Confession Booth: Part 2

I came back the following week at the same hour.

The church was even quieter than before. Only two older women sat near the front, heads bowed. The rest of the pews stood empty. Late light stretched across the floor in long colored bands.

Father Elias was already in the confessional.

I walked straight to it, heart beating hard enough that I felt it in my throat. I stepped inside, closed the door, and knelt. The wooden space smelled the same—old varnish and faint incense—but something about it felt tighter today.

On the other side of the screen I heard him shift.

“In the name of the Father…” he began.

I made the sign of the cross. My fingers weren’t steady.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.”

A short pause. Then his voice, low and even.

“You returned.”

“You told me to.”

“I did.” Another small silence. “Have the thoughts continued?”

I stared at the carved screen. “Yes.”

“Have they grown stronger?”

I swallowed. “Yes.”

He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again his tone had lost some of its usual distance.

“Last week you described them in general terms. Today I need you to be more specific. If these desires are controlling you, we cannot leave them vague.”

My stomach tightened. Heat already pooled low between my legs, shameful and immediate.

“I don’t know if I should—”

“You came back,” he said. “That means part of you wants to say them out loud. So say them.”

The authority in his voice left little room to refuse. I pressed my thighs together under my dress and forced the words out.

“I think about him locking the door so no one can walk in. I think about him standing over me while I’m on my knees. I think about the way his hand would feel in my hair when he guides my mouth onto him.”

My face burned. I kept going anyway.

“I think about him telling me to look up while I do it. About how thick he would feel against my tongue. About the sounds he would make when he stops holding back.”

On the other side of the screen Father Elias was very still. I could hear him breathing—deeper than last week.

“Continue,” he said.

The single word sent a slow pulse through me.

“I think about him pulling me up afterward and turning me around. Pushing me against the wall. Lifting my dress. I think about how rough his hands would be when he finds out how wet I already am. I think about him sliding into me in one thrust and not giving me time to adjust.”

My voice had gone soft and rough. I could feel how soaked my panties were. The confession booth suddenly felt too warm.

“Do you touch yourself when you think these things?” he asked.

The question landed like a hand between my legs.

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“Almost every night. Sometimes during the day.”

“And when you do… do you imagine it is his hand instead of yours?”

I closed my eyes. “Yes.”

A longer silence stretched between us. I heard the soft sound of fabric shifting on his side of the booth. When he spoke again his voice was lower, controlled but no longer completely steady.

“You are feeding this. Every time you return to these thoughts you make them stronger. That is dangerous.”

“I know.”

“Yet you continue.”

“I can’t stop.”

Another pause. Then, quietly:

“Stand up.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Stand up,” he repeated. “And face the door of the booth.”

My legs felt unsteady as I rose. The small space forced me to turn carefully. I heard movement on the other side—the soft creak of wood, the quiet click of a latch.

He had locked the door of his side of the confessional.

The sound was small. It changed everything.

“Describe it again,” he said. His voice came from closer than before, as if he had moved nearer to the screen. “But this time I want every detail. What you imagine him saying. How he touches you. What you do when he tells you to be quiet.”

My pulse throbbed between my thighs. I stared at the wooden door in front of me and began to speak, softer than before, because the air itself felt different now.

“I imagine him saying he shouldn’t. That this is wrong. Then he does it anyway. He pushes me against the wall and holds me there with his body. His mouth is on my neck. His hand is under my dress, between my legs, and he tells me how wet I am like it’s both a sin and a compliment.”

I could hear Father Elias breathing on the other side of the screen. Steady, but heavier.

“He slides two fingers inside me while his thumb circles my clit. He tells me to keep my eyes open. He tells me that if I’m going to come here and confess these things, I should at least be honest about how much I want them.”

My own breathing had grown shallow. I pressed one hand flat against the wooden wall of the booth to steady myself.

“He takes his fingers away when I’m close and replaces them with his cock. He doesn’t go slow. He fills me in one thrust and holds still so I feel every inch. Then he starts moving—deep, hard strokes that make the wall behind me creak. He covers my mouth with his hand when I get too loud. He tells me that if anyone hears, they’ll know exactly what kind of girl I am.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Father Elias’s voice, when it came, was rough around the edges.

“And in this fantasy… do you come?”

“Yes.”

“While he’s inside you?”

“Yes.”

“While he’s looking at you?”

I nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “Yes.”

A long breath left him. I heard the quiet shift of his body again.

“You will return next week,” he said. The words sounded less like a suggestion and more like an instruction. “Same time. We are not finished.”

My knees felt weak. “All right.”

“For now, your penance is the same. Two rosaries. And you will not touch yourself until you return. Do you understand?”

The command sent a fresh wave of heat through me so strong I had to bite my lip.

“Yes, Father.”

“Make your act of contrition.”

I recited the words in a voice that didn’t sound entirely like my own. When he gave the absolution, his tone was lower than I had ever heard it.

I unlocked my side of the booth and stepped out into the quiet church. My legs were unsteady. The fabric of my dress clung damply between my thighs. I walked toward the exit without looking back, the locked door of his confessional still vivid in my mind, and the order he had given me already burning under my skin.

I already knew I would keep the second half of that penance.

And I already knew I would break the first.