Ignatius is vaguely aware that he is blaspheming, but that presumably ranks somewhat lower among the sins he is concurrently committing. Not that he is counting anymore.
Carla is straddling him, looking down on him with an impish smile on her face. She’s curled her thumb and index finger into a tight ring around the base of his straining cock, keeping him hard but wanting, while she uses the sensitive tip to rub her warm, wet self against. Ignatius thinks he may well die of frustrated desire, but Jesus, what a sweet way to go.