He was lying there jacking off like a 14-year-old boy. The condoms were not agreeing with his erection. I was on my back with my head tilted watching this phenomenon because I have never witnessed such vigorous stroking unless a man was about to come. I knew his background over the drink we had in a shitty dive bar and realized at that moment he and I were not an intellectual match, at all.
“So, are you catholic?” I said in a trance.
I perked up as if someone told me it was Christmas morning. “Do you actively practice and go to mass?”
“Yeah,” he answered with hesitation as he still continued to abuse his cock. “I go to midnight mass on Saturdays and go on Sundays.”
“Do you have to do the whole confessional thing?” I asked with anticipation.
“Y-yes, this is not a joke,” he was concerned and started to slow down with his adolescent efforts.
“I am not joking. I’m just curious. I never fucked a catholic before. I respect your religion sans the whole priest molesting boys and the fact that you pray to saints and statues, when in the Bible you are not supposed to worship any other God.” I explained as I turned over on to my stomach to stare into his face. He looked worried but shook his head up and down.
“Yes, we have to confess once a year.” He stared down at his cock. It was still not cooperating and I am sure this conversation was not helping at all. He was a lousy lay and it wasn’t going to happen again anyways. I figured I would salvage this experience.
“In a confessional booth?” My head was rested on my hand. This was the most mental stimulation I had all evening with him.
“Yes in a booth.” He was trying to speed up his jacking off but I could tell he was uncomfortable and yet this was arousing me. His guilt washing over his face as his hand still clung to his cock.
“Tell me what you confess. Do you have to confess about you fucking me?” I watched his face grow even more pained.
“Please, this is not what…”
“I told you I was evil. I want to talk about this. Tell me what you have to confess.” I gave a small smile.
“Yes, I would have to confess this. You can’t just do sins and confess and it’s all free and clear.”
“Yes, you are cheating on your wife with me.” I added.
“I know, I know.”
“Then why are doing this with me?”
“Because I have needs.”
“Uh huh. What else do you have to confess? What are the consequences to your confessions?”
“Whatever the priest tells me to do.”
“I see. Are you going to tell him about this?”
He was quiet and hesitated. The guilt was radiating from him. “No.”
“You are not a very good Catholic then.” I cooed at him.
“I know but I don’t want anyone to find out.”
“Kinda defeats the purpose of confessing, doesn’t it?”
He nodded. He was in pain from this conversation. “Please, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“That’s too bad because I’m getting kind of turned on from it. I’ve always wanted to fuck in one of those booths.” I stared off with a smile.
He shifted in the bed, made another attempt to fuck me and failed. I took a shower and left knowing I will never see him again.
Side Note: Someone made a comment that this was a cruel story and I mistreated this sap. There is a whole lot more to this experience that I did not include but I will add he was racially stereotypical with me, he was grabbing on me in public, and he needed to be put down a few notches. You will be treated as you treat me. I will not apologize or even remotely feel bad for this guy.
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