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Missionary Position
© 2002 by L.A. Smith

Anyone walking behind him along the winding narrow street would have assumed that Frank was an American businessman exploring the poorer parts of the city in a well-tailored black suit.  The reverential nods from those who passed him might easily be mistaken for signs of respect for his wealth or power rather than for the stiff Roman collar that gleamed white beneath his sculpted chin.

To each of these locals he granted a warm smile and a casual gesture of blessing.  He met their eyes, his energy fueled by the reverence and gratitude he found in them.  A senorita's smile pulsed through his balls, and he pressed the Bible he carried in his left hand to the arc of flesh swelling in his trousers.

When the old church at the top of the street came into view, he quickened his pace.  He climbed the steps two at a time and pulled open the massive wooden door.  The dusty warmth and aroma of incense engulfed him.  He closed the door and stared through the darkness dappled with dancing jewels of sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows.  He barely had time to notice the intricate carvings depicting the suffering of Christ before a door beside the sanctuary opened and Father Adelmo shuffled in.

The old priest made his way to the center of the sanctuary, faced the crucifix and blessed himself with the sign of the cross.  Then he turned and plodded down the aisle, a look of concern on his face.

Frank smiled, opened his Bible and held out a handful of American bills.  The priest took them in his shaking hands and muttered, "Gracias, Padrone.  This will do much good for my parish, but still I do not understand why you must be alone in the church for the afternoon."

"It is part of my mission to contemplate each holy place alone with God," Frank said.  His deep voice oozed sincerity, and the old priest nodded though he still did not understand.  Frank closed the door behind the old man and walked through the nave, tracing his fingertips over the worn edges of the pews.  When he reached the communion rail, Frank kneeled and closed his eyes.  He did not pray.

Frank rose and turned to the confessional.  The box was made of old, dark wood that gleamed, it seemed to him, with years of whispered secrets.  In its ornate carvings, he saw a thousand complications from impure thoughts and masturbation to adultery, thievery, maybe even murder.  Frank opened the priest's door and stepped inside, settling on the padded seat worn threadbare by Father Adelmo's ample backside.  He closed the door and his eyes, listening for the litany of sins that echoed in the small, dark chamber.

Those imagined murmurings nearly drowned out the sound of the church door opening and closing.  When he heard the click of heels on the tile floor of the nave, Frank opened his eyes and held his breath.  The footsteps stopped at the altar rail then turned to the confessional as his had done.  Frank's heart pounded when the penitent's door squeaked open and he heard the rustle of fabric on the other side of the box.

With a trembling hand, he slid the panel open.

"Forgive me, Father," her soft voice trembled, "for I have sinned.  It has been two weeks since my last confession."

"Peace be with you, child," Frank whispered, his voice thick with excitement. "Tell me your sins."

"I have impure thoughts, Father.  About a man.  I can't stop myself from thinking about him."

"Just thoughts?" Frank pressed, trying to sound more conciliatory than curious.

"No, Father," her voice dropped. "When I think of him, I want to touch myself."

"So you masturbate when you think about this man.  Have you done this often."

"Yes, Father, every day for a week now.  Sometimes two or three times a day."

"I see," Frank thumbed his cock through the soft wool of his trousers. "And how does that make you feel?"

"I wish I could say it makes me feel bad, Father, but it doesn't.  It makes me feel good."

"In what way, my child," Frank whispered.

"It makes me tremble when I put my fingers between my legs and think about the way I want him to touch me there."

"You tremble?" Frank trembled a little himself and unzipped his fly.

"Yes, Father.  And I ache to feel him inside me."

"What do you do about this ache?" Frank slipped his hand inside his trousers and felt his pulse beneath his fingers.

"Well, I start by slipping my fingers inside me, but they aren't big enough to ease the ache.  So then I find something bigger, a candle or sometimes a banana."

"And do these things satisfy you?"

"I wish I could say they do, Father, but I still ache even after I use them.  I'm afraid, Father, that the only thing that will satisfy me is this man's cock."

When she said the word, Frank grasped his flesh and gave it a squeeze.

"Tell me," he whispered, "have you ever actually been with this man?"

"I have," she whispered.

"Tell me about it, child."

"Well, he's a rich American.  I met him at one of the big hotels in town.  He was sitting in the bar, and I walked up to him and asked him to buy me a drink."

"Do you do this often, child."

"No, Father.  Never before.  I just couldn't help myself.  This man was so handsome."

"I see," Frank cradled his balls and sighed. "Then what happened?"

"Well, I had a few drinks with him, and he was very nice to me.  He told me I was pretty, and he stroked my hair.  When he asked me if I wanted to go to his room, I said yes."

"You went to his hotel room," Frank tugged his cock gently. "What happened then?"

"Well, Father, when we got to his room, he took off his clothes and sat in a chair.  He told me to take off my clothes and kneel between his legs."

"Did you?"

"Oh, yes, Father.  I was warm and aching from just sitting beside him in the bar.  His cock was big and hard.  I just wanted to wrap my lips around it and suck on it until he came."

Frank pulled on his cock and whispered, "So you had oral sex with him."

"Oh, yes.  I licked him and sucked him.  He ran his fingers through my hair and told me how good it felt.  It was wonderful."

"Yes, wonderful," Frank whispered.


"I'm sure you were caught in the throes of passion, child," Frank eased his grip and tried to regain his composure. "Please, continue with your confession."

"Well," she hesitated, "after I sucked him for a while, he pulled me into his lap and pushed himself inside me.  It felt so good, Father, like nothing I'd ever felt before.  He sucked on my nipples and bit them.  He pressed up inside me like crazy, and I rode him like a wide horse.  I never felt so good or so free."

"I see," Frank squeezed his cock again. "And then what did you do?"

"Well, after, he laid me back on the floor and licked all the, you know, juices out of me.  I couldn't stop shaking from how good it made me feel.  Then, when he kissed me, it tasted so sweet, sweeter than custard."

"And now you want to taste that sweetness again?"

"Very much, Father," she sighed. "More than anything.  In fact, I'm all wet and aching just thinking about how much I want to do that again."

"These are grave sins, child," Frank whispered. "And it doesn't sound as though you¹re prepared to be contrite about them."

"I'm not, Father," she confessed. "I just want to sin like that again."

"Child," Frank whispered, "come around to this side so I can look into your eyes."

Frank sighed when he heard the click of her heels on the tile and bit his lip when she opened the priest's door.

She smiled down at him, her eyes glistening with sexual hunger.  Frank gasped as she fell to her knees and reached into his trousers to lift his cock.  Her warm, red lips encircled him with tender kisses.  She tickled him with her tongue and gave his balls a gentle squeeze.

He slipped his hands through her hair and whispered, "Oh, Theresa, that feels so good."

She undid the button of his trousers and coaxed him up off the bench so she could slide them off.  It was a tight squeeze fitting her long legs around him in the priest's box, but Theresa impaled herself on him and braced her back against the opposite wall.  Frank lifted his hips again and again, driving into her as deeply as he could go.  His fingertips found her clit as he wrapped his lips around one of her nipples.  She arched her back and craned her neck, pressed herself down upon him.  When she looked down at him, Frank could see her eyes rolling behind fluttering lids.  She contracted around him.  He bit down hard on her nipple as heat seared his balls and flowed through his cock.

Theresa was still trembling as he laid her out across the cold tiles and descended to devour the sticky warmth between her legs.  He lapped at her and coaxed from her another wave of pleasure as he lifted her clit on the tip of his tongue and pulled it tenderly through his lips.  With a final flourish, he licked her clean and rose above her to cover her mouth with his own.  She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, sucking the liquor from his tongue.

When Frank rolled onto his side and nuzzled her neck, Theresa giggled.

"What's so funny?"

"You were right," she sighed. "Fucking in church is a truly religious experience."

© 2002 by L.A.  Smith.  All rights reserved.  Not to be distributed, reproduced, or transmitted in any manner without the express written permission from the author.

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