Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been… years since my last confession. Too many to count. The rosary I used to clutch like a lifeline now lies tangled in a drawer beside silk stockings and things I can’t even name without blushing. Or maybe without getting wet all over again.
My name is Rhea Stephens, Father. You might remember the little girl who knelt so piously at morning Mass, skirt smoothed over knees, eyes downcast while I memorized every Stations of the Cross. That girl is still inside me somewhere. She’s just buried under layers of filth I’ve wrapped myself in like a second skin.
I earn my living now by sinning through a telephone line. I sit in the dark, legs spread on cool sheets, wearing nothing but a thin camisole that clings when I start to sweat. The phone presses hot against my ear, and I become whoever they need me to be. A whimpering schoolgirl begging for punishment. A cruel mistress ordering them to stroke slower, slower, stop— A desperate wife confessing she can’t stop thinking about the cock that’s not her husband’s.
And God forgive me, Father, I love it. Every husky breath they let slip, every choked “fuck” when I describe how I’d slide my tongue along them, how I’d swallow every drop while looking up with mascara-streaked eyes—I feel it between my thighs like holy fire. My cunt throbs in time with their words. Sometimes I touch myself while they talk, fingers slipping inside, matching their rhythm until I’m biting my lip to keep from moaning too loud and giving myself away.
There are men who call again and again. One in particular… his voice is low, gravelly, the kind that makes my nipples harden the second the line connects. He never says much at first—just breathes, heavy and wanting, while I paint pictures for him: my lips wrapped tight around him, my throat opening, taking him deeper until tears run down my cheeks and I’m gagging so prettily for him. He likes when I tell him I’d let him bend me over, spread me wide, fuck me raw while I beg him to fill me up, to mark me inside where no one else has been allowed.
I come hardest when I imagine it’s real. When I pretend the slick sounds on the line are his actual cock sliding in and out of my dripping pussy instead of just my fingers. I whisper his name—no, not his name, Father, just the filthy endearments he likes—good boy, dirty boy, come for me, come in your little slut—and I shatter right along with him, thighs shaking, whispering the Act of Contrition in my head even as my body convulses in mortal sin.
I know it’s wrong. I know every call is another lash I deserve across my bare ass. I know I should stop, repent, return to the pews and beg forgiveness properly. But the truth is worse: I don’t want to stop. I crave the next call. The next stranger who’ll groan my stage name while I finger-fuck myself pretending it’s him—pretending he’s the one stretching me, owning me, making me drip down my thighs while I chant yes, Daddy, harder, please.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned grievously.
I have lusted in my heart, in my mouth, between my legs.
I have sold my voice and my body in pieces over copper wires.
And worst of all… I would do it again tonight.
Right now. If he called.