Confession Booth: Part 3

I returned the next week at the exact same hour.

The church was empty this time. No older women in the front pews. No one lighting candles. Only the soft glow of the sanctuary lamp and the long colored light from the stained-glass windows.

Father Elias was not in the confessional.

He stood near the side door that led to the sacristy, still in his black clerical shirt, collar dark against his throat. When he saw me he didn’t speak. He simply nodded once toward the confessional and walked ahead of me.

I followed.

He opened the door of his side, stepped in, and waited until I entered the other. The moment both doors closed I heard the quiet, deliberate sound of the latch sliding into place on his side. Then, after a short pause, the same sound on mine.

He had locked both doors.

My heart slammed so hard I felt dizzy.

“Kneel,” he said.

I knelt. The wooden ledge dug into my knees. The screen between us felt thinner than before.

“Have you touched yourself since last week?”

The question was direct. No softening.

“No,” I whispered. It was mostly true. I had come close twice and stopped, the memory of his voice enough to make me obey.

“Good.” A short silence. “Describe it again. But this time I want you to tell me what you imagined me doing.”

The shift in wording made my stomach drop.

I stared at the carved wood. My voice came out low and unsteady.

“I imagined you locking the doors exactly like this. I imagined you coming around to my side instead of staying behind the screen. I imagined you pulling me up from my knees and turning me to face the wall.”

I heard him move. The soft creak of wood. The quiet rustle of fabric.

“Continue.”

“I imagined you lifting my dress. Pushing my panties down. Testing how wet I already was with two fingers while you told me this was the last chance to stop.”

My breathing had grown shallow. On the other side of the screen I heard the latch of his door slide open.

Then the door of my booth opened.

Father Elias stood there, taller than the small space should have allowed. His eyes were darker than I had ever seen them. The calm priest was still visible in his face, but something else sat right beneath it—hungry, controlled, and no longer interested in distance.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The lock clicked again.

The booth was suddenly far too small for two people.

“Turn around,” he said quietly.

I turned to face the wooden wall. My hands came up automatically, bracing against the old paneling. Behind me I heard the soft sound of his belt, then the shift of fabric. A moment later the hard, hot length of him pressed against the curve of my ass through my dress.

His voice was low against my ear.

“Last chance to leave.”

I shook my head once.

That was all he needed.

He dragged my dress up to my waist in one motion. My panties were pulled down to my thighs. The cool air of the booth hit my bare skin and I shivered. His hand slid between my legs from behind, two fingers gliding through the wetness that had already soaked me.

A rough sound left his throat.

“You’ve been like this the entire time you’ve been confessing to me, haven’t you?”

I nodded, forehead pressed to the wood.

He withdrew his fingers, lined himself up, and pushed in.

The stretch was sudden and deep. I bit down on my own wrist to keep from making noise as he filled me in one slow, relentless thrust until his hips were flush against me. We both stayed still for a second, breathing hard in the tiny space.

Then he started to move.

Deep, controlled strokes that made the wooden wall creak softly under my hands. His body caged mine completely. One hand stayed on my hip, the other braced beside my head. Every thrust was deliberate, as if he had already imagined this exact angle a hundred times.

“Quiet,” he murmured against the side of my neck. “The doors are locked, but sound still carries.”

I nodded frantically, biting harder on my wrist as he drove into me harder. The wet sound of him moving inside me filled the small booth. It was filthy and unmistakable. The risk of it—here, against the wooden wall of the confessional—made every nerve feel sharper.

His hand slid around to the front of my body, fingers finding my clit. He rubbed tight, precise circles in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation shoved me toward the edge almost immediately.

“You’re going to come on me,” he said, voice strained. “Right here. In this place. And you’re going to do it quietly.”

I shattered with a broken, muffled sound against my own wrist. My body clamped down around him in hard, rhythmic pulses. He kept thrusting through it, jaw tight against my shoulder, until the pleasure started to edge into oversensitivity.

Only then did he let himself follow. He buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, stifled groan, flooding me in thick, hot pulses. I felt every one of them. My legs trembled so hard he had to hold me up against the wall for a moment afterward.

We stayed like that, joined, breathing hard in the cramped, dim space. The scent of sex mixed with old wood and wax. Outside the booth the church remained silent.

Eventually he pulled out. I felt the slow trickle of his come down my inner thighs. He fixed my panties and smoothed my dress back down with surprising care, then turned me to face him.

His eyes searched my face. The hunger was still there, but the control had returned.

“Next week,” he said quietly. “Same time. Door will be unlocked.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

He unlocked the booth and stepped out first. By the time I followed, he was already walking toward the sacristy, the black of his shirt disappearing into the shadows.

I left the church on unsteady legs, the evidence of what we had just done still warm and slick between my thighs, and the knowledge that I would return already settled deep in my bones.