I was startled into consciousness by the audible click, click, click of high heels making their way my direction from somewhere inside the cathedral. The center compartment of the confessional booth I was napping in is velvet lined, you see, and terribly cozy with body heat. Blanket box, I call it.
Whoever owned those heels was getting her money’s worth by the crisp sound of her footfalls. The sound of confidence, determined self-assuredness thudded around the little, plush womb I occupied. I pictured a businesswoman in her mid 30’s or early 40’s with a Prada bag and 6-inch, red-bottomed stilettos. Here is a woman who has been on a forced march. My thoughts were loud as her proximity.
Her footsteps slowed as she neared the left compartment. Pause. As if she were considering turning around. A wayward sheep returns to the flock. When she took her next step, there was a ginger-ness that I mistook for reverence.
Her entry into the booth registered with a slight rustle of the heavy satin curtain that separates the mundane from the miraculous. There was a small shift in the frame of the booth as if the internal gravity of my cocoon changed minutely somehow that could only be cataloged in varying degrees of darkened light.
I prepared to introduce myself with a deep, cleansing breath, but became instantly distracted by how heavily she was breathing. Here should only be anticipatory silence. The affect of seating herself had not given me any reason to assume she was corpulent even if it did explain the loudness of her entry. I attributed the sound more the quality of disciplined intent than sloth-y resignation.
The sojourn of faith is a homecoming. Welcome. My personal superiority was certain. I listened to the patterns of her breath for several seconds longer than I should have. The scent of something delicate and complex rose into my nose and decided to bloom there into a memory. Small at first, then an entire beach under the full moon. Three piles of hastily abandoned clothes. Panties removed last and huddling in the sand alone never to be seen again. The sea filled my nose.
My thoughts lingered in the air with her perfume, and I let them until I heard what sounded like a purse being unzipped. One motion. Deft. No clumsy digging. Something made a lot of contact with the purse material as it was being withdrawn. “Shhhh”, it said to us both. A slight rustle of a material that was not satin. Then, click. The soft surprise of a small, mechanical hum.
I squinted my eyes in the darkness with nothing to see but my own curiosity as I leaned closer to the copper/bronze latticework that separated our bodies. The hum faded, orienting itself lower relative to the position of a seated person, which had a disorienting affect on the listener because it seemed as though it became distant and simultaneously immediate. Louder then softer. Louder then softer. Louder and softer in a slow rhythm. Slower. Loouudder then ssoofftter. Loouudder then ssoofftter. Loooouuuuuudddddeeeerrrrr. Several changes in pitch that implied vigorousness. Then, a lewd, wet smacking sound. Soooooofffffffftttttttteeeeeeeerrrrrrr. Loooouuuuddddeeeerrrrr and sooofffttteeerrr, working up to a steady rhythm like waves crashing on a rising tide.
That night on the beach, we entered the water slowly at first, climbing in by inches to draw out our excruciating nudity while the waves crashed all around and over us.
I was so engulfed by the buzzing sinusoid that her quiet, decadent moan had the same shock of ice, cold water. Again, I felt a shift in the confessional booth. This time I felt it in my prostate pulling the center of my body at an odd angle.
Mild panic set in. No one masturbates at confession, you see. What is the etiquette? Should I interrupt? Barge in? Righteously throw her out of the building? Shame her by not allowing her to compose and re-cloth herself? I could pull her out by her hair with her (presumed) skirt around her wait. Slap her for her sinfulness. Slap her repeatedly. Slap her face red. And her ass. I could lead her around by her pinched nipples. Make her beg to be forgiven.
All these thoughts rushed out at once and jammed in the small opening my mouth made right then as the earthy smell of lust caused me to salivate.
The sound of her pleasuring herself grew bolder; more ragged where is had been a silky affair before. Her voice had a stupefying quality, a metered interplay of moans and sighs and battery-powered vibrations beginning in my ears, moving from solid to liquid and back again like honey that has begun to crystalized but only just so.
I became aware that a slight rocking motion could be perceived in the booth as if our bodies were pulling the center of gravity in opposite directions even as I fell into her voice which pitched up at the same time that my ear touched the partitioning lattice.
It was as though her voice was a whole world of electric air.
The buzzing hum was only there between breaths that got deeper by necessity. Her purse fell on the floor. She responded with a low, plaintive moan that brought me to the edge of the confessional booth. The upholstery dryly added my superiority, as might a person in shock regarding a broken bone sticking out of their arm.
Until that point, I had been quiet enough to get away with doing nothing about what was happening. I had listened too long to maintain any type of authority without admitting to myself a hypocritical nature. My prick cautioned patience, ever the rationalist.
The fear of her being discovered by another priest while I listened flashed brightly into my head, prying my attention away from her rich pleasure, but was almost instantly replaced by a flush of embarrassment knowing that we were alone for at least 2 more hours. It became noticeable warmer in the booth.
“God,” was the first word I heard her say and her voice became the world for a second time. She had a limited vocabulary of “yes” and “oh, God”. The rhythm was staccato and exclamatory that spoke directly to the heat wrapped all around my pleading erection.
I saw myself appear in front of her from behind the heavy red curtain, answering her pleas to God with my dick in hand. I saw her penance in whelps and bruises and a conflagration of the sacred body, sweat and heat running off of our bodies like waves of boiling water. I found my hands on the worn leather of my belt. I felt the thickness of it seeing her ass in the air and tears streaking her cheeks.
The woman’s voice became translucent as moon light as if it would shatter the veil of gossamer hanging over us even as a tumult of burning waves broke against us in static crescendo. She called His name with a weight that pulled me to my knees and demanded I worship her orgasm as it cascaded over my feet and spilled into me.
Her breath was exaltant. Awareness of it shattered the stillness I felt.
Long seconds passed as my dick twitched involuntarily in my pants. I wanted to move, to speak, but our shared gravity pinned me to the floor.
Slight rustle of mystery fabric…
Minute click of high heels repositioning to bear weight…
Something dropped into the purse on the floor…
Slight rustle of mystery fabric…
I didn’t realize that I was holding my breath until she said, in a voice that seemed to be my entire being, “I can forgive you, Father, if you can forgive me.” Then, the same determined, self-assured clicking of heels, but fading and fading away.