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Granny's life hangs on a thread.

"Sinful thoughts? Sinful deeds?"

She smiled, there was no such thing as sin, said, "I have thoughts of hurting men, Father, of using them."

"Not loving them? And do you put these thoughts into effect?"

"Oh yes!" she said, her hand tightening on his knee. "And more. Thoughts of women, too. But with women it is desire. I desire sexual contact with them, wish to lie in their arms."

"And do you act on these desires too?" the priest asked, his voice breaking a little.

"Oh yes, with Bittersweet," Agatha answered.

"Bitter-?"

"My lover. We lay together and caress each other, kiss each other, finger ourselves and each other and make each other come."

The priest cleared his throat and crossed his legs, momentarily dislodging Agatha's hand. Beneath the long black cassock he wore she was sure he would have an erection.

She brought her face even closer to his, her eyes wide so that he could lose himself in them, asked, "So if it is love then can it be wrong?"

"It ... it is a sin my child."

"A sin?" she repeated, as if she did not know the word, and her hand slipped from his knee into his lap. "But surely not, Father? It feels so good."

"Pleasure can be a sin, my child," he said, as her hand began to move gently back and forth across his groin, the back of her hand pressing against one thigh, then her palm against the other, her knuckles rocking back and forth over his genitals.

"And pain too?" she asked, suddenly clenching her fingers around his balls.

He let out a cry and she released him immediately, jumped to her feet.

"But if I have sinned then I must be punished!" she exclaimed, standing before him, her back to him. Slowly she raised her skirts to her waist, bared her arse to him, backed towards him so that the naked buttocks were only inches from his face.

"Do you wish to punish me, Father?" she asked him, over her shoulder, and moments later she felt fingers tentatively touching her pale white flesh.

Then there was a pitiful sob and they fell away.

Agatha turned, sneered down at him, spat in his face. "You poor sad slut!"

Bending over him, she began to unfasten his cassock, from the neck down to the hem. He offered no resistance, made no protest, when her hair fell over his face in a fragrant musty veil he made no attempt to brush it away. Parting his cassock, Agatha bared his body. His flesh was white, it had never seen the sun and was as pale as hers, but his cock was thick and throbbing, twitching in the cold air of the chapel.

Holding her skirts high, Agatha fell down on top of him, sitting so hard on his cock that it caused him to gasp as it hit the roof of her cunt. She stirred her body around on top of him, her hips moving in liquid circles, and soon he responded, rising to meet her. She rolled to one side, lying on the hard pew and drawing him on top of her. She pinched his nipples to make him cry, raked her nails across his chest to make him sob, held him tight to her with her arms and legs, crushing him as if in a vice.

The priest thrust into her but he was inexperienced, he was clumsy and crude and he had no control, within seconds he was coming inside her with a fervour which he had previously reserved for his god, filling her with his thick creamy spunk. And all too soon he was soft inside her.

Agatha kicked him away from her, heard him fall heavily to the stone floor. She sat on the edge of the pew, her legs wide apart and dripping his spunk back onto his face, into his open mouth, spooned her fingers inside her to continue her own excitement and then wiped them across his cheeks, anointed his brow with them. He was sobbing, crying that he had sinned, and she stood, kicked him in the side as she climbed over him.

"Stupid little man! There is no sin!" she told him, walking quickly across to the altar.

There was a large wooden cross there, the height of a man, and putting her whole weight behind it she toppled it over in a crashing cloud of dust, rested it at an angle against the altar.

"What are you doing? That is desecration!" the priest cried.

Agatha

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