by Severin Rossetti
There Is No Sin
The chapel had fallen into disrepair, the people no longer felt any need of it and it had been in misuse for many years, stood dark and cold at the edge of the village, like the shell of a body which has lost its heart, its soul, its purpose.
But once every week, on what would once have been a holy day, Agatha would sit at her window which overlooked the chapel and see the bowed figure scuttling through the grounds, no more than a shadow sometimes, other times stark in the light of the moon to show her the cowl, the long robe, the monastic movement and the pious pose.
As she waited, curled in the seat of the window, her face as pale as distant starlight, one hand delved beneath her skirts, rummaged beneath the layers of silk that she always favoured until it found her cold thigh. Fingers inching along the smooth flesh, slowly as if it was another who was teasing her, they slipped between her legs and began to strum the lips of her cunt, exciting her as she waited.
And then there he was!
In an instant she was up from her seat and down the stairs, out into the night and hurrying across to the chapel, skirts billowing behind her so that she seemed like some dark vengeful spectre.
She could see him in a pew, the priest, as soon as she opened the chapel door could make out his bowed head, the slumped shoulders, the contrite attitude. Slowly she slipped through the door and made her way towards him.
The rustle of her skirts must have caught his attention, or perhaps it was simply the chill of her presence, he turned and his eyes grew wide as he picked her out of the gloom, not expecting his customary solitude to be disturbed. She sat beside him, dark and brooding, looking to him like a person who might have sinned.
If only for the fact that Agatha had no belief in sin.
“Will you help me, Father?” she asked softly, turning to him slightly, her skirts parting at the knees to give him a glimpse of her thighs.
In the gloom her flesh looked paler than ever, her dark lips bloody.
“If I can,” the priest answered, his voice a little hoarse as he fought to draw his eyes from the bared flesh.
“I have a confession to make, Father.”
“Then-” He looked to the confessional in the far corner of the chapel, was about to rise, but Agatha placed her hand on his knee.
“No, here,” she insisted. “We will speak here.”
Her eyes glared at him, there was no hint of contrition in them, but the priest nodded. “Very well my child.”
Agatha smirked to hear him call her “child”. As if! But he would learn!
“Father, I have wicked ways,” she began, her voice low so that he had to strain to catch her words, leaning a little towards her.
“Sinful thoughts? Sinful deeds?”
She smiled, there was no such thing as sin, said, “I have thoughts of hurting men, Father, of using them.”
“Not loving them? And do you put these thoughts into effect?”
“Oh yes!” she said, her hand tightening on his knee. “And more. Thoughts of women, too. But with women it is desire. I desire sexual contact with them, wish to lie in their arms.”
“And do you act on these desires too?” the priest asked, his voice breaking a little.
“Oh yes, with Bittersweet,” Agatha answered.
“Bitter-?”
“My lover. We lay together and caress each other, kiss each other, finger ourselves and each other and make each other come.
The priest cleared his throat and crossed his legs, momentarily dislodging Agatha’s hand. Beneath the long black cassock he wore she was sure he would have an erection.
She brought her face even closer to his, her eyes wide so that he could lose himself in them, asked, “So if it is love then can it be wrong?”
“It … it is a sin my child.”
“A sin?” she repeated, as if she did not know the word, and her hand slipped from his knee into his lap. “But surely not, Father? It feels so good.”
“Pleasure can be a sin, my child,” he said, as her hand began to move gently back and forth across his groin, the back of her hand pressing against one thigh, then her palm against the other, her knuckles rocking back and forth over his genitals.
“And pain too?” she asked, suddenly clenching her fingers around his balls.
He let out a cry and she released him immediately, jumped to her feet.
“But if I have sinned then I must be punished!” she exclaimed, standing before him, her back to him. Slowly she raised her skirts to her waist, bared her arse to him, backed towards him so that the naked buttocks were only inches from his face.
“Do you wish to punish me, Father?” she asked him, over her shoulder, and moments later she felt fingers tentatively touching her pale white flesh.
Then there was a pitiful sob and they fell away.
Agatha turned, sneered down at him, spat in his face. “You poor sad slut!”
Bending over him, she began to unfasten his cassock, from the neck down to the hem. He offered no resistance, made no protest, when her hair fell over his face in a fragrant musty veil he made no attempt to brush it away. Parting his cassock, Agatha bared his body. His flesh was white, it had never seen the sun and was as pale as hers, but his cock was thick and throbbing, twitching in the cold air of the chapel.
Holding her skirts high, Agatha fell down on top of him, sitting so hard on his cock that it caused him to gasp as it hit the roof of her cunt. She stirred her body around on top of him, her hips moving in liquid circles, and soon he responded, rising to meet her. She rolled to one side, lying on the hard pew and drawing him on top of her. She pinched his nipples to make him cry, raked her nails across his chest to make him sob, held him tight to her with her arms and legs, crushing him as if in a vice.
The priest thrust into her but he was inexperienced, he hwas clumsy and crude and he had no control, within seconds he was coming inside her with a fervour which he had previously reserved for his god, filling her with his thick creamy spunk. And all too soon he was soft inside her.
Agatha kicked him away from her, heard him fall heavily to the stone floor. She sat on the edge of the pew, her legs wide apart and dripping his spunk back onto his face, into his open mouth, spooned her fingers inside her to continue her own excitement and then wiped them across his cheeks, anointed his brow with them. He was sobbing, crying that he had sinned, and she stood, kicked him in the side as she climbed over him.
“Stupid little man! There is no sin!” she told him, walking quickly across to the altar.
There was a large wooden cross there, the height of a man, and putting her whole weight behind it she toppled it over in a crashing cloud of dust, rested it at an angle against the altar.
“What are you doing? That is desecration!” the priest cried.
Agatha strode angrily back to him, her boots echoing against the walls of the chapel, reverberating about that once sacred place, gripped him viciously by the hair and tugged.
“Come with me you sad little shit!” she said, and pulled him along, dragging him across the floor on hands and knees to fling him against the cross.
Then, kneeling astride him, her skirts like a dark pool spilling over him, she bound him too it, tied his hands outstretched, his feet, wrapped stout leather straps around his chest and waist. Another around his neck was buckled so tight that it almost choked him. He was unable to move, bound helpless before her.
She stepped back to regard him, a cold smile on her face entrancing him, as if draining the last ounce of purity and virtue from his body. Then she clapped her hands, called, “Ready?”
The priest was unable to move his head, but his eyes flicked to the chapel door as it creaked open, saw a second woman enter, walk down the aisle to stand beside Agatha and take her hand.
“My lover, Bittersweet,” Agatha told the priest, kissing her on the lips, finally showing some tenderness in her eyes. “He says we have sinned,” she said softly to Bittersweet.
Bittersweet laughed. “Shall we teach him? Shall we show him what sin is, my love?”
The two women approached the crucified priest, Bittersweet reached out and ran a hand over his belly, his chest. Then she closed her fingers around his nipple and dug her sharp nails into his chest.
The priest screamed aloud but his cock rose erect, jutting out from his body so that he became a travesty of a martyr, a sinful parody of a saint. Agatha laughed and slapped it hard, bringing another anguished cry from him.
They both caressed his face, hands running over his cheeks, parting his lips. Bittersweet brought her face close to his, licked his mouth, then took his bottom lip between her teeth and bit. When Agatha nipped at his neck and Bittersweet drew her nails across his chest, over his belly, the two women had him weeping like a child.
Agatha and Bittersweet were now excited, for each other, with each other. They smiled into each other’s eyes and embraced, kissed deeply, tongues meeting in a frenzy. One on either side of the priest, their bodies pressing against him, they folded him in their embrace, almost suffocating him with their flesh. His body was quivering between them, tears coursed down his cheeks as Bittersweet cupped his balls and Agatha grasped his cock.
“Well, priest?” asked Agatha, her lips close to his ear, her words scorching his cheek.
“There is no sin,” he agreed as he came, his cock spurting over their hands.
