Content warning: This is a fetish story that contains some very graphic descriptions of vomiting. Hit that back button now it this ain't your thing. Otherwise, please do enjoy!
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The world spun around Father Kelly as he tried to steady himself against the cool wooden panel of the confessional. He felt as if his stomach was full of hot coals, and with each passing second, it seemed to grow more unbearable. His breath came out in short, ragged gasps as he closed his eyes, willing the sensation to pass. It had been this way all day, this relentless, punishing nausea that left him weak and drained. He wondered what the hell he'd eaten that had upset his gut like this. Or maybe it was God's way of punishing him for the sins of the flesh he'd been enjoying...
With a moan, he massaged his bloated abdomen and unfastened a few buttons of his cassock. He was getting the urge to part with his stomach contents. He'd hoped he'd eventually shake off the nausea, but whatever he'd eaten, or whatever illness he'd contracted, wasn't going to let him off lightly.
He heard the soft click of the confessional door opening, and then the gentle footsteps of someone approaching. He didn't bother to open his eyes, knowing instinctively who it was. "My dear Father," came the soothing voice of Sister Catherine, his favourite nun and secret lover. Aged about thirty, she was pretty, thoughtful and under that shy exterior, was a deeply passionate woman who thrilled him like nothing else on Earth.
"I brought you some water. I thought it might help with your...condition." There was a brief pause, and then she added, timidly, "If you'd like."
Father Kelly forced a weak smile, and staggered to his feet, his heart swelling with gratitude for her concern. "That's very kind of you, Sister," he managed to say between gasps. He felt her hands on his shoulders, gently guiding him down onto the bench as she placed the cool glass into his trembling hands. He took a sip, grateful for the cold, refreshing liquid as it slid down his throat. But it did little to quell the fire in his gut.
"Are you sure there's nothing else I can do, Father?" Sister Catherine asked, her voice laced with concern.
He hesitated for a moment, his gaze fixed on the floor between them. "There is one thing," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper, as he started heaving. "My stomach's churning. I-I'm...going to be sick...please can you me fetch something I can use? I'm so sorry...I...won't make it to the toilet in time."
Sister Catherine's face flushed, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she knelt down beside him, gently placing a cool, soft cloth against his forehead. "Of course, Father," she murmured. "I had a feeling earlier that you were going to. So I brought you this." She lifted up a large bowl and placed it in his lap.
"Thank you. You're so good to me," he mumbled. "Uh...this won't be pleasant for you to see, Sister. I understand completely if you wish to leave. Puking...is such a horrid thing."
"I'm not going anywhere, Father. I'm not leaving you to suffer all alone. I've done work in hospitals in the past. I've seen many a person throw up. And don't feel embarrassed. You'll feel so much better once you've been sick. For whatever reasons, your stomach just can't deal with something you've eaten or you've got a bit of norovirus. Anyways it needs what's in there, gone."
