Confession Book Mga Nobela at Kwento

This was a career-ending sermon. Confessions were just as bad. As a priest, I obviously could not judge them, but it was quite something. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I lusted after my neighbor’s wife with desire in my heart,” the man confessed. I nodded sagely, trying to focus. “And how many times—” “But she looks just like that dangerous-hot looking Norwegian ex I had. Her ass is round and perfect and…” I coughed to get him back in order.

The conference room was packed with doctors from every department, each one poised for the case review. I cleared my throat, started up the prepared PowerPoint, and began. "This case is for Jason Hamilton, male, five years old. He was first diagnosed at age three and has been on dialysis for two years now..." As I spoke, murmurs started among the crowd. I turned to the large screen behind me, realizing something was wrong. To my horror, my patient report was swapped out for a presentation called "Confession of an Affair”.

“You were my last resort, Lucian. I-I was rooting for you. I told myself that you are the only one who cares for me, but I just disappointed myself again. You are all liars.” “Sam… Sammy, please!” He attempted to chase me, but I glared at him. “I'm so done with men fooling me, Lucian. Goodbye.” “Samantha! Sam!” I lifted my chin as I walk along the hallway. I wiped my tears using my fingers and swallowed hard, trying to calm myself. I can only trust myself for now. I don't need those liars in my life. I am Samantha Miller, and I can get through this another series of hellhole. I'm confident that I can heal myself… on my own. ~

The only way to break the spell was if the confessor dies. The confessors referred to themselves as "sisters" and lived together and of course, they had a leader. Isabelle's sister was their leader. King Caesar - back then, when he was still a prince - had been on a long trip with some guards. When it was nightfall, they found a place to camp, but unknown to them, it was close to the camp of the confessors. While they were asleep, the confessors attacked them and confessed him - Caesar - alongside some of his men. He was confessed by Tabitha - Isabelle's blood sister and the leader of the confessors at that time.

The dried wax that clung to the edge of my ribs. And the collar. I ran my fingers across it feeling not restrained, but claimed. Underneath the pillow, I found another card. Rest. Breathe. You're not broken. You're opened. When you're ready, write your next confession. There were no flowers. No demands. Just space. And the echo of everything we’d shared. Somewhere between heat and silence, I smiled. Because I wasn’t just a submissive anymore. I was a story unfolding. One confession at a time.

of 2 Samuel. “And I have consumed them, and wounded them, that they could not arise; yea, they are fallen under my feet.” David watched as Roslyn’s gazed were fixed on the bible on her thighs. He admired her love for God, but his pride and ego couldn’t let him voice it out. But then David thoughts the scripture was directing at him. He continued to ponder on the scripture the preacher read. “And I’ve consumed them and wounded them. They could not arise; did God purposely let that accident happened because I’m not a believer?” he asked himself rhetorically. “They are fallen under my feet; perhaps this chapter was right. If not for my present situation and for Roslyn, I couldn’t be here listi

Then, he furthered his confession by describing how he watched grown men fuck younger boys while pumping his own cock using his hand and soap. That confession just made me sweat a lot and my cock hard against my pants by the time it ended. I quickly walked away from the door before he could spot me, but the entire way home was hell, continuous flashes of imaginary scenarios of me fucking his ass hard till he begs for mercy. Micah was there, holding his rosary, very quietly. When we reached home and entered,the living room, I could not hold it in any longer. ''Micah, just wait," I began. "About your confession... I heard it."

"Go on." The woman hesitated for only a moment before pulling something from beneath her cloak—a small, aged book, its leather binding cracked with time. She held it out, waiting for me to take it. I accepted it cautiously, flipping through the pages. The handwriting was delicate yet hurried, as if written by someone racing against time. My eyes scanned the first few entries, my pulse quickening with every word. This was no ordinary journal. It was a record. A confession. A weapon. I looked back up at her, my grip tightening on the book. "Where did you get this?"

“Who was he? And what was he doing there that late?” My blood went cold. I forced myself to breathe, to steady the tremor threatening my composure. She had seen Ezreal. God help me, she had seen him leaving. “I was burdened,” I said carefully, my voice low, even. “The hour was late, but my soul was restless and he just happened to have come for a confession. That is all.” Her lips trembled. “A confession? And it had to be in your private room?” I pressed her hands. “Sometimes the weight of sin drives a man to secrecy. We must meet them where they are, must we not? ‘Confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed. Did not the Bible say this?”

I was going to call the bishop back. Return his calls and feed him the excuses I’d already rehearsed in my head. Lies. More lies. I was piling sins into a book I never actually wrote in. I had preached just last week about the value of keeping a record—not to wallow in guilt, but to see the patterns. To recognize how the same weaknesses returned, how confession alone didn’t always break the cycle. We confess, we repent, yet the sins repeat—similar shapes, similar temptations. It wasn’t meant to crush us under shame.