Isabella Contarini kneels in the confessional of Santa Maria della Pietà, her nun’s habit scratching against skin that has never known a man’s touch but burns with wanting it. Beneath the coarse black wool, she wears her secret shame: delicate lace lingerie, a garter belt, stockings with seams running up her thighs. Two weeks since her family locked her away for desires confessed only in her diary.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Sinned?” The voice is darker, French-accented, making her thighs clench. “Or simply imagined what your body was designed for?”
“Donatien Alphonse François, Marquis de Sade.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“Tell me what you’ve imagined, Isabella.”
“I imagine being taken. Claimed. Hands in my hair. A dominant man, his eyes hungry. And I imagine being punished. Bent over, skirts lifted, spanked until I’m crying and wet and begging.”
Her hand slides uncontrollably beneath her habit, finding heat beneath lace.
“They found drawings in my diary. Women over men’s laps. Reddened skin and tears and pleasure. They called me depraved.”
“That’s femininity, not depravity.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Step out. Let me show you what those drawings really feel like.”
She stands on shaking legs and opens the door. Seeing Him in the shadows, radiating authority.
He sits on the confession bench and gestures to his lap.
She positions herself across his thighs. The habit bunches, revealing the beautiful lace lingerie, the garter belt, the stockings. Her bare bottom exposed between delicate straps and lace.
His hand pauses, appreciating. “You wore this. Even here. You knew.”
The first strike lands with a crack. Sharp. Burning. Perfect against skin framed by lace.
By ten, she’s crying and wet and exactly where she belongs.
The fifteenth strike sends her over the edge. She comes violently, sobbing against his thighs, her reddened skin burning between garter straps, her untouched body experiencing its first climax from nothing but his hand and her honest need.
“There,” he whispers, gentle now. “That’s who you really are.”
She slides from his lap, trembling, tears streaming, transformed.
“I’m yours,” she sobs. “Whatever you ask. However you want me. I pledge my obedience to you, Marquis. Completely.”
He touches her tear-stained face with unexpected tenderness.
“The garden wall. Midnight. Wear exactly this. Your education has begun, my obedient Isabella.”
The Church forced her to kneel in penance.
Tonight, she’ll kneel for something far more sacred.
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