Confession Booth: 7. The Gospel of Her Body

The confessional was no longer a booth. It was a tomb.

Wood groaned like old bones as Joseph leaned back against the wall, his chest slick with sweat and sin, his collar askew, his crucifix dangling low against the hollow of his sternum. I knelt before him, my lips red with more than lipstick, my thighs trembling as though every nerve in my body had been tuned to one blasphemous note.

The booth reeked of incense and salt, of lust rubbed raw into the wood. It was no longer a place of confession—it had become an altar, and I, the gospel.

“Say it again,” I whispered, my voice ragged, urgent, begging him to wound me with his words the way his hands had already marked me.

He looked down at me, eyes dark as the sanctuary at midnight. “You are my scripture", he confessed. 

I gasped, arching, as though the words themselves had been thrust into me. My spine bent in prayer, my hair a halo of ruin against his thighs.

“Every inch of you,” he said, voice