Forbidden Desires

Bless Me, Father.

The confession booth was stifling, the air thick with the scent of aged wood and incense. Clara knelt behind the lattice, her fingers twisting the rosary beads in her lap, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” she whispered, her voice trembling. The words felt hollow, a joke. Because the sin she was about to confess wasn’t the one weighing on her soul.

There was a pause. Then, the slow slide of the partition separating them, the dim light from the other side spilling into her compartment. Father Michael’s voice was low, rough. “Go on, my child.”

Clara swallowed. She could see him through the gaps in the lattice—his dark eyes, the sharp angle of his jaw, the way his lips parted slightly as he waited. She’d always thought he was handsome, but tonight, he looked hungry.

“I—I’ve had impure thoughts,” she stammered, her cheeks burning.

Another pause. Then, his voice dropped to a murmur. “About whom?”

Clara’s breath hitched. She knew she shouldn’t say it. But the words spilled from her lips like a prayer. “About you, Father.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Then, the creak of the booth as he shifted, his breath audibly hitching. “Clara,” he said, her name a warning, a plea.

She should stop. She should. But the way her body responded to his voice, to the idea of him, was undeniable. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “About the way you look at me during mass. About the way your hands—” She cut herself off, her breath coming faster.

“My hands?” His voice was strained, like he was holding back.

Clara’s fingers tightened around the rosary. “When you give the Eucharist. The way they linger on mine.”

A low groan escaped him. Then, the sound of the lattice sliding open all the way.

Clara’s breath caught. Father Michael was on his knees in front of her, his dark eyes burning into hers, his cassock pooling around him. His hands reached out, his fingers brushing against her cheek, her jaw, her throat. “You shouldn’t say such things, Clara.”

She leaned into his touch, her lips parting. “But it’s the truth.”

His thumb brushed her bottom lip. “The truth is a sin.”

Clara’s heart pounded. “Then punish me, Father.”

Father Michael’s eyes darkened. For a moment, he hesitated, his fingers trembling against her skin. Then, his grip tightened, his hand sliding to the back of her neck, pulling her forward. Their lips crashed together, the kiss brutal, hungry—a sin in itself.

Clara moaned into his mouth, her hands gripping the front of his cassock, pulling him closer. The fabric was rough beneath her fingers, but she didn’t care. All she could feel was him—his heat, his need, the way his tongue swept into her mouth like he was starving for her.

Father Michael broke the kiss, his breath ragged. “We shouldn’t—”

“But we will,” Clara whispered, her voice echoing his own words from earlier. She reached for the buttons of his cassock, her fingers fumbling in her haste. “You want this as much as I do.”

He didn’t deny it. His hands slid down, gripping her waist, lifting her onto the narrow bench of the confession booth. The wood creaked beneath them, but neither of them cared. His cassock fell open, revealing the hard lines of his chest, the dark trail of hair leading down, down—

Clara’s breath hitched. He was hard, the outline of his c**k straining against his black slacks. She reached for him, her fingers tracing the length of him through the fabric. Father Michael groaned, his head falling back, his hips jerking forward.

“Clara—” Her name was a prayer on his lips.

She didn’t let him finish. She unbuckled his belt, her fingers working quickly, freeing his c**k. It was thick, veiny, already leaking at the tip. She wrapped her hand around him, stroking him slowly, and he groaned, his grip on her waist tightening.

“f**k,” he muttered, his voice rough. “You’re going to ruin me.”

Clara smiled, dark and knowing. “Isn’t that the point of confession, Father? To cleanse the soul?”

His eyes flashed. Then, in one swift motion, he spun her around, pressing her against the wall of the booth. The lattice dug into her cheek, but she didn’t care. His hands slid up her skirt, his fingers finding her panties, already damp. “You’re wet,” he growled, his voice a dark promise. “Already ready for me.”

Clara whimpered as his fingers slid beneath the lace, parting her folds. “I’ve been ready for weeks.”

Father Michael didn’t tease her. He tore her panties off, the lace ripping easily beneath his strength. Then, he lined himself up and thrust inside her in one hard, punishing motion.

Clara cried out, the sound muffled by her own hand. God, he was big. Too big. But she loved it. Loved the way he filled her, the way he owned her.

“f**k, Clara,” Father Michael groaned, his hips already snapping forward, his c**k burying deep inside her. “You feel like heaven.”

Clara couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but take him—his thickness, his length, the way he hit that spot inside her that made her see stars. The booth creaked beneath them, the old wood groaning as he drove into her again and again.

“You like that, don’t you?” he growled, his lips brushing her ear. “You like being f****d in the house of God.”

Clara whimpered, her body trembling. She did. God help her, she did.

Father Michael’s hand slid around her waist, his fingers finding her c**t. “Come for me,” he demanded, his voice a growl. “Come on my c**k like the sinner you are.”

And she did.

Her orgasm crashed over her, her body shuddering, her walls clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure wracked her. Father Michael groaned, his own release following, his c**k pulsing as he spilled deep inside her.

For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the scent of s*x thick in the air. Father Michael rested his forehead against her shoulder, his chest heaving.

“God forgive me,” he murmured.

Clara let out a breathless laugh. “I don’t think He will, Father.”

Father Michael pulled out slowly, his c**k glistening with her arousal. Clara’s legs were jelly, her body boneless as he helped her straighten her skirt, her blouse. But her lips were still swollen, her hair still messy, and her thighs still sticky with him.

He cupped her face, his thumb brushing her bottom lip. “This can’t happen again.”

Clara’s heart twisted, but her body thrummed at the memory of his touch. She knew he was right. But she also knew—

She wanted it to.

Father Michael pressed a kiss to her forehead, then her lips, slow and tender. “Go, Clara. Before someone comes.”

Clara nodded, her fingers lingering on his chest for just a second longer. Then, she slipped out of the booth, her heart pounding, her body still humming.

As she walked away, she glanced back once, her eyes meeting his through the lattice. Father Michael’s gaze was dark, hungry.

And she knew—

This wouldn’t be their last confession.