Page 4 of Savior

“I’ve had immoral thoughts…” she trails off, steadying herself the best she can.

Don’t we all?

For the longest time, I thought myself unworthy of my position because of the images and thoughts that would grace my brain. I thoughthecould see them and knew my heart and soul enough to cast lightning through the church’s steeples and strike me down where I stood.

But it never happened.

And that’s when my thoughts turned sinister, testinghimmore and more.

He never came for me.

Still hasn’t.

So, part of me wavered with the need to confess.

I’ve been teetering on the edge of my faith for far too long. Most days, it feels as if a slight breeze could throw me over the line of sin, and then Satan will grasp hold of my ankles and drag me to hell.

Then maybe I’ll know what it’s like to sink my cock into a…

The thought dies as the voice continues, “I’ve thought of having sex with my neighbor more than a hundred times since we last spoke. And sometimes, my husband is sitting right beside me. Father, I’m so lustful. I know God isn’t happy with me. How can he be? I’m a slut in sheep’s clothing!” Her sobs make the words less comical.

She’s one of my favorites.

“And did you do the penance I charged you with last time you were here?” I ask her.

She shifts to the other side of the screen. “Yes, Father. But it didn’t make a difference. I’m going to hell because of these thoughts, right?”

“No, my child. You’re not. You haven’t cheated on your husband. You’ve remained true and concerned about thethoughts. You’ve asked me, your priest and spiritual leader, for help. You’re taking all the steps to stay inHislight.Hesees that. Satan is a powerful force, always seeking parishioners for his church of the damned, and he won’t have you. Because you’re stronger,” I tell her.

She tells me her thoughts, and then they become my own. My body rises to the occasion of all the imagery she’s painting.

I used to loathe myself for how I’d respond to what I heard during confessionals. But now I’m convinced it’s just the bodily response from an entire life of celibacy.

Well, until that one moment when I’d lost myself and lost the control I had on the reins of my life and faith.

It wasn’t long after breaking the seal of confession and after being told about a massive trafficking ring close to the church. The confessor laid it all out: his involvement and how he’d become remorseful and wanted forgiveness.

Of course, I sat with the knowledge far longer than I wanted to because breaking the seal is a big deal—a massive deal in the Catholic church.

I would be asked to leave if anyone besides the Ricci and Bianchi families knew about it.

We recovered thirty women the night I confided in Ardesia Ricci about what I was told, and my body never felt so alive before.

I went home on a high like no other.

I helped.

I saved people.

Even though my job implies Isavepeople daily, I felt like I’ve done glaring good that the naked eye could witness while working with Ardesia. And it’s done something to me.

The next day, I sat down to hear confession again, and this voice rasped through the other side of the screen, detailing everyimmoral dream she’d had about her and the neighbor she’d been lusting after.

And without even thinking, I’d lifted my cassock and run my hand over my aching length on the other side of the confession. Her breathy voice regaled me with enough material that I’d come silently, violently onto the confessional floor, eyes crossing, and faith all but leaving me in blessed pulses.

That was six months ago, and even though I’ve repented for my sins and done the work to get back to normal, I’m still reeling.

I’ve continued to work with Ardesia Ricci and the Bianchi family solely because of how good I felt doing their work. We’re cleaning the streets and harbors of New York City one at a time.

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