Forgive My Unholy Desire, Father Novel – “Mom, please, not here.” “I don’t care who hears.” Her grip tightens on my arm as she drags me toward the confessionals. “You’re going to talk to Father Augustine about those things I found in your drawer. Those…sex toys, Grace.” My face burns with embarrassment. She said it loud enough that someone could hear. “I’m twenty-one,” I say, trying to pull away. “You can’t make me do this.” “I pay your tuition. Your rent.
Everything.” She says, not even bothering to look at me. “So yes, I can.” “Mrs. Catherine? Grace?” My body immediately goes rigid. That voice. Deep and warm and too familiar. I turn slowly. Father Augustine stands a few feet away. His hair is dark and slightly messy like he’s been running his hands through it. He’s tall. Really tall, I have to crane my head to look at him. Those broad shoulders filling out the cassock in ways I’ve noticed too many times. “Father.” Mom’s voice transforms to something sweet and respectful, and if I wasn’t so focused on cooling my heated face, I would have rolled my eyes. “Thank God.
I was just bringing Grace to see you.” “Is everything alright?” He looks between us, concerned. “Grace needs to make a confession,” Mom says, her hand still on my arm. “It’s urgent.” My face burns hotter. Did he hear her mention the toys? Please God, tell me he didn’t hear. “I see.” His eyes find mine. Brown and kind. “Grace, would you like to talk?” I shake my head quickly. “I’m fine. Really.” “She’s not fine,” Mom cuts in, sternly. “She’s been avoiding church for months. She needs guidance.” “Mom, stop.” “No.” She pushes me forward slightly. “Father Augustine, please.
Talk to her.” He looks at me again. That same gentle concern. “Only if Grace wants to.” I should say no. I should turn around and leave. But Mom’s grip on my arm tightens and I know she won’t let this go. She’ll make my life hell until I do this. “Fine,” I mutter. “Let’s just get it over with.” *** The confessional is small. Cramped. I sit down on the wooden bench and the door closes behind me, shutting out the light. I can hear him on the other side of the partition, settling into his seat. The rustle of his cassock. His breathing. We’re so close. Just a thin wooden screen between us. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” “Amen.” Silence. I press my palms against my thighs, trying to steady myself. My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it. “Take your time, Grace.” His voice is gentle and patient, again. It makes everything worse. “I don’t know what to say,” I admit. “Start wherever feels right.” I close my eyes. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three months since my last confession.” “What’s been troubling you?” Everything. You. The fact that I can’t stop thinking about you. The fact that I touch myself every night imagining it’s your hands instead of mine. “I’ve been having… thoughts,” I say quietly. “Bad thoughts.” “What kind of thoughts?” “About someone.” My voice cracks. “Someone I shouldn’t think about that way.” “I see.” He pauses. “Can you tell me more?” I swallow hard. “I’ve felt this way for a long time. Since I was a little girl.
But it’s gotten worse lately. I can’t control it anymore.” “These feelings you have. Are they romantic? Sexual?” The bluntness of the question catches me off guard, and a rush of heat spreads through my chest. “Both,” I whisper in shame. “And this person. Do they know?” Never! “No. I could never tell them.” “Why not?” “Because it’s wrong.” My hands clench into fists. “Because of who they are. What they are. It would ruin everything.” Another pause, this one longer. “What do you mean by ‘what they are’?” His voice sounds different now, like he’s trying to be careful. I bite my lip. I shouldn’t say more. I should stop right here. But Mom is sitting right outside. Waiting. If I leave too soon, she’ll know I didn’t really confess. “He’s someone whose entire existence forbids my thoughts,” I say slowly. “Someone who I shouldn’t even think about in such a manner. He would never feel the same way.” Though it’s slightly dark in here, I see him shift, the bench creaking under his weight. “I imagine him touching me,” I continue, my voice barely above a whisper. “His hands on my skin. I imagine what it would feel like. What he would feel like.” “Grace.” His voice sounds strained now. “Perhaps we should talk about redirecting these feelings.” “I’ve tried.” I shake my head and my throat tightens. “I’ve tried everything. I stopped going to places where I knew his presence was constant. I avoided anything that would make me think about him. But it doesn’t help. It just makes it worse.” “I touch myself,” I say quietly. “At night. During the day sometimes when I can’t focus on anything else. I imagine him above me. His weight pressing me down. His hands are everywhere.” “Grace, I don’t think this is appropriate.” “You asked what was troubling me.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. “This is what’s troubling me, Father. I can’t stop. I’ve tried praying. I’ve tried everything. But every time I close my eyes, he’s there.” My hand moves to my thigh. I don’t even realize I’m doing it at first. Just pressing my palm against my leg, trying to ground myself. But then my fingers curl into the fabric of my skirt. Pulling it up slightly. “I imagine his voice in my ear,” I whisper. “Telling me what to do. How to touch myself. Where to touch.” Chapter 2 Grace’s POV “We should stop.” His voice sounds rough now. Different. “This isn’t—” “I’m wet right now,” I cut him off. “Sitting here and talking to you. I’m so wet I can feel it soaking through my panties.” Heavy silence sits between us. I can’t hear him breathing anymore. “Catherine! I didn’t know you were here today.” The voice sounds like Sister Agatha’s. “Oh yes, Grace is making her confession right now. With Father Augustine.” Mum’s voice carries through the thin confessional wall. My mum could burst in here at any moment. So I tell myself to stop talking. Stop this pressure that’s building in my core. But I can’t. And worse, the danger of it makes everything worse. Or better. I don’t know anymore. I just know that the thought of Mom discovering me like this, of Sister Margaret hearing something, makes me strangely wet and hot. I’m sick. I have to be sick to feel this way.
But I can’t stop. My hand slides higher. Under my skirt. My fingers brush against my inner thigh and I have to bite back a sound. “Should I stop?” I ask breathlessly. “Should I stop telling you?” I wait for him to respond. I wait for him to scold me for having such sinful thoughts. But his next words shocks me. “No,” he says, barely audible. The word sends a shiver through me. “What?” “Don’t stop.” His voice is rough and strained. “Tell me more.” My fingers find the edge of my panties. They’re completely soaked. “I think about him constantly,” I breathe out. “When I’m in class. When I’m trying to sleep. When I’m in the shower with my fingers between my legs.” I slip my hand inside my panties. The moment my fingers touch my pussy I have to press my other hand against my mouth to keep quiet. I’m so wet. So swollen and sensitive. “I imagine it’s his fingers,” I whisper. “Not mine. I imagine him touching me like this. Feeling how wet I am.
How desperate I want him to take me.” One finger slides inside easily and my walls clench around it, like they’ve been waiting for the intrusion. “Grace.” His voice cracks. “You shouldn’t—” “I know.” My finger starts moving slowly and carefully. “I know it’s wrong. I know I shouldn’t feel this way. But I can’t help it, Father” I add another finger, stretching myself. My thumb finds my clit and I have to bite down hard on my lip. “Sometimes I imagine him here,” I continue, my voice shaking now. “In this church. Bending me over the altar. Pulling up my skirt and—” “Stop.” The word comes out harsh. Commanding. I freeze. My fingers are still buried inside myself. “I should go,” I whisper hurriedly, my entire body burning with heat. It’s too hot here. “No,” he says, and I hear a bit of ruffling. “Don’t go. Just… just give me a moment.” I hear movement, then the sound of wood scraping against wood. Then a click. The small partition between us slides open, and my eyes widen. I can see him now. Really see him. His face is just inches away through the opening. But there’s something in his gaze. His eyes aren’t kind anymore. They’re dark and…hungry? Before I can say another word, he speaks up. “Let me see.” “What?” “Your hand.
Let me see what you’re doing.” My breath catches in my throat, and I almost tell myself I’m hearing things. No. No. This is wrong. So so wrong. I should pull my hand away from where it is buried in my swollen mound of flesh. Close my legs and run far away from him. Faraway from this sweet but sinful temptation. But I don’t. Instead, I angle myself slightly, letting him see my hand disappear under my skirt. With my other hand, I lift my skirt off my creamy thigh. His eyes follow the movement, until my thigh is completely bare for him. An odd satisfaction goes through me when his eyes don’t turn away when my fingers start to move between the lengths of my folds. “I– I should st-stop. But it’s too much. Too good.” “Don’t stop,” he says quietly. “Keep going.