My Sunday Confession with the New Father

My name is Mariana, I’m thirty-one, and I’ve been married for eight years to a man who stopped looking at me long ago. Rubén is good, responsible, pays the bills without complaining, and never raises his voice. But in bed we turned into a habit: the lights off, a few quick minutes, and the silence afterward. It’s been months since I’ve truly come with him, and my cunt knows it better than I do.

I have big, heavy tits, always sensitive, with nipples that go hard at the slightest brush of fabric. I get wet from any thought, from any idea that’s just a little more intense than what’s allowed. And for some time now all those thoughts have had the same face.

The face of Father Tomás.

He’s the new parish priest at the neighborhood church. He must be about fifty, tall, with dark hair going gray at the temples and clear eyes that seem to read you from the inside. He has a deep voice that, when he preaches, leaves a hot hollow in my stomach and my panties soaked before the offertory. He always wears a cassock, but underneath you can tell he has a strong body, broad shoulders, the kind of man who once really played sports. In the neighborhood they call him “the hot priest,” though no one dares say it out loud. Least of all me.

I go to Mass on Sundays and I go to confession every two weeks. And I always come out of his confessional with weak legs and my cunt throbbing, because hearing him say “your sins are forgiven, daughter” in that low voice leaves me worse than when I went in.

It all started one afternoon at confession, in an almost empty church, with golden light slanting in through the stained glass. I was kneeling there, sweating under a blouse that was far too tight on me. I confessed what I always did: impure thoughts, the nights I’d slip my fingers inside myself imagining men who weren’t my husband, the huge urge to be fucked properly by someone.

He listened in silence. All you could hear was his breathing, getting heavier and heavier on the other side of the grille.

—Mariana —he said at last, and his voice sounded different, rougher—, those desires are natural. It’s your husband who should be taking care of calming them. But I can’t let you drift away from the flock because you feel lonely.

—Father… I don’t understand what you mean.

—We’ll talk in private. Consider it part of your spiritual guidance. Wait for me in the office when the last person leaves.

I froze, my heart pounding in my throat and a warm dampness running down the inside of my thigh. I should have gotten up and gone home. Instead, I waited.

***

The office smelled of old incense and wood. When I went in, he locked the door, and the sound of the bolt made my whole skin prickle. He took off his cassock slowly, never taking his eyes off me, until he was left in a dark shirt and trousers. Without the black fabric over him he seemed like another man: bigger, more real, more forbidden. I dropped my gaze for a second without meaning to and saw the bulge straining his fly, thick, already hard.

—Kneel —he said softly—. Like in confession.

I was confused, but I obeyed. I don’t know if it was the habit of obeying him, or the hunger I’d been swallowing for months. I knelt on the worn carpet and looked up at him.

—You said you were thirsty for something —he murmured—. Is this it?

He unbuckled his belt without taking his eyes off my face, lowered his trousers to mid-thigh, and pulled his cock out in one swift motion. It was thick, long, veined, the tip already shining. A gasp escaped me. I’d never seen one like that, so close, at the level of my mouth.

—Father… are you sure this is okay?

—God doesn’t ask us to repress desire, daughter. He asks us not to cause harm. If you cheated on your husband with another man, that would indeed be a sin. But I’m not a worldly man. I’m a servant, and what I give you is going to calm the fire without breaking your marriage. Open your mouth.

The way he spoke to me, the calm with which he justified the impossible, completely disarmed me. Behind me, a huge crucifix presided over the wall, and for one absurd instant I felt that this wasn’t betrayal but an escape. That he had appeared so I wouldn’t burn my whole house down with the hunger I had in me.

God forgive me, I thought. But I’m not getting up.

I opened my mouth and he slid the tip in slowly, letting me taste him. He tasted like clean skin and sweat, a little salty, a little bitter. He eased it in little by little, one firm hand on the back of my neck, until I felt the head press against the back of my throat and my eyes filled with tears.

—That’s it, daughter, slowly —he whispered—. Suck me well. Look at me while you do it.

I lifted my eyes, his cock filling my mouth, and he was smiling just barely, like a man who knows he already has you. I started sucking like I’d truly been dying of thirst for years. With both hands, with my tongue, swallowing the saliva sliding down my chin. He set the rhythm from the back of my neck, pushing a little deeper each time, and I breathed through my nose between gags, clenching my thighs because I was coming almost without being touched.

—Look at you —he panted—. The married lady, the devout one, swallowing the priest’s cock. And you love it.

I nodded with my mouth full, moaning around him, and I licked him all the way from his balls to the tip while he looked down at me as if I were a different kind of communion. He pulled me up from the floor before he came, yanking on my hair.

—Not yet. I want your cunt first.

He bent me over the edge of the desk and ripped open my blouse with two impatient tugs. The buttons flew off. He tore my bra off in one pull and my tits were free, heavy, with my nipples hard and dark. He stared at them like a man looking at something sacred.

—Look at this —he said, weighing them in his hands, pinching my nipples until I arched—. This was made to be adored, not to die of boredom in your bed.

He bent down and sucked one nipple until it was nearly painful, biting it just before letting go. Then the other. I was clinging to his shoulders, my skirt already hiked to my waist and my soaked panties sticking to my cunt.

He sat me on the desk, swept the folders aside with one impatient gesture, and spread my legs. He tore my panties off, ripping them down the side, and put them in his pocket with such calm that I shivered all over. He knelt in front of me, the same way I had been a moment before, and reversed the whole scene. His mouth climbed the inside of my thighs without hurry, biting, blowing, until I reached the point of begging without words. When he finally licked my cunt from bottom to top, I arched so hard I almost fell off the desk.

—Still —he ordered, holding my hips—. You’ll take what I decide.

And I endured it, or tried to. His tongue worked slowly, patiently, sucking my clit like he had memorized every nerve ending. He alternated with two thick fingers that curved inside me, searching for an exact spot, a point Rubén hadn’t found in eight years. I closed my thighs around his head without realizing it, pulled his hair, shoved his face against my cunt while he whispered, between licks, to open wider, to give him everything.

I came with a cry I had to muffle against my own hand, trembling all over, gripping the edge of the wood, my legs shaking around his shoulders. He kept licking me while I came, swallowing everything I gave him, not moving away until I pushed his head because I couldn’t take any more.

***

He gave me no respite. He stood up with his mouth and chin shining with me, wiped himself with the back of his hand, and made me turn around. He positioned me with my back to him, palms flat on the desk, my cheek almost pressed to the cold surface, my ass lifted toward him. I felt exposed, offered, my cunt throbbing and dripping down the insides of my thighs, and that only turned me on more.

He slapped my right ass cheek sharply, then the left. He dragged his cock through the slit of my ass, over my parted lips, rubbing himself there without entering, soaking himself in my wetness.

—Tell me you want it —he said behind me, his voice a rough thread—. In so many words.

—I want you to fuck me —I answered, not recognizing my own voice—. Please, Father. Put it in me.

—Again.

—Fuck me, please. Put it all in me.

He drove in to the hilt in one thrust and tore a guttural moan from me. He filled me completely, opened me up, pinned me against the desk, and only then did he really start moving. One hand held my hip, the other came up to my tit and squeezed from behind, tugging my nipple, while he set a rhythm that grew deeper and rougher by the second. The desk hit the wall. I bit the air, bit my arm, bit anything so I wouldn’t scream and have half the neighborhood hear me from the street.

—See? You didn’t need anyone else —he panted, fucking me harder—. I’m the one giving you this. Only me. This cock inside you is the one you were missing.

—Yes —I moaned—. Only you. Only your cock, Father. Harder, please.

He fucked me with his hand tangled in my hair, pulling me back, forcing my back to arch. He slid his other hand around to the front and rubbed my clit with two wet fingers, never stopping his thrusts. I was close again, feeling everything tighten inside around him, his cock seeming huge inside my cunt.

—Come on my cock —he ordered—. Now.

I came a second time with him inside me, clenching around him in long spasms, and I felt him lose control at last. He sped up, slammed into me three, four times in a row all the way to the hilt, growled something into my neck I didn’t understand, and finished with a long shudder, emptying himself inside me in hot jets I felt one by one. He stayed pressed to my back, still inside, breathing hard, holding me against the desk as if he were afraid I’d collapse.

When he finally came out, I felt his seed running down the inside of my thigh, warm, thick. I stayed there, bent over the wood, my breath broken and my body weak, feeling more alive and more fucked than I had in years.

When I straightened up, he was already adjusting his shirt, serene again, as if none of it had happened. He handed me a white handkerchief without looking at me so I could clean myself.

—Every Sunday, after Mass, you’ll come here —he said, straightening the folders he had thrown around—. Private confession. And I’ll calm you until you stop looking outside your home.

I didn’t answer. I got dressed in silence, with my torn bra in my hand and my panties still in his pocket, and went out onto the street as if I were coming back from communion, his cum slowly running between my legs.

***

That was several months ago now. I go every Sunday, on time, in my best dress and without panties underneath, just as he asked me in the third week. I wait for the church to empty, for the last parishioner to say goodbye at the door, and then I walk to the office where he waits for me with the bolt half turned and his cassock already unfastened.

Sometimes I kneel just like I did that first afternoon and suck his cock until he comes in my mouth and forces me to swallow every drop, not missing a single one. Sometimes he bends me over the desk and fucks my cunt until I’m voiceless. Once, with the nave completely dark and the candles extinguished, he took me to the altar, laid me on my back over the cold marble, and opened my legs right there. He fucked me slowly, deeply, looking into my eyes, whispering in my ear that my sins were forgiven and that my cunt, from then on, belonged to him. He came on my tits and made me rub his seed into my skin with my fingers, like an anointing.

The strangest thing is what happened at home. Rubén thinks I’ve become more devout than ever, and he’s calm, almost relieved, ever since I stopped seeking him out at night. Sometimes I think that deep down he never liked me all that much, that my desire weighed him down more than it pleased him. I don’t care anymore. We each found our peace by different paths.

I know what they’d say if I told this out loud. I know this doesn’t have real forgiveness, not his, not anyone’s. But on Sunday mornings, when I get ready in front of the mirror, paint my lips thinking about the cock I’m going to suck after Mass, and run my fingers over my already-wet cunt beneath my dress, I don’t feel guilt. I feel hunger. And each week that passes, that hunger is a little bigger and a little more mine.