Story I: Moans Before Amen.

Chapter one: The First Confession

Ciara's PoV:

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." I uttered, voice barely above a whisper and not so sure what of myself.

My cravings had been unhinged lately, as an aspiring nun, someone who wanted to devote her life to worship. I had told myself at first that it was nothing, that all females experience this, including nuns.

But everything shattered when I skipped going for practice, joining the church for charity or even responding to my boss email on time in the morning, and devoted my mornings to fingering myself until I came over and over again.

One thing that made it worse, after everything was over, I felt like the worst, like I wasn't the person I was a few minutes ago. I felt guilty, I felt so miserable, after the desire was gone and now I had to come back to reality.

Even as I sat on this confession chair, the thought of seeing Father Chris excited me more than what I was here to do. Deep down I knew, heavens knew I came here not to confess but to have a sneaky peek of that handsome face of his.

The wooden screen between us felt thinner than usual tonight. I could hear him breathing on the other side—steady, patient, the same way he always was when he listened to the old ladies confessing about gossip or missing Mass. But I wasn't one of the old ladies.

I was twenty-four, still wearing the plain navy dress I wore to my part-time job at the downtown law firm, and every inch of my skin was already tingling just from knowing he was there.

"Go on, Ciara," Father Chris said, his voice low and calm, the way it always wrapped around my name like a secret. "The Lord is listening. Tell me what's weighing on your heart."

I pressed my palms together so hard my knuckles ached. "It's... lust, Father. The kind that won't leave me alone.

Every morning I wake up before the alarm and instead of praying or getting ready for the day, I... I touch myself. I tell myself I'll stop after one time, but I never do. I keep going until I'm shaking and crying out, and then the shame hits like a truck."

He didn't interrupt. He never did. That was part of the problem. His silence always felt like he was really hearing me—not judging, just waiting for the truth I was too scared to say out loud.

"I skipped novitiate formation twice this month," I continued, words tumbling faster now. "I was supposed to help with the soup kitchen downtown last Saturday.

I didn't go. I stayed in bed with my hand between my legs for three hours straight. And my boss—Mr. Reynolds—sent me three emails this morning about the filing deadline and I didn't even open them until noon because I was... again.

I can't stop thinking about it. About being touched. About being filled. About someone making me forget every vow I ever wanted to take."

My cheeks burned. I hadn't meant to say that last part. But once it was out, I couldn't take it back.

Father Chris shifted on his side of the screen. The faint rustle of his cassock sent a fresh pulse straight between my thighs. "These thoughts—are they about anyone in particular?"

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. This was the moment. The real reason I'd come tonight instead of waiting until next week like a normal penitent. I wanted him to know. I wanted him to look at me differently.

"Yes," I whispered. "They are."

Another silence. Longer this time. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped an octave. "Would you like to tell me who?"

My heart slammed against my ribs. I could feel the heat crawling up my neck, the dampness already gathering in my panties. I shouldn't say it. I should lie and say it was some nameless stranger from a dream. But the words came anyway.

"It's you, Father."

The booth went completely still. No breathing. No rustle. Just the distant hum of traffic on Hanover Street outside the old stone walls of St. Agnes. I waited for him to tell me to leave. To say this was inappropriate. To assign me a hundred Hail Marys and ban me from confession for a year.

Instead he said, very quietly, "Ciara. Look at me."

I lifted my head even though the screen was still between us. Through the lattice I could just make out the line of his jaw, the dark stubble he never quite shaved smooth, the way his eyes caught the faint glow from the votive candles in the nave.

"You came here tonight because you wanted to see my face," he said. It wasn't a question. "Not to confess. To see me."

I couldn't deny it. My throat was too tight. All I managed was a tiny nod.

He exhaled slowly. "This is dangerous territory for both of us. You know that."

"I know," I breathed. "But I can't stop. Every time I close my eyes I see your hands. I hear your voice saying my name while you... while you..."

"While I what?" he pressed, and there was something new in his tone now—something rougher, like the velvet had been stripped away.

"While you touch me the way I touch myself," I confessed in a rush. "While you make me kneel for a different reason. While you take what I'm supposed to save for God."

The words hung between us like incense smoke. My nipples had tightened against my bra. I was throbbing so hard I had to press my thighs together under the kneeler.

Father Chris was quiet for a long moment. Then he spoke, and his voice sent a shiver straight down my spine.

"After midnight, Ciara. The side door to the sacristy will be unlocked. Come alone. We will discuss this... properly. No screen between us. No hiding."

My stomach flipped. "Father—"

"Midnight," he repeated, firmer. "If you don't come, we will never speak of this again. If you do... then we both face what this really is."

He didn't wait for my answer. I heard the soft click of his side of the booth opening, then closing. He was gone.

I sat there for another full minute, legs trembling, panties soaked through. The church smelled of wax and old stone and the faint trace of his cologne lingering in the air. Outside, a siren wailed down the street—Boston never slept, and neither did the ache inside me.

I stood up on shaky legs and walked out of the confessional. The nave was empty except for the flickering candles. I genuflected out of habit, but the motion felt hollow. My mind was already racing ahead to midnight.

What was I doing? I had spent years telling myself I was meant for the convent—quiet, pure, devoted. One handsome priest with kind eyes and a voice like sin had undone all of it in ten minutes.

I stepped out into the cold Boston night. The North End was still alive—laughter spilling from restaurants, the T rumbling underground—but all I could feel was the countdown ticking in my chest.

Midnight.

I walked the six blocks to my tiny apartment above the bakery, showered quickly, and changed into a simple black dress that stopped just above my knees. No stockings. No bra. I didn't even know why I made those choices; my hands moved on their own.

At 11:50 I was back at St. Agnes, heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. The side door was indeed unlocked. The rectory hallway was dark, only a thin strip of light showing under the sacristy door at the end.

I reached for the handle.

My fingers had just closed around the cool metal when the door opened from the inside.

Father Chris stood there, collar still on, sleeves rolled up, eyes darker than I'd ever seen them.

"Ciara," he said, voice low and rough. "You came."

He stepped back to let me in.

I crossed the threshold, and the moment I did, he closed the door behind me and turned the lock.

The click echoed like a vow breaking.

And I knew, right then, that nothing would ever be the same again.