I went to confession wet.
Not figuratively. Not emotionally. I mean I was wet between my thighs, soaking the inside of my thighs, my slit open and greedy, throbbing with every step I took through the heavy chapel doors. I didn’t even bother with panties. Just a black skirt and a sin-stained heart.
St. Augustine’s was quiet this late. Candlelight flickered along the stone walls like it was holding secrets. I walked slow, heels soft against the floor, the silence thick with old prayers and dust. The confessional sat like a shadow at the back—polished wood, doors closed shut.
I slipped in and sat down. The air was cooler in here. I could hear my own breathing. My own pulse.
The other side of the screen was dark. Quiet. Then, a voice—deep, steady, with the kind of authority that scraped do
