An Artist’s Confession

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“I’ve dreamed of her praying, while I was alone at night in my bed, and then I can only reach beneath the covers and sin over and over again,” Domingo whispered through the small window, glazed in plastic with tiny holes in it.

“Tell me of this sin,” came the voice from the other side.

Domingo paused, noting the change in the priest’s breathing, yes, Father Ortiz was distinctly breathing faster now. “It is the same as I have described to you in my other confessions.”

“To be absolved you must be specific, you must name your sin, describe it and then ask forgiveness.”

“When I reach beneath my covers I find that I am firm…”

“Firm?”

“Yes, erect, I have an erection. I reach my hand down, take hold of myself and begin to stroke slowly.”

“Do you touch anything else?”

“I am not sure, my nipples maybe… yes I touch my nipple with my other hand. My nipple is firm too and as I touch it I can feel the sensation all through me. While I stroke myself I continue touching my nipple.”

“And then?”

Domingo continued, “I begin to stroke faster and I start lifting my hips as the feeling runs through me. Suddenly the pleasure is intense and as much as I try to delay it, to enhance the feeling, I cannot stop the release. My sin then is complete.”

‘But your release, does it stain the sheets?”

“The sheets? No, I push back the sheets before it happens, it splashes on my stomach, pooling there until I wipe it up with a rag.”

“Is it wet and sticky?”

“Yes.”

“And the scent, can you smell it?”

“Yes, I put the rag in with my other clothes and cover it up so the scent is not obvious.”

“And your dream, of the woman praying…”

“Sister Mary?”

“Ah, you dream of Sister Mary praying?”

“Yes, she kneels naked before the chapel each night I dream of her. When I awaken I can only think of her, I have painted a picture of it,” Domingo replied.

“Describe your painting.”

“She kneels, facing the altar. A bright light comes from the sky, through the windows. Her arms rest on the wooden railing and her knees rest on the hard stone.”

“And her body?”

“In this painting I see her from behind, her head bare, shaved, her naked back, her buttocks, a slight peek at her breast.”

“You said in this painting, you have more of her?”

“Describe your painting.””Yes, in another she faces me as she prays.”

“Tell me of this painting,” Father Ortiz moaned.

“In this one she wears her headpiece, so I cannot see the shaved head. Her hands clasp in prayer just below her breasts. They are small, but the nipples are large and very dark. Downward I can see her hair, the light brown curls delicately above the gently mound. The slit in the middle is just barely visible as her legs are together kneeling.”

“Light brown curls?” came the whisper.

“What did you say father?”

“Oh, oh nothing… ah, these paintings, have you seen her like this?”

“Only when I dream, in my mind. I painted these from the dreams, the others came from when I saw her.”

“You have other paintings?”

“Yes.”

“From when you saw her?”

“Yes, one day I went to the chapel and saw her praying. I sat down and recalled how she looked in my dreams praying naked. I envisioned her body, the curve of her back, the roundness of her buttocks, the slight hint of breast. She stood up and saw me, but all I saw was the other painting, her praying while facing me. Her tiny breasts with the large, dark and firm nipples enticed me while the delicate light brown curls excited me.

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