Forgive Me, Father

This piece was cowritten with thedevilisadyke

Warnings: religious blasphemy, Daddy kink, light bondage, heavy spanking, wax play, blow job, fingering, strap-on sex, language like slut and whore; at one point there is the language of "abusing [one]self" in referencing to masturbating

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

You begin your confession with your head hung low, hands in your lap.

"It has been 40 days since my last confession."

You pause, hesitant to continue. The glow of the candlelight shines through the screen of the confession booth. I hear your slow breathing, and the distant ticking of a clock.

"You may begin," I prompt.

You take a shaky breath.

"My sins..." you start. "Include... Um. They include... inappropriate thoughts, Father."

A smirk tugs at my lips.

"Inappropriate thoughts of what nature?"

"They're, um... They're..." You clear your throat. Heat grips you. You run your hands up and down your thighs. I wait patiently. "They're... sexual, Sir."

"Hmm," I say thoughtfully. "Tell me more about these sinful thoughts. Where are they coming from?"

"What?" you croak. You weren't expecting me to ask this.

"Tell me more about your sinful desires, boy."

"I don't... Um. I don't know where they're... coming from. I, um, I've been thinking about... Women. Masculine women... Butches with arrogant smirks and attitudes... I've been thinking about them talking dirty to me..."

"That's right," I say. "Good boy. Tell me more."

You swallow. "I've been thinking about them... telling me... to touch myself..."

I wait for you to go on, but you don't.

"How?" I ask.

"They, um." You pause and clear your throat. "They... tell me to... take my clothes off..." I hear the small rustle of your shirt as you start to unbutton it.

"Go on," I encourage, wanting you to keep talking and keep undressing.

Your shirt is open. You start in on your pants, and I hear the button and zipper.

"They tell me to... touch my body..."

I gaze through the thin screen between our booths, catching a glimpse of you reaching up to play with your chest.

"And... play with my nipples."

Your sharp intake of breath as you tweak your nipples puts my body on edge. I ache to touch you, to see you fully.

"And they tell me... to tell them... how good it feels."

"How good does it feel?" I hold back a growl.

"It feels so good, Father..."

I watch your hands move through the lattice pattern of the screen and bite my tongue.

"And is that all, boy?" I prompt, eyeing the suspenders slipped off your shoulders, wondering what kind of sound they'd make on the cold stone tile of the sacristy.

What kinds of sounds you'd make. What the acoustics of high ceilings and empty pews might do to the low whimpers you're trying so desperately to stifle.

But your confession isn't over yet, and we both know it.

"No, Father," you admit, head dropping a little. "I, uh, I... they..."

"Confess," I snap, raising my voice just a little, and it's enough.

"Y-Yes, Father," you rush to say. "They tell me to rub myself through my boxers..."

You gulp. I watch with bated breath as your hands slowly travel down your chest to your underwear, and you begin to stroke yourself.

I grit my teeth and allow myself the small indulgence of a hand on my cock through my cassock. Your hips start to move, slowly, subtly, and the screen obscures your face just enough that I can't tell if you're blushing.

I'd bet on it, but gambling isn't my vice.

"They, uh," you struggle to say. "They tell me to keep going..." You give into the sensations, gasping. "They watch me, um, they watch me... touching myself... and they tell me how pathetic I look."

I catch a glimpse of your tongue darting out to lick your delicious lips. I imagine what they might taste like... your mint gum or maybe the wine of the sacrament. I want to taste the blood of Christ on you.

"Matthew 5:28 tells us," I inform you, desire burning the back of my throat as you shudder and twitch, "that lustful thoughts are as lustful deeds in the eyes of God."

My clit grows hard against the base of my cock, and I begin stroking myself, lazily, as I watch you through the screen.

"When you fantasize then, boy - when you make yourself a slut for these butches you conjure in the sinful silence of your own skull, what difference is there between that and sinning in the flesh?" I wait a moment, not expecting a response, and answer myself: "Nothing. You may as well be whoring yourself out on the altar of this Church, in the eyes of the Lord. Continue."

"Uh," you moan. The idea of being whored out on the altar sets your body on fire. You blush and rub yourself harder. "They, uh... Uh... They tell me to reach into my boxers and find out how wet I am."

"And - when they ask you this - how wet are you, boy?" I ask, keeping my voice steady, watching your hands moving greedily. "I have to know exactly the caliber of degenerate I'm dealing with. You're already racking up quite the penance."

"I'm, um." You try to keep your voice steady, but it trembles. "I'm so wet, Daddy-- Father. Father."

I sigh, eyeing the cane propped in the corner of the confessor's booth, and suddenly the cassock is hot, the booth's hot, I'm hot, knowing what your punishment will be before your reconciliation.

But patience is a virtue. Anyway, you're not done yet, and it's no good to do an incomplete confession. "Of course you are. And when you feel how wet you are, boy, do these butches mock you for it, for being a filthy slut? Or do they just tell you to keep abusing yourself for their amusement?"

I suspect I know the answer, but I want to hear you say it. That's the whole point of this, of watching you stutter out your sins and wet your fingers in this myrrh-reeking booth.

"B-both, Father. They make me fuck myself with my fingers and call me a dirty slut for it, and it makes me more wet when they call me a slut, and I don't know what to do, Father, because it just -- feels -- so -- good..."

I watch your hips jerk on your fingers with your pants and boxers halfway down your thighs through the lattice screen. Heat grips my throat. I stifle a groan, gaze fixed on your eager fingers and your spasming hips, and snarl through gritted teeth, "Appalling. 'Repent and sin no more' isn't clear enough for you, is it, boy? Of course not. But be ye sure of this: the wicked will not go unpunished."

Proverbs. Or maybe Revelation. I can't recall, suddenly, not now, while your face contorts and your voice drops deeper with every new article of your confession.

The only revelation I see here, though, is the way you're shuddering under the weight of the confession, under your own touch, under my latticed gaze.

"And are these your sins, harlot? Or is it worse than you've told me? Have you actually cum from this self-degradation, this debauchery?"

"Oh, God, Father... Oh fuck," you moan around your fingers, rubbing your clit now with your other hand. "They tell me to cum and I obey, I obey like a good little toy..."

I can hear in the strain of your voice that you're close.

I reluctantly stop stroking my cock to the sight of your sacrament and retrieve my cane from the corner of the booth as quietly as I can. "How disappointing," I tell you, my hand on the door of the confessor's booth, "that you can't even resist that temptation. Tell me, boy, are you sorry? Are you contrite?" I practically spit the word, watching your face.

Remorse is required for absolution. You sure don't sound sorry, not now, with the strain in your voice obvious to God and everyone.

But that can be fixed.

I stifle a grunt as I rise from my chair, and use the noise of your response to cover the door of the confessor's booth opening.

"No, Father... Maybe I need to be taught a lesson," you say in that eager tone. I'm going to make you regret it.

What they don't tell you about confessionals is they very rarely lock. Something about people using them for sin. I certainly can't imagine where the Church got that idea.

I nudge the door of the penitent's booth open with my cane, and the candlelight filters in on you, looking disheveled and desperate and a certain kind of holy. The way your body is angled, towards the screen in the adjoining wall, gives me a delicious view of your ass, and I'm already calculating the angles I'll need to strike to bruise a makeshift cross into your soft flesh. "Filthy fucking harlot," I curse, "masturbating in the confessional booth. I'm inclined to believe you're right, boy. The wicked go not unpunished."

"Oh my God," you whimper. "Oh fuck." Your hips continue to jerk on your fingers and I watch you fall apart with a cry.

I watch in steely silence as you gasp through the final waves of your orgasm. And I keep that silence as I haul you up by the back of your collar. As I drag you, slowly, step by step, up the center aisle of the church. (Stained glass saints look on, silent voyeurs.) As I pull you the last few steps up to the altar and push you roughly down onto the cold oak, hands over your head, ass on full display for me.

The candles reflecting off the stained glass throw patterns onto your bare skin, bristling with gooseflesh against the chill of the church proper.

"The first act of your penance," I tell you through gritted teeth. "Galatians 6:7. Be not deceived - God is not mocked. And you mock God - " I tap my cane on the ground between your legs for emphasis - "by defiling yourself in this Church."

I shift my weight back onto my cane and lean over you, pressing you into the altar by the back of the neck with my hand.

"So you'll count these strikes, and you'll thank me for them. Understood?"

"Yes, Father," you swallow. A fire lights inside you at my words. Your pants and underwear are still halfway down your thighs, and your ass is bare to me.

I reach back into the pulpit, just a few steps away from the altar. A King James, unabridged, lies in the little cabinet under the stand. A forgotten rosary lies next to it, onyx beads and silver.

I loop the rosary around your wrists and pull it through itself. "Since you clearly can't be trusted to keep your hands off yourself," I mutter, but really, I want to watch you struggle to keep your wrists still against the weak bondage. I'm sure you can probably figure breaking a holy object is additional penance.

I wait a moment, watching your back rise and fall with your nervous breath.

The first strike hits you squarely where your thigh meets the curve of your ass.

"Oh!" you cry out. You pant.

"Count. Them," I growl.

"Yes, Sir. Uh... One, Father."

"Thank. Me. For. It," I spit, lining up a second strike on your other ass cheek. You open your mouth to respond, and I loose it before you can.

"Oh, fuck," you swear. "Two, thank you Father," you quickly squeak.

"That's better," I say with a cruel smile.

The dim thwack of my cane against your ass ("three. Thank you Father. Four, thank you Father...") sounds nice enough, and the marks are pretty, but my mind keeps drifting back to the Bible lying in wait.

So after a few more strokes, as your voice lowers and your hands tense with the effort to stay still, I swap to the Bible instead.

The dull, hard thuds hit your waiting ass and make you moan, "Oh..."

"Do you need to be reminded, boy?" I say threateningly.

"Eight, thank you, Father," you pant.

"That's a good boy," I growl. "Take your punishment. Take your punishment in front of me and the eyes of the Lord. Revelation 3:19 - As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten: be zealous therefore, and repent."

I emphasize the scripture with another thudding blow to your ass, absolutely positive the rafters have never heard a better hymn than the cry you give. If my cock were flesh it'd twitch, but your punishment is far from over, so I bring myself back to the sound of your count.

"Nine. Thank you, Father."

I build up a steady rhythm for a brief moment, reveling in the growing pink glow of your ass and the way your voice hoarsens with each smack, just a little - "ten. Thank you, Father. Eleven, thank you, Father... Twelve - "

But I've resisted the urge to smack your ass barehanded long enough. I'm only human, after all, and before you can thank me for the twelfth, I toss the Bible back onto the lectern and go for a thirteenth. Your skin is so warm under my hand.

"Oh!" you cry out, not expecting my touch. "Oh... Thirteen. Thank you, Father..."

The candles glow and flicker around us. You're a beautiful sight, a holy sight, lying prostrate for me at the altar. I ache to touch you in other ways, to fulfill your desires in sinful blasphemy, to sink my fingers into your waiting, aching cunt and find out how wet this spanking has made you.

You ache for it, too.

Instead, I hit you again.

You moan, loud and long, before you manage "Fourteen - thank you, Father." The glow of your ass is starting to rival the candlelight, and something that has to be divine speaks to me in that moment, because my body surges with fire and want: the image of your ass drizzled in candlewax, red and redder, calls to me.

Most prophecies are self-fulfilling. They don't teach you that in any catechism class. Other than mine, maybe.

I allow you a reprieve, massaging your hot ass for a few seconds. The rosary is still intact around your wrists, and I lean over you a moment, cock under my cassock pressed against your bare ass. "Good boy. Wait."

I take my time retrieving the votive candle from the wall of them on the eastern side of the church, admiring the view of you bent over and stretched out on the altar there and back.

"Father, what -- " you croak, looking over your shoulder, straining to see what I'm planning.

"You are to take your punishment without question or protest, boy," I command. "The Lord knoweth how to deliver the godly out of temptation -" Numbers 31:23 has surely never tasted so good to snarl - "so be a good, godly little whore for me. Think on your sin and repent."

I wait a few breaths, savoring your shifting and your held breath.

The curve of your left asscheek has a tiny sliver of blue and green light reflected onto it from the stained glass windows. I spill the first bit of wax there - three quick drops.

"Ah!" you cry out, straining to keep your hands together in their delicate bondage.

"F-father... Please..."

"Please, what, boy?" I demand, moving to your other cheek and drizzling a thin line of wax down the curve of you.

"Please, Father... It, um," you pause, the wax beginning to cool and harden. You moan. "Mmm, it, um, it hurts."

"Everything that may abide the fire, ye shall make it go through the fire," I tell you, sternly, holding the votive still a moment, "and it shall be clean. Are you clean, boy? Do you think you've earned absolution?"

"Mmm," you whine, speechless. You know the answer is no, but you don't want to admit it. "Please Father... I repent... I repent from my sins."

"Again," I order, and splash another stripe of wax onto your ass, admiring the way it drips down as it cools. No, you're not clean yet. But you're close. Or I'm succumbing to my own temptation, wondering how wet the burn of the wax might have made you. I don't particularly know or care which.

"Yes, Father," you agree. "I repent. I repent from my sinful desires. Please..."

"Good boy," I praise you. "Once more." The last kiss of wax strikes across the other two, making a set of crosses. Appropriate.

I'm at a loss for an edge to remove the wax for a moment, but then the obvious answer hits.

The Bible as the Swiss army knife of kink is another thing they don't teach you in catechism, but if the cilice fits... I retrieve the KJV from its perch on the lectern to the sweet sounds of your final repentance.

You're squirming when I return, whimpering. "Please, Father."

"Please, what?" I ask.

Please fuck me, you want to say. You want to beg. Your cunt is throbbing and aching for it after my torture.

"Please... Take care of me," you say instead.

Your plea sends a shock of electricity through my spine, my clit, my thighs; I swear I feel it in my cock. I grab a fistful of your short hair, but the tug is gentle - measured. "I'll take care of you, good boy," I murmur in your ear, feeling your thighs shift against mine as I press against you. But not quite yet.

I release my grip on your hair and set to my task. The wax slides off quickly and without much effort, now that it's cooled, and the cold edge of the leather-bound book coaxes it off your skin without much trouble. The Bible is consigned back to its place, and I put you in yours: kneeling, at my feet.

You look up at me, eyes eager. You wait for instruction, like the good, obedient boy I just beat you into being.

More than anything, I want your warm, wet mouth on my cock, sucking me off. It feels heavy between my legs, underneath my cassock.

The strain of your punishment is getting to my knees. I want to enjoy every blessed second of this, so I tug the lecturer's chair from its place behind the lectern, conscious with every movement of the weight of my cock and its exact distance from your mouth.

I place my cane on the altar, unloop the rosary from your wrists, settle into the chair, and undo the lower buttons of my cassock, revealing my Docs, the leather of my harness, the length of my cock bobbing out in front of your lips.

"The Body of Christ," I tell you, my body tight and hot with the anticipation of communion.

You smile, your face flushing with heat as you lick your lips and glance between my eyes and my dick. Your breathing is growing faster, and I imagine how deliciously wet your cunt must be right now between your legs, kneeling as if in prayer.

"Bless me, Father," you say, looking up at me with bold eyes. Your lips wrap around the head of my cock and I could moan from it.

"Good fucking boy," I oblige, offering you the highest benediction I can bestow.

"That's my sacred little cocksucker." My pulse is pounding in my clit with every heartbeat, watching you work me into your mouth.

You moan around me and I clench my hands in fists, trying not to grip your hair and fuck your face, trying to control myself.

It doesn't last long.

I tell myself I'm only going to put my hand on the back of your neck; only going to give you a single, slow thrust; only going to do that two... or three... hell, maybe just ten more times.

Your spit looks heavenly on my cock, and it makes me absolutely certain your cum will, too. I can't stifle a hiss at the thought, or a twitch of my hips.

Your mouth is open wide to me and you whimper as I fuck your throat. Your hands grip my thighs, tighter and tighter, and pleasure shoots up my spine.

I stifle a groan and pull you off me. Your mouth is incredible - watching my butch cock move in and out of your throat makes me unspeakably hard - but I'm far too eager to fuck your throbbing cunt to let myself cum now.

"Good boy," I praise you again, voice low with lust, brushing a thumb over your spit-slick lower lip.

"Thank you, Father," you reply dutifully. You gaze at my cock, at me, with desire. You're waiting eagerly for what's next, waiting for me to take the lead.

I haven't forgotten your earlier reluctance to ask for what you need, though, and if there's one thing I intend to exorcise before I'm done with you, it's that. "If you want absolution, boy, you have to ask for it." I tug your head back by the hair, forcing you to look me in the eyes. "Beg for this cock in your cunt."

Your mouth drops open and desire grips your throat. You search for words.

"Please, Father... Please... fuck my cunt with your butch cock."

I growl and push you to the ground, following you down as quickly as I can. The sight of you beneath me makes me feel feral, and I roughly yank your boxers and pants down further, past your thighs and down to your ankles. When I spread your thighs and see how wet you are, I reflexively cross myself. There's just nothing else for it.