The Confession I Didn’t Dare Tell the Priest

Marina came back from the street with the midday heat clinging to her skin and her blood burning beneath her clothes. She had just left the church and already she no longer knew what name to give to what lived inside her. The colder the shower water, she thought, the better.

She didn’t understand what had possessed her to go to confession again that morning. Yes, she had spent months with thoughts that unsettled her, but were they really a sin? Inappropriate, maybe. Sinful? She had gone on other days for the same reason, for that craving that flooded her every time she saw him, the town’s new priest. And in none of those confessions had she been able to be entirely honest. She only described the guilt, never the name of the man who caused it, never the nights when she relieved that desire alone in her room.

She turned on the shower. The water came out warm, delicious, forceful. She undressed slowly while her mind relived the last confession. She couldn’t stop herself from imagining that it was he taking her clothes off. A shiver ran through her. She stepped under the water, closed her eyes, and let the stream wrap around her.

She had entered the confessional with a knot in her stomach. She had been carrying those feelings for too long, feelings that left her confused and restless. She wanted to be rid of them, and maybe this was the only way, even if speaking cost her everything. She sat down, made the sign of the cross, and began without thinking further.

—Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

Silence.

—Lately I’ve been having sinful thoughts again about a man… —she swallowed and went on—. A man I can’t have.

—Is he married, daughter? —the priest’s voice sounded calm and deep in the darkness.

—You could say that —she felt her eyes starting to fill. It was off to a good start. She closed them—. He’s untouchable, that’s all. But something in my head stirs when he’s near. I’ve tried to smother these thoughts and they keep invading me, even in dreams. I’ve prayed, as you’ve asked me to before. I’d give anything not to feel this.

She could no longer hold back the tears.

—Is it only physical desire, or do you love him?

—I love him and I desire him. It’s not just lust, but I can’t stop wanting him with all my being.

—Have you told him? Does he know how you feel?

—I haven’t told him anything… —she let the sentence fall, and then dropped the bomb—. Until now.

More silence.

—I understand.

—Father, please, believe me, I’m so sorry! I know it’s a sin to think of you the way I do, I know you belong to God, but I can’t help it!

She was no longer trying to hold back her crying. So long keeping all that hidden, and now it was overflowing out of her.

—When I see you at Mass my mouth goes dry, my hands go numb, I can hardly breathe. Something grips my chest and I can barely concentrate. I can only look at you and feel your voice fill me, and imagine things I shouldn’t. Maybe if I stopped coming to church this would go away, but what if it doesn’t?

She wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

—What things do you imagine?

Marina remembered that conversation all too well. Father Adrián’s low, calm tone. Her own mind spinning like a whirlwind, gathering together every scene she had sketched while watching him at the altar. His tall figure, the thick black hair, the brown eyes that dominated a room just by being there. And her dreaming of him at the altar, in the pews, in the confessional itself.

Under the shower, she spread liquid soap over her hands and began to rub it over her skin, imagining they were his hands. Soft, strong hands sliding over every inch, every fold. Shivers, even beneath the hot water.

—I can’t describe it, Father. I’m ashamed.

—Kisses?

She drew a deep breath.

—Yes.

—Imagining is not a sin, daughter. Sometimes the mind wanders despite our will. It is up to you to keep that from becoming reality.

—Yes, Father.

—And please, don’t stop coming to Mass because of me. The Lord will enlighten you if you open yourself to Him instead of focusing on a mere human being. Then you will stop feeling this guilt.

—I wish I could hear that, Father.

—I can’t give you penance just for feeling. Is there anything else you want to confess?

She had to do it. She tried to find the words. Her face felt hot.

—Father, every time I think of you… I…

How could she say it?

—Do you touch yourself?

Again, burning under the water, Marina remembered those words. If he knew how many times she imagined him behind her, kissing her neck while he held her breasts. Feeling his firm body pressed against her back, his heat, the pressure of his hands on her nipples. Her fingers began to trace slow circles over her areolas. Her right hand slid down toward that sweet place between her thighs while she set one foot on the shower ledge.

—Yes, Father.

And again, silence. That had been a mistake: just saying it excited her. No details were necessary, but her body begged for the only attention that man could give her. If only she could walk out of the confessional, go around the wooden partition, throw her arms around him, and open her whole body to him. She swallowed. She had to finish. However much absolution she received, she would still be thirsting for him.

—Try to channel your passion into another activity that is more… productive. Traditionally, self-pleasure was condemned as a carnal act that did not preserve the species. Today there are different doctrines, and not all of them punish it. In your case, I think the only one harmed is you: after that brief moment, what do you have left? Do you notice any improvement beyond having put out a fire that comes back?

—No, you’re right, Father.

—It is not a crime against God, but it is against yourself, because it doesn’t let you move forward. I’m sorry to be the source of your unease, but you can overcome it with a minimum of effort.

—Thank you, Father.

—Pray, daughter. And when temptation wraps itself around you, think of something else to channel that energy. Little by little you will stop feeling that urge that weighs so heavily on you.

—I will, Father.

He gave her absolution and she left without looking back, into the heat of the street and the heat of her own blood at a boil. She had not been freed at all, quite the opposite. But she had to get out of there.

***

She succumbed to temptation in the shower. Her fingers found what they were looking for, sank in barely an inch, and came out to stroke her clit while she imagined his hand there instead. She almost felt his lips on her neck, his hardness settling between her buttocks as he touched her. Her nipples were so tight they hurt. She kept going until her left leg started to give way. Then she slid in two fingers, pulled them out, slipped them back in. In her fantasy, he was fucking her again and again, filling her, kissing her, moving over her body. She heard him panting in her ear, felt his wet hair against her face as he drove harder. She brought her free hand to her mouth and licked her lips, imagining each finger as another thrust, until a exquisite orgasm left her exhausted. And sad. The fantasy faded. And she still needed him.

***

What Marina would never have imagined was that, while hearing her confession, Father Adrián hated himself. For being a hypocrite. Because on one hand he felt compassion for her, and on the other he desired her with the same force with which she desired him. And there he was, giving her advice, dying to know her fantasies and find out whether they resembled his own. The same ones that also tormented him whenever he saw her crossing the town or entering the church.

When she confirmed that she touched herself thinking of him, he felt something beginning to harden beneath his cassock. He could have ended everything there and then, given in. He could have freed her, if he had had the courage to admit it to her, even if not to God, whom he could not deceive. But he stayed silent. He endured the erection as best he could and let her go, left unsatisfied and guilty.

If she only knew that, every time she entered the church, he caught her scent, and that fragrance alone unsettled him like nothing else. That it was the only thing that made his convictions tremble, the only thing he needed to feel lost and aroused, tormented by betraying what he had sworn years ago. That when he sat on the other side of the thin carved wooden panel, he could not stop imagining what those lips that spoke to him, in a soft voice, about unfulfilled fantasies, must taste like. That he had forbidden himself from focusing on her summer dress, modest but beautiful because of what it concealed underneath, on how the skirt moved around her legs when she walked.

Every time she let a tear fall, it hurt him not to be the instrument of her comfort. His whole body begged him to kneel before her as he knelt before the cross, and to be a man again, leaving the priest behind.

Until today he had not known that he was the object of her torment. Knowing it filled him with both happiness and bitterness, though nothing changed. At least he could console himself with the thought that, when she gave herself pleasure, she thought of him. The mere idea lit him up again. He imagined her sprawled on her bed, exploring herself, enjoying her phantom lover. He walked restlessly through the nave toward the rectory, ashamed at how quickly he hardened in that sacred place. Once in his room he collapsed onto the sofa and allowed himself to evoke the woman who rivaled God in his devotion.

He drew in air and let it out slowly. He unfastened his trousers and was about to free his erection, hard as a stone, when there was a knock at the door. Disturbed, he buttoned himself back up, composed himself as best he could, and opened it.

And there she was.

Marina opened her mouth to speak, but he took her by the hand and led her inside. He closed the door. They stood looking at each other, not knowing what to say.

She, ashamed at having followed the impulse to come and apologize for her obsession. He, feeling a whirlwind of emotions impossible to resist. Not now. The test was too great. Her scent surrounded him. Almost trembling, he took her face in his hands, gently, and when he saw that she yielded, docile, he only brushed her lips. The heat, the closeness, were almost unbearable. She was trembling too: it could not be that this man was kissing her. She parted her mouth to let out a sigh and he, encouraged, let his tongue in, tasting her, drinking from that spring he had longed for so much. They kissed deeply, and both their hands began to explore.

—Father… —she moaned between kisses.

—I’m Adrián…

—Adrián… I… love you.

He slid the straps of her dress down without stopping kissing that face he idolized. Something deep inside reminded him that he was approaching the point of no return. He had not yet completely broken his vows, but he was on the path to self-destruction. Gathering all his willpower, he pulled away for a moment to look at her, slowly and painfully. This was the only temple before which he had to pray. That temple of flesh, blood, and desire. If that was sin, he would bid farewell to his soul.

—Forgive me, Father, for I am about to sin —he whispered, took off his clerical collar, and kissed her again while he finished sliding her dress off.

She unbuttoned his shirt with eager hands and caressed that torso she had imagined so many times. Wrapped in an embrace, skin against skin, without separating their mouths, they moved toward the bedroom. He lifted her almost effortlessly and laid her on the bed. He gazed at her again, mad with adoration. Outside, the day’s oppressive heat had given way to a storm, and thunder rolled like warnings from an enraged God. They did not care.

He bent over her, all lips and tongue, discovering her taste, her heat, her firmness. He lingered over her breasts, which grew harder beneath his touch. But it was not enough. He went on downward, removing the last garment almost reverently. He brought the soaked fabric to his nose, inhaled that scent that would soon flood him, and discarded it to focus on the place where he wanted to lose himself. He slowly parted her lips with one finger, making space for his tongue. It was nectar, and he licked and drank it as if his life depended on it. His soul did.

She trembled, writhed, barely able to endure the pleasure. She kept repeating his name. Adrián. He went on until he penetrated her with his tongue, searching for her center, and when a couple of fingers joined his mouth, Marina thought she might lose her mind. She began to move her hips against him, helping him. He curved his fingers forward, brushing that rough wall again and again, while his tongue climbed to her swollen, hyper-sensitive clit.

—Adrián… I’m going to…

—Fly —he whispered between her folds. And she flew, as if lightning had struck her, floating above the unmade bed. When she recovered some of her senses, he had climbed up beside her again and was kissing her face and neck, his lips full of her. It was a thousand times better than any fantasy. And they still weren’t done.

Locked together, she made him roll over and climbed on top. She wanted to kiss him all over, bite him, claim that burning skin as her own. While she kissed his chest, her hand slid to the edge of his trousers. He groaned, and groaned even more when she stripped him completely. She settled over him, her sex brushing the hard tip without yet letting him in. Not yet. She moved her hips slowly, rubbing against that marvelous hardness, licking his chest, his neck, his lips. He was dying to penetrate her, to enter her with all the force of months of restraint. It was starting to hurt him when she finally let her pelvis drop.

Both of them gasped, made one. For a second they stayed still, fitted together, wrapped in perfect embrace, until she began to move. She wanted to feel him through his whole range: rising all the way up and coming back down in rhythmic waves. At first he simply felt her, but soon he could no longer resist thrusting from below, gripping her buttocks and digging his fingers into her soft skin with every descent. The gasps became more frequent, deeper. This could not be sin. He had never felt so close to the divine as while possessing that woman who had opened herself to him, who had even felt guilty for imagining this encounter.

He kept thrusting, feeling her weight, her breasts rising and falling in time, slick with sweat. He closed his eyes, on the verge of coming, and pushed harder, more urgently, while she came down with increasing determination. Marina felt that familiar heat envelop her: the walls of her sex began to tighten, warning her that she would soon fly again. But she wanted to milk her lover to the very end, and kept impaling herself on him with the full weight of her body, feeling as though she were touching her own core.

He could not hold back any longer and exploded inside her, and that heat was the trigger for her own orgasm: seeing the face of infinite pleasure on his, his perfect understanding, that precious second when he let go. Exhausted, sweaty, and happy, she collapsed against his chest. He stroked her hair, her back, covered her with kisses as their heartbeats slowed. Neither said anything. Nothing needed to be said.

Both of them were absolved.