perhaps six feet
away from him.
For some time he said nothing. She imagined his eyes running over
her body. Her pants revealed little of her strong, firm behind. But would he be
searching for the lines of her body? How do priests look at women? This priest?
For him it might be no more than a game. But how seriously did he take the
game?
She was about to find out.
“Touch yourself,” he said, that same soft, low monotone, not a scrap
of emotion in his voice.
For a few seconds she remained there, quite still. Around them the
silence seemed to intensify. She listened in vain for the sound of his breath.
Slowly, as if unsure of what to do, she brought a hand up to her
breasts, running the palm carefully over them, making them lift then fall. She
felt the tiniest tingle in her nipples, as if they’d been awoken from a dream-filled
sleep.
The sensation reminded her of hours spent alone as a teenager, alone
and naked, admiring her body as she explored herself, knowing she could touch
every inch of it, in any way she wanted, and no one would tell her to stop.
The excitement of those delicious, spine-tingling journeys of
self-discovery had never left her. Indeed, they’d gotten better, right up until
she left the convent. She still did it now, whenever she was alone, standing in
front of a mirror and playing with herself quite happily. Over the years she’d
developed new and more profound ways of extracting pleasure from her body, so
much so that if she happens to find herself alone for whole weeks at a time, it
hardly matters; she can touch herself in so many different ways that each day,
each hour, feels like a new lover is caressing her for the first time.
Tonight, though, there would be a new twist. Having someone to watch
her had always been a particular turn-on. But for the person watching to be a
man of the cloth, a celibate man (at least, that was in the job description), this
would be something special. She’d always loved showing herself to others, of
putting on display the whole repertoire of her well-practiced
self-gratification. But a priest? Now that was extra-special, the naughtiest
sort of exhibitionism.
She closed her eyes, relaxed, and began to trace the outline of her
breasts, using her fingers sparingly, the very gentlest touches, little more
than a feather-light tickle.
Behind her she could almost feel his eyes on her ass. She took it
slow, pacing herself, knowing just how long she could keep this kind of thing
going. But even now she could feel her nipples hardening. Her rear end started
to rotate in small, almost imperceptible movements, and she could feel her panties
riding a little way up between her buttocks.
There was something about the room, about the situation. It took her
back to her youth. Suddenly she was like a teenager again, amazed at the sheer
physical wonder of her own flesh, and how much she adored her own body and what
she could do to it.
Her hands began to grope her breasts. It was as if her tits had
never been touched before. One of her hands slipped inside her shirt and she
pulled the cup of her bra down, taking the nipple between two fingers, rolling
it between them, her mouth opening, miming silent words of delight.
Helpless to stop herself, she unbuttoned her shirt and lowered the
other cup. Her breasts hung down, pert and sagging only slightly, and
perfectly, agonizingly natural. Whenever she was in a locker room, women would
simply stare; given the right opportunity, she knew, half the women there would
have sucked her tits without the least qualm.
She took her right breast in both hands and examined the nipple,
licking her fingers then applying playful rotating movements from the edge to
the dark center, circling and tweaking, watching the dark skin contract and
thicken, its color intensifying. Her hips were riding backward and forward a
little now, and between her legs she felt herself responding, getting ready,
warming up nicely.
She lifted the breast until she
away from him.
For some time he said nothing. She imagined his eyes running over
her body. Her pants revealed little of her strong, firm behind. But would he be
searching for the lines of her body? How do priests look at women? This priest?
For him it might be no more than a game. But how seriously did he take the
game?
She was about to find out.
“Touch yourself,” he said, that same soft, low monotone, not a scrap
of emotion in his voice.
For a few seconds she remained there, quite still. Around them the
silence seemed to intensify. She listened in vain for the sound of his breath.
Slowly, as if unsure of what to do, she brought a hand up to her
breasts, running the palm carefully over them, making them lift then fall. She
felt the tiniest tingle in her nipples, as if they’d been awoken from a dream-filled
sleep.
The sensation reminded her of hours spent alone as a teenager, alone
and naked, admiring her body as she explored herself, knowing she could touch
every inch of it, in any way she wanted, and no one would tell her to stop.
The excitement of those delicious, spine-tingling journeys of
self-discovery had never left her. Indeed, they’d gotten better, right up until
she left the convent. She still did it now, whenever she was alone, standing in
front of a mirror and playing with herself quite happily. Over the years she’d
developed new and more profound ways of extracting pleasure from her body, so
much so that if she happens to find herself alone for whole weeks at a time, it
hardly matters; she can touch herself in so many different ways that each day,
each hour, feels like a new lover is caressing her for the first time.
Tonight, though, there would be a new twist. Having someone to watch
her had always been a particular turn-on. But for the person watching to be a
man of the cloth, a celibate man (at least, that was in the job description), this
would be something special. She’d always loved showing herself to others, of
putting on display the whole repertoire of her well-practiced
self-gratification. But a priest? Now that was extra-special, the naughtiest
sort of exhibitionism.
She closed her eyes, relaxed, and began to trace the outline of her
breasts, using her fingers sparingly, the very gentlest touches, little more
than a feather-light tickle.
Behind her she could almost feel his eyes on her ass. She took it
slow, pacing herself, knowing just how long she could keep this kind of thing
going. But even now she could feel her nipples hardening. Her rear end started
to rotate in small, almost imperceptible movements, and she could feel her panties
riding a little way up between her buttocks.
There was something about the room, about the situation. It took her
back to her youth. Suddenly she was like a teenager again, amazed at the sheer
physical wonder of her own flesh, and how much she adored her own body and what
she could do to it.
Her hands began to grope her breasts. It was as if her tits had
never been touched before. One of her hands slipped inside her shirt and she
pulled the cup of her bra down, taking the nipple between two fingers, rolling
it between them, her mouth opening, miming silent words of delight.
Helpless to stop herself, she unbuttoned her shirt and lowered the
other cup. Her breasts hung down, pert and sagging only slightly, and
perfectly, agonizingly natural. Whenever she was in a locker room, women would
simply stare; given the right opportunity, she knew, half the women there would
have sucked her tits without the least qualm.
She took her right breast in both hands and examined the nipple,
licking her fingers then applying playful rotating movements from the edge to
the dark center, circling and tweaking, watching the dark skin contract and
thicken, its color intensifying. Her hips were riding backward and forward a
little now, and between her legs she felt herself responding, getting ready,
warming up nicely.
She lifted the breast until she
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