This is for the copy of Rock Band, submitted by one of the contestants. Read the story below and vote on how hot it is, between 1 (not so hot) and 5 (I orgasmed just reading it). The winning story is the one with the largest *cumulative* score. Anyone can vote! (Votes screened.)
The priest took in the silhouette of the woman through the intricate wrought-iron of the confession window. She seemed dwarfed even by the small, dark confessional. Oh great—she was probably a novice, a virgin, or a simpleton. There would be nothing interesting to hear in this one. He made himself comfortable, trying to calculate the girl’s economic status, and how much the Church could reasonably extract from her to buy her the penance she obviously craved.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been years since my last confession.” Years, she said? Years away from the comfort and order his Church could provide? How did she maintain that disarming lack of self-awareness, without the strictures of the Church to hold her thoughts in check? The priest sat up, more interested now.
“Go on, my child. We are all sinners before the Lord. The Holy Catholic Church can make you as a newborn babe.”
“You can take away the sins from one as proud as me? One to whom even God has shown his displeasure?” Was that a flash of defiance in the child? She had heretical tendencies, this one. The priest licked the roof of his mouth lightly with his tongue. All moisture was lost from it.
“I…I lack the discipline of my own mind. There is a man. When I see him, I feel warm all over. No, I do not feel warm over the whole of my body. My senses are strongest nearest my loins. I wish to perform acts with him. Sometimes, when I imbibe, or when I am abed, the images in my head are as real as if we have already performed these acts.”
As she admitted this secret shame, the girl instinctively arched forward, reacting to the visceral tingle in her body that just admitting her desires provoked. Her fingers found the spaces between the iron gratings. The priest stroked the tips of her fingers and he felt the heady sensation of blood rushing to his own genitals. She was not by far the first village girl who had excited him as he heard confession, but she was the first who seemed so unaware of how tame her own desires really were. Her words held a promise of deviance made more powerful because she tried to fight it. There was something delicious about that lack of awareness. “And when you perform these acts, what is it, exactly, that you are doing?”
“I lie in my bath. I am in the halls of the Bishop’s palace himself. The whole of the Church is in ruin. There is no one to question how I came to be here. The water is near to boiling, but the evil spirits which have overtaken my senses so drown out the world that I do not even notice. The room is so steamed that I can barely see him when he approaches. I watch the gold flecks in the water surge over my bare stomach as he eases in with me. It is the only indication I have that he has approached, but it is enough. The tingles in my extremities are stronger with this image—see how much pride I have, that I find unnatural pleasure in my own body? The torchlight glints off the liquid flecks of gold. It is there for him, for the man I am supposed to please. All men crave gold, the power and authority it brings. I wish him to feel that craving for me, when he sees me. So I made the gold with unnatural powers, and I do not care. I do not care that I usurp the Holy Chambers of the Lord for this pleasure. Indeed I derive more joy from it”
The girl was admitting to study in alchemy. Study–or at least a devil-inspired fascination with a process meant for Church and King. He could not tell if she possessed these powers in fact, or merely in fancy. The latter merely made her a dangerous heretic. The former made her a witch. Both should doom her to the fires. Confessions were not so sacrosanct as to protect her. And by her own admission, the Church was overthrown in her fancy. The priest knew his duty. Yet the priest kept listening. His tongue had long since given up its futile task of returning moisture to his mouth. He was grateful for the grating as much to disguise his own arousal as to protect her from having her identity revealed. Thoughts were punished as though fact in the Kingdom of the Lord. The best he could summon to encourage her was a guttural sound that came out between a gasp and a moan.
“I reach up and draw him down around me. I feel him hard against me—yes, I know how it grows when he is ready. I sit up and wrap myself around him. I cannot the space between us. That is all I know to do. For all my pride, my fancies fail me here. I know that he must enter me, and that he must do more than just rub his own manhood against my sex. In the dream I feel a heat, like I should have from the water alone, but I feel it only when he is inside me. I want to reach down to look at it, but my mind does not know what it should see. I shudder, as though I have caught an ague, but I feel no illness. I feel as though I am on fire, but so soon afterwards I awake. I cannot look. My mind does not know what it would see, and so when I wake up I want nothing more than for this not to be a fancy. I want to know what I would see if I looked down when he rutted in me.”
Her voice caught at the end, as though she had brought herself to the fiery feelings she described just by speaking aloud.
“You would feel wet, but not the same wet of the water. It would be thicker, richer. God will shame you for it, for it will be the sign that you enjoy too much what God did not intend women to enjoy. And he will not just enter you. No, he will play with you first. Explore you with his fingers and his tongue. And God will watch all of it and be ashamed, for neither of you will be thinking of the fruits of procreation as you do this. No, you will not even be thinking your heretical thoughts of power and alchemy. You will be entirely lost in the sensation. And when he enters you, that moisture will be all that protects you from what is otherwise agonizing torture. It will seem God never intended you to do this, and so makes you scream with each thrust. But he will keep thrusting.”
The girl nodded, entirely caught in the spell of his words. “And when I am finished I will not know whether to curse God for denying such pleasure or exalt him, for surely it was Him who first conceived of it.” Her own voice had grown weaker, and he wondered if her Devil’s incite actually allowed her experience the full reality of the lust he had just woven.
“Yes, Father, these are the acts. I am lustful, and proud. I do not hold God in the reverence a Christian woman should. What is my penance?”
This was his last chance. He’d rutted on many women, but this simple-seeming girl was the first he felt might actually endanger his soul. He wasn’t a heretic. He just had a man’s needs…
“Stay where you are. I cannot speak your penance aloud. You know that a thought can be the same as a deed to God. The Church must punish you as though you have done all the things you speak of. It is best you know that which you are being punished for first. I commit myself to show you…”