I have sat on that uncomfortable bench seat for years, listening to people droning on and on about their sins. It uses to be somewhat entertaining, living an almost vicarious life through my parishioners’ sins, but that paled rather quickly. I doled out appropriate penance for those sins, both real ones and other sins that I know were strictly imaginary.

For example Mrs. — let’s call her ‘Jones’, doesn’t like her husband very much. Apparently, his shortcomings extend to the bedroom and she is … frustrated, to say the least. She is really attracted to multiple men, many of whom are also part of the parish, but she will never have the courage to act on it. As a result, I hear her weekly confession about one man after another who she “lusts after in her heart” and an increasing number of “Hail Marys” and “Our Fathers” seems to be enough to keep her from adultery. I guess in many ways I have done my job and kept her from actually sinning.

I know, I know, thinking about it is the same as doing it according to all my training, but I cannot completely agree with it, not now after all that has been happening the past decade. Yes, I am not afraid to talk about the pedophile crimes committed by too many of my brethren. I know while I might have been guilty of sometimes thinking sexually about a few of my parishioners, I have never had such a thought about a child! I also know in my heart of hearts I would have taken action if I realized any of my co-priests were guilty of such actions. No, I’m not saying that to brag about myself. I just know the scandal didn’t touch my parish nor any of my co-workers, at least not since I became a priest. I am ashamed to admit one who was here decades before I was on the list released through the newspapers. I guess he’s lucky he passed away. I hope he’s burning in hell for his actions!

I am also thankful that my immediate superiors were not found to have been covering up issues, much like the archdiocese in Boston and several other cities were caught. I’ve had many discussions about it with various parishioners and even other local folks. I can honestly say I am proud of our congregation and my fellow priests, nuns, and laypeople in that regard.

Having said that, I also know I am human and some of the thoughts I have had are not ones you would consider ‘pure’ as they might be expected to be since I do wear the collar. But, I have also never taken any action on any of those thoughts. This also explains why the thought of a deed isn’t nearly as sinful to me as the action. I do temper the penance I assign accordingly.

I have one gentleman, Mr. ‘Smith’, who does act outside of his marriage. He’s always contrite about it in the confessional and accepts the assigned penance with grace and even dignity. But at some point during the week he will meet someone and sin again and again. Somedays I think he confesses so he can brag to someone about his conquests. He knows he is covered by the seal of the confessional and I cannot tell anyone. Sometimes his descriptions are amazingly graphic, leaving me with a perfectly reasonable physical reaction that I am glad he never sees. Just because if he is the last confession of the day, I have to sit there for several minutes regaining my composure before I can leave my side of the booth.

One day I was surprised when after Mr. ‘Smith’, Mrs. ‘Johnson’ came in and gave an almost word-for-word recital of what Mr. ‘Smith’ just told me. It was easy to see the connection. The main difference is she felt bad about it, while Mr. ‘Smith’ was more bragging. I almost felt bad assigning her penance, but I know it would make her feel better.

For a long while, it was challenging to look people in the eye after hearing their deepest and sometimes darkest secrets. Not just sexual, but bordering on criminal. One person, I won’t even give a false name to, I am convinced actually committed a crime, but I am not allowed to report anything of the sort. I did my best to encourage him to confess to the authorities, but he played it off as if it was a joke. I never heard his confession again.

I guess I should get back to why I started this confession of my own. It all started one day when a wave of sweet perfume wafted in through the grill-like grid separating me from the confessor. I didn’t recognize the scent, so either someone brought something new or I have someone confessing her sins for the first time.

A low voice came through the grill, “Bless me Father for I have sinned and it has been six years since my last confession.” The voice was a thrilling contralto, slightly rough in a way that got my immediate attention. I once read in a novel an expression that stuck with me, “her grin was pure sex”. I thought I understood until I heard this voice. It was her voice that was pure sex! It oozed around my mental shields before I even realized it and the physical manifestation was almost painful. She hadn’t even said much yet. I was never so tempted to take down the grill just so I could see her face!

While I resisted that particular temptation, I could make out her lips, they were full and colored a soft pink. A mental image, pairing up something Mr. Smith talked about often and this woman’s lips was nearly enough to … well, have you ever woken in the night to find you had a very detailed dream? One that resulted in some leakage? I don’t remember the technical term, but thinking about those lips and the act Mr. Smith described several times was sending me shocking close to having one of those in broad daylight with my eyes wide open.

Then she started talking more and more. She introduced herself as Brinna, newly back into the area and she was so happy to be home from college. That was the most innocuous thing she said because she was trying to catch up for the past six years in one sitting. It all started when she needed a job in college. One of her friends, another student, introduced her to a club in the city. To make this confession fairly short, shall we just say she dropped out of college for a while and was making pretty good money taking off her clothing.

What made this part of the story worse was that she slowly stood up and where I could make out her lips, I could now see her hips and the short dress she was wearing. The dress was yellow and stopped high up on her thighs, and what thighs they were! Then she sat back down and I could barely focus because before she started talking, she licked her lips! I bit back a moan of my own.

Her story continued, and she started talking about getting a breast augmentation, only she called it a boob job. This time she leaned up and her breasts were in view. As she talked her hands cupped this wonderful pair of large breasts encased in the yellow top of her dress. She didn’t just hold them, she rubbed them! I realized I had broken out in a sweat! Thank God no one could see me.
I don’t remember what movie it was, but a lady went into a confessional and shortly after she came out and was saying her penance, a young priest came out of his side and looked at her in amazement! That’s how I felt! No one would have believed I was a priest at that moment, regardless of the robes and collar.

She started in on some of her more sexual — adventures — is the only word that comes to mind. How she often was paid for sex by clients at the club. How the managers would take advantage of their position, not just monetarily. She discussed some drug use and also how she cleaned herself up before moving here. I was puzzled about one of her comments, about how she cleaned herself up at least about the drug use.

After a twenty-minute confession she finally ended her story and I was flabbergasted in what to assign for a penance. I think I mumbled something and her lips broke into a smile. “That’s not what Father Greg used to give me before I went off to school.”
She pursed her lips, “Open the bolt hole!”


“Greg called it a bolt hole, reach under the ledge and you’ll feel a piece of wood. Tug it to the left.”

I tried to look, but the small ledge under the grill shadowed that part of the wall, so I couldn’t see anything. The ledge wasn’t really a ledge, just a support for the grill opening. But when I reached under it, I felt a small protrusion. When I moved it, I heard something that sounded like it fell. But what wasn’t the weirdest thing!

The weirdest was an arm reached in and grabbed me, right . . . well I am sure you know where. I was shocked, to say the least. But I was also embarrassed because Mr. Smith’s stories had caused a reaction and Brinna made things worse with some of her more graphic descriptions. I couldn’t even back up because of how small the confessional cubby was. How I didn’t scream, I have no idea!

Her voice came back, low and sultry as she pulled me toward the wall separating us. “I’m glad Father Greg isn’t here anymore. He had such little stamina and everything was over much too quickly.”

I was as close to the wall as I could be when I felt her other hand. She pushed my robes aside and started unzipping my black trousers. I stopped her with my hands and a low hiss. She stopped trying to unzip me, she just kept rubbing me through my pants. The feeling was incredible! My waking wet dream — that’s the phrase I was trying to think of earlier — was quickly becoming a reality.

“Now, Father, you don’t want to mess up those nice pants. Just let me do a quick unzip and we can really have some fun!”

I couldn’t stop her, for some reason.  Her appeal to the logic of not orgasming in my pants went right past me. The feeling of her hands on me wasn’t something I had ever felt and even in my most fevered late-night dreams through I would ever feel. Without making a deliberate move, I found myself closer to the wall between us, and she had unzipped me. I don’t think I really understood what was happening until I felt the most incredible sensation.

I couldn’t see anything, the narrow ledge blocked my view down and the only thing I saw through the bottom of the grill was her hair, a bright shade of blond with a slightly darker streak along her part. If I thought about it, I would have known what she was doing, but thinking would have to wait. This hot and wet feeling encircling me was unlike anything had ever felt. There was also pressure, then something rubbed along. I found myself pushing toward the wall, pressing my body against it.

The hot and wet feeling slowly went down me, like I was being swallowed whole. Then it stopped and went back the other way. It was so slow, I barely realized it was moving until it left and I felt a lick across the tip and then heard her voice again. It sounded different.

“You better be a little quieter or anyone out there is going to know what’s happening in here. It doesn’t bother me, I think it’s a turn-on, but you might not like everyone knowing.”

I tried to panic, but her mouth took me in again and any thought of panic died before I could act. She bobbed down on me and started moving up and down much quicker. I felt myself get harder than ever before, harder than I ever woke up with from the most prurient dream. It felt like hours, but I know it was just moments when I felt an incredible pressure.

There was no stopping it, I exploded, literally and figuratively, and seemed to topped back on my little bench. By the time I recovered, All I could do is look down at myself, thinking there was going to be a big mess, but there wasn’t a drop, just my penis hanging there limp and glistening. When I looked at the grill, I could tell the other side was empty. A small piece of paper was on the floor. After I got myself back together, physically at least, I read the short note.

She wrote “Noon tomorrow!” with an address. She also said, “We should talk.” Below a stylized “B” was a postscript.

“But sure and close the bolt hole, unless you have someone in mind to use it again!”

I burst out of my side of the confessional, but the church was empty. I look a look in the other side, but there was nothing to show for what just happened. I stood there, trying to make sense of what just happened to me. My forebrain told me not to be anywhere near that address tomorrow, but I knew I was just fooling myself!

I firmly resolved to talk to Brinna about what just happened and why it could never happen again because it was so very wrong. My resolve lasted about five minutes when, in the middle of what I thought was an impassioned little speech, she doffed her top!


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Copyright © 2021 by Brookell. This story may not be reproduced in any form without the express permission of the author.

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