Three days before Christmas, snow was about to fall in thick curtains over the sleeping suburb.

Inside her sister’s house, everything smelled of fresh pine, cinnamon, and the mulled wine forgotten on the coffee table. Christmas lights blinked red-green-gold, throwing dancing reflections across the white walls.

Emma closed the front door behind her and shook the snow from her ankle boots. At 26, she was one of the youngest nuns in her convent. She wore a long black pleated skirt, immaculate white blouse buttoned to the throat, rigid black whalebone corset beneath that squeezed her breath and pushed her natural breasts upward.

She had babysat all evening while her sister was on duty at the hospital. The kids were finally asleep upstairs.

The doorbell rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone else. She frowned, crossed the hallway, yanked the door open.

Benoît.

Even though she hated him, she couldn't deny that he was a handsome man. He was tall, broad, ridiculous red Christmas jumper stretched across his chest.

He stepped inside without waiting, kicked the door shut with his heel.

“Merry Christmas, Sister Emma. Still no full veil? Shame. I love it when it’s nice and tight.”

She folded her arms, eyes like green ice.

“The kids are asleep. You weren’t supposed to come. Get out.”

He pulled off his beanie, shook out his dark hair, looked her up and down with that smirk she had hated for ten years.

“You are still frigid as ever from what I can see. Must be handy for the convent.”

“Fuck off, Benoît.”

He walked past her into the living room without waiting for consent.

“Just a coffee. It’s minus six out there.”

Ten minutes later they were sitting on the sofa, a metre apart, silence broken only by the voices of the little Christmas carolers filtering in from outside. He turned his mug between large hands. She stared at the tree, jaw clenched. He broke first, voice low.

“Your sister told me you’ve never come in your life. True?”

She turned her head slowly, eyes blazing.

“Here's something: you must be very unhappy to feel compelled to make comments like that.”

He smiled, set the mug down, stood. Glanced up the stairs (no sound), then at the huge picture window overlooking the snow-covered garden. The Christmas lights reflected in the black glass like an obscene cinema screen. He stepped toward her.

“Come here.”

She didn’t move.

“Go fuck yourself,” she replied coldly.

"That's not a very Christian way to respond to an invitation," he said, half-laughing.

He closed the distance in two strides, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her toward the window. She resisted but without conviction.

He caught her wrist and pinned it above her head against the freezing pane. The icy glass bit into her back through her blouse.

“Look outside,” he breathed against her ear. “That's the magic of Christmas. Just snow, the little Christmas carolers, and Christmas lights about to shine on that holy little body I'm about to wreck.”

Emma felt the blood drain from her face at his words.

“Now turn around,” he ordered.

Without fully understanding why, she obeyed, or, at least her body did.

He pressed himself against her, his hips flush against her rounded ass, her breasts crushed between the corset and the frozen glass, his hands braced on either side of her. He simply held her there, his mouth hovering an inch from the sensitive skin of her neck. Then, slowly, deliberately, he brushed his lips along the line of her throat, warm breath, barely a touch. Goosebumps erupted instantly across her skin. She tried to swallow the sound, but a small, involuntary moan escaped her lips, soft and treacherous.

Her hands, which moments earlier had been pressing against the window in a half-hearted attempt to resist, relaxed. The anger was still there, burning in her green eyes, but something else flickered beneath it, something that made her hips shift almost imperceptibly against him.

And he felt it.

Smiled against her skin.

He undid her buttons one by one, slowly. The blouse parted, revealing the black corset laced tight, her pale breasts spilling over the edge. He growled, slipped two fingers under the rigid fabric, pinched a nipple already hard from the cold. She sucked in a sharp breath.

“Who’d you wear this for, Emma? Jesus? Or so you’d feel nicely strangled?”

She glared murder, “Fucking asshole.”

He grinned, slid his hand lower, bunched the long skirt up to her waist. Discovered opaque black tights… and nothing underneath.

“Jesus Christ… no panties? You’re a repressed little slut after all.”

With a swift, brutal movement, he slid his hand inside her tights between her legs. The contact of his cold fingers struck her damp skin, and she moaned involuntarily. With his other hand, he freed his cock, already rock-hard, pressed it between her arse cheeks.

“Perks of nuns: I hear they're always really fucking tight. Let’s test that theory.”

He lowered her tights and then slammed into her in one thrust, balls-deep. She arched, mouth open against the glass, leaving a perfect circle of hot breath. Her red hair soon became soaked with sweat and stuck to the freezing pane.

“Fuck… you’re drenched,” he rasped, starting to pound her, each stroke making her tits bounce against the window. The Christmas lights painted red-green flashes across her flushed skin, across her arse slamming back against him. He fisted a handful of red hair, yanked her head back.

"You're... hghu... an asshole."

Hearing her hateful words excited him to the highest degree.

“Say it again, slut," he said, tightening his grip on her hair and giving more violent thrusts.

She panted, voice broken, “Fucking… hgh... bastard…”

He sped up, other hand gripping the corset like a handle, fucking her so hard the glass rattled faintly. Her knees buckled, sweat ran down her neck, plastering more copper strands to the pane in wet clumps.

She came first, a ragged scream tearing from her throat, muffled against the glass as her whole body convulsed.

“Look at you, little nun... coming all over your sister’s ex’s cock near Christmas Eve. You’re just a filthy whore in holy clothes.”

In the throes of it, the words slipped out in a broken, desperate whisper:

“Oh God… I’m sorry…”

He laughed low against her ear, never slowing his thrusts.

“God’s not the one making you come, Emma. I am. So you should scream my name, not His.”

The blasphemy hit her. Her body betrayed her again, another orgasm ripped through her immediately, harder, her walls clenching around him as she sobbed his name against the glass, half curse, half prayer.

He kept pounding through both of her climaxes, harder, until he finally pulled out and shot thick ropes of cum across her lower back and the black corset. With his thumb, he smeared a little across her skin, tracing a mocking cross first on her forehead, then dragging it slowly over her trembling lips like a blasphemous absolution.

They stayed like that ten seconds, panting, breath fogging the glass, her red locks glued to the window in sweaty ropes. He zipped up.

“Merry Christmas, Sister Emma. I’ll be back tomorrow. I know your sister is on duty and I have two more holes to test.”

She turned slowly, let the skirt fall, buttoned up with shaking fingers. The corset was streaked with sweat and cum. She looked him straight in the eyes, the taste of him on her lips that she resisted savoring, her voice hoarse: “If you come back, I’ll kill you.”

He smiled, pulled his beanie on.

“Promise I will.”

He walked out into the snow.

She stayed alone, breasts still crushed in whalebone, cum trickling down her spine, red strands plastered to the icy pane, Christmas lights still blinking over her ruined face.

Outside, the snow began to fall, a pristine white.

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