Confession Novels & Stories

A groan muffled into his fist, maybe, but it was enough to make me tremble. “You’re learning,” he said after a pause, voice roughened. “Confession isn’t about forgiveness. It’s about truth.” I bit my lip until I tasted iron. “Then what truth do you want?” “All of it. Every filthy piece. And when you run out of words—” The hush of his shift pressed closer to the lattice, heat radiating through it. “—I’ll make you confess with your body again.” The hunger in his promise left me weak, trembling on the edge of a prayer and a moan.

“Sorry, Father Pow . . . I mean Kit, I’ve never been on first name terms with a vicar before. I keep forgetting.” “I’ll wager you’ve not been on any kind of terms with a vicar before, eh, lad?” “No,” said Jim, and they both chuckled. “I didn’t realise I looked down, I’ve just been brooding a bit I guess.” “You’re being pursued by demons of your own making, lad, that’s what it is. You need to unburden yourself, you’ll feel a lot better for it.” “Wait, are you telling me confession is good for the soul? Isn’t that what the other lot say?”

I pumped my fingers in and out of myself, my hips rolling off the hard bench. "It feels so good, Father Edmund," I gasped out, panting as I kept my eyes locked on his shadow through the screen. "I’m fingering myself right in front of you. Come on, tell me I'm going to hell. Tell me I'm a sinner while you listen to me fuck myself like a dirty little whore I am." The booth rattled violently, making me jump. A loud bang echoed through the small space as he slammed his door shut, leaving the confession booth.

SARAH Confess. To openly admit something or declare something that you’ve been hiding, keeping secret, or feeling guilty about. Turns out what the rest of the world knows—and that includes their psychotic foster father who has been out of touch with the world, their world, for almost twenty fucking years—that I don’t, exists. It is not just a concept I made up in my head. It is not an abstract. It is a thing. It is their history, their truth.

"Tell us you still want us." I close my eyes. A second. Two. Then I give in. In a breath, a broken confession. "No." And everything tips over.

His confession comes in ragged bursts, each word a nail driven into the coffin of his ego, a testament to the years of cruelty, arrogance, and betrayal that I have finally broken open. I let him take a shallow breath, letting the truth sink into the cold night, letting him feel that confession is meaningless without the consequence, letting Sean and Roman stare, horror etched into every line of their faces as they realise that their father and Owen, the man who raised me and Sean, has finally been exposed.

he'd taken vows after a personal tragedy, but tonight, I needed to unburden mine. The confessional was dim, lit only by a single candle. I knelt in the booth, the wooden kneeler biting into my knees through my skirt. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," I started, voice trembling. "It's been months since my last confession." "Speak freely, child," his voice came through the lattice, warm and steady, with a faint accent that made my stomach flutter. Frednand. Even his name felt forbidden.

I exhaled only when the doors shut. He knows. Or worse, he suspects. ★ That night, I went to the confessional. I locked the doors, shut the screens, and knelt in the darkness. “Forgive me, Father,” I whispered, voice hoarse, “for I have sinned. I am a liar. A hypocrite. A coward.” My hands gripped the lattice until my knuckles whitened. “I let him touch me. I let him break me. I let him—God forgive me—I wanted it. I still want it.”