Confession Booth: Part 2
"Word spread about the young priest who truly listens. Now Margaret isn't the only widow in the congregation who needs his special brand of absolution. Tonight, three more are waiting—and they've agreed to share."
Margaret told them.
I should have known she would. Women talk, especially in small towns, especially in church. And when one widow finds satisfaction after years of loneliness, the others want to know her secret.
Her secret is me.
It started with whispers.
I noticed them during Sunday service—the way certain women looked at me. Not with the usual deference you give a priest, but with something hungrier. Something knowing.
Then the confessions changed.
"Father..." This from Dolores, sixty-one, widowed three years. "I've been having impure thoughts."
"What kind of thoughts?"
"About you." Her voice dropped. "Margaret told me what you did for her. How you... helped."
"Mrs. Patterson—"
"I haven't been touched in three years, Father. I'm not asking for forgiveness. I'm asking for what she got."
I should have said no.
I should have transferred parishes, confessed my sins to the bishop, done something to stop this before it spiraled.
But Dolores was crying softly through the lattice screen, and I could hear the loneliness in her voice, and God help me—I wanted to help.
"Tonight," I said. "After evening Mass. The sacristy."
She gasped. "Really?"
"I'll leave the side door unlocked."
Dolores arrived at 9 PM.
She was shaking when she walked in—nervous, excited, terrified. But when I kissed her, she melted.
She was bigger than Margaret. Two-eighty, maybe more. Softer. Her body was a landscape of curves and folds, and I explored every inch of it on the narrow bed I'd moved into the back room.
"It's been so long," she kept saying. "So long..."
"I know." I sank into her. "Let me make up for lost time."
After Dolores, there was Patricia.
Fifty-four, widowed young, never remarried. She'd been watching me since I arrived at the parish. After Dolores told her what happened, she didn't even pretend it was about confession.
"I want what they got," she said, standing in my office with the door locked. "Are you going to help me or not?"
I helped her.
On my desk. Against the bookshelf. On the floor with her legs wrapped around me and her screams echoing off the icons on the walls.
Then there was Beatrice.
And Helen.
And now there are four widows in my congregation who know exactly what I'm capable of.
Tonight, they all want their turn.
The note was in the collection plate.
Sacristy. 10 PM. All of us. —M
I knew what it meant. Four women, one night, one very damned priest.
I should have thrown the note away.
Instead, I unlocked the side door.
They arrived together.
Margaret, Dolores, Patricia, Beatrice. Four widows, ranging from fifty-four to sixty-two. Four massive, beautiful, desperate women who'd been starved for touch for too many years.
They'd discussed this. Planned it. Decided they'd rather share than fight.
"Father Daniel." Margaret stepped forward. She was their leader—she'd started this. "We have a request."
"I can see that."
"We want you. All of us. Together." She gestured to the others. "We're tired of waiting our turn. Tired of sneaking around separately. We want one night where we all get what we need."
"That's—"
"Sinful?" Patricia laughed. "We're already damned, Father. What's one more sin?"
The sacristy was too small.
We moved to the church itself—after locking every door, covering every window. The pews pushed aside, blankets spread on the ancient stone floor, candles lit for illumination.
It felt like sacrilege.
It felt like worship.
I started with Margaret.
On her back in the candlelight, her white hair spread around her head like a halo. I kissed down her body—every inch of her three hundred pounds—while the others watched. When I buried my face between her thighs, she screamed loud enough to echo off the vaulted ceiling.
"Make her come, Father." Dolores was stroking herself, watching. "We want to see."
Margaret came on my tongue. Shook like she was having a seizure, her massive thighs clamping around my head, her cries bouncing off the stone.
"My turn." Patricia pulled me toward her. "I need that mouth."
I ate them one by one.
Dolores, then Patricia, then Beatrice. Each body different—different curves, different tastes, different sounds. But all of them desperate. All of them starving.
And when they'd all come on my tongue, they pushed me down.
"Now," Margaret said, straddling my face, "we share."
Four women. One priest.
Patricia rode my cock while Margaret rode my face. Dolores and Beatrice knelt on either side, kissing their friends, touching themselves, waiting their turn.
We rotated. Every few minutes, a new mouth on my cock, a new cunt on my face. They passed me around like communion wine—each taking a sip, each getting their fill.
"I'm going to come," Patricia gasped from above me. "Oh God—Father—fuck—"
"Say it," Margaret demanded. "Say his name."
"Daniel!" Patricia shattered, clenching around me. "Oh God, Daniel!"
By midnight, I'd been inside all of them.
Come inside all of them. Marked them, blessed them, claimed them.
They lay around me on the blankets—four exhausted, satisfied widows, tangled together in the flickering candlelight.
"This was blasphemous," Beatrice murmured.
"Probably." I stared at the ceiling, at the crucifix hanging far above us. "Does it feel like sin?"
"It feels like love." Margaret curled against my side. "The first love I've felt in years."
"It's not love. It's—"
"It's whatever we want it to be." Dolores found my hand. "And we want it to be this. All of us. Together."
"The bishop would—"
"The bishop isn't here." Patricia kissed my shoulder. "And he never will be. This is our secret. Our arrangement."
"Every month," Beatrice added. "On the full moon. We meet here. We worship you. You worship us."
"That's—"
"That's what we want." Margaret's voice was firm. "Will you give it to us, Daniel? Or do we have to find another priest?"
I looked at them. Four women who'd been abandoned, neglected, forgotten. Four women who'd found solace in sin.
Four women I couldn't refuse.
"Every month," I agreed. "But if anyone finds out—"
"No one will find out." Margaret smiled. "God keeps our secrets."
"Does He?"
She kissed me. Soft. Reverent.
"He does now."
Epilogue: One year later
The congregation has noticed.
The widows seem happier. Lighter. They sing louder in the choir, volunteer more for church events, smile at each other with knowing looks.
No one suspects.
How could they? A young priest and four older women, meeting in the church once a month for... what? Bible study? Prayer group?
In a way, I suppose it is prayer.
Just not the kind the bishop would approve of.
"Same time next month, Father?"
"Same time, Margaret."
She kisses my cheek. Walks out into the Sunday sunshine.
And I begin preparing next week's sermon.
Something about the nature of love, I think.
And the surprising places we find grace.