Written and edited with the help of an ex-catholic friend. This story may stir some controversy but then why write if it tastes like vanilla.
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Raised in Boston to love, honor and obey his family and one-day to fulfill his spiritual calling, Tom O'Brien was the youngest of six American bred Irish children. Every Irish Catholic family dreams of the day that one of their children will be ordained into the priesthood, increasing the prospect of an eternal reward in Heaven for the parents, and Tom's parents were no exception. From the day of his First Communion at eight, Tom's father and mother began to chart his life of holiness and celibacy. There were the Altar and choir boy days, church attendance, Lenten fasts, plenary indulgences, self-denial, and the emphasis on learning Latin, all aimed to make Tom's entry into the Seminary at age thirteen inevitable.
Although mapped from birth to a life of holiness, Tom did not always feel the spiritual calling. In fact he floated from one religious experience to the next with an ever-increasing carnal desire. His altar boy years had introduced him to his first sip of wine and the mixed boys and girls choir to Becky. Always the volunteers, Tom and Becky became choir loft items...she, young and promising, with little breasts beginning to develop and he having learned that his penis was for more than peeing. The clean-up choir loft duty brought new meaning to the term for both of them. Then there was the confessional; one day, quietly waiting his turn, he could hear the lascivious details of the ladies' sins in the opposite stall. By the time it was his turn he had more to confess as well as some cleaning-up to do.
The seminary years between thirteen and twenty-five passed insidiously before the return of the Reverend Father Thomas O'Brien to one of Boston's oldest parishes. Father Tom came home to the church he loved and remembered from his childhood, a magnificent neo-gothic cathedral built before the turn of the last century. It was a huge, hollow, structure, longer than a football-field and half as wide, with a center dome 120 feet above the main altar. Flickering candles burned at each of 10 small altars and six darkly stained wooden confessionals, three on each side, lined the main isle. Massive arched wooden doors etched the main entrance and two rows of stained glass windows lined the walls, subduing the interior light and creating a constant state of Goth. In the empty air, sounds echoed in all directions with even the slightest of whispers heard throughout. The scents of fresh flowers, incense, and burned candles linger in the mostly still, cold air that welcomed Tom home.
Even with his introduction to Asceticism, seminary training did little to obscure Tom's uncontrollable desires of the flesh. Rather the opposite occurred. He learned to enter a state of religious ecstasy from repeatedly beating himself with a flogger; twenty-four strips of tan colored kid leather dangling from a leather wrapped handle. Rather than control his carnal urges, he learned that the redemptive value of pain that made pain itself lovable. Self-flagellation, although intended to teach not of the flesh, made Tom's conflict of the flesh even greater. "Blessed be pain! Glorified be pain! Sanctified be pain," euphoric had pain become to Tom.
And as if further cursed, Father Tom had grown into a hunk of a man. The years of lacrosse and soccer had matured him into every young girls dream date; muscular and cut with curly black hair, mascarred eyes, and a chiseled nose and chin.
Over the years the confessional became a harmonic convergence of Tom's faith and carnal desires as the torment of the flesh clashed with the deviant behavior described to him by the many female penitents. Even as he scourged himself with the flogger in the evenings for the masturbatory desires the confessional often induced, his pain frequently transcended to a heightened state of arousal and orgasmic bliss. If the confessional lines were not full when Tom turned on the light, the isle would be packed within minutes with women of all ages wishing for him to hear their confession.
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She came to him...always only to him. She needed to express her sins, be granted his forgiveness and find penance in God's eyes. Her sins ran deep and she knew that confessing, even now, would only bring her back again and again. She was born out of wedlock, a perpetual sinner forever finding the darkest course and following that path, until her guilt sends her to the closet of the confessional.
She always confessed to Father Tom because she believed he was a source of her sins. In her own twisted way, she blamed him for her behavior, her promiscuity and carnal desires that set her flesh aflame. She longed to see what he hid under his robes, ached to taste his cock and yearned to feel him buried balls deep in her molten wet cunt.
And here she was, once again, begging for forgiveness that would be granted if only for this moment. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession." Her voice low, and properly humble as she looked through the lattice, watching his still silhouette.
"What brings you back so soon seeking God's forgiveness?" Father Tom spoke calmly in his conditioned confessional tone.
"Father, I have once again defied one of Gods commandments, was seduced by depravity that soiled my soul and admit to receiving much pleasure from it."
She heard the priest shift before his voice rolled out against the lattice, "Go on, and tell me all that has caused you to be here today."
She buried her face in her hands as she whispered in mock shame through the separator. "Father, I allowed a man to spank my buttocks until I orgasmed. I hungered for his member, Father, and allowed this same man to put it in my mouth. I suckled him until he could no longer contain himself and allowed him to put his slick penis in my anus. Father, I know we are all born sinners, but I must be the worst of them all."
Her confessions always started the same, halting and uncertain, as though holding back the darker side of her sin. He'd heard all manner of explicit descriptions, knew what she was trying to say without bringing herself even more shame and he longed to hear more.
He shifted again, feeling his own cock growing as the images of her sin floated in his mind. "No child, you're not the worst, but to achieve the penance you seek, you must confess everything. Every detail, no matter how carnal and depraved."
