Confession Booth: 3. Shame Is the Language

The note burned a hole in my pocket all week.

“Next Thursday. Same time. Bring your shame.”

I read it so many times that the words tattooed themselves into my skin. Shame. That was what she wanted. That was what he wanted. That was what I couldn’t stop thinking about. And when I thought of it, I had to admit that was what I also wanted. 

Every night, I imagined their voices. The deep growl of his commands. The soft, sinful moans spilling from her throat. The wet, slick sounds that haunted my ears when I lay in bed, thighs pressed together until I trembled with the need to obey something I didn’t even fully understand.

Shame became its own kind of hunger.

By Thursday, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to be there to watch at least or to partake of their sinful communion. 

I came early.

No panties. Just a skirt, bare thighs, and the shame I carried like an offering.

The church was quiet, empty—at least it looked empty. The flic