Blessed are the Bad Girls (true story, x-post from r/sluttyconfessions)

Volumes have been written about the relative anonymity of the internet, for both good and bad.

One thing’s for sure: A lot of people out there have a lot of hidden kinks, fantasies and stories they can share online but wouldn’t dare tell the people they know in realspace.

(Present company included, not to put too fine a point on it.)

Every once in a while, back when Craigslist had real personals, I’d post an ad asking people — okay, fine, women — to tell me their five dirtiest fantasies. I got a few responses from men who couldn’t read categories, but I also got a fair number of responses from the target sample group.

A lot of them had to do with bosses, friends, even fathers-in-law or brothers-in-law. Those, I couldn’t do anything about. Others had to do with going to sex clubs or being involved in a gangbang. The former, I might do but not around here. The latter, not my thing. Probably won’t ever be my thing.

But there was one response, that only had one fantasy on its list, that grabbed me from the outset. That came — I’m guessing here — in 2001, making me 48.

She was 28, tall, with dark red hair and a whole lot of curves. She had a boyfriend, and it was starting to get serious, so she wasn’t looking for anything long-term. Also, she liked to be spanked. She liked to be told what to do.

Then came the payoff fantasy: She wanted to get it on in a church, with a pastor, and be punished at the same time for her sinfulness. The whole thing stemmed from when she was a senior in high school, and had quite the thing for the pastor in her church — a stern and dominating type, she said, and that’s what turned her on the most.

No, I’m not a pastor. But I did have the keys to a church, at the time. Yes, there will be other stories set there in the future, but let’s stick with this one for now.

We talked over the next couple of days. We established ground rules and agreed on a safe word.

A couple of nights after we’d settled those things, when the church was empty and the cleaning crew had left, she pulled into the parking lot and I let her in. I was dressed for the role: Suit jacket, tie, button-up shirt, slacks. I told her to wear something close to what she’d have worn in high school, and she showed up in a tight button-up blouse and a denim skirt that didn’t reach her knees.

Pity the pastor didn’t know what she wanted. He could have had a lot of fun.

I didn’t want to use the actual pastor’s office, so we went into the library and sat her down at a table. I put on a stern face and said “I understand you’ve been having some impure thoughts. You need to tell me about them.”

“I haven’t had any impure thoughts, I swear!”

I have a short, padded leather strap. Ordinarily, it goes to my favorite book bag. This night, it was going to be used for other purposes.

“I think you’re lying,” I said. “Do you know what happens to liars?”

She shook her head. “No, I –”

“You’ll find out if you lie to me again. Now, tell me about these impure thoughts you’ve been having.’

“I haven’t –”

I grabbed her by the arm, lifted her up, spun her around and bent her over the table.

“Lift up your skirt.”

“What?”

“Lift up your skirt or I’ll lift it up for you, and you don’t want that.”

She started to protest again. So I lifted up her skirt and gave her a crack with the strap, right across her pink cotton panties. She let out a yelp and tried to straighten up, but I forced her back down on the table.

“Your skirt came down. Lift it up again.”

This time, she complied.

“Now the panties.”

“No, no –”

Crack.

The panties came down, and off. It took two more strokes with the strap before she “confessed.”

“I get turned on by you in church and I want to suck your cock.”

“You WHAT?”

“I get turned on by you in church and I want to suck your cock.”

“I think you’re lying again.” I drew my arm back. “Do you need this again … or are you going to prove it?”

“Really?”

“Unless you want another spanking, you’d better prove it.”

She got off the table and dropped to her knees.

“Not here,” I said. “We need to go to the counseling room.”

It was right next to the library — a long room with couches. I sat down in the nearest one, still holding the strap, and said, “Now, prove it.”

She didn’t need to be told again. She went back to her knees, started rubbing me through my slacks, then unzipped me.

Either she slipped out of character, or she was hellaciously good at oral sex when she was 18. She took the head into her mouth, looked up at me, swirled her tongue around it twice and then took me all the way in. I started to say something, but we’d passed into a different place. We’d go back to roleplay in a bit, but for the moment I was just a man getting a damned fantastic blowjob that had me filling her mouth in just a few minutes.

It’s pretty hard, no pun intended, to get me to come from oral sex. So I wasn’t in any mood to do any spanking for a couple of minutes afterward. I was too busy recovering.

Then, it was scene time again. I stood up, pulled my pants up, shouted at her: “Look what you made me do, you sinful girl! This is all your fault for tempting me!”

This, of course, let to more protestations, and a few more applications of the strap. I wasn’t giving it my full strength, but I also wasn’t cushioning the strokes. She took them like a champ, but soon she was apologizing and promising to do anything to make it up to me for tempting me that way.

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Lie down and pull your skirt up again.”

She complied. I wouldn’t need to use the strap again — at least not that night.

“Show me how you touch yourself when you think your wicked thoughts.”

“Show you?”

“Show me.”

Her hand crept between her thighs and she touched herself hesitantly.

“I can’t.”

“SHOW me!”

She began to play with her clit — again, slowly at first, then faster. She dipped a finger into herself, then went back to rubbing.”

“Do you like sinning like that? Does it feel good?”

She bit her lip and nodded, her fingers moving faster.

By that time, I was hard again. I was also in a groove, falling into a preacher’s cadence as I interrogated her.

“Do you think about SEDUCING godly men? Do you think about TEMPTING them with your BODY until they give in? You filthy, FILTHY girl, what do you THINK about?”

Her breath came faster. “About …”
“TELL me!”

“About you fucking me.”

“About me doing WHAT to you?”

“Fu… fucking me.”

I had unzipped again, rolled on a condom.

I got down on my knees between her thighs, murmured “Forgive me …” Then I was on her, and in her. We fucked like she was reliving every dirty thought she’d ever had, and like I was unleashing years of repression and wasn’t sure whether to be filled with gratitude or rage.

Nobody called out “Oh, God.” In this case, that’s probably good. It would have felt like a cliche — and besides, I wasn’t entirely sure that God Himself, if he were watching closely, would approve of the whole thing. Then again, if I were God I’d much rather people spent more time fucking, instead of shooting up schools or starting wars.

Whatever names we called when we came, if in fact they were vowel-filled names of God, they were secret and ineffable.

I rolled off her, onto my back. I reached out for the strap, which had fallen to the floor.

“Wicked, wicked girl,” I said — but this time, I laughed, and kissed her. “Why didn’t you just say that after church last Sunday?”

We repeated a variation of the scene a week later, only this time I was a willing sinner and she begged between giggles to be spanked and told she was bad. And with that, she’d scratched her itch and fulfilled the fantasy, and I have no idea whether her boyfriend ever found out or not. My money’s on “not.”

Confession might be good for the soul, after all, but it’s not always the wisest course — unless the penance and punishment are part of the fun.

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/cemjt7/blessed_are_the_bad_girls_true_story_xpost_from