Father Marcus did not speak for a long moment. Elena sat in the dark booth, her dress pulled down to her waist and pulled up to her hips, her bare t**s heaving with each ragged breath, her wet p***y exposed and throbbing. She stared at the wooden lattice that separated them, watching his shadow move on the other side. She could hear his breathing, heavy and uneven. She could hear him shifting in his seat. The tension in the cramped booth was suffocating.
Then she saw his fingers. They appeared at the carved holes in the wooden lattice, large and strong with rough knuckles and short nails. They pressed against the wooden barrier, testing the gaps between the carved shapes. The holes were just large enough for a finger to fit through, maybe two. But not a hand. Not a fist. The lattice was o
