Confession Ch. 01

Part 1 – Introduction

I shifted in the pew to see Father Damian better.

He stood at the lectern; his homily had just ended. It had been quite good. I wasn't bored, and even my mother's eyes didn't have their characteristic at-church-glaze-over. My father looked impressed and pleased. Father Damian said a prayer – and silence filled the church as everyone bowed their heads. I didn't bow mine, but took the opportunity to get a good look at our new priest...and when his eyes found mine he didn't look away. Of course I blushed and looked down, quickly.

When I looked back up he was still looking at me. He smiled a little and winked – ever so quickly, almost imperceptably – and then looked away and began to recite the next part of mass.

Did he really just wink at me? I looked down at my feet, my breathing sped up substantially. I was ashamed to realize that I was wet, down there, and peered slightly at the people around me. As if they could tell. Of course they couldn't. But, I reasoned, he was rather good-looking...he was about my father's height, late 20s or early 30s, with slightly darker skin than the rest of my primarily white congregation. He had just a hint of dark stubble on his face, and his black hair stood up a bit in the back. And his eyes – the reason for my stupid, blushing schoolgirl reaction – were a vivid, dark green. Like intense green.

I excused myself and went to the bathroom until I was more composed.

We all filed out of the worship space at the end of mass and everybody went, en masse, so to speak, to the community room for donuts. I found some of my girlfriends and grabbed our usual table. We were the nice girls – the ones always on mission trips, on retreats, at the forefront of the youth group activities. So it took a while for anyone to mention Father Damian's good looks, but eventually Tara said, almost whispering,

"He's pretty handsome too, isn't he?" she immediately blushed.

I was comforted a little that my reaction wasn't isolated, but still weirdly defensive about it all. "I guess," I said, "If you like old guys. He could be your dad."

"No way. He's too young." Tara looked injured. We usually agreed on everything.

I shrugged and changed the subject. "Have you guys signed up for JFest yet? The forms are up."

There was quite a bit of buzz about that, and, for the time being at least, Father Damian was forgotten. JesusFest was like church, a sleepover, and a school dance all in one. It was where we hung out and read scripture and sang songs and told secrets and met good Catholic boys. For once we were the cool kids at Jfest; we were the girls everyone wanted to talk to, and the ones the boys held hands with. It was church kid mecca. We immediately begin making carpooling plans.

At home that night, in bed, I caved in and broke my two-week streak of being good. I touched my pussy lips cautiously, and they were warm and wet and hungry so I couldn't help myself. I stroked my labia, gently, and circled the area around my button over and over and over. I didn't touch it. I always saved that for the end. Just circling, and writhing, and thinking of Father Damian and how I felt when he stared at me. That wink – and I felt dirty, because that was such a fatherly gesture. But it set me over the edge and I rubbed my clit and arched my back and gasped into the darkness as I came.

Part 2 – Confession

Every church in the diocese sent a priest up for Good Friday. Our church was the biggest – our Lady of Lourdes – and we needed help to manage the throngs of sinners hoping to purify themselves before Easter. My eyes were red and puffy...Father Damian had given the most brutal homily I had ever heard. It was an in-depth description of crucifixion, of the torture, of the slow and horrible death of Jesus. I was so penitent. I was ready to cleanse myself of these horrible desires. And who better than to confess to than the source of them, I reasoned. I needed to confront this. I had been clutching onto that single memory – of Father Damian staring (no, just looking) at me the first week – for almost three weeks. I had touched myself every single night. I still hadn't violated myself with my fingers, but I was getting close to not caring. This had to be fixed, somehow.

Because there were so many priests, they set themselves up in stations around the worship space. There was a line leading to each priest, and a suitable amount of space and privacy for each confessor. Father Damian's station was actually inside the sacristy, the back room of the church, the line stretching around the side of the altar. I hurried as much as I could, but I still found myself towards the back of the line. I had a long wait.

The closer I got, the more nervous I was.

And somehow, my pussy was getting wet again. I hung my head in shame, and my cheeks burned.

It was my turn. I walked slowly into the sacristy and sat down. It was disorganized, yet seemed like someone had tried hastily to clean it up. There were banners from lent, a broken pew, assorted stage props from stations of the cross. Father Damian sat in a simple folding chair with his back to the door, and I sat down gingerly in the chair opposite of him.

I shakily said hello and crossed myself. Father Damian smiled warmly at me, and rattled off, "May the Lord be in your heart and help you to confess your sins with true sorrow. How long has it been since your last confession?" His eyes were so green. It was too much.

"About a month."

"Okay. Tell me your sins."

"I cheated a little on a math test. And I stole $20 out of my dad's wallet." I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. This was probably a horrible idea. But I had to come clean. "And...Father, I have been touching myself. Every night." I flushed. "I haven't penetrated myself yet...but I want to. I don't know how to stop."

He paused. For too long. And looked deep in my eyes, his face gentle. When he spoke, he almost whispered. "Yes, that is a sin." He leaned back. "But it is not such a horrible one. Don't cry."

I didn't realize I had been crying. I wiped my eyes.

He leaned forward again and continued, never looking away from my eyes. "God designed our bodies...lovingly, carefully. He put these desires inside of you that one day you may have children. They, by themselves, are not sinful desires." He still had not looked away, and he dropped his voice almost to a whisper again. "It is acting on them that is a sin. But that is what confession is for, my sweet girl. None of us pass muster in the great question of being worthy for God. Not a single one of us. This is why confession is such a grace." He put his hand gently on my knee. "Have you considered coming to confession weekly?"

I was suddenly much, much more wet. I swallowed. "Yes, I have, but school makes me so busy..." I paused to consider it. "But I think you're right. I think I should."

He patted my knee and removed his hand. "Think on it. I am in the small chapel every Friday...one of the things we must learn to do as we grow in our faith is to forgive ourselves for our weaknesses. I could tell you what you already know...that this is a sin and that you should stop." He paused and looked in my eyes. He licked his lips, and slowly looked at me from head to toe before continuing. "But I know you won't." His voice was lower, slightly husky, his eyes once again caressing mine.

He sat up quickly and cleared his throat. "And you are forgiven. I absolve you of this and all other sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen."

I mumbled thank you and stood awkwardly to get up. He lazily leaned back over his chair and said, "I've seen you with the other youth group kids. What's your name?"

My breath catched. "Emily."

He smiled warmly again. "Nice to meet you Emily."

As I walked away I got the feeling he was watching me. But I was too nervous too look behind me and check.

Part 3 – Exploration

I didn't even say goodnight to my parents. I just went upstairs and quietly shut the door. Luckily mom believed in privacy back then, so I had no explaining to do.

Two things were significant, and buzzing around in my mind: the first, that I had basically been given a Catholic Church-sponsored green light to pleasure myself as much as I wanted, as long as I went to confession. Second: maybe I was imagining it (I probably was) but Father Damian seemed to be flirting with me.

I never thought to second-guess Father Damian or doubt his intentions. Priests are men of God. And if this one said I could orgasm and be forgiven, then that is exactly what I was going to do, no more questions asked. I removed my white, flowy church skirt...and gazed in the mirror.

I never thought I was pretty growing up. I wasn't skinny like the popular girls, but my hair always attracted attention. It was a bright, sunflower blonde, and it was thick and curly. My skin was pale, and my hips were ample and my breasts hung lazily, and were soft and round. I was jealous of the perky, small tits that the other girls had...but in this moment, I allowed myself to love my body just a little. I was about to make it feel really, really good. I slipped off my panties, and after a few seconds, took off my shirt, too, and crawled into bed.

I licked my fingers and began. Slowly. It was always better if I started slow. I slowly plucked at my labia, and lightly ran my fingers up my sides. I stroked my breasts and I tweaked my nipples. I ran my fingers back down, shivering with goosebumps at the feeling of my fingers barely grazing my sides.

I licked my fingers again. Slowly, sensually, loving them.

I circled around my slowly swelling clitoris with my forefinger and my thumb. I dipped into my pussy just barely for lubrication, the sweet, musty scent now beginning to reach my nostrils. I was so wet already. It was so easy.

I rubbed around and around and around and around my clit until I began to feel the hints of my orgasm creep up, and then I stopped. I used to stop right here, for the past two years of my life. But when I finally let myself come, there was no turning back.

I stopped myself three times, and worked myself back up again. I just kept thinking of Father Damian's eyes – so bright green – and his hand on my thigh. Stop.

The way he slowly looked me up and down. Stop.

That...thatwink,like he knew about my wet pussy. Stop.

The darkness in his eyes when he said... "but I know you won't – "

I plunged a finger into my pussy and nearly died from the pleasure.

And I immediately knew that, again, there would be no turning back. This is what I was doing now, forever.

I fucked myself with my hand, gasping, quietly moaning, and my skin tightened and twisted and I spiraled out of control into the most intense orgasm I had ever had.

I lay there, and I had never been drunk, but that's the adjective that floated into my mind. The air was thick and sweet with the smell of my pussy. I wiped my hands clean on my Hello Kitty bedspread and sighed...deeply, slowly, contentedly.

Then I licked my fingers and I did it again.

Part 4 – The Chapel

"Hey Heather!"

My friend from youth group turned around quickly, the strap of her violin hugging her chest between her breasts, which outlined them perfectly. I blushed and wondered why I kept looking. I felt shame creep up, but shook it off quickly. I had to get a ride somehow. Her mom was the liturgical minister so she was always at Our Lady of Lourdes.

"I was just wondering if I could catch a ride with you to OLL after school? I think I'm gonna go to confession." I shifted my backpack awkwardly, nervous she would question my sudden piety. She didn't know how sinful I really was. She didn't need to know.

Heather just smiled brightly. "Yeah sure! That's a great idea. I keep meaning to go every week but I have so much homework with these AP Classes...I usually need some more study hall when I'm at church."

I smiled back. "I think God would approve. We have to use our talents to glorify him, right?"

"Right!" She looked up at the clock. "Hey gotta go to dorkestra. Meet me at the flagpole?"

"Yeah! Thanks!" And just like that I felt a flash of heat in my pussy. Confession...

When we arrived at the church I was surprised to see that almost no one was there. I always figured that weekly confession (held from 2-4) would be popular with the elderly churchgoers. Maybe they had come and gone already. It was 3:30 and I hoped that Father Damian hadn't closed up shop.

The chapel was small, with about 10 pews, a small lectern at the front, and a statue of Mary on the side. A wall of flickering candles for prayerful intentions was behind her, and around me, stained glass windows depicting the stations of the cross. Father Damian was in the front pew, stretched lazily with his feet far out and his arms resting on the back of the pew. His eyes were shut.

I felt nervous. Should I go? I cleared my throat. "Father...?"

He lazily turned around and smiled when he recognized me. "Emily. Come sit down."

I walked around the pews and sat down beside him, slowly. He chuckled a little.

"Never been to confession in the chapel before?" He leaned over, his eyes lingering on the low-but-not-too-low cut of my shirt. "The confessor usually sits in the pew behind. But I like this better." He flashed me a smile and signed the cross over me. "May the Lord be in your heart and help you to confess your sins with true sorrow. How long has it been since your last confession?"

"Seven days."

"Tell me your sins."

I exhaled, slowly. He was wearing jeans, I realized belatedly. Tight, sexy, slightly faded jeans, with a tucked-in black button down shirt and his priest collar. It suited him.

"I have been good...in most things...because I haven't had much time to mess it up." I shrugged. "But I have...touched myself..." I looked down, "To orgasm...sixteen times since my last confession." I did not look up, and he did not say anything, so I slowly raised my eyes up from the floor and met his. He exhaled, almost as if he had been holding his breath.

"Sixteen?"

My face was burning hot. Maybe I misunderstood him before. Maybe this was not okay. Shame quickly and violently shot through my gut. I nodded, full of sorrow. "Yes, father."

He stroked his chin and his eyes were laughing. "It's good to delight in God's forgiveness, isn't it?"

The relief was like cold water over my red-hot shame. I bit my lip and looked up at him gratefully. "Yes, it is."

He gently put his hand on my knee, just like last time. "And you are forgiven. I absolve you of this and all other sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen." His eyes looked directly into mine, and I felt a surge wetness in my panties.

I was hooked.

I went to confession regularly for the next three weeks, and every time it was the same. Every time I confessed to touching myself, and every time Father Damian absolved me of my sins and made my panties wet.

I wore my best, most flattering clothing to confession. On the fourth week I wore a sundress – a light purple and white one, that cinched my waist and flowed out. It went down to just above my knees. It was the most skin I had shown, but it was also getting very warm outside. That day was in the eighties, I reasoned, so a sundress was a reasonable choice for church.

I went in to the chapel again, and as usual, Father Damian was waiting for me. He heard me come in and turned around to greet me. "Hello, Emily..." he said, his eyes slowly drifting up my legs, lingering at the hemline, lingering at my breasts, and finally meeting my face. He did not even try to contain the lustful expression on his face. "You look nice today." He cleared his throat. "Come sit."

I came and sat, smoothing my dress before I sat down. I almost crossed my legs but instead held them together at the knees. We looked at each other.

I smiled, slowly, awkwardly. "Um...it's been seven days from my last confession."

He belatedly signed the cross over me. "Yes. Tell me your sins."

"I have touched myself to orgasm twenty two times since my last confession." I looked directly in his eyes and bit my lip. I don't know why, but I was beginning to get nervous. This was becoming very real, very fast.

He put his arm around the pew behind me and moved closer, like we were conspiritors, and leaned in very, very closely, and whispered in my ear. His lips were so close they brushed against my earlobe. I felt his breath on my neck – and it made my pussy actually clench with desire.

"Have you fingered yourself yet, you sweet, naughty girl?"

I paused, shocked, aroused, my stomach in knots. He leaned back, but not too far, and did not raise his voice above a whisper. "You mentioned on Good Friday it was a temptation that you were struggling with."

"Yes, father."

His eyes seemed...hooded. "Yes what?"

"Yes, father, I have fingered myself."

His eyes closed, and he drank in my answer.

"Do you lick your fingers? Do you taste yourself?"

"Yes." He began to play with my hair.

"Do you like the taste?"

I swallowed. "Yes."

"What do you think of?" His hand drifted to my neck, and he began to rub out the building tension there, teasing my hair, looking at me, intently.

I looked right into his eyes, and said it slowly. "Confession."

It happened very, very fast. Faster than I had hoped.

Father Damian leaned in and kissed me. Lightly, gently, teasing my lip, then faster, harder, more passionately, running one hand through my hair and the other clutching my hip.

I moaned.

He grabbed both of my hips and forcefully moved me onto his lap, and I straddled him on the pew, one knee on each side of his waist. We continued to kiss as his hands moved up my dress and cupped my bottom. I could feel him through his jeans, very hard, very big, very thick, and pressed against my white cotton panties. He kneaded my cheeks as he continued to kiss me, with tongue now. I had only ever kissed one boy before, Kevin Sloderbeck, at my 18th birthday party, and this sensual onslaught was paralyzing. I pressed against him and let him mold me like putty, his tongue masterfully caressing mine...and I broke the kiss, breathing heavily.

"Wait." I leaned in and whispered his ear. "Father...I'm a virgin."

He moved his hands lower down my thighs and clutched them, possessively.

"I know, my sweet girl, I know. I'm not going to take anything that isn't mine."

I sighed with relief, and then whispered, "Will God forgive us?"

He pushed his hips upward so that his cock was pressing hard against his jeans, against my panties, against the entrance to my pussy. "Yes, my child. Yes, he will." He caught my mouth again and kissed me, hard, and I saw stars. "We all delight in God's grace." He moved me up a few inches and stroked the outside of my panties. I heard him gasp as he felt the soaking wet fabric, and Father Damian immediately stuck a finger up my slit for confirmation.

I moaned and arched my back.

Father Damian slowly pumped two fingers in and out of my slick, hot pussy, rubbing my clitoris with his thumb. Over and over and over, slowly, kissing my mouth, nibbling my bottom lip. He fingered me faster, and moved his fingertips relentlessly against the back of my pussy. I heard the word slip out of his mouth.

"Fuck."

I unraveled – ignited – exploded – into a million pieces, my world shattering around me as I came on Father Damian's hand.

My head slumped on his shoulder as I caught my breath, and he drew his fingers out of my pussy. He put them in front of my face.

"Taste yourself, Emily."

My lips closed around his fingers and I sucked and licked all of my juices clean. I lingered on them for some reason. No, not some reason, I knew exactly why: I wished his fingers were his cock. I wanted that in my mouth.