NOTE: This story is part 1 in an ongoing series of "he said, she said" installments I'm working on with SassyCheerGirl. We will be alternating chapters and will each be writing from the perspective of our characters. It's an experiment in interactive storytelling and may be more interesting for us than for you, the reader, but we're sharing the results anyways. We both hope you enjoy the ride!
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Confessions, Part 1 (He said)
I now know that I was a late bloomer. Growing up in my small Midwestern hometown, I saw my friends and classmates go from normal kids to hormone-addled tweens, to sex-crazy teens. I was on the sidelines of all this, and even though my body was changing apace, I never understood why they seemed so needy. I saw my peers as falling into sin all around me and none of them seemed to care. I always wondered at how they thought it could be worth it.
Going to the monastery at 16 had seemed like such a natural choice: I seemed above the rampant sinning I saw all around me, and I naively thought it was because I had been chosen by God to live a holy life of chastity.
I was wrong.
During my years of isolated training, I had little trouble controlling the urges I had; after all, I was surrounded by men and was living a very sparse and pious life in cloisters. At 20, my initial training was complete and I was assigned to be a junior priest at St. Agnes’s Church in Hemlock Bluff, IN.
When I arrived at the church, I was met by Father Spencer, who briefed me on my duties. I would assist with planning and writing sermons, co-ordinate with the fellowship group, and take confessions. I would also get to give the sermon this Sunday at the 11 am service, the one Father Spencer called “the hangover” service. Father Spencer joked that this group would probably relate best to my age and thought this would be a good introduction for me to the congregation. I dedicated myself to doing my best to make the sermon compelling. I quickly decided that “chastity” would be the perfect topic for my sermon, both because I imagined the ‘hangover’ service to be filled with remorseful parishioners, and because I thought I was a shining example of the virtue, having never so much as fantasized about a woman.
After many hours of study, writing, re-writing, and practicing, I felt ready for my premiere and slept well, eager to impress my new flock.
I woke with an erection, as always, but it was easy to ignore and I went over my sermon while I prepared for the day. Everything was going perfectly according to plan.
As planned, I stayed in the rectory until I heard my cue: “…..I’m excited to introduce you to our new pastor, Father Mike”.
I was all smiles as I entered the parish, and took my place at the podium. Holding onto the podium, I looked at the congregation for the first time.
When I pictured my new congregation, I imagined it would be like the one I grew up in: a room full of fairly people wearing uncomfortable clothes and trying to look pious. What I saw made me realize Father Spencer was being literal when he called this the hangover service.
The congregation certainly had its fair share of pious-looking adults, but there was a surprising number of young adults in the pews; many of them had bags under their bloodshot eyes, and a few who were plainly sleeping with their heads on their chest—an impressive accomplishment, given they were mere minutes into the service. I scanned the faces before me, taking in my new flock, and pausing for dramatic effect.
I inhaled to start my well-rehearsed sermon and was stopped dead when I saw
her. She sat in the front row, her green eyes highlighted by her emerald-green dress, much too slinky for church. Her curly red hair contrasted the green and made her eyes seem to glow. She was looking off into the distance, a smile on her face that spoke clearly of the carnal thoughts that were in her head. The tousled hair and slinky dress made me realize that those thoughts were memories of sex—memories that were almost certainly mere hours old.
Her soft contented smile filled my mind with images of sex, and I instantly pictured her slender body writhing in pleasure. I tried to tear my mind away to start my speech, but all I could think of was her smooth alabaster skin and how it would contrast with the rough sheets of my Spartan bed.
I finally tore my eyes away from her and tried to collect my thoughts. I saw the looks of derision on the faces of some of the younger members and wondered how long I’d been lost in reverie, but that wasn’t my biggest problem. My monastic life had taught me to dress sparely and I was alarmed to feel my unfettered cock rising against my robe.
I started my sermon immediately, hoping that the Word would take care of my problem.
I clung to the podium like it was my life raft, praying that it would keep anyone from noticing. My sermon poured out of my mouth unconsciously, my long hours of rehearsal paying off as my conscious mind screamed in horror at my predicament.
How was I going to get away from the altar? My cock was pushing the front of my robe out like a circus tent, and the only thing keeping it from being obvious to everyone was the heavy oaken lecturn in front of me.
The more I thought about it, the harder I grew, my neglected penis throbbing for my attention; begging to explore the depths of sin with the petite red-head in the front row. At the end of my sermon, my problem was worse.
Desperate for an excuse to stay behind the protective shield of the podium, I announced that I would be reading some relevant verses to highlight my points. With shaking hands and flushed face, I found the verses, and started to read. My eyes partially closed as I recited the familiar words, images of my Abbot frowning severely as I recited these lines coming to mind. Latching onto that image, I recited verses until I was sure the crisis had passed. I bowed my head with my eyes still closed and intoned what may have been my most heartfelt “Amen” ever. Focussing on my feet, I walked to the exit, not waiting for Father Spencer to come out, as originally planned, just thankful to get away without, I prayed, anyone noticing what had happened.
Father Spencer found me in my office, halfway through my self-imposed rosary, when he concluded the service. Seeing the ire on his face, I pre-empted his lecture by saying “Forgive me, Father, I was unprepared to face the congregation. I am praying for guidance to do better next time”
Contrition being irresistible to a priest, he softened quickly without the tongue-lashing I so richly deserved. His forgiveness was expressed by his saying “It isn’t as easy as it looks, is it?”
“No, it’s not”, I replied, the relief plain in my voice.
Chuckling, he tried to cheer me up by relating, “You should have seen my first sermon….” And shaking his head as he trailed off. “Next time, we’ll practice it some more and it’ll go better; you’ll see”.
“I hope so Father. And thank you for understanding”, I responded.
“It does get easier, I promise; now why don’t you come out and meet the parishioners?”
“If it’s alright with you, I’d like to finish my prayer, Father, I’m in need of some divine inspiration”.
“OK, but, next week, you’ll have to meet them. They need to relate to you for your ministry to be effective”. With this, we walked off to talk to our congregants.
I sighed deeply, relieved that I seemed to get through the experience unscathed, and focussed on my rosary.
That night, images of her came to me. Her carnal smile, her smooth pale skin, the thought that she was almost certainly sloppy with her sin as she daydreamed through my sermon, were so arousing. I had no defence against such thoughts, my cloistered life having shielded me from such thoughts, images, and, to be honest, women, since I was quite young.
I woke in the morning with an ache in my groin to go with the desperate throbbing hardness under my sheets. Trying, and eventually succeeding, to defeat the images of her by focussing on images of my Brothers, I rolled out of bed and started my daily duties.
She haunted me, her eyes and smile making me hard often through the day. Nightly vivid dreams of her left me more achy and desperate with each passing day, and it was harder and harder to prevent myself from touching my hard cock each morning, but I managed.....barely.
Father Spencer decided that it might be best if I took confession the following weekend, foregoing having me give another sermon in favour of simply introducing me and having me meet the fellowship at the other sermons.
Most of the confessions were straightforward:
“I took the Lord’s name in vain”
“I took some change from the tray at the store”
“I had steak for dinner on Friday”
“I didn’t tithe last week”
Even the ones that one would think would set me off, were cloaked in the form of the confessions:
“I had impure thoughts about my teacher”
“I coveted my neighbor’s wife”
“I committed adultery with my secretary”
Each confession receiving an appropriate amount of penance and then sent on their way. I was distracted in the booth, trying, and barely managing to keep my sinful daydreams about her just under the surface.
Everything seemed to be going well; or at least going well enough, until she came in to the confessional....
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[Part 2 will be posted by SassyCheerGirl]
