La Cappella


As you step into the dark chapel, the first thing you notice is how cold the floor is. That’s probably because you aren’t wearing your shoes. You had been carrying them as you walked along the beach. It had been hot and your cute little sundress with the tiny stippled white flower pattern had stuck to your back, so when you saw the chapel looking all shady and inviting you stepped inside. You had a feeling you really should have put your shoes on to enter the chapel, but nobody was around, so you thought you might tempt fate. Or God. Or whatever.

Inside you sit at a pew in the back and close your eyes for a second to enjoy the blessed silence after the blazing sun and the gusty wind. But after a moment you hear the squeak of the hinges as someone opens the door. You open your eyes and turn to look and you find there a most attractive young fellow. His hair is jet black, and he has that prominent nose that so many of the Italians around here do. He sees you looking at him and grins. You kind of melt a little at that, because his smile is just goddamn perfect. Dude should be a model.

He looks up at the altar, crosses himself, and sits in the pew behind you. This makes you a little uncomfortable, only because you aren’t here to pray, and it feels a little like you are intruding.

Your pew shifts against his weight as he leans forward and kneels, resting his elbows on the back of your pew. Glancing sideways you can see he has closed his eyes, his hands are firmly clasped together. Deep in prayer, apparently. He is quiet for a minute and just as you are about to pick up your shoes and sneak out of the chapel he opens his eyes, looking straight at you. Damn – he caught you staring at him! You turn away and you know you are blushing deep red. But he leans close to your ear and whispers in fast Italian. You desperately try to keep up, your two years of high school Italian almost completely failing you here. But from his pointing and the occasional word you understand it seems like he thinks you probably should have put your shoes on. Damn – caught again! You smile, you apologize (in both English and poor Italian), and you smile again, convincingly you hope. When he smiles back at you, you melt a little more.

You give him some more English and broken Italian, and he appears to understand that you are a tourist. It seems like maybe he forgives you. He touches your shoulder, grins at you, and whispers very fast Italian which you understand almost nothing of. You just keep saying, “si!” and he keeps talking. But now he’s looking in your eyes, you’re pretty sure he is telling you something about how beautiful he thinks you are, but maybe it’s the chapel that’s beautiful. He touches your arm, gently, but with more pressure than would be considered just friendly. You feel embarrassed and look down. His hand moves to the side of your face and pushes you hair back, “so he can see your pretty face” – at least that’s what you think he says. He’s finally quiet for a moment… and then he’s kissing your neck, softly, deliberately, slowly, with small kisses that travel up your neck. You turn and kiss him on the mouth, thinking of that beautiful smile.

He pulls away (and for a brief Escort Beylikdüzü second you think this is some game the local boys play on tourists – kiss a girl and run) but you watch his lithe athletic body hop the pew in one graceful movement, and he’s next to you, his strong arms surrounding you, pulling you close to him, kissing you, pressing against you as if he desperately needs to touch you.

You feel his hands on your body, on your hips, one hand on your knee. And it is sliding up your leg, his fingers between your thighs. He stops kissing you, breathing heavily, his forehead bumps against yours and you can see him smile (almost shyly?) as his fingers reach your pussy, touching you through your panties. He rubs your clit gently with his calloused fingers as his other hand inclines your head towards him, and this time his kisses are more passionate, slower, his tongue in your mouth as your clit slips between the tips of his fingers.

Both his hands slide up the outside of your thighs, over your hips and his fingers loop around your panties. He pulls them down to your ankles, and he gets on his knees. He kisses your knee. He kisses your thigh. He moves, and kisses your other thigh. Slowly, slowly he works his way up, his hands sliding along the top of your legs, pushing the bottom of your dress up, until he is burying his face in your pussy. Your ass slips down off the edge of the seat of the pew to meet him, your body moving of its own inclinations. He licks you slowly, moaning quietly. His tongue slides up your cunt, and over your clit. He gently sucks your clit into his mouth. He pauses for a second to gasp out some Italian words, something about delicious or delicacy, and a bunch of other words you don’t know. He sucks your clit into his mouth as his hands slide up the back of your legs. He squeezes your ass lovingly as he gets serious with his work, alternately sliding his tongue into you and sucking your clit.

You try desperately not to moan too loudly. But it just feels so good to have this beautiful man eating your pussy in this still and sacred place. Your fingers run repeatedly through his black hair, and he looks up at you once in a while and smiles. Your pussy responds even more intensely to his smile than his tongue, wetting his perfect chin. He slides a finger inside you as he starts sucking your clit rhythmically. Another finger soon joins it. You lean back on the pew, spreading your legs wide, totally at the mercy of this man you do not know. He finger-fucks you, forcing his two fingers deep inside you suddenly and kind of roughly, as he continues to suck your clit. You moan desperately, and he looks up at you and smiles again. You can’t hold out anymore, the orgasm washing over you, as you feel your cunt clamp down on his fingers, your thighs squeeze together, every muscle in your body tightening up, as you gasp and cum. You open your eyes to see him looking at you as he brings his wet fingers to his lips and tastes you on them before making some incomprehensibly subtle Italian finger-gesture in the air.

He rises up above you, and smiles that smile that cracks you open. You pull his shirt up, and undo the buttons up his chest. Escort Bahçeşehir You slide your hands up his undershirt and the tips of your fingers bump over the ridges of his belly – this, you think to yourself, is the body of someone who does physical work for a living. Perhaps you have yourself a farmboy here, or a fisherman, or some other occupation that fills some American ideal vision of rural old-world countryside.

One of his stone-hard supporting arms slips behind your shoulders and guides you down to lay you back on the pew, while his other hand undoes his tooled-leather belt, and opens the fly of his black tweed pants. His cock appears in his hand, ripe and ready. You look up at him and ask him to fuck you. You beg him to fuck you. And this one word of English he seems to know. He comes down on you from above, and enters you from on high, prying your gash apart with his thick dark dick, lubricated by a string of round soft words that he rolls into your ear.

He fucks you slowly and forcefully. Long strokes that drive up into you until your clit rubs so teasingly against his hard body before you have to let him slide away from you again. His head presses against yours, his night-black hair displacing the thatched sunlight of your blonde locks. He holds your head against his cupped in both of his big hands, reverently, like some kind of sacrament. One of your hands grips the top of the pew, and with your other hand you hold his firm ass and pull him into you with all the strength you can bring from one arm. You arch your back and press your full tits against him, loving the feeling in your nipples as his body forces the fabric of your sundress to slide over them. He fucks you with a rhythm played out into the high-ceiling spaces of the chapel by the squeaks and groans the come from the old dry wood of the pew straining against the movement.

He rears back, sliding his hands under your ass and then up the backs of your legs. He bends you in two, your knees almost to your shoulders. Your cunt is wide open, exposed and vulnerable for this perfect stranger. For a time, his cock plays at your pussy lips like a small child working alone against all the forces of the ocean trying to swamp her castle of sand. And then he’s drilling into you. His hands on the back of your thighs, folding you in half, making you available to accommodate all of his size. His eyes catch yours with a look of such intensity and desire it shorts your breath. On his face, a beatific look of pleasure, the look of someone who for one brief moment was lucky enough to be feeling the best physical feeling he could imagine as he pushes into you. The sounds that escape your lips echo back to you from the dim vaults of the ceiling, as if a host sings praises from on high of your pure ecstasies.

Your toes define gestures in the air above the two of you, and they soon begin to tingle. As if he knows every sensation you have, he chooses that toe-tingling moment to let you up, his cock slipping from you in the long slow movement of a wave sliding back down the beach. You sit up feeling warm, and pull your sundress up and over your head. As you do, a warm breeze stirs through the still-open chapel door and cools over the sweat of your body. At the same time it makes you aware that you are naked and being fucked in a holy place. There’s a chance that at any moment some innocent crone with delicate sensibilities will hobble in seeking a quiet moment of peace with her god, and instead will find herself introduced to your exciting new way to worship.

His smile once again, and he takes your upper arm firmly, his hand nearly big enough for his fingertip to touch his thumb around the circumference of your arm. He pulls you forward and you fall to your knees on the thinned velvet of the kneeling cushion. He comes behind you, his knees forcing your legs apart. From behind, his cock slides back inside your cunt, and your shoulders hunch as the fullness of his cock displaces the air from your lungs in an echoing gasp. Your hands grip the back of the pew in front of you, your knuckles pale against the darkly-stained wood. His hands slide up your taught belly and over your tits raising them up, and over the edge of the back of the pew. There they rest pale, glowing, and defining a golden-ratio curve in those great browned hands of his, while the tips of your nipples refuse to be contained by his fingers that slip over them.

He fucks you without mercy, driving into you repeatedly while he ushers forth a snake of words that are heavily weighted by round vowel sounds and writhe in the air behind you before streaming into you ears. You can’t focus enough to even begin to try to understand the language that flows into you, but somehow you are sure he speaks a sermon about how you are at the same time both a singular blessed pleasure, and a trinity of holes that require fulfillment.

One of his hands slides up your back and to the back of your head, gently, but assuredly pushing your head down.

“Pregare!” he commands you loudly. “Pregare! Implorare!”

“Jesus.” You respond. “Jesus Christ!” His cock filling you, lifting you with spirit up off your knees.

“Si! Supplicare!” Thick calloused fingers find your clit and bless it.

“Sweet Jesus Christ!” You yell out, head bowed low, his cock touching you deeply as his fingers play with your both your cunt and your soul. Your prayers are finally answered as you cum again, feeling your holy spirit flow out all over to baptize him.

He swiftly pulls from you, and steps up onto the seat of the pew in front of you, his cock throbbing and dripping in his hand, a look of a man with a fate that is sealed upon his face. You look up at him in wonder and adoration. He places one hand gently upon your head, among the golden halo of your hair. You open your mouth, your tongue resting on your lower teeth, awaiting his blessing. You hold your breasts in your hands, your nipples gently splaying your fingers. You cup your tits and offer that cup up to him, and it is his gaze upon your perfect bosom that brings forth his blessing. With his free hand he guides the tip of his cock to bestow it on your waiting tongue. You feel his salty warmth, his very life and love, spreading across your tongue and from there through your whole body.

Gasping, his body glistening, he collapses to sit in the pew in front of you. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, and kiss his neck devoutly.

He sighs and says, “Dirò molti Ave Marias per la confessione questa settimana!”

You respond the only way you know how. “Si!”

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