I was raised in a Catholic household. We didn't go to church every Sunday, but we were respected members of the parish community never the less. From an early age, I was taught to revere priests and nuns. But more than revere them, I came to fear and honor them. Priests especially, because they were my channel to God. For most girls my age, speaking to a famous rock star would send their heart into palpitations. It was the same for me with priests. I felt as though they were on a pedestal before me. They were holy and pure and I was obsessed with them. When I would look at boys my age I wondered how they would look in a priests robes; when I looked at priests, I wondered how they would look out of their robes.
Despite this, I hated confession. To bear my soul to these men with whom I was so obsessed seemed wrong. It seemed grotesque to tell them the dirty things I had done when they were so clean. Because of this, I only confessed the most common and mundane of sins. I kept everything else to myself, until I met a very different priest.
A few months before I left for college, one of the most respected priests in the church was offered a teaching position. This meant that he would leave and a new priest would take his place. Many people were excited about this; I was anything but. This priest had baptized me, he was the only priest who I would confess any sins to, and he was the subject of many of my wildest fantasies.
There was a mass the following week to meet the new priest, and, of course, my family attended. There was a sense of anticipation in the air as we entered the church and took our seats. The mass proceeded as usual until our beloved priest stood. "I have thoroughly enjoyed my time here," he told the congregation, "But now it is my pleasure to introduce you to the man who will be taking my place." Everyone started clapping before the new priest had even stood up. When he did stand, my breath caught in my throat. He was no more than 28 years old, tall, handsome, and absolutely stunning. He smiled brightly at the congregation. "Thank you for that warm welcome," he said in an incredibly sexy voice." "I'm Father Timothy Jacobs, but you can call me Father Tim." The congregation clapped again and Father Tim sat down.
That night, I laid awake in bed for a long time thinking about Father Tim. I could practically hear his silky voice and see his tall muscular body. I didn't want to let my hands wander. I wanted to try to keep my thoughts about him as pure as possible. But as with many other priests, my thoughts of him turned to thoughts of lust. I pictured him in his robes standing over me as I laid on the alter...
