He knew her. He understood her fears and desires, understood that she warred more within herself than with him or his rules. She ruffled under his rules and over-protectiveness, warring with the desire to be independent, wanting to be in charge and in control of all situations and people close to her, but needing more than anything to give up that control, relaxing into his all-encompassing authority.

  It was important she answer to him if she didn’t do as expected, even if she fought the discipline and boundaries he’d put into place to protect her. But she chafed against those boundaries, it was her training as a child, it irritated her to no end when she had to finally succumb to his control, usually ending up over his lap with a sore backside—like tonight.

  She never submitted easily; it came with a price—sometimes it was minor and just a warring within herself that he never saw. On other days, the war was more visible, and the war wounds ended up on her bottom, but the victory was well worth it—more for her than for him. (At least that’s how she saw it.)

  She felt a peace that surpassed all understanding, the euphoria of being laid bare—physically and emotionally—before her husband, lover, and Dominant overwhelmed her on so many levels that the tears were just a glimpse of the transformation that occurred within her.

  Gustaaf pulled her up from the couch, setting her gently on his lap, tucking her into his embrace. His hands caressed and stroked her abraded skin, and he swayed gently, placing kisses in her hair. “Such a good girl.”

  Except for the occasional hiccup, she’d calmed down, sleep closing in on her, her breathing slowing and regulating.

  “It’s time for my girl to go to bed.” He stood with her still in his arms, walking toward their room, then standing her in front of their dresser. Pulling out a short sleep shirt, he tossed it over her head, the length barely covering her bottom. Then with a hand to the small of her back, he guided her toward their bed, folding the covers so she may lie down.

  “Don’t leave me.” She hated the panic in her voice, but she couldn’t stand the thought of being without him, she needed his arms and comfort, especially now. However, in the past, he’d told her that bad girls were sent to bed without cuddling and were left with their sore bum and deep feelings of remorse and regret, sealing into their psyche that they wouldn’t misbehave again.

  “I’m staying, sweets. No worries.” He climbed in behind her, spooning her tightly to him, his arms holding her snugly, cupping her breast in the palm of his hand.

  “Bad girls don’t get c-cuddles, I know. But I’m too upset for you to l-leave me; I don’t think I’d stop sobbing. I’m sorry I hurt you.” Her tears slipped out of the corner of her eyes, dripping onto his hairy forearms—the arms that kept her safe.

  “You’re not a bad girl. You’re a good girl who does bad things sometimes, but I have the cure.” She could hear the smile in his words. “You need me—especially tonight. Rest easy, little girl.”

  Closing her eyes, she relaxed into him. It’d be difficult to sit at work tomorrow; her bottom would give her hell, no doubt. But the assurance that he had her back, he’d always watch out for her, wanting her to be the best person possible comforted her, and the burn in her backside would be a small price to pay.

  She’d apologize to Chelsea tomorrow. She hoped that they’d patch things up; she liked Emerson and pictured them being good friends for years.

  Chapter 23

  Chelsea looked down at her bracelet—again—the way the light hit it made the cross stand out even more than normal. She loved it, loved the secret knowledge that only the two of them knew that this was a representation of their dynamic—the importance of the Church in their lives and their sexual lives as well.

  It’d been only a month since they’d become engaged and in that time, they had flown back to America to let their parents know, assuring them that they’d keep them apprised of the wedding plans.

  They’d even driven the few hundred miles to see Father McKenna, celebrating with him the engagement and dispensation from the Catholic Church. Father Bill had been curious, wondering where Emerson would serve out his laicized priesthood. Chelsea was curious as well.

  The prospect of moving to Philadelphia versus Rome had them spinning. You couldn’t get much further apart in terms of physical geography, community status, jobs, and even Church protocol.

  She’d support him wherever he decided to go. As a reporter, she’d be able to obtain a job anywhere and had no doubt she’d be happy as long as he was with her.

  Turning her head, she looked at the clock on the nightstand, four-thirty in the afternoon. She’d been waiting as directed for a half hour. Any minute he’d be home. As soon as she came home today, he’d texted her.

  Are you home?

  Yes. Why?

  I want you waiting for me when I get home today.

  Okay.

  I want you naked, in the corner, kneeling, and your hands clasping your elbows as I’ve trained you.

  Okay. Am I in trouble?

  No. Should you be?

  No, I just get worried.

  No worries. You’re fine, as long as you do as directed.

  Yes, Sir.

  I’ll be home by four-thirty. Be a good girl.

  Yes, Sir.

  Her knees were tiring in the same position, and she shifted on them, not daring to sit on her heels for fear he’d sneak in without her knowledge and find her being disobedient. Although she didn’t always succeed, her goal was to please him, meeting the few simple demands and rules he’d instituted for her. And she’d be the first to admit that she failed miserably some days, but her intent was always to please him. What her mouth and independent nature did…well… seemed almost out of her control. She knew that couldn’t be further from the truth, but blurting things out seemed to be her biggest downfall. Being tossed over his lap or the arm of the couch for a snippy, sarcastic remark seemed pretty common in their household.

  “You did as you were told. Good girl.”

  She jumped at his voice. “Shit!”

  “You were lost in your thoughts; I wasn’t overly quiet either. I didn’t want to frighten you.” His movements around the bedroom had her curious, but she kept facing forward. “What were you thinking about so intently?”

  She clenched her buttocks, she didn’t like admitting to misbehavior on the outside chance he was looking for any reason to redden her backside. “I was thinking about how I try to be a good girl, and how I don’t always succeed.”

  He chuckled, the low rumble settling in her core. She loved that sound. “No, you certainly don’t.” His shoes dropped onto the floor followed by the rustling of fabric and then the tink of his belt buckle and his belt being loosened.

  She shifted, rubbing her thighs together, her clit stirring with excitement.

  “But overall, I’d say you’re a pretty good girl.”

  Her heart swelled, she loved hearing him call her that. She’d do just about anything for a couple of good girls.

  Drawers were being opened and closed followed by silence. Then a match was lit. She held her breath.

  What is he doing?

  He blew his breath out loudly, the smell of sulfur filling the air.

  “Crawl to me as you are—breast prominently displayed, ass out, arms clasped behind you.”

  She shimmied on her knees, working her way out of the corner, turning to find him standing gloriously and beautifully naked, wearing only a bright red stole and his collarette, holding two white candles tied with a red ribbon so they formed an “X”. His cock was jutting forward, pointing directly at her. But her eyes were drawn to his chest framed by the red stole accentuating his tanned chest from his bike rides all summer in Amsterdam. He had been taking full advantage of the warm weather, not wanting to miss the very limited nice days in this country.

  Not able to help herself, her hips thrust involuntarily at the sexuality of it all. His erection bobbed rhythmically, and she wanted nothing more than to fuck him at that moment.

  He winked at her, a dimple showing in his cheek. “You like what you’re seeing, little one?”

  “Yes, Sir. You’re looking holy…and fuckable.”

  “Mmmm, that seems to be an odd combination for a good Catholic girl. Am I right?”

  “Oh no, Father. You’re totally wrong. Catholic women often cream their panties imagining sex with a priest…well, the young priests, Father. We know that they haven’t had sex in a long time, and wonder if they have erections under those long flowing robes. Their fingers are soft and manicured, and we wonder what the silky, smooth skin would feel like circling our clits. What would the moist, pink lips of a priest feel like on our breasts? Would he fuck us hard? Or would he be gentle, kind, and caring? And then we wonder if we could turn the placid, meek priest into a roaring lion, one who would pound us into wild abandon, screaming with our orgasms in the sanctuary. His come spurting rope after rope into our needy, clamping pussies, and his seed dripping from our hot, sated cunts for hours, an illicit reminder of our sacred and carnal indulgence with a man of the cloth.”

  “Jesus Christ!” He stood blinking at her, the angry red head of his cock dripping with pre-come. “Is that really what you Catholic women and girls are thinking?”

  “Well, I can’t speak for them all. But the ones I knew did, myself included of course. We loved the new young priests, and many of us had crushes on them.” She licked her lips, staring at his sculpted body. “And you, Father Riley, are a Catholic woman’s wet dream.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t know any of this when I was a priest. Shit, some things are better left unsaid.” He shook his head, laughing down at her. “Come here, bad girl. My naughty little church minx.”

  Assuming she’d be giving him a blow job, she crawled up to him, unclasping her arms to cup his balls, the other hand grasping his hot, silky length.

  “Uh-uh, who said you could break form?” His dark eyebrows furrowed.

  She pulled her hands away, quickly clasping them behind her again. “Sorry. I just—”

  “You just thought you’d do what you wanted. You follow orders, girl.”

  “Do you remember what this is?” He held up the white candled “X”.

  “It’s for the Blessing of the Throats.”

  “Yes. Good girl. The Feast of St. Blaise, it’s usually the second weekend in February. St. Blaise was known for ‘treating objects caught in the throat.’” He paused for effect.

  She smirked at him, unable to hold back the amusement of the wording.

  “Bad girl. It is also a blessing for any ailments of the throat as well. But I think for our purposes today, I’d like to focus on objects caught in the throat.” Still holding the candles in one hand, he stroked his cock with the red stole, the silky fabric gliding softly up and down his penis. His nostrils were flared and his balls tightened close to his body.

  Handing her the candled cross, he said, “Hold the top of the X to your throat, just as the priest does when he’s blessing you. I’m going to fuck your face. Keep your mouth open and I’ll direct your head and my cock.”

  “Yes, Sir. Just…be…please be aware of my need to breathe.”

  He rolled his eyes at her, exhaling loudly. “Of course, dear. I need you to stay alive, and breathing is a very important part of that equation. You’ll find that I’m well aware of how to keep you safe and breathing. Now, open that fucking mouth of yours and let me keep it occupied.”

  She held the cold, hard, wax white candles to her throat, just as many priests had done every February since she was a wee toddler. The smell of sulfur transported her back in time; and closing her eyes reverently, she swore she could see her old Catholic church, St. Anne’s.

  “How do our rituals begin, girl?” His fingers brutally pinched her nipples, causing her to flinch and gasp.

  She swallowed. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  Emerson responded in his rote priest voice, “How long has it been since your last confession, my child?”

  “It has been four days since my confession, Father.”

  He swiped his wet cock along her lips, his salt come coating them, before saying, “What was your sin and your penance?”

  “I yelled fuck you at you in anger, Father.”

  He tsked loudly. “A very grave sin indeed. I hope your priest punished your little ass severely. What was your punishment, bad girl?” He slapped his hot penis on each of her facial cheeks.

  “I was spanked with a wooden spoon and made to kneel on rice.”

  “Mmmm, seems a very fitting punishment. Did it do the job?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Do you have any sin that you need to confess to me, anything I should know before we proceed?”

  She opened her eyes, looking up at him. “No, Sir.”

  “That’s my girl. Okay, keep the candles at your throat, open your mouth wide and I’ll bless your throat as well.”

  She did as he asked, his cock lying on her tongue, the salty come coating it. She swallowed, breathing in a long slow breath, his musky male scent filling her nostrils.

  He thrust into her, both hands wrapped and covered in his red, priestly stole and cupping each side of her head, keeping her steady as he pushed and prodded until his length eased down her throat.

  Fighting the gag reflex, she inhaled through her nose, her body thrumming with sexual arousal. With her hands held fast to the candles, she was rendered unable to ease her own need; not that he’d usually allow it, but she tried nonetheless.

  “Christ, I wish you could see what I see, girl. Your head cradled in my priestly vestments, drool seeping down your chin, dripping onto your breasts while I bounce off the back of your throat.” He pounded into her, thrusting and then easing back enough for her to catch her breath, gasping loudly for air, then resuming his driving force down her throat.

  “May the Lord bless you from any ailments of the throat. May he keep you from any choking hazards.” He shouted the last words through gritted teeth, plunging deep into the dark depths. “May he keep any and all objects from being caught in your throat.”

  She gagged loudly as he slipped out enough for her to draw a breath before he shoved himself back in full force.

  “I’m coming!” His semen shot down her throat, spurt-after-spurt, and he quickly drew his length out to lie fully on her tongue.

  His thighs trembled and his cock twitched lightly on the bed of her mouth. She rolled it around, cleaning him. “My God!” He pulled back, still breathing heavily, his now flaccid penis resting against his thigh, sticky and wet with her saliva.

  “I feel blessed, Sir.” Her lips felt numb and swollen, and her words came out muffled.

  “And I as well.” He sat on the edge of the bed, obviously still getting his bearings. Tossing his head over his shoulder toward the center of the bed, he said, “I’m not done with you. I want you with your head down, ass up, right here.” He patted the mattress. “Give me the candles.”

  Her knees were creaky and she struggled to get up, only to have him rise, assisting her with a hand to each elbow and relieving her of the candles. “We’ll save your knees, honey. I’m sorry, I get so caught up in this, I forget…forgive me.” He stacked a couple pillows at the end of the bed. “Bend over these. That’ll do nicely.”

  He stood back watching her. The quiver in her ass belied how calmly she lay there. The white globes now covered with goose flesh, speaking to the anxiousness she felt inside. Although she knew she wasn’t in trouble, being bent over pillows waiting heightened the sexual tension. It’s why he did it.

  Watching her tonight with the red stole, cupping her while he fucked her face, he swore he may have a heart attack. He’d never get used to acting out all these fantasies with her. He had just one more thing, one more part to this fantasy that he had to live out with her.

  “One more thing tonight, girl.” He pinched a cheek, the cleft between her buttocks tightening. “This?” He pressed the pad of his thumb against her little pucker. “I’m taking this little asshole tonight.”

  She stiffened and then pushed back on his thumb, doing her damnedest to ease him in.

  He slapped each cheek hard, watching a bright pink handprint bloom on the otherwise pristine surface. “It’s what I expected of my slut.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “I’m not going to be gentle.” He dipped his thumb in just a bit, not wanting to hurt her.

  “I want it rough, Sir.”

  “Your needy little cunt is dripping, girl.” The fingers of his other hand were toying with her puffy lips, dipping into her hungry, hot channel. His girl dripped with need twenty-four seven. And he thanked God for it daily.

  “Do you want to know what I’m using the candles for, slut?” He slapped her ass with the hard, cold wax rods, leaving wide, bright pink lines across both cheeks.

  Jumping with a shriek she yelled, “No, Sir”

  “I’m going to fuck your cunt with the candles while my cock impales your asshole.”

  He smiled listening to her gasp. Shocking her had become a game for him. Popping the top on the lube, he generously lubed his cock before working in a large dollop into her hole, first pushing one finger in, working the lube in, more lube and then two fingers. He continued adding more and more lube until he had all three fingers within her, until the sphincter released.

  Placing another dollop at her anus and coating his hard cock, he eased the head into her, stilling until she pressed back, pushing him in further. “Such a greedy slut.”

  “Yes, Father.”