Tip Show 8/17/19

Poem: “Difficult Damsels” by Nikita Gill

Not all girls are made of sugar
and spice and all things nice.

These are girls made of dark lace
and witchcraft and a little bit of vice.

These are daughters made claw first
and story-mad, tiger-roar and wolf-bad.

These are women made of terrible tempests and savage storms and the untamed unwanted.

These are damsels made of flawless fearlessness, made of more bravery than knights have ever seen.

These are princesses made of valor and poison alike, and they are here to hold court as your queens.





Story: Hellfire by LadyBookWormWithTeeth
The confessional was old and crooked, hidden in a dark corner of the small church. When Belle stepped inside, the wood creaked under the heels of her shoes and she could swear she heard Father Gold's breathing getting caught in his throat as he was made aware of her presence.

Behind the curtain and inside the booth, there was almost no light and the overall effect was oppressive, suffocating. That was probably the desired effect though, to make people want to leave so that they'd talk quickly.

“It happened again,” she whispered at the silhouette of the priest. He wasn't looking at her, but she could see he was paying attention.

His voice was already breathless when he replied, “You're not being honest, child.”

“It's the truth, Father,” she told him.

“I know it's the truth, but you're not taking responsibility. Things like that don't just happen.”

Belle listened closely to the sound of his voice. She doubted he spoke like that to any other member of his congregation. He wasn't chastising her. If anything, she would define his tone as famished. She wondered if he'd been awaiting this meeting just as much as she had.

She nudged closer to the window that separated them. Father Gold took a deep breath and she knew that he was searching for her scent.

“I touched myself again, Father,” she told him, and then went quiet to listen for his reaction.

He swallowed nothing in his mouth and his lips opened with a parched sound. “Tell me.”

She couldn't help but tease. “Do you want the details, Father?”

“Yes.”

“Every night, since my last confession. I just couldn't sleep without it.”

“And today?”

“In the morning.” She paused. “And once before coming to see you.”

“Is it still the same as before?”

Belle twisted her hands on her lap. “I believe they're getting more depraved.” She waited for him to ask again, but he didn't. “Should I go on, Father?”

She left the teasing out of her voice this time, giving him the chance to ask her to stop, as he'd done before. He was as aware as Belle that she should not be here. She wasn't a catholic, and she sure as hell was not in search of penitence. No matter how many Hail Marys he ordered her to pray, she'd be back in his confessional next week – Fridays at eight, that had become their meeting time – detailing her thoughts for his pleasure. She'd be back every week until he told her they shouldn't do this anymore.

“Yes, child,” he finally said. “Tell me. I want to hear your sins.”

Belle pressed her knees together, her core beginning to pulse. She'd never touch herself in his confessional and, as far as she could tell, neither had he. It didn't mean it hadn't crossed her mind before, or that the urge to do it didn't burn inside of her every time he asked her to speak.

“I think of touching you,” she told him, her voice no more than a whisper. “I want to be on my knees while you use my mouth.”

“That isn't enough, child,” he whispered back. “Tell me more.”

“I want to kneel at the altar after mass, when everyone is gone, and I want you to put your penis inside me-”

“Was that the word you thought of?”

His interruption surprised her. Usually, he'd listen quietly and only speak in between her sentences.

“No, Father.”

“Then say it again. Be sincere.”

The confessional felt so stuffy and Belle was beginning to sweat.

“I want you to put your cock in my mouth,” she said, all words in one breath. “And then I want you to fuck it until you're satisfied.”

Belle could hear the sound of his tongue wetting his lips.

“Is this what you thought about as you touched yourself?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“In addition to everything else you've told me in the past.”

“Yes.”

“Do you still think of my fingers touching your sex?”

“I do.”

“Do you still want me to punish you for your transgressions?”

Belle sighed and pressed her thighs even closer together.

“I do.”

He sighed, the sound of it heavy, heated with pleasure just as much as guilt.

“Are you repented, child?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Liar,” he said, and Belle could detect a hint of humor in his voice.

She smiled in the dark.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, and Belle got ready to wish him a good night the moment he asked her to leave.

Then, he said, “I could help you repent.”

The suggestion was meek, barely audible, but it still sent a chill down Belle's spine.

“What did you say?” she asked, thinking he'd dismiss her with an excuse.

Instead, he repeated, “I could help you repent. If that is what you want.”

Belle pressed her lips together not to jump into an impulsive answer. As far as she knew, he was offering to teach her how to pray her lust away in Latin. And yet, she could hear the guilt that always seemed to permeate his voice whenever he made an unsavory request.

“I want that,” she decided.

“Then come into my office.”

Belle opened her mouth to ask, “Now?” but he was gone before she could speak. She pushed aside the curtain just in time to see the back of his black clothes leading her into a corridor.

Belle had never been to his office before, though she'd thought of it often enough. In her imagination, it was covered in religious symbols and other more distasteful objects. Canes and paddles, mostly, though chains had once or twice made an apparition. She'd also pictured a Victorian table in front of stained glass windows, large enough that she could be either lied on top of, or bent over it. A leather couch and matching armchairs stood in front of it, though they hardly ever used those in her fantasies.

Reality was far from glamorous. Bare naked walls covered in nothing but a single image of Christ crucified. An old cupboard stood at her left, and she doubted it contained anything but bibles. Plastic chairs stood in front of a dull, wooden table. Not as large but, were it not for the old computer and all the paperwork cluttering it, still big enough to be bent over.

I'm going to hell , she told herself, which had become her personal mantra ever since Father Gold had moved into town.

He didn't turn around when the sound of her heels reached the office and Belle was left staring at the back of his head as he closed the curtains. Regular windows, not stained glass, but it was satisfying to see they were behind his desk. One small detail she'd gotten right.

Belle looked around. There was a dusty couch right behind her. Should she sit down? Or should she take one of the plastic chairs? Should she kneel? This wasn't the altar, but she'd still do it. Then, when he turned around, she'd be waiting for him on her knees, her lips open and inviting...

The thought of was so thrilling that her legs almost gave in, but she stopped herself in time. It was best to wait for instructions. Perhaps all he wanted was to lecture her, or have a conversation about their less than Catholic behavior.

Yes, he was going to turn around and say that this couldn't go on.

But when Father Gold let go of the curtains and looked at her, he didn't speak, giving her time to examine his face. There were deep lines on his skin, but he didn't seem to be much older. Belle had placed him around forty five, though his gray hair was beginning to turn white at the temples and his eyes seemed tired most of the time. Or miserable. Then again, Belle had always thought all Catholics looked a little miserable. Given how Sunday mass seemed to focus solely on the horrors of sin, she was beginning to understand why.

“I will not use you.”

His words were soft, but they reached her like an ultimatum. That was the line he was setting and she could decide whether or not she was willing to accept it.

“I understand,” she replied.

Underneath his black shirt, his chest inflated with a gulp of fresh air, then narrowed down again as he breathed out. He looked like he wanted a drink and Belle wondered if priests were allowed to touch alcohol, other than sacramental wine.

“We won't be doing this again,” he said, and it sounded to her that he was making a promise to himself, rather than giving her a warning.

Belle tried to give him a smile. “What is it that we won't be doing?”

He came forward. “Would you trust me to punish you, child?”

Her eyes darted to the desk that now stood behind him. Father Gold caught her glance and followed it, going as far as to look over his shoulder. When he turned back, there was a smirk on his face that painted her cheeks red. He knew what she was thinking. She'd been confessing her fantasies to him for five weeks now, and he hadn't forgotten one.

“Not quite what I had in mind,” he said, taking a step back to lean on the desk.

“You thought of something better?”

Father Gold crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at the carpet. When he spoke again, it sounded like he was the one making a confession, and it made her think for the first time about how it would feel to switch places with him. She could steal his shirt and collar and listen closely to his voice in the confessional booth, as he poured his own fantasies into her ear.

“I want you to lie across my lap, with your legs spread open.”

His body was rigid and she could see the words didn't come easy to him, but he still managed to get them out.

Belle frowned. “I don't see how that would make the spanking any easier, but I-”

He raised a hand to stop her and started saying, “No, that's not-” But cut himself short. After a allowing himself a second to think it through, he tried again, “I'm suggesting something different. I don't want to-” He swallowed the word as if it was too perverted to come through his lips. “Not your backside.”

“Oh,” Belle said, finally understanding. Gold looked just as relieved as he looked mortified now that they were on the same page. She nodded. “Yes.”

“Yes?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

For a moment, Belle could see his jaw tighten and she knew he was fighting back the urge to call the whole thing off, but then he took a step forward, all his caution pushed aside. He didn't look at her on his way to the couch.

“Come sit with me, child,” he said, tapping the empty space on his right.

Much like him, Belle avoided his eyes and took the place assigned for her. It crossed her mind that she had never been this close to him. If they saw each other in church or on the streets, they made sure to keep a safe distance, especially if there were other people around. The confessional booth had been the closest she'd ever gotten to him, and even then there was a window keeping them apart. Right now, she could feel the fabric of his shirt against her naked arm, making all her hairs stand up.

“Lie down.”

Belle eyed his lap only for a second before complying to his request, laying her torso over his thighs and throwing her legs over the arm of the couch. Though he could have touched her and she wouldn't have resisted it, Gold kept his hands up.

“Lift your skirt for me,” he rasped, eyes already on the space between her legs.

Though she could've done it in one swift movement, Belle used both of her hands to pull her circle skirt slowly above her waistline, her fingers working the fabric in a slow motion. He didn't seem to mind as her hemline revealed inch by inch of her pale thighs, until he could see her white cotton panties, plain except for a tiny bow under the belly button.

He didn't have to ask her to spread her legs. Belle kicked her heels off and brought her feet together. Her legs fell apart like the wings of a butterfly, and it wasn't until he placed his right hand over her sex that Belle began to wonder if he could feel a wet spot on the crotch of the fabric.

Father Gold said, “You're a beautiful woman.”

It occurred to her that he sounded miserable, but his touch was so overwhelming that the thought was pushed to the furthest corner of her mind and forgotten before she could fully understand it.

His middle finger tapped her three times and Belle forgot how to breathe. A prelude of things to come. If he kept her like this, spread opened and horny, giving her nothing but the soft tapping of his finger, he could very well drive her insane.

Belle feared he might do just that, teasing her until she begged to be spanked, but then he lifted his hand and came down on her with a muffled thud. Even though the slap was so careful it didn't hurt, her entire body trembled in shock.

Father Gold looked at her, awaiting her consent.

Belle stretched her arms above her head and waited.

The second slap was harder, but it still barely stung.

She nudged him with her knee. “I'm stronger than I look.”

Though he didn't look at her, she could see him smiling. The next time his hand came down on her, it made her gasp.

Finally.

“Let's start with ten.”

“What if I'm not repented, Father?” she teased.

He replied with another slap. It was sharp enough to shut her up and to spread a smile on her lips.

“You need to count, child,” he told her. “Or else you won't learn. Let us start over.”

“Yes, Father.”

When nothing happened, he said, “You should speak first.”

“One,” Belle said, and he immediately gave her another slap.

His touch burned for a second, and then it died.

“Two.”

One more slap.

Belle waited a moment longer to see if he'd come down on her on his own volition, but he didn't. He was waiting for her consent.

“Three.”

Her body jolted at his touch, but the pain was just as short-lived. She spoke the next three numbers in a quick succession (“Four! Five Six!”) to see just how badly he could make it hurt, and the result was a promising burn that lingered on the meatiest part of her pussy. He went as far as to rub her afterwards to soothe her skin, and Belle had to concentrate not to move her hips to the rhythm of his hand.

Four more slaps.

That was all she was going to get.

She wanted the last one to hurt, so that she could take a part of him with her. It would give her something to remember him by if he left the mark of his fingers on her skin.

He didn't hesitate when she whispered the last four numbers in one single breath, and thought the pain of it would be more intense but, by the time the tenth slap began to die, Belle knew that it wasn't enough and the sigh that followed was almost sad.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

I don't want to leave you just yet .

“Nothing's wrong,” Belle answered, not looking him in the eye.

His middle finger began tapping again, right where her clit should be. When he traced a line on her crotch, she hummed softly.

“You're drenched, child,” he stated, his voice neutral. “This means you're still not sorry.”

“Maybe you should give me another ten.”

“Take your panties off first.”

The request caught her off guard, but she hurriedly obeyed before he could take it back. Getting rid of her panties without getting up made her feel clumsy, but he didn't seem to care for her lack of elegance. She was about to drop them on the floor, but he intercepted them and put them where she couldn't see.

Belle spread her legs again and the priest looked at her with such intent she almost brought her knees together in shame.

“You're smooth,” he remarked, running a single finger up and down her labia. “Does it feel better when you sin?”

Belle didn't know if she was shivering because of his voice or because of his touch, but it didn't matter. It felt good to be here, on the tip of his fingers, awaiting his punishment.

“One,” she said.

Gold stroked his way up one last time, then slapped her naked skin more forcefully than before, a little closer to her core.

Yes.

She could feel this.

“Belle?”

“Two.”

It wasn't as easy to take his punishment now, his hand stinging more against her bare skin than through the cotton fabric of her panties, but Belle couldn't help but think of it as an improvement.

She reached “Seven!” with a little squeal, and suddenly the numbers stopped making sense. They didn't mean a thing to her other than more, I want more, and she recited them to the ceiling without a second thought.

When she reached, “Eleven!” he hesitated, a little confused, then asked, “Another ten?”

“Another ten. Eleven, please, eleven!”

And the sound of the smack rang in her ears like the crack of a whip. Her skin was burning and she could tell without looking that he was making her red, just as much he was making her soaked.

“Twelve-thirteen-fourt-”

Pain swallowed her words and she fumbled for his shirt blindly, looking for something to anchor herself. She panted to the ceiling.

“I'm waiting, child,” he said, his voice strict, though not entirely lacking in compassion.

“Fifteen.”

Belle brought her legs together, almost trapping his hand between her thighs.

“Spread them,” he ordered, a little more severe than before. “You still have five more to go.”

Belle swallowed the fear that had settled in her mouth and did as she was told.

“Sixt-”

She yelped helplessly and the sound echoed between the empty walls. The hand that had been holding on to his shirt went to cover her sex. The skin felt hot to the touch and she thought she could feel the imprint of his fingers.

“Arms up, child.”

Belle looked at him and shook her head, but something must have been clear on her face because he held her by the wrists and took her hands away, holding them above her head. Belle knew it would be easy to slip away from his grasp, but she wasn't going to.

“Only four more,” he said, and the number filled her with a wonderful sense of dread.

He was going to torture her four more times, and not only she'd have to take it, she'd have to ask for it.

“Seventeen.”

Three more , she told herself in the aftershock of his touch. Only three more .

“Eighteen.”

The burn of it, God, the wonderful, lingering burn.

“Nineteen!”

Her voice was close to a scream now. If anyone could hear her, she wouldn't care. Nothing else mattered but the feeling of hellfire between her legs.

“Twenty!”

His hand came down again, and this time it lingered to rub the sensitive skin after she instinctively closed her legs. Belle couldn't help but move her hips along, begging for his touch.

“Ten more?” he asked, though the suggestion was more of a taunt than an actual request.

Belle shook her head vigorously and he let go of her wrists, but she didn't move.

“Are you repented child?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, I'm repented.”

“Let me look at you.”

She spread her legs again and he probed at her lips, poking and pulling at them as she panted.

“You're still wet,” he stated, his voice as clinical as his touch. “But I don't think you'll be playing with yourself for a while, isn't that right?”

“No, I'll be good,” she whined.

Father Gold brushed a lock of hair off her forehead and smoothed down her arms. For the first time, she became aware of his erection, pressing on her back, but just as she began to think of it and all the things she might want to do with it, he pulled her up to a sitting position and it was gone.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

Though it wasn't a yes or no question, Belle nodded and fit her head on the crook of his neck. She wished he'd look down at her, bringing their faces close enough for a kiss, but maybe to avoid just that he continued to look forward, eyes on his cluttered desk, while he waited for her breathing to go back to normal.

Gold pushed down her skirt and helped her stretch her legs, for which she was grateful. She hadn't been in that position for very long, but they were starting to go numb.

Belle touched his collar with the tip of her fingers. Was a priest still a priest without his collar? If she pulled it off his neck, would that make him just a regular man? Could she kiss him then?

“Can you walk?” he probed, his voice full of caution, but still hitting her like a brick wall.

Back to reality.

“I can,” she answered, without even thinking it through.

Her first step tottered, but she regained her footing before he had the chance to offer his help.

“Where are my shoes?”

He pointed and she sat down on the arm of the couch to put them back on. Though she was sitting further away, Gold still got up to pace the room.

Belle looked around. “Where are my panties?”

“Hm?”

“My panties? I can't find them.”

Gold blinked at her. “I think fresh air might do you good.”

Belle would have laughed, had the situation been a little different. If he were her lover, for example, and not an illicit affair, a shameful secret to keep. Something he apparently couldn't wait to get rid of.

She got up and he made no mention of coming close to her, standing by his desk instead.

“I should go.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

“You don't want me to come back,” she said.

“This is the house of God, I can't bar you from coming.”

“But you don't want me to come back.”

He didn't answer.

“It doesn't matter, Father. I understand.” Belle turned around to leave, but threw him one last glance at the door. “I would have let you keep them, you know? If you'd asked me.”

Gold stared at her, shame coloring his features. It was a satisfying sight. Wherever he'd stored her panties for later use, he'd probably not be able to look at them for a little while.

He didn't want for her steps to die down the corridor before closing the door to his office, isolating himself from the rest of the world. Belle didn't break her stride and, as she reached the streets, a breeze came under her dress and licked her wet lips, freezing the burn he'd left on her skin. As disappointing as it was, Gold was right. The night air did do her some good, and pretty soon, it would erase any trace he had left on her skin.