Confession

You were waiting in the pew for confession and at your age maybe you should have known better than to develop a schoolgirl crush on the new Priest but age was just a number and girlish fantasies had followed you well into adulthood.

You watched the high school principal slipping from the confessional booth, rosaries clutched in her hand, her face streaked with tears and instead of feeling concern you felt elated. You'd been sweltering in the church for what felt like forever, the time spent waiting had almost convinced you to leave but now you were glad you hadn't as anticipation coursed through your veins, your heartbeat drumming to an insatiable rhythm.

The light flicked on above confessional, marking the start of your turn. You'd made sure to be the last parishioner and by now it was getting late, leaving nobody in the church but you and Father O'Brien. You weren't sure if you were going to confess everything, you didn't even know if you would confess anything more than skipping work to spend the day watching your favorite box set but it was now or never.

You opened the door and took a seat, the red velvet chair prickling against the backs of your thighs and your heart thudding even harder. You couldn't see him through the wooden partition that separated sinner from saint but you could almost feel him, the even sound of his breathing, the smell his skin had musked in the heat of his robes.

You motioned the sign of the cross, "in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Forgive me Father for I have sinned, it has been three months since my last confession." It was no incidence that it was also three months since Father O'Brien had arrived.

"Tell kartal escort me your sins, my child," he drawled, his voice thick and deep. It was the kind of voice that belonged in smoke filled bars, with his lips pressed against your ear as he whispers sins like heavenly promises.

You swallow hard, your fingers digging crescent moons into your palms as you start out small, "I told a lie and I have taken the Lord's name in vein, more than once."

"What lie did you tell?"

This isn't the kind of information you would normally share with a man that makes you feel how Father O'Brien makes you feel but this is confession and the truth slides easily from your tongue, "I pretended to be ill so I could stay home from work and spend the day at home watching TV."

You're not sure but you think you hear him stifle a laugh before he asks, "is that all..."

"No." A bead of sweat rolls down your neck, you can almost feel the flames of hell licking against the walls as your chest heaves tight against the buttons of your summer dress and you say, "I have impure thoughts. And... I do impure things."

There's a pause before says, "tell me about these thoughts."

"I'm not sure I can say, Father." You squeeze your thighs together, your mind racing with every improper idea that has ever crossed your mind.

"You must," his commands, the tone in his voice catching your attention before it softens back to that of a holy priest, "your confession is safe with me."

Maybe you will go to hell and maybe you don't care. "I think about... you, Father O'Brien."

An even longer silence stretches out in the dark heat kaynarca escort of the confessional, "and what do you think about?"

Does his voice sound different or is it just your imagination? Either way you confess and you find more thrill in it than you had anticipated, "I think about you kissing me, touching me... being inside me."

"More," he breathes, the word barely audible over your pounding heart.

"More, Father?"

"You said you do impure things, tell me about them, confess everything to me if you want to find absolution," his voice is definitely different now, more urgent, the voice of a man who knows exactly what kind of thoughts you might have been having.

You suck in a sharp breath, caressing your hand down the front of your dress, your thumb brushing over your nipple encouraging the flood of warmth to heat between your legs.

"Tell me," he whispers.

You lick your lips, sinking deeper into the chair, your thumb curling around your nipple, "I go to bed, turn out all the lights and I think about you. I think about sliding your robes from your body and the way you must look, I imagine dark hair on your chest and my fingers running through it. You're long and thick and I sink to me knees, tasting you before you guide me onto the bed," your hand creeps between your legs, your nails scratching your inner thigh before pushing up your dress, your palm pressing over your mound, "when I think these things, I touch myself and pretend it's you."

When he lays you on the bed you imagine him peeling off all your clothes, admiring the curves of your body, blessing them, worshiping them and making you feel kozyatağı escort like a goddess. In your fantasy, you don't worry about any imperfections because they don't exist in his eyes. He devours the fullness of your breasts, finds comfort in the softness of your hips and kisses the lines of your skin.

You can hear his weight shifting in his seat just as you can hear the strangled desire in his words as he pants, "what next?"

Your fingers inch into your panties, gliding between your wet folds and pressing for relief against your clit, you don't hide your moans of pleasure as you tell him, "I imagine you spreading my legs, the head of your cock stroking over me before you sink inside."

Father O'Brien groans and you wonder if he's stroking his cock just like you're stroking your pussy, "fuck me, Father, I say and you drive your cock into me over and over, grinding against me bringing me closer and closer to the edge." You thrust your fingers inside your pussy, your thumb rubbing your clit, you're dangerously close, unsure what realm of hell this will take you to.

Your hand presses against the screen that keeps you from Father O'Brien and you feel his palm press against yours, his hand as hot as yours, his own breathing heavy. "You wait for me to come then you fill me, your hips jerking as you moan my name."

"Fuck," he moans and your orgasm begins to flutter, arousal soaking your hand as your pussy tightens around your fingers in long waves until you are spent.

Your hand slips from where it is pressed against Father O'Brien's and you can barely breath in the heat of the booth as his hazy voice tells you your penance without even bothering to ask for your absolution, "5 hail Mary's and three Our Father's."

You stand on shaky legs, if prayer will absolve you of your sins then you may become a sinner every week. "Yes, Father," you say as you step from the confessional, the smell of sex on your fingers and a smile on your lips.