He grips my waist. Cockhead probes wet folds. Slides in slow—tight heat grips him. Immobile, pulsing. Then slams. Brutal. I cry out, climax crashing. He floods me deep.
The Excess
Weekly ritual. I feign candle prep for Mass. Mother approves. Saturdays: his room our penthouse. First, I drain him orally—balls cupped, shaft milked. Cum gulped. Then 69. My thighs frame his face. Pussy grinds down. Tongue finds clit—sucks, laps. I shatter, juices smearing his holy lips.
On all fours. ‘Fuck my ass.’ Fingers slick from my cunt lube rosebud. Tongue rims. Then cock breaches—slow stretch, sphincter yields. Full hilt. I clench, massage. He pounds. Savage. I scream orgasm, tears streaming. He unloads, painting bowels white.
Perfume of sex lingers like aged cognac. Bodies slick, entangled.
Discovery shatters idyll. Old hag spies us on altar—me riding his face, his cock buried. Scandal erupts. He confesses. Suspended. Family flees. I wait.
Roadside reunion. His valise drops. I leap into arms. Lips crush. ‘I’m pregnant.’ Smile breaks. Hands clasp. We walk into wilds—our secret empire intact.
