'Yes,' I said, breathing hard - and I was better, but not satisfied.
Before he could stop me, I bent down to grasp the hem of his cassock and flung it all at once to his hips. As I'd expected, he was wore nothing under it. The black cloth settled about his hips in feminine abundance, but the treasure I'd revealed was supremely male. Knotted calves led to hard slim knees and bulging thighs, all of which shone pale but vibrant against the dark backdrop of his robe.
The sight of his black socks and shoes made me smile, but his sex - the stout mauve shaft capped with a crown of shining burgundy - that sight struck a blow to my solar plexus.
His cock vibrated with the pressure of his need, swollen to the limits of its skin. His foreskin clung to the grossly flared rim, catching up the rich, silky tears that flowed from the tiny cock-mouth. I could have wept myself at the taunting, potent image.
This was forbidden, I reminded myself, for the sheer thrill of the word: forbidden by his vows, by my youth, and by the power disparity between us. Forbidden like the first apple - and just as red and firm.
With the tip of my little finger, I traced the slippery moisture that ringed his cock, gently pushing the taut covering back until it snapped down of its own accord. The good Father bit his lower lip so hard a drop of blood appeared.
'Have you ever had a woman?' I whispered, circling him now beneath the rim.
'Never,' he whispered back. 'But I've dreamt of it -too many times to confess.'
'Did you dream of me?' Unable to wait any longer, I straddled his lap.
His eyes drifted halfway shut. Now bare thighs met bare, simmering buttocks. His hands settled uneasily on my hips, on top of my skirt. 'I dreamt of you,’ he admitted. His thumbs ventured round to stroke my belly where the skirt's smooth pleats were sewn together. ‘I spilt my seed on the sheets dreaming of you, and when I prayed - in my heart - I prayed to dream of you again.' I grasped his hands and eased them under the finely woven wool to my naked skin. He sighed, his fingers lighting and un-lighting like a wary bird. When they settled on my hips, I rolled the front of the skirt up over itself and tucked it into the waistband. He stared at what I'd uncovered and licked dry lips. Then I cocked my hips forward until my fleece tickled the underside of his shaft.
'I cannot put it in you,' he warned, his voice gravel and smoke. 'You're a good girl. I would not deprive your husband of his marital flower.'
I tossed my head and took hold of his root. 'My husband will take what he can get and say "thank you".'
He clucked his tongue. 'Such arrogance.'
Unrepentant, I tugged the crown closer until it slipped between my plump, wet lips.
'Ah-ah-ah,' he scolded, and pried my hand from him. 'I don't trust you, little Katie. You must take what I give you.'
He steadied his under ridge with four curled fingers and pressed the upper with his thumb. Firmly in hand, he maneuvred the head against my clit and gave it three firm taps, each of which sent a shock of feeling down the tiny stiffened shaft. As easily as that, I wanted to come again.
I whimpered when he eased away.
'You must promise to behave,' he said, 'and if you make me believe you, I'll slip just a bit inside you, so you can feel what it's like.'
I promised, of course, and pretended not to see him roll the condom on.
We both made small, hungry sounds when he pressed the head inside.
'How lovely,' I marvelled, all wide-eyed wonder. 'It's like satin, so warm and full. Does it feel as nice to you, Father? I wish I could make you feel as wonderful as I did when you kissed me between my legs.' I petted the shaft where it entered my body. His penis bucked. 'Look how it moves under my hand. I think it wants to shoot like it did before. See how red it's getting.'
When he looked at the place where our bodies met, sweat popped out on his brow.
He lifted my hand from him and ordered me not to touch him there. He said he wouldn't come and I mustn't try to make him. "Yes, Father, I said and kissed a drop of perspiration from his temple. He said I mustn't squirm like that: it made him want to push, and he couldn't push. It wasn't safe. Priest or not, he was still a man. He only had so much control. Yes, Father, I said, but when his buttocks clenched, driving him a fraction deeper, I couldn't help squirming a bit. He muttered a prayer and said maybe a little further would be all right and then a little more and then he groaned and said he knew it must hurt but couldn't I take all of him just for a moment? Only just a moment, because he'd never felt anything so heavenly and he promised on his mother's sainted memory that he wouldn't spill inside me.
I wriggled on to him, girl-tight, woman-wet. My lips kissed his thatch.