admin

A work of fiction. All characters over the age of 18.

***

Part 1

'Bless me father, for I have sinned.'

I disguise my voice as best I can. I'm not sure why. This is not my church. He is not my priest. To him I am just another sinner eager to repent. And I have so much to repent.

This is not the closest parish to my own. Or even the second closest. I have driven for over 90 minutes and across two counties to find somewhere anonymous enough for me to confess in peace. Get it over with and then leave. A drive-by confession. Jerry would be so proud.

I try and picture my husband's face as I stare at the chipped mahogany of the booth. It was not a particularly handsome face or even a memorable one.

He would say that was a good thing. It was easier for witnesses to forget him. Even when they weren't being threatened.

'How long since your last confession, child?'

The priest has a loud voice. I can feel it echoing through the wood. I find myself strangely comforted by this. Perhaps he will drown me out.

'Two weeks, father,' I squeak back at him.

I'm not sure why I'm so nervous. I have never spoken to this man before in my life. I will never speak to him again after this. I will walk out of here and be absolved. Isn't that how it's supposed to work?

Had it really been two weeks already? Since...I can't say it. The words trip over my tongue. I've been trying to build myself up to it, but it falls away at the last.

'I have lain with another man, father. Someone who is...not my husband.'

I grit my teeth. 'Lain with another man'. I sound like a 19th Century nun confessing the loss of her virginity. I'm really not so holy. Not by a long way.

There's a faint rumbling of disapproval in the booth next door. I'm surprised. I imagine infidelity is one of the staples of his confessional diet. I wonder if it's because I'm a woman.

I hate that my knee-jerk reaction is to assume he's a misogynist but...well...he is a Catholic priest. It's not an institution known for its progressive views.

Perhaps he gives the men a slap on the wrist and a playful sermon. Sends them on their way like the mischievous scamps they are. The brimstone he reserves for the women. A fiery dose of perdition to cure them of all their unfaithful leanings.

'How many times?'

I'm taken aback. It wasn't a question I was expecting. At all. I want to ask him why this is relevant. Once is enough surely. A threshold is measured by the act of crossing not by how many times.

I try to work out the answer. I uncross my legs. I'm getting flustered just thinking about it. My pussy is getting wet. My redemption is edging ever further away.

'Just once,' I say to him. 'Today,' I whisper in a low enough voice to guarantee he won't hear me.

Another tense silence. It confuses me even more. If the number of times is relevant then surely I just gave the best answer?

Once is better than several times. And certainly better than...I've forgotten now. I've lost track of how many times George and I have slept together. It's not like I thought I would need to keep score.

'I see,' he eventually offers in a disappointed tone.

I think I would prefer it if he was angry. I could never take disappointment well. It fed into my guilt too much.

More silence. I wonder if he is imagining what I look like. If I look 'the type'. He must scan his congregation and wonder the same thing. Which husband's eye twinkles a little too much. Which wife leaves just one too many buttons undone on her blouse as she passes the collection plate.

It is the only part of his job that I envy. Being the keeper of secrets. Knowing so much about so many people but being sworn to secrecy at the same time. It would drive me insane.

'Do you love your husband?'

What sort of question is that? This was supposed to be a confession. Not a trial. But it is a good question. A pertinent one. That's what made me angry.

'Of course,' I shot back.

'You do not plan on seeing this other man again?'

'No,' I answered. I was on a roll. Three lies in a row. My ratio of truth to lies was falling well past forgiveness levels.

No response. This was almost as bad as some of the dates I used to go on. Making me wish I'd not gone to all the effort. I like to dress up for confession. It was not my habit but one I picked up in childhood from my mother.

'You should always be formal in the presence of God,' she would tell me.

So here I was. In a blue maxi skirt and a white lace top. My blonde hair tied up in a bun. Trying to look as angelic as possible.

And the jewellery. So much of it. I dripped in pearl and gold. Rings, bracelets, necklace, ear rings. Jerry loved to spoil me with the finer things. It was only later I realised every gift was a symptom of his guilty conscience.

Each diamond, sapphire and emerald was a symbol of his unfaithfulness with another woman. I twist my wedding ring around ataşehir escort my finger. It is the only thing he has given me out of love.

'Is there anything else you wish to say to me?' he asks.

I hesitate. It's almost like he knows. That through some divine and official channel he has discovered the true extent of my trespasses against God.

It would be a relief to tell someone. I feel like I have been carrying it around like a wound that needs to be tended to.

No, not a wound. That would imply pain. Suffering. And the truth is the opposite. I have not been suffering. I am the happiest I have been in a long time. Even with my guilt and shame screaming in the background.

I slip my hand under the band of my skirt and adjust my thong. The fabric is moist with my juice. Deliciously blasphemous. I start to work my cunt.

I wiggle on the seat to allow my fingers more room. I find my clit with index finger and begin to massage it.

'No...' I murmur in between stifled moans.

He coughs and I insert two fingers into my pussy. I bite my tongue though I want him to hear me. I want him to see me. In all my glory.

I had not planned this when I pulled up in the unfamiliar parking lot. It was just supposed to be a confession. Quick, painless and complication-free.

I hadn't envisioned masturbating in the confession booth while a disapproving priest listened in.

But perhaps that was my shtick now. Sex with George had liberated me. He had brought me round from the waking coma I had been in for too long. And now here I was. Making up for lost time.

My fingers thresh in and out of my wet slit. I love the sound it makes. He must be able to hear me. I wonder if he is hard. Sat so close to my carnal squelching. Trying to suppress a raging hard-on. Contemplating his life choices and the route that brought him here.

I want to tell him. I want to scream it as I cum. Shake the booth with my orgasm.

I wonder what he would do if I confronted him with the truth. He couldn't go to the police could he? He couldn't breach privilege or confidentiality.

I bite my tongue. Hard. I think I taste blood. I can't help it. My poor conscience tries to exert some influence. Not so long ago it probably thought it would never have to intervene in a scenario like this. Now, this is not even the worst of my misdeeds today.

I cum hard. My fingers are slick with juice. I give a strange half moan, half cry and embarrassingly try to turn it into a sneezing fit. I don't think he bought it. There is no sound.

I'm almost disappointed. That there's nothing. Not the fevered huffing and pumping of flesh across the barrier. But then he is the professional on resisting temptation. And I am just an amateur.

I wipe my hands on my skirt and pull paper napkins from my bag. I wipe my thighs down and then the seat. I leave the saturated napkins behind. A souvenir. I wonder if he will sniff them as his dick strains in his holy vestments.

I walk through the stout oak doors of the church in elation. I don't think I am welcome back here. I wonder if there is CCTV. If he will review it while clutching the napkins and jacking himself off.

Probably not. I walk to my SUV and open the trunk. I spray myself with perfume and check my makeup before stepping in. I turn the key in the ignition and gun the engine. I should feel satisfied and weary.

But it's the opposite. My pussy is already welling up again at the thought of heading home. Ready for more penetration. Ready for more cum. I put my shades on and check the mirror.

I glance towards the church doors to see if any irate and outraged men of the cloth emerge but the entrance is quiet and empty. Perhaps if I had summoned the courage to confess the full range of my sins it would be different.

He would be chasing me out swinging his thurible and invoking the name of the Lord as I totter away in my high heels. I screech out of the lot.

The tyres squeal. I narrowly miss a cyclist. I see him waving his fist at me in the mirror. I shrug and put my foot down. I wish I could stop to tell him the truth. My son is at home waiting to fuck me and I don't want to be late.

Part 2

Mandy is here. I feel a tinge of annoyance as I spot her car in the driveway. Ordinarily the presence of my daughter home from college would fill me with joy. But now I am disappointed by her sudden return. She is an unwelcome thorn in my plans.

I park up and wait. At least Jerry is not home. Probably out with his friends or seeing one of his mistresses. I don't know how he has the energy. I am glad he is not here. The happy hours of my marriage are now counted in his absence.

Gennaro Marone. 'Jerry the Mouse'. He loves the nickname. One of my earliest memories of him is when I asked how he got it. Laughing and giggling like a starstruck cheerleader. He wasn't a small or a timid man and there was really nothing mouse-like about him.

I was intrigued. I wanted there to kadıköy escort be an elaborate puzzle behind the odd nickname. A stirring origin story for this strange character. As I would find out later, there was no guile to Jerry or to his friends. The explanation was simple and disturbing.

It was after the cartoon mouse obviously. But not any reason I could glean. It was because Jerry kept coming back. It didn't matter what you hit him with. Frying pan. Baseball bat. Machetes. Semiautomatic weapons. He just kept coming back for more. As relentless and indestructible as his namesake.

He regaled me with his stories of cheating death. I don't know why I didn't run there and then. To hear him speak so proudly of violence and maiming and death. He didn't seem like a mobster or even a criminal. He was an outlaw in the best traditions of the mould. My own Robin Hood, Doc Holliday and Ned Kelly.

He was embellishing the truth I knew, but there was still some ring of authenticity to it. Later, I would discover the scars and marks that stippled his body and realise it was not so great an exaggeration after all.

When I think about it now it seems quite horrifying. Mainly the glee he took in telling me the stories. And my response. I was overawed. Intimidated. He was a dangerous man. A dangerous man who had the faculty to be charming. I had no chance.

I wasn't from that crowd. In the great tribe of Italian-Americans we were not even in adjoining reservations. But Jerry sucked me in. He was an irresistible force. I would like to say it was slow.

That gradually, imperceptibly, I moved from All-American girl to Gangster's Moll. But the reality was it only took a week or so before the change was abundantly apparent. He just swept by and uprooted me.

My hair went from boring bangs to an elevated bouffant. My wardrobe shifted from baggy sweaters and stonewashed slacks to crop tops and denim shorts.

My habits changed from late hours at the library to blowjobs in his car and then onto an exclusive club or bar. Champagne, caviar, lobster and tips of never less than a hundred dollars.

Even then he had acquired the type of notoriety that opened all the right doors. I was just the clichéd Olivia Newton John from Grease. Gone from prudish cardigans to blowing bubbles and showing flesh. The bimbo he needed to complete his image.

A dumb broad who didn't question how such a young man who wasn't a professional athlete could afford such an extravagant and decadent lifestyle.

My parents were horrified naturally. Jerry was the very antithesis of what they hoped for me. A wretched throwback that tarnished the good name of Italian-Americans everywhere.

Their horror sealed our relationship. There is nothing quite so motivating to the rebellious teenager as the disapproval of a parent. My mother would cry. My father would rant. I would ignore them both as I skipped down the stairs to my brooding paramour.

That was almost thirty years ago. But in my mind I am still that foolish girl traipsing down those steps as my parents try to save me.

I get out of the car and let my hair down. The angel had returned to earth. I spot Mandy through the kitchen window. She waves excitedly at me. I muster a passable level of motherly joy.

She greets me at the door and hugs me. She looks tanned and carefree. Her dark hair cut in an attractive bob. Her long legs on display in cutoffs. To be young again. To take back all the mistakes.

No, not mistakes. I regard my firstborn with a happy smile. She and George are the only good things to come out of my relationship with Jerry. They outweigh everything bad.

She flies into a feverish dialogue about college life. The city, the campus, the work, the boys. I nod and smile as we move to the kitchen. He is there eating lunch. My lover.

It feels thrilling to hear the thought articulated in my head. My son. And my lover. My pussy itches. George smiles at me from the kitchen island. There is still the merest trace of a blush in his cheeks.

As if he can't quite reconcile the demure woman who has just walked into the house with the demanding mother-lover who so regularly berates him for cum.

Gennaro Marone Jr. 'George' to everyone. He is tall like his father. Broad shouldered and barrel-chested. The same thick dark hair. and imposing jawline. He has my doe-eyes though. And my smile.

The colour has returned to his cheeks. He smiles again and it seems strange, an alien gesture that was so conspicuous by its absence before. He is a new man now. We thought we had lost him but he has returned to us.

Thanks to me. An odd source of pride but I claim it. It is not the doctors who cured him. Or the psychiatrists. Or the counsellors. Or the procession of teenage girls each more vapid and vacuous than the last.

No. My body has cured him. My pussy has given him new life. A new mindset. It has changed his worldview from monochrome to rainbow. I am his natural remedy.

'What bostancı escort are you having for lunch?' I ask.

'Just some macaroni and cheese. Mand whipped it up,' he replied.

'Well, aren't you just sister of the year, Amanda?'

She curtsies and we all laugh. It is a rare scene. A happy home. I give George a motherly peck on the cheek. It is the most chaste I have been with him in two weeks. No tongue.

I wash dishes as Mandy and George talk. I think of what I could be doing with George if she wasn't here. I imagine all the places my tongue has been as they witter on. I want to tell Mandy. I want to provide her with a running commentary as my pussy gets wet at the thought. Yes, Mandy. My tongue. Your brother.

It has explored every inch of his long dick. The smooth folds of his heavy balls. The puckered outline of his anus. The curves of his buttocks. The contours of his chest and stomach. The wide expanse of his mouth. So much time, Mandy. You are intruding on it now.

I finish the dishes and go up to my bedroom. I am ready to dive my fingers into my cunt. But I decide not to. My body feels cheated if my lover is in the same space and I am still resorting to self-pleasure.

I am at a loss. There is nowhere for me to retire to. I envy Jerry that. How readily he can abandon any problems at home. There is always somewhere for him to go. The casino. The bar. The strip club. The body shop. The restaurant. Any one of his multiple businesses or playgrounds.

I have my home and nothing else. This ridiculous house. An ostentatious monolith. Six bedrooms, five bathrooms, den, a pool, basement gym and a garden that needs a ride-on mower to cut it. I had always thought it was like me. Gaudy and empty.

He has made me a kept woman. No, not made me. I let him. It was too easy a conquest. Perhaps that is why he pities me now. I surrendered to him too easily.

I lie down for a while and feel sorry for myself. I check my email. My father has sent through his recommendations on my spec house along with a bill.

I know Jerry will not pay that price. I email back and inform my father as such. The one project that I have been relying on to maintain my sanity and it is all but finished before it begins.

I should have finished college. I should have learned a profession. I should have done some work, any work, menial or otherwise. But I let Jerry occupy all the spaces in my life. And now that he has begun to withdraw there is nothing left in the gaps. There is nowhere left for me to hide under.

The spec house was supposed to change that. It was only a passing whim. I stumbled upon the plot of land as I was driving home from lunch with the girls. That was what my life consisted of now. Luncheons and brunches and committees and associations. Each as frivolous and meaningless as the next.

The land was secluded. I'm not sure how I found it. Sometimes I just liked to drive. I think it was the car. It gave me a false sense of security. Made me believe I was protected and precious.

The land was bordered with pines on one side and fields on the other. It was an extensive lot. Space to build a mansion, stables and even a guesthouse.

I had never been an architect or had any dreams of building something from the ground up, but something about this land spoke to me. I had to have it. I had to build something on it. Something of my own. And now it was being taken away from me.

I go the bathroom and empty the laundry basket. I carry the laundry down to the basement and tip it into the washer. The florescent light flickers. I sigh and turn it off. Jerry was supposed to have it changed. There is a lamp on the shelf. I turn it on and pour conditioner into the washer.

The creak of the first stair gives him away. I know who it is before he reaches the bottom. I don't turn around. I should do many things. Spin round and confront him. Tell him off and send him packing to his room. Remind him that his sister is upstairs. That his father will he home soon. But I don't.

All my instincts are rewired when I am with him. Towards the deepest and basest instinct of all. I bend over the washer. It has begun its cycle. I wonder if the noise will cover my wails. I lift my skirt up before he reaches me. I hear him frantically unbuckling his trousers.

He pauses and waits. It has only been two weeks and he is learning to tease me. I know he wants me to turn around. Turn and beg for his cock. It is hard not to.

I let my skirt fall and clutch the machine closer. I have never lost a battle of wills with him. I could see off any tantrum or sulk he went into. But this was something completely different. In this new relationship I was the one falling at the first hurdle.

He lifts the skirt up and runs his hand over the globe of my buttocks. His finger traces the outline of my thong and then down my legs. I feel my wetness descend down the back of my thigh along with his finger.

We do not have time for this but I love it. I love how even our snatched moments together are elongated and heightened through the fear of being stumbled across. I have never been caught having sex. It would be odd if the first time I was discovered it would be as my son fucked me over the washer.