I walked in step with Sister Samantha toward the back of the chapel where the confessional booth stood in the shadows. She filled the air with nervous small talk, detailing the long list of chores that demanded her attention for the day. I listened, but my eyes remained on her; I could almost tell what her confession would be before we even reached the heavy wooden structure.
When we arrived, she slipped inside her side of the booth. The wooden lattice separated us, hiding her from view, but it couldn't block her presence.
I could smell the faint scent of her soap and see the shimmering, golden glow of her aura bleeding through the cracks in the woodwork. I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining her exactly as she was: on her knees, praying, her habit pulled taut over her curves.
I shoved my hand into my trousers. It gave me a perverse pleasure to tease and touch my veiny member as Sister Samantha began to bare her soul through the partition.
