Page 2 of Forgive Me, Father

I’ve never met a priest like him. I’ve never met amanlike him.

And if he knew the thoughts I had about him, he’d probably tell me to never set foot in his church again. Forbidden, taboo thoughts about slipping into his side of the confessional booth, undoing his pants and worshipping his cock with my mouth. Thoughts of climbing into his lap while we talk. While he tells me what a good girl I am. Thoughts of locking his office door and letting him fuck me on his desk.

I want Father Thorne in a way that consumes me.

I think I’m in love with him.

And it’s complete, utter foolishness, because I can never have him. Obviously.

Which is another reason I’m considering doing something…drastic. To make money. Because I can’t have the one man I actually want, so what does it matter who I give my virginity to?

I pull open the heavy, ornately carved wooden door and step inside the church, leaving the rain behind. The vestibule is quiet, with several candles glowing on the small table beneath a mosaic tile portrait of the Virgin Mary. I slide my umbrella into the tarnished brass umbrella stand, knowing no one will takeit, wipe my feet on the mat, and step into the sanctuary of the church.

Maybe a dozen people are scattered throughout the pews, some with their heads bowed in prayer, others looking around contemplatively, or reading from a prayer book or Bible. The sound of the rain is a soft drumming against the soaring stained-glass windows. It’s dim inside, but I don’t mind. I like the coziness of the flickering candles, the rain pattering. The air smells like incense and polished wood, and I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.

Should I tell him what I’m planning to do? I mean, it’s not like contemplating auctioning off my virginity is a mortal sin, is it? It’s sexual in nature, but I haven’t actually done anything yet beyond look into the website I heard about from a co-worker at the bookstore. She uses it to sell pictures of her feet as well as used panties to buyers. I’d thought of doing something similar when I’d stumbled upon the auction section.

I weave my fingers together as I head for the confessional. The other side of the booth is still empty, the door open, but I know Father Thorne will be here soon. It’s 5:45 pm, which is when weekday confession is held.

I step inside the confessional, the dark wood creaking softly as I close the door behind me. The scent of polished wood is even heavier in here, making the air feel thicker. Close. I sit down on the hard, narrow bench, curling my fingers around its smooth edge. My heart feels like a caged bird, wings flapping frantically, completely unsettled. I hear a softly murmured conversation outside as two people walk by, but they pass quickly, leaving me in the quiet with my thoughts.

With my thrumming anticipation.

It’s not long before the door on the other side of the confessional creaks open, and someone steps inside. I can onlymake out a darkened silhouette through the screen, but it’s him. I know it’s him. It’s always him.

There’s a muffled thump. “Shit,” Father Thorne hisses out.

I clap a hand over my mouth, stifling the laugh straining to burst out of me. I can just make out his shadowy form through the intricately woven screen separating us. He glances at the screen, and even in the dim light, I see the flash of his dimpled, rueful smile.

“Sorry,” he says in his deliciously deep voice. The sound of it moves through me like water lapping at a shore. Smooth and soothing. “I seem to have temporarily forgotten how to walk.”

“It’s okay, Father,” I say. “We’re all of us human, even you.”

He chuckles softly. “Especially me.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’ll live. How are you?”

“I’m…” I don’t know what to say. I shift closer to the screen, my heart pounding hard and fast. He mirrors my movement, shifting closer and leaning in so that our faces are only inches apart, separated by the screen. I can hear him breathing. I can smell the hint of his cologne. My skin feels electric, the air crackling with energy. At least, on my side of the booth.

How am I? I don’t know. I’m a mess.

I cross myself, tracing the familiar shape over my chest. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.”

Father Thorne’s voice is soft, gentle. “Go on, Olivia.”

I take a deep breath. “I lied to one of my professors. I told him I had a family emergency so I could get an extension on a paper.” I bite my lip, waiting for his response.

“Why did you need the extension?” he asks. There’s no judgment in his tone.

“I fell behind because I was working extra hours at the book shop.” I sigh. “I should’ve managed my time better.”

He makes a soft, low sound, a sympathetic hum. “It’s important to be truthful, Olivia, but I understand that you’re under a lot of pressure, working and going to school and being responsible for your brother.” There’s a pause. “What else?”

I hesitate before confessing, biting my lip. Father Thorne shifts on the other side of the screen. “I took the Lord’s name in vain. I missed my bus and I swore.”

He chuckles softly, and I feel that sound like a caress against my skin. “We all have moments of frustration. God understands that.” He pushes a hand through his hair, dislodging that tendril I want to smooth away from his forehead. “Is there anything else you’d like to confess?”

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