“Do you need confession?” he asked.“Constantly,” I replied.He laughed, “Yes, of course, but is there anything major that we need to deal wit... in your interior life?”“Not that requires confession, though Father Stephen treated our conversation as confession.”“Wise. We should do that as well.”I nodded and he went to the vestry and returned wearing his epitrachil. As Father Stephen had done earlier, he put it around my shoulders and said the prayers for the beginning of confession. Once they were. I shudder. It will be my front now. He draws his arm back and strikes, before I can close my eyes. I scream. My right breast is on fire. The crop hit the top of my mound. I cannot help it and look down, to see the angry red stripe, crossing the front of my breast. He pauses, to let it sink. I know the drill; nine more on my right breast; the last three on the sensitive areola and the last one smack on the nipple. Again the crop falls, and again I scream; two stripes cross my breast, then three,. More

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