Thoughts of the flesh

"I have impure thoughts," you confess. You cannot see the priest, so you do your best to fill your words with your emotion, hoping that just the hearing of them will somehow flavor her thoughts.

"I think constantly of pleasure," you continue, your words slow and measured. "I think of the touch of fingertips on my lips, of the feel of goosebumps crawling across skin ahead of and underneath my fingertips. I think of soft lips, whispering, caressing, and kissing me. I think of the cool touch of the skin of a woman's back underneath my warm kisses. I think of trim waists encircled by my arms. I think of the smell of washed hair filling my nostrils."

You pause for a little while, letting all this sink in. Eventually, you continue. "I think of shirts being lifted, of the small hard feel of the clasps of bras, of my chest against a woman's chest. I think of breasts underneath my hands, soft and firm, and of nipples rising between my fingers. I think of my pants, unbuttoned, unzipped, falling slowly to the floor. I think of my own hands, undoing the clasp of the pants of a woman, of pushing them down off her hips. I think of panties, solitary patches of clothing among a sea of bare flesh, of my fingers in the bands, pushing them down, revealing the treasures underneath, slowly, surely. I think of the smooth unbroken curves of a woman's naked body."

You pause again, and wait again for a moment before continuing. "I think of women falling into bed. I think of inner thighs, warm and welcoming. I think of my lips, my tongue, traveling up legs, starting at the knees. I think of my hands, caressing thighs and stomachs and breasts. I think of outer labia, of kissing and licking the threshold of womanhood. I think of my fingers, delicately opening the folds of skin, revealing more folds. I think of my tongue and my lips exploring these inner folds. I think of the inner labia, moistening my lips. I think of my fingers, exploring these folds, of the soft depths of her vagina enveloping my fingers. I think of my tongue, flitting across her clitoris, slowly drawing it out from its hood. I think of her clitoris, trembling, as I run my tongue across it with increasing ****. I think of women's trembling thighs, of bucking hips. I think of muffled moans, of silent screams, of glad groans of pleasure."

You pause again, this time for a long while. You can hear nothing from the other side of the confessional. It is almost as if the priest is holding her breath. Finally, you quietly state, "these are all constantly on my thoughts."