Page 32 of For I Have Sinned

I roll my jaw, watching the pen fly across the paper as she writes. With annoyance, she sets the pen down and pushes the chair back. When she stands, I’m taken aback by how small she is. Someone with such bite and grumpiness to their personality, I wasn’t expecting a four-foot-eleven woman. She looks up at me, peering into my soul through her glasses, before glancing up at the ceiling.

A sound of approval leaves her, and her following words fill me with pride. “It looks better.”

“It does.” I agree.

Her eyes drop from where the cobwebs used to be to the shelves. “Those, however, are disgusting.”

“I haven’t gotten to them yet.”

“Clearly,” she comes out from behind the desk, grabbing a cane to help her walk. “Will you always be working at a snail’s pace?”

“These rooms are filthy,” I remind her, trying to hold back a snarky tone. “It’s going to take a while to get them to their original state, but after that, I’ll move faster.”

“Good.” She hobbles towards the hall. “When you are finished cleaning, you can help me place books back on the shelves I can not reach.” She stops in front of the stone shelf, running her finger along the smooth surface. She lifts her finger, staring at the dust covering the tip of it. “Another day.”

She waddles away and goes to do whatever she needs to do in the other part of the library while I begin to tackle the dust.

I lost track of time cleaning and missed dinner. It’s fine, though. After dusting, which I had only gotten to not even half of the shelves, I was so exhausted that I just wanted to go back to my room and relax. A bath would be wonderful, but since the convent has a communal bathroom, showers are the only option.

It works just as well. The heat from the shower helps soothe the sore muscles in my shoulders. I scrub my body with soap and shampoo my hair twice to remove any dust that has clung to my skin and hair.

After a well-needed wash, I head back to my room and slip on my nightgown before lying down in bed. I stare up at the ceiling, knowing that even though my body is exhausted, my brain isn’t. I know for a fact that even if I close my eyes, I won’t be able to fall asleep.

Usually, when this happens, I exhaust myself with my favorite toy. I use it over and over until my mind can’t take any more and shuts down. Sadly, I can’t do that now because that toy is at home. I let out an annoyed breath and allow the hand that is lying flat against my stomach to wander south.

It’s a sin to touch yourself.

When I was eighteen, and all the kids around me were exploring each other’s bodies, my parents made sure to drill it into my mind that not only was sex before marriage a sin, but also masturbation. They thought getting it into my head that touching yourself was bad would scare me enough that I would never do it.

Their words didn’t scare me as much as they thought.

It is one thing to sin by touching yourself, but doing it while in a convent? The idea is thrilling, and as I begin to pull up my dress, my eye catches the picture of Jesus hanging on my wall.

Sitting up, I grab the frame and hide it in my dresser. Once I lie back down, I let out a sigh of relief as my hand dips beneath my dress.

I rub over the cotton underwear, teasing myself because, for some reason, I’ve always loved to. There is something about not giving in to the pleasure I’m dying for right away. I love getting myself so worked up that I’m desperate for a release.

The circles I draw are slow and light as I barely touch the sensitive area. My lips part as I begin breathing heavier, anticipating the next move. I hold the same motion for a few more seconds before pressing harder, speeding up my fingers.

Pleasure shoots through me, causing my eyes to close, and when they do, Father Alexander’s face is the only thing I see. I quickly open my eyes, stopping the motion of my fingers, and my brows dip in horror.

Sure, he is attractive… okay, very attractive, but it’s wrong to be thinking about a priest while touching myself.

Unless I imagine that he isn’t a priest.

Swallowing hard, I resume the motion of my fingers. No one but me has to know that I’m picturing him while I do this.

I steady my breathing and shut my eyes again. This time, when I picture Father Alexander, he isn’t wearing his priestly attire. Instead, he is wearing a black Henley and dark jeans, standing at the end of my bed at home.

His eyes drop to the space between my thighs, and he watches attentively as I rub my clit. He licks his bottom lip while his hand meets the bulge in his pants. He slowly begins to massage himself, and the thought of him doing that almost sends me over the edge.

“You going to come that easily?” I picture him asking in my mind. I shake my head in response because there is no one to really answer to. “Work for it, Celine.”

I bite my lip, keeping my fingers on my clit while my other hand finds my entrance. I slide two fingers in, then begin driving them in and out continuously.

“That’s it, Celine.” His deep voice coaxes me. “Keep fucking yourself with your fingers… just like that.”

I go faster at his demand, the pleasure building from imagining his filthy words.