Sins of the Confessional

Warning, the following story contains elements that some readers may find distasteful. This includes, humiliation, pain, and bodily waste.If you find the above offensive, please read no further.

It's a typical Thursday afternoon. Classes are over for the day, and I've already grabbed a quick bite at the cafeteria. From there, I rode the bus across town to the huge, gothic style cathedral. I'm on the concrete expanse in front of the entrance, staring up at the weighty structure. My heart's already pounding, and I hope my light jacket's enough to hide my protruding nipples. As always, I feel trepidation at this point, both excitement and fear. I'm also feeling a fair degree of disgust with myself. I'm not sure that I'll go in. I don't always go in... sometimes I don't even get on the bus. But today, with my heart pounding, my stiff nipples, and my wet pussy, I can't stop myself. I walk in, hearing only the sounds of my heartbeat.

There's a part of me screaming that what I'm doing is wrong, is sinful, that I'm going to go to hell for this. It's yelling that I don't have to do this, that I should report Father Micheal to one of the other priests. Yet I still yearn for this, even if I know it's wrong. I think what we do is downright sacrilege, and I think that's what makes me so excited.

Almost before realizing it, I'm sliding the door closed to the confessional booth. The closeness and darkness enfold me, security for what we're about to do. I start with the traditional greeting, "Bless me father, for I have sinned."

Father Micheal's all too familiar voice gives me a blessing. It's a ritual conversation, telling him how long it's been since my last confession, and then getting into the confession itself. I make it quick, and I always do. Despite these formalities, despite the form I take here, I know in my heart that it's been months since my last real confession. What we do on Thursdays is only a mockery of confession.

I finish my faux confession, and he begins his faux absolution.

"First child, you must touch your nipples. Are they hard?"

"Rock hard," I whisper, my fingertips circling my nipples through my sweater and bra.

"You're a sinful whore," he whispers back. "Punish them."

I harshly pinch my nipples through the fabric. It hurts naturally, but the slickness of my satin bra makes it hard to get a good grip on them. I quickly pull my sweater up over my breasts, and unfasten my front clasp bra. I'm bare-breasted in the confessional. Then I start squeezing and pinching my nipples. I feel my brow wrinkle in pain, as I lean forward. My face is against the screen between me and the priest as I punish my nipples. I try to be quiet, it would be a disaster if our little games were discovered, but I can't keep my breathing slow, and the occasional murmur of pain escapes my lips. The low murmurs are hard to distinguish from those of passion.

"That's enough," he whispers after an unknown amount of time has passed. I drop my hands away from my breasts, and can still feel my nipples painfully throbbing. I try to catch my breath.

"Is your pussy wet?" he asks. It sends a jolt through my clit to hear the priest speaking in such vulgar ways.

I hike my skirt up around my waist. Delicately, I slide my hand into my panties. I slide my fingers down over my shaved pubic mound, feeling my hard clit, hot and throbbing beneath my fingers. My slit is already puffy, and starting to open. The entrance to my hole is still dry though, and it pulls and hurts slightly as I push my finger into myself. I hit moisture almost immediately. I spread the warm moisture over my lips, and then push the finger back into myself. Effortlessly, my middle finger slides all the way in now, until I can push it in no further. I sigh slightly at the feeling of my finger deep inside me.

"I'm very wet," I whisper, only remembering to add in, "Father," as an afterthought.

"You're a filthy whore." he whispers.

"Yes, Father." I respond.

"How many fingers can you get inside your dirty slut hole?"

I slide my forefinger in next to my middle finger without much effort. I then slide my ring finger in. I can feel the tightness now. A fullness and slight burning sensation from stretching. I can get my pinky in next to them, I know from experience, but not at this angle. I use my other hand to pull my panties down to my knees. I lean forward, and press my forehead against the carved wooden screen once more. Instead of sliding my hand over my clit, I hold my hand parallel between my thighs. I pull my fingers out, and then holding them together, like how you'd hold your hand to do a karate chop, I start pushing against my wet hole. I can feel the hot burning, and feel my pussy trying to press down on my fingers, compressing them, almost trying to crush them. With that angle, I manage, with some pain, to slide all four fingers in. I push, and go deeper than I even thought possible. I feel my thumb resting against my stiff clit, and look down, to see half my hand buried in my pussy.

"Four," I whimper, "four, and half my hand."

"God's watching you," he whispers. I whimper again, and feel my cheeks turn scarlet. I'm in God's house, in his sacred confessional, and I have my hand in my pussy. I close my legs tightly and sort of cave in, as if trying to hide from His sight.

"Pull your hand out... smell it." he orders. I do so, smelling my unpleasant, musty fish smell.

"Taste yourself..." I do, and almost gag from the taste.

"Do you like how you taste?"

"No," I whisper back.

"What do you taste like?"

"Dirty... like fish. I think I might have a yeast infection..."

"Let me smell." I hold my hand up to the screen. I hear a vague rustling, and see the vague shape of Father Micheal's head at the screen. I hear him inhale deeply, several times.

"I like the way your dirty hole smells... You tempt me, slut. You make me want to lick your dirty hole, get your smell deep in my nose... It's a sin to tempt a man of the cloth. You must perform penance. Punish your pussy."

I shudder, and nod, not sure if he can see me. I swallow once, stealing myself for what he asks. Then I pull my panties off, sliding them down shapely thighs and calves ensconced within black nylons. Down past my black high heals. My panties are pitch black, satin, with a little lace at the waistband. There's a seam that goes up the rear so my panties hug my butt. They're sexy, but not overdone. I take my panties, and hang them from the hook that the carved wooden screen forms, where a carved leaf curls upward. I see a shadow move on the other side of the screen, moving closer to my panties.

I spread my legs wide, and scoot forward a bit on my padded seat. My butt is only half on the bench now. I take my hand and flatten it, like you'd do if you were going to spank someone. I hold it out in front of me until my hand stops trembling. My heart pounds and my breathing's hard. Then I take in a deep breath, and hold it. I squeeze my eyes shut, and slap my hand down between my legs. I let out a shuddering breath, just touched by a whimper. It stings like hell, and I can't help but draw in on myself, my legs closing around my hand. My sensitive flesh burns and tingles beneath my hand once the initial shock wears off.

I wonder how loud the slap was. Did anyone hear it? Are there any other parishioners waiting to confess yet? If so, did they hear me?

My breathing's harder now. I force myself to open my legs back up. I raise my hand. And I wait for the trembling to stop. My eyes close. I continue to breath fast, trying to surprise myself as to when the slap would come. Trying to trick myself into not pulling short, and hitting myself in earnest, like I did last time. I feel my arm tense and untense several times, each an aborted almost slap.

God's watching you, he'd said. The shame and self loathing crash down on me again, and then I feel the strike my hand made almost without my realizing. I hit myself harder then last time. I catch my breath in my throat, on the verge of a scream. I gain enough control not to cry out, and let out a breath that shudders with the edge of a sob, and as I continue to squeeze my eyelids tightly closed, I feel moisture seep out of the corners.

I force myself to take controlled, measured breaths as I gain control. My whole body's shivering, and my hand feels like it's in a vice. My legs are pressed together tightly, crushing it. I force my legs to open, and I release my hand. The quivering goes out of my breathing slowly, but I can't keep my legs closed when I put my hand out. Every time I try, my legs start quivering again, snapping shut by themselves periodically.

I try a different tactic. I put my hand gently on my sex. It's hot and throbbing. Maybe it's even bruised. I'm able to relax bit by bit, and get my legs to stay open. I'm taking slow, deep breaths through my nose, and exhaling even more slowly through pursed lips. It's how my sister Yolanda used to practice her Lamaze breathing. I take my clit between my fingers. It's hard and throbbing. It hurts, but touching it feels good. Then I start applying pressure, squeezing it harshly between my fingertips. I pinch, forcing myself to keep going. My body goes rigid. Almost before I know it, my butt's entirely off the bench, and my breathing's turned ragged. Just the back of my head against the confessional's wall, and my feet hold my weight. My whole body trembles, and as tears leak from clenched eyelids, so too does a few drops of urine from my spasming body.

Finally, I let go, and my body slumps back onto the bench. My breathing's sharp, and gasping, and my vision's blurred from tears. It takes me some time before I realize where I'm at. My head's swimming, and I feel like I'm floating.

"Enough..." a voice comes. I just rest, catching my breath. A stupid smile slowly forms on my lips, and I feel a deep relaxation all through my body. The pain is far, far away. I can still feel it, but just barely. Mostly, I just feel the throbbing between my legs, matched to my heartbeat. I feel good.

The voice comes again. "Put your panties back on."

I do as commanded by my beautiful Father Micheal. I wish I could crawl through the screen, and be cuddle with him on his side of the confessional.

"You have to go to the bathroom?" he said, in almost a monotone. It was more of a statement than a question, but I still answer him.

"Yes father."

A small sliding door in the partition that separates us slides open. Sitting, the door is a little below my eyes. I hear a little rustling as Father Micheal rearranges himself. Then a hand comes through, holding a silver engraved communion chalice. "Use this."

I take the fancy goblet. It's hard to believe how heavy it is. "Use it to produce your drink. Piss in the communion chalice."

I shudder at his words. He's so perverted. Always coming up with some new perversion, sacrilege. I pull the gusset of my panties to one side, and hold the communion cup between my legs. How many people have drank from this cup in holy communion? Will God transmute my piss to blood, as he does with wine? Or am I just giving Him a slap in the face, a reason to send me to purgatory for a thousand ages, or maybe even to hell? Will the fallen angel Lucifer tell me this was the moment I damned myself?

I pee in the cup. My legs are spread lewdly, and one hand holds my pussy open, while the other holds the cup. I'm careful not to overfill it. I don't want to spill my pee onto the wooden floor. When it's as full as I dare, I squeeze, and stop the flow. I scrape the edge of the sacred vessel across my pussy, to catch any errant drops. The cup warms in my hand with the briny, yellow liquid.

"Are you finished?" he asks.

"Yes Father."

"Let me see what you've done to the communion chalice." I carefully hand it back through the little door, and his large, soft hand brushes against mine. Long, thick, elegant fingers brush against mine. I can feel the manicure he's had, and how clean his hands seem, compared to mine. I yearn, wishing he could take me in those hands, touch me himself instead of the proxy of commanding me to touch myself. He carefully takes the heavy goblet, now heavier with the product of my body.

I hear him take a sip. I shudder in yearning. My priest is tasting me. "Delicious..." he whispers.

Some time passes, and I hear him take a few more sips in the silence. The chalice passes back to me. Then his voice comes in the dark once more.

"Take it. Finish it. I can't walk around with piss in it..." I take the communion chalice. It's still over half full. I start drinking. It's a little salty, and has an aftertaste like... like how I'd imagine glass cleaner to have. It would almost be refreshing if it were cold, but for a subtle, but unpleasant flavor that I imagine is the urea. As I drink, his words come again.

"You've sinned. You've desecrated a sacred vessel. You must perform penance. Are you ready?"

I finish drinking my pee. "Yes Father."

"Desecrate yourself. Put your panties back on and... desecrate your body. I want you to shit in your panties."

"Yes Father."

I shudder. I hate doing this... and I love it. So, so dirty. But disgusting, especially afterward. I'd be revolted when I thought back on this later. Probably. Usually I was revolted. But sometimes, it just turns me on.

I retrieve my panties from where they hang between us, Priest and petitioner. I slid them back up my legs, and seat them firmly where they belong. My heart picks it's pace back up, and I slide forward again, so that I am barely touching the bench. My anus is hovering over the floor, with only my panties as a shield. If I got unlucky, I might end up shitting on the floor, or have shit run down my leg after I leave the confessional. This is a dangerous game we play. Well, a more dangerous game.

I can feel the weight back there. I know I have to go. I had to go when I got here, before I even got on the bus to come to church. But years of conditioning are hard to overcome. I know I'm not in a restroom. I know I have my panties on. And my body is reluctant to comply with my commands. I bare down, but my sphincter refuses to release. I just dribble a little in my panties.

My nipples and clit respond just fine to this though. I'm trying to do something naughty, something dirty, something that you just don't do. Especially not in church, with God watching. My nipples and clit are throbbing. I don't think they get any harder than this, or ache more for a touch. I could probably make myself come with just a brush of the fingers right now if I wanted.

I push and strain, trying to convince my body to let go, to void my bowels under these conditions. Finally, I feel my reluctant sphincter opening, and I can feel the tip of my bowel movement starting to emerge. A rising excitement and near panic fight within me, but I keep pushing. I then feel more come out, and can then feel it pushing against my cheek hugging panties. I pause to breath, and tears of strain distort my vision again. I have to fight not to reflexively tighten my sphincter, and cut the log prematurely. After a few stabilizing breaths, I push again, and feel the log, hot, and a little slimy, being conformed and channeled by my panties. The log pushes forward, ever forward, slowly scraping against my sex. Goosebumps rise and my hair stands at the feeling. My shit scraps further forward, and I can feel it slide gently against my engorged and unhooded clit. I moan slightly, and push more, until the entire gusset of my panties is filled, and shit is slowly being pushed out the front from between my legs. I squeeze once, hard, and feel the log cut. There's more inside me, I could push more out, but there'd be too much for my panties to hold. I don't dare, not here. Not unless Father Micheal asks me to.

I stand carefully, and feel the weight in my panties, as if some force is trying to pull them off me, and make them drop to the flood between my feet. They'll hold though. I'm pretty sure.

Carefully, I sit back down on the leather cushion. I feel the hot, moist log squish and compress against my sex, conforming and molding to my body. I rock slightly back and forth. The smell asails me then, but I don't care. I can feel shit pressing upward, just a little invading my pussy. This sort of thing, this is why I get yeast infections. This is why my pussy stinks. It's why I can't have normal sex with normal boys. Just... this, whatever it is, with Father Micheal. I wonder if he'd want to lick me now? The thought is almost enough to push to into an orgasm. Or maybe I did just have a little one.

"I can smell you..." he whispers.

I lean against the screen. Just a few inches separate us.

"I want you..." I plead.

"Touch yourself," he commands. "Make yourself come."

"Yes Father."

I keep my head on the screen, where I can see his shadowy form moving on the other side of the partition. I slide my fingers past my waistband. I can feel my dirty, smelly shit. My fingers move through it, not caring, and find my clit. I start to rub it gently, rubbing soft, warm shit all over it.

"Put your fingers inside your pussy."

I just moan in response, and push my fingers deeper. I push my fingers into myself. They're coated with shit. I even push some into myself on purpose, and I finger myself, fingers moving in and out of my hot, wet hole. After a bit, I move my fingers back to my clit. I rub it more, and feel the first waves of orgasm starting. The contractions are deep inside, squeezing and squeezing, and I feel my pussy squirting deep inside with juice. My whole body clenches, and nearly convulsing, I gyrate back and forth, muscles contracting. I realize the voice I hear is my own... orgasmic moans. I cut off the noise, with an effort, and continue riding the tail of my orgasm. I realize the noise I heard was Father Micheal shushing me. My cheeks burn, and I hope that no one overheard. If someone violated the confessional, thinking I was having a seizure or something, I'd never be able to hide the shit on my hand in time.

I pull my hand out of my panties, and look at it. All of my fingers are covered in shit, and I even managed to get some on my palm and thumb. It stinks. I feel ashamed of myself now. As hot as the orgasm was, I feel vaguely disgusted, and wish I had walked away instead of going through with what Father Micheal asked me to do. But I know I can't deny him. I don't know why that is, but I just can't. I give in to every depraved act he asks to me to do.

I hear him shuffling about. "It's alright. There isn't anyone around. No one could have heard you. You need to be more careful. I could get in a lot of trouble if we get caught. They might even transfer me to another church."

"Sorry... that was a strong one."

"Yeah... I could tell." I continued to catch my breath, and listened to his rustling around. He was breathing pretty hard himself, excited. His bare cock, rigid and pointing vaguely up toward the ceiling emerged through the small doorway.

I didn't wait for his order. I got down on my knees, kneeling before him. I bowed my head, and took his bulbous head into my mouth. He was already slick with pre-cum. I licked slightly with the tip of my tongue beneath his head, where the head joined the shaft, and moved my mouth slowly back and forth over the head. Then I lapped the hole, taking in his pre-cum. I loved his flavor. Like cum, but milder, with a hint of piss in the taste, and that slick, stringy texture of the pre-cum.

His smell was musky, and slightly sour. He smelled vaguely of stale piss, and dried cum. I'd guess he was wearing dirty underwear, underwear that he'd masturbated into once or twice. I smiled slightly, enjoying the perversion of it. He loved doing dirty little things like that with me, and I had to admit, I liked it too. The slimy, cooling shit in my panties attested to that.