Confession Novels & Stories

The confessional booth loomed ahead, the door ajar, a single candle burning inside. I stepped in. Kneeled. The screen was empty. I waited. Minutes stretched. My breathing grew shallow. My clit throbbed with every heartbeat. I pressed my thighs together trying to ease the ache but only made it worse. Wetness gathered trickling down my inner thighs. I bit my lip tasting blood. Then footsteps. The other side of the screen darkened. A shadow settled. His voice came through the lattice low and rough with congestion. “Bless me Father for I have sinned.”

What I was doing right now wasn't efficient enough. So, I found a random confession template online and sent it to all the students via Instagram. The system immediately called me out for cheating when I did that. "Ah, you don't get it." I waved my hand in dismissal. "Confession is about sincerity, not form." … The counselor called me into his office the very next day. "Explain yourself." He pushed his phone toward me, his face stone cold. I looked at it and was amazed by how many complaints there were about me.

And then I hear it — the unmistakable sound of a zipper. He’s touching himself. On the other side of the confession screen, a priest is touching himself while I finger my pussy. “Are you hard, Father?” I ask, my breath shaking, my fingers working my clit faster. “Are you stroking your cock in your own confession booth right now because of me?” A sound comes through the screen that’s half prayer and half profanity. “God forgive me,” he chokes, and I can hear the wet rhythm of his hand on himself, fast and desperate. “This is — I can’t —”

Our eyes didn’t meet, but the air crackled. I entered the confessional. Dropped to my knees. Cock already leaking, the wet spot spreading darkly across the front of my boxers, the musky scent of my own arousal rising in the cramped, wood-scented space. The screen slid open with a soft wooden rasp. “You’ve come to be relieved of your burden?” Her voice;low, trembling, warm breath ghosting through the lattice like incense. “I don’t know. My thoughts are conflicted.” “What burdens you?”

And this time… I wouldn’t be able to hide behind vague words and careful phrasing; This time, I would have to say it. Or worse— He would hear it anyway. Even the confession would feel like more sin added to my case; How am I supposed to start? How will I let him know I'm losing my mind because of him? I can't! I can't tell him I've been thinking about him and touching myself, wishing It was him between my thighs!! Would that be a confession or a trap for him? I'll just keep receiving communion. Some sins will have to wait till I find another priest, or else I'll take my sins to the grave.

A pariah. “No,” I sobbed. “Please, Father. Don’t.” “Then do as I say,” he commanded. “Punish yourself for me. Show me how sorry you are for being such a dirty little sinner.” My hands shook as I stood up and turned around in the tiny confines of the confessional. I fumbled with my belt, my zipper, my pants falling around my ankles. I could feel his eyes on me, burning through the screen. I bent over, my bare ass exposed, my face burning with a humiliation so deep it felt like a physical weight.

Sometimes I would grind against my pillow, imagining his touch, imagining riding him, moaning his name, taking him deep inside me as I shivered and came. I knew it was wrong, horrible even, considering he was a priest, someone the town respected. But I couldn’t stop myself. Today, I had decided to come clean, to confess my sins to him, certain that as a priest, he would forgive me. Forgive me for my lewd thoughts, my sinful actions, and guide me back to the right path. So when the silence in the confessional booth stretched long enough, I parted my lips, my voice soft and nervous, and tried to spill everything.

“P-Please…” I balled my fists and swallowed hard. I bore my eyes to him, lazily meeting his pleading orbs. “You have to confess everything to me, so I can finally forget my feelings.” Pain crossed his eyes. I saw how tears formed at the corner of that beautiful ocean eyes full of misery and regrets. I looked away, I can't even withstand his stares. “Tell me everything, so I can move on.” “I don't want you to move on…” his hoarse voice cracked.

I called out, hardly more than a whisper. Adrian turned to me, his eyes locking into mine, full of an immense dark concern. I sucked in a deep breath; they tumbled out from my lips like a confession. "Samuel is culpable of the state my mom is into," my voice trembled with emotion and like a whimper, I confessed. "I said to him, after my research, I found out that he has a hand in it." These words seemed to hang in the air like an accusation, an exposure, as I was waiting for Adrian's board.

The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, the gravity of his past actions casting a shadow over their present interaction. Audrey inhales deeply, her composure a fragile shield against the flood of emotions threatening to engulf her. Paul's confession hangs between them, his admission of shame and a loss of control laying bare the depths of his remorse. "Audrey, I am ashamed. I was out of control," he confesses, his voice laced with vulnerability as he lays bare his inner turmoil.