Wet Confession Novels & Stories

But the wooden screen between them had grown thinner with every visit, the air thicker, until her confessions turned into something else entirely. Tonight she was going to cross the line. Sophia slipped into the confessional booth, pulling the door closed behind her. The space was small, dim, smelling of candle wax. She knelt, heart racing. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she began, voice barely above a whisper. “It has been one week since my last confession.” There was a pause on the other side of the screen. She could hear his breathing. “Go on, child.”

I felt trapped and scared. "Yes," I whispered into the blackness. "I'll confess." "Begin." The command echoed around me. "I... I had sex with Brad this afternoon," I started, my voice trembling. "In my bedroom. My mother caught us and—" I felt my face burn with shame. "That is not a confession, Jenna!" he roared, and the room seemed to shake with his anger. "That is a report! Real confession comes from the heart! It is cinematic! You must describe the sin so I can feel the weight of it! Tell me exactly how you fell into the darkness!" My stomach twisted as his voice grew louder.

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 —”

"Since I walked in," I admitted breathlessly. "Since I heard your voice. I'm always wet for you, Gabriel. Always." That confession broke something in him. He hooked his fingers in my panties and yanked them down my legs, letting them fall to the floor beside his collar. Then he was lifting me completely, my back pressed against the confessional booth, my legs wrapping around his waist. With one hand, he freed his cock from beneath his cassock. I didn't get a good look at it in the shadows, but I felt it—thick and hard and pressing against my entrance.

_*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> At first, my confessions were ordinary. I lied to my mother. I took the Lord's name in vain. I had impure thoughts about my coworker. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> But somewhere along the way, the nature of my confessions changed. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> And so did Father Michael's responses. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> It started when I confessed to touching myself. I was embarrassed, my cheeks burning in the darkness of the confessional, my voice barely a whisper as I admitted that I'd masturbated in my bed, thinking about a man I couldn't have.

Wave after wave drained me until I was trembling, my cock twitching between her perfect lips. Finally, she released me with a soft, wet pop, placing one last gentle kiss on the sensitive head. I sagged against the wood, breathing hard, my spent cock still hanging through the hole. Reality crashed in. What had I done? In the house of God, during confession… I tucked myself away with shaking hands and stepped out of the booth. The church was dim and quiet. My footsteps echoed as I walked around to the penitent’s side. Heart pounding as I pulled open the wooden door.

It was massive—thick, veined, and already rock-hard, far bigger than anything she had imagined or experienced. The head glistened with a bead of precum. She stared, mesmerized and intimidated. “Tell me what you are,” He said, stroking the heavy length once, guiding it to brush against her parted lips. “I… I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I was a stupid slut sending that video. It was an accident, but I… I got so wet knowing you saw me.” Victor’s hand fisted in her hair, not gentle. “More. Confess while you worship this cock that’s going to ruin you.” He pushed forward, sliding the thick head past her lips.

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.

After our daughter's death, my husband Josh Graham insisted that I play a game of confessions with May Lowe, his former flame. The first to confess was Mrs. Garcia, the maid I paid generously, who confessed that her negligence led to my daughter's burning fever. Before I could say a word, May was smiling magnanimously. "It's alright. Everyone makes mistakes—it's fine as long as no lasting harm has been done." And with that, she extended forgiveness in my stead. The second to confess was Josh himself. "I really regret snapping at Nana the day she died because I was stressed from work, and for not hugging her before I left the house." May shook her head with a tender smile. "As a breadwin

Brown smirked, “Of course you’re a slut. Only a slut would agree to be locked up in a room with strange men, begging to me fucked senseless.” I felt a drool slip out of my mouth. I wiped it off and for the first time, the corners of my lips curved up. “I’m a slut.” It was a confession, one I had longed to say out loud. “Shit boys, we’ve got ourselves a real one here.” that was Green eyes. I felt cinnamon spank my ass, I gasped out. “Get on your knees, Slut” I didn’t care who the order came from, I scrambled to my knees without a second of hesitation.