Cynful Confessions: Blasphemy

He came to my altar in a suit—tight around the neck, stiff in the pants. I laughed when he knelt, kissed my heels like a good little worshipper. His hands were shaking. I could smell the shame on him. Delicious.

“Forgive me, Father,” I whispered in his ear, dragging my claws down his cheek. “For I’m about to make you scream.”

I straddled the confessional chair, my red latex tight enough to squeak. He muttered prayers, but I silenced him with a ball gag and a belt around his thighs. The crucifix swung against my tits while I rode his face, moaning out every damnation he begged to avoid.

I told him to come only when I allowed it.

He disobeyed.

So I made him recite every filthy thought he’d had that week—out loud—while edging him with holy water and a rosary between his legs. I swear he almost passed out when I whispered, “Your God is watching.”

When I finally let him finish, it was in a puddle of sin and sweat on my floor.

And me? I licked his tears like communion.