Her fingers make that wet, rhythmic sound, slow circles over her c**t, dipping inside herself, then back up again. Each slick slide echoes in the tiny booth like a filthy prayer. My c**k is so hard it hurts, straining against the zipper of my blacks, the head already slick with pre-c*m that’s soaked through my boxers. I can smell her now, sweet, musky arousal cutting through the incense like sin cutting through sanctity.
“Tell me what you want, Father Joseph,” she whispers, breath hitching as she works herself faster. “Tell me what a good priest would do with a sinner like me.”
I’m panting. My hand is fully inside my pants now, wrapped around my shaft, stroking slow and tight. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But her voice, that obscene little squelch of her p***y, the way she says my na
