Defrocked Monk’s Red Confession: From Cloister to Carnal Inferno

October wind whips the narrow street. My finger crushes the doorbell. Heart hammers. Twenty years caged, now free. For her. The médiéviste who cracked my shell. Door swings open. Her coffee eyes widen behind glasses. Pullovers hug her curves. ‘Bonjour.’ Voice soft, surprised. I follow inside. Tea steams. Books everywhere. Her world. Chaotic, alive. We sip. Smoke in the courtyard later. Cigarette burns my lips like sin reborn. I crave her. Confess the chaos after she fled. Pacôme’s potions. Maxence’s rage. Abbé’s mercy. I quit for this. For her pull. Cold bites. She offers jacket. I tremble. Not chill. Desire. Wrist in my grip. Pull her close. Lips crash. She moans. Tongue invades. Basin grinds mine. Hard already. Tight in jeans. Her fingers claw belt. Drag me in. Door shuts.

Couch swallows us. She straddles. Eyes devour. Pulls off layers. Breasts bare. Nipples peak. I suck one. Teeth graze. She arches. Hands roam my chest. Unbuttons shirt. Medal swings. Doesn’t care. Jeans yanked. Boxer tents. Her gaze locks on bulge. Hesitates. I flip her. Naked now. Cock springs free. Throbs. She stares. Hungry. Mounts again. Lips tender. Then descends. Tongue traces shaft. Gland engulfed. Hot. Wet. Suction pulls soul. Hips buck. Edge razor-sharp. Grab her hand. Stop. Can’t end yet. Mouths fuse. Flip. Her back arches. Fingers plunge her slick heat. Soaked. Tight. She bites lip. Guides deeper. I watch. Mesmerized. Pink folds yield. Her scent floods. Face to thigh. Taste her. No. She begs. ‘Take me now.’ Position. Thrust. Deep. Raw. She cries out. Walls clench. Pound harder. Sweat slicks skin. Hearts thunder sync. She flips atop. Rides wild. Nails rake chest. Breasts bounce. She screams. Climbs peak. Shudders. Collapses. I surge. Grip hips. Slam home. Roar escapes. Seed erupts. Floods her. World whites.

The Fever Rises

Silence falls. Breaths ragged. Bodies glued. Sweat cools. Skin burns still. She stirs. Lamp glows. Eyes meet. Humid. Sated smiles. She stretches. Fingers trace clavicle. Winces. Red welt. My medal’s bite. Saint Matthieu’s mark. Inverted on mine: ‘San Matteo, pregate per noi.’ Irony bites. We laugh. Gasps turn giggles. Unique. This. Her head on chest. Heart slows. Possessed. Devoured. Alive. Danger lingers. But worth it. Total. Red confession sealed.