The confessional smelled of old wax, dust, and repentance. From the other side of the lattice, the voices were ghostly whispers, minor sins dissolving into the twilight. But the greatest sin, the heaviest one, lay within him. Father Michael sat on the small wooden bench, his priestly vestments stretched to the point of tearing over his enormous pregnant belly. Every breath was an effort, every movement an agony.
The pressure began again, a slow, powerful wave originating at the base of his spine and spreading throughout his pelvis. He pressed his forehead against the cold wood of the lattice, biting his lip to stifle the moan struggling to escape. His hands, clutching a rosary, trembled so violently that the wooden beads clicked rhythmically, betraying him.
A woman on the other side confessed a trivial envy. Father Michael narrowed his eyes, sweat dripping down his temples.
“Envy is a poison, my child,” he began his sermon, his voice a little more tense than usual. “It corrodes the soul, turns us bitter, and blinds us to the blessings the Lord has bestowed upon us. We must…”
The pressure intensified, becoming a force pushing downward. The baby was settling in, descending to the exit station. She felt a deep, strange swelling, a fullness in her perineum that was new and terrifying. She looked down, despite the darkness. Beneath her habits, she could feel it, not as an opening, but as a bulge. The baby’s head was fully down, pressing against the bottom of her birth canal, but her body had not yet yielded. Her opening, still closed, simply bulged outward under the relentless pressure—an invisible yet palpable dome of flesh preparing to be stretched beyond its limits.
“...we must open our hearts to grace,” he continued, his voice now a controlled gasp. “Accept God’s plan, even if we do not understand it. For His ways are not our ways, and His will is perfect.”
The woman whispered “Amen” and left. Father Michael was left alone in the deathly silence. The pressure eased for a moment, and he took a deep breath, hoping it was over. But then the wave returned, stronger this time.
“Father,” whispered a new voice, young and trembling. “I’ve had… impure thoughts.”
Father Michael closed his eyes tightly. The irony was a dagger in his heart.
“Temptation is the test of our faith, my son,” he said, his voice a little louder to mask the sound of his own ragged breathing. “It is the fire that forges our devotion. The Lord...”
An involuntary spasm ran through him. He rested his hands on the bench, his knuckles white. The swelling between his legs was now a constant presence, a promise of imminent pain. The baby’s head was pressing down, and his opening was beginning to give way, a slow, agonizing stretching that made him see stars.
“…the Lord gives us the burdens we can bear,” he continued, tears threatening to fall. “And He gives us the strength to bear them. We must not fear pain, for pain is...”
He paused, biting back a scream as the burning began. His body was opening, slowly, reluctantly. The swelling was turning into a tear.
“...pain is a reminder of our sacrifice,” he finished, his voice breaking. “A reminder of the passion of Christ, who suffered for us. We must embrace our suffering, just as he embraced the cross.”
The young man on the other end was crying, moved by the priest’s words. “Thank you, Father. That is exactly what I needed to hear.”
Father Michael didn't answer. He was too busy fighting his own body. The burning sensation was a fire consuming him, and every time the young man on the other side said “Amen” or “Thank you,” Father Michael felt as if God himself were mocking him.
He stood there, in the darkness, preaching sermons on faith and sacrifice while his own body was being torn apart in a sacrifice he had never asked for. And no one, no one noticed the tears mingling with his sweat, or the moans he disguised as coughs, or the way his enormous belly contracted beneath the sacred vestments. They were all so devout, so blinded by faith, that they did not see the blasphemous miracle taking place just inches away from them.
The confessional had become his own personal hell, a box of wood and penance where his body was the only true penitent. Father Michael’s sermon had become a desperate mantra, a way to anchor his mind as his body crumbled.
“…and that is why, my children, we must find strength in humility,” he whispered, his voice a strained thread. “For it is in our weakness that the Lord’s grace…”
The sentence was cut short by a gasp. A new and terrifying sensation coursed through her body. It wasn’t the swelling, it wasn’t the pressure. It was a sharp, final stretching, as if an invisible seam were tearing. Her pussy opened wider, yielding to a force she could no longer contain.
The tiny tip of the baby’s head peeked out.
It was a minuscule yet monumental sensation, the rounded tip of the skull parting her lips from within. A point of hot, firm pressure that heralded the beginning of the end.
Father Michael jumped, a convulsive, violent movement that made the entire confessional shake. His head struck the top of the lattice with a dull thud. The repentant whisper on the other side stopped, confused.
“Father? Are you all right?”
But Father Michael didn’t hear him. In an instinctive and terrifying reflex, he brought a hand to his pussy, over the heavy vestments. His trembling fingers found the bulge, the impossible shape pushing its way into the world.
His fingers touched the wet, hot tip of his own son’s head.
The shock was electric. A chill ran down her spine, a chill of panic and revelation. It was real. It wasn’t a nightmare; it wasn’t an imaginary punishment. It was real. He was being born. Here. Now.
“Father?” the voice on the other side sounded worried. “I heard a thud.”
Father Michael couldn't respond. He stood there in the small space, his hand pressed against the lower part of her belly, feeling the life struggling to emerge. Her pussy lips parted a little more, and the baby's head slid another centimeter forward—a slow, relentless advance that took his breath away.
“The Lord… the Lord is testing us,” he managed to say, his voice a hoarse, broken gasp. “He is testing us in ways… unimaginable.”
She leaned against the wall of the confessional, eyes closed, her hand still pressed against the spot where her body was opening. Labor had truly begun, and no sermons or prayers could stop it.
The world narrowed to the point of contact between her fingers and her child’s head. And then, that point turned to fire.
It burns. It’s starting to burn badly.
The burning was an explosion, a sharp, white pain that spread from her opening to the very core of her being. It was the flesh reaching its limit, stretching beyond what nature had intended for a body like hers. A trapped scream turned into a stifled silence.
She clung tighter to her pussy, her fingers pressing hard against the head trying to be born, a pathetic and desperate attempt to stop the inevitable. The pressure from her own fingers only intensified the pain, but it was all she could do.
The flesh opened a little more, not with a clean cut, but with a slow, agonizing tear. She saw in her mind the tissue of her own body turning into a tear of flesh, a wound giving birth. The pain was so intense that her vision blurred, tears welling from her eyes and falling onto the black robes.
“The Lord… the Lord asks us for sacrifices,” he continued, his voice a trembling, broken thread, almost inaudible. “He asks us to carry our cross… to… to endure the pain… for salvation…”
The young man on the other side of the grille listened devoutly, unaware that the sermon on sacrifice was not a parable. It was the real-time chronicle of Father Michael’s own hell.
Only four left... four more and she could give birth in peace.
Father Michael’s mind, fragmented by pain, found a strange and terrifying logic. He counted the contractions, the irresistible urges of his body. If he could endure four more, he could end this. He could surrender, let his body do what it had to do, and find a peace he hadn’t known in months.
He just has to hold his cunt tight.
He clung to the idea like a lifeline. Hold. Contain. Resist. His fingers dug into his own flesh, an act of violence against himself in an attempt to buy time. Every contraction he held back was a small, bitter victory.
It’s uncomfortable with his member in the way, but no one notices anything...
The baby’s pressure pushed downward, and his own member, erect from adrenaline and panic, was trapped in the middle, pressed against his thigh by the emerging head. It was a strange and humiliating sensation, a constant reminder of his duality, of his sin made flesh. He felt clumsy, deformed, a monster halfway between two worlds.
But no one noticed anything. The young man on the other side kept listening, devout and blind. The outside world kept turning, oblivious to the miracle and the nightmare unfolding in the darkness of the confessional.
“For in suffering… we find redemption,” Father Michael finished, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Amen.”
“Amen,” replied the young man, his voice full of gratitude.
Father Michael stood there, alone in the silence, his hand still clenched around his burning cunt. He held his breath, bracing himself for the next contraction, the next step in his own personal Stations of the Cross. Just four more. Just four more and he could give in.
The third push took him by surprise, an earthquake that originated in his pelvis and shook every bone in his body. The burning intensified, turning into a bonfire that consumed him. The tear in his flesh opened wider, and the baby’s head slid out, a slow, torturous advance that made him scream into his own hand.
“My God, have mercy on me!” he whispered, the words a mixture of prayer and blasphemy.
The young man on the other side of the lattice, confused by the muffled sound, asked, “Father? Did you say something?”
Father Michael shook his head, though no one could see him. He clutched his pussy tighter, his fingers pressing against the emerging head, a desperate attempt to halt the progress. Just one more. Just one more push and he could give in.
“Faith... faith is a flame,” he said, his voice a hoarse gasp. “A flame that burns in the darkness, a light that guides us through the valley of the shadow of death.”
The fourth push was the strongest. A wave of pressure that swept her away completely, a force she couldn’t contain. She clung to the bench with her free hand, her knuckles white, while her other hand continued to press against her burning pussy.
The baby’s head slid out, a slow, agonizing movement that made him see stars. The burning was a white fire, a pain that stole his breath and wrung tears from his eyes.
“Save me, Lord!” he cried, his voice broken by pain.
The young man on the other end, now terrified, asked, “Father? What’s going on? Are you okay?”
But Father Michael couldn’t answer. He was lost in his own hell, a world of pain and sacrifice from which there was no escape. The baby’s head was almost out, a crown of dark hair and stretched skin that defied him to give up.
“No! I can’t!” he screamed, his voice a heart-wrenching cry.
He clutched her pussy with both hands, a final act of desperation. But it was useless. Her body gave in, and the baby’s head slid out in a gush of fluids and flesh.
The relief was so overwhelming that she nearly fainted. The pressure in her pelvis vanished, replaced by a strange, dangling weight between her legs. She looked down, gasping, and saw her baby’s head, turning slowly as the shoulders lined up for the final push.
“Thank you, my God! Thank you!” she whispered, tears streaming down her face.
The young man on the other side, now completely bewildered, asked, “Father? Is it over?”
Father Michael nodded, though no one could see him. He leaned back against the wall of the confessional, exhausted and defeated. The baby was almost out, and for the first time in hours, he felt a flicker of hope.
“Amen,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Amen.”
Her head hung down, a heavy, foreign weight suspended from her torn pussy. It was both a victory crown and a mark of Cain all in one. Every beat of Father Michael’s heart sent a throb of dull pain through his perineum, a constant reminder of the torn flesh and the life hanging from it.
“Father… are you sure you’re all right?” the young man’s voice was a trembling whisper, filled with a concern Father Michael could no longer process.
“The… the Lord’s blessing… is immense,” the priest gasped, the words a monumental effort. “Go, my son. Go… and live in peace. Your confession... is complete.”
There was a silence, and then the sound of the small confessional door opening and closing with a soft click. The whisper of footsteps receding down the church aisle. And then, silence.
The mask of the saint crumbled away, leaving the man naked and broken. Father Michael collapsed sideways onto the narrow bench, his breath escaping him in a painful gasp. The baby’s head, dangling between his legs, swayed with the movement, tugging at his flesh in a way that made him scream into the now-empty silence.
There were no more sermons. No more congregation. Just him, the pain, and the child.
With a groan that was pure agony, he leaned forward. The movement was slow, torturous. Every muscle in his back and abdomen protested. He clutched his knees, his fingers digging into the fabric of his pants. He had to end this. He had to get it out.
He spread the cheeks of his ass, an instinctive and vulnerable act that made him feel exposed and animalistic. The pain was sharp, a deep tug on his already fatigued muscles. The weight of the head was immense, an anchor dragging him down. His cunt… his cunt was an open wound, a fire burning with a ferocity for which there were no words.
And there her baby was born.
There was no heroic push. There was no final scream. Just a collapse. Her body, having reached the absolute limit of its endurance, simply gave up. The last resistance of her tissues gave way, and with a wet, painful slide, the baby’s shoulders passed through the torn flesh.
Then the rest of the body slid out in a torrent of fluids, a heavy, slippery mass that fell onto the wooden floor with a dull, wet thud.
Father Michael stood there, leaning forward, gasping, his eyes closed. The relief was so overwhelming it was almost painful. The pressure was gone. The fire had gone out, leaving only a dull, throbbing pain.
He opened his eyes slowly and looked down.
There, on the floor of the confessional, in a pool of blood and amniotic fluid, lay his son. A real, tangible baby, covered in vernix and blood, with dark hair plastered to his cone-shaped head. He lay still for a moment, and then his little chest heaved, and a weak, whimpering cry filled the small space.
Father Michael—the man of God, the sinner, the father—stood there, gazing at the life he had created in the darkness. There were no singing angels, no divine light. Only the smell of blood and old wax, the sound of a baby’s cry, and the silence of an empty church.
With trembling hands, he bent down and picked up the baby. It was heavy, real, and perfectly imperfect. He pressed it to his chest, feeling its warmth and weight. And for the first time in months, Father Michael did not pray. He simply wept.
