Catholic Guilt [MF]

Church halls are always draughty, and they always have the same smell. That smell of disinfectant and elderly mops; the smell of hard work and communal graft. Also farts. Somebody always farts.

There’s a middle aged lady sat to my left. I don’t remember her name. She’s talking about how she used to get ploughed by the mailman. When that got boring she convinced him to bring his teenaged colleague along with him in the mornings and she’d satisfy them both before breakfast each day. I don’t want to speak tonight, but I know that I will. It’s important to my recovery. She’s droning on about how, before she came in, she was placing home delivery orders with six or seven different grocery stores, and buying paperclips on Amazon Prime so that she could fuck the delivery men. All day long, a steady stream of men coming to her house and screwing her senseless up against the wall in the hallway of her suburban McMansion where they could watch themselves in the full-length mirror. She says that by the end, just the sound of a delivery van would set her juices flowing. The moment a truck pulled up outside her house, her pussy would be drooling like one of Pavlov’s dogs.

She finishes and there’s a polite smattering of applause, like the first haphazard drops of rain on a car window. I clear my throat and tuck my hair behind my ear and I say “Hi, I’m Chloe and I’m an addict.”

Everyone mutters “Hi Chloe”.

“Today is my ninety days” I continue, and I wait while they clap and whistle and shout keep coming back, “and I’m actually doing pretty well, I think. I haven’t acted out in all that time and I’m not hiding myself any more from my husband. I think that’s the best part, that I don’t have any secrets from him any more.” I chew my lip reflectively. I do this a lot when I’m thinking. “I used to suck cocks”, I tell the room, “I mean I used to have sex, too, but it was the cocksucking that I struggled with. There was something about the – ” I pause and search for the right word “I guess the power of it, you know? Like I’m on my knees with their dick in my mouth and I’m sucking them off, and I look up at their faces and I understand that I’m in complete control of them. Like they are submitting themselves to pleasure, and I get to own that pleasure, to choose whether they get to cum.”

The elderly lady across from me – Mavis, I think – is nodding at this. She used to love getting fucked up the ass by sailors down at the docks. She had to stop eventually because her ass just got too floppy and saggy from all the cocks and she had problems that you don’t even want to know about.

“My husband, I mean, I can suck his cock, too, but it’s not the same.” I pause again, looking down at my feet. “I miss the danger, you know? Like… if I suck my husband’s cock, then that’s, uh… that’s *nice*. His cock is fine, I guess, but it’s not the same as sucking off some guy you just met behind the bar. I felt so dirty at those moments, knelt in a puddle surrounded by chip packets and beer bottles, letting him slide his thick shaft down my throat. It was _intoxicating_.”

I ponder this for a moment. “I guess I *was* dirty then. Like I *chose* to be dirty. I was so full of guilt and shame, and that made it feel even better at the time, but I’d pay the price later. I’d lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, feeling like such a slut.” I pause again, the room is full of smiling, nodding people. People like me, broken people who couldn’t say no. People who couldn’t stop. “I was pretty messed up before I came in.” I continue, “I’m not – you know – I don’t want to do those things any more. I guess I’m just happy to be here with you guys and to have found grace. But sometimes…”

I trail off and after a moment I just wave my hands to signal that I’m done talking. There is polite applause. The guy next to me starts to tell a story about exposing himself to school kids. My attention wanders. A couple of minutes go by before I hear the squeak of sneakers on polished hardwood floors. I look up to see you entering the room, as quietly as you can. It’s the swagger that I notice first. You are at once perfectly contained within your own skin, and yet too large for the space you occupy. You stride quickly and quietly across the room. You exude confidence, your head is held high. You walk like a king, like a tiger. Your skin is the most gorgeous coffee brown: the same rich hue as your eyes. Your hair is cropped short, and as you catch my eye you smile flashing brilliant white teeth. It’s your smile that sets my heart racing, I think. It’s the smile that makes me catch my breath and examine you more closely: you are settling into the seat opposite me. You wear dark blue jeans and a high-necked black sweater. Your hands do not bear any rings. You are leaning forward in your seat, with your hands clasped as though in prayer. Your body, I can tell, is firm and toned beneath the sweater and I feel a familiar buzz in my veins. If I weren’t here, in recovery; if I hadn’t come clean at last to my husband – my best friend – if only I weren’t an addict.

You have a thoughtful expression on your face as the guy to my right finishes his story – ” – anyhow they found the car of course. I don’t know what they must have thought happened there, what with all the porn and the dildo, and the lingerie, all burned up in that fire and all. They told me later that they thought the car must have been air-lifted in! Halfway up a mountain in the middle of winter, stuck in a ditch. I just figured I’d had a lucky escape and so I came in to you people, and I found fellowship, and I just want to say that I’m grateful today to have found some peace”. Again there is the polite golf clapping, and a few people mumble “Thanks, Dave.”

John, who organises the group, holds up a hand for quiet and says brightly “We have a newcomer. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. Please just know that you are welcome to join us in fellowship and grace, but if there’s something you’d like to share, I know that we’d all be happy to hear from you.”

You lean back in your chair, with your legs wide apart as though your testicles were watermelons. You look cooly around the room and say “Sure”. It’s the voice that makes the butterflies rise up in my chest. Your voice is dark and gravelly. Achingly cool. You don’t sound like I expected, you’re British, but not an accent I’ve heard on the TV. It’s dirty, somehow, and I suddenly want to march over to you, push you back in your chair and straddle you. I would grab you by the chin and tilt your head back so that I could thrust my tongue into your mouth. I would feast on your mouth, eating you all up, my tongue swirling around yours as though I were a bee at a flower. While we kissed, my other hand would grab your cock, which I’m sure is thick and meaty and uncut and when I felt it harden in my hand I would slip from the chair to kneel in front of you so that I could slip it from your pants and slobber up and down your shaft and kiss your heavy, hairy balls, drunk with the smell of you and – I realise you’ve finished talking and so I clap politely.

———————–

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned.”

It is two days later and I’m in the confessional booth of the church attached to that same church hall in the suburbs of the Midwest. Through the screen I can make out the form of Father Brecht. I have always liked him in a comfortable, fatherly kind of way, and this makes it doubly shaming when I have to confess to him.

“I have had impure thoughts, father. About a man who isn’t my husband.”

The old priest bows his head as though he’s falling asleep. I know this gesture from my childhood. This means he is concerned for me, and disappointed. After a moment’s silence he says “Have you acted on these thoughts, my child?”

I hesitate. Should I tell him that I had to excuse myself to the bathroom immediately after you finished speaking? Should I tell him how I stood in the bathroom stall with one foot up on the closed toilet seat and rubbed my clitoris as fast and hard as I could? My eyes rolled back in my head and I had to bite my lip to stop myself from moaning. I slipped two fingers deep inside my sopping wet passage and fucked myself to orgasm, all the while imagining your fat, black cock spasming and spurting cum down my throat.

“No, father. I have only sinned in thought.” I tell him.

“And are you still seeking fellowship?”

After the meeting, I had stood nervously by the literature, guarding the coffee urn, hoping you would come and talk to me. Praying that you wouldn’t talk to me. You did, of course. I pretended not to notice you as you sauntered toward me with that easy rolling gait. You walk as though you are dancing to a song only you can hear. You walked right up to me, towering over me with your big broad shoulders and your strong arms and you said “Hi” and you held out your hand to me.

I blushed nervously and reached out to take your hand, “Hi”, I said. “I’m Chloe.” I was humiliatingly aware, as we shook hands, that those fingers were plunged into my burning snatch only minutes before. Your thumb stroked mine and I felt a shiver, a momentary spark of electricity. Your aftershave is musky and warm. It smells of authority and comfort and sex.

“I’m Evelyn”, you said.

“Evelyn, huh. That’s an interesting name.”

You smirked. “My father chose it. He named me after an author.” Your words are honey dipped: that dark, rough voice; those clipped vowels. I realise that I’m playing with my hair, that I’m gazing at you hungrily. My lips are slightly parted.

You continued “So, could I get your phone number?”

My jaw must have visibly dropped. I felt the blood drain from my face. Tiny pinpricks of cold sweat appeared at the back of my neck and under my armpits. I babbled “Oh, Um. Well, I’m – ” I wanted to tell you that I’m married. I wanted to beg you to bend me over, right there in the church hall, to bend me over and fuck me over the cheap folding table full of asinine pamphlets about hope and virtue and kindness. I wanted you to fill me up with your thick seed in front of these hypocrites and repentant bores. I wanted you to breed me, I wanted my belly swollen with your child and my tits leaking with milk while you fucked my throat again and a-

“Only they told me I should try to get some numbers from people. Because I’m a newcomer.”

“OH!” I said. “Yes! Yes, of course. Shit. Um.” I patted my pockets uselessly as though they might contain a pen.

“Here” you said, passing me your phone, “just missed-call me.” I dial my own number on his phone, wait for my phone to vibrate in my pocket, and then hand his back.

“There you go,” I say, “now you can always get me, any time you want me.”

I swallow hard.

“Yes, father. I’m still in fellowship, and I’m active in the group.”

——————————

Lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling. This is the darkest time, the reckoning with my conscience. The searching fearlessly. This is the time when my thoughts and my actions come back to haunt me, when I feel my sinfulness most wretchedly. I feel wracked with guilt for masturbating in the church hall bathroom. That’s not normal behaviour, is it? Am I slipping? I don’t want to let my husband down again. He is sleeping beside me. The quiet hum and rush of his breathing soothes me. He murmurs little noises in his sleep: comfortable, safe sounds like a dreaming baby. I think back to the night of the meeting. You slipping squeakily through the door. You with the insouciant walk and the dazzling grin and the hard, toned body. My thoughts betray me.

It’s important not to fight intrusive thoughts. Fighting them only creates shame, and shame is the food that addiction feeds on. Instead, I let my thoughts come, and I try to observe them without judging them as good or bad. We are in the church hall, and everybody has left. We are putting away the chairs together. I say goodbye to you by the door and you place your hand on my waist. Your hands are so large and strong, you make me feel tiny. “I’m married,” I say, “please don’t”, but you grab my hair in your fist and pull me roughly toward you. I moan as you clamp your lips onto mine, and you plunge your tongue into my mouth. I’m instantly liquid, limpid. The strength leaves my body as you kiss me deep and hungry. I allow you to roam my mouth freely, I suck at your tongue and encourage you deeper. You lift me bodily and pull my sweater over my head. I am not wearing a bra and you break our kiss to suckle hard at my nipples. My arms are around your neck, my legs around your waist and I hang there, supported by your strength while you suck and bite at my breasts. You press me up against the wall and slide my panties to one side under my skirt. Your cock slips easily into my juicy pussy and you fuck me roughly. Our bodies make wet slapping sounds as we grind and buck into each other. Your tongue enters my mouth again, you are kissing me, you are fucking me. I am just limp in your arms, absolutely yours. Your cock is huge inside me, stretching me open, forcing itself deep into my womanhood. When we climax, we cum together with me biting your ear and you sucking the skin of my neck. Your cum is hot inside my womb.

Lying awake at night, racked with guilt, trying not to fight the thoughts. If I recite something familiar, I can sometimes distract myself. Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb. My womb is aching for you. I want you inside me, pulsing and jerking as you fill me up. I want you to mark me as a dog marks its territory. I want you to bend me over and rut me like a bitch in heat. When you’ve spent your load inside my wet cunt, I will crawl over to you, wagging my butt in the air to show my servility. I will crawl over to your cock and I will lovingly suck it clean of our juices. We will taste rich and salty together, like life itself. Hail Mary, full of grace. I will be full of your cum. I want to feel it roll down inside me in thick gobs, so that when I walk it drools forth from my swollen labia. Blessed art thou among women.

Lying awake at night, stroking my wet vagina with two fingers, trying not to wake my husband. Lying awake at night, trying not to moan, trying not to cry.

———-

I’m Robin Goodfellow. I like words and I like filthy. My hobby is writing stories based on people’s fantasies. If you’ve got a secret, burning desire you’d like me to tackle, drop me a PM. I do this for the upvotes and orange envelopes.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/7mo81t/catholic_guilt_mf