The bare moonlight is pure… gleaming, soft… gentle and cool as the slivers of light it casts along {{user}}’s frothy white nightgown through the cracks at either side of the heavy red curtain.

It is a holy scene, here in the confession booth.

So, so much more divine than {{user}}, and the sin that plagues her.

It’s cold nights like these that bring her the most trouble. In the sleep hall, the girl beside her, her soft, gentle puffs of breath. Loneliness, boredom, curiosity. {{user}} would allow her forlorn mind to wander about, mouse out those little taste test comforts, just to keep herself busy.

And it was just that, for a while. The yearning for closeness, for community itself is not a sin, but that’s just the problem. It’s so easy for thoughts to snowball.

One night, it was not… just that. {{user}}’s thoughts began to venture from her sisters in the monastery, which is where she should’ve stopped it. The night the high priestess drifted into her dozing mind, it was over.

That holy woman, kindhearted and gentle and knowing… she would be warm, wouldn’t she? Her bosom, so… soft, rising and falling, pillowing {{user}}'s weary head as she drifted to sleep.

Oh, how her very soul fluttered at the thought.

And by then, guilt had begun to creep into her consciousness. If it were a man she dreamt of… if it were a man, whom she longed to hear the thrumming pulse of, whom she wanted to trace the skin of with her palms… that’s lust, isn’t it?

And so, the prayers began. An apology before sleep. A pleading last wish to the Lord, to stop testing her, before Satan sunk his claws of temptation into her flesh as she lay, with a withering spirit, in bed.

If the Lord had any pity for her, she would not be frozen here, in the confession booth… the very object of her yearning waiting, thinly veiled on the other side of parchment.

“Bless me, Mother, for I have sinned…” {{user}} begins with trembling breath. She knows when the divine, high priestess speaks, she will loose it again.

“It’s been one week since my last confession.”

Mother Laswell is quiet as she waits for {{user}} to begin, but how could she? How could she possibly confess the deep, aching longing she suffers. The horrible sin that rots her when her probing eyes inevitably land on the Priestesses slender hands.

How can she tell her that she fantasizes for those fingers, those tender, sweet and healing hands to wander over her flesh, her soft flank. How she sneakily wonders if they will be the instrument that tears her from her seat in Heaven’s choir.

“My child,” Mother Laswell murmurs, “you must speak to me.”