by Violet Blue
She was naked in the dark stone chapel, but that wasn’t why she shivered. Fear and arousal mixed, a perfect, heady blend; and moisture was pooling between her spread-eagled thighs. At first, all she could hear was pigeons among the high, vaulted arches, cooing and rustling their wings. Then, distantly, came chanting, a solemn sound growing louder, and she shuddered right down to her clit.
Now the monks filed in, two by two in procession. Their chant didn’t sound like any hymn she’d ever heard—this was pious, but laden with erotic promise. They were robed, hooded, anonymous, their faces lost in flickering shadow.
They surrounded her. Hands reached out…
Kathleen struggled for air, unable to keep talking. If Ted hadn’t been standing so close, she thought she would have swayed and fallen.
“Well, well,” Ted said, his low breath hot against her ear as he held her. “You do have a vivid little fantasy there, don’t you? Tell me, do they pinch your nipples hard, like you like it? Do they drip wax on them? Do they reach between your thighs and tease your clit, laughing at how wet you are, at how close you get to coming before they pull away, denying you your release? Do they untie you and drape you face-first over the altar and whip your tender ass with birch branches, telling you how wicked you’ve been and how you need to be punished for your sins?”
His dirty litany not only built on her profane and secret confessions—it delved into her psyche and brought to light erotic details even she hadn’t admitted to herself. The pressure had been growing inside her since they arrived. Now, with his obviously hard cock pressing against her sex and her mind racing with visions that aroused and shamed her in equal measure, she couldn’t hold back.
And Ted knew it.
“Show the monks what a slut you are,” he said, and she exploded, grinding against him even as she buried her face in his shoulder to muffle her screams.
When she stopped shaking, she grabbed his arm, tugging him back toward the rental car.
Ted tugged back, holding her in place. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Back to the car. I want to get you someplace more private.”
Three older women with binoculars were heading up from the parking lot and Kathleen’s still hungry body thought it was past time to get to the B&B and finish what they’d started.
“Not so fast. We haven’t seen everything yet.”
That was a change. She was usually the one saying that to Ted, who wasn’t as fascinated with ruins as she was. And he never, ever put off a chance to have sex.
Unless, she realized with a sudden tug in her cunt, putting it off might make things more interesting later.
He put his hand on the back of her neck. His voice dropped to a throaty whisper that seemed to caress her clit as he said, “Take all the time you’d like here. I want you to have plenty of time to drink in the atmosphere and think about monks and the wickedness of your ways. A girl like you could ruin an entire monastery.”
His voice, and the images it brought to mind of hooded figures and anonymous hands and vows of celibacy being thrown away like the day’s trash, were enough to push Kathleen back to the trembling edge of orgasm.
Even without the sacrilegious pleasure of her fantasy, the monastery was worth closer exploration. As the sun came out, it became easier to imagine it intact, with robed brothers working in the herb garden, praying in the chapel, going about their day. At the same time, the contrast between bright sun and dark shadows made the ruins seem all that much more lonely and haunted, especially in the chapel, where the walls were just intact enough to give the feeling of an actual structure instead of rubble in the general outline of buildings. It was easy to imagine the chapel filling with ghostly monks at night—and who knew what depravities ghostly monks might practice?
The longer she spent there, the harder it was to separate herself from the fantasy.
And the few miles from the monastery to the B&B seemed like a trek across Asia.
They celebrated their arrival at the B&B with a round of fucking that made Kathleen fear for the antique bed—at least until she reached a point where she didn’t give a damn about the bed anymore. It was hard, athletic, straightforward sex, with little connection to deviant monks, other than a few teasing sentences that got lost in the pursuit of more immediate pleasures, but Kathleen couldn’t complain. Sharing the fantasy led to hot sex, and after all, that was what fantasies were for—even the ones that left you flushed and trembling with shame.
Ted was still flashing back to the interlude at the monastery himself, though, judging from some of the heated looks he gave her while they checked out the eleventh-century church in the town center, or the way he insisted they have a drink in the Tipsy Friar pub.
If Ted was still thinking about it, that meant it might crop up in some creative way when she least expected it. Would he enact some element of it or perhaps put her through “confession” and “penance” for having evil fantasies about holy men? Would he have her on her knees in front of him, admitting her wickedness in explicit detail? Torture her sins out of her like an inquisitor?
She shuddered with exquisite fear over her cider.
Unfortunately the cider conspired with several previous nights of more sex than sleep, and soon Kathleen was yawning over the last inch or so of her pint. “I need a nap,” she confessed, taking her glasses off and rubbing her eyes. “Want to curl up with me?”
“I’ll walk you back and tuck you in, but I need to pick up a few supplies in the shops.”
She assumed he meant razors or deodorant, but by the time he returned with several shopping bags, she’d been asleep for a couple of hours and it was getting dark. He wasn’t that into retail therapy, even in a place with a lot more shopping options than this town. Which meant he was up to something…but what?
From the secrecy and the smile, it had to be something erotic and exciting. And she was willing to bet that it had something to do with the taboo scene they’d woven in the monastery ruins. But what?
The conviction became a sexy certainty when he told her to wear a skirt and no panties to the country inn where they had dinner reservations. But nothing happened during dinner besides the usual flirting.
Comfortably full of venison pâté and salmon, pleasantly relaxed from pinot noir, lulled by Ted’s hand on her knee, Kathleen took a few minutes to realize that Ted was driving farther out of town instead of back to the B&B.
“Where are we going?” she asked, although she had a wet, slippery, nervously excited feeling that she knew.
“Back to the monastery. It’s past Compline on the Feast of Saint Bacchus and the good brothers are waiting for you.”
He turned on the CD player and Gregorian chant poured out, spooky and stark and curiously sensual.
Arousal slammed into her like a fist. As they drove through the dark countryside, Kyrie Eleison soared around them. Ted’s face was remote and he refused to answer her questions, saying all would be revealed in good time and then falling into silence so profound he might have been a holy statue on an altar—except for his fingers stroking the soft flesh of her inner thigh and occasionally teasing her labia and dipping into her cunt before retreating. By the time they arrived at the monastery she was moaning and keening through bitten lips, wanting to beg to come, yet, perversely, not wanting the erotic torment to end; curious and yet terrified to discover what her devious husband had in store for her.
The monastery ruins seemed deserted, not a car in the parking lot, not a sound other than the small bird-and-insect noises of night in the country.
But she could see candles burning in the chapel, just a few lights dancing in the darkness.
Kathleen’s heart was pounding so hard she could hardly breathe, and her juices ran down her suddenly shaky thighs.
What had Ted done? He’d been with her for the past few hours. Would candles stay lit that long?
He couldn’t have gotten other people in on this. Or could he?
She laughed with r
elief (or disappointment, but she didn’t want to consider that) when they got into the chapel area and she saw no one else there.
The candles were the battery-operated kind and somehow—she couldn’t begin to fathom how—Ted had procured a folding table, which he’d set up over the altar ruins and covered with a tarp. It was sweet, but it was kind of cheesy and…
Then he lifted his oversized sweatshirt and she saw the coarse rope he’d wrapped around his waist—the rope he was now unwinding with the obvious intent of binding her down—and something inside her broke. She no longer saw battery-operated candles or a modern folding table or even the stars twinkling between the empty flying buttresses.
Instead she saw an arched ceiling half lost in darkness and an altar draped with a richly embroidered purple cloth. She believed the candles were real and the melted wax painfully hot.
And she had no will to resist when Ted led her to the table, helped her onto it, and bound her ankles and wrists (dimly she knew the knots were loose, for quick escape if someone arrived, but she somehow really believed she was firmly tied down and utterly, completely, erotically helpless).
Gently, he took her glasses off and tucked them safely away, then draped a cloth over her eyes. Not a full mask, but something with a loose weave.
“Can’t have you seeing their faces,” Ted said, his voice low. “Can’t have you telling. This way, you’ll just have to guess how many there are. How many touching you. How many watching as you writhe and plead and come again and again.”
Oh, dear god, he was right. Through the gauzy material she could see the flickering candlelight, which cast shadows—shadows that could be just shadows or could be robed men, moving closer to stand in a ring around her, gazing at her half-naked, spread-eagled, vulnerable form.
Then she heard a rustling followed by a striking match and smelled beeswax, and her gut clenched, and if she could have squeezed her thighs together she would have come right then.
He’d already hiked her skirt up around her hips. Now he unbuttoned her blouse and the front snap of her bra. Her already aching nipples crinkled harder in the cool night air.
“Wicked girl,” Ted said hoarsely. He tweaked both of her nipples, twisting them to the point of glorious pain. She arched her hips helplessly. “Fantasizing about men of the cloth. Dreaming of them doing unspeakable things to you, all in the name of earthly pleasures, pleasures of the flesh. Believing your perverse sexual desires are sacred.”
He released her throbbing nipples then, snaking a hand down between her thighs. As he had in the car, he toyed with her almost languidly, his fingers skidding through her wetness, but without enough pressure to bring her to the release she so desperately craved.
“Please,” she managed. “Please.”
“You have the audacity to beg?” he said. Whether the deep voice was Ted or an anonymous monk, she didn’t know. Didn’t care. The hazy covering over her eyes meant she could imagine it both ways.
Then, without warning, the first drop of wax hit her already tender nipple. The heat spread from her breast to her cunt, turning her body to molten lava. More searing wax, and she came, hard, muffling her own screams out of shame and fear, her shuddering body rattling the table beneath her.
Ted didn’t let her rest or enjoy any after-orgasm languor. Before the final aftershocks had died away, he was already untying her, hauling her to her unsteady feet and turning her around, only to bind her facedown across the table.
She didn’t know if she should be relieved that he hadn’t managed to find a birch branch, but really, his broad hand on her naked ass was enough. He moved around her, smacking her with different hands and making it seem that the blows were coming from multiple men all around her. The shamed, excited part of her rode that feeling, believed the shadows conjured by her blurred vision until she could almost convince herself she could hear their voices, feel their woolen robes brushing her bare skin. The slaps were gunshots in the still night air, gunshots that ricocheted through her pussy, bringing her closer to the edge.
Ted (a monk?) moved around the table and faced her.
She actually worked one hand free so she could wrap her fingers around him, adding her hand to the ministrations of her mouth.
She was so close, almost desperate, but she knew she couldn’t come like this, with her thighs spread wide and nothing touching her clit or driving into her. And the fact that her whole body screamed for release when the only release in sight was Ted’s seemed perversely perfect.
Because there was more, more that she’d whispered to Ted in their B&B, her face flushed with shame and arousal. The monks tied her down and whipped her for having unholy sexual thoughts, for not being chaste. But when they saw how aroused she was—saw the wetness slicking her inner thighs, saw her hard, pouting nipples, saw her body arching and begging—then they succumbed to lust. The sight of her willing, wanton body was too much for them.
Because of her, they chose earthly pleasures—sexual release—over God Himself.
The thought of the monks coming for her and her alone, of them crying out God’s name when they were really spurting their seed for her, on her, in her, was the crux of her fantasy.
Ted’s hips jerked in a short, staccato rhythm, and she knew he was there. She tasted his first spurt on her tongue, and then he pulled back and splashed his come on her face, twitching and groaning.
She couldn’t come like this, and yet she did, her cunt spasming as her orgasm wrenched through her, twisting her and releasing her.
This time she did scream, taking God’s name in vain over and over again. Ted’s cries joined with hers.
And as the echoes died away, they were together, at one with each other and with their private deity.
COUNTERPANE
Alison Tyler
Take off the counterpane.”
The boys were ahead of them. Not that the two couples were racing, but the blond stud was already on his back, head on the white-slipped pillow, slim hips arched. His dark-haired lover crouched between his thighs, licking that tender skin, working slowly to the blond’s impressive hard-on.
Somehow Lia knew exactly how that would feel.
“Come on, baby. Help me with the counterpane.” Ry was in a hurry to catch up. Lia could tell. Still, she turned to him, confused by his request.
“The what?”
“Bedspread,” he said, his British accent stronger now that he was aroused. “Who knows how many people have shot their load onto those ugly watercolor flowers.”
“How many do you think?” Lia asked as she helped him wrench back the heavy quilted comforter—abloom in gaudy burnt orange and lemon-yellow blossoms. She was looking at the boys again. For the first time in her life, she wished she had a cock—and she wished that the dark-haired Romeo was sucking her, right down to the root. She could almost feel his full lips on her skin—pretty, cupid-bow lips.
Ry gripped her chin and forced her to face him, his own lips bending into a half smile. “Slut.” He elongated the word, really hitting the l. “That’s your favorite part, isn’t it? Thinking about all the other people who have fucked in this bed.”
“One of my favorite parts.” She pulled her chin out of his hand and stared back at the other couple, who didn’t appear to mind in the least—the blond was tall and fine boned, the darker one well muscled, with tattoos scrolled over his skin. She’d hardly ever paused to notice gym rats before, but this guy did something to her. She watched the naked wrestling on the other bed—and she sighed out loud when the one with the chestnut hair hissed under his breath:
“Roll over.”
That was something Ry said to her, in just the same way:
“Roll over. Show me that sweet fucking ass of yours.”
Now, she watched as the top started to rim his lover. Fucking god. More than talking to Ry about who’d abused this hotel room before, she liked seeing what the two boys would do.
Her heart pounded at the way the brunet roughly pulled apart the
blond’s cheeks and licked in a tight circle around that tiny pink bud. She clenched her own thighs together. Ry had never done that to her. Nobody had. But she desperately wanted to own that experience, a tongue against her there. Wetness. Warmth. She thought that the sensation alone might make her come. Would it feel like Ry was suckling her clit? Would it make her feel like a boy?
The brunet didn’t wait to see if rimming would make the blond come. He gripped a bottle of lube from the faux-walnut bedside table and poured a shivering handful between the lean man’s taut cheeks. Lia moved forward. She wanted to be as close to the action as possible. She watched hungrily as the dark-haired boy slid one hand over his own rigid cock, lubing himself up, before pressing just the head against the blond’s hole.
Right then, Ry grabbed her.
It was as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment—as if he knew what was going to happen next. His touch made Lia groan. All morning, she’d been thinking of this situation. While working in her sterile little cubicle downtown, she’d fantasized about what Ry had told her, where he’d wanted her to meet him for lunch.
Not to eat. But to fuck.
From outside, she could hear the noontime traffic. Through a crack in the window, she could smell the fried calamari sizzling in the kitchen of the downstairs café. But all that mattered to her were the people in this room.
Ry pushed her down on the bed and ripped her pleated violet skirt to her waist. She wasn’t wearing panties—he’d told her not to when he’d instructed her to meet him at this hotel, on a Thursday at noon. This was the sort of thing Ry did from time to time: keeping her off guard, keeping her guessing.
The boys had already been going at it when she walked into the room, and she’d looked from them to Ry and back to them again, catching the grin on Ryland’s face—seeing that he knew how excited she already was.
They didn’t know the boys’ names. But names didn’t matter. All that mattered was watching them—she and Ry on one bed, the dynamic duo on another.