The Confessional

Guilt is a strange emotion, a strange event. It can make people do the most vulnerable things. It can make people bare their souls. It can make people show their shadow self. Somehow he must be feeling guilt, but I'm not sure why. I don't know if I'll ever know why, but he is. He comes to me to confess, to tell his secrets, to bare his soul. I am there to cleanse, to forgive, to sanctify, to absolve.

He comes to my confessional, not unlike the ones in an old fashioned church. The contraption is dark, and stuffy, and confining. He waits his turn, to make sure it is his turn. Is it his turn? Should he turn and leave, run before he bares his secrets?

I wait patiently. There is no need to rush. He will come to me or not. I can't make him. But he will be glad he did. He will feel new, and clean, and fresh. So I wait. I don't count. I don't fret. I don't lament. I just wait.

And then he approaches. He moves the curtain to one side, assured no one else is there. There is a kneeler, a hard wooden slat, no cushion, no seat, no comfort. He kneels. I slide the door open, a slat between the two cubbies. I wait. It is silent. I can hear my own heart beating. Then I can hear his.

He speaks. "Bless me Mistress for I have sinned. My last confession was in high school." I don't shame him. I wait. He starts to explain, "I didn't feel like I needed to come. I've tried to live a good life." I respond firmly, but caringly, "of course you have. But what troubles you my pet?" There is silence again for a long time. He speaks again, "I have sinned." "Yes, I know, but what is the nature of your sin?" He is frightened to speak. He waits, holding his breath, then says, "sexual." I wait. Will he tell me or will I need to prod, to pursue, to pry. He stutters, stammers. I ask, "My pet, will you not tell me? How can I absolve you if you don't tell me your sins?"

Silence. I say, "What is your name?" He responds, "Justin John Joseph." I ask, "Who are you named for?" He responds, "I don't know." And so now I see that I must take control, force him to share so he can seek strength in his names. I prod him, "you must be named for someone?" "Oh yes," he replies, "for my father." "Your father?" I say. "Well not exactly," you say. And then I begin to scold. "So you present for absolution and yet you lie? You ask for understanding and forgiveness yet you don't deserve it?" Immediately I devise a punishment. "You must be punished for entering such a place and acting so arrogantly. Remove your pants immediately. This is a holy place. This is a place of truth. No lies. No deception."

He removes his pants. I can see a little as my eyes adjust, see the outline of his lower body, his strong legs, his hard cock. I say, "Do you have an erection right now?" "No," he responds. I say, "I can see it. You are lying again. You must be punished. Stand up. Strike yourself three times on your erection." He waits. I wait. Will he do it? If not, there is no freedom, there is no absolution. Then stands, and strikes himself across his hard cock once, twice, three times. He cries out each time, a little bit of a whimper. I can see him reach back and then slap forward. I can see his hand land on his hard cock. It is a beautiful cock, big, and full, and ripe. It looks delicious even in this dim light, good enough to eat, or at least suck. There are red marks across that lovely cock, and droplets of cum hanging from the tip.

I say, "Kneel down again. Let's start over. Now tell me some things about you before we proceed with your sins. It is important to understand you to understand the nature of your sins. Perhaps they are not sins at all. Perhaps they are. I can't know this until I know you."

He kneels. I can no longer see his gorgeous cock, but I know it is there. And I know it is hard. And waiting, and wanting attention. I say, "In order to know yourself, you must know your lineage. Who you are named for? Tell me your name again." He says, "Justin John Joseph." Very good," I say. "Now tell me why you are named Justin." He says, "My mother liked the name." I say, "very good. You have told a truth. Now stroke yourself once as a reward." He reaches down and strokes himself firmly. Then I ask, "And why are you named John?" "For my father," he answers. I say, "Yes, but for the cousin of Jesus as well. He brought forth a message that others were not ready to hear. You will be doing the same. Take courage from St. John the Baptist in your time here."

We pause. There is silence again, and yet I sense movement. "Are you hard?" I ask. He hangs his head, averting his eyes, and says, "No." But I know he is. I say, "You continue to lie about this. Why? You must punish yourself again. There is a switch lying next to the kneeler. Take it and strike your hard cock five times, and count them out." He stands and raises the switch, and counts out, "One. Two. Three." Pause. "Four." An even longer pause. "Five." I say, "this can go on all day. You will never reach forgiveness, absolution, unless you cooperate." I can see the red stripes on his hard cock. I can see where the switch landed. I want so much to reach out, stroke that cock, soothe it, but I don't.

"Now, why are you named Joseph?" I ask. He hesitates, then says, "I can't remember. I thought at first that I was named Edward, or Terrance." I say, "This is very serious. You can't recall the name you gave yourself? The Christian name that was chosen to bring you strength? Joseph was the step father of Jesus. He was the protector of Jesus. How can you not recall such important information?" The punishment may be even more severe. I say, "Stand up and turn your ass toward me. Strike your ass five times, counting out each lash."

He stands, and turns his ass toward me. It is a lovely ass, firm and well formed. I want so badly to reach out and touch it, stroke it, but I don't. There will be time for that later. He takes the switch and lashes himself across those beautiful round ass cheeks, "One. Two." A pause. "Three, four, five." He takes the last strikes quickly. I say, "Now turn again, kneel down, and tell me your sins." I know he wants comfort, salve on those marks, but that would undo all the learning.

There is silence. He is gathering his thoughts, deciding whether to tell, to make himself vulnerable, or to run. I ask, "Are you hard? Do you have an erection?" He answers in a whisper, "yes." I say, "Good pet for telling the truth. Stand up so I can watch. Now you may stroke yourself six times in whatever fashion you choose. See how telling the truth is helpful and good?" He spits into his hand, takes his cock firmly, and begins to stroke. I remind him to count out as he has with the lashes. I want so badly to reach through the open door, to stroke him myself, to feel his hardness and the heat of the switch marks. But I don't. I know there will be time for that later. "Kneel down," I tell him.

He kneels, and is quiet, waiting for my instruction. I say, "You have come here to confess, to rid yourself of your sins, the weights on your mind. I want to help you. You must help yourself. Every time you do what is right, you will be rewarded. Every time you don't, you will be punished. Do you understand?" But I know that either way he will be rewarded, either by the switch or the hand. "Yes," he answers.

"Tell me your sins." And so he begins. Many are trivial. A slap across his hard cock is ordered in a certain number combination. Then he begins to tell more devious things. The switch is employed. Still he waits, telling his secrets, punishing himself, needing to whip his tender flesh in front of me. Oh, how I want to comfort him, to stroke that red and sore cock, to suckle it well, to anoint it. But there will be time for that later. There is always time for more, as long as one makes the time. If he is in a hurry, he will miss out on the rewards and receive only punishment. But if he confesses to all, opens himself up, then he will be rewarded with ejaculation and release. I hope he chooses the latter. I believe in him. I think he can break through.

Now I explore his names and their meanings. I say, "you have told me many sins: some trivial, some serious. Let's start with your names. Have you acted as you are named? We will start with the name of Joseph. Joseph was the protector of Jesus. He was a home keeper. Tell me your sins in this realm." He pauses, head hung, eyes averted. He says, "I have been a bad father. I have not made a home for my children." I let him talk. He explains what he has done, and what he hasn't. He explains his regrets, his pride, his accomplishments. When he is finished I ask, "Tell me truthfully, have you been a bad father?" He answers truthfully, "No I haven't." And the relief comes from just telling the truth. There is no punishment, and there is no reward. The telling is both. He cries softly and it sounds like it brings comfort.

I say, "Next, you are named John for your father, but also for The Baptist, the cousin of Jesus, who brought the 'good news.' Tell me how you have been as a son." And he tells me. And in the telling comes the freedom again. There are good and bad things, times of closeness and distance. But again there is no need to reward or punishment. The story does both. The telling does both. And relief comes. He cries again, but this time more deeply, more profoundly, sobbing some.

We wait now in silence. I will follow his lead. I will know when he is ready to go on. Time unspools, unwinds, collapses. He will tell everything. Now I ask for the story of "Justin," of what he has done right and done wrong. And here come the confessions, the stories of lust and passion. He tells of his sins that are of thought, word, and deed. He tells of many acts, some he is almost ashamed of. He tells of fucking so many women he can't recall them all, or can't remember their names; of the guilt he feels for making them love him and desire him; of the things he has made them do. He has humiliated them. He has degraded them. He has used them. And now he knows that the only thing that will absolve him is to be humiliated himself, degraded, and used.

And so I ask him to tell me everything in detail. This time it isn't for the telling, but for my listening. I want to hear him tell of his conquests, his machismo, his manipulation; because that is how I will know what the penance needs to be. He tells me of fucking women who are married, girls who can't say "no," females who think they might own his heart. He tells me of fucking women he doesn't know; of fucking friends he has known for years; of sharing women with his friends, passing them around, using them; of having no regrets, no remorse, no compunction. He will need to be punished severely to pay for these sins. He will need to take the lash. He will need to be used. He will need to be humiliated. He will be degraded. And he wants this.

He wants to even the score, pay his karmic debt, start over. He explains how he wants to clean the slate, how he ran away from everything he knows so he can do just that. He tells me of passions he has that he know he shouldn't, of women he wants but knows he should leave alone, of things he wants to do to unsuspecting females. He tries to justify things. He says they wanted it, that they were willing participants. He tries to explain it away. He tries to convince me that no one was ever hurt. He tries to tell me he actually did some good. But in the end, as he tells his stories, they all come back to the same place. He has been bad, manipulative, divisive. He has pushed women to the edge, to tears, to loneliness. There is going to be a lot of contrition needed.

We are quiet for a while. He has told his "side." I ask him to convey a recent story, something he had wanted to do but knew it was wrong. I ask for a sin of thought. He tells me of a beautiful Muslim woman he saw on the street and how he wanted her. He knew it was wrong. She was barely 18. She was certainly a virgin. Her head was covered, yet her face was not. She was living on the edge, taking a chance not being covered up being so young and bewitching. She looked angelic the way the sun lit her up even as her hijab frames her face. She was walking alone. Dusk was approaching. This added to the radiance reflected on her bare face. She wore no niqab.

He takes a risk. He becomes bold. He approaches her. She has no male escort. He offers to escort her. He is charming, manipulative, believable. She does not want to be seen on the street unattended, and is afraid to ask a Muslim man for assistance. This American seems so concerned and helpful. His mind is reeling. He wants this flower. He talks soothingly and charmingly while trying to formulate a plan to take her to his place, to get her into an alley where he can have his way with her.

I see his eyes flashing while he tells this story. I see his pride and greed. This is the sin. Not the wanting, but the greed. Not the desire, but the pride. Just as he turns her into an alley near his home where he can get her alone, get her indoors, use her, take her flower, her cousin arrives. He is young as well. He is concerned. He does not shame her. He offers to see her home. He thanks the foreign stranger for saving his cousin from shame, but insists he must see her home from here. He does not recognize the wolf in sheep's clothing.

And so I ask him to describe in detail what he had intended for her. He tries to downplay it, diminish the significance, but I remind him that he won't be free until he tells on himself about what he thought and is punished. He tells me how he felt full of himself with being able to catch her eye, how he wanted her the way a starving man dreams of a meal, the way an alcoholic craves a drink. He tells me how much he wanted to taste that forbidden fruit, to be the first this girl had ever had.

He describes his plan to get her into the alley. There he would kiss her lightly, then apologize. He'd tell her it is because she is so bewitching, so beautiful that he can't help himself. He'd tell her how he never thought about doing such a thing before, about how it is because she is making him. She would be confused and flattered. She would enjoy the attention from this handsome stranger who looks so different from her own people, like an American movie star in the way he is dressed and how he presents himself. Then he'd kiss her again, but more deeply. He'd pull her close and feel her pressed against him. He'd instantly be erect and pushing this erection against her. He'd tell her it is her fault that he is aroused, how it is her making this all happen. He'd start jamming his tongue into her opening mouth, making her feel things she has never dreamed of. He'd start to run his hands over her modestly attired body, feeling her breasts, her ass, sliding his hand up between her legs. He'd tell her how he can't help himself, she is bewitching him. When his hand brushed against her womanhood she would gasp, unsure of what was happening or what to do.

He'd take her by the hand and pull her into the vestibule of his building. There he would really start to explore her body, hands roaming all over, kneading her breasts and ass, pushing his hard cock against her hot little flower. He'd take her up to his apartment, opening the door and yanking her inside. He'd slam the door closed, locking it, and turning greedily to her. Now there is no return. She is there. She is already compromised. She will need to succumb. He pushes her to her knees and opens his pants. His cock is swollen against him underwear, and there is a damp spot on them. He tells her this never happens, that she is causing all this, that he never feels this much desire. He cups that lovely face, strokes it sweetly, then pulls her forward to his throbbing dick. He starts to push the tip against her lips.

She doesn't understand. He tells her she must suck him to relieve him; that she owes it to him for making this happen. She looks up terrified and this turns him on even more. Cum starts to slip out of the slit. He grabs her jaw and pinches a little and those sweet lips part. He shoves his swollen hard prick into her tiny mouth. He starts to thrust. She starts to gag. He begins rocking back and forth, shoving in and out. She looks up unsure, confused, but willing. Her mouth drops open, and while she doesn't suck, doesn't even understand she is supposed to, he keeps thrusting in, jamming his meat into her waiting throat. He starts commanding her to suck, suck like a popsicle, like a lollipop. She obeys. And once she begins to suck it is all over. He starts swelling. He is readying to explode. But he wants to slow this all down, to enjoy it even longer.

Her hands are fluttering around her face, around his ramming penis, unsure of where to put them or to push him away with them. And then he shoots his wad into her unsuspecting throat. He starts to scream, to growl, to cuss. Cum is gushing forth. It is spewing from the root of him. It is hot and sticky and plentiful. He keeps jamming in and out and the cum is dripping down her chin, spilling onto her hijab. He keeps thrusting and grinding until there is nothing more to come. Then he tells her to clean herself up with her hijab.

Now he becomes poisonous, distant. He turns away, jams his spent cock into his pants, and zips up. She is still kneeling before him in a posture of worship. He pulls her up by the elbow and tells her she needs to be going. He sees her out to the street, flags down a bicycle powered cart, and hands the driver a large bill. He places her roughly into the seat, getting one last squeeze of her ass, then turns back to his apartment.

The silence is deafening. The tale is told. All that awaits is the punishment. How to make the punishment fit the crime? How to atone for a sin of thought that never really happened? I tell him we will act out this scene ourselves, only I will play his part, and he will play that of the girl. He is still kneeling, eyes averted. I tell him to look at me. I gaze into his eyes. I tell him how beautiful he is, how he is making me think things I have never thought before. I tell him I want to help him. I tell him he is safe with me. I tell him I will protect him.

I begin to stroke his face. I tell him that I only want him to feel good, only want him to know pleasure even though it is his fault I am even having these thoughts. I tell him to open his mouth. I stick my fingers in. I tell him to suck. I tell him it is his fault this is happening, that I need to do this. I tell him to lean up through the open window and to stroke my breasts. I take my wet fingers and slide them along my slit. I tell him he is making me do this, that I never thought of doing such things before. I start to stroke faster, to part my lips, to plunge those fingers into my cunt. I start to grind on them, juices oozing out. He is still sucking my nipples.

I'm still talking, manipulating, cajoling. I tell him how I can always control my needs and desires except with him, how he is making me do these things and as a result will need to succumb to my needs. I start to cum grinding my hand into my twat, nipples hard and bursting. Then when I am finished I tell him to stand, to turn around, and to bend over. I am going to take his hole the way he took that girl's. I take my soaking wet fingers and start to play with his asshole. I tell him it is because he is so beautiful that I need to do this, how his eyes told me to, how I had never thought of such a thing before. I circle the rosebud, tickling and tantalizing. Then I start to push ever so slightly, then harder, and finally forcefully. I start to jam my fingers deep into his ass. I'm stroking in and out telling him over and over how this is all his doing, how I never do things like this, how he deserves what he is getting. I start to tickle his prostate, pushing against the hardness of it. And when I feel it hardening even more, I pull my fingers out, not allowing him to cum.