My Forbidden Night with the Witch: Priest Meslier’s Private Locker Secret
In the shadowed corner of my presbytery, my Private Locker. The heavy wooden door creaks open. Heart hammers. I’ve guarded this too long. Sun filters through leaves in the garden outside. Lison’s tease burns: ‘It’s your niece holding you back, Father.’ Bullshit. It’s fear. Today, adrenaline surges. I stride to her hut, hemp in hand. Deal’s done. She owes me nothing now. No. I owe her.
Her door swings wide. Smoky air, herbs sharp in my nose. Lison grins, wild hair framing fierce eyes. ‘Service time, curé.’ No words. She grabs my robe, yanks me in. Door slams. Breath catches. My cock twitches under the aiguillette. Vows shatter. Her fingers claw my chest, nails biting skin. I pin her to the wall. Lips crash. Tongue invades, hot, wet. Saliva mixes. Hands roam. She squeezes my ass, pulls me close. Grind against her hip. Hard now, straining lace.
Unlocking the Vault
She drops to knees. Rough dirt floor. Unlaces fast. Cock springs free, thick, veined, head purple and slick. Pre-cum beads. ‘Finally,’ she growls. Mouth engulfs. Warm, suction tight. Tongue laps underside, circles ridge. Balls tighten. I groan, fist her hair. Thrust shallow. Spit drools down shaft. Gags, but takes deeper. Throat squeezes. Pulse races—exhibition in my mind, you hearing this. Secret spills.
Can’t wait. Haul her up. Rip skirts high. No underthings. Bush dark, matted wet. Fingers part lips—pink, swollen, juice coats. She moans. ‘Fuck me, priest.’ I spin her. Bend over table. Ass round, pale. Cock notches entrance. One shove—balls deep. Heat grips like vice. Wet slap echoes. Pound hard. Hips smack ass. Breasts swing free, nipples hard peaks. Grab them, pinch. She bucks back, claws table. ‘Deeper!’ Sweat slicks skin. My balls slap clit. Tension coils. Her walls flutter. She cums first—shriek, gush hot. Milks me.
The Raw Surrender
Explosion hits. Thrust bury. Cum jets, rope after rope. Fill her deep. Legs shake. Collapse on her back. Breath ragged. Cock softens inside, leaks last drops. Pull out—white cream drips thighs. She laughs low. ‘Niece who?’ Wipe clean. Robes fall. Kiss forehead. Secret locked.
Garden waits. Breviary in hand. Light mind. Comte’s threat fades. Édouard saved. Garden for the poor. All good. But thrill lingers. Pulse of sharing this—with you. Exclusive. Raw. Mine.
