You love it when he touches you. Need it, crave it. It’s better than anything. You don’t hate yourself when your legs are spread and he’s inside of you. There’s no room in your body for doubt or shame. He fills every cell with his greedy, wanton lust. His calloused hands and dirty nails paw at your skin, sully the milky white of your thighs. You need this. His gamy breath against your face, the linen of his robes scratching your hips as he thrusts into you. His meaty palm covers your mouth but it doesn’t need to. You won’t scream. You like this too much.
The catch on his rosary breaks and the cool, dark beads splay across your heated stomach. They stick to your sweaty flesh as he thrusts harder, deeper. The metal of his jeweled crucifix bites at your hipbone, leaving pale red imprints of its lines and angles. You treasure these marks, brief as they may be. They remind you this is a holy act. You shouldn’t revel so in your own inconsequential pleasure. Your mind should be on God, undoubtedly as his mind is. He understands the gravity of this act, the importance. With every smear of sweat on your skin and spurt of cum within your belly you’re closer to God.
And when he comes he bites into your shoulder to keep from crying out. He doesn’t have to— the church is dark and quiet, no one would hear. And while you dress, all white lace and polished shoes, he reminds you not to tell, that this is a secret. He doesn’t have to, the only person you’d ever tell is God, and he already knows— he watched.