Sister maria get rude fu'ck by father

 

**Sister Maria had taken her final vows eight years ago, but the convent still hadn’t burned the restlessness out of her.**

Late vespers. The chapel was empty except for the guttering sanctuary lamp and the faint smell of incense that never quite left the stone. She was alone, finishing the last of the night prayers on her knees before the altar, when the heavy oak door at the back creaked open.

Father Elias didn’t knock. He never did anymore.

He walked straight down the center aisle—boots loud on the flagstones—cassock already unbuttoned to the waist. The candlelight caught the dark hair on his chest, the thick line running down his stomach. Maria didn’t turn. She kept her hands folded, eyes on the crucifix, but her breathing changed.

“You’re late,” she said quietly.

“You’re still on your fucking knees,” he answered. “Good start.”

He stopped behind her. One big hand closed around the back of her neck—not gentle. Not asking. Just possession. He squeezed until she felt the pulse jump under his thumb.

“Get up.”

She rose slowly. The black habit rustled. He didn’t let go of her neck. Instead he spun her, pushed her back against the communion rail so the carved wood bit into her lower spine. Her wimple stayed pinned, but he ripped the white coif off in one yank. Dark hair spilled out—longer than it had any right to be under the rules.

“Look at me.”

She did. His eyes were black in the dim. He slapped her cheek—not hard enough to bruise, just enough to sting and make her cunt clench under layers of wool and cotton.

“Say it.”

“…Father.”

“Louder.”

“Father.”

He smiled, small and mean. “That’s right, slut.”

He shoved the skirt of her habit up with both hands. No underwear—there hadn’t been for months, not since the first time he’d made her take them off in the confessional and leave them on the kneeler like an offering. Cool air hit wet skin. She was already soaked. Shame and want had long since stopped being separate things.

He didn’t bother with fingers first. Just pushed two thick ones inside her without warning, rough enough that she gasped and her hips jerked forward. He curled them hard, grinding the heel of his palm against her clit.

“Fucking dripping already. You pray with this cunt all day, don’t you?”

“Yes—Father—”

“Say the rest.”

“I… I pray with my cunt all day.”

He laughed once, low. Pulled his fingers out, smeared them across her mouth until she tasted herself. Then he unbuckled his belt, yanked the black trousers open. His cock sprang out—heavy, veined, already leaking at the tip.

“Open.”

She dropped to her knees again—this time not for prayer. He didn’t give her time to adjust. Just fisted her hair and shoved past her lips, straight to the back of her throat. She gagged hard, eyes watering, but he didn’t pull back. Held her there until spit ran down her chin and her throat worked around him in helpless little swallows.

“Good little whore,” he muttered. “That’s it. Take it like you took the habit.”

He fucked her mouth with short, brutal thrusts—pulling out only long enough for her to drag in a wet breath before ramming back in. Her hands clutched the hem of his cassock like it could save her. It couldn’t.

When he was close he yanked her off by the hair, stood her up, spun her around. Bent her over the communion rail so her forearms braced on the polished wood and her ass was presented. Habit rucked up around her waist. He kicked her feet wider.

“Spread yourself.”

Trembling fingers reached back, pulled her cheeks apart. Exposed everything—pink, slick, puckered little asshole twitching under his stare.

He spat once—right on her hole—then lined up and pushed in. No prep. No mercy. Just the fat head of his cock forcing past the ring until she cried out, sharp and raw.

“Shut up and take it,” he growled, clamping a hand over her mouth. “You don’t get to scream in the house of God unless I say so.”

He didn’t wait for her to adjust. Just started fucking her ass in long, punishing strokes—pulling almost all the way out, then slamming home until his balls slapped wet against her cunt. Every thrust shoved her forward into the rail. The wood creaked. Her wimple had come half-loose; one strand of black hair swung in front of her eyes.

He reached around, found her clit, rubbed it hard and fast—mean circles that made her thighs shake.

“You’re gonna come with my cock in your dirty little nun asshole,” he rasped against her ear. “And you’re gonna thank me for it.”

She was crying now—quiet, broken sobs muffled against his palm—but her hips kept pushing back to meet him. The shame was gasoline on the fire.

He felt her start to flutter around him—clit swollen, cunt dripping down her thighs—and he fucked her harder, faster, chasing his own edge.

“Come, slut. Come on my cock like the filthy bitch you are.”

She broke. Whole body seizing, ass clamping down so tight he groaned like he’d been punched. Her muffled cry vibrated against his hand. Wetness gushed—down her legs, onto the stone floor.

He didn’t stop. Rode her through it, then buried himself deep and came—hot, thick pulses filling her ass while he bit down on the side of her neck hard enough to leave marks no coif could hide.

When he finally pulled out she stayed bent over the rail, trembling, leaking his cum down the inside of her thigh. He tucked himself away, rebuttoned his cassock like nothing had happened.

“Clean yourself up before matins,” he said, already turning toward the door. “And leave the panties off tomorrow.”

He left without looking back.

Sister Maria stayed there another minute—forehead pressed to the cool wood, breath ragged, heart hammering.

Then she straightened her habit as best she could, wiped her face with shaking hands, and walked back to her cell on unsteady legs.

Tomorrow she would kneel at the same altar again.

And she would wait.