Confession Booth: 5. Forgive Me, I Want More

The chapel smelled of smoke and incense, the lingering perfume of sanctity fighting with the truth of my sins. My thighs still ached from the hours before, a dull soreness that pulsed whenever I shifted on the wooden pew. The candles flickered in their sconces, throwing restless shadows across the painted saints. They watched me, their eyes wide, their mouths frozen in solemn silence—as though they could see what I had done, what I had allowed to be done to me.

I was not meant to return so soon. The ritual of confession was supposed to be a cleansing, a way of emptying the filth of desire from the soul. Instead, I came back swollen with it, dripping with it. I sat there, clutching my rosary, trembling not from guilt but from the craving that had followed me from the booth.

The confessional door opened with its familiar groan. I slid inside, heart hammering, the velvet curtain falling shut behind me like the closing of a trap. The small chamber felt different this time, n