Short Fiction,  Smut Marathon 2018

Weak Flesh

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three days since my last confession.”

Father Robson sits in the confessional, his soft, pale hands folded in his lap.

“Yes, my child, what is your sin?”

“I struck my son, Father. He tried my patience and I struck him.”

The priest’s hands slide beneath his robe as the penitent’s whispers curl through the latticed screen between them. He shifts his tremendous bulk in the hard seat closing his dark eyes, heavy lashes fluttering as she explains. He begins to stroke himself, hardly listening, thinking only of how the nuns beat him as a boy; the pleasure and the searing pain of their rods and straps. The rough wool of his vestments chafe his sweating thighs and hairy belly and he is transported by the smells of incense and the musty wood of the booth. His cock swells, dribbling at the memories, it strains as the guilt washes over him.

“Father? My penance?”

He mumbles, desperate to finish.

“Ten Hail Marys, five Our Fathers.”

He slides the divider closed and bites his lip, tasting blood, semen soiling the fabric of his holy robes.

It’s been three days since his last orgasm.

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