The church of St. Agnes was a haven of stillness at 9 p.m., its ancient walls bathed in the faint glow of candlelight. Sister Beatrice, 26, knelt in the alcove beneath the stage, her rosary beads cool against her fingers. She’d been a nun since 19, her life a tapestry of prayer and discipline, untouched by the world’s temptations. The alcove, a hidden nook for private devotion, was her sanctuary tonight, its air heavy with the scent of wax and polished wood. Her soft murmurs—Ave Maria, gratia plena—blended with the silence, a rhythm as steady as her heartbeat.
A creak interrupted her focus. She paused, lips still forming the prayer. The parish had hired an electrician to fix the stage lamps, which flickered during Mass, but she hadn’t expected him tonight. The creak came again, followed by the scuff of boots and the metallic clink of a toolbox. Beatrice considered climbing out to acknowledge him, but the alcove’s seclusion was precious, and her prayers were unfinished. He’d work above, unaware of her presence below, and she’d carry on. She bowed her head, resuming her recitation, her voice a whisper in the dimness.
The electrician stepped onto the stage, his shadow flickering through the slats above. Beatrice kept her eyes on her rosary, counting beads, but a shift in the light drew her gaze upward. He stood directly over the alcove’s narrow gap, legs apart, working on a cable box embedded in the floor. From her low angle, she could see his work boots, his worn trousers, and—her breath caught—a pronounced bulge where the fabric pulled tight. It was unmistakable, large and defined, even in the church’s soft glow. Her fingers froze on the beads, her prayer faltering. It was an accident, this view, a quirk of her position. She should look down, refocus, forget it.
But she couldn’t. Her eyes traced the shape, lingering despite the voice in her head screaming to stop. She’d never seen a man’s body so closely, her life cloistered and chaste. The bulge was just there, impossible to ignore, and a strange warmth stirred in her chest, spreading downward. Her cheeks flushed, her pulse quickened. She was a nun, sworn to purity, yet the sight held her captive. The electrician moved, adjusting his stance, and the bulge seemed more prominent, the denim outlining it with cruel clarity. Beatrice swallowed, her throat dry, and forced herself to whisper another prayer, but the words felt distant, like someone else’s.
He worked in silence, his hands steady with tools, oblivious to her below. The clink of metal, the rustle of his movements, filled the quiet church. Beatrice’s gaze remained fixed, her rosary forgotten. The alcove seemed smaller, the air charged with something she couldn’t name. Her breath came faster, her body awake in a way it had never been. The bulge was so close, inches from her face, and a forbidden thought crept in: what would it be like to touch it? Just once, to know. She shook her head, mortified, but the idea took root, growing with every second she stared.
Her hand moved, trembling, as if guided by some unseen force. She reached through the gap in the slats, her fingers brushing the denim. The contact was a shock, warm and firm, and she jerked her hand back, expecting him to react. He didn’t. His tools kept clinking, his focus unbroken. Her heart pounded, a mix of fear and a darker urge. She touched again, bolder, pressing against the bulge. It was solid, hot beneath the fabric, and it stirred, hardening under her fingers. A soft gasp escaped her, and a pulse flared between her thighs, her body betraying every vow she’d made.
He didn’t move, didn’t speak, and that silence was a catalyst. Her fingers, shaking but determined, found the zipper of his trousers. She gripped the metal tab, her breath shallow, and began to pull it down, agonizingly slow. The zip was a soft, deliberate sound, each tooth releasing like a countdown to ruin. She paused halfway, her eyes locked on the widening gap, the dark fabric of his underwear peeking through. Her pulse thundered, but he didn’t stop her, didn’t flinch. She tugged the zipper lower, fully open now, the denim parting to reveal the tight black briefs beneath. The bulge was even clearer, straining against the thinner material, and her mouth watered, a reaction so alien it terrified her.
Her fingers hooked the waistband of his briefs, hesitating for a heartbeat. Then, with a slow, deliberate pull, she dragged them down, inch by inch, until his cock sprang free. It unfurled like a dark promise, big and veiny, circumcised, the head smooth and glistening in the church’s flickering light. It was massive, thick enough to make her breath hitch, the veins pulsing with a life of their own. A faint, musky scent hit her—clean but primal, intoxicating—and the tip gleamed with a bead of precum, catching the candlelight like a sinful jewel. Beatrice stared, hypnotized, her pure nun’s lips parting as if drawn by a spell. She was a virgin, untouched, but in that moment, she was a whore, her body screaming for something she’d never known.
She leaned forward, her lips brushing the glistening tip, the taste of him sharp and salty. Her mouth opened wider, and she took him in, the shift from purity to filth complete. His cock filled her, stretching her jaw, the weight of it obscene on her tongue. She moaned, a low, slutty sound, and sucked deep, her lips sliding down the veiny shaft, her tongue lapping at the underside. It was her first cock, her first anything, and she was ravenous, bobbing her head, gagging but greedy for more. The wet, filthy sounds echoed in the alcove, a sacrilege in God’s house, and her cunt throbbed, dripping into her habit. She didn’t touch herself—sucking him was enough, the act pushing her to a brink she’d never imagined.
He stayed silent, unmoving, letting her work his massive cock like the good little whore she’d become. She felt him tense, the veins pulsing harder, and she knew he was close. She sucked deeper, her lips stretched tight, her throat burning as she took him to the hilt. When he came, it was a torrent—hot, thick cum flooding her mouth, spilling down her throat. She swallowed it all, gulping like a slut, not letting a drop escape, her body trembling with a pleasure she couldn’t name. She kept sucking, slurping his shaft for minutes, licking every inch clean, her lips swollen and slick. Finally, she pulled back, wiping her mouth with a shaking hand, her breath steadying.
Beatrice adjusted her habit, picked up her rosary, and resumed her prayers, her voice calm, as if she hadn’t just defiled herself. Above her, the electrician zipped up, his movements casual. He finished fixing the lamps, the stage now glowing steadily, and packed his tools. Without a glance, without a word, he left the church, his boots fading into the night like any other workday.
Beatrice knelt in the alcove, her lips still tingling, her body alive with a secret she’d carry forever. She was a nun, pure to the world, but she’d tasted the forbidden, and it was hers alone.
