Chapter Three — Confessional Cravings

The incense in the chapel always made me dizzy.

Or maybe it was the guilt.

My heels clicked too loud on the marble floor as I crossed the nave. I wrapped my coat tighter even though I was burning from the inside.

Sunday Mass had ended. Everyone else had gone. The silence swallowed me whole as I made my way to the confessional booth, heart hammering like a drum in a hollow church.

I shouldn't have come back here.

But I couldn’t stop dreaming of it this scent, this space. The wooden screen. The idea of being on my knees.

Of someone listening as I confessed the filthiest parts of me.

I knelt slowly. My bare thighs met the cushion, cold and worn from years of prayers.

The tiny screen between the booths lit softly from the other side.

A pause. Then, a voice, smooth as velvet but low and deep, settled like a storm behind the lattice.

"My child,” he began, steady and commanding, “you’ve come to confess?”

That voice wasn’t old. It wasn’t weary or soft or gentle. No, this wasn’t Father Reynolds or the others I remembered. This was dangerous.

My lips parted.

"Yes, Father."

“Tell me your sins.”

My pulse thudded in my throat. My confession wasn’t for God. It was for him. Whoever he was behind that screen.

"I've had impure thoughts."

A long pause.

“Continue.”

“About submission. Hands pinning me down. Being taken without mercy.”

Another silence.

Then, a shift. Wood creaked. My skin prickled.

"And do you seek forgiveness?"

“No.”

Silence again.

“What do you seek then?”

“Punishment.”

A breath on the other side. Thick. Slow. Measured.

“Leave the booth. Third door past the altar. Do not knock.”

My breath caught.

“Now.”

I obeyed before my body even realized it was moving. I crossed behind the altar like I was walking into Hell and Heaven at once.

Door three. A heavy oak. Already open, barely.

Inside: a simple room. Bookshelves. A desk. A single chair.

And him.

A tall, young priest with curling black hair, rolled up sleeves, and dark, thundercloud eyes that locked onto me the moment I entered.

“You knelt for God,” he murmured. “Now kneel for me.”

I sank to the floor.

“Open your coat.”

I unbelted it with trembling hands.

Underneath, I had worn nothing but lace. Black. Transparent.

“Did you wear this for confession?”

“No,” I whispered.

He tilted his head.

“Then God must have known you’d end up in my hands tonight.”

He stepped forward and placed two fingers under my chin.

“Look at you. Sins leaking out of your skin.”

His fingers found my mouth. I opened instinctively.

He slid them deep, coating them with my spit.

Then he brought them down between my thighs, pressing the soaked lace.

“Soaked already. So desperate to be used.”

I gasped as he tore the panties clean off with one tug.

Then he lifted me by the throat effortlessly and bent me over the desk.

The Bible fell with a dull thud onto the stone floor.

He didn’t bother with pleasantries.

His palm cracked down on my ass, the sound echoing like a hymn warped in hell.

“One. For every thought you didn’t confess.”

Slap. “Two.”

Slap. “Three.”

By five, I was grinding against the desk.

By seven, I was begging.

“Please, Father.”

He yanked my hips back, parting me open.

"You're dripping down your thighs,” he murmured.

Then, I felt his breath hot and unholy between my legs.

And then his tongue. Long, slow, tormenting licks that lapped at my clit like it was communion.

He ate me like salvation, gripping my hips so tight I knew I’d feel him tomorrow.

“God won't hear you down here,” he whispered before slamming two fingers inside me.

“I don’t want God,” I panted.

He stood and undid his belt with a quiet, brutal snap.

Then I saw it his cock.

Thick, flushed, heavy. Veins pulsing.

He aligned himself with my entrance.

“No protection,” I breathed.

“No forgiveness either.”

He slammed in.

I arched, gasping. He filled me completely in one savage thrust.

He didn’t ease in. He didn’t give me time.

He took.

Every inch felt like blasphemy. Every thrust was a prayer I couldn’t say aloud.

“Say it,” he growled.

“I want you to ruin me.”

“Louder.”

“I want you to fuck me where I should pray.”

He drove deeper, harder. The desk creaked with every impact.

My climax came fast so intense I nearly blacked out.

He didn’t stop. He fucked me through it, one hand wrapped around my throat.

I felt the moment he lost control his rhythm faltered, hips stuttering.

He slammed in deep and poured inside me with a long, low groan of relief and corruption.

We didn’t speak.

Only our breathing filled the space.

Then he pulled out and whispered against my ear:

"Same time next Sunday, little sinner."