My master ordered me to confess, and I obeyed

What I’m about to tell you happened last Thursday, and I still can’t quite believe I did it. But when Damián gives me an order, I obey. That’s how things have worked between us for years.

I’ve known Damián for much longer than all of this. We started out as friends, the kind who tell each other absolutely everything, and over time we discovered that we shared the same world: BDSM. He took the role of master and I that of submissive, and although we once fantasized about moving in together, it never went beyond that. What remained was a trust I don’t have with anyone else, and an obedience I sometimes don’t even understand myself.

—I want you to go to confession —he told me on the phone Wednesday night, in that calm voice he uses when he’s already made up his mind.

—To confession? —I repeated, not understanding.

—To a church. You put on your best clothes, go into the confessional, and tell the priest everything. Everything. And we’ll see what happens.

He’s completely insane, I thought. But I could already feel that itch in my stomach, and something lower down, a wet throb between my legs that appears every time he orders me to do something that makes me ashamed and desire it at the same time.

—Yes, sir —I replied.

***

On Thursday morning I dressed myself as if I were going to a wedding. I chose a peach-colored dress, fitted to the knee, with a folded neckline that showed just the beginnings of my breasts. Underneath I put on a white lace lingerie set, a garter belt and skin-colored stockings, and white strappy sandals with two-inch heels.

I waved my hair, did my makeup carefully, and draped half the jewelry I own over myself: gold hoops, a white-gold choker, a long chain, a bracelet, and a fine anklet. When I looked in the mirror and started taking inventory, I laughed to myself: I had a fortune on me to go kneel in front of a stranger.

Before leaving I sent Damián a photo.

—Perfect —he answered—. Now be a good girl and obey.

I reread the message three times before putting the phone away. That word, “obey,” tied me up more tightly than any rope. I left home with my knees a little weak, my pulse racing, and my panties already stuck to my cunt, feeling ridiculous and aroused in equal measure, dressed for an occasion no calendar accounts for.

***

The church I chose was in a neighborhood where nobody knows me. It was large, old, smelled of wax and damp wood, and at that hour it was almost empty. Three women were praying scattered among the pews, each in her own world.

The confessional was the typical dark wooden piece of furniture that looks like a cupboard, with two doors: one for the priest and another for the person coming to confess. One was closed; the other, ajar. I didn’t know if I was the first or if someone had just left. I took a deep breath, looked one last time toward the empty nave, and went in.

On the other side, behind a wooden grille, I could make out the silhouette of a man. I couldn’t see his face, but from his voice I immediately knew he was older.

—Bless me, Father, for I have sinned —he said.

—Blessed be the pure and sinless conception —I answered, retrieving a formula I’d had tucked away since childhood.

I told him I had moved recently, that I was new to the neighborhood, and that this was the first time I’d set foot in that parish. I said I wasn’t very religious, that it had been years since my last confession, and that if I felt comfortable maybe I’d start coming more often. He listened with a patience that made me a little tender.

—Tell me, daughter. What weighs on you?

And then I began.

***

I confessed the first thing, the easiest: that for months I’d been cheating on my husband. That I had a lover and that I didn’t feel guilty, or that the little guilt I did feel wasn’t enough to stop me. I told him that this lover fucked me in crummy hotels, made me suck his cock on my knees in the bathroom before he even let me take off my coat, and then fucked me doggystyle and came inside me without asking. As I told him, without thinking too much, I took one hand to my neckline and began to stroke myself through the fabric of the dress. My nipples went hard right away, two insolent peaks showing through the lace and silk.

The confessional’s wood amplified every sound: my breathing, the swish of my stockings when I shifted position, the discreet clinking of the gold chains against my neck. It smelled of old incense and varnish, and through the grille there was only a sliver of light cutting my face in two. I lowered my voice until it became a whisper, as if that made the sins weigh less.

—That is wrong, daughter —he said, and his voice sounded different, slower, rougher.

—I know, Father. But there are worse things.

I spread my legs a little in the dimness of the confessional and let my other hand drift down, slowly, until it rested over my lingerie. My panties were soaked, a warm stain clinging to my swollen cunt. I pulled the fabric aside and slid two fingers into my pussy, slowly, feeling them go in on their own because I was so wet. A low moan escaped me between the words.

I told him I liked being submissive. That I had a master, that he ordered me around and I obeyed without arguing. That I enjoyed being used, humiliated, treated like an object. I told him Damián made me suck his cock until I gagged, pulled my hair to shove it down my throat, spat in my face and called me a whore while he did whatever he wanted with me. I confessed that there were nights when he tied me open-legged and fucked my ass until he made me cry, and that the next day I thanked him. That that very morning I had dressed like this, with all my gold on, because I’d been told to.

Without realizing it, I had started breathing hard. My fingers moved on their own, in and out of my cunt with a sticky sound the wooden booth threw back magnified. I rubbed my clit with my thumb, in circles, and another, longer moan slipped out of me.

—Be silent —the priest said, suddenly firm—. What are you doing in there?

—I’m touching myself, Father —I whispered, never stopping—. I can’t help it. I’m a very dirty woman. A sinner. I need someone to put me in my place.

—Take that hand away. Now.

—I can’t, Father. My cunt is soaked. If you could hear me…

And I brought my fingers up to the grille, two glistening knuckles slick with juice, so the smell would reach him.

There was a long silence on the other side. I could hear him breathing, heavier and heavier. I thought I heard another sound too, quieter: fabric brushing, a hand moving.

—Stop —he repeated, but the command no longer sounded quite so sure.

—Give me the penance I deserve —I said, and I nearly frightened myself with my own brazenness—. Punish me like you punish whores, Father.

***

—Wait there —he said at last—. Don’t move.

I heard him stand up. A wooden door shut. Then nothing. I stayed still, my heart pounding in my throat and my fingers still buried in my cunt, not knowing if I’d gone too far, if at any moment someone from the parish would appear to drag me out shouting.

Minutes passed like hours. I thought about texting Damián, telling him I’d done it, that I’d carried out his order. But I didn’t have time.

The door on my side flew open.

It was the priest. An older man, tall, with white hair and eyebrows, weathered skin, and a look that had absolutely nothing holy about it. He looked me up and down: my legs were still spread, my dress hiked up to my waist, my panties shoved aside, and my fingers still where they didn’t belong.

—So you need penance —he said in a low voice, almost a growl. Under his cassock a thick, tense bulge was clearly visible, leaving no room for doubt.

I didn’t get a chance to answer. He took my chin in one hand and lifted my face. With the other he hiked up his cassock and pulled out his cock: a long, thick dick, red at the tip, with swollen veins and the foreskin pulled back. A thick thread was already gathering on the glans. He didn’t need to say anything else: I knew what he expected of me, and part of me had been looking for it since I crossed the church threshold.

—Open your mouth, sinner.

***

I knelt on the confessional floor, on the wood, my dress ruined and gold clinking with every movement. I took his cock in both hands, felt it hot and heavy, and ran my tongue from his balls to the tip, slowly, savoring the salty taste of precome. He let out a groan that sounded like a restrained blasphemy.

—Don’t play around, daughter. Suck it all.

I opened my mouth and took it in all at once. The priest’s cock sank to the back of my throat, hit the wall there, and tears sprang instantly to my eyes. He gripped my head with both hands, not roughly at first but leaving me no room to move, and started to move his hips. Every thrust filled my mouth completely, the head digging into my palate and pushing farther in, until my nose was pressed against the gray-white hair that grew on his pubis.

I obeyed the way I know how to obey, the way I was taught to obey. I closed my lips around his cock and sucked hard while I worked him with both hands in the rhythm he set. Saliva ran down my chin, dripped in thick drops onto my neckline and dress, and he kept fucking my mouth without mercy, with those hoarse grunts slipping from between his teeth.

—That’s it, sinner. That’s how you ask forgiveness. With your mouth full.

For a moment I thought of Damián, of the look he’d have when I told him, of how proud he’d be that I’d gone this far. That idea ignited me even more than the situation itself. It wasn’t the priest that had me in his grip, but the certainty that I was obeying, that I was exactly the submissive whore my master had sent to that church. I slipped one hand under the dress and plunged my fingers back into my cunt while he kept fucking my mouth.

He yanked himself out and rubbed his cock over my face, over my cheeks, over my swollen lips. Then he forced me to lick his balls one by one while he ground his cock against my forehead.

—Stop —I begged him, my voice wrecked—. Father, I want you to put it in me. I want you to punish my cunt.

He hauled me up by the arm, turned me around, and pressed my hands against the confessional wall. With a sharp gesture he yanked my dress up to my waist and pulled my panties aside. I felt the tip of his cock rubbing at my entrance, wetting itself with my own fluid, and then the shove: he drove it all the way in with one thrust, to the hilt, and I screamed against the wood with a howl I couldn’t keep back.

—Be quiet, slut —he whispered into my ear—. There are ladies praying outside.

He covered my mouth with one hand and started fucking me standing up, his hips slapping against my ass with the sound of wet flesh. Every thrust made my gold chains clink against my breasts, pinned my tits against the wet lace, tore a muffled moan from me that he smothered with his palm. He had a cock that didn’t seem like a old man’s: hard, thick, furious, splitting my cunt wide open and slamming into my depths until I saw lights.

—This is for your sins, daughter —he murmured against my nape—. So you’ll learn humility. So you’ll learn that whores like you come to church to get their backs blown out.

I tried to brace my hands against the wood, I don’t know if to stop him or to hold myself up, but he had me too firmly. One hand he kept clamped over my mouth and with the other he seized my hip, digging his fingers in, never stopping his thrusts. I felt my cunt tighten on its own around his cock, my legs trembling, and I came right there against the confessional wall, biting his palm so I wouldn’t scream. A warm gush ran down the inside of my thighs, soaking my stockings.

He didn’t stop. He pulled out, turned me around again, and made me kneel once more. He was working his cock in front of my face, shining with my juices, the tip swollen and the veins throbbing.

—Open your mouth, sinner. And close your eyes.

I obeyed. I took his balls in one hand and stroked the tip with my tongue while he jerked himself off ten centimeters from my face. He let out a long, rough groan, and the first spurt of hot semen hit my forehead and ran down the bridge of my nose. The second landed on my tongue, thick and salty. The rest splattered over my cheeks, my lips, my gold choker. When he finished, he shoved his cock into my mouth and made me suck him until the last drop, while he held my head with both hands.

—Swallow it all —he ordered.

And I swallowed. Then he let go, slowly, and I remained on my knees for a moment, catching my breath, trembling, my face a mess of come and tears.

***

I got myself upright as best I could. The little mirror I keep in my purse reflected a disaster: smudged mascara, ruined hair, a dress full of wrinkles, semen shining on my chin and neckline, my lips still trembling. I wiped my face with a handkerchief, but there was no way to completely disguise what had just happened.

—I was expecting a different kind of penance, Father —I said, looking him in the eye with the last bit of brazenness I had left—. My cunt is still hot.

—There’ll be time for that another day —he replied, adjusting his cassock with disconcerting calm—. You are a great sinner. You’re going to need many more penances, and those are done in private. Next time I’m going to put my cock in that ass of yours, so you learn for real.

He gave me an address and a time. Any day of the week, he said, except Thursdays, which were confession days and too crowded. He said it with the casualness of someone reciting a routine, and that was what made my skin prickle the most.

I thanked him —I’m not even sure for what— and practically ran out. I crossed the nave with my head down, feeling the gazes of the women still praying, convinced that everything showed on my face, that the smell of come and fucked cunt was going out ahead of me like a cloud.

***

I got to the truck and locked myself inside. My hands were shaking. I wiped my face, fixed my hair as best I could, and spent a long while staring at the car’s ceiling, still unable to process what I had just done. Between my legs I was still leaking: I could feel the priest’s semen sliding out mixed with my own juices, running down my thighs, soaking my ruined stockings.

My heart was pounding as if I’d run miles. Part of me was ashamed, scandalized, unable to believe that the woman in that confessional had been me. The other part, the more honest one, was already calculating when I could come back, imagining the old man’s cock splitting my ass open against a table. I looked in the rearview mirror: my cheeks were flushed, my eyes bright, and there was still a white smear shining near my ear, the sign of someone who has just discovered how far she can go when someone gives her permission.

Then I picked up the phone and texted Damián.

—I carried out the order, sir. The priest fucked me.

The reply took only a few seconds.

—Good girl. I want the full account tonight, with every detail. And the dirty stockings.

Tonight, I thought, and smiled to myself inside the truck, with the taste of semen still in my mouth. I knew I was going to tell him everything. And I knew, too, that sooner or later I would go back to that church during the week, any day except Thursday.