Forgive Me, father I (Confessions in the Confessional)

I stepped into the church wearing a skirt way too short for a place like this. No panties underneath. No bra either. Just sin. Warm and wet between my thighs.

I wasn’t here to pray.

The air was cold, but my skin was hot every step echoing through the empty pews as I walked toward the back, where the confessional waited. I'd done this before. Twice. But today I was aching more than ever, pulsing with the kind of hunger only one man could feed.

Father Elijah.

Young. Clean-shaven. Blue eyes that looked straight through your soul. And a voice so deep it vibrated in your bones when he spoke. He never touched me. But he always listened. Listened while I told him what I touched, what I imagined, what I wanted.

I pushed open the little door and stepped into the booth. The scent of old wood and incense wrapped around me. I sat, legs spread just enough, skirt riding up my thighs, heart thumping.

Then I heard the door on the other side open.

He was here.

The wooden screen between us did nothing to dim the weight of his presence. I could feel him through the lattice, his quiet breath, the silence that stretched like a hand around my throat.

“Forgive me, Father,” I whispered, voice trembling not from guilt, but desire. “I’ve sinned.”

His voice came low and steady, sinful in itself. “What is your sin, child?”

My eyes fluttered shut as I leaned closer to the screen, letting my lips nearly touch the lattice. “I touched myself… thinking of you.”

There was a pause. Long. Heavy.

I imagined his hand clenching the armrest. Imagined his cock twitching beneath that black robe.

“Tell me what you did,” he said softly. Controlled. But I could hear the strain.

“I was in bed… naked. I spread my legs, touched myself with two fingers.” I licked my lips. “Then three.”

I heard a sharp breath from him. No response.

I kept going, slower, like I was savoring every word. “I imagined you behind me. One hand gripping my throat, the other pushing inside me. You called me your filthy little sinner.” My thighs pressed together. I was soaked.

“Do you feel guilty?” he asked, his voice rougher now.

“No,” I whispered. “I feel wet.”

The screen creaked he moved closer. I swear I could feel the heat of his breath through it.

“I should stop you,” he said.

“But you won’t,” I murmured. “You want to hear it. You want to know how loud I moaned your name.”

Silence. Then: “Say it again.”

“Elijah.”

His name left my lips like a prayer. That was the moment I knew I had him.

And I wasn’t stopping now.

I slid my fingers down, right there in the booth. Spread my thighs wider. The wet sounds were obscene in the quiet.

“I’m touching myself now,” I whispered. “And I’m so fucking wet, Father.”

He cursed under his breath. A priest. Cursing. For me. I pressed my forehead to the screen and moaned softly, slow and sweet. “Do you want to see?”

“No,” he said.

But his voice was shaking.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, you do.”

Then I did something no confessor had ever done.

I opened the door to the screen.

Just a crack. Just enough for his eyes to meet mine and then trail down my bare thighs to where my fingers were working between them, slick and glistening.

He looked.

He watched.

His lips parted, but no words came.

“Touch yourself,” I whispered. “Right here. Right now.”

He didn’t say a word.

But I heard the rustle of fabric. The sound of fabric shifting made my breath hitch.

He was touching himself. In the booth. In a church. While watching me rub my soaked pussy like a desperate, wicked girl who came not for forgiveness, but to corrupt the holy.

I didn’t stop moving my fingers. I wanted him to see me drip. To see what he did to me without even laying a hand.

“Say something,” I whispered, breathless. “Tell me what you see.”

A pause. Then that voice low, ruined, trembling.

“I see sin.”

My lips curled into a smile as my fingers circled faster. “Do you want to taste it?”

A sharp exhale. “You’re dangerous.”

“I’m your favorite kind of danger, aren’t I, Father?” I leaned closer, rubbing slow and deep, letting him see how swollen I was, how wet. “Your cock’s hard, isn’t it?”

His silence was louder than a confession. Then I heard it slow strokes, skin on skin. I bit my lip so hard I almost moaned out loud.

“Are you stroking it for me?” I asked, voice thick and teasing. “You want to come while I moan your name?”

He growled an actual, hungry sound. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“But I am. And you’re watching me finger myself like a filthy whore in your church.” I paused, licked my fingers, then shoved two back inside. “I’m so close.”

The screen creaked again as he leaned in. His voice was strained, broken. “Stop.”

“No.”

“Stop before I. . .” His breath caught.

“What?” I moaned, rubbing harder. “Before you burst in here and fuck me so hard the saints cry?”

Silence.

Then the door to his side slammed open.

My heart jumped.

Before I could react, the curtain to my booth was yanked open and there he was.

Father Elijah.

Hair mussed, eyes wild, one hand still inside his robe and the other clenched like he didn’t trust himself.

“You think this is a game?” he growled.

I spread my legs wider, fingers still buried in my heat. “Don’t pretend you haven’t imagined this.”

He stared. Jaw clenched. Cock visibly hard beneath the black cloth. For a second, I thought he’d walk away.

But then he stepped inside.

And shut the curtain.

The tiny space felt even smaller now. My heart pounded. My fingers didn’t stop.

“I should throw you out,” he said through gritted teeth.

“But you won’t,” I whispered, licking my lips. “Because you’re going to fuck me instead.”

A pause.

Then he dropped to his knees in front of me.

His hands reached for my thighs like he was still fighting with God himself. But the moment he touched me skin to skin he stopped pretending.

He parted my legs, ripped my hands away from my pussy, and dove in like a man possessed.

His tongue. His mouth. Holy fuck.

I gasped so loud I slapped a hand over my mouth.

But he didn’t stop.

He licked like he was starved. Like he’d dreamed about this moment every night after Mass. Every lick was deep, slow, worshipful. His tongue circled my clit, then plunged deep inside me.

“Oh my god,” I whimpered. “Elijah”

He grunted, sucked harder, then looked up at me with wet lips and fire in his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then what do I call you while you eat me like salvation?”

His grip on my thighs tightened. “Call me Father.”

That word left my mouth in a trembling moan. “F-Father…”

He kept going. I was writhing. Shaking. Trying to keep quiet but failing miserably. The confessional was filled with the wet, obscene sounds of my pussy being devoured.

Then he pushed two fingers inside fast, deep and curled them just right.

I shattered.

Legs clenching around his head. Mouth biting my fist. Back arching until I hit the wooden wall.

My orgasm ripped through me like a scream I wasn’t allowed to let out.

He didn’t stop until I was trembling.

Then he rose, towering over me. Robe parted. His cock thick, flushed, leaking at the tip pressed against my soaked folds.

His voice was rough. “You want to sin?”

I nodded, dazed. “Yes, Father.”

“Then open your mouth.”

“Open your mouth,” he said again, voice low and deadly calm.

My lips parted without hesitation. I was already on my knees in every way. For him. For the sin. For the thrill of being filthy beneath stained glass and holy silence.

His hand wrapped around his cock, thick and hard, veins bulging like he’d been holding back for too long. I watched a bead of precum drip from the tip. It glistened like communion wine except this was something darker. Dirtier.

He stroked once. Twice. Slow and deliberate.

Then he tapped the head against my tongue.

“Good girl,” he whispered.

My pussy clenched at those words.

I took him in slowly. The heat of him, the weight. My lips wrapped around the tip as I sucked, gently at first, letting him feel every inch of my mouth like a prayer sliding from my throat.

His hand tangled in my hair.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned under his breath. “You shouldn’t be so good at this.”

I moaned in response, the sound vibrating around his cock as I took him deeper. His hips jerked reflex, need, desperation. I looked up, letting my eyes lock on his.

He looked wrecked. Completely undone. One hand gripping the wooden panel of the confessional for balance, the other buried in my hair like a lifeline.

“God forgive me,” he muttered.

I pulled back, licking the underside of his shaft with slow, teasing strokes. “Why ask Him to forgive you… when I’m the one you’re using?”

His cock twitched in my hand and i smirked and went right back down.

Faster this time.

Sloppier.

Sucking like I was starving, my saliva dripping down his length, coating him with filth. The more he moaned, the more I lost myself in it.

“Fuck” he hissed, his grip tightening. “You want me to come down your throat, don’t you?”

I moaned around him. Yes. God, yes.

He began to thrust. Slowly at first, letting his cock slide deep between my lips as I gagged around him. My mascara had to be running by now. I could feel tears threatening to spill as he hit the back of my throat over and over again.

“You like this?” he growled. “You like choking on your priest’s cock?”

I nodded, lips sealed around him, moaning like the slut I was becoming.

“I should punish you,” he rasped. “But fuck you’re too good.”

He picked up the pace. My throat burned, jaw aching, spit dripping from the corners of my lips.

And I loved every second of it.

His breathing turned ragged. Hips jerking. Thrusts deep and sharp.

“I’m gonna come,” he growled. “You gonna swallow it like a good little sinner?”

I squeezed his thighs and sucked harder in response.

Then I felt it.

His whole body tensed.

A guttural moan ripped from his chest as hot cum spilled down my throat. Thick, salty, endless.

I swallowed every drop.

When he finally pulled out, I licked my lips clean and looked up at him through wet lashes.

He was staring at me like I’d ruined him. And maybe I had.

But I wasn’t done yet.

I stood slowly, my body still trembling from earlier, my thighs slick and aching for more.

He looked at me like he wanted to say something maybe stop this. Maybe run.

Instead, I pressed my body against his.

“Now bend me over this bench,” I whispered, “and fuck me like I’m the devil you’ve been praying to resist.”

His hands grabbed my waist so fast I gasped.

And in one motion he turned me around, bent me over the wooden seat, and lifted my skirt to reveal the dripping mess between my thighs.

No more words. . . Just raw, furious sin.

The second he bent me over, the sacred turned savage.

My cheek pressed against the cold wood of the confessional bench, legs spread, pussy soaked and dripping. I could feel him staring at it my heat, my ruin. The proof of how far gone I was.

He didn’t hesitate.

His hands slid up my thighs, rough and hungry, until they grabbed my ass and spread me wide. I moaned shamelessly, arching deeper, offering him everything.

“You’re trembling,” he muttered behind me, voice cracked and low.

I breathed out, “So take control.”

And he did.

One hard thrust no warning.

He slammed into me, thick and hot and pulsing, stretching me open in one brutal stroke that knocked the breath from my lungs.

“F-Fuck!” I gasped, clutching the bench for balance. “Father…”

“Say it again,” he growled, already pounding into me.

“F-Father!”

His hips snapped harder. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed in the tiny booth, mixed with my choked moans and the wet, obscene sounds of him fucking me raw.

“You think you can walk in here,” thrust, “spread your legs,” thrust, “and tempt me like this?”

His hand wrapped around my throat, pulling me up just enough for his mouth to brush my ear.

“You’re mine now.”

The words lit a fire in me.

I cried out as his cock drove deeper, hitting places that made my knees weaken and my eyes roll back. My body shook under the intensity of it all—every thrust, every filthy word, every ragged breath stolen in a place meant for purity.

His grip was unforgiving. My ass stung from where he slapped it, again and again, until I was dripping down my inner thighs.

“You like getting fucked in God’s house?” he growled.

“Yes,” I whimpered.

He pulled out slowly, letting his tip rest right at my entrance, teasing, torturing.

“Say it properly.”

I bit my lip. “I like getting fucked by my priest in his church.”

He slammed back in, groaning loud as I screamed into the wood.

It was relentless.

His thrusts grew wild, almost punishing, like he was battling every ounce of faith inside him but losing.

My legs started to give out. I was too close. My body felt like it was made of nothing but fire and sex and sin.

“I can’t. . .” I gasped, barely holding myself up.

“Yes, you can.” He wrapped one arm around my waist, holding me still as he pounded into me from behind, driving deeper, faster. “You’ll take every inch. You wanted this, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Father,” I moaned. “Please—don’t stop. . .”

He slid two fingers down to my clit and rubbed harsh circles, making me convulse.

“Oh God!” I cried out.

“Not God,” he growled into my ear. “Me.”

That was it.

I shattered.

A scream ripped from my throat as my orgasm slammed into me like holy fire. My body clenched around him, pulsing so hard he groaned and followed seconds after—thrusting deep, deeper, burying himself as his cum spilled inside me.

We stayed like that for a moment.

Breathing.

Ruined.

Sweating in silence.

Then, slowly, he pulled out. His cum dripped down my thighs, warm and thick, soaking the insides of my legs as I stood there, trembling.

He didn’t speak.

He just stared at me.

Like I was a temptation he’d tasted once and would never be able to resist again.

And I knew.

This wasn’t confession anymore.