I guess we all feel guilty about something sometime. My problem, I believe, was that I felt guiltier than most.

I was having lewd thoughts that were out of control. When I looked at a girl, I wanted to feel her, smell her, run my hand through her hair and down her body, all the way down to the moist lips of her pussy.

In my religion, it’s considered sinful for a girl to think that way about another girl. When I feel such “unnatural” lust, I am supposed to confess. Who knows how many priests I may have led astray with my thoughts of intense female lovemaking?

Anyway, confessing never gave me any satisfaction or peace. I certainly didn’t stop having such thoughts or from acting on them, and I continued to feel guilty. For example, at the beach this week I saw a brown-eyed girl with her fine ass showing, her white teeth glowing, and her bosom hanging like fruit on the vine. Rather than brood, I spoke right up. I asked her if she wanted to take a ramble down the boardwalk. She nodded and we took a little stroll. I could feel the wetness in my pussy leak down between my legs. I can tell you that it was an exquisite torture, having to wait to go under the boardwalk with her, having to postpone putting my fingers up her pussy. It was obvious that she was digging the fidgeting and consternation that all served as a preamble to a glorious afternoon.

Afterwards though, I felt guilt and anxiety. I immediately went to confess. It didn’t help. I still felt guilt. My go-to move in such situations was to go to a spa where I would try to forget everything. On this occasion, I chose an underground spa that was filled with shiny chrome and walnut panels. My favorite spa treatment was the mud wrap because it helped remedy my oily skin, and it also gave me the sensation of flying.

Once I had come down the elevator and checked in, I was met by a rather severe-looking matron (though not totally unattractive) who handed me a robe and towel. In the locker room, I quickly changed out of my street clothes, showered, donned my robe and rejoined my greeter. I felt fresh and spectacular, as the terry cloth robe offered friendly friction to my supple, nude body underneath. The matron took me to a spa room for a table shower. She introduced herself as, “Donna,” asked me to disrobe and to position myself on the table. I remember that she got right to work. At the beginning of the treatment, when her skilled fingers soaped and washed me, I became aroused right away. I couldn’t help but wonder, of all things, what she tasted like between her thighs. Unintentionally or not, she aimed the table jets right where I was feeling my lust. The matron soon had me on the edge of a water-induced orgasm, as it seemed that she purposely brought the water jet closer to my clit.

She whispered in my ear, “You seem to be enjoying this way too much. That’s sinful. You will need to be punished.”

I certainly didn’t deny my enjoyment, nor did I want to. I got the wild idea that if I received punishment, maybe then it would be okay to feel pleasure from whatever I was being punished for. Wanting very much to get rid of the impending guilt at any cost, I acquiesced, hoping for, at a minimum, a blessed release. I hoped that somehow through punishment I was going to find a way for me to enjoy my lustful thoughts and feelings.

In that moment, the oldster did nothing more than continue to sensually apply mud to my body and I continued my lusting. She seemed like the ultimate cunt-teaser. What would it be like to feel her old cunt? Could I make her wet? Would she lay back and shudder, if I stroked her? What color was her cunt? What was the texture?

Her jowls and saggy breasts might have discouraged others, but for me, they just made me want her more.  Donna persisted in applying the smooth, cool mud all over me, slipping her fingers into the nooks and crannies that were close to my pussy. The woman finished up by wrapping me in a plastic sheet, and then covering me with a thermal blanket for warmth. She concluded the set-up by turning off the lights

My mind slowly took flight. I imagined licking her all over, bringing her clit to attention, and giving her a supreme oh-goddess moment. About twenty minutes later, she unwrapped me as the lights flickered back on.

“How are you doing in your little cocoon?” she inquired.

The mud had dried and I looked like a ceremonial tribeswoman. I felt elated when the old one began to vigorously rub my body with wet towels, giving me a good buffing in order to take the mud off. As she wiped me, I couldn’t resist the urge to stroke her hair.

She stopped me by grabbing my hand. She glared at me and started to lecture me.

“You have evil thoughts. You must be punished to purify yourself. Do you agree?”

Her confusing shifts of behavior made it hard to trust her. Her touch and actions seemed quite intimate, yet when I started to get turned on, she would push me away with the threat of punishment. But then again, punishment, for her, was a gift she wished to give. She had her ways. She had her method. She had her opinions. Whatever, I was praying at the time that punishment could take me on the royal road to pleasure without guilt.

I thought about it. The old woman could be right, I might have to submit to punishment to get the sort of relief I wanted. When I had confessed numerous times to the priest about my so-called “sins”, I never stopped feeling guilty, nor did I ever feel forgiven. So maybe, I rationalized, if I embraced corporal punishment, I could emphatically rid myself of guilt altogether.

“Okay. Yes, I agree.”

In an instant, the lady was ready for action and motioned for me to follow. We moved to a spot in front of the mirror, which was trued with the walls of the room. She leaned on it and it opened to a secret parlor room. Amidst the dim light, I spied two platforms with four points of restraint on each platform. One set was for hands and ankles while in a kneeling position and the other was for hands and ankles while in a spread-eagle position.

The dour Donna fitted me into the restraints on the first platform so that my ass was higher than my head when I assumed the submissive position. I prepared myself for a full-on assault from this mysterious woman.

She began to administer the punishment. For every whack from the rounded paddle, I gave out an o-sound, which got louder and louder as I began to feel the sting of the leather change into a burning sensation that pierced through my being. I felt an intense inner glow that warmed my pelvis to the point where I squeezed and gasped and released an orgasmic shiver.

The old woman immediately stopped and angrily addressed me, “You are not meant to have a good time. You are meant to suffer so you can be purified. I shall have to punish you again. This time I shall punish you in a much harsher fashion.”

Good, I thought. Was I going crazy in thinking that? Not at all, I was getting extremely turned on and I’m sure the old woman knew it. Was she also, I wondered?

I answered her, “Yes, mam,” in my most demurring manner. Inside my bod, I was excited and soaked.

When she led me to the other platform, I meekly complied, even though I held myself back from racing over to the shackles. I guess it was true that she valued punishment over orgasm, but for me, it was orgasm over punishment for sure, though if punishment led to orgasm, I was all for it. One thing was clear, in those particular, anticipatory moments, the presence of guilt did not exist. I could only attribute its absence to the paddling I had just received.  I was eager for more.

The beguiling Donna strapped me in on the far platform face-up. She had a switch that she flicked all over my body with the skill of a metronome. I was hyper-aroused, but I was unable to do anything more than squirm.

She paused to frustrate me. It was clear she wanted me to beg, so I gave in and begged to get what I wanted. Donna chose that exact second to start licking my inner thighs, a big surprise, yet not totally unexpected. As quick as a cat, she was on the table. Something was in her hand. At first, I figured it to be a miniature dildo, but then I saw the whittled piece of ginger. Ha, I thought, this is going to be a doozie

Old Donna shoved it into my pussy. I bucked like a bronco and screamed like a banshee. She then clamped down my legs and said, “Need some more of my tongue?”

“Yes, please,” I shouted. Donna sucked the ginger out of my vagina as if it were snake venom, and spat it far away.

Then she was on my cunt like a madwoman, licking and sucking and lapping. I strained to get free, as my body arched off the table, vibrating and shaking like a Voudon princess until I climaxed, and my energy was released in a full body orgasm. After the sparks and fireworks, I laid still and content.

I thought we were done, but we went on to the main course, as Donna nimbly hopped up to a squatting position above my sweaty face. Her labia hung down like burlap, as she commanded me to lick her.

When I complied, letting my tongue flick and circle, Donna began to whimper and cry out. Shortly after, she began to squirt her fluids in small spurts. What a salty old lady she was, though she was certainly not too old to cum big!

Suddenly, she was smacking my face. It hurt plenty but, at least, it was somewhat controlled. The smacks and whacks plus the exertions of my efforts to get free were making me very wet. Donna, riding me like a cowgirl, sensed this and reached back with a helping hand to accommodate me. I was gushing.

I remember her exact words as being, "let me play in your pond a bit." Her fingers went in and out, searching for the most sensitive areas. Once all five were in, she curled them together and made a fist. Donna kept pumping as I gasped.

A fist in my pussy was a first. It felt like I was giving birth. The energy swirled inside my pelvis like a gathering storm, like a hurricane. It became a tremendous force that peaked when everything burst like a rain cloud, and then everything settled down

The oldster uncuffed me and gave me a hug. It was warm and satisfying. I was completely satiated. I felt absolutely different. I felt alive. I felt whole. I had been changed by the experience and, I dare say, I think she was also.

Somehow with the old woman’s help, I had been able to convert guilt into desire, whether that was her intention for me or not. Possibly, she was just some horny, nutcase, but I believe that even though she obviously had her own agenda, that she still had been a positive catalyst for me. Perhaps, it was the chrysalis element in her spa treatment that had helped me the most. Whatever it was, it was magical.

As I look back now upon all my previous torment, through the lens of time, I can see that in going forward, it’s very much up to me to prevent my desire from ever being converted back into guilt.