Joint Redemption

Father Mathew fell silent for a moment to bring his wildly raging thoughts under control. He knew he shouldn't let a confession upset him. It was his job to help her find the right path, not to take her words personally. But the uncertainty inside him was too great. And at the same time, the desire inside him began to gain the upper hand. The desire to touch Erika's young, innocent body, to let her touch him like no woman had ever touched him before. The temptation was so great that he broke out in a sweat as he tried to push it back.

As if of their own accord, his hands wandered down the cassock, undoing button after button, finding the belt of the trousers, the zipper. The beast that had been hiding underneath jumped out into the open. He seized it with a firm grip.

“My child,” he began in a rough, brittle voice, ”the struggle between what our heart desires and what our conscience tells us is part of our earthly existence. Sin tries to tempt us, but we must resist it. This is an expression of our faith.”

He spoke the words to her, but he was actually addressing himself. A sniffle came through the little window, as if Erika was fighting back tears.

“But it doesn't feel like that, Father,” she whispered. ”It feels like I lost this fight long ago. Sometimes when I pray, I think of him. And then it doesn't stop at unchaste thoughts, then I do unchaste things, even though I know it's not right. But it just feels so good. Hn-ng!”

Her words died away in a tortured moan, which shortly afterwards turned into heavy, rapid breathing.

Mathew sent up a quick prayer to heaven. But it was as if his words went unheard. His God was silent, the usual feeling of calm and comfort when he turned to the Lord with his worries and needs would not come. Loneliness and despair threatened to overwhelm him. Where was the salvation he so desperately needed?

He could no longer hold back. His hand began to pump. Firmly, forcefully, almost brutally. He worked his aching, hard pole like a machine. His conscience screamed against it: This is wrong! Not only are you betraying your own beliefs, you are also abusing an immature young woman. At least in spirit, if not physically. Not yet physically? How big a step would it be to go from a mental sin to a full-blown crime?

But all these wise and true thoughts were drowned out by his own raw gasps, which resonated like a counterpoint to the soft, agonizing moans coming from the confession booth. Unexpectedly, the rhythm of the two voices harmonized. They created a quiet, intimate duet, which removed the physical separation and connected them on a different, emotional level. Without seeing each other, they knew what the other one was doing, what they felt and what they wanted.

Mathew sensed the end getting closer and closer. His abdomen began to twitch as if it were developing a life of its own. He desperately bit his lips so as not to make any telltale sounds. At the same time, he was unnaturally aware of the muffled agony behind the wall, suppressed moaning with bated breath. Wild movements of an arm hidden in her lap.

“Hm - hmm - hmmmm - ggggg - chhh ...”

Despite keeping her mouth closed, Erika was unable to suppress any sound. Kneeling, she reared up, her eyes wide open in divine ecstasy, then she toppled forward. A dull thud indicated that she had hit her head against the wall.

At the same moment, Mathew exploded. Clenching his teeth, he tried desperately not to give himself away. His semen spurted up high, splashed against the wooden wall, splattered onto his shoes and the half-opened cassock, spilled onto his trousers. The happiness that had briefly flooded through him disappeared immediately, giving room to an intense feeling of guilt and deep dejection.

His heart was beating in his chest and his throat seemed to be choked. Nevertheless, he still managed to croak out the traditional formula and dismiss the confessor.

“I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Go in peace.”

“Amen. Thank you, Father.”

There was a strange undertone in her voice that the priest could not place. But the man in him heard the promise that this would not be the last secret encounter between them.

The confessor stood up, Mathew heard the faint rustling of her skirts as they slipped down. Then she left the confessional and the church.

The priest looked down at himself, embarrassed. With his stained clothes, he couldn't step in front of anyone. Clandestinely, he peered out into the nave, where a handful of the faithful were still waiting to make their confession. An old man had already risen from the pew and was shuffling towards him.

Mathew slumped down in his chair in surrender. He straightened his suit in a makeshift manner. There was nothing he could do about the pungent smell of sweat and sex that filled the cramped room and assaulted his nostrils.

Mechanically, he heard the confessions of the remaining visitors without really listening. After the last one had left, he remained seated for a while until he was sure he was alone. Only then did he dare to go out. To his great relief, the sun had set in the meantime. In the darkness, he scurried into the vicarage, where he tore off his clothes and prepared a bath. But it wasn't just his body that needed cleansing.