This popped into my head a disjointed mess and I left it that way.
He extolled the virtues of godly works at the pulpit, and called me every type of whore as he covered me in his robes and fucked my face in the rectory. Every Sunday, without fail.
The first time, he told about the blood of Jesus covering a multitude of sins. Or was my virgin blood staining my white panties what we covered instead?
“Love the sinner,” He’d lecture to anyone who’d listen. “Hate the sin.”
He loved this sinner. I’d learn how much while I was on my hands and knees, his cock spearing my ass. I’d fold my hands and moan my prayers as he fucked the sin right out of me.
Father forgive me. He’d utter those words in desperation each time he came. Followed by Hail Marys for penance for his sin of making me filthy.
He’d give the sacrament on Sunday. On Monday, he’d tell me about the body of Christ as he anointed my lips with spunk. That’s when he’d say the Lord’s name over and over.
Jesus wept, but I never did. I always flipped down my skirt or licked my lips, happy for the blessing. Happy to be covered in the blessed fluids that made me a holy woman.
