“A SINNER’S CONFESSION”
CHAPTER 61
RUTH
I have never confessed a real sin in my life.
Every Saturday at 4 PM, I kneel in that wooden box and whisper fantasies to a man who can't touch me. I describe being bent over the altar in vivid detail. I want to feel the cold marble against my cheek, the weight of a cassock pressed against my back, the sound of Latin prayers mixing with my moans.
I tell him about wanting to be f****d in the house of the Lord, about craving the taste of communion wine on a priest's tongue. I tell him about the way I touch myself at night, imagining his hands instead of mine, his mouth instead of my pillow.
And Father Isaac always listened.
He never interrupts or tell me to stop. He just breathes heavily through the screen, his knuckles white against the wood.
