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Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Written and edited with the help of an ex-catholic friend. This story may stir some controversy but then why write if it tastes like vanilla.

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Raised in Boston to love, honor and obey his family and one-day to fulfill his spiritual calling, Tom O’Brien was the youngest of six American bred Irish children. Every Irish Catholic family dreams of the day that one of their children will be ordained into the priesthood, increasing the prospect of an eternal reward in Heaven for the parents, and Tom’s parents were no exception. From the day of his First Communion at eight, Tom’s father and mother began to chart his life of holiness and celibacy. There were the Altar and choir boy days, church attendance, Lenten fasts, plenary indulgences, self-denial, and the emphasis on learning Latin, all aimed to make Tom’s entry into the Seminary at age thirteen inevitable.

Although mapped from birth to a life of holiness, Tom did not always feel the spiritual calling. In fact he floated from one religious experience to the next with an ever-increasing carnal desire. His altar boy years had introduced him to his first sip of wine and the mixed boys and girls choir to Becky. Always the volunteers, Tom and Becky became choir loft items…she, young and promising, with little breasts beginning to develop and he having learned that his penis was for more than peeing. The clean-up choir loft duty brought new meaning to the term for both of them. Then there was the confessional; one day, quietly waiting his turn, he could hear the lascivious details of the ladies’ sins in the opposite stall. By the time it was his turn he had more to confess as well as some cleaning-up to do.

The seminary years between thirteen and twenty-five passed insidiously before the return of the Reverend Father Thomas O’Brien to one of Boston’s oldest parishes. Father Tom came home to the church he loved and remembered from his childhood, a magnificent neo-gothic cathedral built before the turn of the last century. It was a huge, hollow, structure, longer than a football-field and half as wide, with a center dome 120 feet above the main altar. Flickering candles burned at each of 10 small altars and six darkly stained wooden confessionals, three on each side, lined the main isle. Massive arched wooden doors etched the main entrance and two rows of stained glass windows lined the walls, subduing the interior light and creating a constant state of Goth. In the empty air, sounds echoed in all directions with even the slightest of whispers heard throughout. The scents of fresh flowers, incense, and burned candles linger in the mostly still, cold air that welcomed Tom home.

Even with his introduction to Asceticism, seminary training did little to obscure Tom’s uncontrollable desires of the flesh. Rather the opposite occurred. He learned to enter a state of religious ecstasy from repeatedly beating himself with a flogger; twenty-four strips of tan colored kid leather dangling from a leather wrapped handle. Rather than control his carnal urges, he learned that the redemptive value of pain that made pain itself lovable. Self-flagellation, although intended to teach not of the flesh, made Tom’s conflict of the flesh even greater. “Blessed be pain! Glorified be pain! Sanctified be pain,” euphoric had pain become to Tom.

And as if further cursed, Father Tom had grown into a hunk of a man. The years of lacrosse and soccer had matured him into every young girls dream date; muscular and cut with curly black hair, mascarred eyes, and a chiseled nose and chin.

Over the years the confessional became a harmonic convergence of Tom’s faith and carnal desires as the torment of the flesh clashed with the deviant behavior described to him by the many female penitents. Even as he scourged himself with the flogger in the evenings for the masturbatory desires the confessional often induced, his pain frequently transcended to a heightened state of arousal and orgasmic bliss. If the confessional lines were not full when Tom turned on the light, the isle would be packed within minutes with women of all ages wishing for him to hear their confession.

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She came to him…always only to him. She needed to express her sins, be granted his forgiveness and find penance in God’s eyes. Her sins ran deep and she knew that confessing, even now, would only bring her back again and again. She was born out of wedlock, a perpetual sinner forever finding the darkest course and following that path, until her guilt sends her to the closet of the confessional.

She always confessed to Father Tom because she believed he was a source of her sins. In her own twisted way, she blamed him for her behavior, her promiscuity and carnal desires that set her flesh aflame. She longed to see what he hid under his robes, ached to taste his cock and yearned to feel him buried balls deep in her molten wet cunt.

And here she was, once again, begging for forgiveness that would be Eskort Bayan granted if only for this moment. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession.” Her voice low, and properly humble as she looked through the lattice, watching his still silhouette.

“What brings you back so soon seeking God’s forgiveness?” Father Tom spoke calmly in his conditioned confessional tone.

“Father, I have once again defied one of Gods commandments, was seduced by depravity that soiled my soul and admit to receiving much pleasure from it.”

She heard the priest shift before his voice rolled out against the lattice, “Go on, and tell me all that has caused you to be here today.”

She buried her face in her hands as she whispered in mock shame through the separator. “Father, I allowed a man to spank my buttocks until I orgasmed. I hungered for his member, Father, and allowed this same man to put it in my mouth. I suckled him until he could no longer contain himself and allowed him to put his slick penis in my anus. Father, I know we are all born sinners, but I must be the worst of them all.”

Her confessions always started the same, halting and uncertain, as though holding back the darker side of her sin. He’d heard all manner of explicit descriptions, knew what she was trying to say without bringing herself even more shame and he longed to hear more.

He shifted again, feeling his own cock growing as the images of her sin floated in his mind. “No child, you’re not the worst, but to achieve the penance you seek, you must confess everything. Every detail, no matter how carnal and depraved.”

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She was just one of many female penitents that Father Tom listened to, granting the forgiveness they desired and then sent on their way. The litany of sin that passed through the lattice and filled his mind with images of carnal debauchery drove his own desires high. His evenings were spent in self-flagellation, doing little to wipe away the images forever imbedded not only in his mind, but in his soul as well.

During his nightly ritual he often thought of Becky, the young budding girl that fanned the flames of his carnal desires. He clearly remembered their childhood games of ‘I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours’. He remembered how soft her flesh looked, how sweet she smelled and how he longed to give up the life he was predestined to just for a taste of her. Becky was his first love and he thought about the woman she would be now with full breasts, slightly flaring hips and soft warm lips. He imagined her to be the epitome of perfection and what that perfection could do for him.

As his thoughts burned with the images of the most recent confession and blending with images of the womanly Becky, his left hand moved to his stiff cock. Taking the throbbing member into his eager grasp and pumping it in the same rhythm of the flogger against his bare back. The pain erupting across his flesh and the pleasure of his fingers circling his cock were a cataclysmic sensation. In the back of his mind he knew what he was doing was wrong, all the teachings he’d endured over the years said so, but he couldn’t help himself. Deep down he was a carnal being as lusty and depraved as those poor souls that were driven to his confessional.

Thrusting his hips, moving his aching cock within his hand, his balls drawing up as his body began the familiar tingling. He was close, seconds away from his own sense of redemption as he redoubled his efforts with the biting flogger. Lingering at the edge of the abyss, taking the pain and wrapping it in the pleasure until he fell into oblivion, his cock twitching and spewing his seed across the floor. His gratification was laced with guilt and he beats himself harder, the sting more pronounced as he attempts to sear away the depravity of himself. “Blessed be pain! Glorified be pain! Sanctified be pain!” Even his sanctified mantra does little to assuage his lascivious guilt.

Years of despair, frustration, and loneliness conflicted with Father Tom’s desire to be at one with him. His chiseled face had softened somewhat and sprinkles of gray now highlighted his still youthful appearance. Through the years he had become accustomed to hearing the worst instincts of human nature but nothing had prepared him for the events about to unfold before him.

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Her voice was once again humble and seeking forgiveness as she whispered. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven days since my last confession.” She waited patiently for his customary reply.

He was somewhat startled to recognize her voice. He’d only, one-week prior, listened to her confession and granted her the forgiveness she sought. Why was she back so soon? Could she have sinned so dramatically again? He cleared his throat before speaking, “What have you to confess my child?”

“Father, I have once again been seduced by depravity. I allowed a man to whip me with a flogger, tasting its delightful sting across my buttock, thighs and back. Father, I allowed him to beat me until I felt as though I was aflame and an uncontrollable urge came upon me to engage in coitus behavior.”

He listened intently to her confession as his cock began to swell and did something he’d never done before. Moving his hand daringly over his growing member as he whispered, his voice somewhat hoarse with his own desire, “Go on my child. Confess all to God.” This girl, this penitent soul, aroused him to the point of blasphemy as he brazenly squeezed his aching cock through his robes.

“Father, I can’t even begin to describe how wonderful the flogger felt, how liberating and glorious. Nor can I tell you how delicious his cock felt as he plunged it into the depths of me. My pussy aching to be filled, and filled it was, as he drove himself deeply into my hot velvet core. Father, even now as I confess to you, I can feel every sensation, smell every scent and taste every flavor.” Her voice rising in pitch as her excitement grew with each devilish deed and word.

He grew bolder, allowing his hand to slip under his robes and touch himself as this penitent girl and her confession drove him on. He longed to find the sanctuary of his bedchamber so he too could feel the liberating and glorious kiss of his flogger, feel the powerful and undeniable need to release his seed and find what little redemption there was for his ungodly behavior. He listened to the way her voice changed pitch, listened as her breathing became more erratic and knew if he pushed he could make her orgasm, right there, in the sanctity of the confessional. He dared to push as he whispered, “Confess it all my child, every detail. The penance you seek depends on it.”

She listened to him, noting how his own voice was growing more and more hoarse and desirous. She suspected he was touching himself, and longed to be the one touching. She ached for him, no other man had made her ache as he did, and her desire to stain him was greater than her desire to be forgiven.

She shamelessly opened her creamy thighs, her scent wafting up to her nostrils as her fingers found her throbbing clit and slick quivering pussy. “I can’t control this urge to sin, Father. Even now I want to touch myself, feel the slickness of my pussy wrapping around my fingers and find the release I ache for. The memories of my depravity drive me head long into the void Father and I’m not sure God can or will forgive me.”

As she spoke, she plunged first two then three fingers into the twitching cunt, her palm pushing against her throbbing clit as she began to fuck herself in the confessional. “Father, I ache to feel cock in my pussy, mouth and ass. I can’t seem to go a day without bringing myself to orgasmic delight whether it is by masturbation or with a man.” She ground her hips against her invading fingers and palm, seeking the orgasm that seemed just barely out of reach.

He listened in rapturous delight as her confession grew in detail. He could smell her scent as it carried through the lattice divider, and could hear the wet sounds as her fingers moved, as deeply as possible, into the soaking pussy. His voice was broken in desire as he spoke, “Go on, and confess all.” His own hand now wrapped around his exposed cock, feeling it throb against his palm as he slowly stroked it. The visions she’d implanted were filled with his own carnal desires.

She panted softly as her hand worked her pussy. “Father, even now I can’t seem to control myself. I have three fingers buried in my aching pussy and my palm is pressing against my raging clit. Father, I’m so very close to cumming and soiling the sanctity of your confessional.” Her hand moved steadily onward, driving her closer to the release she yearned for. Her pussy contracting, suckling on the fingers imbedded in it, her clit aflame with a need so strong, the church, her Priest and God himself couldn’t stop her.

His voice was lodged in his throat as she described what she was doing right next to him. He ached to see, feel and taste this poor soul that found his confessional regularly. He could sense how close she was through the divider…the electricity was palpable. He released his throbbing aching cock, daring to hope that he wouldn’t soil his own confessional, as she was about to do. He managed to find what was left of his voice, “Go on my child.”

“Ooooo, my pussy is tightening around my fingers and I’ve begun plucking and twisting my engorged nipples. Father, the sensations are extreme and filled with wickedness. Father, I’m about to cum in church, during confession with you sitting so very close, only this lattice separating us. Father, the only way this could be better is if you were in here with me, doing all these sinful things to me, but because of your vows, I’m left with imagining you fucking me.” Her moan could be heard throughout the entirety of the church as her pussy spilled out around her finger, staining her skirt and soiling the confessional. As her breathing slowly returned to normal, she pulled her sticky fingers free and deliberately painted her scent over the lattice divider, whispering to the heavily breathing Priest she’d come to seduce, “Can you smell that Father?”

Father Tom could indeed smell her scent as he tried desperately to control his breathing. Each inhale dripping of sex…her sex, and he wanted more. Whispering huskily, “Yes, I can smell your lusty and sinful scent.” His cock twitched as her scent invaded his senses.

“Can you taste me with each breath your take, Father?” She listened to his suffering just beyond the paltry lattice.

He hissed hungrily, “Yes, I can taste your depravity upon my tongue.” His tongue felt coated with her sin and he relished the flavor of her, his cock twitching once again begging to release his seed.

“Father, do you remember Becky Monahan?”

Her question was like cold water against his face, startling him back to his calling. Quickly regaining his tone of authority, “You have defiled this confessional, encouraged and instigated the lustful desires of the devil in me and tormented God himself. I do not think that a simple penance will be sufficient to grant either of us absolution. I want you to close your eyes and pray for God’s forgiveness. I will return when I think you are ready.”

His verbal chastisement produced hot tears to well as she closed her storm colored eyes and began to whisper, but no prayer came from her soft crimson lips.

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Father Tom’s thundering footstep could be heard reverberating in the church’s vast emptiness as he strode from the confessional, heart pounding and eyes zigzagging erratically in all directions as he searched for remaining parishioners. It was early evening and a few late prayer goers were easily coaxed to leave before he dropped the ten-pound cast iron bolts into the terrazzo etched floor, locking the massive wooden doors at the front of the church. The last vestige of light filtered like long slivers of silk thread through the western facing row of stained glass windows. Hollow caves of flickering darkness illuminated the two isles of prayer altars on each side. Tom’s prurient instincts drew him to fetch the flogger from his bedchamber before dropping to his knees in front of the altar to St. Jerome, the patron of asceticism, where Tom first learned of self-denial and punishment. “Blessed be pain! Glorified be pain! Sanctified be pain!”

So it was to be, Father Tom would attempt to sanctify this woman in the only way he knew. He gripped the soft pliant handle of the flogger in his fist and moved through the empty stillness toward the indistinguishable litany of sound coming from the confessional.

Opening the dark mahogany stained door, Father Tom stared in at the young woman, no older that twenty, kneeling with her hands clutching her face. A mixed fragrance of jasmine and sex wafted out. Long tresses of curly dark hair cascaded over her bare shoulders, briefly reminding him of his adolescence. Her sleeveless summer frock, held up by her young bosom and zippered down the back, was cinched tightly around her narrow waist with a cloth belt elaborately tied in back with a bow.

Reaching for her, Father Tom pried her hand from her face. Her silhouette turned, mystical stormy eyes stared daringly at him. Father Tom’s heart sank as he stared back at what appeared to be a heavenly apparition. It was Becky’s face on the alluring body of this fully developed child-like woman.

“Becky? Becky Monahan, how can it be?” Father Tom’s eyes were filled with tears of wonder, his voice appropriately exasperated with the mystery that only such gothic surroundings might induce.

Her face was angelic, lightly freckled and pale as porcelain, with tear-stripped pink rouged cheeks that could have been painted by a Sistine master.

An eternal silence, lasting seconds but feeling like a lifetime, passed before she spoke, “I am Jenna Monahan, Becky is my mother.”

Her hand was warm and moist from tears as he pulled her to her feet, free of the secret cloister into the vast cold church’s chasm that echoed of sermons, sins, weddings, and death. In one hand he gripped the flogger while the other clutched her firmly, pulling like an elastic umbilical cord, as her inappropriately chosen high heels struck the floor with the force and sound of ten jackhammers.

“It’s your fault, your sin, your love of my mother that brought me to you. She loved you and you abandoned her for this, for god, for nothing.” Tears flowed freely down Jenna’s face, her tear-choked voice reverberating into the still, cold, lifeless air.

“She loved you and needed you. I need you…I love you,” her words flowed with her tears as her half-compliant body struggled in the direction of the small side-altar. It felt immediately warmer from the rows of glowing candles supported by a massive wrought iron stand on the other side of the immense wooden altar rail.

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