"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been two days since my last confession. I accuse myself of the following sins…"
I'm going to Hell. I'm going to Hell, because she makes me forget about the rules, about my faith.
I will lose my soul because of her.
And I don't care.
How can I care when she's staring at me the way she is?
"I lust for a man of God, Father," she says as she takes one step forward.
She likes to play this game, this game of confession. It turns her on. She's usually already wet when she meets me here in this tiny booth.
I could probably smell how turned on she is right now if I wasn't paying so much attention to her mouth.
Or the ache.
Or the need to touch her.
I went so long without touching her before.
Before when I had willpower.
And a stronger prayer ethic.
And the knowledge that she wasn't 18, yet.
But she's 18 now, and she's wearing that school uniform that looks ridiculous on all the other girls.
But not on her.
On her, it's sin.
She is sin.
"And I think about him all the time. When I'm in the shower. When my friends talk about the things they did with their boyfriends. When I take my clothes off."
I look her over, and the required yet cliché Catholic school uniform is in place; knee-high socks, mid-thigh skirt, matching blazer over a white button up.
"What else, my child?" I whisper. "What other sins have you committed?"
I take part in this game, because she wants me to. I do whatever she wants me to. I've already given up my soul for her.
Because while they taught me about why celibacy is important to God, important in my act of worship, they didn't teach me about her.
They didn't tell me that Bella Swan existed.
And as I watch her slowly remove her blazer, I forget the reasons why I became a priest.
She makes me forget God.
But is also proof that God exists.
"I touch myself, Father. I think of him, and I touch myself."
Her hands start moving up her legs until they disappear underneath her skirt. I can't see what she's doing, but there's movement. And there's her breathy shudder.
She knows I struggle.
I want to see, but I don't.
I want to touch, but I don't.
I want her in so many depraved ways, positions, but I say nothing.
She bites her top lip and slowly raises her skirt, allowing me to see that her right hand is where I want to be. It's nestled between her legs, against innocent white cotton.
Her fingers move in unison, and I can tell she's applying the smallest amount of pressure.
"I pretend that my fingers are his, and I do things that I only want him to do. And when I can't wait anymore, I put them inside me."
I pray and hope and wish that I be given the strength to finally walk away. I want to be good, and I want to be what God wants me to be.
But my hand goes to my cock instead, feeling how hard I am underneath these black regimented pants.
I continue to move, to feel myself as her hands roam to her chest. They falter on her breasts, where she gives a squeeze and slightly smirks. She knows what she's doing to me, how her breasts are one of my favorite parts on her delectable body.
I stop my hand and grip my seat, watching as she slowly ‒ always so torturously slow – unbuttons her shirt and walks closer to me.
"I run my fingers over myself here," she whispers as she demonstrates.
The tip of her index finger circles her nipple, and I watch as it hardens underneath her bra.
This one's my favorite.
It's my favorite, because it opens from the front. Sometimes she lets me see them right away. Other times, she makes me wait.
She holds all the control.
"I pretend I can feel his hands on me, squeezing me. I can almost feel his tongue licking me and his teeth biting me."
Her shirt hangs open as she unhooks the clasp on her bra. Now that they are unrestricted, they bounce and hypnotize me.
The pink color of her neck extends down, down into the valley between her breasts.
She chooses to leave her bra on, and I almost ask her to take it off completely.
All I can see are the inner curves. Her nipples – those nipples that I want to flick and tease and suck on – are hidden.
"I need your help, Father," she says as she kneels between my legs "I need you to tell me what to do. I need your guidance."
Before I can speak, she runs her hands over my knees and up my thighs. The fluid motion, her inability to show fear at this moment, makes me body shake, tremble.
Up and up her hands go until she reaches my belt. She undoes it while keeping her eyes on me. The sound of the zipper is so loud in this tiny booth, but it's her eyes that scream at me. And she shifts as she reaches in, finally letting me feel her fingers.
She drags her fingertips along my cock, smiling when it twitches.
But like always, I'm reminded of what I'm doing. How this is wrong. How I'm taking pleasure in something that's against God's laws.
I'm His servant. I work for Him. My body is solely for Him.
I've desecrated it with Bella, and I've desecrated her.
I desecrate her now as I fight with myself over wanting her on me. I desecrated her last week when I had her bent over this very chair. I desecrated her when I had her for the first time the day she turned 18.
I'm evil, but I'm human.
I'm the worst of man while praying that God will forgive me.
I'm all she wants, and I struggle with the knowledge that I want to give in.
I want to ask her to go, to leave me with my thoughts and sins, but I'm too weak. I'm not strong enough to give her up.
She is the only thing I want. I need her against me, and I can't stand the thought of not having her.
But I know that God is disappointed, and I'll go to Hell for what I'm doing, for what I've done, and for what I will probably do.
I feel her pull me out of my pants, and I'm ashamed when I lift so she can pull them off enough to have me entirely. I look at anywhere but her. I can't watch as her hand squeezes me and move up. And down. And up with a twist of her wrist.
Her thumb glides over the head, and my hips jerk. She lets out a groan before I feel her lips on me, taking the tip into her mouth. She suckles and moans, sending the vibration all the way up my spine.
I give up and lean my head back. I watch as she abruptly stands and lifts her skirt enough for me to see her start removing that cotton innocence. She drags her panties down to her ankles and steps out, leaving them on the ground. She reaches for my hand and stands so close to me.
"I've thought about you all day."
Her gaze keeps mine as she guides my hand to her pussy. She's wet – so so wet. She moves my hand up and down until she singles out my middle finger and uses it to tease her opening. But she changes her mind and drops my hand, and it thuds against my chair.
"No more," she whispers.
And I know she means she's done with the games, the foreplay. She wants to do what we come here to do as often as we can.
And again I think about how this is all wrong, regardless of what I feel for her.
I'm a priest, a man of God. I'm looked to for guidance, to spread His Word, to worship Him with my mind, body, and soul.
I took vows. How can I honor Him, worship Him, when I insult the uniform and its meaning? The very uniform I'm wearing and always wear when I'm with Bella?
I'm disgusted with myself, but I can't stop. I can't bring myself to say the words that I'm done, because that would mean admitting out loud that all of this is wrong. It would mean admitting that Bella's wrong.
And there's nothing wrong about her.
Even still, I go back to not looking her in the eye, especially now that she has me in her hand as she straddles me. She moves the head up and down, letting me feel how truly wet she is, and finally – finally – pushes down and brings me inside of her.
Brings me to my own personal Heaven and Hell.
There is no better feeling than her around me, but it is also the one thing that will cost me my soul.
But as she begins to move, I know that I'm more than willing to give that up for her.
I feel so much as she moves up and down on me, as I feel her take me in ever so slowly.
I ache to touch her.
To push aside the cups of her bra and grab on to her breasts. Or to simply kiss her, to push my tongue into her mouth and taste her.
But I'm too ashamed and too excited to do either.
I remember my position of authority over her, her age, how I'm going to Hell.
So I keep my head to the side like a coward, looking away from her angelic face.
From a face and body that are my undoing.
She whimpers and moans and pants quietly, always aware that we could be caught, that someone could be right outside the confessional.
"Mmmm…" spills from her mouth.
Her movements slow a bit, and she leans forward. She puts her arms around my shoulders, leaving a tingling sensation as she moves them up, around my neck and into my hair. I can feel her lips hovering just above the skin on my neck, her hot breath causing me to break out into goosebumps.
"You always smell so good," she whispers.
I feel her nose slide up and down my neck until she stops at my ear, taking the lobe into her mouth and biting down gently.
"I wake up every day," she pants into my ear, "with the feeling of you inside me. The only thing I can ever think about is this booth, being here with you. To feel so full. To know that you want me just as much as I want you."
She moves a little faster.
"You love to fuck me, don't you? You love how I feel wrapped around you, to see me like nobody else has seen me."
She pulls on my hair, doing her best to get me to look at her, but I refuse to move.
If I look at her, I'll break. She'll take what little I have left of what's right for today and shatter it.
"Tell me," she begs, stopping all movement. "Tell me the truth."
I feel her squeeze around me, and it causes me to moan.
"Do us both a favor and let go."
She starts to rock back and forth, and this need within me is ignited.
Because I want to.
I want to let go. I want her to be mine. I want to give up anything that would keep her from me. I want to spend the rest of my life inside her.
Even if that means turning my back on my calling.
"Let go, Edward," she pants, heavy and thick into my ear.
And that last shred of right is gone.
Because I turn to see her face, and it's beauty and ecstasy and perfection.
And my body recognizes the look in her eyes, the look she's giving me.
It wants. It needs. It's starved for her. Regardless of the fact that I'm so deep inside her, it's not enough.
It'll never be enough.
Like magnets, my hands grasp her hips. My body slides down in the chair, and despite that I'm uncomfortable, I want this for her. To show her. To let her know the truth.
I squeeze my fingers into her hips, and just like she wants me to, I let go.
I drive into her, shocking her with the intensity of my hips meeting hers over and over. She grunts and throws her head back. She extends her arms until they're touching the walls of the booth, using them to hold on.
Because I refuse to stop or go slow. Not when I've just started. Not when she's begging me to show her how much I want her, how badly I need this from her.
How everything in me is no longer about God but about her.
Up and down. Quickly. Aggressively. Achingly.
Her breasts bounce and bounce, and I remove one hand from her hip to harshly move the cups of her bra aside. I need to see them, see her perfect and pink nipples. I need to see how hard they are.
How hard they are because of me.
And they are.
And it drives me mad. I need to feel them, to have them in my mouth. I need to make her tremble and know that I'm the one who makes her feel this way. That if I had my way, I'd be the only person she'll ever know this way.
I took her innocence, and I'll be damned – to Hell ‒ if I let anyone else know what it's like to be inside her.
My free hand cups her breast, roughly squeezing it. I drag my nails across the top of the mound, leaving light red marks in their wake. It causes her to moan louder than usual, so she bites her lip. She looks at me as I continue to pound into her.
"Do it again. Do it again," she begs, her head lolling to the side.
Her wish is my command. Always. So I switch hands and am as rough with her other breast as I was with the first. She squeezes her muscles again, and it causes me to double my efforts, to really give it to her.
Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. And I know that if we were in another setting, if we weren't in our specific statuses, she would be screaming and moaning and crying out.
Calling out God's name with mine.
Instead, her heavy breathing is all I'm able to rejoice in.
She leans over me, her stomach and chest on my stomach and chest, and changes the angle in which she can feel me. It's deeper than before. I can tell by simply looking at the bliss on her face.
And it matches the purist of pleasure I feel while inside her.
"Please. Please please please," she whispers, her face ending up in my neck.
I put my arms around her, moving quickly from her back to her ass, where I grab and squeeze and knead. She mewls and begs again.
"Do you want me?" I ask, already knowing the answer. "How much do you want me?"
I push even more roughly into her, wanting to hear her say it again.
"Just you. Oh, God… Come inside me. Please come inside me..."
I hold off giving her that part of me until she does the same.
I slide my hand around her hip and rub circles onto her clit. Her moans intensify, and I'm thankful she had the mind to hide her face into my neck, muffling them.
"Oh. Oh, God. Y‒ yes…"
And that's all she says before I feel her squeeze me so hard that it takes my breath away. Her body shakes, and her whimpers and moans are lost in my ear.
I think of her, her face, her breasts, how deep I am inside her, how much trouble we could be in, how wrong this is in the eyes of God.
And that has me almost calling out His name as I let go and finish. I hold her, relish in this time I'm able to touch her and have her, before she leaves me, leaves this booth, to go out into the church auditorium to pretend as if nothing just happened.
As if we didn't just exchange my soul for my pleasure.
I think about what I could have if I allowed myself to do right by her, by God.
What if I left my vow of celibacy behind? What if I joined other priests who married and had children?
What if I could really have Bella forever?
But I know that's not possible, because while I'm just shy of 30, she's still just barely 18. People would whisper about the difference in our age. They'd question how we came to be in the first place. And they'd speculate. They would always speculate and create scenarios ‒ filthy and inappropriate scenarios ‒ about what could have possibly happened before we announced ourselves to the congregation.
Scenarios that probably did happen. Scenarios that I want to happen.
I know that Bella deserves more. She deserves better.
But doesn't God deserve more? He deserves my promises and the time I spent learning how to worship Him, how to reach others with His Word.
And so this will forever be my struggle.
I will forever fight my demons, because I'm a weak man. I'm a man who wants nothing more to be the priest he was trained to be. I'm a man who begs for forgiveness and prays for strength. I'm a man who lies to the parishioners and is a hypocrite.
But as I watch Bella move quickly to re-dress, to pull up her panties so that the remainder of what we just did stays inside her, I don't care.
Because the look on her face right now ‒ the look of pure pleasure and satisfaction – and the knowledge that she'll physically ache because of what I did to her is enough for me to forget my morals, to damn my soul.
It's enough for me to turn my back on my word to God but to also thank Him for bringing her into my life.
It's enough to know that I'm helpless when it comes to this girl. I'm weak for her and because of her.
It's enough that I had her, have her, and will have her for as long as she allows me to. I will continue to dig my grave and pave my road to Hell.
Because I am a sinner, and she is my sin.