What could we say? That we were joking about the priest who had heard our confessions that afternoon, and our knowledge of his erotic enjoyment of the...? Were we to tell her that the confessional was ripe with the scent of unfulfilled lust, and that the very same hands that placed the body of our Lord into our waiting mouths were dampened by his own emissions? That the taste of his seed added a certain piquancy to taking communion? Or that we had come to know that unless our confessions inflamed. That husky throaty, nearly primeval groan in my ear as he leans in close all tensed up, one last thrust deep inside my soul and unleashes a torrent of heat into me. For a moment nothing exists outside the two of us. I love that I inspire in him, what he commands of me. I’ve cum for him, upon his demand, with three fingers buried deep inside me, the sound of his voice and the power of his words drenching my mind in a kind of mental orgasm. This man and I? We’ve met in the middle of an even. More

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