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Grace is a college student who has secretly loved the handsome priest Augustine from their church for many years. Unable to control her desire for the priest, she began avoiding church activities. Her mother Catherine is a devout and traditional Christian. After discovering s*x toys in her daughter's room, she forcibly takes Grace to the church to confess to the priest, while she waits in a pew near the confessional. Grace begins her confession, but soon finds the situation spiraling out of control, and Augustine seems to be enjoying it. “You like this, don’t you? My hand fcking you while the church waits outside.” “Yes,” I choke out. “I’m so close.” I'm sick. I have to be sick to feel this way. I'm in the confessional, having wild s*x with the priest I've secretly loved for years. “Is– is she okay?” My mother's voice suddenly came from outside. “She’s just recalling something painful,” his tone steady, but he deliberately sped up thrusting his finger. “We’re working through it.” God, why does this feel so ridiculously good! "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…s*x 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 h*ll 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? S*xual?" 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."

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