15. Father Alexander
Father Alexander
The entire time Father Keaton speaks, I’m not listening, which is rare for me. I’m always tuned into what he preaches. I take mental notes and absorb his words as he speaks, learning to become a better priest.
But not today.
As he continues to talk, my eyes remain on the back of Celine’s head.
During my entire time standing behind the altar, I felt her heavy stare. The nerves I felt before speaking to all the women had skyrocketed when I sensed her eyes on me.
Why had I all of a sudden been nervous to speak in front of her? Was it because I wanted my words to resonate with her? That I wanted her to take my speech on forgiveness to heart so that she would join me in the booth to confess her sin?
It was hard standing up there to speak without looking at her the entire time. The dresses that the women wear for Prayer are different than their usual ones. I knew that they were made of silk, but other than that, I never paid them any mind.
That was until today, when I saw Celine wearing it. It made her look elegant and regal. God made her look stunning in that dress and plopped her right into the front row as a test. He wanted to see if I would be distracted by her beauty, and as much as I wanted to be, I fought it.
Sure, there were some moments when I let my gaze linger, but I didn’t dare let it stay on her for long. I ripped my eyes away before someone could notice and continued reading my notes.
When I have the chance to lead Prayer, I always conclude by inviting the women to step into the confessional to discuss what is troubling them or any sins they wish to confess.
That way, I can help them work through their concerns.
If Father Keaton would allow me to only sit in the confessional, I would.
I love helping people who are struggling with something inside themselves because I dealt with that myself before becoming a priest.
However, when I offered for them to step into the confessional during my talk, it was pointed directly at Celine. I want her to sit on the other side of the barrier to help her.
I want her to find peace with God and have a better life, but a sick part of me wants to hear her confess what is eating away at her. Even if she doesn’t give me complete details, I’d be content with professing to the act of touching herself.
I cough discreetly as I push the memory of hearing her coming undone out of my head because right now would not be the time for me to get hard.
Father Keaton ends his talk and leaves the altar, going through the door off the side of the stage.
Some women begin dispersing. Some stay to continue praying, but only a few.
Celine looks to the side, towards the aisle, and discreetly glances over her shoulder at where I am standing.
I train my eyes on hers as I move back toward the booth. Without breaking eye contact, I open the door and slide into the compartment. Once the door is shut and I am surrounded by silence, I let out a long breath.
Taking a seat, my hands rest on my knees, my fingers tapping away as I wait.
Usually, after Prayer, a couple of women step into the booth, which means that when someone steps into the other side, I shouldn’t get my hopes up that it is Celine.
At the thought, I hear the door open and softly close. The woman takes a seat but remains silent. Above our heads is a dingy light in need of replacement, making it hard to see anything as we sit here.
When I turn my head to the side, I hold my breath when I see Celine’s features through the screen between us. The light over her barely shines down, but I wouldn’t mistake those lips and nose for anyone else.
“I’m not sure how to start this,” she admits softly.
“You haven’t been to a confessional at your old church?”
She blows out a low breath. “Nope. I always refused.”
Pride curls around me, knowing that I was the first person to get her into a confessional booth. “And why have you decided to come in here today?”
“I—” She pauses briefly. “What you said the other day, while I was admiring the chapel. That it’s not healthy to keep things in.”
“Keeping in the troubles you are experiencing may seem like a good solution until it builds up and becomes too much.”
“Trust me, I know all about that.” She sighs. “It continues to build until you explode. I don’t want to explode. I can’t afford to.”
My brows furrow, and my head tilts at her last sentence. What does she mean by that?
Although I want to know the meaning behind her words, I find myself asking a different question.
“What are you holding in, Celine?”
A moment of silence passes before she finally speaks. “God, this is so embarrassing. Shit, I mean—” I hear her lightly hit her forehead with the palm of her hand. I smile to myself, holding back the laugh at her cursing. “How do I begin this?”
“Ask for forgiveness.”
I hear her inhale a deep breath before she says, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“What sins have you committed?”
“Swearing, for one,” she says.
“You are forgiven for that,” I tell her with a light chuckle. “What else?”
I stare at her through the screen, watching her bite her lower lip as she hesitates. The image sends a shock to my dick, reviving him from the dead.
Celine stares at the door and asks, “Can they hear me out there?”
“No,” I respond. “When Father Keaton had the chapel remodeled, he had a new confessional built. While building it, he had them add a soundproof foam between the pieces of wood so the confessions can be only between the priest and the person confessing.”
“That’s smart.”
“You’re deflecting.”
Another sigh leaves her, and she drops her chin to her chest, eyes staring at her lap.
“I’m nervous to admit it. Especially to a priest.”
“As I said before, I won’t judge.”
“Okay.” She sucks in a sharp breath before continuing. “When I get stressed, and everything becomes too much, I have a way to calm my mind down that is… frowned upon.”
“Does it involve taking something illegal?” I ask even though I know the answer.
“No,” she utters. “It’s not drugs.”
“Then what is it?”
Say it.
As my hands rest on my knees, my fingers dig hard into my leg in anticipation.
“I can’t say it out loud,” she whispers.
“Celine,” I hide the desperation in my voice, but my god, the feeling is taking over.
Ever so quietly, she finally admits what I want to hear. “I touch myself.”
I swallow hard, the pressure of my fingers increasing, most likely bruising my legs. But I can’t seem to care about the subtle pain. All I care about right now is the words that came out of her mouth.
“That is frowned upon,” I tell her as my hand leaves my knee to adjust myself.
“I couldn’t help it. I was stressed and exhausted, but my mind was running wild. I needed something to quiet the thoughts in my head for me to fall asleep.”
My hand squeezes my cock through my slacks, attempting to relieve some of the tension. Fuck. I want to be the thing that silences her mind. I want her thoughts to be only of me and the pleasure I could bring her. I want to hear her scream my name as that stress leaves her body.
“Have you tried something different to help?” I squeeze myself harder, trying not to hiss at how tight my hand is wrapped around it.
I need movement and not just my hand stroking myself. What I need is to be buried inside Celine. I want to feel her warm cunt strangling my cock.
Fucking hell. What has gotten into me?
“I haven’t. This helps, so I never bothered with trying any other method. And—” She pauses another moment, sighing and looking up at the light. Underneath the yellow tint, I can barely see the blush spreading across her cheeks. “The feeling becomes too much that I need to take care of it.”
My chest rises and falls as my breathing becomes heavier—images of my fingers inside of her.
My tongue lapping her up, helping her take care of her problem, floods my mind.
These thoughts need to disappear because I can’t discipline myself again.
If I do, Sister Agnus will send me to the hospital for treatment.
“You must resist the urge,” I say, not sure if I am speaking to her or myself.
“It’s hard.”
“Sometimes the obstacles that we overcome are the hardest ones in our path.” I can’t believe I am stringing along complete, coherent sentences right now.
“I agree.” Celine looks at the screen and asks, “What is the punishment for my sin?”
Punishment.
I push away the dirty thoughts of how I would like to punish her and attempt to free my mind from this fog. Before it can clear itself up, I say the only appropriate thing that comes to mind.
“The Lord’s Prayer. I want you to say it every night before you go to bed. I assume you know the prayer.”
She groans. “Couldn’t forget it if I wanted to.”
“I also want you to abstain from touching yourself.” I swallow hard, attempting to keep my voice steady. “It will be difficult, but being in this convent, you have to make promises to God and follow through with them. There are some sacrifices you need to make.”
“How will you know if I follow through with either of these?”
I sit there for a moment, figuring out how I want to answer this. The idea that pops into my head is one I shouldn’t voice, as seeing Celine only briefly throughout the day is rough on my mind.
Seeing her stirs feelings in me that shouldn’t be there. And now I am going to suggest that we see each other more.
“How about this, before you go to your room for the night, you come find me, and we will recite the Lord’s Prayer together.”
“And the other thing?” she asks. “How will you know that I’m not touching myself?”
My jaw tenses, teeth pressing together roughly. “God will know.”
“Okay.” A laugh of disbelief leaves her. “Thank you, Father Alexander.”
Before I can say anything, she stands and leaves her side of the booth. I sit there in silence, hand still gripping myself, and I pray that not only will Celine follow through with my commands, but that I will follow through with them as well.