Confession
Erotic short. “How long since your last confession?”
Priest kink, anal plugs, orgasm denial, power imbalance.
2nd person POV, gender not specified, “you”/cis-M. 1.4k
The last of the worshippers file out, murmuring amongst themselves, smiling and laughing. You’ve been invited to join several people for a meal, for drinks, to spend some time. They’re all very friendly and you’re glad of it, but you say no, thank you.
Oh that’s okay, that’s fine — you look a little pale, you’re flushed. Maybe you should go home and rest? You nod along to each of them, sweat trickles down your ribs and you press a fist against your belly, trying to keep still. Your jeans seem tight. Until everyone is gone you sit in the pews, your hands folded in your lap, eyes lifted to look at the carved figure of Christ above the alter.
All is quiet, and then soft footsteps tapping along the nave, the hairs on the nape of your neck prickle as they come to a halt behind you. In the silence you count your breaths, your vision blurs with tears and you keep your eyes fixed ahead. A wide, warm hand falls on your shoulder and you let out a long, shaky sigh.
“Come, my child.”
Your knees feel wobbly as you stand and follow the priest, forward and then taking a right to the confessional. The smell of incense makes you light headed for a moment and you stumble, the clatter of your shoes on the floor seems unseemly in the hush. You look up from your feet in time to see the tail of the priest’s cassock disappearing into the confessional. As you hurry to follow after him your face flushes red, you duck your head and rush into the small cubical.
Kneeling on the prie-dieu you gather your rosary between your palms, your lips pressed to your clasped hands and you close your eyes in a moment of silent prayer. The window snicks open and through the fine grille you can see the faint outline of the priest in profile, your breath catches.
“How long since your last confession?”
“Two days, Father.” You suck in a breath and fight down the anxious flutter in your belly, you try to be good, to ignore the hot ache inside, the throbbing between your legs. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned, I’ve been having lustful thoughts, and I know I should put them aside but I succumb, I … I luxuriate in them, sometimes for hours.” You clear your throat and press your mouth to the hard beads of the rosary, sweat prickles down your back and the confessional feels close and warm.
“And … and I have touched myself, with lustful thoughts.” Your voice dwindles to a breathy whisper, you’re trembling.
“How often did you touch yourself?” His voice is calm and low, you imagine the curve of his lips, it’s clear in your imagination, after watching him deliver the sermon only a little while ago.
You swallow and count to five and try to speak clearly. “Three times, Father, but I didn’t climax. I stopped myself.” And that was agony, and perhaps it’s a sin also that you enjoyed it so much, but you can’t figure out how to put it into words.
“Good,” he says and you can hear the rustle of cloth through the grille, “and have you given thought to what we discussed at our last meeting? Have you contemplated opening yourself to Christ?”
“Oh yes, Father, I’ve thought about it a lot.” It filled your head while you touched yourself and you wonder if you should confess that too, but he makes a small sound and you still, listening raptly.
“And are you open to Him?”
“Yes, Father.” Your face is hot and your hands are shaking, the beads of the rosary rattle faintly in your grip.
“Show me,” he commands. You rise from the prie-dieu and fumble your jeans open, there’s a wet patch in your underwear but you ignore it, you turn your back and you hear the grille slide open as well, with a jolt you realise that there’s nothing between you and the Father. You pull your jeans and underwear down around your knees and bend forward, baring yourself to him.
You hear a sharp intake of breath, and that large hand smooths over your tailbone, you feel a finger press alongside the thick base of the plug that has been seated snugly in your ass since you got ready for mass. As he pushes at it you feel your hole spasm and you hold in a moan, you can feel your heartbeat pulsing through your whole body.
“Be still, my child.” He pinches the curve of your rump and then returns to wiggle the plug where it’s seated deep inside you, you bite your lip and close your rolling eyes, bowing your head. You feel the fat bulb of the plug forcing you wider as he pulls it, and then sinking into you as he releases it, you try not to rock as he begins to rhythmically work it in and out of you, and you bite back a moan.
At the widest point of the plug sweat breaks out across your lower back, your legs tremble and strain to hold you up and you struggle to ignore the throbbing of your sex, with the rosary clenched in one damp fist you brace yourself against the confessional wall. The plug pops free and your hole spasms, gaping wide. The priest slides the fingers of his left hand into you, his thumb presses hard into your perineum and you don’t manage to stifle a moan, you clench involuntarily around his four thick fingers and you feel the muscles of your hole fluttering helplessly around him.
There’s the sound of a zip opening and your heart stops for a moment. “Hold yourself open,” he says, and his hand leaves you. Obediently you reach back with both hands, you slide the first two fingers of each into your hole, stretching it as wide as you’re able, you feel the crucifix on the rosary brush against your leg, and you work to keep your balance.
Something wet and warm brushes the back of your hand, and then there’s a meaty slap on the rim of your hole, your heart races and you realise he has his cock out, you can hear the faint sounds of him stroking his shaft, though his breathing is steady and he makes no other noise. If only he would plunge it deep into you, fill you with his flesh and with the word of the Lord. You try to ease back onto his rod and he holds you still with his other hand, shushes and soothes you.
“I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” You feel his hand pressing into your flesh, the reverence in his voice fills you and your eyes prick with tears again.
“O my God, I am sorry for offending Thee, I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven–” his fingers plunge into you again and you gasp, and then he hooks his thumb into your fluttering hole, helping to hold you open, “–and the pains of hell, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, Who are all good and … deserving of all my love.” Your voice cracks and you struggle to keep yourself from climax, you know that it is not for you and you’re loathed to sin right here in front of Him, though at the same time you long for the penance that would call for.
He makes a grunt and you feel a hot splatter against your rim, it splashes your fingers, and then another and another, it seems like endless, blood-hot gouts of come pouring into your wide gaping hole. You stay just as you are until he finishes, he uses his fingers to push the spilled drops of come into your hole, then touches your hands to have you pull them away.
He spits into you, and then you hear him spit again and a moment later there’s the fat weight of the plug in your hole. It had taken your whole weight on it to force it into yourself this morning and now you can hear him struggling, you push back and try to open yourself to the intrusion, taking the great body of the plug back into you, keeping his benediction deep in your body.
“God bless you,” he says and you hear the rustle of fabric as he puts his cock away and straightens his cassock, “Go in peace, my child.”
