I write BDSM erotica. Find my books on Smashwords and Amazon—I write Mf, MMf, and Ff stories with themes of BDSM, power exchange, humiliation, objectification, discipline, consensual non-consent, and other kinky things. My stories are strictly NSWF and 18+ and are fantasy only.
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This time, I do not have to wait long alone in the confessional. A mere year ago, I would have been anxious and restless, kneeling on the hard wooden bench. But since then, I have become practiced at waiting for Father Michael. Patience is one of the many lessons I have learned at his hand.
I have waited for him in darkness so black that it was as if I were hooded. I have waited for him on my knees, on stone and on wood, on rice scattered upon the floor, on the rug in his chambers and under the desk in his office. I have waited for him in his bed, and even in the wardrobe. I have waited many hours for him facing a corner, nose pressed to the wall. I have waited for him while gagged, my saliva coasting down my naked body, and so many hours I have waited for him while tears dripped down my face. I have waited for him while tightly bound, limbs spread wide and stretched out by ropes, and I have waited for him while huddled on all fours, tightly confined in my cage.
When Father Michael enters the confessional, I am kneeling up on the shriving pew, ready to deliver my confession and receive his grace. I am unsparing and honest in recounting my sins. A year ago, I might have tried to be coy and soft with the truth, to downplay my own culpability. But Father Michael has taught me that it's so much better to submit myself fully to repentance. To embrace the chastisement that he will deliver, that will absolve me of my grave deeds.
First, I offer Father Michael his relief by accepting his burgeoning shaft, so hot and hard, into my mouth like a sacrament. It is my act of service, as well as my duty as his whore, to serve as the receptacle of his sins. Because I provoke him to lust, Father Michael says, it is my duty to give him ease. There is no such surcease for my own desires, which go unfulfilled because the greater my suffering, the greater the demonstration of my devotion to Father Michael and to our lord. There are times when he punishes me not because of my transgressions, but as a way for him to slake his own lapses from piety. Not just his whore, but also his whipping slave girl.
I treat Father Michael's rod most lovingly, worshipping it with my mouth. I trace the thick vein on the underside with my tongue, and taste him most thoroughly. Was there truly a time when I found this act disagreeable and disgusting? I can hardly believe it. His seed nourishes me; it is a privilege to swallow his essence down.
My thighs are slippery; I've soaked through the thin gusset of my underwear. My nipples are stiff, and I yearn for him to affix his special clamps to them, the ones that exert a white-hot bite. I used to cry when he put them on me, this was a year ago, but these days I'll take any touch.
Father Michael's hands tighten in my hair. He's close. I know the signs, because he seeks this pleasure from me often. I perform this daily obeisance sometimes more than once in a day, so when he comes, I don't spill a drop, nor do I heave and gag as his shaft thrusts deep down my throat. My eyes water and the corners of my lips are galled, but I don't struggle and I don't pull away. Not anymore.
Father Michael groans, a deep and guttural sound of satisfaction. When he withdraws, his thumb gently caresses my lips.
"Very good, whore," he says, and it's a benediction that makes me tremble.
I bow my head and tend to the cleaning of his softened shaft. He doesn't put it inside my cunny these days. Just my mouth and ass. He only uses toys and his fingers and mouth to tease my cunny, ratcheting me up as high as he can without tipping me over. I've screamed myself hoarse and broken my voice begging him, while he tells me it's only the devil trying to tempt me into an illicit pleasure. That I must be strong and bear this torment for him, because it makes me a better whore for him, and it proves my devotion. He asked me, "Don't you want to be a devout and holy servant? Then you must bear this...you must ask me not to let you come. You must thank me for bringing you so close to our lord through your suffering, and thank me for not letting you come, whore."
My cunny is empty and aching all the time these days. I live with the hunger every day. Every time Father Michael rubs his shaft between my lips, nudging my clit until it is swollen as red and shiny as a jewel, only to part my bottom cheeks and plunge into my bottom hole, I weep.
"Your tears are a blessing, my dear," he says, and calls me his sweet, sweet whore.
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I have waited for him in darkness so black that it was as if I were hooded. I have waited for him on my knees, on stone and on wood, on rice scattered upon the floor, on the rug in his chambers and under the desk in his office. I have waited for him in his bed, and even in the wardrobe. I have waited many hours for him facing a corner, nose pressed to the wall. I have waited for him while gagged, my saliva coasting down my naked body, and so many hours I have waited for him while tears dripped down my face. I have waited for him while tightly bound, limbs spread wide and stretched out by ropes, and I have waited for him while huddled on all fours, tightly confined in my cage.
When Father Michael enters the confessional, I am kneeling up on the shriving pew, ready to deliver my confession and receive his grace. I am unsparing and honest in recounting my sins. A year ago, I might have tried to be coy and soft with the truth, to downplay my own culpability. But Father Michael has taught me that it's so much better to submit myself fully to repentance. To embrace the chastisement that he will deliver, that will absolve me of my grave deeds.
First, I offer Father Michael his relief by accepting his burgeoning shaft, so hot and hard, into my mouth like a sacrament. It is my act of service, as well as my duty as his whore, to serve as the receptacle of his sins. Because I provoke him to lust, Father Michael says, it is my duty to give him ease. There is no such surcease for my own desires, which go unfulfilled because the greater my suffering, the greater the demonstration of my devotion to Father Michael and to our lord. There are times when he punishes me not because of my transgressions, but as a way for him to slake his own lapses from piety. Not just his whore, but also his whipping slave girl.
I treat Father Michael's rod most lovingly, worshipping it with my mouth. I trace the thick vein on the underside with my tongue, and taste him most thoroughly. Was there truly a time when I found this act disagreeable and disgusting? I can hardly believe it. His seed nourishes me; it is a privilege to swallow his essence down.
My thighs are slippery; I've soaked through the thin gusset of my underwear. My nipples are stiff, and I yearn for him to affix his special clamps to them, the ones that exert a white-hot bite. I used to cry when he put them on me, this was a year ago, but these days I'll take any touch.
Father Michael's hands tighten in my hair. He's close. I know the signs, because he seeks this pleasure from me often. I perform this daily obeisance sometimes more than once in a day, so when he comes, I don't spill a drop, nor do I heave and gag as his shaft thrusts deep down my throat. My eyes water and the corners of my lips are galled, but I don't struggle and I don't pull away. Not anymore.
Father Michael groans, a deep and guttural sound of satisfaction. When he withdraws, his thumb gently caresses my lips.
"Very good, whore," he says, and it's a benediction that makes me tremble.
I bow my head and tend to the cleaning of his softened shaft. He doesn't put it inside my cunny these days. Just my mouth and ass. He only uses toys and his fingers and mouth to tease my cunny, ratcheting me up as high as he can without tipping me over. I've screamed myself hoarse and broken my voice begging him, while he tells me it's only the devil trying to tempt me into an illicit pleasure. That I must be strong and bear this torment for him, because it makes me a better whore for him, and it proves my devotion. He asked me, "Don't you want to be a devout and holy servant? Then you must bear this...you must ask me not to let you come. You must thank me for bringing you so close to our lord through your suffering, and thank me for not letting you come, whore."
My cunny is empty and aching all the time these days. I live with the hunger every day. Every time Father Michael rubs his shaft between my lips, nudging my clit until it is swollen as red and shiny as a jewel, only to part my bottom cheeks and plunge into my bottom hole, I weep.
"Your tears are a blessing, my dear," he says, and calls me his sweet, sweet whore.