After a long afternoon of delivering the sacraments to the three city hospitals, Father Antony Secco took a short detour on his way back to the rectory of St. Jude Thaddeus. It’d been several days since he heard the young musician’s confession, but his words still echoed in the young priest’s mind. This fantasy fulfillment agency called It’s Just Sex! sounded like just what he needed. He dropped a quarter into the pay phone and punched the number he’d memorized.

The voice answering was crisp, male, and ultra professional. “Thank you for calling It’s Just Sex! How may I direct your call?”

“I would like to arrange a—liaison.”

“Certainly, sir. Are you familiar with our procedure?” Without waiting for a response, he continued. “We accept all major credit cards, money orders and, of course, cash. No personal checks. The first step is to schedule an appointment. Is there a particular day or time that is most convenient for you to come to our offices for the interview?”

“Well,” Father Secco coughed, “that’s going to be a problem. In my line of work, I cannot be seen on your premises. I was hoping we could take care of the formalities by telephone.”

“I see. There is also the matter of the requisite laboratory work—the blood tests to ensure…”

Father Secco interrupted, “That won’t be necessary, son. I want no physical contact.”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask that you leave a number so that I can have Ms. Harris call you back. I do not have the authority to waive policy.”

“Will you instead schedule an interview, and I’ll call during that time slot? Friday afternoons are best for me.”

“Very well, sir. Friday afternoon at three o’clock. May I have a name for our records?”

“Thaddeus,” Father Secco sputtered. “Um—Antony Thaddeus.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thaddeus. See—well, hear—you on Friday.”

Father Secco hung up the phone and, whistling a favorite hymn as he walked the last six blocks, thought about his plan. Saturday mornings were so incredibly dull in the confessional. St. Jude Thaddeus was the only parish in the state that still used the little booths. All the others had long since switched to a more open, face-to-face practice. For three solid hours he sat in that dark, cramped closet just waiting for someone to step in to its neighbor. All told, maybe eight or nine parishioners sought the sacrament of reconciliation each week—and they were the same people with the same boring, venial sins. He wanted to hear some juicy confessions—carnal sins. No one ever seemed to confess the sins of the flesh. In fact, the young musician’s recent explicit confession had been the very first of its kind that Father Secco had ever heard. It whet his appetite.

* * * *

Two days later, Father Secco stood at the same telephone kiosk and punched the same number. The same voice answered. “Thank you for calling It’s Just Sex! How may I direct your call?”

“I have a three o’clock telephone appointment with Ms. Harris.”

“Ah, yes. Mr. Thaddeus, isn’t it? One moment please.”

A female voice came on the line a few moments later. “Mr. Thaddeus, I’m Sonia Harris. So nice of you to seek our services. I must say, we’ve not yet had a client who did not want physical contact. How exactly can we help you?”

“Well, Ms. Harris, I’ll be blunt. I am a priest—a Roman Catholic priest—and I have been so bored while hearing confessions that I’ve actually fallen asleep. I want to spice things up—to hear a seriously sexy confession every so often—perhaps on a regular basis, if all goes well.”

“I understand completely, Father, and I believe we can help you.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Under the circumstances, I will waive our requirement for blood tests and its associated fee. Is there any particular type of sexual confession you would prefer?”

“Not Gaziantep Evi Olan Escort really, no. Anything’s better than the dry, old sins I hear each week.”

“Very well, then,” she laughed. “As soon as your payment is received, we’ll get started. I’m assuming you would prefer to mail it in?”

“Astute of you, Ms. Harris. Yes. I will put a money order in today’s mail. Bless you.”

“We’re happy to be of assistance and,” she added with a sultry chuckle, “to have your blessing. Please give me the time and place, and we’ll be all set.”

* * * *

Saturday morning finally rolled around, and Father Secco completed his early morning routine with a spring in his step. He could hardly wait to get into the confessional for a change. There were already a handful of the regular penitents waiting in the pews nearest the chancel, but he did not look at or acknowledge them. Some were from other area churches. They came to St. Jude Thaddeus for the pretense of anonymity that the old confessionals provided. Might be understandable, he mused, if they had anything really nasty to confess.

He breezed through the first several penitents on auto-pilot, doling out the same penance: four Hail Marys and three Our Fathers, plus a reminder to be as generous as possible when the collection plate was passed on Sunday. That should just about do it for the regulars, he thought.

Sliding the partition open, Father Secco began the seventh session of the day: “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. You may begin.”

There was a pause and a shuffle and a little cough. Finally a quiet voice began, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was—um, like, maybe three years ago. These are my sins…”

I’ll bet this is it! Father Secco grinned as he leaned toward the screen. He couldn’t see more than a shadowy silhouette, but could tell from her voice that she was young, perhaps a student at the university. Her perfume carried—a vanilla musk, cloying and sweet.

“Go on, please.”

“I have committed sins of—What d’ya call it? Oh, yeah—impurity with myself. A few days ago, see, my friend Gina told me about this site…That’s the Internet, y’know?”

“Yes, my child. I am familiar with it.” What a refreshing combination of worldliness and naiveté.

“M’kay. Anyways,” she whispered, “there are all these totally dirty stories there that anyone can read for free. So I start, like, reading, y’know?”

Gaining a little confidence, she continued, “The first one I clicked on was called Boiling Point, and—whew!—it was about this chick tying her best friend to a tree. A tree! I got all hot reading it an’ started, like, touching myself—y’know?—down there. I mean, my best friend is way hot—an’ I started thinkin’ ’bout doin’ that to her, y’know? Hey! Is that a sin, too? Thinkin’ ’bout your best friend in that way? Geez, if it is, just add it on to my list, m’kay?”

Oh, she is perfect! Father Secco was thrilled. He really didn’t care if her confession was real or staged. It was definitely not boring, and that’s all that mattered. He loved her delightfully sugary voice, and he could picture her words spilling in an enthusiastic rush from matte pink bubble gum lips.

“Anyways, I totally got myself off sittin’ right there at my computer. I mean, had an orgasm, y’know? I so couldn’t believe it! And that was just the first time,” she giggled wickedly. “Later that same day, I went back—’cause it’s, like, addictive an’ shit—oh, sorry—stuff—and read another story. This one was about a girl named Megan who really wanted to get—um, I mean to have sex in her—um, butt. M’kay, so that’s somethin’ I’ve never tried an’ I kinda like want to, y’know? Is butt sex a sin, too? Damn, I’ll just bet it is! Tack it on, m’kay?”

Father Secco smiled as he continued to build a mental image of this young woman, who he’d labeled Missy. He imagined her to be about 5’4″ tall with wavy shoulder-length auburn hair, full-figured but fit, big brown eyes, pert nose, and deep dimples. Voluptuously cute, he decided. Giggly and demure until she gets turned on, and then—watch out!

“So there I am again—with one hand in my pants and the other on my mouse—readin’ about Megan gettin’ porked up the ass—oh, shit—oh, sorry. Damn! Just tack on any curse words too, m’kay? Anyways, I did it again. Damn near woke up my roommate, too. It was totally awesome. I soaked my chair, even. God—oh, sorry—well, I guess I am sorta talkin’ to God, huh?—it makes me hot just talkin’ ’bout it. There’s just somethin’ ’bout someone sayin’ ‘Fuck my ass’ that makes me shiver, y’know?” In sotto voice she added, “My panties are gettin’ wet again. You priests don’t know what you’re missin’ with all that celibacy an’ shit.”

A bead of sweat trickled down Father Secco’s neck and into his starched collar. He tugged in a vain attempt to stretch it, and then opted to just unbutton it. His trousers were also noticeably more constricting. What was that phrase the young people used? Ah, yes. ‘Pitchin’ a tent.’ He ran his hand along his fly, ostensibly to adjust himself, and his cock jumped in response to the touch. Well, this is a bit more than I bargained for. Lightly stroking himself through the black gabardine slacks, he wondered if perhaps Ms. Harris read more into his request than he’d intended.

“The next morning—before breakfast, even—I was back at it,” she continued after a brief pause. “I’m, like, so totally hooked now. Who knew, y’know? Oh, and two guys—I absolutely had to read about two guys! I mean, like, just the thought of a guy givin’ another guy head so totally makes me wet. I found this story about these guys who meet online and hook up in a hotel room for just one night. Chris and Conor. Mmm. It was so freakin’ hot!”

Father Secco then heard an unmistakable sound—one that he never expected to hear in a confessional. The incongruity made it all the more enticing, and he held his breath to listen. It was the sound of a zipper slowly being opened.

“And the one guy,” she said in a husky voice that just exacerbated his arousal, “had never, like, been with a guy before—an’at made it so much hotter. Can you just imagine? Um, Father, I have to touch myself again. Sorry. I can’t help it. Is that so totally wrong?”

Father Secco was wondering the same as his hand increased both speed and pressure. He could feel the length of the nylon zipper through the taut cotton of his briefs. What harm was being done? Seed was not to be spilled lest for procreation, but his seed would never know such purchase. Through dreams, it often wet his sheets—without touch, without will—crossing the fuzzy line between thought and deed. What of that? If the subconscious mind can commit sin, what hope is there for any of us to follow such rules? To tell this young lady she did wrong while he sat there fondling himself would be hypocritical in the extreme, yet he could not tell her it was an acceptable behavior.

Her breathing became audible, and he could hear an occasional soft sigh. The concentrated aroma of her sex filled the small enclosure, driving all coherent thoughts from his mind and replacing them with a maelstrom of erotic images. “Father,” she asked, “you there?”

“Yes, dear child,” he stammered. “Please continue with your—um, confession.”

Accompanied by the whisper whoosh of denim against the back of her hand and punctuated by an occasional low moan, she resumed her narrative. With excruciating detail, she outlined the proclivities of various story characters and their effects upon her. Her interests danced across both gender and kink. Father Secco imagined his hand to be hers as he opened his fly. His belt buckle clanked against the bench. It was a sound only they could hear, but one that left no doubt as to his activities.

“Oh, and incest. Geez, I never thought that could turn me on—but I read a story by someone called yui about a brother and sister. Amazing! It was so hot that I could almost imagine my own brother—hell, anyone’s brother, for that matter—licking chocolate off my shaved pussy, claiming me. Mmm, yeah. There’s nothin’ quite like being licked—’specially rrrright…there. Have you ever been licked, Father?”

His gasp spurred her on. “Has anyone ever rimmed your asshole with their tongue? Oh, man. How ’bout your balls? God, I so love to suck on a guy’s balls an’ hear that one-of-a-kind groan.” As if on cue, he groaned. “Yeah, kinda like that—only deeper. It’s lots deeper when someone’s suckin’ your balls, y’know?”

With each word, Father Secco drew closer to his rapture. One hand squeezed and pulled while the other steadied himself against the wall. Sweat dripped from his brow, matching the clear drops of fluid that oozed from the tip of his cock. Her scent was so thick that he could virtually taste her, pungent and exotic.

“Then,” she continued, “I read about a quickie tit fuck in the bathroom of a campus coffeehouse. Warm, soft tits squeezed around a thick, hard cock—with something slippery to make it slide. Sounds good, doesn’t it? I like to do that every once in a while, too—lick the tip on the up-thrust—catch it between my lips for a second or two. Mmm.”

Slurpy wet sounds traveled across the partition as she fucked herself with her fingers—faster and harder. “I’m so close now,” she panted. “Thanks for lettin’ me—um, unload on you, Father. It’s been good for me—really, really good.”

It took a few moments for Father Secco to realize that she’d stopped talking. He was quite unaware of her last words. Only the tone and timbre of her voice echoed in his memory, fueling his thoughts and driving his hand to piston faster and faster. Where were we? Oh, yes. “For your penance, say sex—I mean, six—complete rosaries. Now, make your act of perdi-…contrition.”

“God, I’ll try,” she rasped. “In choosing to do wrong, I have sinned—mmm, that’s so nice—against You. I firmly intend, with Your help, to do penance, to sin no—oh, yeah—more, and to avoid whatever leads me to s-s-sin. Our Savior, Jesus Christ, suffered and died for us. In His name, my God, have mercy on—on—on—me,” she cried, dragging out the final vowel in a growl of ecstasy.

“The Lord has f-f-freed,” Father Secco groaned as he completed his fall from grace into bliss, “you from your sins. Come—I mean, go—in peace to love and serve the Lord!” Only the first pulse of his seed splashed against the dividing screen. The remainder fell short, landing on his bared thigh.

Between whimpers, she managed to form the requisite closing words—plus a few extras—as her climax pulsed through her. “Oh, fuck. I’m coming! Thanks be to—oh—my—God!”

* * * *

“It’s your dime,” Melissa chimed into her cell phone as she took the small package and her credit card from the cashier and nodded in thanks.

“Ms. Foster, this is Sonia Harris from It’s Just Sex! I’m calling to follow up on your rendezvous. Was it to your satisfaction?”

“Christ, yes! Oh, I made a funny,” Melissa laughed as she plopped down on the bench in the mall concourse and opened the bag containing her purchase. “Anyways, it so totally rocked. Thanks. I had to, like, work my ass off to pay for it, but it was worth it. Y’know, I never thought I’d ever have the chance to get a priest off.”

“I’m delighted to hear that your expectations were met. If there’s anything further…”

“Oh, I don’t think I can afford more right now but,” she held the red beaded rosary up and watched the sunlight dance across it, “I just might have to go to confession more often.”

# # #