Confession of a Catholic Schoolgirl

Editor's note: this fictional work contains scenes of fictional mind control, rough, reluctant, dubiously consensual, consensually non-consensual (CNC), or non-consensual sex or scenarios.

[All characters in this fictional story are 18 years of age or older.]

[This story was written by a deeply submissive and eager to please slave slut, who was very, very embarrassed and turned on as she wrote this.]

Mandatory mass was held at least once a week for the students at Our Lady of Immaculate Conception, so by the third week, you are already used to this routine. You walk in a straight, silent line with the girls in your class, led one by one behind Sister Sara. Like all the nuns at your school, Sister Sara is a stern, generally unpleasant old woman who never thinks twice about smacking your knuckles with a wooden ruler for any minor infraction.

Despite how bored you always are while forced to sit in mass, you appreciate being able to skip your even more boring morning classes. But today is different. Sister Sara had announced that every girl was to go into confession before the service would begin. You sense a strange apprehension from your classmates, and it makes you tense.

The chapel is always too cold inside. You feel a chill as you enter, your nipples hardening beneath the white, button-up blouse of your school uniform. You happen to be the first girl in line and soon, without any ceremony, you are directed towards the confessional.

Trepidation fills the pit of your stomach as you walk past the pews and up to the ornate wood booth. You assume the priest is already waiting inside, concealed behind a heavy purple curtain; on the side of the booth is a low, padded bench on which to kneel, facing a screened window. You kneel. You make the sign of the cross, clasp your hands together in front of you, and begin with a slightly shaky breath.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…”

The voice that answers from behind the screen is a deep, dispassionate one you recognize from many boring sermons. “How long since your last confession, girl?”

You have to think. The last and only time you went to confession was before your first communion, and you can scarcely remember anything except the uneasiness of the interaction. “It’s been a while, Father,” you say sheepishly.

“Very well. What sins have you committed?”

“Uhm, well,” you hesitate, squirming uncomfortably on your knees, “I’ve told some lies before… I fight with my parents sometimes. I swear a lot and, um, take the Lord’s name in vain.”

You pause, but Father John does not immediately reply. The silence feels like a vise getting tighter and tighter around you, pressuring you to spill every little sin. Obviously he senses that you are holding something back for he then asks, “Is there anything else?”

His tone is not at all unkind, but full of encouragement and authority, and you feel obliged to confess every sin no matter how sordid. You nod, even though he might not be able to see it, feeling your guilt and shame heating up your face before you even say the words. “Yes, Father… I have impure thoughts about boys. And sometimes about other girls.”

“I see. And do you ever act on those thoughts?”

“Yes, Father, I do. And sometimes I pleasure myself to those thoughts…”

Father John tsks softly. “That is very sinful. Just as God created a woman from Adam’s rib to serve him, your body was made to serve God and man.”

“Yes, Father. Will you forgive me?”

“Yes, girl,” Father John answers, and you feel a relief that is short-lived because he continues, “but first you must do penance for your transgressions.”

This doesn't trouble you. You expect a couple Our Fathers and Hail Marys will get you off the hook. But as you wait to hear how many prayers you would be made to recite, you are surprised when the confessional curtain suddenly draws back and Father John emerges from the booth.

The priest is a young and handsome man, but that’s not what catches your eye. Instead your attention is drawn to the thin, straight cane he is holding as he steps towards you.

“Are you ready to take your penance?” he asks.

Bewildered, you can do nothing but answer, “Yes, Father...”

The priest steps behind you then. You turn your head as much as you’re able, wondering if you should get up from your knees, when you feel your skirt being lifted, being tucked into the waistband to keep it from falling back down. Without a second to spare, your panties are lowered halfway down your thighs, your rear now completely uncovered.

You stammer wordlessly for a moment, on the verge of demanding to know what was happening. Then you hear the sound of the cane cutting through the air and straight into your exposed flesh. The stroke burns. Before you can do anything more than gasp in pain and shock, the cane comes down with another hard thwack.

You want to stand up, yell in protest, be outraged that this is happening to you. You’ve never been spanked before, not by your parents or anyone else. You should be horrified.

And yet, you remain kneeling, pressing your interwoven fingers against your forehead, squeezing your eyes shut as yet another stroke slices across your rear.

Because you know deep down that you deserve this. You deserve punishment.

The next stroke falls almost exactly over the last and you can't help but cry out.

Father John pauses, the wooden rod pressed against your bottom. “We must all suffer for our sins,” he says. “It is the only way to show we are truly repentant. Now tell me, girl… are you repentant?”

“Yes, Father,” you whimper, hoping the sound of sincerity will bring your caning to an end. But to your misery, you feel him tap the cane against your flesh to measure out another stroke.

You are soon crying as each sharp crack against your backside drives your hips slightly forward, your bottom growing hot with pain. Father John deliberately waits in between each blow, making sure you feel the full sting before the next.

But your bottom is not the only place where heat is growing. Amidst the pain of being caned, you feel your arousal steadily building. Your mind becomes clouded in a fog of agony and pleasure. Between every lash, you shake your burning bottom and rub your thighs together, desperate to dispel some of the pain, but your movements only serve to further ignite the flames at your core.

You feel a hand move between your legs, sliding with ease over your slick pussy, just far enough to brush your clit. A soft moan escapes you before you can stifle it. Father John tsks in disapproval. “You are a wicked girl. Your sin is dripping out of you.”

Your face flushes with a mix of humiliation and pleasure. You couldn't believe how depraved you truly were, getting aroused from this kind of punishment.

“You will atone for this with prayer. Your body was made to serve God and man. You will kneel at the altar and repeat your prayer until you are granted forgiveness.”

“Yes, Father,” you answer.

Your panties are pulled back up to cover your reddened butt, your skirt smoothed back down, and you are ordered to stand. Your legs tremble slightly as you do.

Sister Sara has been waiting nearby. She grabs you by the arm and steers you towards the altar, and you walk on, silent and obedient, with your bottom punished and your pussy clenching in fruitless need.

She stops you at the bottom of the dais, a firm hand on your shoulder turning you to face the altar. You feel her lift up your skirt and in surprise, you reach behind and try to stop her. But she orders you to put your hands on your head in a harsh voice that you dare not disobey, so you lace your fingers at the back of your head and keep them there as she yanks your skirt up and your panties down.

“Spread your legs, you sinful child.”

You shuffle your feet slightly apart. Just when you think you couldn't feel any more exposed and humiliated, suddenly she spreads your cheeks and pushes something cold and finger-like against the tight entrance to your anus. You whimper and clench your bottom but it makes no difference. The foreign object is lodged in place and your skirts are tugged back down.

The burning begins within seconds, quickly building from uncomfortably warm to searing hot. It all but takes your breath away. You can do nothing but writhe and groan while the ginger root tortures your hole.

“Now,” Sister Sara tells you, “you will kneel here and pray for the forgiveness of your sins until mass is over.”

Her last words shock you as though with a jolt of electricity. Until mass is over? You were almost positive you could not endure the pain and shame of your punishment for that long. But you had no choice.

By the time mass began, there were half a dozen other girls kneeling beside you. A line of tear-stained faces and welt-striped bottoms fresh out of confession, plugged with figs and praying for forgiveness. All through the service, you repeat in a whisper, “My body was made to serve God and man.”

All through mass you and the other punished girls were ignored by Father John, until it was time to receive the Eucharist. Finally the priest came before you to offer the Body of Christ, and you obediently, gratefully open your mouth.

“You are forgiven,” he says.

Your relief brings a new flood of tears to your eyes, and you eagerly answer with the sign of the cross over your still kneeling body. “Amen.”