Bless Me, Father, for I have Sinned

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

It was Easter morning. The stone rolled away, the tomb empty, the prophecy fulfilled. But I...

I did not rise to join the faithful in worship. Instead, Father, I stepped into the bathtub, nude against the light. But, unlike Marthe de Mėrigny and others like her, I wasn't there to cleanse myself, but to fill myself.

Everything was still. The home was quiet. Sunlight poured through the windows, spilling across the floor in meaningless shapes. Dust danced in the air, and I longed to lick it - like the biblical serpent hungry for sin. I was not afraid of the Lord our God.

In celebration of His resurrection, Father, I laid my bare back against the cold porcelain of the tub. There was no water in it. I parted my legs in an obscene invitation. I felt the chill of redemption in my spine and the heat of hell between my thighs. I was open, exposed, unrepentant. I was as impure as a deep ditch.

In one hand, Father, I held two eggs. Hard-boiled. Peeled. Soft, yet firm. Yielding. I held the eggs to my lips, and licked them. I lowered them and rubbed them against my neck, my breasts, my belly, and my thighs.

First, I thought of Eve. Then, of Mary. And then, I thought only of myself.

The eggs were cool against my skin, their surface slick from my tongue. My desire was raw, profane, and terrifying in its intense clarity. There's power--or is it damnation?--in wanting without apology. The Lord is not my shepherd; I shall always want.

I was wet, Father, and my eyes were full of tears. Not from shame or guilt, but from need and hunger. My hole was aching.

I tried to push in the first egg, but my lack of experience delayed my sin. My cunt--forgive me, Father--was wet and willing, but too tight. A narrow pit. The eggs kept slipping from my grasp.

I didn't give up. I breathed in and out. Slowly. I willed my pussy to open. I surrendered my body to transgression. And when it did, my body took the first egg, and it didn't take it gently, or politely. My cunt swallowed it like it had been starving.

My cunt is a creature of appetite, Father. It takes what it wants.

There was a man watching me. He looked on, without touching me. His cock strained. His breath caught every time I opened my legs wider. I was feeding his *Schaulust*, but I remained my own inspiration.

A woman attaches herself to a man--not to enjoy him, but to enjoy herself.

He was my witness. There was lust in his eyes, and something else too... Something primal and dangerous. It was contained violence.

A gaze is not born male, but rather becomes male. And, I wanted to be seen, Father. I wanted to be documented, to be desired in my madness. The man gave me that with his scopic driven way of looking. He took obscene pictures of me. He made space for my chaos and later drowned me in his own.

I begged him to fuck me with one egg inside. He said no. He always says no if we haven't agreed on something beforehand. When he refuses me, it feels cruel, but I know that it's kind. It's why I trust him.

I pushed in the second egg. Without asking for permission, my body took over. My pussy began to pulse. Gentle contractions moved the eggs deeper, and I felt a fullness that demanded my attention. My world narrowed: heat, pressure, and a slow, unholy ache.

I became the sin I committed. I was my own temptation. I was a chalice filled with my own cum, and an obscene paten holding eggs. I was blasphemy made flesh. A vessel for my own desire.

With the tiniest pushes from my belly, my body moved the eggs downwards. When the first egg reached my opening, I had no choice but to push. It popped out of me. The second followed it closely. I laughed. The man laughed with me.

When his eyes behave like windows, I see that he loves me. When his eyes behave like mirrors, I see that there's always something in me to atone for, something that could be washed away. And yet, I don't kneel in shame, or ask for forgiveness.

I picked up one egg, still warm from the heat of me. I bit into it. The man picked the other. We shared the same hunger. We ate in silence.

Job was wrong: there is taste in the white of an egg. But only if it was laid a second time by an impenitent woman.

Later, in the bedroom, I masturbated to exhaustion. Then, I offered myself to the man, to use for his sadistic pleasure.

My confession, Father, is my lack of guilt.

I missed Mass that morning.