Confess All Your Sins – Alice Biancci

Title: The Sinful Confession of Alice Biancci

Alice Biancci, the dutiful schoolgirl, stood nervously in front of the imposing wooden doors of the confessional. Her heart pounded with each tap of her Mary Jane shoes against the stone floor of the cathedral. Today was the day she would confess her deepest, darkest sins to Father Francisco. Sins she had been harboring for weeks.

With a trembling hand, Alice pushed open the door and slipped inside, sliding onto the hard wooden bench. The enclosure felt dark and cramped, the atmosphere heavy with the scent of incense and secrets. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “It has been four weeks since my last confession.”

The priest’s deep baritone rumbled through the lattice, “Go on, my child. Unburden yourself.”

Alice hesitated, biting her lower lip. “I…” she paused, gathering her courage. “I have tempted the flesh, Father. I have indulged in the forbidden fruit of… of… masturbation.”

The word hung heavy in the dimly lit space. Alice’s cheeks burned with shame, but she forced herself to continue.

“Not only that, but I have gazed upon immoral images, Father. Photographs of naked men and women, engaged in carnal acts.” Her stomach twisted with guilt at the admission.

By the time she finished, her palms were slick with sweat and her uniform blouse clung to her body. There was a moment of heavy silence, a beat too long. Then, the priest spoke.

“Alice,” he said, his voice unusually low. “These are serious transgressions.”

“I know, Father. I am deeply sorry.” The words tumbled out in a rush.

“You say you’ve tempted the flesh,” Father Francisco continued. “Tell me, Alice, how?”

A thrill of fear and exhilaration shivered down her spine. “With my own hands, Father. I… I pleasure myself.” The confessional suddenly felt too small, the air too thin.

“What does this look like, Alice? Describe it to me,” he urged, a strange tension in his tone.

She swallowed hard, a bead of sweat trickling between her breasts. “I l-lie on my bed,” she stammered. “And I… I touch myself between the legs. Rubbing and… and circling until…” She trailed off, embarrassed.

“Until what, Alice?” he prodded, his voice a dark whisper.

“Until I feel a great rush of pleasure. Until warm fluid gushes from my goddess of pleasure.” God forgive her the way her own words ignited something base and needy in her loins.

There was a long, charged pause. “You must atone, Alice. Pray with me.” Father Francisco’s voice was thick, choked.

“Yes, Father,” she breathed, sinking to her knees on the cold floor.

They began to recite the Hail Marys, but Alice could barely focus through the pounding of her own heart. The Latin words blurred together, hazy and distant. Her mind raced, consumed with the illicit vision she had conjured.

Father Francisco, unholy urges stirred within him as well. The young congregant’s confession had lit a fire in his loins he feared could not be extinguished. The exchange, forbidden and taboo, darkened his blood with need. He shifted on the bench, grateful for the shadowed enclosure.

How many times had he watched Alice worship at the altar, her innocent beauty tugging at his privileges? Seen the way her skirt hugged the swell of her hips, the tension of her blouse over taut, adolescent breasts? Hoped for the precise sin she confessed now as he listened to her pray?

“Please God,” she begged, her voice breathless. “Forgive me for entertaining impure thoughts, for indulging in base pleasures. Purify my soul so that…”

She trailed off, gasping as Father Francisco slid a hand through the lattice, grasping her slender wrist. He dragged her close, the rough-hewn wood biting into her skin as he exploded into a desperate climax, his seed pulsing like lava. He was too lost in her to muffle his cries.

Alice stared at him in shock as he finished, drops of his fluid dripping onto the confessional floor. A sinful sort of awe flooded through her. She had been so transfixed by the raw, animalistic power of his release that she’d been unaware of the more insistent ache between her thighs.

He brushed his fingers across her tender cheeks, smearing the sticky offering against her clothed skin in a grotesque blessing. She shivered, filled with revulsion and depraved longing.

“We are but flesh and blood,” the priest murmured thickly. “In God’s eyes, this is our collective cross.”

Alice raised her mottled face, still somehow conflicted. Unspoken in their sordid exchange was the un torneio echoes of its promise. What fate awaited the young innocents and their confessors, how the damnation of their unholy compact would play out. These questions hung heavy in the air, like the scent of concelebrated sacraments.

“Go now, with my blessing,” Father Francisco said at last, voice ragged. “Rejoice in the purging of your sins.”

Alice fled the confessional, fingers pressed to her still-flaming face. Her chest ached with a terrible, sweet anticipation, cheeks wet with unspoken prayers. Despite her righteousness, she could already feel the first rumbles of an erogenous awakening. She walked in a daze, not seeing those around her, too caught up in brimming desire. This was only the beginning of her confession.