Sweat beads on my neck. The monastery’s summer heat smothers everything, even at midnight. I slip from our shared cell into the dim corridor. Stone walls echo my bare footsteps, but the wooden floorboards creak anyway. Too loud. Moonlight filters through the narrow window slits, pale on the graves outside. Père Grégoire’s ragged snores rasp from the cell next door. He’s tossing, mumbling curses about ghosts and black stones.
Inspector Lebeau waits in the shadows, his bandaged hand from the laundry room glass glinting. Broad shoulders strain his nightshirt. Eyes lock on mine. Hungry. No words. Just heavy breaths. He steps close. Musk hits me—sweat, horse from his ride, faint incense. His rough palm grazes my robe. Fingers dig in.
The Contact
“Curé,” he whispers, gravel voice. “That treasure room got me hard. You too? Bend over like a good priest slut.”
Heart slams. Monks sleep yards away. Père Luc’s cell across, Anselme’s snores faint. One cry from Grégoire wakes them all. Risk burns delicious. I nod. Glance at the ghost-view window to the cemetery. Decide. Push our cell door open. Crack. Slip in. He follows. Latch clicks. Shut.
Inside, air thick. Single candle flickers. Light seeps under the door from corridor lanterns. His mouth crashes mine. Beard scrapes. Tongue fucks my mouth, bitter with oranges from dinner. Robe rips open. Chest bare. Nipples pinched hard. I hiss. Cock tents his pants, thick bulge.
He shoves me to the narrow cot. Fabric groans. Spits in his palm. Yanks my habit up. Ass exposed. Cool air on hole. Fingers slick, probe rough. One. Two. Stretch burns. “Tight holy ass,” he growls low. “Gonna ruin it quiet. No ghosts hearin’ us.”
The Indiscretion
Light dances under door. Footstep? Freeze. Nothing. Balls tighten. His cockhead presses. Hot. Thick. Pushes in. Spit lubes barely. Inch rips. I bite fist. Muffled groan. Full. Stretched. He thrusts shallow. Bedframe creaks soft. Rhythmic. Slap of thighs muffled by sheets.
Faster. Sweat drips. His balls smack wet. Grunt in my ear. “Fuck, priest. Take it. Neighbors sleepin’, we sin.” Window rattles faint wind. Cemetery shadows watch. Grégoire mutters loud next door—”Maudits!”—we still. Throb inside me. Then pound harder. Desperate. Raw.
Prostate hit. Sparks. Cock leaks pre on belly. Hand strokes me rough. Twist head. Spit-kiss. Balls draw. He swells. “Gonna fill your monk ass.” Growl chokes. Hot flood. Pulse. I clamp. Shoot ropes silent, arc to chest. Gasp bitten off.
Collapse. Pant heavy. Cum leaks down thighs. Sticky. He pulls out with wet pop. Wipe on sheets. Hearts thunder. Listen. Grégoire snores again. No doors. No cries.
Dress quick. Robes hide mess, stains. Musk lingers. Slip to corridor alone first. Cool air shocks skin. Cross empty hall. Anselme’s door shut, no light. Back to cot separate. Feign sleep. Dawn breaks soon. Murders wait. Secret pulses. Thrill lingers. No one knows. Yet.