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The surprises continue.

You motioned the sign of the cross, "in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Forgive me Father for I have sinned, it has been three months since my last confession." It was no incidence that it was also three months since Father O'Brien had arrived.

"Tell me your sins, my child," he drawled, his voice thick and deep. It was the kind of voice that belonged in smoke filled bars, with his lips pressed against your ear as he whispers sins like heavenly promises.

You swallow hard, your fingers digging crescent moons into your palms as you start out small, "I told a lie and I have taken the Lord's name in vein, more than once."

"What lie did you tell?"

This isn't the kind of information you would normally share with a man that makes you feel how Father O'Brien makes you feel but this is confession and the truth slides easily from your tongue, "I pretended to be ill so I could stay home from work and spend the day at home watching TV."

You're not sure but you think you hear him stifle a laugh before he asks, "is that all..."

"No." A bead of sweat rolls down your neck, you can almost feel the flames of hell licking against the walls as your chest heaves tight against the buttons of your summer dress and you say, "I have impure thoughts. And... I do impure things."

There's a pause before says, "tell me about these thoughts."

"I'm not sure I can say, Father." You squeeze your thighs together, your mind racing with every improper idea that has ever crossed your mind.

"You must," his commands, the tone in his voice catching your attention before it softens back to that of a holy priest, "your confession is safe with me."

Maybe you will go to hell and maybe you don't care. "I think about... you, Father O'Brien."

An even longer silence stretches out in the dark heat of the confessional, "and what do you think about?"

Does his voice sound different or is it just your imagination? Either way you confess and you find more thrill in it than you had anticipated, "I think about you kissing me, touching me... being inside me."

"More," he breathes, the word barely audible over your pounding heart.

"More, Father?"

"You said you do impure things, tell me about them, confess everything to me if you want to find absolution," his voice is definitely different now, more urgent, the voice of a man who knows exactly what kind of thoughts you might have been having.

You suck in a sharp breath, caressing your hand down the front of your dress, your thumb brushing over your nipple encouraging the flood of warmth to heat between your legs.

"Tell me," he whispers.

You lick your lips, sinking deeper into the chair, your thumb curling around your nipple, "I go to bed, turn out all the lights and I think about you. I think about sliding your robes from your body and the way you must look, I imagine dark hair on your chest and my fingers running through it. You're long and thick and I sink to me knees, tasting you before you guide me onto the bed," your hand creeps between your legs, your nails scratching your inner thigh before pushing up your dress, your palm pressing over your mound, "when I think these things, I touch myself and pretend it's you."

When he lays you on the bed you imagine him peeling off all your clothes, admiring the curves of your body, blessing them, worshiping them and making you feel like a goddess. In your fantasy, you don't worry about any imperfections because they don't exist in his eyes. He devours the fullness of your breasts, finds comfort in the softness of your hips and kisses the lines of your skin.

You can hear his weight shifting in his seat just as you can hear the strangled desire in his words as he pants, "what next?"

Your fingers inch into your panties, gliding between your wet folds and pressing for relief against your clit, you don't hide your moans of pleasure as you tell him, "I imagine you spreading my legs, the head of your cock stroking over

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