Forbidden Reading Page 3

  ‘Go on,’ he spluttered. ‘In the name of the Father, use both hands and toss me off now.’

  She flinched from the way he called on God to watch down, but that didn’t stop her from eagerly obeying. Wrapping both fists around his erection she stroked her hands back and forth in unison. He was more than long enough to be contained within her grip. The bulbous end of his shaft poked out from between the curled finger and thumb of her right hand. Her left hand pressed into the dark thatch of curls that poked through the opening in his cassock. The scent of his arousal grew more noticeable and the quickening pulse of his excitement pounded beneath her fingertips.

  ‘Praise be to all the saints,’ he growled.

  She dared to glance up at his face and saw the manic glint that shone in his eyes. His eyebrows were knitted together with concentration and his jaw looked peculiarly square and manly. It was unnerving to accept that she was doing something so base in the sanctity of a church, but Justine thought the priest’s expression was even more disquieting. The idea of refusing him had long since passed and all that was left was her need to submit.

  As she snatched a faltering breath, Justine realised that her desire to obey wasn’t her only motivation: there was also the quandary of her own swelling excitement. Kneeling before him, squeezing her thighs together as she dryly tried to address her own arousal, Justine came close to sobbing with frustration.

  ‘Praise be to all that is holy,’ he glowered.

  She could feel him growing inexorably harder. Twisting her wrists lightly, she dared to increase her pace as she pulled his foreskin back and forth. Above her head she saw his pectoral cross keeping tempo as it bounced against his chest. The tassels decorating the ends of his stole swayed to and fro with the same rhythmic motion.

  ‘Salope!’ he exclaimed. His hands had tightened into fists by his sides and his jaw was clenched with a fury that could have splintered the enamel from his teeth. In a guttural whisper he declared, ‘Putain cochonne.’

  Justine didn’t know what the words meant but she suspected they wouldn’t be included in the pages of the phrase book she had purchased. She didn’t doubt he was insulting her and, given the circumstances, believed she was probably worthy of his vilest slurs. But those considerations didn’t stop her as she worked diligently toward wringing the climax from his length. The ordeal was proving more exciting than she had anticipated and Justine was overcome by her own need for satisfaction. As her hands worked on him – her biceps aching from the exertion and her palms glistening with a meld of her own sweat and the priest’s arousal – she couldn’t shake the demands of her pulsing libido. The inner muscles of her sex quivered with greedy need and the urgent pulse of her clitoris throbbed insistently. The folds of her pussy lips were indecently hot and fluid and she could have sobbed with the injustice of trying to satisfy the priest without being allowed to sate her own appetite.

  ‘Harder,’ he growled. ‘Faster and harder. Make me come.’

  She madly wondered if he would allow her to touch herself, then pushed that idea from her mind. Something in the priest’s staunch expression told Justine that he was a hard taskmaster and she felt certain he wouldn’t give in to her depraved request for release. It only took one glance at the wicked glint in his eyes and she remembered she was there to satisfy his demands and not her own.

  Yet that understanding did nothing to alleviate the torment of her arousal. Inside her bra her nipples stood as hard as bullets. Even the slightest movement was enough to send a shock of pleasure rippling through both orbs and she struggled to remain motionless while she worked on his length. Between her legs the viscous heat was sweltering and her longing to be touched was almost a physical ache. The yearning for satisfaction left her weak and miserable and she struggled to put her own needs out of her mind while investing her efforts in bringing him to climax.

  ‘Go on,’ he insisted. ‘Milk me.’

  The eye of his glans was dangerously close to her mouth. The scent of his pre-come was so strong it accompanied every breath. The taste coated her tongue and tainted each nervous swallow. The temptation to dart her lips against him, take him in her mouth and savour his flavour as she tortured him with fellatio, was almost unbearable. It was all too easy to imagine how his pulsing length would feel against the insides of her cheeks and the idea alone was enough to send fresh spasms of hunger buffeting through her sex. Justine was only able to stop herself from giving in to the impulse because she feared there would be repercussions if she dared to use that much initiative in bringing the priest to the climax he had demanded. Diligently, she squeezed harder on his length and worked on him with a fresh burst of speed.

  ‘That’s it,’ he declared. ‘I’m there. I’m there.’

  Justine hadn’t needed to hear the words to know his orgasm was imminent. The flesh in her hand reverberated like steel rope and she could tell that he was on the verge of ejaculating. She worked both hands more briskly along his quivering length, determined to pull the climax from his shaft.

  ‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘Milk me, you little whore. Milk me.’

  She recoiled from his harsh words, despising the way they added moisture to the heat between her legs. Glancing meekly up at him she shivered when she saw the combination of distaste and excitement that lit up his smile.

  ‘Carry on,’ he insisted. ‘Don’t you dare stop now you’re so close.’ As he spoke he reached over her head to the altar behind her. Justine watched him snatch an ornate chalice from beside a tray of the communion host and she watched in horror as he pushed it into her hand. One glance into its bowl and a glimpse at the stain of red liquid at its base showed her that the chalice was more usually employed for the communion wine.

  ‘Milk me into that,’ the priest hissed. ‘I’m going to come.’

  Unable to refuse – unable to think how she could possibly say no to such an instruction – Justine took the offered chalice from him. All the time she kept one hand around his thickness, working her wrist back and forth. Determined that he wouldn’t see her nervousness, she tried to hide the fact that she was trembling as she held the rim of the sacred cup beneath his swollen glans.

  ‘The acts of the sinful nature are obvious,’ he began ominously.

  She cowered from something powerful in his voice but didn’t stop rolling her fist along his erection. Not daring to disobey his instructions, she kept her concentration fixed on coaxing the climax from his length.

  ‘Sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery,’ he continued.

  His tone had the maniac zest of an outraged evangelist and Justine realised he was reciting lines from somewhere within Galatians. The combination of his approaching climax and the biblical quotation juxtaposed discordantly and made her believe she was doing something irrevocably wrong. Perversely, the concept of her own immorality only made her feel more daring and she came close to swooning with a fresh flood of arousal.

  ‘Drunkenness, orgies, and the like,’ he went on. ‘I warn you, as I did before, that those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God.’

  A tight smile flashed across his features and she could feel the release of tension from within his muscles as the orgasm finally took its hold. His shaft thickened, then pulsed, spurting a viscous dollop into the ornate chalice. As she gently eased her grip on his erection a second jet of semen spattered into the sacred cup. Justine didn’t release her hold on his length until the final droplet of his spend had been carefully squeezed into the chalice.

  The priest shivered with obvious satisfaction. When he glanced down at her, Justine could see his smile was lascivious. ‘But the fruits of the Spirit are love,’ he intoned softly. His demeanour had changed from something vengeful and unsettling to a facade of beneficence. He winked at her with obscene familiarity and said, ‘Finish this now and drink the fruits of my spirit.’

  She started to shake her head, then realised that would be no way to win his approval. The certainty that she wouldn’t be able to end this o
rdeal without drinking from the chalice left her sick with unspeakable excitement. Glancing nervously around, she saw the only other eyes that rested on her belonged to the virgin and child, and the crucified Christ. Their mute regard made her feel as though she was the most despicable heretic that had ever desecrated a church. The inner muscles of her pussy churned with fresh arousal.

  ‘Drink the fruits of my spirit,’ the priest insisted.

  Hesitantly, Justine put the chalice up to her lips.

  Over the rim she saw the priest conceal his spent length within the folds of his cassock and noticed he was watching her expectantly. Anxious to appease him she pressed the chalice to her lower lip and tilted its base upward. The slimy residue of his ejaculation slid slowly into her mouth and onto her tongue. Its noxious taste filled her with a bilious urge to gag but she quashed that gut reaction, sure it would earn his staunchest disapproval. Pouring the remainder of the spend into her mouth, trying not to taste its thick sickening flavour, she quickly tried to swallow.

  ‘Drink the fruits of my spirit,’ he snarled.

  She thought it would have been easier to drink the fruits of his spirit if they hadn’t been so copious. Her throat wanted to lock reflexively as she tried to force the gelatinous fluid down the back of her mouth. When she had finally finished she gasped and cast the chalice aside. Breathing deeply, studying him with an expression that came from somewhere between arousal and revulsion, she asked, ‘Was that what you wanted from me, Father? Did I perform that chore to your satisfaction? Did I prove myself worthy?’

  He helped her from the floor then started away from the chancel. ‘Come with me,’ he decided. ‘I want you outside the church while my parishioners get ready for their mass.’

  After the exertion of her unsatisfied arousal, Justine felt too weak to move. Every muscle in her body ached and she fought to find some excuse to delay following him. ‘Have I met with your approval?’ she asked. ‘Have I proved myself worthy to acquire La Coste?’

  He snorted humourless laughter and turned to glare at her. There was no mistaking the contempt in his gaze. ‘Come with me,’ he repeated. ‘I expect you to do as I tell you.’

  ‘I have to know,’ Justine insisted. ‘Have I proved myself worthy?’

  ‘The decision on your worthiness is not mine to make,’ he said stiffly. ‘I am only one of three advisors who will be reporting to Marais, the seller.’

  The words made her uneasy and she struggled to take some comfort away from her disconcerting experience. She had thought the priest might be the mysterious Marais that Mrs Weiss mentioned. The revelation that she was to be tested by three advisors left her plagued by a fresh series of doubts and reservations. Briefly she wondered if this development was a punishment from God for the blasphemy she had just performed in His house. She quickly dismissed the idea as being puerile, but not before she had genuflected and glanced nervously behind herself at the martyred figure of Christ. ‘You’re only one of three advisors?’ she repeated.

  He nodded.

  ‘Then, did I pass your test?’ she asked. Because so much rested on her success it was difficult to keep her tone even and free from nerves. ‘Did I do all that you wanted and expected? Will you be advising the seller that I’m worthy of acquiring La Coste?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the priest growled. His smile turned sly as he added, ‘I haven’t begun to test you yet.’

  Two

  The depth of darkness that had fallen since she entered the church surprised Justine. As the priest led her outside she was shocked by the speed with which twilight had surrendered to full night. Faraway stars blinked from the inky canopy above and a small and distant moon dusted silver light at their feet. She had noticed the stone monoliths and grave markers when she entered the churchyard earlier. Their silhouettes now loomed from the shadows alongside a gravel path that cut through the night-black grass. Justine wrapped her coat more tightly around her shoulders and hurried to keep pace with the priest.

  ‘Wait!’ he called.

  She stood still as soon as he gave the command. His stern voice inspired a tremble of arousal and she crushed her thighs closed as she tried to ignore the swell of excitement that flourished in her loins. It was disquieting enough to be subordinate to the priest. Those depravities he had demanded in the church still left her shocked and incredulous. But the prospect of enjoying his vile attention made Justine feel as though she was being treacherous to her own sensibilities.

  ‘You will go and wait at the Dupont tomb,’ he said firmly. He had turned to face her and, with one stern finger, he pointed into the shadows of the church’s small cemetery. ‘It is just over there,’ he explained. ‘It is the largest stone in the grounds. Stand in front of it. Remove your clothes: all your clothes. And wait for my return.’

  It was too much to take in at once and Justine longed to question the orders. She glared at him in the dim light – wondered if she dared refuse – and struggled to find the words that would form a denial. It was one thing to submit to him in the privacy of the church, but the prospect of undressing in somewhere as public as the churchyard made another shiver tremble through her frame. The solemnity of his face, and some ingrained hesitancy that wouldn’t allow her to defy a priest, caused the refusal to die before it reached her lips. After they had glared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, she could only ask, ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I have personal business at the presbytery. I need to make a telephone call to a colleague at The Society.’

  He said the final two words with such grave intonation that Justine was unnerved. Without knowing why, she immediately understood that The Society had some bearing on her situation. Curiosity and intrigue made her ask: ‘The society? Which society? What society are you talking about?’

  ‘You must know of The Society?’

  She knew the name was given to a group of villains at the start of de Sade’s The One Hundred and Twenty Days of Sodom, but she couldn’t think how that applied to her personal situation. ‘No,’ she assured him. ‘I don’t know of The Society. Who are they?’

  ‘The Society are a bunch of perverted heathens all damned to hell.’ He made the declaration in the same way she imagined he would deliver a fire and brimstone sermon from the pulpit. Once he had glared at her with enough fury to make Justine cower, he graced her with a final look of unconcealed contempt, and then turned away. Letting the words spill over his shoulder he said, ‘You have your instructions, Justine. I have to make a telephone call. Do not prove yourself unworthy before we have begun. And do not trouble yourself with things that are of no concern to you. Go to the Dupont stone. Do as you have been told.’ Rather than allowing her the opportunity to argue, he continued walking toward the presbytery at the distant end of the church path. As a parting shot he called back, ‘One more sign of insurrection and you will never get your hands on La Coste.’

  Alone, cold and frightened, Justine considered her options and realised she had none. Trudging miserably away from the path, uncomfortable with the mild desecration that was wrought beneath every footstep, she peered into the gloom and tried to read the names that had been chiselled into the headstones.

  De Blangis, Curval, Durcet.

  They were all timeworn names and each was forgotten before she had started to read the next. Common sense told her that she should take this opportunity to flee from the churchyard, take a taxi back to the airport, and then return home. In the comfort of her own thoughts it was easy to argue that nothing could be worth the sacrifices she was enduring. And then she reminded herself she was on the verge of acquiring La Coste. That thought alone was enough to make her move on and read the next gravestone.

  Dupont.

  She stood in front of the magnificent memorial, dwarfed by its proud stature. The top was adorned with a weeping Madonna, staring blindly down into the darkness that surrounded Justine. The whole monument looked to have been carved from a glossy black marble that shone wetly in the moonlight. The c
hiselled lettering had been gilded and the golden letters glowed softly and subtly.

  Adamant that she would do whatever needed to be done to acquire La Coste, Justine shrugged off her coat and started to unfasten the buttons of her blouse.

  It seemed more than a little peculiar to be undressing in a churchyard. But, after the unreal developments she had experienced inside the church, she supposed it wasn’t the most unusual event that had interrupted her day. She laid her coat on the top of a neighbouring headstone, then folded her blouse and placed it on top of the coat. Her skirt and shoes followed; their absence made her acutely aware of the cemetery’s chill as tendrils of wet grass tickled her feet and ankles; and then she hastily stepped out of her bra and pants.

  A prickle of disquiet rumbled through her bowel. The inside of her mouth turned dry with anticipation and she didn’t dare swallow for fear of choking on the arid taste of dread. As she put the underwear with the rest of her clothes she noticed her hands shaking and knew it had nothing to do with the night’s cool breeze.

  Her breathing had fallen to a sultry pant.

  The wrongness of what she was doing struck her like a slap across the face. Standing naked – her pale body almost glowing in the moonlight, while the rest of the churchyard was held in shadows – made Justine feel like the world’s most depraved exhibitionist. She knew her slender figure and modest breasts looked attractive and exciting: the dusky swell of each breast was tipped with a stiff, café au lait tip that turned to mocha when she was excited. Her waist was narrow, her stomach flat, and she made a point of keeping her sex shaved and shamelessly free from hair. But, although she had previously admired the aesthetic perfection of her nudity in bathroom and bedroom mirrors, she had never expected to be displaying her secretly prized assets in a Provence churchyard.