He nods at the bottle she’s filled at the font. “Done your duty; time to play.”
And she wouldn’t, ever, so it isn’t she who kneels in the pew, worn leather cushion cool against her skin, in a parody of prayer. It isn’t her head that falls into open palms as he bares her just enough for his fingers to slide in, followed by his cock, nudging her in shallow, secret stabs.
So there’s no need to pray for forgiveness.
Or to wash him from her skin with the holy water.
But she can’t sleep until she has.
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