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The Confessional

By: ReverendS



(I'd like to thank everybody who responded to my last story, which was my first one. I did not expect it to be so well received, and was happy to hear that it was. Please keep your comments and suggestions coming, as I enjoy reading them, and I promise I will try to write as much of these as you want. Thanks again!)

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It had been a slow couple of hours in the confessional booth when the Reverend heard the girl enter the booth. He obviously hadn't known it was a girl when she first entered, but once she began to speak, the mental image became quiet clear.

Her voice was young and soft, and as it floated through the divider he could already imagine her gentle little mouth, pouting lips covered with pink lip-gloss. Her voice was already attractive, glimmering with an alluring innocence, but the conspiratorial hushed tone with which she spoke (with which most people spoke when confessing their sins) gave her voice a sultry, seductive tone as she breathed the words rather than spoke them.

As she went through the verbal tedium that led up to the actual confession, his mind painted a picture of what the body that held those glossy lips looked like. She sounded like an older child, but not quite mature yet, so he placed her in the late teens, those delicate years when a girl is on the brink of becoming a woman, developing both physically and emotionally. So in his mind's eye she was dressed like a young girl, wearing the kind of uniform a private school might have her wear, complete with red pleated skirt, white blouse, and pigtails held in place by bright read ribbons. 

Breaking from the traditional school uniform, however, were the white nylon stocking and garters, and the red high heels she wore were probably against most dress codes. Her body, in contrast to her youthful dress, leaned towards the other end of the spectrum. Small and dainty, yes, but with fully developed curves along the thighs and hips, as well as firm and perky breasts not yet in need of support. And supporting those pink lips, a baby face of youthful innocence with just a hint of wanton lust lurking beneath it, with deep baby blue eyes, soft round features, and a dainty smile to top it all off.

The Reverend found himself obsessing on this mental image of the girl to the point where he was only half-listening to her confession, until his ear tripped over the words 'Slumber Party'. He quickly faked a cough and cleared his throat to restart the dialogue.

"Pardon me, child. So, you said a slumber party?"

"Yes, father." She sighed the words, and he could almost see those pink lips mouthing them. "Susie had invited me to sleep over Friday night, since we were both going to the mall Saturday morning. We do it all the time."

His brain began a complex series of mental gymnastics, rearranging the image to fit the scene she was describing. Gone was the school uniform, replaced by a little pink tank top, white panties with a little red heart pattern, and pink fuzzy slippers. He kept the pigtails and lip-gloss, however, to keep things familiar. Knowing nothing about her bunkmate but her name, the Susie in his mind was slightly taller than the girl, a bit more slender, with longer legs and smaller breasts. He pictured her face as slightly more angular than the girl, her dark hazel eyes framed by high cheekbones and brunette bangs. She was barefoot, and wore a maroon nightshirt that concealed her powder blue underwear. He placed them both on a large four-poster bed, bouncing around playfully as they took quizzes from woman's magazines and gossiped about boys, giggling and blushing.

"We didn't do anything special that night," she continued, "we just talked and listened to music, tried to figure out which stores we wanted to shop at the next day." She paused, a good sign that she was getting to the 'sinful' part. "But at one point we started talking about boys, and I let slip to Susie that I still hadn't kissed a boy. She's much more experienced than me, and I was embarrassed when she didn't believe me at first."

This was usually the point in most confessions when he would ask the person to leave out the unimportant details and simply explain what they felt they had done wrong. But no, not this time. This was a special case. Every detail was as important as the last to him, and he needed to know them all. She paused again, and he found himself egging her on, pushing her to continue her story.

"Go on, child."

"Yes, well..." she stammered for a moment, and he feared she would lose her nerve. "So she started telling me how cool it felt, and how she loved kissing boys, and couldn't imagine not knowing what fun it was, and I just got more and more embarrassed. That's when she asked me if I wanted her to show me what it felt like."

The Reverend almost gulped audibly. "And what did you say?"

"Well, I was so embarrassed by now, I felt like I would have been chicken if I said no."

"And so you said yes?" He prodded her to continue.

"Yes."

"And did she show you?"

"Yes." Suddenly she wasn't as free with the details. He'd have to draw them out of her.

"And how did she show you?"

There was a long pause before she answered. "She kissed me."

The scene in his head started moving again, and he could see her becoming a little nervous and quiet as the brunette slides closer to her on the bed, leans over slowly, and gently touches her lips to hers, both with eyes closed as their mouths press together.

"Did you like it?"

Another pause. "Yes."

Her lips tremble slightly as the brunette kisses harder, parting her mouth slightly.

"Did you kiss her back?"

Quieter this time, almost a whisper. "Yes father, I did."

The girl parts her mouth as well, and their two tongues dart out at one another, flicking along lips and exploring mouths. The brunette places her hand on the girl's leg while their tongues play, feeling the smooth skin just above her knee.

The Reverend suddenly realized that his imagination was getting the best of him, and he was becoming aroused, physically as well as mentally. He could feel his manhood swelling in his trousers as he envisioned this forbidden lust. He hoped she couldn't hear it in his voice as he questioned her.

"What happened next, child?"

"Well, that was it. She kissed me, and I said cool, and we went back to talking."

"That is all you need to confess to?" It looked as if his fun was already over.

"Um, no. Later that night, after we went to sleep, something else happened. We were both sleeping on her bed that night."

The audience of his mind cheered as the scene was quickly recast. Now he had both girls, still dressed the same, sleeping on top of the sheets, a slight sheen of sweat from the summer night glistening on their bodies. This vision did nothing to lessen his excitement, and a growing bulge began to strain against his pants.

"We must have cuddled up in our sleep," she continued, "because I woke up in the middle of the night, and we were pressed up together. Susie's head was next to mine, and her one arm was curled up on top of me, with her hand resting on my..." She froze, embarrassed to continue. He new exactly where Susie's hand had been, but he needed to hear her say it.

"Where was her hand, child. This is very important."

"Her hand was on my boob. She was asleep and all, but she kept wiggling around, and she was breathing on my neck, and every time she moved her fingers would rub against my..."

"Go on, its okay." Oh god, don't stop now, he thought.

"Um, my nipple. And between her breath and her fingers, I..." She trailed off again, but by now he had already envisioned the delicate fingers cupping her breast, her nipple hardening visibly through the fabric. He was hardening even more now, and he found himself unconsciously grabbing his growing erection, squeezing it through the trousers. It was then that he caught a sigh from the girl that sounded different from the others, something more involved. He decided to take a chance, hoping he read the noise right."

"So you found yourself aroused by your friend's closeness, aroused sexually."

"Yes, Father."

He pushed a little more. "So the combination of her hot breath on your neck, along with her absently playing with your breast, got you excited?"

"Yes." There was a pause after her answer, and then he heard it again, that gentle sigh, almost a subtle gasp. She was getting as excited talking about it as he was listening."

"And talking about how you felt, is it effecting you now?"

There was a scary second of silence when he thought she would flee the confessional, but then she answered, "Yes, it is."

The scene in his head sprung back into action as he got her rolling again. "What did you do, that night, when you became aroused by your friend's actions?"

"Um, I played with myself."

"Please me more specific, child." Once again, he knew what she meant, but he had to her it, needed to hear the words come from those pink glossed lips.

"I, uh, reached down and played... er, rubbed my..." she struggled for a non-offensive word, but blurted out "pussy."

Hearing the young girl use such language should have angered him, but instead it drove him mad with lust, his organ swelling even more as he began to massage it through the pants, unable to ignore it. He nearly choked on the excitement when he asked her his next question.

"When you rubbed it, was it wet?"

"Yes." There was no mistaking the tone in her voice now; she was definitely hot, and not trying to hide it. He had to push it further.

"Are you wet now, thinking about that night?"

There was another long pause. She probably had an idea how turned on he was as well, but he couldn't bring himself to be worried about it. All he cared about now was feeding the images in his mind of this young girl lying on her bed, her friend curled up next to her, rubbing her pussy through her panties, soaking them with her juices. Finally, she answered.

"Yes, I am."

"What you should do, child," he could hardly believe he was saying this, "is rub your pussy now like you did that night. It's okay to do so, I won't mind."

Not only didn't he mind, he was desperately trying to unzip his pants without making any noise, so he could proceed with some rubbing of his own. As hot as the bedroom scene had been getting, a new image had now entered his thoughts, a vivid picture of the girl on the other side of the confessional, skirt hiked, fingers sliding beneath her underwear. The silence was deafening now, as he could practically hear her pulling up her skirt, hesitantly touching herself. The zipper finally conquered, he at last pulled his raging hard-on out into the open, gripping it with one hand, feeling it pulse with his heartbeat as he listened intently.

"Are you playing with yourself?" He asked, needing to know. "Like you were that night?"

"Yes, Father, I am." When she finally answered, her voice was filled with heated gasps and moans, clear signs that she was working herself up.

The Reverend couldn't hold back anymore, and he began stoking his rigid prick, fanning the flames that were now consuming him. He could hear her moaning, breathing hard as he breathed hard, both mirroring the other's actions through the partition.

"When you played with yourself that night, did you put any of your fingers inside your pussy?"

"Oh yes, Father." She was becoming bolder now, the heat of the moment steeling her against the fears and inhibitions that only minutes earlier threatened to cut her confession short. "I used my fingers."

"Then use them now," he breathed. He heard a little moan from her side, and his mind began flipping back and forth between two scenes. In one the girl on the bed with her friend, hand between her legs, masturbating cautiously so as not to wake the sleeping Susie. In the other, the girl in the confessional lifting one leg onto her seat as she pulls her panties to one side, sliding a finger up and down her moist slit, getting it wet and then sliding it in, her hips gently bucking as she probes her dripping cunt with it. Susie's head snuggling against her as she fights back any noises of pleasure, her head leaning against the confessional wall as she fingers herself. The images started coming faster and hotter, and so he started jerking off faster and harder in response.

The girl was moaning openly now, and he let himself grunt out as he pumped his cock in his fist, their noises exciting one another.

"When you did that the other night, did you fantasize about Susie, about how it would feel if they were her fingers?"

"Oh yes," she gasped. "Every time I slipped my finger in, I secretly wished that she would wake up and start playing with my breast for real, even reach down and slide her fingers in with mine. That's what I needed to confess father, my nasty thoughts when I played with my wet pussy." She was getting really bold now, and she seems to be getting off on her dirty talk as much as he was.

"That's not good at all, child." He could barely get the words out coherently. "Such thoughts and behaviors are those of common sluts. Is that what you want to be, a dirty little slut?" He could feel himself getting close now, and was stroking his dick feverishly in anticipation. Her response by itself almost made him come.

"But I can't help it, Father! I can't help doing these nasty things. I don't want to be a smutty little girl, but it just feels so good when I finger myself!"

"Then shut your trashy little mouth and finger fuck that dripping snatch!" Their voices were getting dangerously loud now, and he was getting dangerously close to coming. They had to end this now, and together.

"Did you come when you fingered yourself that night?" He was practically rocking the booth with his rapid masturbating motions, and he could swear he felt her lurching against the divider.

"Oh yes, I came so hard just think about Susie and feeling her warmth on me, on my neck, on my tit..."

"Then make yourself come like you did that night." He growled at her through his teeth. "I want to hear you come now!"

They both exploded together. He nearly jumped up as he shot his load, splattering the wall of the booth as jism pumped from his prick like a fire hose. At the same time he could hear her high pitched whimpering as she finally climaxed, keeping quiet like a good little girl, shaking the divider as the orgasm quaked through her. It seemed as if their mutual release lasted for minutes, and the silent moments afterward as they both came down from that sexual high seemed like hours. It was the girl who eventually spoke first.

"So, what is my penance, Father?"

He was still catching his breath, and it took him a moment to respond. "There will be no penance for this deed, my child. I can tell that you're a good girl at heart, even if bad thoughts do occur to you. But what I do want you to do is inform me of any further activities that take place between you and Susie. Its important that I find out where this leads."

"Yes Father, I will." There was a quiet rustling as she got herself situated, and she was gone. The Reverend was so exhausted that he just sat there unzipped and hanging out during the next confession, an old woman confessing to shoplifting lipstick at the local Safeway, and casually wondered if she even noticed the strong smell of sex that permeated the confined booths.

This was going to be quiet an interesting summer.

The Confessional



My story began by my going to the confessional late one afternoon and explaining to Father Ted that I had been snooping around and found a stash of porn in the shed out behind our garage. I figured that it must have belonged to my Dad. Anyway, looking through it I found men and women having sex, women and women doing things I didn't understand, and older men with much younger men doing things to each other. The problem was that after I put the stash back the way I had found it I couldn't stop thinking about it. I would think about the pictures during school to the point that my manhood would get so hard that it would hurt. I would have trouble adjusting myself and then having to get up with my book bag in front of my hard cock to get out of the room when the bell rang. It was beginning to be a real problem and I would get just as hard when thinking about the men on men pictures as with the men and women, or the women and women pictures. My question to the Priest then was "Being eighteen, no sexual experience, and in my first year at the community college do you think that I am gay."

The Priest told me that many young people my age had all these hormones raging through their systems and sometimes they just need to experiment a little to find out how they really felt about sex. He reassured me that I was a normal teenager and not to worry. 

As I stepped out of the confessional and started down the hall I heard the door to the Priest's side of the Confessional open and close. I turned around to see Father Ted standing there. Father Ted was a short man, balding man with salt and pepper hair. He was a kind man that spent a lot of time with the youth.

"Jeff" Father Ted spoke, "would you want to go to the rectory and discuss your problem a little further? That is, if you have the time."

"Sure" I answered.

With that Father Ted walked up and put his arm around my shoulder and escorted me to his rectory. He opened the door and we went in. Father Ted told me to take a seat in a straight chair in front of his desk. He turned to the door and asks if it bothered me if he locked the door. He said it would keep anyone from interrupting the conversation. He asks if I would like something to drink to which I declined. He then pulled another straight chair up in front of me and sat down face to face. He sat so close that our knees almost touched. I had on shorts and a tee. Father Ted had on a long black robe which he gathered up to his waist as he sat down. As he sat down I couldn't help but notice his shiny black shoes and socks. I didn't see cuffs to slacks which made me wonder if he had on pants under his robe. 

Then Father Ted said, "Now back to your problem. You said your manhood gets extremely hard when you recall the pictures in your mind that you had seen in the books in the shed. I was wondering which pictures seemed to have the greatest effect on you? I mean which pictures had the greatest effect on your manhood? Which ones made you the hardest? Which ones made you so hard that it hurt?"

"Well," I stammered, I guess the ones with the men on men pictures. The young men were a little bit older than eighteen, but the older men were about your age. All I have to do is start thinking about those pictures and I start getting rock hard."

"Rock hard huh?" questioned Father Ted, "Can you describe some of the pictures to me Jeff?"

"Well, it's kind of embarrassing Father," I said.

"Oh, don't be embarrassed son. Think of me as a doctor that you are explaining a problem to, that you want fixed." said Father Ted.

That seemed reasonable to me so I continued, "Well, one of the pictures shows a young man on a bed naked with an older man holding the young man's cock in his hand and the older man was holding his cock with his other hand. The older man seems to be licking his lips and stroking the young man's cock as a long stream of cum is shooting from his cock, frozen in midair over his belly. The look on the young man's face seems to be that of ecstasy. Another picture shows an older man with a young man's cock on his tongue as if it is going in his mouth. Then the picture next to that shows the older man holding the cock with one hand as the head of the young man's cock slips into his lips pursed as if he is kissing it except part of the head is in his mouth. The next picture shows the older man with most of the young man's cock in his mouth with his cheeks caved in and his nose in the young man's pubic hair. Then a picture shows the young man has pulled his cock out of the older man's mouth and is shooting a stream of cum into the older man's mouth. The next picture shows the older man's nose back into the young man's pubic hair as if the older man is swallowing the younger man's cum. The last of that set show them in a 69 position on the bed with the young man on top. The young man has his eyes closed and most of the head of the older man's cock in his lips. As you look between them you can see the older man has the young man's cock in his mouth down almost to the young man's pubic hair." As I finished describing the pictures I realized that my young cock was rock hard and straining in my shorts leg to stand up straight next to my belly. It was really beginning to hurt. I also noticed the lap of Father Ted and that he had a tent in his robe. "I'm sorry Father," I said, "but talking about the pictures and thinking of the scenes have made my cock rock hard like it gets in school. It is trapped in the leg of my shorts and is beginning to hurt real bad."

"Well, my son, we can't have you being in pain while we discuss your problem," Father Ted suggested. "Why don't you just slip those shorts down while we continue on what to do about your problem?"

"Uh, Father, I don't have on any underwear." I stammered.

"Oh, not to worry Jeff, just remember what I told you about thinking of me as a doctor. You wouldn't worry about showing a doctor yourself so he could help you would you?" Father Ted said.

"Well, I guess not." I said. Then I slipped my thumbs into both sides of my shorts and slipped them down one side then the other as I rocked my butt cheeks back and forth in the straight chair. As my shorts waist cleared the head of my rock hard cock it sprang back and slapped my belly. I pushed my shorts to my knees and then they fell to my ankles. 

"Oh my," exclaimed Father Ted, "Oh my, what an excellent specimen of manhood you have." 

I looked immediately at Father Ted's lap as the tent in his lap jerked and there seemed to be a wet spot beginning to form at the top of the tent. 

"Oh my," Father Ted said again. "Why don't you stand up for me Jeff, I need a close look at your specimen. Go ahead son stand up for Father Ted."

As I stood up Father Ted leaned forward and my rock hard cock rubbed the side of Father Ted's face. That was the first time my cock had touched anything other than my hand. Father Ted then reached out and touched the head of my cock. 

"Oh my," Father Teds said again in a sort of raspy voice. "You have an extremely hard cock son. It's as hard and as good looking a specimen of manhood as I have seen in all my life." Father Ted just kept rolling the head of my cock with his thumb and forefinger. I looked down just as precum was oozing out the end of my cock. As it run down the head Father Ted swiped it up with his thumb and then stuck his thumb in his mouth. He returned his hand to my cock and started to slowly stroke it. Up and down, up and down. I felt like my legs were going to buckle, but it felt so good that I had to stand still and let Father Ted continue, just hoping that he wouldn't stop.

"Oh, the sweet nectar," said Father Ted. "Is this what the older man was doing to the younger man's cock in the picture son," Father Ted ask?

"Yes, yes it was like that sir except the older man was stroking his own cock with his other hand." I answered.

"Oh, yes, yes," Father Ted said. And without taking his right hand from my cock or missing a stroke he began to work his black robe up with his left hand. He was rocking back and forth on his butt cheeks like I did when I pulled my shorts down. There were his black socks, then his garters holding his socks, his knees, his hairy thighs and then his cock. His cock was hard with a purple head and precum making the head look shiny. Father Ted took his cock in his left and started stroking both cocks in unison. It felt so good that I closed my eyes and tilted my head back and that is when I felt Father Ted's lips engulfing the head of my cock. His warm soft lips were running around and around on the head of my cock. I looked down just as father Ted let the head of my cock slip into his mouth. He left it there for a moment or two and let his tongue swirl around the underside of my cock head. Then drawing suction on my cock his lips slipped over half way down allowing the rim around my cock head to rub the inside of his cheeks. Then he pulled back up and let the head come all the way out of his mouth. He held his lips tight together as my cock pushed his lips apart as he sucked my cock back into his mouth and sucked over halfway down my cock. His saliva mixed with my precum was making my cock slick as he sat up a rhythm. I reached out and put my hand on Father Ted's head as he bobbed up and then back down on my cock. My hips started to gyrate and push my cock in and out of Father Ted's mouth to the point that he was holding his head still and was just letting me push my cock into his mouth and then pull it back out again and again. My whole body was trembling, my legs were getting weak, but I couldn't stop. I had never felt such euphoria. I had such a complete addiction to this feeling that I hoped it never ended. Then my cock felt as if it had stretched to capacity and was going to burst. It tingled in my balls and up my cock to the head as it swelled.

"I'm, I'm, I'm going to cum," I stammered.

Then there was a pop as Father Ted pulled back off my cock. "Cum Jeffery, cum for me, let your seed spew forth from your manhood." Father Ted said and went right back to bobbing up and down on my cock. 

My vision was blurred, my head was light, and my knees were buckling along with the most wonderful feeling in my cock. It was numb, but yet tingled. It throbbed and stretched till I could feel my heart beating in the head of my cock. I couldn't breathe. Then it started. "Oh,- oh, - oh God I'm cuming," I said. "IIIIIIIII'mmmmmm cccccuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmiiiiinnnnnggggg! I mumbled incoherently. Just as my cock pumped and then pumped again, pumping the longest rope of cum from my cock I had ever felt right into Father Ted's mouth. Then it pumped another rope of cum and then another. I can remember how many times I came, but my legs finally gave away and I fell back into the straight chair with Father Ted staying on my cock all the way into my lap. I was gasping for breath. There was another pop as Father Ted pulled back letting my cock head pop from his suction. As he sat back I looked down at my cock which was still rock hard with cum oozing out of the head a trailing down the shaft. 

Father Ted leaned over and licked the cum from the head and the shaft of my cock and then leaned back and said "Was that experience anything like the pictures Jeff?" 

"Yes, just like the pictures," I said.

With that Father Ted stood up putting his cock at my eyelevel. "Do you want to touch it like the young man in the pictures touched the older man's cock? If you do Jeff go ahead, but I wouldn't want you to do anything that you didn't want to do," said Father Ted.

I didn't say anything, but as I was regaining my breath I looked at Father Ted's cock standing hard and tall. I slowly reached out my right hand and let my fingers wrap around his cock and my thumb rub the underside of the purple head. The skin was soft, but I could feel the rigidness of his cock under the skin. I could feel the heat as it radiated from his cock, as the precum leaked from the head down onto my thumb. I looked up at Father Ted and he smiled down at me in a gentle sort of way. I withdrew my hand from his cock and brought my thumb to my lips. I smeared the precum on my lips and then licked my lips. Not bad as I expected I thought. In fact it tasted pretty good. Father Ted ran his fingers through my hair as I went back to jacking his cock. Then as he continued to stroke my hair he pulled my face closer and closer to his cock. Finally it was touching my lips. I started rubbing the cock head back and forth across my lips till the precum was running down on my chin. I don't know if I made the move or if Father Ted rocked his hips forward a little, but the next thing I know Father Ted's cock head was halfway between my lips. I rolled it around and around my lips and as I rubbed the head with my lips Father Ted pushed the head and some of the shaft into my mouth.

"Just remember how I did my mouth on your cock and how my lips felt on your manhood son and you will do fine" Father Ted breathed. "Easy now son, tighten up your lips a little, and let me do the work." And with that Father Ted began rocking back and forth, holding my head between both of his hands. He was pushing and pulling more than half his cock in and out of my mouth. He would pull back until half the head came out and then push over half his shaft back in. His cock went all the way back to my throat, till his pubic hair tickled my nose, but it didn't gag me. I tried to hold good suction on his shaft so he could feel the inside of my cheeks rub his cock. I had my hand back now stroking my cock with the same rhythm that Father Ted was moving back and forth in my mouth. His precum and my saliva made his cock super slick and my precum was pouring out of my cock and down my shaft as I continued jacking my cock. As Father Ted sped his rhythm in my mouth up I increase my rhythm on jacking my rock hard cock. 

Then Father Ted moaned out, "I'm going to cum, I'm going to cum, get ready son I'm going to cum." Immediately I felt Father Ted's cock swell and throb. Next throb I felt a warm liquid shoot from his cock into my mouth. Not a rope as I has shot, just a shot. He shot about two more times and I swallowed quickly every time he pumped his cum into my mouth. It tasted a little bitter and not as good as the flavor of the precum. Then my cock exploded shooting a rope of cum all the way up to my chin, then another, another, and yet another. Father Ted's cock head popped as he pulled it from my mouth and sat down in the chair. 

I sat there my head reeling from what had just happened as Father Ted got up, dropped his robe, and walked over to a closet pulling out two towels and pitching me one. "Here, clean yourself up son," he said "How did it feel to do like the pictures in your head? Did that answer your question? Are you gay son?"

"I don't know Father, I guess I did a gay thing, but I don't know if I'm one hundred percent gay. Like you said I guess I need to experiment a little more. But I think this is going to be hard to top."

"You come back any time son you want to go over the pictures and we will see if we can work out your problems." Father Ted said as I walked out the door.

I have never been with a girl and I realize I did a very gay thing, but still I wonder if I'm gay?



The Confessional



Guilt is a strange emotion, a strange event. It can make people do the most vulnerable things. It can make people bare their souls. It can make people show their shadow self. Somehow he must be feeling guilt, but I'm not sure why. I don't know if I'll ever know why, but he is. He comes to me to confess, to tell his secrets, to bare his soul. I am there to cleanse, to forgive, to sanctify, to absolve. 

He comes to my confessional, not unlike the ones in an old fashioned church. The contraption is dark, and stuffy, and confining. He waits his turn, to make sure it is his turn. Is it his turn? Should he turn and leave, run before he bares his secrets? 

I wait patiently. There is no need to rush. He will come to me or not. I can't make him. But he will be glad he did. He will feel new, and clean, and fresh. So I wait. I don't count. I don't fret. I don't lament. I just wait. 

And then he approaches. He moves the curtain to one side, assured no one else is there. There is a kneeler, a hard wooden slat, no cushion, no seat, no comfort. He kneels. I slide the door open, a slat between the two cubbies. I wait. It is silent. I can hear my own heart beating. Then I can hear his. 

He speaks. "Bless me Mistress for I have sinned. My last confession was in high school." I don't shame him. I wait. He starts to explain, "I didn't feel like I needed to come. I've tried to live a good life." I respond firmly, but caringly, "of course you have. But what troubles you my pet?" There is silence again for a long time. He speaks again, "I have sinned." "Yes, I know, but what is the nature of your sin?" He is frightened to speak. He waits, holding his breath, then says, "sexual." I wait. Will he tell me or will I need to prod, to pursue, to pry. He stutters, stammers. I ask, "My pet, will you not tell me? How can I absolve you if you don't tell me your sins?" 

Silence. I say, "What is your name?" He responds, "Justin John Joseph." I ask, "Who are you named for?" He responds, "I don't know." And so now I see that I must take control, force him to share so he can seek strength in his names. I prod him, "you must be named for someone?" "Oh yes," he replies, "for my father." "Your father?" I say. "Well not exactly," you say. And then I begin to scold. "So you present for absolution and yet you lie? You ask for understanding and forgiveness yet you don't deserve it?" Immediately I devise a punishment. "You must be punished for entering such a place and acting so arrogantly. Remove your pants immediately. This is a holy place. This is a place of truth. No lies. No deception." 

He removes his pants. I can see a little as my eyes adjust, see the outline of his lower body, his strong legs, his hard cock. I say, "Do you have an erection right now?" "No," he responds. I say, "I can see it. You are lying again. You must be punished. Stand up. Strike yourself three times on your erection." He waits. I wait. Will he do it? If not, there is no freedom, there is no absolution. Then stands, and strikes himself across his hard cock once, twice, three times. He cries out each time, a little bit of a whimper. I can see him reach back and then slap forward. I can see his hand land on his hard cock. It is a beautiful cock, big, and full, and ripe. It looks delicious even in this dim light, good enough to eat, or at least suck. There are red marks across that lovely cock, and droplets of cum hanging from the tip. 

I say, "Kneel down again. Let's start over. Now tell me some things about you before we proceed with your sins. It is important to understand you to understand the nature of your sins. Perhaps they are not sins at all. Perhaps they are. I can't know this until I know you." 

He kneels. I can no longer see his gorgeous cock, but I know it is there. And I know it is hard. And waiting, and wanting attention. I say, "In order to know yourself, you must know your lineage. Who you are named for? Tell me your name again." He says, "Justin John Joseph." Very good," I say. "Now tell me why you are named Justin." He says, "My mother liked the name." I say, "very good. You have told a truth. Now stroke yourself once as a reward." He reaches down and strokes himself firmly. Then I ask, "And why are you named John?" "For my father," he answers. I say, "Yes, but for the cousin of Jesus as well. He brought forth a message that others were not ready to hear. You will be doing the same. Take courage from St. John the Baptist in your time here." 

We pause. There is silence again, and yet I sense movement. "Are you hard?" I ask. He hangs his head, averting his eyes, and says, "No." But I know he is. I say, "You continue to lie about this. Why? You must punish yourself again. There is a switch lying next to the kneeler. Take it and strike your hard cock five times, and count them out." He stands and raises the switch, and counts out, "One. Two. Three." Pause. "Four." An even longer pause. "Five." I say, "this can go on all day. You will never reach forgiveness, absolution, unless you cooperate." I can see the red stripes on his hard cock. I can see where the switch landed. I want so much to reach out, stroke that cock, soothe it, but I don't. 

"Now, why are you named Joseph?" I ask. He hesitates, then says, "I can't remember. I thought at first that I was named Edward, or Terrance." I say, "This is very serious. You can't recall the name you gave yourself? The Christian name that was chosen to bring you strength? Joseph was the step father of Jesus. He was the protector of Jesus. How can you not recall such important information?" The punishment may be even more severe. I say, "Stand up and turn your ass toward me. Strike your ass five times, counting out each lash." 

He stands, and turns his ass toward me. It is a lovely ass, firm and well formed. I want so badly to reach out and touch it, stroke it, but I don't. There will be time for that later. He takes the switch and lashes himself across those beautiful round ass cheeks, "One. Two." A pause. "Three, four, five." He takes the last strikes quickly. I say, "Now turn again, kneel down, and tell me your sins." I know he wants comfort, salve on those marks, but that would undo all the learning.

There is silence. He is gathering his thoughts, deciding whether to tell, to make himself vulnerable, or to run. I ask, "Are you hard? Do you have an erection?" He answers in a whisper, "yes." I say, "Good pet for telling the truth. Stand up so I can watch. Now you may stroke yourself six times in whatever fashion you choose. See how telling the truth is helpful and good?" He spits into his hand, takes his cock firmly, and begins to stroke. I remind him to count out as he has with the lashes. I want so badly to reach through the open door, to stroke him myself, to feel his hardness and the heat of the switch marks. But I don't. I know there will be time for that later. "Kneel down," I tell him. 

He kneels, and is quiet, waiting for my instruction. I say, "You have come here to confess, to rid yourself of your sins, the weights on your mind. I want to help you. You must help yourself. Every time you do what is right, you will be rewarded. Every time you don't, you will be punished. Do you understand?" But I know that either way he will be rewarded, either by the switch or the hand. "Yes," he answers. 

"Tell me your sins." And so he begins. Many are trivial. A slap across his hard cock is ordered in a certain number combination. Then he begins to tell more devious things. The switch is employed. Still he waits, telling his secrets, punishing himself, needing to whip his tender flesh in front of me. Oh, how I want to comfort him, to stroke that red and sore cock, to suckle it well, to anoint it. But there will be time for that later. There is always time for more, as long as one makes the time. If he is in a hurry, he will miss out on the rewards and receive only punishment. But if he confesses to all, opens himself up, then he will be rewarded with ejaculation and release. I hope he chooses the latter. I believe in him. I think he can break through.

Now I explore his names and their meanings. I say, "you have told me many sins: some trivial, some serious. Let's start with your names. Have you acted as you are named? We will start with the name of Joseph. Joseph was the protector of Jesus. He was a home keeper. Tell me your sins in this realm." He pauses, head hung, eyes averted. He says, "I have been a bad father. I have not made a home for my children." I let him talk. He explains what he has done, and what he hasn't. He explains his regrets, his pride, his accomplishments. When he is finished I ask, "Tell me truthfully, have you been a bad father?" He answers truthfully, "No I haven't." And the relief comes from just telling the truth. There is no punishment, and there is no reward. The telling is both. He cries softly and it sounds like it brings comfort.

I say, "Next, you are named John for your father, but also for The Baptist, the cousin of Jesus, who brought the 'good news.' Tell me how you have been as a son." And he tells me. And in the telling comes the freedom again. There are good and bad things, times of closeness and distance. But again there is no need to reward or punishment. The story does both. The telling does both. And relief comes. He cries again, but this time more deeply, more profoundly, sobbing some. 

We wait now in silence. I will follow his lead. I will know when he is ready to go on. Time unspools, unwinds, collapses. He will tell everything. Now I ask for the story of "Justin," of what he has done right and done wrong. And here come the confessions, the stories of lust and passion. He tells of his sins that are of thought, word, and deed. He tells of many acts, some he is almost ashamed of. He tells of fucking so many women he can't recall them all, or can't remember their names; of the guilt he feels for making them love him and desire him; of the things he has made them do. He has humiliated them. He has degraded them. He has used them. And now he knows that the only thing that will absolve him is to be humiliated himself, degraded, and used. 

And so I ask him to tell me everything in detail. This time it isn't for the telling, but for my listening. I want to hear him tell of his conquests, his machismo, his manipulation; because that is how I will know what the penance needs to be. He tells me of fucking women who are married, girls who can't say "no," females who think they might own his heart. He tells me of fucking women he doesn't know; of fucking friends he has known for years; of sharing women with his friends, passing them around, using them; of having no regrets, no remorse, no compunction. He will need to be punished severely to pay for these sins. He will need to take the lash. He will need to be used. He will need to be humiliated. He will be degraded. And he wants this. 

He wants to even the score, pay his karmic debt, start over. He explains how he wants to clean the slate, how he ran away from everything he knows so he can do just that. He tells me of passions he has that he know he shouldn't, of women he wants but knows he should leave alone, of things he wants to do to unsuspecting females. He tries to justify things. He says they wanted it, that they were willing participants. He tries to explain it away. He tries to convince me that no one was ever hurt. He tries to tell me he actually did some good. But in the end, as he tells his stories, they all come back to the same place. He has been bad, manipulative, divisive. He has pushed women to the edge, to tears, to loneliness. There is going to be a lot of contrition needed. 

We are quiet for a while. He has told his "side." I ask him to convey a recent story, something he had wanted to do but knew it was wrong. I ask for a sin of thought. He tells me of a beautiful Muslim woman he saw on the street and how he wanted her. He knew it was wrong. She was barely 18. She was certainly a virgin. Her head was covered, yet her face was not. She was living on the edge, taking a chance not being covered up being so young and bewitching. She looked angelic the way the sun lit her up even as her hijab frames her face. She was walking alone. Dusk was approaching. This added to the radiance reflected on her bare face. She wore no niqab. 

He takes a risk. He becomes bold. He approaches her. She has no male escort. He offers to escort her. He is charming, manipulative, believable. She does not want to be seen on the street unattended, and is afraid to ask a Muslim man for assistance. This American seems so concerned and helpful. His mind is reeling. He wants this flower. He talks soothingly and charmingly while trying to formulate a plan to take her to his place, to get her into an alley where he can have his way with her. 

I see his eyes flashing while he tells this story. I see his pride and greed. This is the sin. Not the wanting, but the greed. Not the desire, but the pride. Just as he turns her into an alley near his home where he can get her alone, get her indoors, use her, take her flower, her cousin arrives. He is young as well. He is concerned. He does not shame her. He offers to see her home. He thanks the foreign stranger for saving his cousin from shame, but insists he must see her home from here. He does not recognize the wolf in sheep's clothing. 

And so I ask him to describe in detail what he had intended for her. He tries to downplay it, diminish the significance, but I remind him that he won't be free until he tells on himself about what he thought and is punished. He tells me how he felt full of himself with being able to catch her eye, how he wanted her the way a starving man dreams of a meal, the way an alcoholic craves a drink. He tells me how much he wanted to taste that forbidden fruit, to be the first this girl had ever had. 

He describes his plan to get her into the alley. There he would kiss her lightly, then apologize. He'd tell her it is because she is so bewitching, so beautiful that he can't help himself. He'd tell her how he never thought about doing such a thing before, about how it is because she is making him. She would be confused and flattered. She would enjoy the attention from this handsome stranger who looks so different from her own people, like an American movie star in the way he is dressed and how he presents himself. Then he'd kiss her again, but more deeply. He'd pull her close and feel her pressed against him. He'd instantly be erect and pushing this erection against her. He'd tell her it is her fault that he is aroused, how it is her making this all happen. He'd start jamming his tongue into her opening mouth, making her feel things she has never dreamed of. He'd start to run his hands over her modestly attired body, feeling her breasts, her ass, sliding his hand up between her legs. He'd tell her how he can't help himself, she is bewitching him. When his hand brushed against her womanhood she would gasp, unsure of what was happening or what to do. 

He'd take her by the hand and pull her into the vestibule of his building. There he would really start to explore her body, hands roaming all over, kneading her breasts and ass, pushing his hard cock against her hot little flower. He'd take her up to his apartment, opening the door and yanking her inside. He'd slam the door closed, locking it, and turning greedily to her. Now there is no return. She is there. She is already compromised. She will need to succumb. He pushes her to her knees and opens his pants. His cock is swollen against him underwear, and there is a damp spot on them. He tells her this never happens, that she is causing all this, that he never feels this much desire. He cups that lovely face, strokes it sweetly, then pulls her forward to his throbbing dick. He starts to push the tip against her lips. 

She doesn't understand. He tells her she must suck him to relieve him; that she owes it to him for making this happen. She looks up terrified and this turns him on even more. Cum starts to slip out of the slit. He grabs her jaw and pinches a little and those sweet lips part. He shoves his swollen hard prick into her tiny mouth. He starts to thrust. She starts to gag. He begins rocking back and forth, shoving in and out. She looks up unsure, confused, but willing. Her mouth drops open, and while she doesn't suck, doesn't even understand she is supposed to, he keeps thrusting in, jamming his meat into her waiting throat. He starts commanding her to suck, suck like a popsicle, like a lollipop. She obeys. And once she begins to suck it is all over. He starts swelling. He is readying to explode. But he wants to slow this all down, to enjoy it even longer. 

Her hands are fluttering around her face, around his ramming penis, unsure of where to put them or to push him away with them. And then he shoots his wad into her unsuspecting throat. He starts to scream, to growl, to cuss. Cum is gushing forth. It is spewing from the root of him. It is hot and sticky and plentiful. He keeps jamming in and out and the cum is dripping down her chin, spilling onto her hijab. He keeps thrusting and grinding until there is nothing more to come. Then he tells her to clean herself up with her hijab. 

Now he becomes poisonous, distant. He turns away, jams his spent cock into his pants, and zips up. She is still kneeling before him in a posture of worship. He pulls her up by the elbow and tells her she needs to be going. He sees her out to the street, flags down a bicycle powered cart, and hands the driver a large bill. He places her roughly into the seat, getting one last squeeze of her ass, then turns back to his apartment. 

The silence is deafening. The tale is told. All that awaits is the punishment. How to make the punishment fit the crime? How to atone for a sin of thought that never really happened? I tell him we will act out this scene ourselves, only I will play his part, and he will play that of the girl. He is still kneeling, eyes averted. I tell him to look at me. I gaze into his eyes. I tell him how beautiful he is, how he is making me think things I have never thought before. I tell him I want to help him. I tell him he is safe with me. I tell him I will protect him. 

I begin to stroke his face. I tell him that I only want him to feel good, only want him to know pleasure even though it is his fault I am even having these thoughts. I tell him to open his mouth. I stick my fingers in. I tell him to suck. I tell him it is his fault this is happening, that I need to do this. I tell him to lean up through the open window and to stroke my breasts. I take my wet fingers and slide them along my slit. I tell him he is making me do this, that I never thought of doing such things before. I start to stroke faster, to part my lips, to plunge those fingers into my cunt. I start to grind on them, juices oozing out. He is still sucking my nipples. 

I'm still talking, manipulating, cajoling. I tell him how I can always control my needs and desires except with him, how he is making me do these things and as a result will need to succumb to my needs. I start to cum grinding my hand into my twat, nipples hard and bursting. Then when I am finished I tell him to stand, to turn around, and to bend over. I am going to take his hole the way he took that girl's. I take my soaking wet fingers and start to play with his asshole. I tell him it is because he is so beautiful that I need to do this, how his eyes told me to, how I had never thought of such a thing before. I circle the rosebud, tickling and tantalizing. Then I start to push ever so slightly, then harder, and finally forcefully. I start to jam my fingers deep into his ass. I'm stroking in and out telling him over and over how this is all his doing, how I never do things like this, how he deserves what he is getting. I start to tickle his prostate, pushing against the hardness of it. And when I feel it hardening even more, I pull my fingers out, not allowing him to cum. 




The Confessional



I tell him to take the switch and lash himself on his ass, slapping his cheeks and across his asshole. I tell him to say all the prideful things he has ever thought about himself as he does it. I tell him to say them out loud, no matter how ridiculous or embarrassing. He obediently begins to lash at his globes. He wants the release of absolution. He starts saying crazy things while he is lashing himself; "I'm hot. I'm so fucking sexy. I'm irresistible. I can make any woman do anything I want. I can make someone who doesn't even want me beg me to fuck her. I can seduce a virgin, own an experienced woman, bring females to tears." All the while he is lashing his ass with the switch. I don't need to say a word, not at this time. He knows his own heart, his own pride, his own sin. 

He continues to slash back at himself, and when he appears to be tiring I tell him to switch hands, keep lashing, and keep talking. He goes on for a few more minutes, then his breath starts to catch in his throat and I know he is about to cum. I tell him to keep lashing and to begin stroking his cock, but to catch every drop of cum as it spills out. He is stroking frantically at both his ass and cock. He is still turned away from me and I can see his reddening cheeks but not his throbbing cock. And soon, so very soon, the cum starts to pour out into his hand like water from the rock, like water in the desert. He obediently catches it all. I tell him to bring his hand to mouth and to suck the jism off his fingers, and out of his palm. He resists. He turns to me and looks at me with defiance. I tell him he has to if he wants to reach the other side. And so he does. 

He licks his fingers at first, and then his palm, and then he starts to suck the fingers dry. When he is cleaned up, fingers clean, then I suck those same fingers and jam them into my waiting pussy, riding them the way he rode his own hand, cumming into his palm. When I am done I tell him he can lick his fingers and suck the juices off of them. He thanks me, saying, "Mistress, I am blessed to taste your juices. I am not worthy to taste your cum." And there is more to come as we explore his sins of word and deed, as well as his sins of omission.     



The Confessional



My handbag fell unceremoniously to the ground. Just a moment later the door slammed shut with a resounding crash, whose dampened echo I could still hear reverberating down the cold, grey corridor for several seconds. Satisfying as it was, my selfish display of anger did little but alarm the cat and inform my husband that dinner wouldn't be fancy tonight. I thanked no one in particular that it was Friday and proceeded into the living room. 

Instead of the usual mumblings of some technical TV show, I was greeted by silence. "Jacob?" I called, but my husband didn't respond. Our tabby Maine Coon wafted over to me and lazily rubbed up against my leg before flopping down on the carpet. Back in the hall, I realized Jacob's coat was missing on the rack.

"Oh, please, please bring home something to eat", I muttered. "Curry, fried chicken, hell, even sandwiches will do." My stomach gave an irritated grumble. In the kitchen, all that was available were two bright orange mandarins. I didn't even like mandarins all that much, because they never ceased to remind me of Christmas. I grabbed both of them without hesitation. Behind my eyes, pressure began to build up. I turned off the lights and dragged myself to the bathroom.

I was dozing in the bathtub, surrounded by the faint fragrance of discarded mandarin peels, when I heard the front door open and close softly. Moments later, Jacob's head appeared from behind the bathroom door. "Hello, Sweety," he greeted me.

"Mrm," was my reply. "Hey."

"I got your text. How are you feeling?"

"Like I want to fuck the world up. But at least I was able to persuade my headache to go away." Jacob looked relieved. I was touched: he was always so concerned for my well-being. And his own, I suspect, because I'm horrible company when I have one of my headaches. "I don't suppose you've picked up something to eat?"

A conspiratory smile told me he had. "Finish up in here and you'll get something. I'll bring you something to wear."

"You are a god!" I called after him and sunk beneath my vanilla-scented bubbles.

An hour later, my irritated frown had been inverted to a satisfied smile. Jacob chewed happily on the last remaining sake nigari. The calm and satisfaction evident on his face seeped into me, and soon I had almost forgotten all about the many little things that had ruined my mood at the office. For quite some time, we said nothing, sipping our wine and listening to music. As I began to feel light-headed, the conditioning started to kick in. Candlelight sushi, the musical backdrop taken care of by one of my favourite bands, my blue fuzzy bathrobe on freshly scrubbed skin... then I realized Jacob had been looking at me, smiling, for a while now. "Hm?" I inquired lazily.

"You have the look," he said. He meant the facial expression I always got when I had decided that I wanted to hit the sheets with anything but sleep in mind.

"Maybe I do," I replied and took another sip of wine.

"Maybe we should clean up and go to bed."

"Maybe that's a good idea," I agreed, smiling wider. 

"After all, you've had a rough day."

"Don't even remind me." I stretched and started putting away the dishes.

About a quarter of an hour later, I was kneeling on the sheepskin rug in front of the bed. My eyes were closed and my hands were clasped around my forearms at my back. It was a ritual we'd adapted months ago. Every evening, I stayed in this position for at least five minutes, emptying my mind as much as possible, until my Master told me I could get up and go to bed. Either that, or...

"Princess?" A simple word that meant so much more than many might suspect. Whenever it escaped Jacob's lips, I felt energized, called upon. It was my name, my function and status, and now it was an inquiry.

I had two options. If I answered 'Beloved', I would slip between the sheets with Jacob. He would hold me in his arms until sleep enveloped us both in comforting darkness. It was an option I rarely made use of, but now I hesitated. I had barely escaped a migraine, I was exhausted, and I really rather fancied the idea of complaining myself to sleep in the comforting embrace of my husband. 

He was standing somewhere behind me, I could sense him nearby. I could feel expectation emanating from him. Scenes from last Sunday night flooded my mind, accompanied by a smile. "Yes, Sir," I said.

"Stand before me."

When I complied, he slid the bathrobe from my shoulders. Cold air met my skin. I tried my hardest not to shiver. As he had instructed me to, I kept my arms behind my back and my eyes lowered.

"When was your last confession?" he asked.

"It's been a while." Over a month, surely. It used to be a weekly ritual before life got in the way.

"High time then." My Master took a small golden key from a drawer and unlocked the cabinet next to the dresser. From there, he retrieved an elegantly fashioned leather collar. Along the edges, it was engraved with a pattern resembling celtic knotwork, and at the front it was adorned with a single silver ring. Motionless, I waited for him to fix it around my neck. As soon as it was fastened, I felt part of my brain switch off, and another awaken. None of the everyday madness had any power over me anymore. Only he did. A silver chain connected my collar with my Master's hand. A quick tug was my signal to begin.

I dropped to my knees and bowed my head. I took a deep breath before I began. "Confiteor, Domine, mea culpa." Recollections drifted through my mind. Of course there'd been transgressions – two of which I really had hoped might stay unnoticed. But now there was no going back. "During the last three weeks, I've ignored my diet at work. I've been eating cake and drinking coffee with whipped cream." Saying that, I became uncomfortably aware of the extra pounds I'd been meaning to shed. Those extra thirty pounds that doctors had told me I'd be better off without for years now. The mound of my belly mocked me with every breath.

"Then you'll burn them off", my Master said with a wave of his hand. "Starting tomorrow morning, 15 minutes of yoga after waking up. Naked. So I can see you."

"Yes, Sir." I hated getting up for gymnastics, and I cursed every drop of cream for this.

"What else?"

I suppressed a sigh. There was no point in stalling, no point in avoiding the inevitable. "I touched myself without permission."

My eyes were fixed on the carpet, but I heard the smirk in my Master's voice. "How many times?"

Like a scolded child, I muttered, "Five."

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my face toward his. "Five times? Either you're insatiable or I don't fuck you enough."

I squirmed. Already I felt myself getting wetter.

"Which is it, Princess? Don't I hit your greedy little slit often enough?"

"I'm sorry, Sir, I –"

"I asked you a question."

But how do you answer a question like that? "I ..." Hot pain in my nipple forced the words out. "Ow, my thirsty pussy wants to be fu– ah! You don't fuck me enough, Sir!" The pain stopped, leaving a red light behind, which rapidly expanded through my bloodstream. Absentmindedly, I noticed I could smell my scent in the air.

"You've always been insatiable. That's why I keep you around. You're like a dog, Princess. Always begging to please, always wanting to get nailed." He walked behind me, holding the silver chain like a leash. "Go on then, be my dog."

Slowly, the heat in my face rising, I leaned forward and raised my backside. I felt my Master's coarse fingers trail over my slit. "Who's a hungry little bitch? Who wants to be decked by a big, horny wolfhound, hm?"

As my cheeks continued to burn, I felt his breath in cold waves on my pussy. He trailed his tongue over clit and opening with evident pleasure, forcing me to gasp. Two sharp slaps to my backside set a contrast to the tenderness. "Sit."

When he returned to stand in front of me, I saw his erection bulging in his trousers. How I wanted to feel his hot cock between my lips! As if he'd heard my thought, he pulled his cock out and held it in proudly front of my face. A thick drop of moisture glistened at the tip like a dew drop on a leaf.

"Please may I suck your cock, Sir?"

"Are you done with your confession?"

"No, Sir."

With a disappointed sigh, he returned his cock to its confinement. "Continue, then."

I hesitated. This was the moment I'd been dreading. "I... had a dream. About him."

"Him?"

"Christopher, Sir." Christopher was a mutual friend of ours. We'd been at a few concerts and together, and met him and his wife for drinks at irregular intervals. Years ago I'd already admitted to Jacob that I found him attractive. It wasn't damaging to our relationship in the least. But my Master was a jealous one.

Many heavy seconds passed before my Master knelt in front of me and put his thumb under my chin. We made eye contact that was so rare in these encounters. I felt like I was put up against a wall. "Why didn't you mention this before?"

"It was a dream, I'd completely forgotten –" 

"You were supposed to write these dreams down in your journal. I saw no mention of this in it."

"Sir, please, I'm sorry –"

"Oh, you will be." My Master stood up. I could feel every heartbeat in my clit, my breath unsteadily.

"Tell me your dream."

I must have turned three shades paler. My Master jerked the chain and growled, "If you don't start talking right now, I'm going to beat every word out of you. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sir." My mouth and throat felt dry. All of the moisture in my body seemed to have relocated south. "I was alone at home, here, and Christopher stopped by. He started to kiss me, then we were naked, and we... we had sex."

My Master turned away from me, only to return a moment later with a bamboo cane. My pussy twitched at the sight of it in the hands of my husband, bare chested, visibly burning with desire. "You had better give me the details," he said.

"He came into the house... without a word, he started taking off my clothes." I shook my head in spite of myself, unable to shake the embarrassment. "He played with my tits, he put his hand in my panties..."

"You liked it, didn't you."

"I did." I took another deep breath. "Then he –"

"Use his name."

"Oh god," I muttered. "Christopher... opened my legs and pushed his penis inside of me."

"How did it feel?"

I thought I'd die of shame! "It felt good. He was huge and filled me to the brim."

"You're getting wet right now, aren't you?"

"Yes, Sir." 

My Master clicked his tongue and shook his head. "You're getting wet in front of me, thinking about someone else fucking you."

Genuine remorse coursed through me. Tears swelled my eyes. "Sir, I'm sorry, I –"

A stinging slap silenced me, and the tears rolled down my cheeks freely.

"Not another word out of you until I say so, bitch. Lean over the bed."

I knew what was next. Part of me rejoiced, the other part recoiled. Before I had much more opportunity to anticipate what would come next, the cane came down hard on my skin. I cried aloud. My backside was subjected to the hardest beating it had had in months. I wept, I screamed, I begged for mercy. "Not a word!" My Master reminded me before stuffing a sock into my mouth. My skin was burning, my pussy throbbing, and when my Master finally stopped, he touched my soaking lips with his fingers.

"You're dripping," he said in a way that made it sound distasteful. "Look." He drove two fingers inside. Hot liquid rolled down my thigh. With a steady, slow rhythm he fingered me. My muscles twitched and my voice sang for him. Every now and then, a sharp slap to my bruised backside made me yelp.

"I'm your Master," he said.

"You are my Master," I repeated between moans.

"Will you behave?"

"Yes, Sir, I will."

He brought his fingers to my mouth and let me suck my juices off. "Good girl," he whispered. A tingling wave of pleasure washed over me.

"Will you do everything I tell you to?"

"Yes, Sir, anything."

"Good." He stroked my hair lovingly. "I am going to fuck you now. I want you to come. I want you to come so hard that you won't remember your last name." His hands trailed over my back to my arse. Every bit of me was burning for him to touch me.

"Yes, Sir, please, what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to call Christopher's name."

"What?!" I thought my heart had stopped beating. Shout my "secret" crush's name at my Master – my husband – during sex? There were so many good reasons why that was a bad idea!

With a metallic ring of the chain, he jerked my collar, choking me. "Are you questioning me?"

"No, Sir," was my hoarse, defeated response.

"After all," he said, as he pulled me into position at the edge of the bed. "You said yourself that I don't fuck you enough. Now... sing for me."

At this point my pussy was already so wet that his cock slipped in without even trying. At the beginning, my moans remained wordless. But my Master wouldn't have any of that. "What did I tell you?"

"Mas... Christopher..." My voice was swallowed by the pillows.

"Tell me his name."

"Christopher," I answered, a bit louder. My Master's thrusting stopped. He rolled me onto my back and straddled my shoulders, holding his cock in front of my mouth like a weapon.

"I will get what I want from you, if I have to make you bleed." With that, he pushed his length into my throat. He groaned as I choked. He allowed me to breathe, then choked me again. His taste filled my mouth entirely, invaded my breath. I spread my legs pornographically wide, and in my mind, only a little against my will, Christopher joined us and fucked my hungry slit. I almost came as my Master fucked my mouth. Then he retreated. "Let's try that again. Who do you want to be fucked by?"

My chin and cheeks were sticky from saliva and precum. I licked the drops of my Master's taste from my lips and thought of Christopher – I thought of his ice blue eyes, his long, ash blonde hair, I thought of the muscles he must have from his jujitsu training. "Christopher," I heard myself whisper.

"Now get on your hands and knees like the horny bitch you are." With the leash tight in his grasp, my Master mounted me. "Speak!"

With closed eyes, I saw Christopher's hands trailing over my skin. I saw his brow furrowed in ecstasy. I saw his testes slapping against my clit with every thrust. I called his name. "Christopher!"

"Again!"

"Christopher!" The treacherous name echoed off of the walls a I came.

"You're a damned whore – you're a fucking cumbucket! You're good for nothing but using and discarding!" My Master drew red lines into my skin with his nails. I cried out, lost somewhere in another place. "Let me hear his name, Princess."

"Christopher..." Ecstasy held back by shame... my dirty little secret, exploited by the man who technically should never know of it.

"I'm going to come," I heard my Master's voice.

"Please, Master, fill me with your glorious cum..."

He slapped my arse hard. "Not 'Master', mongrel!" 

He drove his cock into me as hard as he could, slamming his hips into mine as if he wanted to tear me apart. I myself was hardly coherent, as the pressure rose inside once more. My thighs were covered in sticky liquid, my skin was damp with sweat. Another stinging hit on my behind brought me back to my senses, though only temporarily. My Master shoved a finger into my quivering arsehole, and I screamed. "Master," was the only intelligible word my lips would form. My Master's cock was twitching wildly inside of me, filling me, spilling out and over my legs.

When the spasms subsided, he rolled next to me onto the mattress. I let myself fall, enjoying the sensation of his cum leaking out of my pussy. Several minutes passed in hypnotised silence. Then he said, "You defied me in the end." There was no trace of malice in his voice anymore.

"Sorry." My dreamy smile made the word sound insincere.

Without saying another word, he scooped his drying cum from my slit and spread it on my face. I closed my eyes and accepted it like a benediction. When he was done, he stroked my breasts and hips. "You're sleeping like that tonight," he said. "On the rug."

A wide smile came over my face. "Thank you, Sir."