Confession Booth: Part 4

I arrived ten minutes early the following week.

The church was quiet again. Late afternoon light spilled through the stained glass in long red and gold bars across the floor. No one else was inside. The air smelled of wax and old wood, the same as always, but my body already reacted to it like the scent itself was a trigger.

I was wet before I even reached the confessional.

I had woken up that way. Stayed that way through the entire day. Every time I thought about the locked door, the wooden wall, the way he had felt driving into me from behind, the ache between my legs only grew worse. By the time I stepped into the booth and closed the door, my panties were already soaked through.

I didn’t kneel.

I stood there in the small dim space and waited.

A moment later the door on the other side opened, then mine. Father Elias stepped in and locked both doors behind him without a word. The booth felt even smaller than last week. His eyes moved over my face, then down my body, as if he could already tell.

“You’re early,” he said quietly.

“I couldn’t wait.”

Something dark and satisfied flickered in his expression. He reached past me and turned the small interior latch so no one could open the door from outside even if they tried. Then he stepped closer until I had to tip my head back to meet his eyes.

“Show me.”

My hands trembled as I lifted the hem of my dress. I hooked my fingers in my panties and pushed them down to mid-thigh. The cool air of the booth hit my bare, slick skin. I was so wet it was obvious even in the low light.

Father Elias looked down between my legs and exhaled slowly through his nose.

“You’ve been like this all day.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

He reached out and dragged two fingers through the wetness, slow and deliberate, then lifted them so I could see how they shone. A rough sound left his throat.

“Turn around.”

I turned and braced both hands against the wooden wall. He pulled my dress higher and left it bunched at my waist. My panties stayed around my thighs, restricting the way I could open my legs. He didn’t bother removing them further.

I felt the blunt head of his cock press against me. He rubbed it up and down through my folds once, coating himself, then pushed in with one steady thrust that stole the air from my lungs.

We both groaned—soft, stifled, careful.

He started moving immediately. Deep, controlled strokes that made the old wood creak under my palms. One of his hands gripped my hip hard enough to bruise. The other slid up my back, under my dress, and settled between my shoulder blades, holding me in place against the wall.

“You came here already knowing what I was going to do to you,” he muttered against the side of my neck. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You sat through your day wet and aching, counting the hours.”

“Yes.”

He thrust harder, the sound of skin meeting skin quiet but filthy in the tiny space. Every stroke dragged against the sensitive spot inside me until my legs started to shake.

“Tell me what you thought about,” he ordered, voice low and strained.

“This,” I whispered. “Exactly this. You locking the doors. Pushing into me before I could even pretend to confess. Using me against the wall like you’ve wanted to since the first time I opened my mouth in here.”

A rough sound left him. His rhythm faltered for a second, then grew harder. The hand on my hip slid around to the front of my body and found my clit. He rubbed tight, precise circles while he fucked me, and the dual sensation made my vision blur.

“You’re going to come for me again,” he said. “Quietly. And then I’m going to fill you and send you back out into the world still dripping with it.”

The words pushed me over.

I came hard, forehead pressed to the wood, biting down on my own wrist to keep the sound in. My body clenched around him in strong, rhythmic pulses. He kept thrusting through it, jaw tight against my shoulder, until the pleasure started to edge into too much.

Only then did he let go. He buried himself as deep as the position allowed and came with a low, broken groan, flooding me in thick, hot spurts. I felt every pulse. My legs trembled so badly he had to hold me upright against the wall for several long seconds afterward.

We stayed joined, breathing hard in the cramped dimness. Outside the booth the church remained silent. No footsteps. No voices. Just the two of us and the scent of sex mixed with old wood and wax.

Eventually he pulled out. I felt the slow slide of his come down my inner thighs. He fixed my panties himself, smoothing them back into place even though they were already ruined, then lowered my dress with surprising care.

When he turned me to face him, his eyes were still dark, but the control had returned.

“Same time next week,” he said quietly.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

He unlocked the doors and stepped out first. By the time I followed, he had already disappeared toward the sacristy.

I walked out of the church on unsteady legs. His come was still warm and slick between my thighs, soaking into the fabric of my panties with every step. The late light painted the sidewalk in the same reds and golds as the stained glass behind me.

I already knew I would be back.

And I already knew that whatever penance he gave me next week would never be enough to stop either of us.