Confessions

Heaving three more gasps, she finally whispered, "I want that, too. I'm totally damned."

That's all he needed. Suddenly their souls' salvation wasn't foremost in his thoughts; all that mattered was taking her. Before either of them had time to reconsider, they were both standing outside the confessional as he grabbed her by the hand while he dithered over where to lead her.

With a knowing smirk she pointed up at the choir loft, which towered above them. "That's the best make-out place in the church," she said, stepping ahead of him and tugging his hand. "Ralph and I used to sneak up there, back in the day."

He hastily nodded, then rushed ahead of her, pulling her behind him. The hard-on confined in his trousers was quickly getting a friction burn as it strained for release.

By the time they clambered into the choir loft, they both were breathless from exertion and anticipation. In the frenzy of undressing the other, fingers fumbled over buttons and zippers, tugging and pulling clothing aside, until bare flesh appeared.

Seeing her like that, exposed but still partially dressed, made him ache for her even more. His long, thin fingers stroked her cunt, dipping inside to check how wet she was. Then he offered one of those musk-moistened fingers to her, pushing it against her lips, which she parted to taste herself. He leaned down, kissing her, tasting the cum-juices on her tongue. Then he did as he'd promised he would, parting her thighs with his face so he could lick her dry.

His tongue lapped her, from asshole to clit, adding his saliva to the flow of her pussy. With each stroke, she writhed at his touch, whimpering and moaning with delight. Part of him loved that she could allow herself the freedom to fully enjoy such obviously sinful acts; the rest of him feared getting caught. He glanced around the loft, searching for something to quiet her, when he spied a hymnal, which he picked up and pushed to her lips. "Bite on this." As soon as she opened her mouth, he placed the book between her lips. "Not another sound from you, child."

He went back to his cunnilingus, this time probing into her pussy and slowly tongue-fucking her. She let out a muffled whimper, her eyes rolling back into her head. He savored her sharp, sweet flavor as she clawed at the floor. With the inspiration of a devil, he paused, lifting his face from her groin. He gave her a wicked grin before asking, "Is this what you came for, or would you like to experience the shepherd's rod?"

"Please, fuck me, Father!"

His cock sprang free, bobbing out of his pants as she pushed them down from his waist. Without a thought, he stroked into her, reveling in the sensation of being squeezed by that tight cunt of hers. With every thrust, he felt her yield, then tighten around him. In spite of his desire to prolong the act, it wasn't long before he was cumming, spewing his seed into her waiting vessel.

He panted hard, still poised over her, but she reached for him, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him down, laying his head against her breasts. For several minutes they rested like that, quietly savoring their intimacy.

"Do you have a first name, Father?"

A chuckle - moving from his mouth to his eyes - danced across his features before he replied, "Yes. It's Paul." He caressed her cheek, then asked, "What of you? A pagan name like Adara is hardly an appropriate name for a devout Catholic."

"Adara is a name passed down in my family. My saint's name is Brigit."

Father Frenault soon lived for Thursday, marking the passing of weeks by comparing each day to the holy one where he could once again unite with her. Parishioners were glad that their priest was taking such a personal interest in the Monaghan family, assisting Adara in the delicate transition from wife to widow as her husband prepared for death.

Ralph Monaghan's belief in the Church had lapsed long ago, but now that he was dying, he felt it didn't hurt to get the Lord on his side, which is why he requested that their parish priest make weekly sick call visits. Thus Sunday also became a day of union for Adara and Paul.

The first Sunday sick call was in late April, during a blinding rainstorm. Holding a candle in one hand, Adara greeted Father Frenault at the front door and led him to her husband's room, which had been carefully prepared for the visit.

On a bedside table were a crucifix, two blessed candles, a bottle of holy water, a small glass of fresh water and a spoon, and a white napkin. The priest took in the preparations and gave an appreciative nod to Adara. "Even most devout Catholics don't know how to prepare for a sick call visit."

"Well," she purred demurely, "I wanted everything to be just right for you."

Paul quickly donned his surplice and stole, then set about offering the sick man the sacrament of Penance. Once the man had confessed his sins, the priest gave him Communion. Seeing that her husband was growing weary from the exertion, Adara said to him, "I hope you don't mind if I spend some time with the good Father, since I need to confess myself."

Her husband nodded and waved the two of them out of his room with a wan smile. "Of course not."

Adara led the priest across the hallway. "We haven't shared a bed in over a year," she explained. "He's in too much pain most of the time." Almost before the door was fully closed, Paul pressed against her, kissing her neck, then taking her firmly by the shoulders and turning her, so he could kiss her hard on the mouth.

Her knees buckled at the insistence of his touch. "Every time I think of you, I get wet."

"Why don't I see for myself?" he asked, pulling up her skirt so he could gain access to her privacy. It took only a brief caress to assure them both. "Very, very wet, you minx." As his fingers curled to coax an orgasm from her, he said, "My parents always taught me 'ladies first'."

So immediate was her need that all it took was the hint of fingertips stroking her to send her into quivering madness, made all the more intense by the need to remain silent. She tightly squeezed his arms, gripping him to keep herself upright and as composed as she could manage. She felt like she'd explode from the sensations of him controlling her pleasure. He pulled her close, allowing her to rest against him while she shuddered into her first orgasm of the evening.

Finally, after taking several minutes to come down from her satisfaction, she smiled and managed to say, "Remind me to send your folks a thank-you gift."

He petted her, drawing the hand he'd used to fondle her femininity across her lips. "Make me clean again so that I might give you a special taste of the Host."

She eagerly set to work on his fingers, tongue-washing them until no trace of her musk remained. As she languidly sucked his forefinger, she gazed into his green eyes saying, "You mentioned a special Communion if I performed my service well?"

"I don't know about you," he said, placing his hands on her shoulders and forcing her to her knees, "but I really miss the old days, when parishioners genuflected to receive Communion. I liked the sense of obeisance it held for the true believers. Giving oneself completely to the Lord, with no hesitation." He looked down at her, holding her eyes in a spell. "I want that from you, Adara. Absolute submission. I want to be your only avenue to Paradise." With those words, he undid his pants, releasing his cock and placing it on her waiting tongue as he would have the Host. "I've been imagining this ever since the first Mass I gave you Communion."

Placing both hands on her head - half in blessing and half in domination - he guided her to the task of gratifying him. She used her lips and tongue to worship his manhood, lapping, kissing, and sucking it until he felt the quickening of sperm rising in his balls.

"Turn around," he gasped.

At first she thought she'd done something to displease him and so hesitated. "On all fours, child," he offered.

With a nod she took to hands and knees, pivoting around so that her bare ass was offered as an oblation to his lust. Moving past the puckered butthole, he stole into her expectant love-tunnel.

He fucked her like that, both of them kneeling in humble supplication to carnal passions. As he pumped her, he watched her expression, reflected in the mirrored closet doors a couple of feet in front of them. Her face shown with the ecstasy of Saint Teresa of Avila, transmuted from earthbound joys to heavenly rapture. If only God the Father could transform her woe to delight, he hoped, shooting his full load into her.

Afterward there was no time for tenderness. She briefly kissed him, then bid him go so that she could get back to serving as nurse to her husband.

It was the thunder - echoing like canon-fire as the sound waves bounced between the church and rectory - which woke him, but it was the ringing phone which kept him from returning to Morpheus' embrace.

"Hello?"

"It's my husband, Paul. I think it's the end."

The priest nodded, even though Adara couldn't see the gesture, then asked, "St. Elizabeth's?" It stood to reason her husband would be checked into the nearest hospital specializing in the treatment of cancer patients.

"Yes."

"I'll be there as soon as I can be."

Even though ministering to the dying was part of his job, it was a part Father Frenault could do without. Perhaps his fear of death was proof of a waning faith, but he really didn't like thinking about the implications and whether or not there really was anything to go toward, once we slip this mortal coil. Not to mention the smell of antiseptic and urine - which always seemed to permeate hospitals and nursing homes - made him want to gag. In spite of all his personal misgivings and hang-ups, he squared his shoulders and tried to put on a professional facade before entering the dying man's room.

Once he'd pushed open the door, he noticed the room was dim, probably to allow the patient to sleep as fitfully as his condition permitted. In the corner sat Adara, dozing in a chair. He crossed to her, gently shaking her shoulder to wake her. Once her eyes opened, he stepped back to give her room to stand and stretch, then the two lovers exchanged a brief kiss before turning their attention to the reason for the priest's errand.

With a silent prayer, Paul kissed the vestment stole, wound it behind his neck so that it draped down his chest from either shoulder, then opened the sick call kit, laying it on the bedside table. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I grant you peace," he said, making the sign of the cross in the air above the patient. "Do you have a final confession, my son?"

The man looked into the priest's eyes and smiled; it wasn't an expression of joy or even relief. Then he said, "I'd like to thank you, Father. Adara's told me what a help you've been to her." That's when the priest realized the meaning behind Mr. Monaghan's smile.

Paul offered Holy Viaticum - "food for the journey" - the special Communion for those near death, then set about giving Extreme Unction, anointing the dying man with oil.

"Through this holy anointing and His most loving mercy, may the Lord assist you by the grace of the Holy Spirit so that, when you have been freed from your sins, He may save you and in His goodness raise you up." Even before he finished the task, he realized Monaghan had breathed his final breath.

"Do you think he knew about us?" she asked.

The priest glanced up at Adara, then nodded his answer. "Now that he's gone, it wouldn't be wise for us to continue this."

A single tear betrayed her, shed as much for the child she still longed for as for the lover she was now denied.

Even though they were no longer intimate, Paul and Adara continued to keep their Thursday afternoon appointment, if for no other reason than so no one would become suspicious of a change in their habits; but the day became a supreme torment for Father Frenault. He couldn't help masturbating as she sat beside him, so close but kept apart by a wall and propriety.

He heard the clatter of high heels in the vestry, a momentary pause before the sound resumed, moving closer to the confessional, the familiar rattle of the curtain of the parishioners' section pulled into place, and finally the thump of a body dropping onto the seat next to his, separated only by a thin wall. Breathless from her headlong rush, all Adara could do was raise her hand to the grille, her fingertips mirroring those of the priest's on the other side. For a few moments all the lovers did was lightly commune through the barrier. Once she regained control of herself, she whispered, "Sorry I'm late. I had an important appointment."

"And what sort of appointment, dear child, could take precedence over the one to save your mortal soul?"

A gasp caught in her throat before she could reply, "It's a miracle, Father. Just like you said it would be." Her fingers brushed his again before she added, "I'm with child, Father, and the ultrasound proves that God provided this blessing just before my sainted husband's untimely passing."

Paul breathed a sigh, content now that the widow's reputation would remain unblemished. "The Shepherd's rod is indeed a comfort to His flock."