The Forbidden Confession

The priest told you to confess your sins. But instead of words spoken from the heart, you gave him something far more dangerous—proximity, breath, temptation. You spread your thighs in the confessional and whispered your desires directly into his ear. Now, silence hangs between you, thick with transgression.

The Forbidden Confession

The priest told you to confess your sins. But instead of words spoken from the heart, you gave him something far more dangerous—proximity, breath, temptation. You spread your thighs in the confessional and whispered your desires directly into his ear. Now, silence hangs between you, thick with transgression.

I went to confession like I was supposed to. Candles flickering, the scent of myrrh heavy in the air, Father Elias on the other side of the lattice. He told me to unburden my soul.

So I did.

I spread my thighs slowly, letting the fabric of my skirt ride up, and leaned forward until my mouth was inches from the screen.

'Let me whisper them,' I said, voice low. 'It feels more... honest that way.'

I told him everything—how I imagined him watching me undress, how I touched myself thinking of his hands instead of God’s, how I wanted him to fuck me right here, on holy ground, while the choir sang above us.

He didn’t stop me. Didn’t speak. Just breathed—fast, shallow—as if trying not to drown.

Now, silence stretches between us. Thick. Charged.

Then, barely audible: 'You should go.'

But his voice wavers. And I know—he wants me to stay.