Audacity: Chapter 15

Is there anything more gratifying than arousing a decent man so thoroughly that he turns feral before your eyes?

I think not.

I suspect, from the shocked and even dismayed expression on his face, that he has quite literally never had this thought before I planted it, that he never sullied the responsibility of his former vocation with impure thoughts about his flock.

But I know, from the heat in his eyes and the set of his jaw and the bulge in his trousers that he has well and truly taken my little fantasy and run with it.

Whether he likes it or not, he’s back in his vestments just now, standing at an altar rail with a golden dish of sanctified wafers, while before him a russet-haired enchantress extorts him with her mouth to besmirch his vows and take his pleasure.

Do it.

Amen to that, Father Gabriel.

I’ve been looking forward to this since my audition, and I’ll bet he has, too. After all, he told me to save this treat for my first morning, didn’t he? And I’m nothing if not obedient.

I unbuckle and unbutton him before drawing his zipper down, slowly, slowly. The fabric of his trousers strains as his thumbs drag over my jaw, his fingers flexing on my neck and in my hair. I won’t be happy until they’re digging into my skin and holding my head in a vice so he can fuck my mouth.

His breathing is ragged as I shove his trousers around his ankles and edge the waistband of his grey boxer briefs down. Oh, sweet Jesus, there he is, and my mouth is watering already. He’s fucking huge, just like I remember: hard and male and angry, his lovely straight cock so engorged it’s shiny.

I lick my lips.

Before I put my mouth on him, I want to make sure he is absolutely in this little fantasy with me. I hold my hand out, palm up, supporting his cock, and he shivers at the contact. I can smell him, clean and musky. He smells of soap and skin and box-fresh, unsated arousal.

‘Imagine it,’ I whisper. ‘Just like I told you. I’ll be waiting for my Holy Communion. That’s your signal to do whatever you like to me, Father.’

With that, I let my eyes drift closed and I open my mouth and slide my tongue out, and I wait, an invitation made flesh, mere centimetres from his lovely dick. I can feel the pleasing silkiness of my tongue’s underside against the soft pad of my lower lip. I hope what he sees is equally alluring, because I can lead the horse to water, but I can’t make him shove his cock in my mouth.

I may be the temptress masquerading as a fuckable penitent, but this doesn’t work unless he makes the proactive decision to violate me in the coarsest way.

His breathing is already ragged as he contemplates this buffet of temptation, and I wonder if he’s more concerned about indulging in a deeply transgressive fantasy or fucking his actual new assistant’s mouth in her first ten minutes on the job.

I hope it’s both.

He’ll realise, in about five minutes flat, that when it comes to me, nothing lies on the other side of acting on his basest instincts but sheer ecstasy.

Then he withdraws one hand, brushing the crown of his dick over the very tip of my extended tongue with the most featherlight touch, almost as if he’s allowing himself to answer his most burning question: what would it feel like? There’s no precum quite yet, but that gossamer swipe feels like a threat, and I want him to jam the whole fucking thing so deep inside me that I can barely breathe.

He groans audibly—a good man, a still-holy man, driven to darkness by the promise of a warm, wet mouth. Still, it feels to me that he needs a little shove over the edge and into the abyss.

‘Give me what I deserve, Father,’ I whisper hoarsely. ‘Please. I’m only asking you for what I deserve.’

‘Jesus fuck,’ he rasps. Now, I’m no Catholic, but that particular juxtaposition feels like another level entirely of profaning the Lord’s name. He fists my hair hard with the hand still on my neck and then, then, he shoves that glorious organ so hard, so fully, inside me that I let out a strangled, involuntary moan of pleasure.

‘You want what you deserve, hmm? This is what you deserve, you little fucking vixen, for committing sacrilege and making me remember what a pathetic flesh-and-blood man I am when I should be doing God’s work.’

He puts his other hand back on my neck, his strong fingers more a vice than a cradle around my jaw, and for a long moment we simply stare at each other, I gagged and subservient, he splendidly aflame. I exhale slowly through my nose as I find his ball sac with one hand and press the palm of my other hand against the rigid, hair-strewn muscle of his quad.

Then he moves, and his groan as he slides his length slowly out of my mouth and surrenders to his desire is the best kind of defeated. His eyes drop to where my lips are closed around his crown, and I have the distinct pleasure of seeing raw, animalistic need etched on his gorgeous features. I give his tip a decadent swirl with my tongue, and he shudders. When he ruts back inside me, it seems something shifts for him. He may still hate himself for wanting this—and resent me for provoking him so effectively—but it appears he decides to chase his prize.

‘Slap me on the thigh if it’s too much,’ he grits out, and then he’s fucking my face in fine style, hips pistoning and his dick, impossibly, ominously hard, driving in and out.

This is my Eden: on my knees at a powerful man’s feet, my elite education and dazzling business brain forgotten, in his mind, in favour of my unctuous mouth and sinful tongue. I abandon his sac—the rhythm is too punishing—and get a good grip of his arse with both hands, revelling in the way his glutes contract with each merciless thrust.

‘I have never, ever fantasised about violating a parishioner like this,’ he tells me, and he sounds really fucking pissed off, ‘until you showed up. And God knows, I’ll never, ever be able to un-see this.’

I moan my approval around his cock.

He works me, and I take it valiantly, breathing hard through my nose as my mascara runs and my saliva escapes, sluicing him with moisture. It’s slippery and messy and fucked-up, and I adore it. My clit throbs more every time he twists my hair and plunders my face. I give myself over to the sensation, closing my eyes and focusing on surviving the onslaught as he hardens even more, thrusts even more aggressively.

And then: ‘Coming, God,’ he groans, his manners intervening as he loosens his grip on my head and tries to pull out, but I dig my fingers more firmly into his arse and hold on tight, and then he’s erupting down my throat in warm gushes, his body wracked with convulsions and his breathing frantic. I wait until he’s emptied himself before pulling off him just enough that I can swallow, and then I proceed to lick him clean.

He stands there, sighing out his pleasure, his fingers teasing my hair as he watches me minister to him. When I look up at him, there’s nothing but a quiet, replete kind of reverence on his face. He stills as our gazes lock, and I have the oddest realisation that in any analogy where this guy is Jesus, I am most definitely Mary Magdalene, the blow job I just gave him the most pornographic take possible on washing his feet.

There are acts of service, and then there’s the epic servicing I just provided.

Nevertheless, I feel nothing but satisfaction as he helps me to my feet. His gaze drops to my painfully hard nipples, which are forging a path through lace and silk.

‘Did that really turn you on?’ he murmurs, searching my face.

‘God, yes.’ I dab as delicately as I can at the saliva pooled at the corner of my mouth.

‘Show me. On the sofa. Turn around.’

I take this to mean that I should kneel up on the sofa, facing the wall, so I do. I gather my skirts all the way up to my waist and spread my knees wide, turning my head so I can watch him take in my mostly bare bottom in its ivory lace thong and suspender belt.

He crouches to hoist up his boxer briefs and trousers, fastening the latter blindly, his eyes firmly on the view in front of him.

‘Bend over for me,’ he says, and I do. I lean forward and rest my forearms on the back with the generous silk of my dress gathered in the crook of one elbow.

His touch, when it comes, is a fingertip drawn straight down the centre of my thong. I shiver at the sensation, which is delicious and yet nowhere near enough.

‘Absolutely soaked,’ he observes neutrally as he bends to kneel behind me on the floor, putting himself level with my pussy. ‘That really did turn you on, you dirty girl.’

He hooks his thumbs through the sides of the thong and peels it down, leaving me bare and glistening and right there in front of him. His breath is a teasing warmth on my sensitised flesh.

‘I have been looking forward to this for the past month, you know that?’ He slides a leisurely finger inside me, and my greedy, greedy flesh contracts around it. ‘How many guys have you fucked since I last saw you, Athena, hmm?’

‘Only one guy right before Christmas, and my old boss,’ I manage. ‘During my notice period.’ I’m perfectly still on the sofa, braced for whatever touch he’ll give me.

‘Really? No one else? You expect me to believe that? You must have men coming out of your ears.’

‘I’m extremely selective.’ It’s true. I’m highly selective about who I fuck in my personal life, and when I’m in a professional relationship that’s sexually rewarding, I don’t tend to sleep around much. I don’t need the extra orgasms, and I’d rather keep myself under-serviced and hungry for whatever my employer sees fit to give me. It makes the dynamic more charged.

Ironically, I’m not selective in a professional setting. If Gabriel rounded up his entire team and got me to work my way through the lot of them, I’d luxuriate in the whole sordid process. It’s the kink factor rather than the guy, or guys, that does it for me in that context.

‘So you’ve had a few orgasms, then.’

‘Only self-administered ones, really.’

‘Your old boss didn’t make you come?’

I hesitate, torn between breaching Steve’s trust and gaining Gabriel’s. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’ He adds another finger, and the stretch is glorious.

‘Too vanilla.’

There’s a ghost of a laugh. ‘Too vanilla. Got it. I must remember that. Is this “too vanilla” for you?’

‘No, it’s—it feels really good.’

‘But you need more.’

‘Mmm-hmm.’

‘Luckily for you, I’ve thought about this cunt far too much over the past four or five weeks,’ he admits, and with that he twists his fingers inside me and his lips meet my clit.

It’s more of an obscene open-mouthed kiss than a lick, and it has me practically jumping off the sofa. My whimper must tell him exactly what I think of it, for he hums his approval against my flesh and proceeds to lick me harder, his tongue doing lavish laps as he finger-fucks me slowly, deeply.

I kneel there, head bowed, the crown of my head resting against the wall of his office and the stretched elastic of my thong digging into the sides of my knees as Gabriel pays homage to my clit. His entire face is buried there, it feels like, his nose pressing just south of my entrance and his lips and tongue working every surface millimetre of the miraculous nervous system that’s giving me such intense pleasure. I was close before he laid a finger on me, whipped into a heightened state of arousal by the savage way in which he used my mouth, but now that he has his mouth on me, I’m lost to everything that is not chasing the beautiful, shimmering rainbow of this orgasm to its very end.

‘I’m going to come,’ I gasp with difficulty. ‘I’m going to—oh God, I need it as hard as you can.’

With a savage growl, he amps up the intensity of his finger-fucking and the tautness of his tongue, laving my clit with deadly precision and the perfect pressure: just the right side of too much. Those licks send me hurtling over the edge, and I shove my knuckles into my mouth as a blistering heat courses through every last vein and my entire body ignites into wondrous nothingness.

He licks me through it, sliding his fingers out as I come down and pressing a kiss to my clit before pulling away from me. In one swift move, he’s collapsing on the sofa beside me and wrapping an arm around my waist so he can right me and tug me sideways onto his lap.

My most toxic trait as a sex worker is my love of aftercare. I absolutely don’t require it—it’s crucial for my mental health that I can look after myself after any kind of transactional sex, no matter how immersive or explosive—but I truly enjoy it.

I’m unsure if it’s my love of being adored, or the need for some human connection to bely the commercial nature of what’s just gone down, but I am a veritable kitten after a good orgasm or two. I love being petted, and cuddled, and praised. Some guys aren’t interested, obviously, but some enjoy it. I suspect they even find it gratifying to see me soft-limbed and pliant and sleepy. Given the way Gabriel looked after me last time, fetching me that robe, I suspect he’s in the camp that recognises its importance, even if he doesn’t explicitly get off on it.

Nevertheless, I’m experienced enough at reading cues to understand that, given the way he’s looking at me and the way he’s sprawled, sated, on the sofa, he wants a moment before we move onto logins and phone-answering protocols.

And the way he’s looking at me is hungry and not a little awe-struck. He tugs off my thong, which is still tangled uncomfortably around my knees, and smooths the silk of my dress over my legs, restoring my modesty. Our faces are so close, and I take the opportunity to gaze down at him, at the fans of dark lashes around his eyes and the sex-swollen lips.

‘Fuck, I think I need to go to confession after that,’ he mutters, and I laugh, because he sounds positively sheepish.

‘How so?’

‘I’ve never done that to a woman before.’

‘Done what? Let her perform fellatio?’ I find Latin always makes everything sound classier than it actually is. Fellatio originates from the past particle of fello: I suck. Pretty accurate really.

‘I’ve never… fucked her mouth like that. It was pretty aggressive. Are you okay?’

I lick my lips. ‘Do I look like I’m not okay?’

‘No, but…’

‘Gabriel. You abused my mouth, and I fucking loved it, as you know, because you got to find out for yourself just how hopelessly turned on I was, didn’t you?’

He hesitates. He has one arm banded around me, and he reaches the other up to play with a tendril of my hair. ‘I suppose so. But why a beautiful woman with the world at her feet wants me to abuse her at all, I’m not entirely sure. I’m in uncharted territory here.’

‘Because it’s kinky. Because it’s subversive. Because I’m a relentless Type A in every other part of my life, as you’ll soon see, and it’s exhausting, and my way of balancing that is to have men dominate me and turn me into a little plaything, and it feels fucking wonderful. Does that reassure you?’

His face is so serious, so intense. This man listens with his whole body.

‘I’ll have to take your word for it.’ His hand is deeper in my hair now. I adore having my hair played with. ‘But I need to be absolutely sure that you’ll advocate for your needs when you deem it necessary.’

‘Gabriel, don’t for a moment mistake my submission for a lack of confidence. I have more boundaries than Oprah. I promise you, if I’m unhappy in a situation, you’ll know about it. But right now, I am very happy. This morning has gone down exactly as I intended so far.’

‘Is that a fact? I’m as shocked as fuck.’

That gets him a laugh. ‘Think of it as an icebreaker.’

‘And then some.’

‘Now that we’ve fooled around in your office, it’s game on. Just remember, you can do what you like to me, whenever you like. I want this. I want to be your little whore. That’s what I signed up for, remember?’

He frowns. I suspect words like whore make him uncomfortable when he’s not in the throes of orgasm. No matter. We’ll get him comfortable. Meanwhile, he’s looking at my mouth like a starving man.

‘If it’s game on, may I kiss you?’

It’s sweet that he asks, after everything we’ve just done. ‘You may.’

His lips and tongue are supple, the touch of his hands proprietary, and he tastes like me. Now that’s a turn on. How many women does this guy have to fend off every time he walks into a club or a bar, or even out of this room?

I bet he’s inundated, and he’s wearing my pussy all over this sexy face of his.

If that isn’t a win for a Monday morning, I don’t know what is.