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Authors: Lisette Ashton
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sacrifice to make that acquisition?’
Before Justine could think of trying to escape they had each grabbed a wrist. She struggled to pull herself free but they seemed united in their goal of leading her toward the front of the church. Her bare feet had no hope of gaining any traction on the cold stone floor and, as they dragged her past the rows of empty pews, she realised she was at their mercy. Genuine terror began to chill the heat of her arousal and she stared from one unsympathetic face to the other.
The bishop reached for one of her breasts. He squeezed and tugged brutally at the flesh. His plump fingers burrowed into the skin and the calloused pads rasped against her like sandpaper. Moments earlier she had been yearning for the priest to satisfy the unaddressed ache in her nipples. Her breasts had been throbbing with their plaintive need for attention. But, now that the repulsive bishop was toying with her, she simply wanted both men to leave her alone. There was something degrading in the way the bishop touched her and, although her body remained oily with the sweat from her most recent orgasm, she could no longer think beyond the notions of revulsion and sacrilege.
‘She’s looking for La Coste ?’ the bishop asked incredulously. ‘She doesn’t stand a chance of getting her hands on it, does she?’
The priest’s shrug was indifferent. ‘She is on her way to acquiring it.’
The bishop looked surprised. One of the hands that held Justine’s wrist momentarily loosened. The fingers that kneaded at her breast were briefly held still. ‘You’re joking with me, aren’t you?’
The priest shook his head. ‘So far, she has deemed herself worthy. I have not yet seen a reason to refuse my blessing.’
The bishop looked aghast. ‘But she’s an English girl . Marais would never allow the manuscript to go to an English girl .’
‘Marais is selling La Coste . He is not giving it away to a worthy cause.’
‘But still…’ The revulsion in the bishop’s voice was obvious and he seemed at a loss for how to express his dismay. ‘…an English girl ,’ he floundered.
The journey to the front of the church was swift but mortifying. Justine felt as though she was suffering the sneers of contempt from the surrounding statues and stained-glass frescoes. When she was dragged onto the altar, then laid on her back to stare up at the beams on the church’s ceiling, she began to fret about what the pair might be planning. Her hands were tied to an invisible point above her head. Her legs were spread open and her ankles secured on either side of the altar. The priest disappeared from Justine’s limited line of vision but the bishop continued to hover over her. He constantly licked his lips as his abrasive fingers scurried over her breasts. His caresses scratched against her sides and bare stomach before his hands slipped down to explore her cleft.
She stiffened.
If there had been any way for Justine to show her distaste for the man she would have pulled away from the altar at the first opportunity. Because the bindings at her wrists and ankles were inordinately tight, she could only lay where she was bound and suffer his unwanted exploration. Dry clumsy fingers plundered her sex. Whereas the priest’s touch had been sensitive and exciting, the bishop’s was coarse and hateful. His hands became dewy with the remnants of her wetness, and she could feel the greasy residue of her passion being used as a lubricant as he prodded the sensitive rim of her anus.
She almost choked on her sudden need to exclaim and tell him not to touch such an intimate place. But – remembering the silence that was expected from her, and the acquiescence the priest had demanded – Justine told herself there were no parts of her body that the bishop wasn’t allowed to explore.
The liturgical chant of a Latin prayer interrupted her thoughts. She could hear the priest’s mellifluous tones enunciating each word so it rang from the
Before Justine could think of trying to escape they had each grabbed a wrist. She struggled to pull herself free but they seemed united in their goal of leading her toward the front of the church. Her bare feet had no hope of gaining any traction on the cold stone floor and, as they dragged her past the rows of empty pews, she realised she was at their mercy. Genuine terror began to chill the heat of her arousal and she stared from one unsympathetic face to the other.
The bishop reached for one of her breasts. He squeezed and tugged brutally at the flesh. His plump fingers burrowed into the skin and the calloused pads rasped against her like sandpaper. Moments earlier she had been yearning for the priest to satisfy the unaddressed ache in her nipples. Her breasts had been throbbing with their plaintive need for attention. But, now that the repulsive bishop was toying with her, she simply wanted both men to leave her alone. There was something degrading in the way the bishop touched her and, although her body remained oily with the sweat from her most recent orgasm, she could no longer think beyond the notions of revulsion and sacrilege.
‘She’s looking for La Coste ?’ the bishop asked incredulously. ‘She doesn’t stand a chance of getting her hands on it, does she?’
The priest’s shrug was indifferent. ‘She is on her way to acquiring it.’
The bishop looked surprised. One of the hands that held Justine’s wrist momentarily loosened. The fingers that kneaded at her breast were briefly held still. ‘You’re joking with me, aren’t you?’
The priest shook his head. ‘So far, she has deemed herself worthy. I have not yet seen a reason to refuse my blessing.’
The bishop looked aghast. ‘But she’s an English girl . Marais would never allow the manuscript to go to an English girl .’
‘Marais is selling La Coste . He is not giving it away to a worthy cause.’
‘But still…’ The revulsion in the bishop’s voice was obvious and he seemed at a loss for how to express his dismay. ‘…an English girl ,’ he floundered.
The journey to the front of the church was swift but mortifying. Justine felt as though she was suffering the sneers of contempt from the surrounding statues and stained-glass frescoes. When she was dragged onto the altar, then laid on her back to stare up at the beams on the church’s ceiling, she began to fret about what the pair might be planning. Her hands were tied to an invisible point above her head. Her legs were spread open and her ankles secured on either side of the altar. The priest disappeared from Justine’s limited line of vision but the bishop continued to hover over her. He constantly licked his lips as his abrasive fingers scurried over her breasts. His caresses scratched against her sides and bare stomach before his hands slipped down to explore her cleft.
She stiffened.
If there had been any way for Justine to show her distaste for the man she would have pulled away from the altar at the first opportunity. Because the bindings at her wrists and ankles were inordinately tight, she could only lay where she was bound and suffer his unwanted exploration. Dry clumsy fingers plundered her sex. Whereas the priest’s touch had been sensitive and exciting, the bishop’s was coarse and hateful. His hands became dewy with the remnants of her wetness, and she could feel the greasy residue of her passion being used as a lubricant as he prodded the sensitive rim of her anus.
She almost choked on her sudden need to exclaim and tell him not to touch such an intimate place. But – remembering the silence that was expected from her, and the acquiescence the priest had demanded – Justine told herself there were no parts of her body that the bishop wasn’t allowed to explore.
The liturgical chant of a Latin prayer interrupted her thoughts. She could hear the priest’s mellifluous tones enunciating each word so it rang from the
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