Forgive Me Father, I’m Still Wet(1)

Rain hit the church roof in heavy sheets. Stained glass showed dark against the gray afternoon. Single candle flame flickered near the altar, leaving the rest of the sanctuary in cold shadow.

I pulled the confessional door open and stepped inside, shutting it tight behind me.

The booth was narrow and cold. My seven-month belly brushed against the wooden partition as I turned and sat on the bench. The movement made my dress stretch tight across my stomach and hips. I pressed my knees together and let out a slow breath.

On the other side of the carved screen, fabric shifted. A floorboard groaned under sudden weight.

Father Thomas was already sitting there.

I didn’t wait for his blessing.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” My voice stayed low through the wooden grate. “It’s been one week since my last confession. And I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Silence.

I leaned forward, pressing my palm flat against the cool, rough lattice screen.

“I had a dream last night,” I whispered against the wood. “You were wearing the collar. You grabbed my arm in the hallway outside the sacristy, pulled me inside, and locked the door. You didn’t say a word. You forced me down onto my knees right on the hard floor.”

Through the screen, I heard a sudden, sharp intake of air.

“You tore the front of my dress open,” I continued. “You pulled your cock out and pushed it straight into my mouth. You held the back of my head with both hands, fingers tangled in my hair, fucking my throat until I choked. When you came, you held my jaw shut so I had to swallow every bit of it.”

His breathing through the grate turned thick and heavy.

I shifted on the seat, dragging the hem of my dress up over my knees. Under the heavy fabric, I slid my right hand between my legs. No underwear. My fingers touched bare skin and wet heat right away.

“I woke up soaked,” I said, sliding two fingers down over the wet folds. “I had to spread my legs wide in the dark and work my clit just to sleep. I was thinking about your hands the whole time.”

A shadow behind the lattice moved. His hand pressed against the opposite side of the screen, right where mine rested. Broad fingers blocked out the faint candle glow.

“I’m touching myself right now,” I whispered, pumping two fingers slow and steady into the slick heat. “Two feet away from you. It’s running down my inner thigh. I keep thinking about your hands gripping this bump. About you turning me around, bending me over the altar rail, and driving yourself deep inside me while I’m already carrying another man’s baby.”

A rough exhale hit the wood.

I rubbed a firm, fast circle over my clit. My breath hitched.

“I come here every week,” I rasped. “My dress gets wet every time you say ‘Go in peace.’ I don’t want peace, Father. I want you to ruin me. Break every vow you ever made.”

A metal latch clicked.

The heavy wooden partition between our booths unlatched and swung wide on iron hinges.

The barrier vanished.

Father Thomas stepped through the narrow frame into my side of the booth.

His broad frame filled the small compartment, blocking out the remaining light. His black clerical shirt stretched tight across his chest and shoulders. Rain glistened in his hair. His face was set hard, dark eyes dropping straight to my hand still buried between my bare thighs.

He stepped closer, his knee pinning mine against the bench.

His right hand shot out, large fingers clamping firm around the front of my throat. His broad thumb locked under my jawline, forcing my head back against the wall.

“On your knees.”

His voice came out deep and gravelly.

“Right now. Mouth wide open.”