Sister Agne’s words replayed: “We must be careful not to tempt… even unknowingly.”
Behind pious smiles, they all judged Sister Marguerite… for the body God gave her. She’d taken vows for Him, not for envious bitches and “holy” men with roving eyes.
“Fuck me harder,” Marguerite whispered, pulling Antonio deeper. Here, beneath her painter, she was… herself.
Antonio traced her body, enraptured. She was his divinity; at her temple, he worshiped. Each thrust, his sacred sacrament.
Sister Marguerite rose into Heaven — open and undone, kissing angels.
Blissfully spent, curled in his arms, she kissed her painter’s rough fingers. “Amen.”
