11 - SERVED TO MY PRIEST.
I kneel in the confessional, knees aching against the worn wooden kneeler, my mind racing with guilt and nervousness.
The lattice screen is dark, but I know exactly who sits on the other side. Father John Benedict.
Thirty-eight Broad shoulders that strain his black cassock every time he lifts the chalice. Hands that have lingered half a second too long when he pats me as I bow to greet him. Eyes that find me in the middle pew every Sunday and hold, just long enough to make my p***y clench. Staring like he could see through my soul.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." My voice doesn't shake. I've said this line a hundred times before. But the confession I'm about to make still lingers uncertain in my throat.
"It's been four months since my last confes
