Angelina stepped out into the road this time, in the full light of the approaching wagon. This was no carriage, though it was definitely lit up like one. An old farm wagon with 4 lanterns at the post and a drunk at the reigns greeted her, not the stately transportation that she already passed up. Upon seeing the creamy, bare flesh of the woman in the road, the driver immediately stopped his horses in the muddy road.
His eyes drank in Angelina’s body, stopping lustily at her fiery snatch and her buxom chest. He licked his stubble-framed lips and took a healthy swig from his earthen jug.
“Ye lost, missy?” he said, slurring his speech horribly.
‘Great,’ Angelina thought to herself. ‘I’m in France.’
“Yes, sir,” she said, forcing herself to blush heavily under his gaze as she tried to cover herself.
“Father, actually!” he said happily, pulling his robe open just a hair to show her the dingy white collar. He quickly closed it again. “Need a ride? Some clothes, perhaps?”
“I’d kindly take both, Padre,” Angelina said, curtseying. She purposefully spread her wet pussy lips between her fingers, making sure the priest got a good look at them before straightening herself. She could practically feel his gaze upon her skin, and his thoughts were almost loud enough to hear. “Your kindness, Padre, will not go unrewarded,” she said, slinking sexily toward the wagon.
The priest slid over in his seat and reached behind himself to grab a cloak from under the bench seat. It was dry and warm, Angelina was thankful for that, and she was thankful for the rough texture of the material as well, as it raked across her pert tits and as she wiggled her bottom into place, the burlap somehow sensuous against her ripening pussy lips.
Angelina snuggled against the priest for warmth and he took the reigns again, slapping the wet leather against the horses.
“How did ye manage to get stuck WAY out here with no clothes on, missy?” the Priest asked after taking the time to wet his whistle.
“I don’t rightly know, Padre. The last thing I remember is being in the woods, walking for St. Agnes’s Convent and then there was a splitting pain on the back of my head,” Angelina said pathetically. “Padre, would you look to see if it’s all right?” Angelina pouted, turning her head away from the Priest. She felt his hands fumble on her head and as she twisted, she propped herself against his thigh. Her finger tips could just barely feel the crest of his manhood, slowly coming to life. The wool would offer little resistance to her nails and strength if she chose to open it like a wet paper bag.
“I’m not finding anything,” the priest said, his voice shaking. Angelina could feel the apprehension in his touch and the flesh jump under her fingers, but the scent of pheromones and whiskey were even stronger.
“Perhaps, you might, if you had better light?” she whispered and she put her head in his lap. Her teeth grazed the priest’s fat, albeit short, cock, still thickening in his pants. Her hand stroked it gently as a child would stroke a puppy. The priest cleared his throat and patted her head, pretending to look for any sign of wound.
“Child?” Padre asked.
Angelina responded by slicing a hole in his pants with her fingernails, the smell of his exposed sex wafting to her nose like perfume. “Yes, Father?” she breathed against his cock as it rose and brushed against her lips.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he murmured. Angelina laughed delightfully in the night, her fingers joining her lips on his pride.
“No Father, not yet you haven’t.”
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