2 comments/ 53820 views/ 18 favorites Sins of the Confessional By: Dmnoid Warning, the following story contains elements that some readers may find distasteful. This includes, humiliation, pain, and bodily waste.If you find the above offensive, please read no further. It's a typical Thursday afternoon. Classes are over for the day, and I've already grabbed a quick bite at the cafeteria. From there, I rode the bus across town to the huge, gothic style cathedral. I'm on the concrete expanse in front of the entrance, staring up at the weighty structure. My heart's already pounding, and I hope my light jacket's enough to hide my protruding nipples. As always, I feel trepidation at this point, both excitement and fear. I'm also feeling a fair degree of disgust with myself. I'm not sure that I'll go in. I don't always go in... sometimes I don't even get on the bus. But today, with my heart pounding, my stiff nipples, and my wet pussy, I can't stop myself. I walk in, hearing only the sounds of my heartbeat. There's a part of me screaming that what I'm doing is wrong, is sinful, that I'm going to go to hell for this. It's yelling that I don't have to do this, that I should report Father Micheal to one of the other priests. Yet I still yearn for this, even if I know it's wrong. I think what we do is downright sacrilege, and I think that's what makes me so excited. Almost before realizing it, I'm sliding the door closed to the confessional booth. The closeness and darkness enfold me, security for what we're about to do. I start with the traditional greeting, "Bless me father, for I have sinned." Father Micheal's all too familiar voice gives me a blessing. It's a ritual conversation, telling him how long it's been since my last confession, and then getting into the confession itself. I make it quick, and I always do. Despite these formalities, despite the form I take here, I know in my heart that it's been months since my last real confession. What we do on Thursdays is only a mockery of confession. I finish my faux confession, and he begins his faux absolution. "First child, you must touch your nipples. Are they hard?" "Rock hard," I whisper, my fingertips circling my nipples through my sweater and bra. "You're a sinful whore," he whispers back. "Punish them." I harshly pinch my nipples through the fabric. It hurts naturally, but the slickness of my satin bra makes it hard to get a good grip on them. I quickly pull my sweater up over my breasts, and unfasten my front clasp bra. I'm bare-breasted in the confessional. Then I start squeezing and pinching my nipples. I feel my brow wrinkle in pain, as I lean forward. My face is against the screen between me and the priest as I punish my nipples. I try to be quiet, it would be a disaster if our little games were discovered, but I can't keep my breathing slow, and the occasional murmur of pain escapes my lips. The low murmurs are hard to distinguish from those of passion. "That's enough," he whispers after an unknown amount of time has passed. I drop my hands away from my breasts, and can still feel my nipples painfully throbbing. I try to catch my breath. "Is your pussy wet?" he asks. It sends a jolt through my clit to hear the priest speaking in such vulgar ways. I hike my skirt up around my waist. Delicately, I slide my hand into my panties. I slide my fingers down over my shaved pubic mound, feeling my hard clit, hot and throbbing beneath my fingers. My slit is already puffy, and starting to open. The entrance to my hole is still dry though, and it pulls and hurts slightly as I push my finger into myself. I hit moisture almost immediately. I spread the warm moisture over my lips, and then push the finger back into myself. Effortlessly, my middle finger slides all the way in now, until I can push it in no further. I sigh slightly at the feeling of my finger deep inside me. "I'm very wet," I whisper, only remembering to add in, "Father," as an afterthought. "You're a filthy whore." he whispers. "Yes, Father." I respond. "How many fingers can you get inside your dirty slut hole?" I slide my forefinger in next to my middle finger without much effort. I then slide my ring finger in. I can feel the tightness now. A fullness and slight burning sensation from stretching. I can get my pinky in next to them, I know from experience, but not at this angle. I use my other hand to pull my panties down to my knees. I lean forward, and press my forehead against the carved wooden screen once more. Instead of sliding my hand over my clit, I hold my hand parallel between my thighs. I pull my fingers out, and then holding them together, like how you'd hold your hand to do a karate chop, I start pushing against my wet hole. I can feel the hot burning, and feel my pussy trying to press down on my fingers, compressing them, almost trying to crush them. With that angle, I manage, with some pain, to slide all four fingers in. I push, and go deeper than I even thought possible. I feel my thumb resting against my stiff clit, and look down, to see half my hand buried in my pussy. "Four," I whimper, "four, and half my hand." "God's watching you," he whispers. I whimper again, and feel my cheeks turn scarlet. I'm in God's house, in his sacred confessional, and I have my hand in my pussy. I close my legs tightly and sort of cave in, as if trying to hide from His sight. "Pull your hand out... smell it." he orders. I do so, smelling my unpleasant, musty fish smell. "Taste yourself..." I do, and almost gag from the taste. "Do you like how you taste?" "No," I whisper back. "What do you taste like?" "Dirty... like fish. I think I might have a yeast infection..." "Let me smell." I hold my hand up to the screen. I hear a vague rustling, and see the vague shape of Father Micheal's head at the screen. I hear him inhale deeply, several times. "I like the way your dirty hole smells... You tempt me, slut. You make me want to lick your dirty hole, get your smell deep in my nose... It's a sin to tempt a man of the cloth. You must perform penance. Punish your pussy." I shudder, and nod, not sure if he can see me. I swallow once, stealing myself for what he asks. Then I pull my panties off, sliding them down shapely thighs and calves ensconced within black nylons. Down past my black high heals. My panties are pitch black, satin, with a little lace at the waistband. There's a seam that goes up the rear so my panties hug my butt. They're sexy, but not overdone. I take my panties, and hang them from the hook that the carved wooden screen forms, where a carved leaf curls upward. I see a shadow move on the other side of the screen, moving closer to my panties. I spread my legs wide, and scoot forward a bit on my padded seat. My butt is only half on the bench now. I take my hand and flatten it, like you'd do if you were going to spank someone. I hold it out in front of me until my hand stops trembling. My heart pounds and my breathing's hard. Then I take in a deep breath, and hold it. I squeeze my eyes shut, and slap my hand down between my legs. I let out a shuddering breath, just touched by a whimper. It stings like hell, and I can't help but draw in on myself, my legs closing around my hand. My sensitive flesh burns and tingles beneath my hand once the initial shock wears off. I wonder how loud the slap was. Did anyone hear it? Are there any other parishioners waiting to confess yet? If so, did they hear me? My breathing's harder now. I force myself to open my legs back up. I raise my hand. And I wait for the trembling to stop. My eyes close. I continue to breath fast, trying to surprise myself as to when the slap would come. Trying to trick myself into not pulling short, and hitting myself in earnest, like I did last time. I feel my arm tense and untense several times, each an aborted almost slap. God's watching you, he'd said. The shame and self loathing crash down on me again, and then I feel the strike my hand made almost without my realizing. I hit myself harder then last time. I catch my breath in my throat, on the verge of a scream. I gain enough control not to cry out, and let out a breath that shudders with the edge of a sob, and as I continue to squeeze my eyelids tightly closed, I feel moisture seep out of the corners. I force myself to take controlled, measured breaths as I gain control. My whole body's shivering, and my hand feels like it's in a vice. My legs are pressed together tightly, crushing it. I force my legs to open, and I release my hand. The quivering goes out of my breathing slowly, but I can't keep my legs closed when I put my hand out. Every time I try, my legs start quivering again, snapping shut by themselves periodically. I try a different tactic. I put my hand gently on my sex. It's hot and throbbing. Maybe it's even bruised. I'm able to relax bit by bit, and get my legs to stay open. I'm taking slow, deep breaths through my nose, and exhaling even more slowly through pursed lips. It's how my sister Yolanda used to practice her Lamaze breathing. I take my clit between my fingers. It's hard and throbbing. It hurts, but touching it feels good. Then I start applying pressure, squeezing it harshly between my fingertips. I pinch, forcing myself to keep going. My body goes rigid. Almost before I know it, my butt's entirely off the bench, and my breathing's turned ragged. Just the back of my head against the confessional's wall, and my feet hold my weight. My whole body trembles, and as tears leak from clenched eyelids, so too does a few drops of urine from my spasming body. Finally, I let go, and my body slumps back onto the bench. My breathing's sharp, and gasping, and my vision's blurred from tears. It takes me some time before I realize where I'm at. My head's swimming, and I feel like I'm floating. "Enough..." a voice comes. I just rest, catching my breath. A stupid smile slowly forms on my lips, and I feel a deep relaxation all through my body. The pain is far, far away. I can still feel it, but just barely. Mostly, I just feel the throbbing between my legs, matched to my heartbeat. I feel good. The voice comes again. "Put your panties back on." I do as commanded by my beautiful Father Micheal. I wish I could crawl through the screen, and be cuddle with him on his side of the confessional. "You have to go to the bathroom?" he said, in almost a monotone. It was more of a statement than a question, but I still answer him. "Yes father." A small sliding door in the partition that separates us slides open. Sitting, the door is a little below my eyes. I hear a little rustling as Father Micheal rearranges himself. Then a hand comes through, holding a silver engraved communion chalice. "Use this." I take the fancy goblet. It's hard to believe how heavy it is. "Use it to produce your drink. Piss in the communion chalice." I shudder at his words. He's so perverted. Always coming up with some new perversion, sacrilege. I pull the gusset of my panties to one side, and hold the communion cup between my legs. How many people have drank from this cup in holy communion? Will God transmute my piss to blood, as he does with wine? Or am I just giving Him a slap in the face, a reason to send me to purgatory for a thousand ages, or maybe even to hell? Will the fallen angel Lucifer tell me this was the moment I damned myself? I pee in the cup. My legs are spread lewdly, and one hand holds my pussy open, while the other holds the cup. I'm careful not to overfill it. I don't want to spill my pee onto the wooden floor. When it's as full as I dare, I squeeze, and stop the flow. I scrape the edge of the sacred vessel across my pussy, to catch any errant drops. The cup warms in my hand with the briny, yellow liquid. "Are you finished?" he asks. "Yes Father." "Let me see what you've done to the communion chalice." I carefully hand it back through the little door, and his large, soft hand brushes against mine. Long, thick, elegant fingers brush against mine. I can feel the manicure he's had, and how clean his hands seem, compared to mine. I yearn, wishing he could take me in those hands, touch me himself instead of the proxy of commanding me to touch myself. He carefully takes the heavy goblet, now heavier with the product of my body. I hear him take a sip. I shudder in yearning. My priest is tasting me. "Delicious..." he whispers. Some time passes, and I hear him take a few more sips in the silence. The chalice passes back to me. Then his voice comes in the dark once more. "Take it. Finish it. I can't walk around with piss in it..." I take the communion chalice. It's still over half full. I start drinking. It's a little salty, and has an aftertaste like... like how I'd imagine glass cleaner to have. It would almost be refreshing if it were cold, but for a subtle, but unpleasant flavor that I imagine is the urea. As I drink, his words come again. "You've sinned. You've desecrated a sacred vessel. You must perform penance. Are you ready?" I finish drinking my pee. "Yes Father." "Desecrate yourself. Put your panties back on and... desecrate your body. I want you to shit in your panties." "Yes Father." I shudder. I hate doing this... and I love it. So, so dirty. But disgusting, especially afterward. I'd be revolted when I thought back on this later. Probably. Usually I was revolted. But sometimes, it just turns me on. I retrieve my panties from where they hang between us, Priest and petitioner. I slid them back up my legs, and seat them firmly where they belong. My heart picks it's pace back up, and I slide forward again, so that I am barely touching the bench. My anus is hovering over the floor, with only my panties as a shield. If I got unlucky, I might end up shitting on the floor, or have shit run down my leg after I leave the confessional. This is a dangerous game we play. Well, a more dangerous game. I can feel the weight back there. I know I have to go. I had to go when I got here, before I even got on the bus to come to church. But years of conditioning are hard to overcome. I know I'm not in a restroom. I know I have my panties on. And my body is reluctant to comply with my commands. I bare down, but my sphincter refuses to release. I just dribble a little in my panties. My nipples and clit respond just fine to this though. I'm trying to do something naughty, something dirty, something that you just don't do. Especially not in church, with God watching. My nipples and clit are throbbing. I don't think they get any harder than this, or ache more for a touch. I could probably make myself come with just a brush of the fingers right now if I wanted. I push and strain, trying to convince my body to let go, to void my bowels under these conditions. Finally, I feel my reluctant sphincter opening, and I can feel the tip of my bowel movement starting to emerge. A rising excitement and near panic fight within me, but I keep pushing. I then feel more come out, and can then feel it pushing against my cheek hugging panties. I pause to breath, and tears of strain distort my vision again. I have to fight not to reflexively tighten my sphincter, and cut the log prematurely. After a few stabilizing breaths, I push again, and feel the log, hot, and a little slimy, being conformed and channeled by my panties. The log pushes forward, ever forward, slowly scraping against my sex. Goosebumps rise and my hair stands at the feeling. My shit scraps further forward, and I can feel it slide gently against my engorged and unhooded clit. I moan slightly, and push more, until the entire gusset of my panties is filled, and shit is slowly being pushed out the front from between my legs. I squeeze once, hard, and feel the log cut. There's more inside me, I could push more out, but there'd be too much for my panties to hold. I don't dare, not here. Not unless Father Micheal asks me to. I stand carefully, and feel the weight in my panties, as if some force is trying to pull them off me, and make them drop to the flood between my feet. They'll hold though. I'm pretty sure. Carefully, I sit back down on the leather cushion. I feel the hot, moist log squish and compress against my sex, conforming and molding to my body. I rock slightly back and forth. The smell asails me then, but I don't care. I can feel shit pressing upward, just a little invading my pussy. This sort of thing, this is why I get yeast infections. This is why my pussy stinks. It's why I can't have normal sex with normal boys. Just... this, whatever it is, with Father Micheal. I wonder if he'd want to lick me now? The thought is almost enough to push to into an orgasm. Or maybe I did just have a little one. "I can smell you..." he whispers. I lean against the screen. Just a few inches separate us. "I want you..." I plead. "Touch yourself," he commands. "Make yourself come." "Yes Father." I keep my head on the screen, where I can see his shadowy form moving on the other side of the partition. I slide my fingers past my waistband. I can feel my dirty, smelly shit. My fingers move through it, not caring, and find my clit. I start to rub it gently, rubbing soft, warm shit all over it. "Put your fingers inside your pussy." I just moan in response, and push my fingers deeper. I push my fingers into myself. They're coated with shit. I even push some into myself on purpose, and I finger myself, fingers moving in and out of my hot, wet hole. After a bit, I move my fingers back to my clit. I rub it more, and feel the first waves of orgasm starting. The contractions are deep inside, squeezing and squeezing, and I feel my pussy squirting deep inside with juice. My whole body clenches, and nearly convulsing, I gyrate back and forth, muscles contracting. I realize the voice I hear is my own... orgasmic moans. I cut off the noise, with an effort, and continue riding the tail of my orgasm. I realize the noise I heard was Father Micheal shushing me. My cheeks burn, and I hope that no one overheard. If someone violated the confessional, thinking I was having a seizure or something, I'd never be able to hide the shit on my hand in time. I pull my hand out of my panties, and look at it. All of my fingers are covered in shit, and I even managed to get some on my palm and thumb. It stinks. I feel ashamed of myself now. As hot as the orgasm was, I feel vaguely disgusted, and wish I had walked away instead of going through with what Father Micheal asked me to do. But I know I can't deny him. I don't know why that is, but I just can't. I give in to every depraved act he asks to me to do. I hear him shuffling about. "It's alright. There isn't anyone around. No one could have heard you. You need to be more careful. I could get in a lot of trouble if we get caught. They might even transfer me to another church." "Sorry... that was a strong one." "Yeah... I could tell." I continued to catch my breath, and listened to his rustling around. He was breathing pretty hard himself, excited. His bare cock, rigid and pointing vaguely up toward the ceiling emerged through the small doorway. I didn't wait for his order. I got down on my knees, kneeling before him. I bowed my head, and took his bulbous head into my mouth. He was already slick with pre-cum. I licked slightly with the tip of my tongue beneath his head, where the head joined the shaft, and moved my mouth slowly back and forth over the head. Then I lapped the hole, taking in his pre-cum. I loved his flavor. Like cum, but milder, with a hint of piss in the taste, and that slick, stringy texture of the pre-cum. His smell was musky, and slightly sour. He smelled vaguely of stale piss, and dried cum. I'd guess he was wearing dirty underwear, underwear that he'd masturbated into once or twice. I smiled slightly, enjoying the perversion of it. He loved doing dirty little things like that with me, and I had to admit, I liked it too. The slimy, cooling shit in my panties attested to that. Sins of the Confessional "You've seduced me," he chided in a whisper, "caught me in your trap. Like a bee caught in honey, or a fly in the web... You know it's a sin to seduce a priest, make him brake his vows, right?" I slid my mouth down his shaft slowly, taking him in until he tickled my tonsils. As I slowly pulled back, without opening my mouth or pulling entirely off of him, I answered. "Hmm...mmm..." "You know you must perform penance...?" At the tip of the head, I opened my mouth wide, and barely touching him, I slide back down to where he touched the back of my throat again. Then I closed my mouth tightly. I sucked, hard, forming a cup with my tongue on the underside of his shaft, and undulated my tongue there. I could feel his pre-cum pooling at the back of my throat. I responded the same as last time, "Hmm... mmm..." "Smear your filth on me," he commands. I pause, and look up at him, with his member still in my mouth. I stare up at him, into where I think his eyes might be in the shadow beyond the screen. I don't want to do this. Beyond all the rest, this is the most disgusting he's asked me to do. My heart pounds, and I honestly don't know if I'll comply. I realize that my mouth has frozen on his member, as I contemplate what he's asked of me. More than just being disgusting, what he's asking me to do is difficult and messy. It makes it a lot more likely we'll get caught. Honestly, what would you think if you saw a woman walk out of the confessional with shit smeared around her mouth? His cock twitches in my mouth in obvious excitement at what he wants me to do. Each twitch literally causes my heart and breath to catch. He usually twitches like that in my mouth as he cums. I want his cum. It turns me on to have him cum, especially in my mouth. I love satisfying him. It's almost enough to just satisfy him without regard to my own yearning. It sustains me through the week every time when I think back and remember his hot, acrid seed spraying into me. I pull off of him. In the dim light, he looks red, swollen, and veiny. His member is glimmering with my mouth's moisture, and pre-cum, like drool, dangles down from the tip as it seeks my mouth below. Almost hypnotized, I stare up at him, and reach a slender fingered hand beneath my skirt. I hike the skirt up once more, tucking it around behind me, near my feet. I reach for my crotch. Before reaching where it should be, I encounter my satin panties. The material is smooth, slick beneath my fingers. They feel slightly damp, and beneath them I feel the irregular lumps of my cooling bowl movement. My panties are sticking way out away from my body, holding the filth against me. It's like a diaper, but one for adults, smooth and sexy instead of white and bulky. I run my fingertips up and down the log in my panties, unable to feel the slight touch at all in my crotch. I can smell the earthy and unpleasant stench of my shit. More practiced at this than I'd want to admit, I try to imagine the color and flavor of it judging only by the smell. I imagine it being bitter, like black coffee, with that gag inducing aftertaste at the back of the throat, almost like skunked and hoppy beer, but a hundred times more pungent. I wish I had some milk chocolate to go with the filth. It was always easier to eat and hold down when paired with something sweet, and chocolate was one of the few flavors I'd found that was strong enough to partially hide the taste. It was how the Father first introduced me into eating my own shit, with chocolate. He'd used Ghirardelli, dark and sweet, and I can't smell it now without thinking about eating shit. Being this close to the factory, I considered going down to the pier and picking some up before heading back to campus. The smell turns me on and makes me think of naughty things. It makes it so much easier to get off when I masturbate during the week. Thinking of chocolate with shit smeared on top, of trying to sneak that naughty treat while my roomie was away, the risk of her catching me in the dorm room with a freshly passed turd made me light headed. I could feel my whole body pulse with each heartbeat, rocking slightly back and forth. I slid my fingers past the gusset of my panties, carefully so I didn't dump shit between my knees. I felt the moist and slick feel of my turd with my fingertips. I pressed just hard enough to deform the log a little, and could feel a muted feeling of pressure against my sex. I pulled my hand away from my crotch, and up to my nose. I smelled my fingertips. I could smell a vague aroma of shit on them. It was a light enough aroma to almost smell good. Like Pavlov's dog, conditioned to salivate to a bell, I salivated at the aroma of shit deep in my nose. I lowered my hand slightly, and carefully tasted each of my fingertips delicately. The taste wasn't bad. Like chocolate or coffee. I shuddered with lust and the idea of submitting to the perverted priest's wishes. Of course, I knew that the taste wouldn't be too bad, it was only bad when the taste hit the back of the throat. "I can't give you absolution until you do this..." he whispered. I whimpered, and dropped my hand back to my crotch. I slid in through the side again, and slid my fingers between the shit and my panties. I got my fingers around the log, and curled them. It put pressure on my sex, and I could feel shit smearing across my clit, being driven down into the little folds of flesh. I shuddered as the filth rubbed against my hard, pulsing clit. As I pulled the tip of the log away from my body, and out the side of my panties near my leg, my finger nails scraped against my clit slightly, driving shit beneath my nails, and giving a slightly painful rasp of nails against still overly sensitive flesh. I wondered again if I was bruised down there. I probably wouldn't know until tomorrow. I lifted the small, deformed log up. It was just the hard tip that had emerged first from my ass, and had scrapped across my sex and against my panties. It was growing tacky and lukewarm as it started to dry a little. I could see by the slight light that it was composed of nuggets or curds, each a different shape, all pressed together irregularly. Yellowish mucus was pressed into the folds and creases of the log, and slick against it's surface. With my other hand, I pealed a single curd off from the rest. I knew I could do this with the whole log, and end up with something that looked like gravel in my hand, but smelled far worse. I took the curd, and brought it to my nose, and smelled deeply, pulling the aroma deeply into myself. Oh how this priest had corrupted me. The smell made me want to reach down into my panties again, and rub myself until I came again. I put the curd in my mouth, and tasted it. As before, not bad. I was pretty sure that I could swallow and keep this down. There was never a guarantee with shit. Some days it was far more disgusting than others, and sometimes even a bit on the front of the tongue was enough of leave me retching. I supposed it all had to do with what I had eaten. I pressed the curd against the roof of my mouth, and found that it deformed easily, bursting and smearing in my mouth. That was good... sometimes it would be too hard to be able to play with like what the Father wanted. I left the shit plastered to the roof of my watering mouth, high with the smell and taste of shit deep in me, and I pealed a second curd away from the log. It was threatening to smash between my fingers, but I got it to his pulsing glans in time. I squished it against the head of his cock, and smeared it over it, all the way around the head. I heard him moan, and his cock kept twitching against my fingertips, as if he was going to cum. I held the log away from me so I wouldn't mar my sweater by accident with a brown smear, and lowered my mouth once more to his member. I teased him again, this time by licking at his shit smeared cock head. He moaned more, barely loud enough to where I could hear it. Then I took him into my mouth. I opened wide, so he wouldn't touch my lips first, and then once the whole head was in, I closed my lips and then sucked as I moved my head away. Shit and spit swam in my mouth, cloying like rancid beans or something. I swallowed and managed not to puke. There's something after swallowing that first shit, where the flavor deepens, and gets worse. It's like that Vick's vapo rub stuff, where it seems to penetrate so deep into you that you can't get rid of the smell. I knew that I'd have at least a vague sense of the taste in my mouth for hours. Long after the lust and heady feelings wore off, there'd be that unpleasant taste in my mouth. He asked so much of me, and yet here I was on my knees, doing anything he told me. Not for the first time, I wish I could run away with him, we could live in sin together, a fallen priest and his degraded slut. I moaned, and took another taste like before, sucking forward to avoid smearing shit on around my lips. "How do you taste?" he asked. "Good." I responded after the second swallow. It was even sort of true. Everything is relative, and compared to how it could have been, this wasn't bad at all. "I'm incomplete..." he whispered. "I've taken in only your wine. I need your wafer to be complete." I paused, staring up at his shadow, trying to visualize the young, attractive priest behind the shadow. His black hair, pale skin. His strong jaw, cleft chin, high cheekbones and his dark, piercing eyes. He had the looks to be a leading man in Hollywood, today, or in any past age. But he was a priest, my priest, and I'd do anything for him, just to have him once in a while. I could feel his smoldering stare as he looked down on me. His hand appeared next to his throbbing, twitching cock. His large, strong hand was cupped. I stared up at him, questioning with my eyes, but obeying. I pulled a curd away from the log, and gingerly put it into his strong but manicured hand. I watched the shadow of his hand rise up to his mouth. I had never seen him do anything like this before, and I was sure that he wasn't accustomed to it. He maybe didn't know that savoring the smell, carefully sampling the taste, weren't just my rituals, but that they had a purpose; they steeled me for the taste, prepared me to accept that which my body would otherwise try to reject. But he just raised the hand to his mouth, and quickly took it in. His hand dropped away then, and I heard him moan. It was a deeper moan than before, different somehow in tenor. Was it disgust, a different type of enjoyment, or something in between. I couldn't tell. But his body didn't pull away from the small window, and I bent again to my task, hoping that he didn't vomit onto and through the screen. If he did, we'd both be found out. With the fear that he might get sick in me, I stopped teasing, and started to suck him in earnest, pausing only occasionally to anoint a little more shit on his head. He didn't get sick, and soon enough his muffled moans started coming quicker. Then he wasn't muffled any longer, and I could hear his ragged whisper. "I'm going to cum soon." I didn't change, knowing my priest well enough to keep the rhythm and motion the same after the warning. I continued to piston my head on him, mimicking the motion of simple fucking as well as I could. My jaw and neck were sore, and the hand that held the last few remaining lumps of shit trembled as I couldn't put the hand down. I just pistoned, and felt the occasional twitch. Then his breathing changed, and I felt him swell. He pushed harder against the partition, trying to plunge as deeply into my mouth as I could take him, and with a ragged exhale, his first spurt of cum splattered against the back of my throat. I pulled nearly off of him, and struggled to swallow as spurt after spurt squirted into my mouth. It threatened to gag me, to wash down into my lungs, and my eyes watered as some pushed up into my nose. But I kept swallowing, convulsively, and got it all down, without spilling a drop. My nose burned from the salty and acrid cum in the back, and threatened to run, but I snorted it down. His flavor wasn't bad, but the acridness always caught in my throat a bit. It was unpleasant, and I could taste him despite a mouth brown with my own shit. "Ah... oh God, Rosa, you're an angle," he whispered. He was always so sweet after he'd cum. I knew that if he could, that he'd want nothing more to hold me and cuddle after what we'd done. It was something I too wanted, almost above anything else, but it was the rarest contact we had. If it weren't for this little door in the confessional, we'd hardly get to have any physical contact whatsoever. It would be easier if he were gay and I was a guy; no one takes much notice of that. But it's unseemly for priests to spend much time with young college girls like myself. Fate was cruel. "We must clean up... we've been at this too long," he whispered. I stayed on my knees, and continued to suck his cock, not trying to keep him hard, but to clean as much of my shit off of it as I could. Once I had it reasonably clean, he put it away, and I sprayed his dark and aromatic briefs with a small bottle out of my purse that claimed to be eyeglass cleaner. In actuality, I'd replaced the contents with Febreze. The last small couple of lumps of shit, I quickly tossed into my mouth, and swallowed whole. The taste was always less cloying if you just swallowed without squishing it around. I carefully licked my hands clean, and stood, letting my skirt fall back into place. Touching myself as little as possible, in case I'd missed some shit smears in the gloom, I refastened my bra. My nipples are still hard, and they hurt against the smooth satin of my bra that matches my panties. I tug my sweater back into place, and I stand. I pull a pen light from my large purse, and look around. I see a little shit smeared on the seat, and some brown drool around the hatch and on the floor beneath it. Getting back onto my knees, I lick my shit up, so I don't leave the confessional dirty. I liberally spray the booth with Febreze, and, give my panties and legs a quick squirt too. I think I can still smell the distinctive smell of human waste, but it's probably just the smell in my nose. I pop a couple of Altoids into my mouth, and grimace at what tastes like shit on a candy cane. The mints should be enough to cover my breath though, if anyone gets close enough. I check my mouth with the mirror on a compact, and then spend a few moments, cleaning some shitty smears from around my mouth. I should be presentable, but it's hard to know for certain. I could have overlooked something, or forgotten about something. The familiar fear and panic start to rise, and with it my arousal. It's almost time to where I'll have to walk out of here and perhaps be caught. For all I know, there could be some battleaxe of a nun standing right outside of the door. I can't help but visualize Sister Clara, the cruel nun from my Catholic schoolgirl days that was so cruel with her switch from the nectarine tree. She liked the switches from it the best, since they were covered in hard little knobs that would impart blood blisters. I shudder at the thought of those switches. Father Micheal closes the little door, and the hatch almost seems invisible against the partition wall. Standing, I put my forehead against the screen again, and whisper, "I love you my devilish priest," in my native Spanish. "I love you too, Rosa." I love it when he uses my name. So often it's Daughter this, or Daughter that. When he uses my name, it makes me feel like we're a couple, if just for a moment. "Before you go... I had a question." "Aye Papi?" He chuckles, and says, "I had a naught fantasy, but it's something we'd have to plan carefully. I was thinking that I'd like it very much if I could use you like a urinal, here in the confessional one day. I could drink a lot of coffee and water. I would really have to go by the time you get here, and hope that I didn't have an accident. Then when you get here, you'd take me in your mouth, and I'd empty my bladder before we did anything else. You know, instead of maybe going a little bit in your mouth like we sometimes do, going a lot. The idea really appeals to me. What do you think?" "Anything for you. You'd just have to be careful not to pee too fast. If you peed all over me, I couldn't hide it." "I can do that." "Do you want to try that next week?" "Yes..." he hissed, "Very much. I'm already hard again thinking about it. Thinking about using you as a toilet." The thought frightened me. It would be easy for him to pee too much, and then we'd be found out. Everyone would know what a dirty girl I was. My heart pounded at the idea, and my clit, next to my cold, moist shit, throbbed. "Don't... don't forget. I know you sometimes can't or don't make it here... but if you miss next week..." "Don't worry. I'll be here. I'm already excited by the idea. But I should go. I've been in here for so long..." In the way of starstruck lovers, we take too long to say our goodbyes, but in time I finally manage to walk out of the Confessional. Of course, there's a short line waiting to go in and be absolved of their sins. I walk slowly, carefully, and deliberately. My instinct is to walk bow legged, waddling away, like a baby with a full diaper. I have to force myself to walk as normally as I can, despite the mess between my legs. I head straight to a restroom. There's one over near the classrooms that's usually unoccupied, that locks from the inside. I have baby wipes, and a reusable douche in my purse. I dump my full panties into the toilet, and then scrape off the remaining shit with some toilet paper. The panties still reek of course, and are dirty. I seal them into a zip-lock, finish washing up, brush my teeth, and then walk out of the restroom wearing no panties. On the way, I spot a suspicious brown lump on the tile floor. Probably a lump of shit that got away from me, unnoticed. I ignore it and keep walking. There's something deliciously sinful about walking through church without any panties on, with the breeze whipping around my shaved pussy. I almost hope that God really is watching.