Abigail Randall strolled lazily through the village square. The summer breeze would occasionally lift her short dress, exposing her legs up to mid-thigh. She noted with satisfaction the way the men in the street looked at her, their lust apparent for all to see. They had been looking at her this way since she had moved to the village with her husband six months before. Several of them had done a great deal more than just look, and this was why Abigail was on her way to church for confession this afternoon. Abigail didn't really believe in the possibility of absolution, but she had her own reasons for wanting to declare all her sins.
A group of women stood by the fountain as she walked through. Their voices lowered to a whisper until she had passed, and Abigail knew that they had been talking about her, as all the women in the village did. She was rarely called by her given name. She was always referred to as the harlot, the vixen, the whore, or the slut. Some of the more fervently religious amongst them would spit on the street as she walked by. None of this worried Abigail too much. She had been in many villages like this in her twenty-three years, and she had been in many cities too. She had learned whilst still a child that it was a man's world that she lived in and that it was far more important to be liked by men than by other women.
Since before she grew into womanhood Abigail was well aware that she had some kind of power over men, that she drew them to her without bidding. When she at last reached puberty she realised the secret of her power and began to understand the nature of men's lust for her. She would quite happily indulge them in their desires, lay herself open before them and give them what they had dreamed about, only to find that they always wanted more. She knew her face was very beautiful, her skin smooth and delicate, her features perfect in every way, but she also knew that it was her body that men found most appealing. Her legs were very long, her waist small, her hips wide and her breasts large and firm.
As she entered the church, a stocky, well built man in priests' garb noticed her and immediately headed for the confessional. She came every week at this time and he was always ready for her, ready to listen to her and absolve her of her sins. When she used to go to confession as a young girl she hated every minute of it. She wanted to scream at the priest that he was a liar. That everything he said was a lie. That he was full of shit.
Another problem she usually found when talking with priests was trying to control her language. She may be living in a small village now, but she grew up in the city where people spoke plainly. Ever since her first confession in this church a few short months before, she had been able to speak freely, tell her story in her own words.
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned," Abigail said as she took her seat.
"How long has it been since your last confession?" a deep voice questioned from the darkness.
"It has been one week since my last confession. Father, I have much to confess. I have sinned many times..."
"Pray continue, my child. God is listening."
"Well Father, last Sunday was the day of the village fair, and as you know, my husband was organising everything. All the proceeds were to go to charity so he wanted to make as much money as possible. One of the attractions was a kissing booth. Some of the locals frowned on the idea, saying it was sinful, but my husband knew that the men would pay good money for the chance to kiss one of the prettier local girls. He had asked around for volunteers but the only girl willing to do it was the postman's daughter, Mary Archer. I don't like to speak ill of anyone, Father, but you would have had to pay the men to kiss her, not the other way around. So eventually, my husband asked me if I would do it instead. And I agreed.
"The booth was really a large tent at the far end of the field, and when I went inside it that morning I saw that there was a table with two chairs on either side. I was supposed to sit on the one at the far side, while the men came in one at a time, put their money in a jar on the table, then leaned over it to kiss me. I was tidying things up in there when the first man came in. It was Mr Raito, the butcher. He stood beside me and put some money in the jar. I should have gone and sat behind the table, but I thought I might as well stay where I was, and let him kiss me standing up.
"I've never liked the man. He rarely shaves and always smells of meat. Whenever he catches me alone in the street he won't stop groping me. Nevertheless, when his lips touched mine I felt that fire in my belly that I've known so well ever since I became a woman. His tongue pressed against my lips, seeking entrance. I opened my mouth and allowed him to kiss me deeply, passionately. More than I was supposed to. His hands grasped my buttocks and he drew me closer. I could feel him, his manhood...his cock pressing against me. He was all hard."
"Did it arouse you, my child?"
"Yes, Father," Abigail nodded in the darkness.
"Pray continue."
"I knew I should have pushed him away, but for some reason I couldn't. My lack of protests must have encouraged him. He reached up and began fondling my breasts as he kissed me. I knew it was a sin, but I let him do it anyway."
"Is that all he did?"
"Yes, Father. He began lifting my skirt. I knew that in seconds he would attempt to remove my underwear. He wanted carnal knowledge of me, Father. He wanted to put his thing inside me. He wanted to fuck me, I'm sure of it."
"And did he fu...did he fornicate with you?"
"No, Father, he didn't."
"And why didn't he?"
"He heard a noise from outside the tent and he rushed off. I think he was scared in case his wife found out what he was trying to do to me."
"Why do you get yourself into these situations?" the priest asked in a gentle tone.
"I can't help it, Father. All the men in the village, they know me. They know how hot and bothered I get when they're near. I think they must smell the arousal in me. Often when I pass them by they reach out to feel up my tits and my ass. They know they can do anything they like to me and all I will do is smile and encourage them to do even more. Do you think that makes me a slut?"
"I don't know? Do you?"
"Yes. Probably," she said nonchalantly.
"Perhaps there is a problem in the marital bed? Perhaps that is why you seek satisfaction elsewhere."
"No Father. My husband pleasures me very much. Every night. I love it when he makes love to me."
"But surely he knows what you get up to. The village gossips have a field day with you. I have heard them, I must admit. What does your husband think of your shenanigans?"
"The thing is, Father, he would know even if the women here didn't like to tell tales. I tell him myself every time a man so much as looks at me. If he does more than just look then all my husband asks for is more details. I'm sure he enjoys it. He wants his wife to be a slut. That's why he chose to marry me."
"Perhaps," the priest said. "Certainly I have heard of men with those inclinations. It is strange behaviour but not as uncommon as you may think. The devil works in mysterious ways, just as our Father in Heaven does."
