Camden Confession
"Catholic school teacher Adaobi breaks every vow she ever made when Father Michael—a thick Nigerian priest with doubts of his own—seeks her counsel after hours."
Father Michael was supposed to be above temptation.
But there was something about Adaobi—the way she moved through the corridors of St. Agatha's, her thick body somehow graceful in her modest teacher's attire—that made him forget his vows.
"Father? You wanted to see me?"
He'd asked her to stay after hours. For what, he couldn't quite articulate.
"Yes. Please, sit."
She sat across from him, those dark eyes curious. Her blouse was buttoned to the neck, but he could still see the swell of her breasts. Her skirt hid her thighs, but he remembered how they looked when she'd worn that summer dress to the parish picnic.
"Is everything alright, Father?"
"I'm having... struggles." The words felt like thorns. "With my faith."
"What kind of struggles?"
He looked at her. Held her gaze. Let her see everything.
"With wanting things I shouldn't want."
She was quiet for a long moment.
Then: "Do you mean me?"
He should have denied it. Should have called it a test, a misunderstanding, a moment of weakness.
"Yes."
She stood. Approached his desk. "How long?"
"Since you started here. Two years."
"That's a long time to suffer alone, Father." Her voice was soft. "I've been suffering too."
The first kiss broke something in both of them.
She climbed over his desk, and he pulled her into his lap, years of suppression exploding into desperate need. His hands found her curves, finally touching what he'd only dreamed about.
"We shouldn't—" he gasped.
"We're already damned." She unbuttoned her blouse. "Might as well make it count."
He took her on his desk, surrounded by religious texts and parish records. It was profane. It was divine. It was everything he'd been denying himself.
"Father—Michael—yes!"
Her thick thighs wrapped around him. Her nails dug into his cassock. She was so wet, so ready, like she'd been waiting as long as he had.
"Ada. My God. Ada."
When he came, he prayed—but not for forgiveness.
They continued meeting. After hours. In his office. In empty classrooms. Once, recklessly, in the confession booth itself.
"Bless me Father," she'd whispered through the screen, "for I am about to sin."
Then she'd come around and shown him exactly what she meant.
He left the priesthood eventually. Couldn't reconcile his faith with his feelings.
Adaobi left St. Agatha's the same day.
They married in a registry office in Camden. No religious ceremony—the irony was too much.
"Do you regret it?" she asked him on their wedding night.
He pulled her thick body close. "The only thing I regret is waiting so long."
Their marriage was blessed in the only way that mattered.
Blessed by desire. Blessed by honesty. Blessed by finally choosing love over duty.