Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
"Come here, beloved," I murmur. "Step back inside the prie-dieu. Let's see if ya pray as pretty as ya beg."
14
I'm standing in a sex chapel disguised as Catholic cosplay, seventeen candles burning behind me like some kind of confession board tracking my failures, and a half-naked Irishman in a crimson monk robe just called me "beloved" while his dick is visibly hard underneath the fabric of his robe.
This is it. Rock bottom has a basement, and that basement is a sex chapel with a dominant monk who gets off on being prayed to.
Saint Lorcan steps into the prie-dieu behind me—actually inside the kneeling space, which I didn't realize was possible until his legs bracket mine, his chest brushing against my bare shoulders.
Oh. I see. This is why it's so wide.
It's designed for two bodies.
One kneeling.
One standing behind.
My brain does that thing where it tries to be helpful by supplying extremely unwelcome information: This is sacrilege. You're literally desecrating Catholic prayer furniture for kinky sex rituals. Your Nana Rourke is spinning in her grave so fast she could power a small city.
But my pussy doesn't care about Nana Rourke's eternal disappointment.
My pussy is, however, very interested in whatever Saint Lorcan is about to do.
"That's good, a stór," he murmurs, and his voice has dropped into that command register that makes my knees want to buckle instead of straighten. "Now we're goin' to learn Position Secunda."
Position Secunda sounds suspiciously like a Harry Potter spell for summoning orgasms.
But I don't say that because my mouth has finally learned to shut up when dominants are touching me, which is either personal growth or complete psychological breakdown. The jury's still out.
Saint Lorcan's hands slide up my sides, skimming my ribs, then back down to my hips. "This position is about surrender, lass. About offerin' yerself for correction while maintainin' yer devotion."
His fingers press into my hip bones, guiding me forward slightly until my pelvis tilts.
"Bend," he says. "From the hips. Keep yer spine straight."
I fold forward, my torso lowering over the prayer desk, and—
Jesus Christ.
My ass is in the air.
Like, way in the air.
And my pussy is just... on display. Completely exposed. Anatomically featured in this little Catholic sex show like I'm the main attraction at the Museum of Terrible Decisions.
"Wider," Saint Lorcan instructs, and his hands move to the inside of my thighs, pressing outward. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Or wider, if ya can manage."
I shift my stance, legs spreading, and the cool air of the chapel hits my wet pussy in a way that makes me want to die of embarrassment and also maybe come immediately.
"Forehead down," Saint Lorcan says, and I press my face against the slanted wood, just like Position Prima. "Arms extended. Palms together."
I stretch my arms forward along the desk, pressing my hands together in prayer position, thumbs finding my forehead.
And just like that, I'm back in a posture I know—the safe, familiar prayer position—except now I'm standing instead of kneeling, and my entire lower half is completely vulnerable.
Welcome to Catholicism: Kink Edition. Now with 100% more ass exposure.
"Eyes closed," Saint Lorcan murmurs.
I let them fall shut.
For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of my own breathing and the faint crackle of seventeen candles burning my sins into existence.
Then Saint Lorcan edges up behind me.
And my entire nervous system detonates.
I don't know what I was expecting—maybe gradual arousal, maybe a slow build—but what happens instead is that my body goes from zero to oh my god I'm going to die if someone doesn't fuck me right now in approximately half a second.
It's so sudden, so overwhelming, that my knees actually buckle.
I start to collapse—
But Saint Lorcan's hands are there, catching my hips, steadying me with firm pressure.
"Easy, beloved," he says, and his voice has gone soft. Soothing. "I've got ya. You're safe."
Safe. Sure. That's definitely the word for being bent over naked in a sex chapel while experiencing a full-body meltdown.
But his hands... they don't grab or demand or punish.
They just hold.
One palm flat against my lower belly, the other braced on my hip, keeping me upright while my legs remember how to function.
"Breathe," he tells me. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth."
I drag in air—shaky, uneven—and let it out.
"Good girl," Saint Lorcan murmurs. "Again."
I breathe.
He pets me.
Not sexually—at least not overtly sexually—but like he's gentling a spooked animal. His palm slides from my belly to my side, then up my ribs in a slow, grounding stroke. Down my spine. Along my hip.
"You're doin' so well, a stór," he says quietly. "Just need to get used to the position. To the vulnerability. Give yerself a moment."
There's no impatience in his voice.
No frustration.
No disappointment.
I feel the shift inside the prie-dieu as he settles into the seat behind me, an Irish throne, if you will. I register the faint creak of old wood, the rustle of fabric. His knees must be on either side of mine now, his body positioned so he can reach me easily.