In honor of my critique partner’s latest release, THE PRIEST, a short erotic from the Wicked line at Cobblestone Press, I’m asking…what’s ur kinky fantasy? Please feel free to post annonymously
(yes I used Erotica and Priest in the same sentence. HEEH! )
Welcome to The Pleasure Club
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.”
“Ahh.” He expelled an uneven breath, and she wondered if he was getting as turned on as she was. “What are you wearing now?”
A giggle bubbled up in her throat in spite of herself. This wasn’t part of her script. She answered anyway. “A white blouse and a black, pleated skirt.” An outfit she’d chosen with the express intention of impersonating a Catholic schoolgirl. Well, as well as a thirty‐seven‐year‐old accountant who’d just made principal in one of the city’s biggest firms could. “And white knee socks.”
“Excellent. Unbutton your blouse.”
The low, rumbling tone with which he delivered the order caused an answering vibration in her cunt, and the crotch of her panties grew damper. She moved her fingers to the small, mother‐of‐pearl buttons between her breasts and undid them as quickly as she could manage, baring the low‐cut pushup bra that matched the lacy thong underwear she wore. Her nipples, which peeked out above the cup, hardened further at being exposed to the cool air.
“Is it open?”
“Yes,” she whispered, her skin tingling with excitement.
“Good. Now, touch your tits.”
“Okay.” She did as he commanded.
“Rub your nipples between your fingers.” His voice was more ragged now, his uneven respiration matching her own.
She teased and tormented the hard, sensitive peaks, a soft hum of pleasure escaping her lips as her clit swelled and throbbed with rising need.
“You like that, don’t you?”
At first, she nodded in answer but then, realizing he couldn’t see the gesture, managed an affirmative “Uh‐huh.”
“Is your pussy hot and wet?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Then touch yourself there.”
He didn’t have to tell her twice. She reached down and pulled up the hem of her skirt, then slipped one hand beneath the flimsy fabric of her panties. Circling her clit with her fingers, she continued to pluck and pinch her nipples. Her head dropped back against the wall, and she moaned. This was so much hotter than she’d imagined it would be; the act of masturbating while an unseen man listened and directed her.
God, she hoped this whole thing was lighting him up as much as it was her. She rubbed harder, so close now. She couldn’t hold off much longer.
As if he could read her thoughts, her priest’s sultry voice asked, “Do you want to come?”
She bit her lip. “Mmm‐hmm.” She increased the pressure, moved her fingers more deliberately, more swiftly.
“You are a very wicked, nasty girl. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she gasped. Even though she was aware this was only a game and he wasn’t a priest, the badness of what she did aroused her so much speech nearly became impossible.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to give you the strongest possible form of penance. Do you think you can take it?”
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