Wrath of the Sinfully Pregnant

Make impregnation kink sex story of a woman who acts all morally high and religious but in actuality is just a repressed horny slut

Her churchgoing, perfectly wholesome voice was a lie. “Father would be ashamed,” she clucked in that sickeningly pious tone, staring at the stained-glass Jesus above me with her head bent just enough to look virtuous. Her knees pressed together under the flimsy skirt, fingers twisting the pearls at her throat—like she didn’t know what they were doing to her with just that little display. I laughed, low and real, and reached under the pulpit to pull her skirt tight over my thigh. She gasped, but it wasn’t alarm. Her breath hitched when the heat of my erection seeped through the fabric. “He’s the one who *told* you to stop me? Or is this the part where you *pretend*?” The tip dug wet against the cotton, already so slick I knew she hadn’t been wearing panties all this time. Prude. Her back arched when I shifted, the fabric parting just enough to expose the soft, pink flesh of her calf. “Stop it,” she whispered, but her hips lifted, pressing deeper into my palm. I slid the leather glove off my wrist and gripped her slender one, lacing our fingers together, pulling until she whimpered. “You’re *wet* for this.” I gave the skirt another sharp tug, the sound it made between her thighs obscene. “The way you tell the congregation ‘men are sinful beasts’? You’re just *lying* to them. Say it.” “I *hate*—” Her words cut off as I bent two fingers inside her damp pussy, circling that desperate, swollen clit. Shuddering, she clutched the edge of the kneeler, nails digging white marks into the wood. “I *hate* temptation.” I grinned against her ear. “Then why are you *moving*—” Fuck, she ground down, grinding into my glove, the wet sound filling the confessional booth. “Fuck, why does that even feel so *good*—?” Her voice cracked. “Because you’re sick of pretending,” I murmured. “One taste, and they’ll all know what you really are.” Her knees slipped apart. Her lips were parted just enough for me to pinch them, forcing out a strangled cry as I pushed them down the length of my cock. *So fucking tight.* Her eyes squeezed shut, lashes glistening with stolen pleasure. “You’re going to take this like a little church slut,” I told her, voice rough. “And afterwards? We let them find out." She swallowed, hips rocking before she even could stop them, because she *wanted*—the sinful bastard inside her. My grin split wide as I heard the desperate, wet *pops* echoing through the booth.

Her skirt rode up with the thrust, the thin cotton clinging to my cock and her throbbing cunt, stretching taut over her hips as I drove her onto me. The pearl beads around her throat jangled when she clawed at the air, her body betraying the holiness of her voice—each word now a whimper, a gasped plea that dissolved into nothing as I buried deeper. “*Oh—!*” She stammered, fingers clawing at the pulpit’s edge, the splinters digging into her palms like penance for her real sins. The wet sound of her fucking herself was louder now, the fabric slurping between her thighs with every push down, her clit already swollen and begging for more friction. “That’s it,” I growled, yanking her hand free from mine so she could palm her own breast, fingers pinching hard through the fabric. “You’re *dripping*—all over my thigh. Can’t even keep your little hymn-singing cunt *closed*.” Her nails scored the wood, but she didn’t stop—couldn’t stop—as her body took over, her hips lifting and grinding with every breath. The fabric between us was soaked through, the lace of her dress clinging to the backs of her thighs, every movement rubbing them against my palm, the heat of her spread between us now undeniable. “You’re *ruining* your virtue,” I told her, thumb pressing into the tender flesh of her inner thigh, forcing her legs wider, the skirt’s edge now fully pulled aside, exposing the glistening lips of her pussy. “And you’re *loving* it.”

Make the woman get addicted to the thought of getting caught or exposed. The woman desires to get bred and always wants risky sex.

Her breath came in sharp, fractured bursts as she realized—*fuck*—the confessional booth wasn’t as soundproof as she’d thought. The rustle of my zipper, the slick drag of her cunt against my thigh, the muffled whine of her nails scraping the stained wood—all of it was *just loud enough*. That knowledge sent a jolt straight to her clit, making her gasp harder, hips stuttering as I palmed her ass, squeezing until she moaned. “*Please*—” The word died as I dragged a finger along her trembling lips, her own cream coating the fabric now slick and dark. “You’re *leaking*.” She rocked down again, fingers tangled in the lace of her dress like she was begging for it. “They’ll—*God*, they’ll *hear*—” Her voice cracked, a desperate betrayal. “What if—? *Oh!*” I pinched her clit through the soaked cotton, the sharp sting pulling her gaze up—straight to the glowing eyes of the crucified Jesus above us. His judgment felt like a brand. “He won’t mind,” I laughed, rough and dark. “He’ll *watch*. And the more they hear you, the worse it gets.” I hooked my finger inside her throat of a pussy, twisting just enough to make her whimper. “One day, you’ll be doing this *with* them, not just for me.” Her legs trembled, knees spread wider, skirt fully hiked up. The cool air washed over her heated, exposed folds, the tip of my cock already gliding against her entrance, slick with both her arousal and the way she’d fucked herself half to ruin. She shook her head—*no*—but the need was a physical force, her body arching toward me, toward the sin, toward the *risk*. “*I’d like—* I’d like to be *filled*—” She couldn’t say it, but her gasp was an admission. Her hands fisted into her hair, tugging as I notched the tip against her, the fabric now just an obscene reminder of how close we were to being *found*. “Say it,” I demanded. “Say you want their *dirt* too.” She shuddered, eyes locked on mine, on the ceiling, on the door—anywhere but the truth. But her body didn’t lie. “*Yes*—” The word was barely out before I thrust all the way in, the sudden stretch dragging a cry from her lips. “*Oh—! *God!**—” She clutched the kneeler, her gasps turning into a raw, broken sob as I held her gaze, held her *accountable*. *They’ll all know soon enough.*

Her thighs locked around my waist, muscles quivering like she was trying to hold on—but not to me. To the *thoughts* I was forcing her to face. The confessional booth was a tomb, dark and suffocating, the weight of my body pinning her against the wall as I dragged her down with the next brutal thrust, the lace of her dress scraping against the wood like a warning. The sound of her pussy gripping my cock was all fleshy teeth and slick wetness, a hungry, *desperate* thing that betrayed her every lie about virtue. “*Oh!*—*oh!*—” Her nails raked my shoulders, deep furrows drawing blood, her breath hot against my neck as she bit down on her lip, thighs trembling wider around me. “They—*God*, they’ll *come*—” A fresh wave of need crashed through her as I imagined the door swinging open, the parishioners on the other side frozen in shock—or worse, *delight*—as they watched the pastor’s daughter taking his cock like a sinner, her body already betraying her with every gasp, every whimper that slipped through the cracks in the booth. I gripped her hips harder, driving them down to meet my thrusts with the same filthy rhythm. “You’ll *want* them to,” I murmured, my lips brushing her ear before I bit the lobe hard enough to make her shriek. “You’ll crave the way their eyes stare at you, at your *used* little cunt, at how *full* you are. How *broken*.” She arched against me, the sobs spilling from her lips now desperate, her body a live wire of need. “I *can’t*—!” Another thrust, and her legs shook so hard I could feel the way her pussy clenched tighter, already milking me. “—*stop*—!” I didn’t let her. A rough sound tore from her throat as I reached between us, fingers hooking into the scrap of fabric between her legs, ripping it clean off—only for her to press her bare, glistening flesh right back against me, as if the exposure only made it worse. Her clit throbbed under my palm, swollen and bruised from the way I’d toyed with it earlier, and she ground it against the calloused skin, her moan a raw, broken thing. “*Fuck* me—” Her gasps turned into broken pleas. “—*anywhere*—”