The Priest

The Pleasure Club 1

Cobblestone Press LLC

Heat Rating: No rating
Word Count: 6,000
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Welcome to The Pleasure Club, where fantasy becomes reality.

Marisol Rodriguez may have lost her faith, but she hasn't lost her fascination with men in clerical garb. The Pleasure Club knows her every forbidden desire, and tonight, her Pleasure Master, "Father Mackenzie," will make her dreams come true.

All she has to do to get everything she wants is to confess--and confession turns out to be far more fulfilling than even she ever imagined.

The Priest
0 Ratings (0.0)

The Priest

The Pleasure Club 1

Cobblestone Press LLC

Heat Rating: No rating
Word Count: 6,000
0 Ratings (0.0)
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Excerpt

Dear Ms. Rodriguez,

We’re pleased to welcome you to The Pleasure Club.

As you have already signed and returned the contract and filled out all the necessary forms to ensure you receive your every wish, we will be in touch with you shortly with the details of your first Pleasure Night. Your Wish List and Pleasure Forms have been turned over to our staff of highly trained Pleasure Guardians, and they are hard at work finding your perfect match.

We will endeavor to meet your personal fantasy.

When you are contacted again, you will be given a location where your Pleasure Night will begin, and you will also be given a safe word to use should you at any time become uncomfortable. There is no shame in changing your mind. We’re here for your pleasure, and should your safe word be used, your match for the evening will cease all activity, and the game will be put on hold until a mutual agreement between you and your Pleasure Master can be reached.

Once again, welcome to The Pleasure Club.

Please feel free to contact the office at any time should you have any questions.

Yours truly,

The Pleasure Club Management

* * * * *

Ms. Rodriguez,

Your Pleasure Night will begin Thursday the 12th at 8:00 PM at the Chapel of the Vines on the grounds of Montebello Castle Winery, located at 1800 Mangrove Lane.

Your safe word is Catechism.

Sincerely,

The Pleasure Guardians

* * * *

They certainly thought of everything.

Marisol Rodriguez stood in the doorway of the Chapel of the Vines and smiled to herself. She’d been here once before, years ago, for a friend’s non-denominational wedding. The owners of the vineyard—whoever they were—rented both the chapel and the large gazebo nearby for private affairs.

More than one kind of affair, apparently.

Although the chapel itself looked much as it had the last time she was here—eight rows of wooden pews with an aisle down the center, stained glass windows depicting flowers and grapes and other secular objects—a large, black confessional booth now dominated the corner of the octagonal space next to the dais. Marisol’s body pinged with excitement, for she knew her Pleasure Master for her Pleasure Night awaited her inside that booth.

It was a naughty fantasy, one that had tormented her as a teenager when she’d lain in bed at night, masturbating to one orgasm after another as she imagined fucking the handsome, young priest who’d recently arrived at her family’s parish. She knew it was wrong—sacrilegious—to have such thoughts, but that only made the fantasy more appealing. There was just something about the forbiddenness of the whole idea that set her body on fire.

She’d never before revealed her secret desire to be screwed senseless by a man of the cloth to anyone, and she still couldn’t quite believe she’d really done so when she’d filled out the paperwork and joined The Pleasure Club.

There was no denying, however, that she was here, and there was the confessional booth. And her fantasy always began in the booth.

Part of her was tempted to turn tail and run for the safety of her Camry. She had to be crazy to do this, to take this kind of risk. For all she knew, the guy waiting for her in there could be some kind of nut job.

Heck, when she thought about it, it was a virtual certainty. Only a complete head case would be willing to impersonate a priest to fulfill a total stranger’s sexual fantasy.

This was crazy.

And everything she wanted.

Wasn’t this why she’d ended up at The Pleasure Club in the first place? Her sixty and seventy-hour work weeks climbing the ladder in the buttoned-up and buttoned-down world of corporate accounting left her precious little time for a social life, and virtually no opportunity to meet men with any sense of adventure. She’d had enough of plain vanilla men and plain vanilla sex to last a lifetime. What she wanted was hot and dirty, no holds—or holes—barred sucking and fucking from a man who knew how to do more than climb on top and pump her like a mindless piston until he got his rocks off. And so far, she’d had pitiful success finding that in the world at large.

She pulled the door closed behind her. The satisfying snick of the latch connecting with the housing echoed in the tiny, empty cavern of a room, announcing her arrival to whoever awaited her inside that black box. As though propelled by a will of their own, her legs carried her to the booth. With trembling fingers, she turned the handle, opened the door, and stepped inside.

Through the screen that separated her side of the booth from the priest’s side, she could make out the shadow of a man. Her pulse quickened, and heat rushed between her legs.

She kneeled on the vinyl knee-bench inside the confessional. The cold, smooth surface against her bare knees sent a shiver of excitement straight to her pussy, and she squeezed her legs together to heighten the intensity of the sensation. She wanted this moment, the anticipation, to last forever, while at the same time, she was desperate to get to the main event.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Her throat was so dry and thick, the words came out on a croak, and she stopped to clear her throat. “It has been twelve years since my last confession.”

“Blessed are those who confess their sins, my child.”

Oh, that voice! Rich and deep, it sounded like hot sex drenched in melted chocolate with a hint of Irish cream. Her pussy pulsed, and her nipples tightened. It didn’t matter what he looked like or whether he knew what to do with his equipment; he could probably make her come just by talking to her.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” she began, the words coming by rote despite more than a decade of disaffection from her childhood faith. “Father, I have committed the sin of lust.”

“It is good that you have come, my child, for lust is, as you know, a mortal sin. But you must tell me, for whom or what do you lust?”

Marisol’s face flooded with heat. Even though it was part of her fantasy, she found it hard to say the words. “I lust for you. I want to kneel in front of you and suck your cock. And then I want you to bend me over one of the pews and fuck me until I scream.”

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