lauren

“How long has it been since your last confession, sorella?” The voice behind the screen asks.

That was the question. You had always turned up to confession, as in everything you did at the ministry you wanted to do it right, do it well. Every week you’d visit the sanctum, fitting neatly into the confession booth to greet whichever Papa was waiting for you. Indeed, you did a splendid job of listing off your concerns from the previous week, asking for guidance on how best to act for the Infernal One’s pleasure. And, sure you must have looked the part, a perfect track record compared to others in the Ministry.

But you’d not yet confessed. Not really. You had yet to spill the dark little secret that was gnawing its way through your insides, festering right in your centre. At first it had been easy enough to pretend it didn’t matter, explain away your actions with the excuse that you just needed to “settle in.” But weeks had turned to months which stretched into years and here you were, still tarnished from your own hidden sin. Or lack thereof.

“T-two weeks Papa.” you stutter, fighting the temptation to just swallow it down again, save it for next week's confession instead.

“Yes, Secondo mentioned you were missing last week, Sister, I was quite surprised. Is all well?” Terzo asks, voice softening for you. You let out a shaky breath remembering your last attempt at confession. You’d made a good effort in making it at least halfway to the confessional, knees threatening to buckle under your own nerves, palms sweaty and sticking to your habit. But the thought of having to say it out loud, of maybe even being kicked out of the Ministry? It had you bolting back to your room and locking the door behind you.

Yet, as always, that unsteady nausea returned when you thought about your predicament. Sleepless and unsatisfying long nights left you tired and unable to complete your duties or even think about your studies. You’d fallen behind in classes, fucked up more paperwork than you could count on both hands and even managed to gift yourself a scolding from Sister Imperator.  It consumed you.

So, you had to put an end to it. If there was an end. And if anyone knew how to put an end to your … problem, it would be Papa.  

“Papa-” you start, “I need to confess something.”

“Well Sister - this is the idea, no?” Terzo teases, waiting for you to speak again.

“I… There is something … wrong with me.”

“Sorella, you are sick?” His voice raises a little in worry as he starts to move towards the screen, hand out ready to check up on you.

“No! No I-I am okay, please stay. I just .. I cannot …” You sputter. Why was this so fucking difficult.

“Sister - I am going to be moving the screen now, just let me-”

“I cannot … finish.” You blurt out before he could move any closer.

Silence.

There it was. It was out in the open now. And satanas, the relief in your chest just at saying out loud was dizzying. The words started coming freely then flowing from your mouth as quickly as you could get them off your tongue.

“I cannot honour the Olde One with my pleasure. I cannot indulge as the others do, as you do Papa. I have tried. I have tried everything, with my own hands, with others, even with fucking toys and I just can’t-” You stop, unable to finish the sentence.

Terzo was still quiet on the other side of the booth.

A new well of panic sprang up inside you, perhaps confessing to not partaking in one of the Seven most Sacred Sins to the leader of the fucking Satanic Church was, afterall, not a wise move. You instantly started to back-pedal.

“But … But that’s why I came to confess, to see you Papa because you need to help me. If anyone can help me it is you. I have seen what you do to the others, for the others-” Tears threaten to spill from your eyes as you speak, only realising how desperate you sound once your voice meets your own ears.

Papa was quiet, unmoving behind the screen. You continue with your plea regardless.

“I know- I know that you can help me. I just … want to be fixed. So I can stay. So I can work again.” You mutter, head falling to look at your own knees in the darkness of the booth.

You hear rustling from the other side, a clicking sound and then a scribbling. You sniff in a vain attempt to stop your tears from spilling, nose wet and warm from your outburst. After a few seconds the screen was pushed aside a little, making way for Terzo’s signature white gloves and a piece of card.

“There is someone who can be helping you better than I, Sorella” He flexes the card between his fingers. “He is … well-read on this subject.”

Wiping at your nose with the back of your hand you took the card from him, examining his cursive writing in the centre.

Cardinale Copia. 113.

“That is his office number, he should be there now. He has seen these things before.”

You get up to move out of the confessional, still shaking slightly.  “Thank you, Papa.”

“Sister, you are not broken. And you are always welcome here, no matter what. Just talk to him, see what he can do to be helping you.” Terzo spoke softly from behind the curtain.

You nodded weakly, bowing your head before leaving the room.

The walk to find the Cardinals office was easy enough, you realised you had passed it numerous times on your walks to the library. Although, you cannot say the same about the man within it. You had heard of the Cardinal, yes, but certainly not in the way that Terzo had suggested. If you thought about it hard enough you could just about picture him in your memory, always tucked away in the library or walking with Sister Imperator, donning his signature, well-kept cassocks along the hallways. He was nearly always alone, always poised, proper, and aloof - it was hard to picture him as someone who would know anything about your … predicament. But you trusted Papa, and you had tried everything else. What was the Cardinal going to offer anyway? An instructional pamphlet, a light recommended read on the female orgasm?

As you approach the hallway his office is in you see that his door is already open to visitors, soft orange lamplight spilling onto the floor. You smile in spite of yourself, wondering who in Hell would choose to visit the Cardinal’s office. His name was printed on the door, letters bold and black, the name of his predecessor blatantly scratched off underneath. Turning into the doorway you could see him sitting at his desk opposite you, black biretta tilted downwards as he worked, fountain pen scratching against a piece of parchment. Surprised that he did not immediately look up at your intrusion, you clear your throat, shifting your feet against the cobbles rather inconspicuously to help rouse his attention. He did not stop working right away, or even motion that he had heard you waiting for him, choosing instead to continue working, eyes focused down in front of him. When he was finished, and seemingly satisfied with his own work he nodded to himself with a quiet hum, set his lid onto his pen, set his pen to the table and finally looked up at you. Unlike you, he did not seem surprised to see an unknown Sister of Sin in his doorway. Almost immediately you became aware of how intense his gaze was with that white eye, how it flicked over your body before coming to rest locked onto your own. You couldn’t help but be taken aback, you had never noticed that he was quite so handsome before.

“Cardinal” You start, dipping your head as you use his title, using the movement as an excuse to break from his eyeline, a momentary reprieve from his gaze. He doesn’t speak, nor move to gesture you inside. Instead he just continues to watch, waiting for you to speak again. You feel yourself flush all over, sweat threatening to break out under the weight of his continued silence.

“Papa requested that I visit you. I think-” You stutter, suddenly faced with the fact that you’d have to confess your most intimate secret with a man you had never once spoken to.

“I believe that you can help me.”

If he has any idea as to what exactly you were referencing, it doesn’t show on his face. His features remain still, just as stoic as he had looked elsewhere in the Ministry. He does move, though, standing up from his chair, extending his arm towards the chair in front of his desk. You follow his motion to sit, not completely unaware of the scent of him as he passes you, warm with a hint of woody spice that reminds you of the incense used at ritual.

“Please, Sister, continue.” He speaks as he clicks the door shut behind him, his voice surprisingly soft and a little deeper than you had imagined it would be, his Italian accent apparent. It catches you off guard, just how nice it sounds in the quiet of his office. It takes you a second to process what exactly he is asking of you, too caught up in watching him saunter back to his desk. His cassock fits tight around his chest and hips just so, the shoulder cape highlighting the broadness of his shoulders. You’d certainly never noticed that before. The soft light from the lamp reflected on the back of his gloves as he cupped his hands together.

“Well you see I- '' You suddenly flush again, your habit too tight, your hands too clammy. Now that you were alone you were suddenly very aware of how you must have looked, desperately willing your face to not be so red as you confessed again.

“There is something … wrong with me, Cardinal. And it is ruining my work, my studies. I feel as though I am unable to … honour the Olde One as he deserves.” He nods thoughtfully as you talk, wordlessly encouraging you to carry on.

“I explained to Papa, or I tried to, I just … I cannot-” You try hopelessly to motion with your hands, face surely reddening further under his gaze as you attempt to word your problem as delicately as possible.

“Go on, Sister. Out with it.” He pushes almost impatiently, offering you no reprieve from the weight of his gaze or the awkwardness of the situation you’re in. It was almost like he’s enjoying it, watching you shift in your seat for him.

“Ican’tgetoff-”  You blurt out all at once, probably a little louder than it had to be. This time he does react, only with furrowed brows and a scoff.

“Sister, when you are in my office I expect you to speak plainly, si? If you need my help we must speak what we mean, speak directly.”

“I don’t know what you want me to s-”

“Come.” He interjects, leaning forward in his chair.

Your head spins, eyes wide as you process what he just said.  

“You cannot come? That is your problem, Sister?” He asks again, tilting his head. You nod, face hot and definitely red now, your ears almost ringing in reaction to where this conversation was going.

“Say it. Be direct.” He asserts again, bringing his hands together to rest on the table, leather creaking against his fingers.

You don’t know if it’s the subject matter or the way in which he instructs you so plainly to do what he wants but you cannot help but tense your thighs together, clenching as your eyes flick to his gloves. Something close to annoyance started to burn within you.

“I cannot come, Cardinal.” You confess, your tone perhaps a little too harsh. You weren’t sure which annoyed you more, his fastidious approach to your choice of language given the delicate situation or the fact that you now wanted to repeat it back to him. He hums to himself again as he nods, finally content with your response. His two forefingers coming up to points, resting against the tip of his nose as he thought quietly for a moment.  

You take the opportunity to sit back, still trying to process the fact that you’re having this conversation, with this man, in this office. What’s more surprising is your apparent response to him, a heat burning under the guise of annoyance leaving you tempted to push your thighs together. At this point you’re sure you’re already a good way towards soaking through your panties.

“And how long has this been a problem?” He asks, fingers moving to smooth down his moustache.

You pause for a second, hesitant to give him the response. Be direct - he’d said.

“Always.” It comes out as barely more than a whisper, your head falls back down to face your lap, as you play with your fingers, nervously. He is silent for a moment, sensing your discomfort in your answer.

“I can try to help you, Sister, but I need to know something before I can begin. Do you want to fix this, what you call ‘problem’ because you think it is not normal and you worry what others think? Or because relief is what you truly want?”

You pause, considering his answer. Of course, some of the problem is being in a ministry dedicated to the lustful and lascivious, constantly having to hear about what other sisters got up to at night and never having your own experiences to share. Worrying what would happen if they found out. Worrying that you are not doing your best for the dark Lord and his will. But you also know that you seek release. One too many times you’ve lain in bed, slick and sweaty and utterly unsatisfied, skin raw and red and throbbing for relief, your own hands unable to help.

“Because - there is nothing wrong, Sister, with not feeling lust, indeed many peopl-”

“I crave for relief.” You speak plainly, interrupting before he can carry on, unable to hide the desperate edge in your voice. Tears threaten to spill again as you imagine the possibility of another endless night tossing and turning. You flick your eyes back up to meet the Cardinals’, heart pumping a little faster when you see his eyes dark and on you once again.

“I can help you, Sister.” He nods slowly, “I can show you how to find such relief.”

Delicately, his glove hands move up to the Biretta and gently lift it from his head, placing it gently down onto the desk in front of him. His hair underneath has still somehow managed to keep volume under the cap, the greying streaks slicked back from his face threatening to fall forward. When he has settled the hat to his liking he stands from behind his desk, and somehow he suddenly looks taller, more intimidating as he moves towards you. He continues his path forwards, stopping as he reaches you. Taking you by surprise he bends a little, stopping when his eyes are level with yours. From this close you can see the freckles that pattern his face, the soft greens in his normal eye. You can smell him again, sweet and smoky, the soft but deep timbre of his voice so nice as he talks to you.

“But my methods, cara, they are … how do you say … hands on?”

You’re barely able to suppress the gasp that rips its way from your throat as he talks, though whether it’s a response to his new nickname or what he just insinuated you’re not even sure yourself.

“If this is unacceptable, you must tell me now, cara, and I will stop. But if you let me, I will show you how we please the Olde One.”

You’re so preoccupied with watching how his fingers have come to grip the arms of your seat that you barely notice that he has offered you a choice. Only when you realise he hasn’t moved or spoken again do you process what he said, sucking your lips between your teeth before giving him his answer.

“Show me, Cardinal. Please show me.” It’s breathy and desperate and practically pathetic how weakly it escapes you.

That dark smirk is back on his painted lips, his own breath seemingly heavy and he brings a gloved hand to your cheek. He cups it softly, the warmth of his skin radiating through the buttery soft leather.

“Bellissima.” He growls low in his throat, pleased with your response.

He pulls back suddenly and you half expect him to yank you upwards off the chair and up over his desk. Instead, you’re met with the sight of him delicately pulling up his cassock at his thighs so he can kneel in front of you, his other hand still balancing on the arm of the chair. It’s sinful, how he looks, a man of his standing in the Ministry, a man with his reputation on his knees before you, softly moaning as he takes in a deep breath of you. Your legs part almost naturally under your habit, tilting your hips up towards him, inviting him in. His gloved hands move to your thighs, pushing underneath to grip and move you further towards the edge of the chair. Your habit slides up as he moves you, pushing past your knees and spilling into your thighs. The Cardinal nuzzles his face into the warmth of your legs, dragging his lips across your skin, the heat from his mouth causing you to clench once more.

“Satanas, He is generous to us, Sister.” His voice is firm as he carries on with his journey, seemingly eager to taste whatever skin he can reach. “When we partake in sins of the flesh, he opens the door to even greater sin.”

You whine as his wandering mouth moves further down your leg, his hands moving to massage your calf and ankle instead of gripping at your thighs. You’re struggling to keep up with what he is saying, too distracted and caught up in the feeling of his moustache and warm breath tickling your skin, causing you to shudder. He notices and breaks into a smirk. The heat that had been simmering up to this point was reaching boiling point, threatening to spill you over into madness, and yet the Cardinal seemed content to lick against your calves with his tongue. Frustrated you tried to inch down towards him, to move his hot, wet mouth closer to where you wanted it, where you needed it.

“Ah-ah!” He chides, his hands gripping your thighs and pushing them apart, “You are not learning from my lesson, hm?”

Of course he would turn this into a lesson, you scoff to yourself.

“I don’t see how this is supposed to be helping me.” You argue, weakly, gesturing to where his lips are tracing around your ankle.

Copia carries on dragging his lips, and tongue upwards, hands pushing the backs of your thighs to open your legs, your habit still covering what little decency you had left. There’s no rush, no fervour to reach your panties or move your habit. He simply makes sure he’s nipped and sucked at every part of your skin he can reach, fingers massaging into the flesh where he holds you, the leather of his gloves giving a satisfying pinch where he grips at you. And Lucifer you didn’t know if this was helping, the slow, torturous move of him threatning to send you into that sick, unsatisfied space. His lips leave a hot, wet trail in their wake, like it burnt just to have him touch your skin.  

“People forget, Sister, that He relishes in Sloth.” Copia mutters, voice muffled where he's currently sucking into the hot skin of your thigh. “In taking our time. In neglecting our other duties to please each other.”

He carries on his assault upwards, moaning as he inhales the smell of you.

“This is the first lesson, Sister. To be slow, to feel. To want - yes, but never to rush.”

You nod, unable to speak as his tongue traces nearer to the line of your panties, his hot breath hitting the soaked fabric. Copia shifts your habit up, exposing your underwear to him. For a brief second you panic about your choice, self-conscious that it's not your best pair; it's not exactly like you were expecting this. He doesn’t seem to mind, or even notice, eyes locked on to where you’re wet and warm and probably leaking. He moves his hand up to cup you, the leather smooth and warmed from his skin and your own. You can’t help but let out a moan, his fingers not even touching you properly, palm just resting atop of you.

“Si, senza fretta” He mutters to himself under his breath, his eyes looking at his own hand cupping you.

He flicks his eyes away from where he’s touching you to look up at your face, examining you closely as he starts to work his hand. He drags his fingers down from where they had been resting, keeping them flat as he pushes against your covered clit. You can’t help but throw your head back with a gasp, the contact almost too much after the way he’s worked you up already. His mismatched eyes don’t move, choosing to watch you moan above him rather than watch the hand he has working you.

“So responsive.” He speaks, his deepened voice an indicator of how he’s being affected too. “This is good.” He nods in praise of you.

He continues to rub at you, only with the flat of his fingertips, far too lightly too actually achieve anything, the slide of his glove over your panties creating a dizzying friction. You can’t help but buck up into him, your hips moving to meet with his hand every time he pushes against you. It should be embarrassing really, how loud you’re being, how worked up you feel over just his hand over your underwear. You’re sure that after all this you’d wish Lucifer would just drag you down to Hell already and have done with it, saving you from the embarrassment of seeing this man again. He stops suddenly.

“May I, cara?” He breathes, gesturing to the flimsy garment.

Utterly unable to form anything coherent, you nod quickly, lifting your hips to allow him to peel the already sodden fabric off of you. Copia lets out a breath he must have been holding as he slowly pulls the fabric down, revealing you to him. He refuses to move any faster, keeping the frustratingly languid pace he was so insistent on. After placing your underwear carefully beside him he rolls up higher onto his knees, using the momentum to push your legs apart, hands once more on the backs of your thighs. And satanas, it almost felt like you were undergoing some sort of twisted medical exam, the way he bared you to him as he looked at all of you, pulling you open for his eyes with a low grunt. It was sick, the reaction it stirred in you to see him staring, his odd eyes fixated on your cunt. He sinks down lower onto his knees once again, shutting his eyes to breathe you in once more with a noise that rumbles through his chest. In the back of your mind you think back to the other pitiful excuses for intimacy you’d ever had with anyone else, how just the fiery look in his eyes made anything else pale in comparison.

“It is best to start like this.” the Cardinal speaks, his voice oddly still level given the flush that’s on his face. He takes two fingers and splits them slightly, bringing them to stroke at either side of your clit. You jolt at the feeling, the soft leather caressing your lips, yet not where you need him.

“To warm up.” He continues, fingers still stroking at you. “This area fills with more blood, it helps to get things started.”

You couldn’t help but let out a laugh, started?! You felt like you’d been ready since you first sat down in this cursed, Rococo style chair. He flashes you a look of disapproval at your noise and you squeeze your lips shut. He flicks his eyes back down to where he’s touching you, mouth hanging open a little as you start to rut against him once more.

“Look at yourself.” He commands, his voice hard now. “Do you see how you swell? How you leak?” You can’t help but moan pathetically at his words. Looking down to see where his gloved hand is rubbing at you, the material slick with your own fluids, your skin flushed and pink where he’s been working at you. Your thighs were soaked and shiny, reflecting the soft light from the lamp on his desk. Somewhere in the back of your mind you’re half mortified that the Cardinal is seeing you like this, yet you still can’t help but grind up to his hand as he comes to caress you again.

“You see, this gift is for Him, Sister” the Cardinal lifts his hand to examine his own gloves, white eye fixed on the slick that covers them before shoving them into his mouth, groaning at the taste of you. Copia doesn’t even give you a minute to respond to the image of him sucking at his own fingers before they return, hot and wet, to your body, gliding against your clit. You jolt at the sensation, crying out at the sudden attention to your core.

“And this was His gift to you.” He speaks, like he’s delivering some sort of private tutoring lesson and not rubbing at your clit in his, probably very expensive, office chair.

“Lucifer gave us many means to feel pleasure, yes, but I find this to be one of the more … effective ways.” He hooks his fingers down to collect the slick that is leaking out of you, pushing it up to make the move of his gloves on your clit even wetter. His eyes are on yours again, not even looking as his hands continue to ravish you.

“Some like it gently …” The Cardinal continues, changing up the pattern he’s tracing into small tight circles, slowly stroking your bud with just one finger. You gasp at the change, pressure building in your abdomen as he works.

“Others like it fast…” His fingers speed up, rubbing at you more vigorously, more of his fingers gliding against you, his voice wavering with the exertion of him moving. He lets you get used to the change, your legs shaking as he works you.

“Some, even like it hard.” He spits through his teeth as he gets faster, before bringing his gloved hand down and smacking against your clit twice in quick succession. You cry out at the feeling of it, surprised both at his actions and how good it felt, mind reeling with just how different this felt than anything you had done before.

“Please” you choke out, not even sure what you’re asking for at this point, just for him to continue working you like he is.

“Please what, Sister?” He growls, his voice rough as he starts to rub at you again.

“I-I need to-” you try to speak but his fingers are catching where they need to with every stroke, the rough feel of his gloves winding your insides up like a rubber band, becoming more and more taut with every brush of his fingers.

He nods encouragingly, almost condescendingly, for you to continue, his eyes never moving from your own. When you don’t reply straight away he smacks your cunt again, pushing you even closer to the edge.

“Be direct, Sister.” He repeats his earlier demand, his face starting to flush at his own work.

Truthfully, you can’t even believe you’re going to say it, much less do it. You can’t help but think of the endless nights spent with no success, the blog posts you’d spent hours reading through, the painful tinder dates - all for it to be outdone by this fucking Cardinal and a few strokes of his fucking fingers.

“I need to come” You whine pathetically, tears pushing behind your eyes at the familiar feeling of being so close to the edge,

Suddenly, panic flares in your chest. Worried that this won’t actually work, that it will be the same as every other time, that you’ll leave his office unchanged and even more embarrassed than before. Papa would know your secret, the Cardinal would know - Lucifer you’d never be able to look either of them in the eye again. You feel the pressure begin to dissipate, the band threatening to unwind itself within you. Copia must have noticed this change, must have watched it happen on your face because he’s pinching harshly at your thigh and dragging you back into reality. The reality in which he’s got you all the way there with just his hands and your own slick.

“You are going to come, Sister.” He almost berates you, like he can hear what’s going on in your own head. It’s like the choice has been made for you, silencing your own internal monologue with just his clear instruction.

“You are going to come, if I have to use my fingers, my tongue or my cock to get you there.”

And satanas, his voice is so clear and even as he speaks those words, his tone steady as he works you. You’re right at the edge again, the promise in his words giving you the extra push you needed. He carries on rubbing at your clit, his fingers fast and slick and warm, the thick leather giving that extra roughness against you, his eyes fixed on your face. His movements paired with the promise in his words have that band snapping, your muscles tensing as you shut your eyes and fall over the edge. The Cardinal works you through it, never stopping even as you reach out to grab and squeeze at the fabric of his cassock. You’re so caught up in your own cries as your orgasm rips through your body you barely realise the constant, half-coherent “Yes, yes yes, yes” that is falling from his mouth. And it is so fucking good. The feeling working its way through your body, locking your limbs and clenching your cunt, lighting you up from the inside out. Hips working as your orgasm continues to flow.  You think of all the fruitless nights you spent trying to get yourself here, how you’d begged the Olde One to help you, to relieve you. How you’d thought you’d never feel the sweetness, the finality, of release. It takes you a second to come back to reality, eyes scrunched shut, head resting against the back of the Cardinals’ chair, shaking with the feeling of it. He is still rubbing at you, working the last of your orgasm through you as you continue to clench, aching a little. You look down at the man who is the Olde One’s answered prayer in human form, grey strands falling onto his face with the exertion of it.

“Magnifica.” He sighs as he kisses and licks at the slick on your thighs with a moan, the feeling of his moustache tickling along your skin.

“Thank you” you whispered, still catching your breath, not yet able to even think straight after what had just happened.

A wicked grin passes across Copia’s face.

“We are not yet finished with our lesson, topolino.” He almost purrs. He starts to push at your legs.

“Is greed not one of our other, most Sacred Sins, hm?” He motions for you to stand, before turning you to face the back of the chair.

“Did you think I would have had my fill of you already?” His voice is almost unrecognisable as he speaks from behind you.

“Hands up.” He demands, causing you to grip the back of the chair, supporting your weight as you kneel on the seat, not quite able to ignore the now damp fabric underneath your knees. You whimpered as you imagined the view he currently had, you bent over, cunt exposed to him as he stayed kneeling on the floor behind you. The Cardinal seems to have the same thought, muttering a string of broken Italian and curses as he comes up onto his knees again.

“Lucifer gave us many means to feel pleasure, Sister” He echoes his own words from before, his voice sickly sweet. His hands come to grip onto your hips, his grip so tight you’re sure it would mark as he positioned you how he wanted you, back arched a little, exposing you further.  

“I intend to teach you them all.” He drags his spit slick fingers down from your hips, passing over both of the holes that were currently exposed to him. You whine at the feel of it, arching back into him. He pulls his hand away and you hear what you can only assume to be him sucking his glove into his mouth with a moan. When his hand returns to you, it is newly warm and wet and you feel his finger at your pushing at your entrance.

“May I?” the Cardinal asks, not moving any closer, his tone far too polite for the situation.  

You nod weakly, but this doesn’t seem to satisfy him. He smacks your ass lightly, causing you to gasp out. His insistence in pushing you, in making you answer, in being almost formal even now, it was enough to make your head spin.

“Yes!” You hiss in response, your tone a little harsh once again.

He brings his hand down again, much firmer than he had before. A gasp cuts through you as he does, arousal licking up your spine.

“Yes what?”

You almost whine in response, clenching around nothing as he asks for his title. It momentarily dawned on you that this was the same Cardinal who rarely spoke, seemingly never left the library and never had any visitors. And yet, here he was spanking you into using his proper title after playing you like a fucking fiddle. You’d have laughed at the ridiculousness of the entire situation if you weren’t so desperate for his fingers.

He suddenly groaned from behind you. “You like that, Sister?”

You flush as you realise he had been watching you clench from behind. “Your cunt seems to like it, hm?”

And satanas, it was almost perverse, how steady and normal his tone was, as if he were asking any other question but the one he just asked.

“Yes, Cardinal.” You gasp out, trying to focus on the stupidly pretentious pattern on the back of the chair just to keep it together.

“Hmm, good.”

Finally, finally, he pushes his finger into you, the both of you moaning at the feeling of it. You can almost feel his warm breath on the back of your legs as it comes out in puffs. It was strange, the feeling of a glove compared to a normal finger, but it was slick and warm and felt so very him. You briefly wondered if he would wear these for the rest of the day, continue with his paperwork, go to meetings, Hell even go to Mass with the smell of you still on his gloves. His voice rips you away from that particular train of thought.

“There is a spot inside you that feels so divini when massaged properly, Sister.” Copia starts to explain, his finger curling and pushing into you experimentally, getting deeper with each thrust.

“Our dark Lord does not discriminate either, men have one too.” He just continues to talk as he plays with you, trying to find the spot to make you jump as he moves his finger into you. His other hand comes to part you, slightly, exposing more of you to his view. You hear him choke out a moan before he talks.

“And it feels good to touch it, to stroke it, to fuck it. You can find it alone although sometimes it is easier to have someone else … help.”

As if it was intentional he suddenly brushes against that spot inside, sending a jolt through you. He pushes against it again, as if to check for your response, causing you to moan out loud for him. You didn’t even need to be looking at him to know that dark smile had appeared on his face again.

“Brava raggaza.” Copia growls from behind, “Can you take another?”

“Yes Cardinal” You give your learned answer, the one that you know will please him as you arch your back, pushing back against him. He seems to appreciate your response as he adds another finger before thrusting them both into the same spot he had found previously. You can’t help but wail, the feeling of it making your legs weak.

“Si, so good, look at how you cream for it already?” He mutters through gritted teeth, fucking into you faster, fingers staying at just the right angle. The question of what exactly the Cardinal was “well-read” in crossed your mind as he played you like a fucking instrument, fingers hitting that spot inside you as his other hand came to rub at your clit once more. The man was practically a fucking scholar in fingering at this point, leaving you leaking down your own thighs and whining into the silk of his expensive chair as your face pressed up against it. You felt the band in your abdomen begin to tighten again, his fingers in a perfect rhythm against that spot inside you, getting faster yet never faltering in pace. You started to clench around him, nearing another shattering orgasm.

“Si, use my fingers, take what you need, s-so fucking good-” Copia stuttered from behind you, voice now wrecked as he kept fucking into you.

You felt yourself climbing once more, the Cardinal sending you hurtling towards the finish line. You realise it had never felt like this before, no inhibitions or anxieties, just chasing pleasure for pleasure’s sake. Before you could even think about what you’re doing you throw your arm back to reach for him, curling your fingers into his hair and pulling his face to meet his fingers in your cunt. He gladly lets you move him, the moan he makes high and almost pitiful, crying out against your clit as his fingers continue to fuck you. His tongue against your clit is all you need to come once more, the hot, wet, suck of his mouth paired with his fingers sending you over the edge. This orgasm rips through you much harder than the first, the whole of you tensing up as you ride it out on Copia’s fingers and face. The Cardinal makes a loud, ragged noise as you come, and in the back of your mind you realise he’s palming himself through his cassock as he eats you.

It takes you a few minutes to come back to yourself, letting Copia glide his tongue over you, his fingers still as you clench around him, the aftershock still shaking through you. He withdraws his fingers slowly, careful to not hurt you, before letting his tongue catch the slick that follows them with a moan, briefly pressing it into your cunt with a groan. And Lucifer, Copia was right about this opening the door for other sin, because the sick, sated pride you felt at having his tongue fuck you as he ate from you was like nothing you had felt before. It felt like worship.

A moan from the Cardinal breaks your thoughts, panic rising in your chest as you realise your hand is still gripping his hair, keeping him pressed against you. Choking out apologies you let him go, suddenly embarrassed at your actions. You weren’t embarrassed for long, how could you be, watching the Cardinal pull back from you?  His face was flushed, dishevelled hair falling in front of his eyes as he wiped his wet mouth on the back of his cassock sleeve. It almost made you moan again, the sight of him, just as fucked out as you were, catching his breath as he leaned back on the floor. His eye makeup had smudged a little where his face had been pressed up against you, the black of his lips smeared across his cheek. Your eyes scan over him as you turn to sit properly, not failing to notice the large, wet stain now on the front of his cassock. Worship indeed.

It suddenly occurs to you that for the first time you were seeing him, not the stoic Cardinal from the library who seemingly lived in Sister Imperators pocket, but Copia. His cassock, make-up and hair now ruined beyond recognition. You briefly wondered how many people had seen him like this, vulnerable, human. It sent a thrill down your spine. He picks himself up quietly, trying to wipe his makeup back into place, clearing his throat as you cover yourself back over, heart rate slowly returning to normal. You could sense that he didn’t know what to say, as he stood back behind his desk, running his hand through his hair trying to push it back as he caught his breath. Just as he had previously noticed your anxieties and overthinking, you could recognise it in him.

Smiling, you spot your discarded underwear on the floor from earlier, and a wicked thought crosses your mind as you bend to pick them up.

“Thank you for the lesson, Cardinal.” You smile sweetly, adjusting your habit as you walk around the desk towards him. He watches as you approach him, making a pathetic attempt to cover himself.

“I look forward to your next one.” You offer him a kiss on his cheek, placing your used panties into his pocket before turning to leave.

“Our next one, Sister?” Copia asks, a little stunned as he watches you leave, lips turned up slightly.  

“There are Seven Sacred Sins, are there not, Cardinal?” You ask, watching a smile break on his lips.