Peccata minuta

I was distracted looking at the colourful stained glass windows when Alex and Danny pulled me into the small wooden cubicle. It startled me, but Alex muffled my protests with a well timed french kiss. Danny, meanwhile, had unceremoniously started massaging my breasts over my clothes. It was immediately obvious what they intended to do inside the the overcrowded confessional. I already knew that Alex had a specific kink about public places but Danny joining was admittedly unexpected.

I threw away all pretense of struggling and promptly returned the kiss, trying to make the most of the opportunity within the confined space available but, despite my best efforts, I had to resign myself to being mostly on the receiving end of my friends’ attentions. I took on my passive role with proper Christian meekness and mentally apologised to any God, saint or angel willing to forgive our naughtiness. What they were doing to me, although it felt pretty good, was unmistakably irreligious. Not that I did anything to stop it, mind you.

A church is not the right place to pull a proper lady like me into a confessional to start groping and kissing her with amoral abandon, even if the lady decides to willingly submit to the impish behaviour of the duo of horny lovers. It was even less righteous of Danny to pull up my shirt and bra to expose my breasts, trapping my arms behind my head, while Alex maneuvered us into a meat sandwich formation, with my poor self as the central ingredient.

Danny, after kissing our mutual lover over my shoulder—probably as a way of rewarding the masterful renegotiation of the space recently carried out by our partner—continued manually stimulating my body, massaging, groping and fondling my bare skin en route to my increasingly wetter privates. Alex, meanwhile, had apparently fallen into a breastcentric frenzy, sucking and kissing my tits, pinching my nipples with lips and teeth, and pulling and twisting my piercings, with no regard to modesty or discretion.

The flimsy walls of the wardrobe-like structure started to rock in unison with our motions, as the intensity of our encounter increased, filling the usually holy place with a suspicious creaking echo and a chorus of low moans of evidently sinful nature. Undeterred, Danny slid both hands under my undies and started fiddling, fingering and fondling down there, with more enthusiasm than accuracy. Yet, the slightly brutish stimuli, combined with Alex’s uninterrupted boob-biting session and, quite probably, the extra helping of perverse excitement, finally pushed me over the edge of climax mountain.

It was a sweet but swift bout of bodily bliss and, while it wasn’t my best orgasm ever by a long shot, it definitely won the award for being my most silent yet. I made a quick mental note of rewarding their efforts later, although not before properly punishing them for their misconduct, of course. Blatantly bashful, secretly satisfied and feigning righteous fury, I admonished my smiling and evidently proud friends with whispered complaints as I readjusted my clothes and came out of the confessional. When I turned around to further chastise them I realised something and barely managed to avoid laughing out loud before addressing them with an even more stern look of unabated indignation and sincere embarrassment.

“Next time!” I said, angrily pointing a finger at the playful pair, who were sheepishly faking guilt as they emerged from the confessional, “Next time at least check that the priest isn’t on the other side!”