The Confession Booth Part 1

Part One

The first time she came, he thought it was a test.

Friday evening, ten minutes before the last Mass, when the sun had already started bleeding out of the stained-glass windows and the old cathedral sat still with silence. She walked in like she wasn’t sure if she belonged there, head down, heels clicking lightly on the stone floor. Her body swayed under a long coat that kissed her calves. She didn’t genuflect. She didn’t cross herself. She didn’t even look at the altar.

Father Luca watched from the back of the pews, his fingers still looped around his rosary. He hadn’t seen her before. And he knew his parishioners. Too well, if he was being honest.

She sat in the pew for a few moments, then stood again. Confession hours were over. She didn’t care. She went straight to the booth.

He hesitated. The air was thick. Still. Heavy in the way that warned of storms. He should have walked away. Should’ve told her the booth was closed. Should’ve remembered what temptation wore when it strutted into Eden. But his feet moved without permission.

He stepped into the confessional.

Slid the partition open.

Waited.

Her voice came low and smoky, like she was halfway through a cigarette and a secret.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

His mouth was already dry. “How long has it been since your last confession?”

“Three days.”

Three days? His brow twitched. “Go on.”

A pause.

Then: “I touched myself to the thought of a man I shouldn’t want.”

Heat licked up his spine.

He clenched his hands beneath the black cloth, nails digging into his palm. He steadied his voice.

“You are not married?”

“No.”

“The man is?”

“No.”

“Then why do you believe it’s a sin?”

Her smile was audible. “Because he’s a priest.”

Silence.

Somewhere in the cathedral, a candle flickered.

His breath stilled.

He leaned back, spine scraping the old wood. Maybe this was a joke. A dare. A drunk woman playing with fire. He was about to shut the panel—

“But he’s beautiful,” she said, almost wistfully. “He speaks like he’s carving his words out of marble. And his hands… fuck, his hands. I imagine what they’d feel like between my thighs.”

He sucked in a sharp breath.

She heard it. And smiled.

“I’m sorry, Father. Does that make you uncomfortable?”

He said nothing.

“I imagine him pulling my panties down during morning prayer. Pushing my knees apart in the pew. Holding my mouth open while I moan his name like it’s a prayer.”

His cock twitched violently in his cassock. He crossed his legs. Grit his teeth. God, forgive me. God, forgive me.

She exhaled slowly. “Should I stop?”

He managed: “That’s enough.”

But he didn’t close the partition.

He sat there, listening to her breathe, the edge of her perfume ghosting through the tiny holes in the booth wall. Something expensive. Something wrong.

“Say three Hail Marys,” he said finally. “And mean them.”

She didn’t answer.

When he turned to check, the booth was empty.

---

She came again the next Friday.

And again the one after that.

Each time she painted new sins.

She described herself in bed, legs open, fingers deep, whispering his name between gasps. Once, she told him she’d worn nothing under her coat during Mass. That she’d sat in the pews dripping wet. Watching him speak about holiness while she imagined riding his cock in the sacristy.

He hated himself.

He hated that he listened.

He hated the way he started to imagine it, too.

That Friday, she took it further.

“I bought a toy,” she whispered.

He said nothing.

“A little pink one that fits perfectly in my pussy. It vibrates. Strong. I used it this morning.”

He exhaled, slow and unsteady.

“While I watched one of your old sermons. On YouTube.”

“Stop.” His voice cracked.

“You told us to surrender. So I did.”

“Stop.”

She didn’t.

“I came so hard I saw stars. I screamed. Then I cried. Then I came again.”

He stood abruptly.

The booth door swung open.

He stepped out—heart pounding, face flushed, shame curling tight in his gut. She was gone again. Like a ghost.

---

The breaking point came two weeks later.

He waited for her. Didn’t even try to lie to himself anymore. He sat in the booth, hard and aching before she even spoke.

“I dreamt about you,” she said.

He swallowed. Said nothing.

“You bent me over the altar.”

He twitched.

“You ripped my clothes and fucked me until I forgot my own name.”

His cock pressed against his thigh like it wanted release. He couldn’t breathe.

“And when you came,” she whispered, “you said ‘God forgive me’ like you meant it.”

Something in him snapped.

The door flew open.

He stepped out, expecting her to run. To flee. To vanish like she always did.

But this time, she stayed.

She looked up from the pew, eyes dark and wide and burning.

Her coat slipped off her shoulders.

Nothing underneath.

Not a single thing.

He moved like a man drowning.

One step. Then another. Then he was in front of her, hands shaking.

“You need to leave,” he rasped.

“I don’t want to.”

“This is wrong.”

She rose slowly, pressing her body to his. He was trembling.

“You want me,” she said.

“I’m a priest.”

“You’re a man.”

She kissed him.

He fought it.

For a second.

Then his mouth devoured hers like it was made for sin. His hands gripped her hips, dragged her tight to him. She gasped against him. He walked her backward to the front pew and bent her over it.

“Are you sure?” he hissed into her ear.

“Yes, Father.”

He shoved his cassock up, pants down, and without ceremony, thrust into her soaked, waiting cunt.

She cried out.

He froze.

“Don’t stop,” she begged.

He didn’t.

He fucked her with a desperation that had been boiling in his blood for weeks. The wood creaked under their rhythm. Her nails clawed the pew. His fingers bruised her hips. Her moans filled the church, sinful and sacred all at once.

“Say it,” he demanded.

“Say what?” she panted.

“Who do you belong to?”

“You.”

He thrust harder.

“Say it properly.”

“I belong to you, Father.”

He groaned, burying his face in her neck, her scent, her warmth, her wickedness. When he came, it felt like absolution and damnation in one breath.

They collapsed in silence.

And somewhere far above them, the cross watched.