Nun takes teen cock

I told myself I was helping him. That's what I said every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon when I let myself into the Johnsons' house and found Marcus slumped over his textbooks, pretending to study.

His parents were desperate. His grades had tanked—failing math, barely passing English—but the real problem was his "naughty habits," as his mother put it. She'd caught him with porn on his phone twice. The school had called about him groping a girl in the hallway. They thought I could straighten him out. A woman of God. A nun.

They didn't know I'd spent fourteen years in that habit, my body untouched, my prayers growing hollow. They didn't know how my cunt ached when I knelt on the cold chapel floor.

Marcus was tall, broad-shouldered, with a stupid grin and hands that never stopped moving. He'd drum his fingers, crack his knuckles, tap his pencil against the table. I'd watch those hands and imagine them wrapped around something else.

That afternoon, he was supposed to be solving quadratic equations. Instead, he was staring at me.

"You're not wearing your cross today, Sister."

I touched my collarbone, flushed. "I forgot it."

"That's a sin, isn't it?"

"It's a mistake, Marcus." My voice came out breathy.

He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt lifted, showing a strip of belly. Dark hair trailed from his navel downward. I felt the familiar heat pool between my legs, spreading through my thighs.

I clamped them together.

I'd been doing that for weeks. Every time he looked at me a certain way, every time he leaned close to show me his work and I caught the smell of soap and sweat, my thighs would press together, a useless attempt to stop the throb.

Today, he noticed.

His eyes dropped to my lap. "You do that a lot, Sister. Squeeze your legs together like you're trying to hold something in."

My face went hot. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He was on his feet before I could react. He knelt in front of me, his hands sliding up my calves, over my knees. The fabric of my black skirt bunched under his fingers.

"Let me help you with that," he said.

I should have stopped him. I should have crossed myself, recited a prayer, fled from that room. Instead, I watched his hands push my thighs apart.

He lifted my skirt and stared at the wet patch on my underwear.

"You're soaked, Sister."

His fingers hooked into the elastic and pulled. My cunt was bare, glistening, exposed to the afternoon light. He didn't hesitate. He pressed his mouth to me, his tongue flat against my clit, and I gasped loud enough to wake the neighbors.

"Shh," he murmured against my flesh, then sucked my clit between his lips.

I grabbed his hair. My nails dug into his scalp. I didn't care about celibacy or the cross I'd left on my nightstand. I just needed him to keep going.

He slid two fingers inside me. They were thick, knuckle-deep, curling against that spongy spot that made my vision blur. His tongue circled my clit in lazy figure-eights, his fingers pumping in rhythm.

I tried to stay quiet. I bit my lip until I tasted blood. But when he sucked harder, when his fingers crooked and pressed, I came undone. My back arched, my thighs clamped around his head, and I moaned his name like a prayer. "Marcus—fuck—Marcus—"

Cum soaked his hand, his chin, my thighs. I slumped in the chair, panting.

He pulled away, licking his fingers clean. "Better?"

I wanted to slap him. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to fall to my knees and thank whatever twisted God made me feel this way.

Instead, I stood up, smoothed my skirt, and walked to the door.

"Same time Thursday?" he called after me.

I didn't answer.

But I promised myself, as I stumbled home through the twilight, that I would never do that again. I would wear my cross. I would pray for forgiveness. I would keep my thighs pressed tight and my mind on heaven.

I promised.

And I meant it.

Until Thursday.

I spent the days between praying harder than I had in years. Rosary beads wrapped around my knuckles until they left marks. I knelt on the hard chapel floor until my knees went numb. I asked for purge of this sin from me, to make me clean again, to let me look at Marcus without feeling my cunt throb.

It didn't work.

Thursday came, and I walked to the Johnsons' house with my thighs pressed together, already wet.

Marcus opened the door before I could knock. He was shirtless, wearing only sweatpants that hung low on his hips. A bead of water dripped from his hair down his chest. He'd just showered. For me.

"Sister Bakhita." He said my name like it was a dirty word. "Right on time."

I stepped inside. The house was empty. His parents worked late on Thursdays.

We sat at the kitchen table. I opened his textbook, pointed at a problem, tried to focus on numbers and variables instead of the way his muscles moved when he shifted in his chair.

"Sister." His voice was low. "I want to fuck you."

The words hit me like a slap. I dropped my pencil. "Marcus, no. We can't. I can't—"

"Can't what?" He stood up, walked around the table. "Can't admit you've been thinking about it too?"

He didn't wait for my answer. He hooked his thumbs into his sweatpants and pushed them down.

His dick sprang free. Thick, hard, veined. The head was dark red, wet with precum. I stared at it like it was holy scripture written in flesh.

"I shouldn't," I whispered.

But my hand was already reaching.

I told myself maybe I could just touch. A small sin. A controllable one. My fingers wrapped around his shaft, and it was hot, pulsing, so much bigger than I'd imagined. His breath hitched.

"Just this," I said. "Just touching."

Then my mouth was on him.

I licked the head, tasted salt and skin. He groaned, his hand fisting in my hair. I took him deeper, my lips stretching around the girth, my tongue pressing against the vein that ran along the underside.

"Sister Bakhita," he moaned. "Your mouth feels so fucking good."

I wanted to please him. I wanted to devour him. I bobbed my head faster, drool running down my chin, my eyes watering as he hit the back of my throat.

And then my teeth scraped him.

He hissed, yanked my head back by the hair. "Fuck, that hurt."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

He pulled me up, spun me around, bent me over the kitchen table. My cheek pressed against the cold wood. He flipped up my skirt, tore my underwear down to my ankles.

"You need to be punished," he said.

His dick slammed into me.

I screamed. Not from pain—though there was a sting, a stretch—but from the sudden fullness. He was so deep, so thick, splitting me open with every thrust.

"You like that?" He grabbed my hips, pounded into me. The table scraped against the floor with each impact. "You like getting fucked like a whore?"

"Yes," I sobbed.

"Yeah? Say it."

"I'm your whore." The words poured out of me, filthy and desperate. "I'm your cumslut. Fuck my cunt."

"That's right." He spanked me, hard. The sting radiated through my ass. "What else?"

"I love your dick. I love it inside me. I need your fucking cock."

"That's it, Sister. Take it."

His rhythm changed, faster, harder. I pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts. My first orgasm built like a wave, crashing through me without warning. I clenched around him, moaning his name.

"Oh fuck, Marcus—"

"Cum for me."

I did. Hard. My vision went white.

But he didn't stop. He kept fucking me through it, overstimulating my raw, sensitive cunt. And somehow, impossibly, I felt another orgasm building.

"Yes, yes, yes—"

"Tell me what you want."

"Fuck me, Marcus. Fuck my pussy. I like your dick so much. Fuck me hard."

His balls slapped against my clit with every thrust. I was drooling on the table, babbling, completely lost.

"I'm your little cunt," I gasped. "I'm your cumdump. Fuck—fuck me—"

"Where do you want it, Sister?"

"Inside me. Please, Marcus, cum inside me. Fill my pussy with your cum. I need it, I need it—"

His hips stuttered. He buried himself deep, and I felt it—hot pulses flooding me, filling me, marking me from the inside. That sensation triggered my third orgasm, the hardest one yet. My whole body seized, my cunt milking him, drawing out every drop.

We collapsed together, panting, sweating, cum dripping down my thighs.

He pulled out slowly, and I felt empty. Wrong. Like I'd lost something essential.

When I turned around, his dick was still hard, glistening with our mixed fluids. He was grinning.

"Same time next Thursday?"

I looked at the cum running down my legs. I looked at the cross I'd pinned to my blouse, the symbol of everything I was supposed to be.

"Yes," I heard myself say. "Same time."