My Master Ordered Me to Confess, and I Obeyed

What I’m about to tell 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 long before all of this. We started out as friends, the kind who tell each other absolutely everything, and over time we discovered we shared the same world: BDSM. He took on the role of master and I the role 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 decided something.

—To confess? —I repeated, not understanding.

—To a church. Put on your best clothes, go into the confessional, and tell the priest everything. Everything. And see what happens.

He’s completely insane, I thought. But I already felt that little twist in my stomach that appears every time he orders me to do something that makes me ashamed and aroused at the same time.

—Yes, sir —I answered.

***

On Thursday morning I got dressed 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 top of my breasts. Underneath I put on a white lace lingerie set, a garter belt and skin-tone stockings, and white strappy sandals with two-inch heels.

I styled my hair in waves, put on my makeup carefully, and draped half my jewelry over myself: gold hoop earrings, a white-gold choker, a long chain, a bracelet, and a thin anklet. When I looked in the mirror and started taking inventory, I laughed to myself: I was wearing a fortune to go kneel in front of a stranger.

Before leaving I sent Damián a photo.

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

I reread the message three times before putting my phone away. That word, “obey,” tied me up more tightly than any rope. I left the house with shaky knees and a racing pulse, feeling ridiculous and turned on in equal measure, dressed for an occasion no calendar recognizes.

***

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 through the pews, each in her own world.

The confessional was the usual dark-wood piece of furniture that looks like a cupboard, with two doors: one for the priest and one for the person confessing. One was closed; the other was slightly open. I couldn’t tell whether I was the first or whether 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 lattice, 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.

—For I have sinned, indeed —I replied, recovering a formula I had kept from childhood.

I told him I had recently moved, that I was new in the neighborhood, and that this was the first time I’d set foot in that parish. I told him I wasn’t much of a believer, that I hadn’t gone to confession in years, and that if I felt comfortable maybe I’d start coming more often. He listened with a patience that made me feel a little tenderness for him.

—Tell me, child. What weighs on you?

And then I began.

***

I confessed the first thing, the easiest thing: that I had been cheating on my husband for months. That I had a lover and felt no guilt, or that the little guilt I did feel wasn’t enough to stop me. As I said it, without thinking too much, I brought one hand to the neckline and started stroking myself over the fabric of the dress.

The confessional’s wood amplified every sound: my breathing, the rustle of my stockings when I shifted, the discreet clink of gold chains against my neck. It smelled of old incense and varnish, and through the grille only a sliver of light came in, 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, child —he said, and his voice sounded different, slower.

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

I opened my legs a little in the confessional’s dimness and let my other hand slide down, slowly, until it rested over my lingerie. I told him that I liked to submit. That I had a master, that he gave me orders and I obeyed without arguing. That I enjoyed being used, humiliated, treated like an object. That that very morning he had made me dress like this, all that gold on me, because I had been told to.

Without realizing it, I had started breathing hard. My hand was moving on its own, soft over the lace, and a low moan slipped out between the words.

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

—I can’t help it —I whispered—. I’m a filthy woman, Father. A sinner. I need someone to put me in my place.

There was a long silence on the other side of the lattice. I could hear him breathing.

—Stop —he repeated, but the order no longer sounded quite so convinced.

—Give me the penance I deserve —I said, and I almost frightened myself with my own boldness.

***

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

I heard him stand up. A wooden door closed. Then nothing. I stayed still, my heart pounding in my throat, not knowing whether I had gone too far, whether at any moment someone from the parish would come out and drag me away shouting.

Minutes passed like hours. I thought about texting Damián, telling him I had done it, that I had carried out the 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 gaze that had absolutely nothing holy about it. He looked me over from head to toe: my legs were still open, my dress bunched up to my waist, and my hand was still where it shouldn’t have been.

—So you need penance —he said in a low voice, almost a growl.

I didn’t have time to answer. He took my chin in one hand and lifted my face. He didn’t need to say anything else: I knew what he expected of me, and part of me had wanted exactly this ever since I crossed the church door.

***

I knelt on the confessional floor, on the wood, my dress ruined and the gold jingling with every movement. He held my head with both hands, not roughly but without giving me any room to resist, and I obeyed the way I know how, the way I was taught to obey.

For a moment I thought of Damián, of the look on his face when I told him, of how proud he would be that I had gone this far. That thought lit me up even more than the situation itself. It wasn’t the priest who had me undone, but the certainty that I was obeying, that I was exactly the submissive woman my master had sent to that church.

He was not gentle. I wasn’t expecting him to be. He set the pace, he decided, and all I had to do was endure and let myself be carried along. I could feel the saliva slipping, my eyes filling with tears from the effort, and still I didn’t want him to stop. There was something in his rough voice, in his fingers buried in my hair, that had me completely surrendered.

—This is for your sins, child —he murmured—. So you learn humility.

I tried to brace my hands on his hips, I don’t know whether to stop him or to steady myself, but he had too firm a hold on me. When he was done, he held me tightly and I endured until the end, unable to do anything but obey. Then he let me go, slowly, and I stayed there for a moment on my knees, catching my breath, trembling.

***

I got up as best I could. The little mirror I keep in my purse showed me a mess: smeared mascara, ruined hair, a dress full of wrinkles, lips still trembling.

—I was expecting a different penance, Father —I said, looking him in the eye with what little shamelessness I had left.

—Another time —he replied, straightening his cassock with disconcerting calm—. You are a great sinner. You’re going to need many more penances, and those are done in private.

He gave me an address and a time. Any day of the week, he said, except Thursdays, which were confession days and there were too many people. He said it with the naturalness of someone repeating a routine, and that was what raised my skin the most.

I thanked him —I’m not entirely sure for what— and left almost running. I crossed the nave with my head down, feeling the gazes of the women still praying, convinced it showed on my face.

***

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 sat there a long while staring at the car ceiling, not quite able to process what I had just done.

My heart was beating as if I’d run for miles. Part of me was ashamed, scandalized, unable to believe that woman in the confessional had been me. The other part, the more honest one, was already calculating when I’d go back. I looked in the rearview mirror: my cheeks were flushed and my eyes were shining with that look of someone who has just discovered how far she can go when someone gives her permission.

Then I picked up my phone and wrote Damián.

—I carried out the order, sir —I typed.

The reply took only a few seconds.

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

Tonight, I thought, smiling to myself inside the truck. I knew I was going to tell him everything. And I also knew that sooner or later I’d be back at that church during the week, any day but Thursday.