Confessions

Father Frenault tapped his watch, just to make sure it was still running. It was. 3:26. Damn it! She should have been here by now! he thought bitterly, then immediately made penance for the mental outburst and bit of implied blasphemy. He could afford a few more minutes before heading over to the Murphy boy's wake. In the meantime, he had no choice but to wait.

The first Thursday afternoon he'd run into Adara had been a fluke, pure and simple. He'd just happened to be in church, puttering around in his new parish, when he noticed a lovely redhead come into the vestry, light a candle, and make her way to one of the pews. He'd quickly slipped into the confessional and poked at the half curtain of the priest's vestibule until he caught a sliver of the image of her kneeling at prayer. It didn't seem right for her to have a barrier between herself and God. A creature like that didn't need intercession; she was perfection personified, he mused.

When she finished praying, she turned, heading for the confessional. Panic was his first reaction; then he realized she couldn't see him - the folds of the curtains camouflaged the slight voyeur's gap in shadows. Obviously, she'd noticed the indicator light was on; so she'd come to make her confession. After a couple of deep breaths, he calmed down enough to compose himself and took a seat in the coffin-like room beside her. Once he heard the clatter of metal hooks as the floor-length curtain of the parishioner's section closed, he slid back the little door, opening her compartment's grille to his chamber.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been over two months since my last confession."

He rubbed his sweaty palms on his trousers as he ran his shaking hands down his thighs. "Why has it been so long since your last confession, my child?" he said, trying to keep the croaking betrayal of nerves out of his voice.

Her breath caught in a sigh before she replied, "My husband's dying. It's hard to pray to a God I'm not sure I believe in any longer."

"Death is a part of life, child." The words sounded trite in his own ears, so he could only guess how meaningless they seemed to her.

She sighed again, and this time he could hear the weariness of the sound. "It's just that... well... he's been so sick for so long..." her voice trailed off without finishing her sentence.

"Cancer?"

He could see a shadow pass over the grille as she nodded; then he heard the faint rustle of fabric and a sniffling. She was crying, and there was nothing he could do to comfort her except offer words.

She choked back her tears before whispering, "Between the cancer, chemotherapy, and the drugs, he hasn't had any sex drive at all for over a year."

That admission seemed a damn shame to him, given how lovely she was. What a waste! "There's more to blessed union than the physical. Have you children?"

He heard her sniffling again before she replied, "No, Father. It was our wish, but we were never blessed. And now he's dying. All I ever wanted was a child." There was a strong sense of desperation in her simple statement. "So long since..."

Thoughts of lying with her, of planting seed inside her filled his inner sight. Oh, to hold her, for just a moment. To smell her honeyed breath, to feel the warmth of her bared flesh as their bodies lay entwined. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, his internal voice begged.

He was jarred back to reality by an unexpected and muffled noise, a shifting of weight, more rustling of fabric, shoes scuffing against the floorboards of the boxy chamber. "It seems the longer I go without, the more obsessed I become with it, and I realize that's a sin, Father."

His eyes closed as he listened to her sing-song litany of "sin." There were times when he wondered why the Church was so hard on simple thoughts, as if thinking of sin was as serious an offense to God as actually committing it. Then he looked down, surprised to witness his already hard cock making a bulge in his pants. With a sense of chagrin, he realized he hadn't been hearing the woman's confession for the last few minutes.

She'd stopped talking, and, at first, he thought she'd momentarily paused before continuing, but then he noticed a slight slurping noise coming from the other side of the wall. Curiosity got the better of him, so he leaned low to peer through the grille to try to catch a glimpse of what was transpiring in the roomlet beside him, but it was to no avail. However, he did notice a faint muskiness hanging in the air. She emitted a shuddering moan before whispering, "Oh, Father! I'm going to hell for this."

"No sin is so grave that penance cannot be made, my child."

"You don't know what I'm doing right now."

He smiled to himself before replying, "Why don't you tell me all about it so I might counsel you?" Without even thinking about what he was doing or the consequences of such a sinful act, he took his dick out of his pants and started pulling it in long, even strokes.

She gasped and trembled; he imagined he could feel her breath wafting through his hair as she laid beside him.

"I touch myself, Father. I do it all the time. I just can't seem to stop. It's almost as if my soul's possessed by some crazed demon. Even before I realize what's happening, I look down and my fingers are pressed against my... my..."

"Womanhood?" he offered.

"Yes, against my womanhood, stroking myself furiously until I find release - but it's the release of the tormented. My cries always sound so frustrated, as if even my body knows that fulfillment can't be gained by such sinful acts."

"You're doing this now? I heard no cries, tormented or otherwise."

"Sometimes I can control that part of it." A sharp intake of breath came from the room beside him, followed by a strained whimpering. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," she gasped, then hastily added, "and their little donkey, too," thus sparing herself the charge of blasphemy on top of all her other transgressions. After that, for several minutes all he heard was heavy breathing, ragged at first, then slowly becoming more even. In spite of the growing calm of her respiration, her voice broke as she cried, "Oh, Father, please forgive me! I thought I could control it this once!" With those simple words, she ran from the confessional and out of the church.

Casting a glance down at his own lap, he echoed her words, in a silent plea to God. All this time he believed he could control his baser instincts; it was, after all, simply an act of willpower and faith. Or so he'd believed until this first test.

Adara was glad she'd had the presence of mind to grab her gray wool cape before heading out the door for this morning's Mass. Admittedly, the church's interior could be cold this time of year - at least until the crowd of bodies warmed up the chapel - and her camel-colored cashmere coat would have been a more stylish choice if warmth were her primary concern, but other matters, like discretion, guided her preference.

She hadn't set foot in church for over a month, not since that afternoon when she'd desecrated the confessional with her coarse need for self-gratification. The action she had in mind for today was even more sinful than the one previous, may God forgive me.

A small group of people stood at the confessional, awaiting the opportunity to make penance for their sins, whether real or merely perceived. Adara hung back, allowing others to step between her and the priest cloistered in the wooden chamber. As she stood there, nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she wondered if he realized she was merely steps away from him. For that matter, she doubted - or perhaps more rightly hoped - that he wouldn't remember her, given that it had been quite some time since her last confession. She wasn't certain he'd even seen her face.

She glanced from her watch to the vestry's doorway. If she'd timed things flawlessly, she could be the last person to make her confession before the priest retired to the rectory before Mass. That would mean she'd have him all to herself for as long as she wanted.

Casually she nodded to the others seeking absolution, occasionally giving them slight smiles in between hushed bouts of conversation. The same tired question of "How's your husband, bless him!" didn't seem to annoy her as much today as it had during past encounters.

The line dwindled until only she remained. As the last parishioner stepped past her, Adara allowed herself a slight satisfied smile before entering the confessional and pulling the drape closed.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been over a month since my last confession."

Oh, that lovely sing-song voice; he'd recognize it anywhere! In violation of the anonymity of this sacrament, he leaned close to the grille and whispered, "Yes, I know. You left something behind after your last visit."

Her cheeks colored crimson; she hadn't missed the panties she'd left in the confessional until she got home that afternoon.

In order to put her at ease, he asked, "Has your situation improved at all, my child?"

"No, Father. He gets worse by the day."

"I didn't ask about your husband; it's your situation which concerns me."

Caught off-guard by his compassion for her - even if he was expected to have such regard for his flock - she bit back the mistiness which threatened to make her cry. In an attempt to counter his question, she stated, "It must be hard to remain celibate."

"You would know the answer to that as well as I, child."

"I suppose I would. But it's not like I took a vow or anything."

"Your marriage vow was just as binding a promise as mine to God when I became a priest."

"But you knew what you were getting into when you made yours, Father. I was expecting, well... I wasn't expecting to have to live like a nun." She paused before asking, "Do nuns ever think about sex?"

"Probably more often than anyone suspects."

She laughed at his unexpected jest before saying, "I didn't promise to live like a nun, Father. I promised to be faithful to my husband."

"You expected that he'd always be there to see to your physical needs, so it tests your faith to know you'll lose him soon."

"Father, I realize this sounds terrible, but I want a baby so badly that I took my husband's manhood in my hands last night and stroked it until he got hard. Then I climbed on him and rode him until he came." She hesitated before asking, "I'm going to hell for that, aren't I?"

"Procreation is what sex exists for, child. How is that a sin? But if it's absolution you're seeking, perhaps you should think on the Twenty-Third Psalm and how the Shepherd's rod is a blessing and comfort to His flock."

He noted the sound of fabric-covered flesh as it moved across the wooden seat, shifting before lifting from the bench. "Thank you for your time, Father." With a practiced hand, she swept the curtain aside and started to head back to the vestry, ashamed at her desire to seduce him.

Sometimes she wondered what he must look like, once the priest's garb was stripped away. Had he turned to serving God because he couldn't cut it in the real world? Maybe he didn't even like women...

"Mrs. Monaghan?" he asked as he stepped from the cubicle. She turned to face him. "Please don't let so much time pass until your next confession, and don't hesitate to ask God and His Church for guidance and assistance during your time of great need."

She felt her cheeks flush in reaction to his words. What had she been thinking, coming here in the hope that they'd go back to the rectory and - what? Fornicate? That simply wasn't proper. Not at all! She pivoted away and hurriedly left the sanctuary.

Two hours later, Adara stood at the back of the congregation, as if her intentions for being here were as pure as anyone else's. As the final notes of the hymn died away, the congregation sat. Adara made a point of keeping her hands inside the cape, holding them away from her body so that the cloak billowed over her knees, forming a tent-like structure. Then she allowed her legs to slowly drift apart, opening her thighs. Not too fast. Mustn't let anyone notice.

She listened to the priest as he began his sermon. He had a lovely voice, perfect for oration: strong, clear, and expressive. She caught herself wondering if she could be made to cum merely by a single spoken word issuing from his lips. Making a show of feigned piety, she bowed her head, as if in silent prayer or reflection, thus affording herself the opportunity to close her eyes and focus her attentions on more carnal pursuits.

Carefully she slid her fingers under her skirt, allowing them to quest along her inner thigh until they barely brushed her pubic hairs. Knowing how wanton her actions were sent a shiver through her, which she somehow managed to camouflage as being a result of the cold. The man at the end of the sparsely populated pew nodded slightly before returning his attention to the sermon.

Using only her fingertips, she started lightly touching her labia, then gently tugging the lips back to expose her clit to her questing hands. For a moment, she thought she felt the rush of cold air on her snatch - causing her clit to stand erect - but that couldn't be; her cape was well past her knees and served as a good insulator.

With a supreme effort, she suppressed a shudder and struggled to keep her breathing even as she caressed her privacy. Sliding down, following the contour of the valleys between the peak of clitoris and labia, her fingers dipped into her inner sanctum to spread the precious lubrication across her nether region. Allowing only the tiniest of whimpers to escape - barely more than a sigh - she continued stroking, fingers rippling over herself. Every time she brushed past her clitoris, she had to quell the urge to cry out; the enforced silence of her activity intensifying the experience.

She luxuriated in the softness of her flesh, in the way the addition of moisture caused her fingers to effortlessly glide, making the experience even more pleasurable. Not wanting to wait any longer, she pressed her button, gently at first, then more insistently. She imagined it was his finger on her, pushing against her; the thought alone made her cum. With the cape covering her reaction, only her trembling breathing betrayed her conduct, and no one nearby seemed to notice her respirations grow more rapid and shallow.

Heady orgasm-inspired sensations wafted through her mind, mingling with his voice and her desires. She closed her eyes once more, inviting him alone to dance in her thoughts. So close...

Row by row, parishioners filed toward the altar to receive the Eucharist. She watched the priest as he gave the Host to each person, placing it on his or her tongue before they moved to the Eucharistic minister who held the wine cup. Finally it was her turn to step forward and take Communion. She held back, making certain she was the last person in line, then patiently waited.

As she stepped close to the priest, she used her hand to billow out the cape so that it camouflaged her actions while she casually brushed her covered hand against his crotch. Only his eyes betrayed his surprise at her behavior; to the world he remained unflappably calm. Their eyes locked as he placed the Host on her tongue, which curled around the wafer and managed to moisten his fingertip before he withdrew it. Then she bowed her head, in seeming modesty, as she stepped over to the lay minister, who gave her a sip of wine.

She settled back into the corner of the back pew, content in the knowledge that her suggestive behavior beguiled him. If everything worked out right, she'd have him; she was certain of that.

The service ended and the congregation filed out, shaking hands with the priest and praising his thoughtful sermon. When Adara reached him he took her right hand in his, covering their joined hands with his left one. As he smiled at her he said, "I do hope you'll come again soon, Mrs. Monaghan," while slipping the lost panties back into her hand, right under the noses of those nearby, with no one but Adara the wiser.

A week later, Adara nervously dialed the phone, then waited before saying, "I'd like to speak with Father Frenault, please."

"May I ask who's calling?"

"Mrs. Monaghan."

The line went silent for a brief moment before the priest said, "Hello, Mrs. Monaghan. We missed you at yesterday's Mass. What can I do for you?"

"I'll be out running errands later in the week and wondered if I could make an appointment to see you?"

"What day?"

She hesitated, then offered, "Thursday?"

"About what time?"

"Around three."

"And what did you wish to discuss?"

"Well, since I didn't make it to church yesterday, I'd like to confess."

"I'll be happy to hear your confession, child."

As she hung up the phone, Adara hoped he understood she wanted to do more than simply confess.

He was already sitting in the priest's vestibule, awaiting her arrival when, at the appointed time on Thursday, Adara entered the church and made her way to the confessional. From the simple sound of high heels clicking on the floor, he knew it was her.

Patiently he waited as she settled into the parishioners section of the confessional. Even so, it seemed an eternity before she slid back the little door covering the grille. So close now...

"Bless me, Father, for I'm about to sin." Her words were less a show of contrition and more of a challenge.

"This sin you're about to commit... do you wish to forestall it?"

"God help me, I don't."

He heard the rustle of fabric, smelled the scent of woman's musk in the air, listened as her breath caught in her throat. "Tell me what you're doing, my child."

"Father, I'm touching my womanhood." She gasped in panting sighs. "I think of you when I do. It's a terrible sin, I know."

"It's a human failing, to desire what we cannot have." He scooted to the edge of the narrow bench, as if mere craving alone could bring her nearer. "Tell me everything you're doing."

"Oh, Father! Such needs I have!"

Hearing her without knowing exactly what she was doing was fast becoming a frustration for him. "Please, tell me," he whispered insistently, his voice breaking with need.

In the barest hush she said, "Sometimes I can hardly contain myself when I think of you. I want that crashing rush of orgasm. I want it without any precursor, without any foreplay. I simply want to feel that intense loss of self as I slip over the edge of bliss."

She panted harder, deeper, and he knew she was close to cumming. "Tell me," he urged again.

"Sliding, pushing, writhing against my fingers as they fuck my pussy," she heaved. He heard her breathing shudder as she cried, "Oh, GOD!"

Listening to her, with little idea of what was transpiring in the cubicle next to him, created a madness in his soul. The only thing he knew was he needed her. Now. Even if it was a tiny part of her. "Are your fingers laved in your juices?"

"Yes, Father."

"Place them on the grille. I want to taste them."

The shadow of her left hand hovered over the screen separating them before settling lightly against it. He bent close, first inhaling deeply of her scent-laden fingers; then lapping his tongue against them. Even with the mesh separating them, he managed to lick her fingers to his satisfaction - but his need wasn't sated.

"I want to taste you, child. I want to part your thighs with my face and lick you until you're dry, and then make you wet again." He could hear her fear, which caused her respirations to pause slightly with each breath. Waiting - enduring the long silence of indecision - hoping she would agree to his suggestion.