She doesn't need telling twice. Her mouth opens, and she takes me in — fully clothed, still in the habit, kneeling at the altar like the devoted little nun she's playing. Her tongue works my shaft, her cheeks hollowing, her eyes lifted to mine, submissive and worshipful. The white coif stays on her head, absurdly pure above it all.
I let her work for a while, my hand resting on the back of her head, guiding her pace. The chapel is silent but for the wet sounds of her devotion. She gags once, pulls back, recovers, takes me deeper — eager to earn absolution.
Then I pull her off me with a soft pop. "Enough, Sister. On your feet."
She rises unsteadily, hands still folded, lips glistening.
I reach for the clasp at her throat. My fingers work the fabric loose — the habit parts at the front, falling open to reveal what's underneath.
White.
