Catching the eye of the pastor's wife. She pulls me to the side. [In some black churches, the pastor's wife is called the "first lady." It's as pretentious and haughty as it sounds.]
You need to start wearing longer dresses and longer skirts. You have a sinful body. The kind that makes people want to do things that don't align with the right path.
She takes my chin, lifting my gaze up to hers. I think she's scoldingly appraising me. But I swear she's looking down my dress.
The next time I come to church, I'm wearing a dress that completely covers me, including a cardigan. She calls me to her office. She tells me to take my cardigan off. I hand it to her, revealing the black a-line am dress that stops at my shins. She walks around me, checking before telling me it's not enough.
I don't understand. I bought this just for church.
It doesn't matter. I can still see your shape. Look here.
She's behind me, taking me by the arms. I gasp as she pulls my arms back, pushing my chest out. My breasts push against the fabric, perfectly outlined. She leans in, her cheek to mine, voice repulsed.
Look at your breasts. You can't see it but your ass is right up against the fabric as well. You look like a coy little slut. If you saw the way the deacons look at you when you sit up front, you'd have some decency and cover up.
In one movement, she releases my arms and unzips the back of my dress, jerking the fabric down. My arms are restrained downward by the folded down sleeves. My breasts sit in my black bra, slightly spilling over as she grabs the fabric, pulling me closer into her.
She cups my breasts, holding them up higher before letting them drop. She scoffs, jerking the front until it unclips, popping my breasts out in the open. I can feel her nails in my skin as she grips them, pulling me back and roughly kneading.
Isn't this what you wanted? To be used? Do you think it makes you special? You think you're the first doe eyed slut to come in here trying to flaunt her body?
I gasp as she spends me over her desk in one push, my tits cold against the polished oak. I shudder as the ends of my skirts, exposing my ass.
Little sluts like you walking in and trying to tempt people. You think you'll stray me? You're not the first and you won't be the last. Spread your fucking legs.
I obey without thinking, my cheek to the desk. Ahead of me is the wall where a portrait of the first lady and the pastor is, their smiles plastered and heavily airbrushed. I stare into the eyes of her half of the portrait as she rips my stockings, striking my ass with a remorseless slap
I hear her heels, clicking as she seems to be pulling something from the wall. Something hard slides up my slit, a soft wet sound omitting as she pushes it in a little, scoffing. I bite my lip, embarrassed.
Of course. You're all the same. And you'll get punished all the same.
This item is irregularly ridged, its end square rather than rounded. I wince, feeling her slide it, looking for the best angle. In the same instance I find the nerve to look back, my lips part in a shuddering cry of pain and pleasure as I watch her slowly push in the bottom end of a crucifix. Once she manages the insertion, she no longer hesitates. I feel the endlessly ridged piece of wood and gold pump in and out of my pussy. She looms over my body, chest to my back as her hand moves with purpose.
She's in my ear again, teeth gritted. She's one part satisfied and one part irritated with me. I cannot stop myself, only a muddled collection of whimpers and moans, dribbling out of my mouth like saliva.
I broke the other ones and I'll break you. I always do. You may even enjoy it. But you'll break. I can promise you that.
