In the last installment of The Confessional

In the first installment of The Confessional

Yesterday morning in the sacristy, Lorenzo fucking me as I watched my eyes—the shifting, adoration, and need in them, had imprinted itself in my mind.

Subscribe now

Lorenzo had professed he was willing to burn the world down to keep me. That my belonging to him, that his love for me, meant he was willing to give up everything.

Everything.

His priesthood and his reputation. The respect of the diocese: other priests, the bishops, cardinals, and even the pope himself. He would risk eternal damnation for me.

I set my hand on the door to the rectory. This was where he wanted me to come to him. The other two priests were back from their pilgrimage and would wonder why I was there.

Lorenzo seemed intent on exposing us, on letting the light fall across our sin so there would be no more shadows to hide in.

I pushed the door open. The smell of coffee and toast greeted me, along with the low murmur of Father Michael and Father Xavier in the kitchen. They looked up as I stepped inside.

“Matteo?” Father Michael turned fully in his chair. “It’s early for you to be here for Mass. What can we help you with?”

“I’m here to see Father Lorenzo.”

Father Xavier stirred some cream into his coffee, eyes flicking to my face. “He hasn’t come down yet.”

I touched my throat, pulse hammering beneath my fingers. “He asked me to come upstairs.”

Father Michael frowned, the lines around his mouth deepening. “Mrs. Callahan has lodged accusations against you.”

The words landed like a slap. My knees nearly gave out on me. I opened my mouth to speak—to lie, to deflect, when the voice that commanded my every breath rolled down the stairs, deep and unyielding. “Matteo, come here.”

Share

“Excuse me,” I mumbled and scurried toward the stairs. I pounded up them, heart slamming, and stepped into the bedroom Lorenzo had disappeared into.

The morning sun streamed through the window, gilding the made bed, sheets turned down, pillows fluffed, waiting for me like an altar.

Lorenzo closed the door behind me with a soft click, then cupped my face in both hands. His thumbs brushed my cheekbones; his fingertips slid into my hair. Then his lips were on mine, reconnecting us after having spent a night apart. The kiss was long, slow, and devastating.

I felt full of him already—his scent, his heat, his claim.

He spun me gently in the room, a dance of two souls who had chosen the flames over salvation. His hand glided down my waist, tugging me tighter against him, then released my mouth just enough to breathe.

“You came,” he said, his voice at the breaking point of breathlessness.

“I would do anything for you … for us.”

He brushed his knuckles down my cheek, tender, possessive. “I love you.”

The words struck me like a bell—clear, resonant, holy in their heresy. My heart sang louder than any hymn. I clutched the front of his shirt.

“I love you, too.”

He smiled, relieved. “Father Xavier is doing Mass this morning.” His fingers found the hem of my shirt, sliding beneath to trace the skin of my stomach. “I told him there was something I needed to do.”

I sighed, shivering as his hands roamed up my spine, then dug into my hair, tugging just enough to tilt my head back. He walked me backward until the backs of my legs hit the mattress.

To keep sinking deeper into this forbidden heat—where every whispered confession drips with sin, every stolen touch burns hotter than hellfire, and two souls damn themselves beautifully for one another—consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Unlock the rest. Let the velvet close around you.

Subscribe now

Read more

In the last installment of The Confessional

In the first installment of The Confessional

The rectory clock ticked past three in the morning, each second a small, deliberate accusation. I sat at the desk in my bedroom, still wearing the black shirt and collar I’d put on for evening confessions, Matteo’s letter spread open before me like a wound I couldn’t stop touching.

The paper was soft from my fingers tracing the same lines over and over. The tearstains that had blurred his careful script, the way his handwriting trembled on “I love you” and steadied on “let me go.” I pressed my thumb to the dried salt of one drop and felt my chest crack wider.

He thought he was saving me. He thought walking away would leave me clean, unburned, still wearing this collar like it meant something without him in the world.

He was wrong—because my world had already become him.

He’s the only thing I’d ever stolen from God. The boy I helped raise after his father died, the one who looked up at me from the altar rail like I was holy instead of just another man drowning in black wool. I had fallen in love with Matteo long before I ever touched him.

The love I felt for my stepbrother had cracked every vow I ever made, and I had chosen—with my whole heart—to let it.

The garden had terrified me more than any rough claiming ever could. That softness, that tenderness, the way he’d whispered “I love you” like it was the only truth left between us—it had undone me completely.

I didn’t need to ruin him to keep him. I needed him to know how deeply I loved him, how completely he owned me in return.

So tomorrow night, when he came to me again, I would hold him gently, show him with my hands and my words that this love was real—that it was worth every risk.

This isn’t sin anymore.

This is love. And love has become my only survival.

The next morning, Mass dragged like a penance I didn’t want. Every word of the liturgy tasted hollow; my need to serve the altar paled beside the deeper, darker need to have Matteo serve me.

To love me with the same helpless devotion I felt for him.

Share

I let him fuss in the sacristy afterward: folding linens with those careful hands, hanging his cassock and surplice like they were still sacred.

Only when the last fold was perfect did I step behind him, slide my hands under the hem of his shirt, and lift. He raised his arms without a word—obedient, eager, already yielding.

I pressed my lips to the warm, bare skin of his shoulder, tasting salt and faint soap.

“Get undressed for me, my love.”

His eyes flicked toward the open sacristy door—half fear, half thrill. Anyone could walk in. A server. Another priest. Mrs. Callahan with her sharp gaze.

I’d left it ajar on purpose. Let fate decide if we were caught.

Let the risk make every second burn brighter.

When he stood naked before me, skin flushed, and goose-bumped in the cool air, I turned him to face the full-length mirror in the corner.

Our reflections stared back: him trembling, beautiful, mine; me still half in black, cassock parted, eyes dark with hunger.

I reached around his waist, wrapped my fist around his cock—already thickening, and stroked it slowly. “Watch what I’m doing to you, Matteo.”

A ragged breath shuddered out of him. “Yes, Father.”

Those two words sank into me like wine—sweet, heady, mine.

To keep sinking deeper into this forbidden heat—where every whispered confession drips with sin, every stolen touch burns hotter than hellfire, and two souls damn themselves beautifully for one another—consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Unlock the rest. Let the velvet close around you.

Subscribe now

Read more

In the last installment of The Confessional

In the first installment of The Confessional

I couldn’t sleep. Lorenzo’s words kept circling in my mind like smoke that refused to dissipate. He loved me. He had said it—low, cracked, almost against his will, while the garden moonlight silvered his face and his body moved inside mine with a gentleness I’d never felt from him before.

Subscribe now

No bruising grip. Just slow, deliberate thrusts, his forehead pressed to mine, whispering “Are you okay?” every time my breath hitched. Checking. Caring. Filling me so carefully it hurt more than any rough claiming ever had.

Our exchanged “I love you’s” looped through me like a litany I couldn’t stop reciting.

A heresy I wanted to tattoo on the inside of my ribs.

I slipped from the bed and sank to my knees beside it, the hardwood biting cold through my thin sleep pants.

Head bowed.

Hands clasped.

He was my master now.

I loved him.

I bowed to him.

I obeyed him.

My fingers found the rosary in my pocket—the one Mom had pressed into my hand many weeks ago, the day this all began, asking me to give it to Lorenzo.

I hadn’t. I’d kept it. A secret tether.

I pinched the first bead between thumb and forefinger and started the Hail Mary, voice barely a whisper.

Again.

Again.

Until my fingertips went numb and the beads felt like small, accusing stones.

An hour passed. Maybe more.

Share

No grace came.

No forgiveness.

Only the memory of Lorenzo in the garden, his breath warm against my throat, the slow roll of his hips, the way he’d shuddered when he spilled inside me, soft groans muffled in my hair.

My cock thickened against the cotton, insistent, traitorous.

I tried to ignore it.

Failed.

I slid my hand beneath the waistband, wrapped my fist around the hot length, and stroked once, like touching something sacred and profane at once.

“Lorenzo ….”

His name on my tongue was prayer and sin.

Two more strokes, agonizingly deliberate, and I was cumming, spilling hot and thick over my knuckles, a quiet, broken whimper escaping my throat.

The pleasure hadn’t even faded before shame crashed in.

Not shame at defiling my body.

Shame that I had done it without him.

He owned my release.

He decided when it happened, how hard, how much.

I had stolen it.

Disobeyed.

Tears burned instant and furious.

Subscribe now

Bile surged up my throat.

I lurched to my feet, stumbled down the dark hallway, and barely made the toilet before I retched—violent, gut-wrenching heaves that left my throat raw and my eyes streaming.

I collapsed forward, forehead pressed to the cool porcelain seat, sobs shaking my shoulders.

I didn’t deserve his love.

I had failed him already.

Proved I was unworthy.

My nose ran, snot dripping onto my upper lip, mixing with tears and spit.

Disgusting.

Exactly what I deserved.

Without thinking—without choice—I turned my head and dragged my tongue across the smooth rim of the toilet seat.

Tangy.

Slightly salty.

Chemical bite of cleaner underneath.

I licked again, slower, flattening my tongue, chasing every trace of residue like it was penance made manifest.

This was my place.

Kneeling.

Debased.

Cleaning filth because I couldn’t keep myself clean for him.

I pushed up onto my knees, gripped the seat with both hands, and kept going—long, deliberate strokes of my tongue until the porcelain gleamed wet under the faint light through the window.

My cock, still half-hard from earlier, twitched uselessly against my thigh.

Fresh tears fell onto the seat; I licked those away, too.

Penance.

Obedience.

Submission.

Share

I stayed there until my knees ached and my tongue went numb, until the sobs quieted to ragged breaths and the house was silent again.

Tomorrow, I would face him.

Tomorrow, I would confess this too—every stroke, every spill, every lick.

And whatever punishment he gave me, I would take it gratefully.

Because even in my lowest, dirtiest moment, I was still his.

Completely.

Irrevocably.

His.

The next day, before I had a chance to slip into the confessional, Mrs. Callahan cornered me just outside the sacristy. Her demeanor was harsh, her eyes accusing and disgusted.

“You’re dragging a good priest into the fire.”

“I … uh … don’t know what you mean.”

“And you add to that by lying in God’s house.” She crossed her arms. “This is your fault. You’ve tempted him. You are going to drag him to hell to be burned alive.”

“I … I ….” I lowered my head. She was right. I’d done something to seduce my stepbrother. To seduce a priest. I’d been too eager. I should have walked away when he was on his knees, murmuring my name like a Gregorian chant. I had led him further into the flames.

I was dooming us both by continuing to sin. I didn’t dare go into the confessional now. I couldn’t bear to hear his voice, comforting me … telling me he loved me. This had to end. All of it … the sin, the betrayal of God had to end. The thought of Lorenzo’s eternal damnation was too much to bear.

I found an empty office and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. There were words I couldn’t speak aloud. They needed to be said, but I couldn’t face him while sharing them.

I started the letter.

Lorenzo,

Tears dripped onto the paper.

I don’t know how to write this without tearing myself open all over again, but if I don’t say it now, I never will. I love you. God help me, I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything holy or human.

Last night in the garden, your voice breaking on “I love you,” the way you held me so carefully, moved inside me like I was something precious, not broken, was the closest I’ve ever come to grace.

Those words are branded into me now. I carry them like a beautiful wound that won’t stop bleeding. But the beauty is killing us both.

I’m the poison. Every time we touch, I drag you deeper into the dark with me. You were steady before. Holy, respected, the priest people turned to when their world cracked. Now you’re whispering vows in moonlit gardens that sound like promises we’ll both answer for.

Your collar, your calling, your soul, I’m stealing pieces of them every time I open my legs for you. Mrs. Callahan saw it. She didn’t need to name it. Her eyes named me the corrupter, the younger brother who should have stayed kneeling at the rail instead of between your thighs. She’s right. I’m dooming you. I can feel hell closing around us both, and I’m the one holding the door.

I can’t live with that.

Last night, after I left you, I couldn’t sleep. Your words kept echoing, and my body wouldn’t let me forget how you felt inside me. I tried to pray. Knelt with the rosary you never got, the one my mom gave me for you. But the beads turned to accusations. I failed. I slipped my hand into my pants and stroked myself, whispering your name like a prayer I had no right to say.

Three strokes and I came all over my hand, spilling without your permission, without your touch, without your command. I stole what belongs to you. I disobeyed you in the worst way.

The shame hit like a fist. I wretched in the toilet until my throat was raw, then I knelt in the bathroom and God forgive me, I licked the toilet seat. Flat tongue, slow strokes, tasting cleaner and salt, and my own filth. I cleaned every inch of it while tears ran down my face, because that’s what I deserve for betraying you. For taking my release when it’s yours to give or withhold.

For proving again how unworthy I am of the love you gave me.

Please.

End this.

Send me away. Tell me to leave the parish, transfer dioceses, vanish if that’s what it takes. Lie to our parents, tell them I’ve been called elsewhere. Make it final. I’ll hate every second of distance, but I’ll go because loving you means saving you from me.

Don’t come after me.

Don’t look at me across the altar like you’re memorizing my face for the last time.

Don’t write back.

Just let me go.

I’m sorry for every moan of your name, I let escape, for every time I whined for you to fill me, for turning your mercy into sin. I’m sorry I couldn’t be strong enough to stop wanting you.

I love you.

I’ll love you until they nail the lid on my coffin.

But please save yourself.

Let me go.

Matteo

I folded the page with trembling fingers, kissed it, a final secret act of devotion, and slid it under Lorenzo’s office door. This was my final confession of the deepest failure, but the only love I had left to give. My final gift to the man who commanded and loved me.

Get 40% off forever

I didn’t set foot in the church for 5 days.

I couldn’t face him. Couldn’t bear to see the man I’d begged to let me go actually do it.

He must have read the letter and taken every word to heart, because there was nothing—no text, no call, no shadow in the rectory window when I dared glance from the sidewalk.

Just silence.

And the silence was worse than any rebuke.

Dizziness came in waves now. I hadn’t eaten since the night I wrote the letter; my stomach twisted itself into knots at the thought of food. My parents hovered, voices soft with worry, pressing tea and toast I couldn’t swallow. They wanted a doctor. I knew the diagnosis already: my heart was shattered. I’d pushed away the only person who had ever made it beat.

I was drifting in half-sleep, curled under blankets, remembering the scent of his cassock from the last time he’d held me—when the first pebble struck the window.

A soft click.

Then another.

And another.

I rolled out of bed on unsteady legs, housecoat slipping off one shoulder, and peered through the glass. Moonlight shone across the backyard lawn.

Lorenzo stood there in his black coat, hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking up at me with an expression I’d never seen on him before: uncertain. Almost afraid.

When our eyes met, he gave a small, cautious smile and lifted a hand—come down.

I had no strength left to refuse him.

Share

I shoved my feet into slippers, pulled the housecoat tighter around my starving frame, and slipped out the back door. The night air was cool against my skin. Lorenzo shifted from foot to foot as I approached, the confident priest gone, replaced by a man trembling at the edges.

“Can we talk?” His voice was low, rough.

I stopped a few feet away, arms wrapped around myself. “I’ve said everything.”

He glanced toward the sliding kitchen door, then up at our parents’ darkened bedroom window. “Matteo. Please. Let me respond.”

My gaze drifted to the shed at the far end of the yard, the one place our voices wouldn’t carry. I turned without a word and walked toward it. He followed.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cut grass, motor oil, and old wood. Lorenzo closed the door behind us with a quiet click. The space felt smaller than I remembered. Too small for the weight between us. He didn’t give me time to speak.

He crowded me back against the workbench where I’d once spent hours beside his father. My only father, tinkering with carburetors and spark plugs.

The edge bit into my lower back. Lorenzo’s hands came up to cradle my face, thumbs brushing the hollows beneath my eyes, and then his mouth was on mine.

The kiss was devastating.

Hungry.

Desperate.

Full of everything we’d tried to bury: need, love, fear. His tongue swept in like he was claiming back every piece of me I’d tried to banish. I tasted desperation—mine, his—felt the tremor in his fingers as he held me, as if I might vanish. When he finally broke away, he pressed his forehead to mine, breath ragged against my lips.

“I can’t end this, Matteo.” His voice cracked. “I won’t. Because this love isn’t yours alone. I fell first, long before you ever knelt for me. I have spent every night since the garden asking why loving you feels like the only honest prayer I have left.”

“Lorenzo, please—”

“No.” He bowed his head, cheek sliding along my neck, hot breath fanning my shoulder in uneven puffs. “If we burn, we burn together.”

Terror rose sharp and bright in my chest. Not of hell, but of a world without him. My soul might as well not exist if he weren’t in it.

Subscribe now

Tears spilled hot and fast. Sobs tore out of me, raw. My knees buckled; he caught me, arms banding tight around my waist, holding me upright against the workbench.

“I can’t—” My voice rasped, broken. “I can’t keep hurting you.”

Lorenzo tightened his hold, one hand coming up to cradle the back of my head as he pressed his forehead to mine. “You’re not hurting me, Matteo. We did this together. You didn’t drag me anywhere I didn’t choose to go. Every step, every touch, every moment we’ve shared—I wanted it just as much as you did. We took that step side by side, and I would take it again a thousand times. This love doesn’t hurt me. It saves me. You save me.”

He pulled back just enough to brush his thumb across my cheek, smearing tears. “We’re in this together. No more trying to carry the blame alone. I love you too much for that.”

I shook my head, tears falling faster. “You’ll lose everything. Your collar. Your—”

“I don’t care.” His grip tightened on my face, fierce and tender at once. “My life is nothing without you.” He kissed the wet track down my cheek, slow, reverent. “Tomorrow night. The rectory. Living room. No locked doors. No shame. No hiding.”

My body trembled, dizzy, starved, aching, but I managed the smallest nod.

“Yes, Father.”

He exhaled like the words had released the air from his lungs.

Then he kissed me again—slower this time, deeper, one hand sliding to the nape of my neck to hold me exactly where he wanted me.

I melted against him, boneless, starving for more than food.

For him.

When he finally stepped back, his thumb traced my swollen bottom lip.

“Mom says you’re not eating. Eat something tonight,” he murmured. “For me.”

I nodded again, throat too tight for words.

He opened the shed door, glanced once at the house, then slipped away into the dark.

I stood there in the smell of oil and grass, lips tingling, heart hammering, already counting the hours until tomorrow night.

No more half-measures.

Just us.

Burning.

The rectory was hushed, almost hollow without the low murmur of the other two priests. They were still away, walking the dust of the Holy Land on pilgrimage. Tonight, the house belonged only to us—and to whatever ruin we were about to make of it.

I found Lorenzo in the living room exactly as promised, seated in the old leather armchair, Bible open on his lap. Candlelight flickered across the pages. When I stepped inside, he looked up, and the smile that curved his mouth was slow, relieved, and possessive.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“You command me, Father.”

The words left my lips like a vow. He closed the Bible with deliberate care, set it aside, and rose, still in his black trousers and shirt, clerical collar stark against his throat. He looked every inch the priest who had spent the evening hearing confessions, offering counsel to the broken.

Subscribe now

But I was no longer lost.

He had found me.

He had claimed me back.

“On your hands and knees,” he said quietly. “Crawl to me.”

I dropped without hesitation. The carpet was rough on my palms as I moved toward him, heart slamming so hard I felt dizzy again—starved, fragile, but burning for this.

He took one measured step forward and lifted the hem of his trouser leg just enough to expose his shiny, black shoe. “Show me how sorry you are for trying to push me away.”

Understanding flooded me, hot and sweet. I scurried the last distance, lowering my face until my lips brushed leather. The taste hit immediately: sharp polish and the faint undercurrent of street grit. I dragged my tongue along the smooth vamp in long, worshipful strokes, then traced the edges, the laces, cleaning every inch to a dull gleam.

When he lifted his toe, I dove beneath, tongue flat against the sole, swallowing the bitter tang of grass and damp earth from the garden where he’d first said he loved me.

“Shirt off. Before the other shoe.”

I stripped it quickly, tossed the fabric onto the sofa, and returned to my task, naked from the waist up now, skin prickling in the cool air. The second shoe received the same devotion: slow licks, thorough, consuming. When I finished, he took it off and nudged the shoe toward my face.

“Nose in it. Breathe me in.”

I buried my face deep inside the warm leather cavity. His scent flooded me—sweat, skin, the faint sour edge of a long day on his feet. It was pungent, overwhelming; my throat worked against a gag reflex I refused to indulge. I inhaled until my lungs burned, dizzy with him, cock already straining painfully against my jeans.

He kicked the shoe aside.

“Everything else off. Leave your clothes on the sofa.”

This was the no-hiding he’d promised. Mrs. Callahan would see them tomorrow morning, crumpled evidence of my surrender, and her horror would be part of our vows.

I trusted him to know what I needed.

Get 40% off forever

Naked now, skin flushed and shivering, I knelt again. Lorenzo unzipped, freed his cock—thick, flushed dark, already slick at the tip, and took the small silver chalice from the side table.

The same one used for taking private communion.

He stroked himself slowly while I watched, breath shallow.

“Sit up. Pinch your nipples. Hard.”

My hands rose, fingers clamping down until the sting blurred my vision. Pain bloomed bright, and my cock jerked, bouncing up against my stomach.

“Touch your cock. Just hold it.”

I wrapped my fist around the base. It throbbed in my palm, a thick string of pre-cum stretching down to my thigh.

“Taste yourself.”

I swiped the bead with two fingers and brought it to my lips: salty, bitter, mingling with the lingering filth of his shoes. Lorenzo groaned, pace quickening, muscles tensing along his forearms.

When he came, it was with a low, guttural sound—long pulses of his seed spilling into the chalice, white and obscene against the sacred metal.

He stepped closer, still breathing hard.

“This is my blood, shed for you.”

To keep sinking deeper into this forbidden heat—where every whispered confession drips with sin, every stolen touch burns hotter than hellfire, and two souls damn themselves beautifully for one another—consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Unlock the rest. Let the velvet close around you.

Subscribe now

Read more

In the last installment of The Confessional

In the first installment of The Confessional

The first gray light of dawn slipped under the rectory curtains, a reluctant witness, pale and accusing. I slipped from Lorenzo’s bed, skin still flushed and damp, thighs sticky with the dried remnants of communion wine and his cum, cassock yanked on in haste over the bruises that throbbed with every careful step. My hair was a wreck, the faint purple marks from his stole burning under my cuffs.

I moved quietly, heart slamming against my ribs, already aching for the warmth of his body I was leaving behind.

Lorenzo stirred once as I reached the door, his arm reaching out instinctively across the empty sheets, then settled back into sleep, his face softened in a way I’d only ever seen in these past few stolen hours.

I paused, throat tight, memorizing the rise and fall of his chest, the faint stubble along his jaw, the way the crucifix above the bed caught the weak light, as if it were watching us both.

Then I turned the knob with trembling fingers and stepped into the narrow hallway. The creak of the floorboards under my boots sounded deafening in the stillness.

I froze.

Mrs. Callahan stood at the bottom of the stairs, broom gripped in both hands, apron tied tight over her cardigan. She wasn’t supposed to be here today. Her schedule was sacred, pinned to the parish bulletin board like one of the Commandments, but there she was, early, eyes narrowing as they raked up my disheveled frame: cassock wrinkled and askew, hair mussed.

“Matteo?” Her voice cut sharp, maternal suspicion honing every syllable. “What in God’s name are you doing coming out of Father Lorenzo’s room at this hour?”

Heat roared into my face. My mind blanked, then scrambled for the first lie that surfaced.

“I—I was helping Father with … with the Missal revisions. Late night. Fell asleep on the chair in his room.” I gestured vaguely back toward the bedroom door, the motion weak and unconvincing, even to my own ears. “Didn’t want to wake him. I left before he woke.”

Mrs. Callahan’s lips thinned into a line. She glanced past me at the closed door at the top of the stairs, then back to the dark, wine-stained hem of my cassock.

“Revisions,” she repeated slowly, each syllable dripping doubt. “In his bedroom.”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll … I’ll go now.”

She didn’t move. The broom stayed clenched in her fists like a weapon.

“You look like you’ve been wrestling with the devil himself, boy. And you smell like the sacristy after someone knocked over a cruet.”

I forced a laugh that came out more like a choke. “Just … spilled some wine during cleanup last night. Clumsy. Sorry.”

Her gaze flicked once more to Lorenzo’s door, then dropped to my wrists, where the faint red lines from the stole must’ve peeked out when my sleeves shifted.

Share

She said nothing else, but the silence pressed heavier than any accusation.

I ducked my head, thundered down the stairs on legs that felt borrowed, and hurried past her, pulse roaring in my ears, the weight of her stare burning into my back all the way to the back door.

I didn’t breathe properly until I was outside in the cold morning air, rain starting to fall again in soft, relentless sheets, washing the streets but doing nothing to cleanse me.

Behind me, the rectory door clicked shut.

We wouldn’t touch each other again for weeks.

My body and soul were in agony, torn from the man who had claimed every inch of me. Lorenzo had imprinted himself on my thoughts, my skin, my breath—his touch a brand I carried beneath my cassock like a secret stigmata.

I ached for him constantly, the weight of his body pinning me, the stretch of him inside me, the way he surrounded me when I served him on my knees. Without him, the world felt hollowed out, colorless, every breath a reminder of what I’d lost.

The church this morning was a shell. Mass no longer stirred anything sacred in me. I went through the motions, lighting candles, folding linens, kneeling at the right moments, but my heart and body no longer answered to the Father, the Son, or the Holy Spirit.

They answered only to him.

I sat at the edge of the sanctuary, hands folded in my lap, while Lorenzo delivered his sermon from the pulpit. For the third Sunday in a row, his voice cracked like thunder over sins of the flesh.

Sexual impurity.

Sensuality as violence against one’s own body.

Homosexuality named outright, a wound that kills the believer if not excised.

Each word landed like a lash across my back, yet I felt no repentance—only a dark, defiant heat pooling low in my belly. Sin had not crept in to replace the joy I’d known when he used me.

That joy—purpose, destiny, still burned brighter than any flame of guilt.

When he stepped down from the pulpit, his gaze found mine. For one heartbeat, the mask slipped. Sadness, raw and unguarded, carved into the lines around his eyes.

Our separation was torturing him too.

He was lashing out in the only way he knew how—through sermon.

Mrs. Callahan had stopped posting her schedule on the bulletin board, likely hoping to keep us apart. My clumsy excuse that dawn hadn’t fooled her. The way she looked at me now—like I was the corruption, the one dragging a priest, my stepbrother, toward damnation cut deep.

Share The Black Velvet Room

She didn’t understand we were equally guilty. That we craved the sins we committed together.

That my body answered only to his command.

I looked down at my folded hands as the congregation rose for the Nicene Creed and the Universal Prayer. The words fell around me, meaningless, sliding off my tongue.

Then it was time to carry the cruet and paten to the altar. The small vessel of wine felt impossibly heavy in my hands, as though the consecrated Blood itself had thickened with the weight of what Lorenzo had done to me—poured it down my crease in slow, deliberate streams, fucked it deeper inside until every thrust turned sacrament into sin.

The memory surged so violently I nearly stumbled across the sanctuary, knees buckling under the sudden heat that flooded my groin.

I set the cruet and paten before him, my fingers shaking. Lorenzo began the sacrament of Communion, voice steady and resonant for the congregation, every word measured, every gesture precise. But I saw the faint tremor in his hand when he lifted the chalice—the same hand that had gripped my hip and guided himself inside me, the same fingers that had smeared wine across my hole like anointing oil before he claimed me completely.

I knelt at the rail with the others; head bowed in practiced reverence. When the wafer touched my tongue, it was dry, tasteless ash—nothing like the heavenly heat of his cock.

The wine followed, sliding down my throat in a thin, bitter trickle, tasting only of memory: the cool flood of it soaking my balls, dripping down my thighs, mixing with his release as he fucked me open and filled me until I was drenched in what he had used me for.

I swallowed hard, throat working convulsively, grateful the elements knew they no longer belonged inside me.

They passed through like strangers in a house that had long since been claimed by another. I was no longer a vessel of grace.

I was his.

Mass ended. In the sacristy, the altar boys chattered and laughed as they changed, their voices bright and innocent. I hung back, folding vestments with mechanical care, until the room emptied.

Lorenzo’s hand caught my sleeve—firm, desperate.

I’d never seen him look so broken.

“Meet me in the confessional,” he whispered, voice cracked and strained, nothing like the commanding timbre that had preached fire and brimstone minutes earlier.

I nodded once. He left. I finished changing, pulse roaring, then waited until he disappeared into the priest’s side of the booth. I stepped into the shadowed penitent’s side.

Subscribe now

Before I could even kneel, the grate slid open with a sharp rasp.

“I have a confession to make,” he said.

I frowned. “Father?”

He leaned close to the lattice, breath drifting through the screen. “I have engaged in homosexuality. And I’m not sorry. It brought me peace and a deeper understanding of God’s many gifts.” His voice dropped to a ragged whisper. "I miss you and long desperately for you."

I clutched the lattice, forehead pressed to the wood, panting. “I’ve missed you, too.” The words cracked open something inside me—a seed that had been growing for years, fed by childhood adoration and watered by sin until it bloomed into this desperate, unholy need.

“Meet me tonight,” he said. “Out by the water fountain in the garden. At midnight.”

My cock thickened instantly, straining against my jeans in the shadowed booth. Out there, no eyes, no schedule, no Mrs. Callahan. Just us.

A chance to serve him again, to kneel in the wet grass and take him into my mouth, to feel him claim me under the open sky where even God might look away.

I whispered back, voice trembling with hunger.

“Yes, Father. Tonight.”

Another Sunday dinner I couldn’t stomach. Mom had outdone herself again. Roast lamb, fragrant with rosemary; golden potatoes whipped and fluffy; green snap beans, but every bite sat like lead in my gut.

My stomach was knotted tight, not from hunger, but from the deeper, more insistent ache lower down: the hollow craving for Lorenzo to fill me, to stretch me open until there was no room left for anything else.

Not food.

Not guilt.

Not even God.

“You haven’t been eating,” Mom said softly, reaching across the table to cover my hand with hers. Her thumb brushed my knuckles in that familiar, worried way. “And you’ve looked so distracted during Mass lately. Maybe you should seek counsel from Father Lorenzo.”

I lifted my eyes to hers, the words catching in my throat. “I have sought counsel from him,” I managed. “Many times.” My voice came out quieter than I intended, frayed at the edges. “It’s only left me with more questions than answers, to be honest.”

Share

She tilted her head, concern deepening the lines around her mouth, but she didn’t press. I folded my napkin with careful, deliberate movements—once, twice, then laid it beside my barely touched plate, the food cooling untouched.

“I’m going back to the church tonight,” I said. “To meet with him.”

“I hope that helps. I’ll pray for you tonight.”

“Thank you.” The words tasted stale like a lie. There were no prayers that could save me. I pushed my chair back, the scrape loud in the quiet kitchen, and carried my plate to the sink.

After depositing it, I paused at the doorway, one hand on the frame, feeling the pull of him like gravity. Not just the memory of his body inside mine, or the taste of him on my tongue, or the way his voice had cracked when he whispered my name in the dark.

Something else was shifting beneath all of it—something warmer, more terrifying, that hadn’t yet found its name. A tenderness that scared me more than the sin ever had.

I wanted to crawl back into his bed and stay there, not just to be fucked, but to be held. To hear his heartbeat steady against my ear and believe, for one selfish moment, that this wasn’t damnation but something closer to grace.

I didn’t let the thought finish.

Not yet.

After spending time in my room, waiting for the hour we had agreed on, I finally slipped out the back door into the cool night air, the ache in my chest sharper than any hunger as I drove to the church—toward him—already half-lost and not sure I wanted to be found.

I didn’t dare switch on my phone’s light. The garden paths were etched into me from years of walking them in penance—slow circuits while I whispered rosaries under the stars, begging God to uproot the longing that had taken root in my chest. Tonight, those same paths felt different: shadowed, secret, alive with the promise of sin rather than salvation.

When I reached the fountain, the stone basin gleamed faintly under the full moon. Water trickled softly, the only sound besides my ragged breathing.

I stood alone in the dark, chest tightening with sudden panic.

He hadn’t come. He’d changed his mind.

The sermon, Mrs. Callahan’s suspicion, the weeks of enforced distance had finally convinced him this was too dangerous, too wrong.

Then a warm hand settled on my shoulder.

I turned.

Share The Black Velvet Room

Lorenzo stood there, in the faint moonlight, black shirt open at the throat, collar discarded somewhere, eyes shadowed but burning. He cupped my face with both hands, thumbs stroking the hollows beneath my cheekbones as though memorizing me by touch.

One arm slid around my waist, pulling me flush against him. His cock was already hard, thick, and insistent against my thigh through our clothes, and when his mouth found mine, the kiss was long, desperate, almost violent in its need.

I wondered, even as our tongues met and tangled, whether the sadness had left his eyes or if this reunion had only deepened it. The taste of him—salt, bergamot, the faint metallic edge of restrained hunger—flooded me.

Our lips moved together in adoration and ruin, slow at first, then frantic, as though we could pour every lost moment of the past weeks into this single point of contact. He wrung emotions from me I hadn’t known I still possessed: relief so sharp it hurt, longing so deep it felt like drowning, a tenderness so fierce it terrified me.

He broke the kiss first, forehead resting against mine, breath hot across my swollen lips.

“How have you been?” he whispered.

“Miserable.” My fingers dug into his bicep, anchoring myself against the wave of want that threatened to buckle my knees. “I need you.”

Lorenzo exhaled shakily against my skin, lips brushing my chin, then tracing the line of my jaw up to the sensitive shell of my ear.

I inhaled him—sin and cedar and something softer, something that made my chest ache in a new, dangerous way.

“You’re all I think about,” he murmured, voice rough and low. “Every hour. Every prayer. Every time I stand at the altar and speak words, I no longer believe apply to me.”

“Then command me,” I breathed.

He chuckled, dark and quiet, right against my ear, the sound vibrating through me like a blessing I didn’t deserve.

“Kneel, Matteo.” His hand slid to the back of my neck, thumb pressing gently but unyieldingly. “Kneel for me here, under the open sky, where even the stars can see what we’ve become.”

I sank to my knees without hesitation, the cool grass damp against my shins, the fountain’s murmur blending with the thud of my pulse.

He stepped closer, fingers threading through my hair, tilting my head back so I looked up at him, silhouetted against the night, beautiful and broken.

I was his.

To keep sinking deeper into this forbidden heat—where every whispered confession drips with sin, every stolen touch burns hotter than hellfire, and two souls damn themselves beautifully for one another—consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Unlock the rest. Let the velvet close around you.

Subscribe now

Read more

In the last installment

In the first installment

I’d been in his bedroom only once before—the night I pushed open the door and found him stroking himself to my name, the night I dropped to my knees on the rug and crawled the last few feet to lick him clean, tongue chasing every thick, warm drop that had spilled over his fingers and coated his shaft while he groaned above me.

But the memory that burned hottest now was fresher, rawer: just moments ago in the sacristy, Lorenzo pinning me against the cabinet, filling me deep and deliberate. My body still throbbed with the echo of it—ass tender and slick, hips marked with faint bruises from his grip, the phantom stretch of him lingering inside me.

Lorenzo sat on the edge of the mattress, black clerical shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, white collar stark against flushed skin, trousers long discarded. His cock rested heavy and thick against his thigh—already stirring again, glistening faintly from earlier—and his gaze lifted slowly, dark, unblinking, stripping away the last fragile pretense between us.

My knees trembled at the threshold.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The invitation was in the way he shifted, thighs parting just enough, cock twitching in silent command.

I crossed the floor and sank to my knees at his feet, head bowed, palms open on my thighs in instinctive offering. The air hung thick with lingering sin—ours, unconfessed, unrepented, and already renewing itself.

His hand reached for me. I shuffled closer on my knees until my chest brushed his legs. He guided my head down to rest against the warm, muscled plane of his inner thigh.

The scent hit me immediately: the dark musk of his release mingled with the pungent, intimate tang of my own hole still clinging to his skin—a filthy perfume that made my cock jerk hard.

“Clean your musk off me,” he murmured, thumb stroking the curve of my cheek with deceptive gentleness. “With reverence.”

“Yes, Father.”

To keep sinking deeper into this forbidden heat—where every whispered confession drips with sin, every stolen touch burns hotter than hellfire, and two souls damn themselves beautifully for one another—consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Unlock the rest. Let the velvet close around you.

Subscribe now

Read more

In the last installment of The Confessional

In the first installment of The Confessional

I watched Matteo hobble out of the confessional, lips still slick and swollen, tongue darting out to chase the last traces of me like he savored the Eucharist itself.

His steps were slow, deliberate, thighs trembling from the way I had stretched and filled him minutes earlier. Mrs. Dempsey stopped him near the font, murmuring some small request about a candle. His eyes were glassy, distant. He answered her in soft, monotone words, nodding mechanically. She didn’t notice the faint sheen on his chin, the way he shifted his weight as though he still felt me buried deep inside.

Subscribe now

His gaze lifted, found mine across the nave—and the stupor shattered. A slow, radiant smile broke across his face, the kind reserved for someone who had just handed him the most exquisite gift. Complete ownership. I could have done anything to him—anything—and he would have submitted to me without hesitation, eager, grateful.

He already had. He had licked the confessional wall clean for me, tongue dragging over every sticky pearl I left behind, rubbing his face through it like a penitent anointed himself with sin.

I would give him more. So much more.

Yet as I stood in the empty nave, my chest ached with a tenderness I could no longer deny. This was not conquest. I had fallen deeply in love with my stepbrother long before he ever crawled to me.

The love I felt for Matteo had cracked every vow I ever made, and I had chosen, willingly, to let it. God is love, the Scriptures say. Could this deep, desperate need, this overwhelming desire to hold and protect him, be a shadow of that same divine fire? Or were we damned to hell?

If we were, then the sin we shared belonged to both of us. I had opened the door first, and he had answered with the same honest longing I carried in my heart. For months, I had fought it. Telling myself it was only protectiveness, only brotherly affection, only a momentary weakness when his confessions stirred something forbidden in me. But then, he pushed open my door and found me stroking myself to his name, and everything changed.

When he dropped to his knees and crawled across the rectory floor to me, eyes wide with hunger and trust, every argument I had built against this love collapsed in a single breath. In that moment, I stopped resisting. I let myself want him completely, let myself take what he so willingly offered, and felt the last of my resistance shatter into pieces I would never gather again.

I was already lost to him—and in that loss, I had come to understand him deeply. I knew Matteo needed to serve; it was woven into his very soul, the way he had always knelt at the altar, the way he now knelt for me.

And because I loved him, I wanted to meet him exactly where he was: on his knees, offering everything, finding peace in surrender.

I would not take that from him. I would give him the safety and the purpose he craved, even as I gave him my heart in return.

I touched my chest, above my heart, where it was still beating rapidly. His scent still clung to me, sweat-soaked skin, the sharp tang of his arousal, overlaid with the sacred incense that never quite left this place. Even after his shower, he had come to me ripe, needy, body already primed.

The smell of him on my face, my neck, my cassock made my cock thicken again beneath the heavy wool.

There was no forgiveness left for either of us.

To keep sinking deeper into this forbidden heat—where every whispered confession drips with sin, every stolen touch burns hotter than hellfire, and two souls damn themselves beautifully for one another—consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Unlock the rest. Let the velvet close around you.

Subscribe now

Read more

In the last installment of The Confessional

In the first installment of The Confessional

Work was torture. My mind kept dragging me back to the church, to that locked office, to being on my knees and the thick, velvet weight of Lorenzo’s cock sliding past my lips.

Subscribe now

That first rectory taste—licking him clean after he spilled to my name—had been nothing compared to last night in his office.

I could still feel the ache in my jaw, the pulse against my tongue, the hot flood of his release when he’d emptied himself down my throat while I mumbled the Lord’s Prayer around him.

Grunting. Suckling.

Worshipping the new center of my universe.

No longer just serving the Lord.

Serving him.

I hoisted another bundle of roofing tiles onto my shoulder, muscles straining under the weight, and carried them to the hoist platform.

We were re-roofing a tidy Victoria house today—gingerbread trim, soft sage siding, the kind of place I usually notice, cataloging its charm.

Today? Nothing registered.

My head was full of him. The low command in his voice, the way his fingers had framed my skull like a benediction while he fucked my face with liturgical rhythm.

“You doing all right today, Matteo?” Gary’s arm landed heavy around my shoulders—friendly, steady, concerned. My boss had a soft spot for me; I reminded him of his deceased son.

I blinked hard, forcing focus. “Yeah. Just … a lot on my mind. Sorry if I’m slowing us down.”

“You’re moving like you’re underwater, kid. Pick it up a bit—we’ve got to wrap by Thursday in time for Easter weekend.”

I nodded, throat tight. “It’s just church stuff on my mind.”

Gary’s brow lifted. “Father Lorenzo holding up okay with the other priests away?”

Share

Lorenzo wasn’t just holding up. He was thriving in his solitude—setting himself up as my sole point of gravity. The man I needed to command me.

The one I ached to please, to fill, to empty myself for.

“He’s … blessed,” I managed. “Guided by the Spirit. Bringing comfort to everyone who needs it.” I cleared my throat. “He’s managing well on his own. Praise be.”

Gary clapped my shoulder. “Good. Don’t let church stuff drag you under. Hustle, yeah?”

I grabbed the next bundle and moved faster, letting the repetitive motion dull the edges.

The rest of the afternoon blurred—lift, carry, stack, repeat—while Lorenzo crowded every corner of my brain. His taste. His scent.

The way he’d called me “good boy” when I swallowed every drop.

By the time I got home, I was wrecked—sweat-soaked shirt clinging to my back, muscles aching, cock half-hard just from the memory of him. I steadied myself against the hallway wall when I heard his voice drifting from the kitchen. Deep, smooth, rumbling like distant thunder.

He was here. Visiting our parents like nothing had changed.

I ducked my head in so Mom wouldn’t scold me later for being rude. The sight of him, broad shoulders filling the chair, long legs stretched under the table, white collar stark against tanned skin, nearly buckled my knees. He turned, caught my eye, and smiled, warm—brotherly.

Innocent.

As though I hadn’t choked on his cock last night.

As though I hadn’t swallowed his cum while reciting scripture.

“Hey, Matteo.” He rose, crossed the room in two strides, and pulled me into a hug. His body pressed close—solid, warm, carrying the aroma of soap and the spring heat. His mouth found my ear.

“You smell exactly as you should,” he whispered, breath hot against my skin, voice low and warm. “Sweaty … and so full of the same longing I feel.”

I clung to him so I wouldn’t collapse, fingers digging into the back of his shirt. My cock jerked hard against my jeans.

He pulled back, voice carrying normally again. “After dinner, I was hoping you could help me with something at the church. I need your … unique expertise.”

The praise hit like a caress. I had satisfied him. He wanted me again.

My chest hummed with dark pleasure.

“Yes, Father,” I said softly, head dipping in instinctive reverence.

He ruffled my hair—affectionate, possessive—then let his fingers linger a moment longer, thumb brushing my temple gently.

“Go shower.”

Share The Black Velvet Room

I jogged upstairs, stripped in my room, then stepped under the scalding spray. The water pounded my shoulders, but all I could think about was him downstairs, calm, composed, chatting with our parents, while I stood naked above him, cock thickening at the thought of him

I ran a soapy hand down my chest, pinching a nipple until it stung, then lower—over the freshly shaved skin of my groin, my balls, the smooth length of my thighs.

I’d taken the razor to everything last night. Arms, legs, chest, groin. Bare. Vulnerable. Pure for him. Ready to be marked, used, and owned.

My palm wrapped around my cock—slow, deliberate. One long stroke. It throbbed in response, leaking steadily. I could edge myself right here, chase the brink, spill for him in secret.

But I stopped. Hand falling away. Breath ragged.

My pleasure belonged to him now. He would decide when—or if—I came.

To keep sinking deeper into this forbidden heat—where every whispered confession drips with sin, every stolen touch burns hotter than hellfire, and two souls damn themselves beautifully for one another—consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Unlock the rest. Let the velvet close around you.

Subscribe now

Read more

In the first installment of The Confessional

I’d been frozen in the driver’s seat for nearly fifteen minutes, rain streaking the windshield like tears God refused to shed for me.

Subscribe now

The rectory scene replayed in merciless loops: the rug beneath my knees, the velvet heat of Lorenzo’s softening cock against my tongue as I licked him clean, the way his spilled release had coated my mouth—thick, salty, sacred in the most obscene way possible.

I’d crawled to him on my hands and knees across the shadowed rectory bedroom floor, heart hammering so hard I thought it might crack my ribs.

I’d taken him into my mouth like salvation itself waited at the back of my throat—like if I sucked hard enough, deep enough, devout enough, I could drink down forgiveness and scour away every filthy thought that had haunted me for months.

I’d licked him clean instead of finding salvation.

Slow, careful strokes of my tongue along the sensitive underside, gathering the slick traces of his release where it had spilled over his fingers and shaft after he’d stroked himself to the edge.

I chased every drop like it was holy water, like tasting him could purify me.

Instead of washing me clean, I’d only damned myself deeper.

No absolution waited at the end of that act—only the slow burn of certainty that every path I walked now led straight to hell.

I could feel the flames already, not roaring yet, but licking quietly at the frayed edges of my soul: a low, patient heat that curled through my chest, my belly, my groin, reminding me with every heartbeat that I’d knelt not for God, but for a man.

For Lorenzo.

For the forbidden shape of his pleasure in my mouth.

He hadn’t come to our home since. Not a single dinner. Our parents asked; I lied about him being busy with sermons. But the silence between us wasn’t distance, it was shame so heavy it kept us both away from the same table.

I still woke up every night gasping, cock leaking against my stomach, his name a broken moan in the dark.

I looked out through the windshield. Today was Mass. I couldn’t stand at that altar with his taste still phantom on my tongue and pretend my soul wasn’t black with it. Confession first. Absolution, or at least the illusion of it, before I changed into my vestments and served.

I groaned—low, animal—and shoved the car door open. Cool rain hit my face. My legs felt unsteady as I crossed the threshold into the church, the familiar hush closing around me.

He was there, near the holy water font, speaking quietly with three silver-haired women. Black shirt, white collar, sleeves rolled to show the corded strength of his forearms. He looked every inch a venerated and respected priest in the parish—composed, compassionate.

Until our eyes met.

The sight of him ripped through me in layers. The brother who’d carried me on his shoulders when I was small. The man I’d admired, emulated, and loved in every innocent way.

The priest I was proud of, whose homilies still made my chest ache with reverence.

And then—lower, hotter—the Lorenzo whose cock I’d worshipped on my knees. My jeans tightened instantly, cock swelling thick and insistent, the denim suddenly too rough against my sensitive skin.

Lust slammed into me so hard I forgot how to breathe.

Longing.

Famine.

The bone-deep need to kneel again, to serve him in the only way that felt true. I walked toward them on autopilot. Lorenzo’s gaze flicked up.

For one heartbeat, something raw flashed in his eyes—hunger, guilt, recognition, then vanished behind that perfect pastoral mask. He murmured an apology to the women, touched one gently on the arm, and closed the distance between us.

Share

“You look like you need something, brother,” he said, voice low enough that only I could hear the tremor beneath the calm.

My mouth went dry. I swallowed, tasted the ghost of him again. “I need to confess.”

He studied me, long, searching, then slid his arm around my shoulders. Heat poured through his sleeve into my skin; I nearly buckled against him.

My cock jerked painfully as he guided me toward the confessional, his fingers firm on my shoulder; a claim on me no one else could see.

I stepped inside the narrow dark. The booth smelled of old wood, candle wax, and the faint musk of countless sins whispered through the lattice. I knelt on the worn kneeler, forehead pressed to the patterned wood, heart hammering so violently I thought the screen might rattle.

The air felt dense here, hotter, like the space itself knew what we’d done and what we still wanted to do. I waited, trembling, for the soft scrape of the grate opening—and for whatever absolution or damnation came next. When I heard it, I trembled, filled with shame.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” The words scraped out of me, hoarse and trembling. “It has been four days since my last confession. In that time, I have committed sins of the flesh ….”

My fingers knotted together until the knuckles ached.

No more hiding behind pretty phrases.

No mercy for myself.

“I sucked another man’s cock,” I said, voice wavering. “I licked every thick drop of his cum off him like it was holy. I swallowed it all. I wanted it inside me. I wanted it to fill me—for him to own me.”

Sweat slid slow and hot down the back of my neck, escaping down my spine, soaking into my shirt. I could still feel the stretch of my jaw, the weight on my tongue.

“I crawled to him,” I went on, barely breathing. “On hands and knees across the rectory floor like a bitch in heat. Like I was made to serve at his feet. A priest. My own stepbrother.”

The confession burned hotter than a fever.

“And God help me, I fucking loved it. Every humiliating inch.”

A low, guttural sound leaked through the screen—half growl, half stifled moan.

“Continue,” Lorenzo rasped. His voice was dark velvet now, lust wrapped in clerical calm, but the roughness betrayed him. He wanted this as badly as I did.

My cock throbbed so hard it hurt, straining against denim, a wet spot already blooming. I shifted on the kneeler, thighs trembling.

“I want it,” I whispered.

“Which part?” His question came deliberate, dripping with deep hunger. “Crawling on your knees for me … or opening wide and letting me fuck your throat until you swallow every drop?”

I sucked in a shaky breath, the air in the booth suddenly too thick, tainted by our filthy words. My forehead stayed pressed against the lattice.

“All of it, Father,” I said, the title obscene and devotional at once. “The shame. The taste. The way you held my head and fed me like I was yours to ruin.”

Another quiet growl vibrated through the lattice—primal, possessive, barely leashed.

“You need more than a few prayers, Matteo.” His voice dropped lower, intimate—dangerous. “You need guidance. Intensive. One-on-one. In my office. We’ll kneel together. We’ll pray for your soul … and I’ll teach you exactly how to atone.”

The promise landed like a hand around my throat. I pictured it instantly. Locked door, his desk, me on the floor again while he “counseled” me with fingers twisted in my hair and his cock sliding past my lips.

I leaned harder against the screen, lips almost brushing the lattice. “Yes, Father.”

“Two Our Fathers,” he said, the words steady but frayed at the edges, like he was holding himself together by threads. “Five Hail Marys. And when the church empties tonight … you come to me. We begin your real penance then.”

The grate slid shut with a soft, final snick.

I stayed there on my knees in the suffocating dark, lips parted, tasting the memory of him, cock aching, heart pounding with equal parts terror and craving.

Two prayers to beg forgiveness.

One promise to fall deeper.

I was already hard and leaking just thinking about tonight.

To keep sinking deeper into this forbidden heat—where every whispered confession drips with sin, every stolen touch burns hotter than hellfire, and two souls damn themselves beautifully for one another—consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Unlock the rest. Let the velvet close around you.

Subscribe now

Read more

I rolled over, eyes still closed, and slammed my palm onto the bedside table, fumbling with my phone, my alarm blaring at the ungodly hour of 5:45 a.m.—which might’ve been funny considering my life if it didn’t mean dragging myself out of bed and heading straight to the church.

Subscribe now

It was still dark out; the only evidence that the world existed outside my bedroom was the sound of rain spattering against the glass after four nights of torment. Dreams that left me slick and aching, then bled into daylight until I could barely breathe around the shame.

My hand drifted down, tracing the outline of my sleep shorts. The fabric clung, damp with precum, betraying me before I even opened my eyes.

A low groan tore from my throat—half pleasure, half self-loathing.

It happened again.

I ghosted my fingertips along my length, heat pulsing under the thin cotton. The blankets cocooned me, a false sanctuary against every sermon I’d ever heard about purity, about the godly man’s duty to master his flesh. But my body didn’t care about sermons.

It wanted release.

It wanted him.

My growing lust was intent on breaking down my walls.

I can’t.

I abandoned my desire to touch myself, snatched my phone, and crawled out of bed.

Wednesday meant early Mass at 6:30 a.m. Our Lady of Blessed Divinity had claimed me since baptism. Nineteen years of prayer, Latin responses, and the weight of expectation. Today, I would be alone as the only altar server because the others were in school. I was the eldest, and my work schedule bent around the liturgy because my boss knelt in the same pews.

After a cold shower that did nothing to cool the fire under my skin, I found Mom in the kitchen, coffee already poured. She lived for these small acts of devotion.

“Toast?” she asked, glancing at the clock.

“I can run on coffee for the time being. Lorenzo and I are going for brunch after Mass.”

“Father Lorenzo.”

I winced. The title still felt wrong on my tongue. He’d been Lorenzo since I was four—tall, patient, the one who bandaged my knees and taught me how to pray the rosary properly.

Now thirty-two, my stepbrother, the youngest priest at the parish, wore black like it was made for him, the white collar a stark line against his throat.

He’d always been there for me. Our parents had worked endless hours, then poured the rest of their time into church volunteering. Piety ran in the family. At least in deeds. My mind was a different story, a shadowed vault where desire had taken root years ago and refused to die.

Not sure when I realized I was gay. I probably always knew. There was no time in my life when I’d been interested in girls. The boys always looked and smelled nicer to me.

Which screwed me up when it came to being an altar server. Our church wasn’t progressive. Girls weren’t permitted to be servers. At fourteen, crammed into the sacristy, donning our vestments, I’d been bumping up alongside other boys as we changed for Mass week after week.

The first time I’d sprung a boner in that room, I’d been horrified. Thank whatever deity was looking out for me, the flowing cassock and surplice did an excellent job of hiding my body’s reaction to the scent and proximity of the young men I spent so much time with.

Share

Last week, Lorenzo finally appointed me Master of Ceremonies—long overdue recognition. The role required arriving early to prepare the sanctuary, review the Roman Missal, and set out the linens and sacred vessels. It also meant standing mere inches from him, sharing the same heavy air laced with incense and my unspoken desire.

It terrified me as much as it thrilled me.

Because lately, the dreams weren’t vague anymore. They wore Lorenzo’s face. His hands. His voice murmuring Latin as he pinned me. Today, in confession, I would confess. Not the face in the fantasies, but the fantasies themselves.

God would take this burden.

He had to.

“Bye, Mom.” I gave her a kiss on the forehead.

“Wait.” She dug around in her sweater pocket and produced a rosary. “I found this rosary that belonged to Father Lorenzo’s grandmother in a box of his dad’s memorabilia when I was tidying up.” She pressed the string of beads into my hand. “Could you give it to him, please?”

“Sure thing, Mom.” I tucked it into my pants pocket and dashed out into the warm, spring rain without a coat, my coffee cup in hand, to the car my parents let me use to get around.

Once at the church, I hurried through the downpour, slowed only to genuflect toward the tabernacle, then approached Lorenzo as he arranged hymnals in the pews. He looked up. That smile—soft brown eyes, warm as dawn—hit me like a fist to the sternum.

So beautiful.

So impossibly untouchable.

My breath hitched. Heat flooded my cheeks; lower, my cock twitched, insistent. I must have looked wrecked because his brow furrowed.

“What’s wrong, Matteo?” Lorenzo closed the distance and settled his hand on my shoulder.

The weight. The warmth through my damp shirt. I nearly swayed into him.

I swallowed. “Can you take my confession before Mass?”

He squeezed my bicep, gentle, brotherly, and devastating. “Of course, brother.”

“I’ll get changed first.” I dropped my gaze, unable to hold his. The scent of ancient, polished wood was the only thing keeping me from unraveling.

In the sacristy, I shut the door and slumped against the wall, chest heaving. Forehead pressed to the cool paneling, I licked my dry lips. Tears stung.

My erection throbbed, almost painful. One look at him and my body ignited, mocking every vow I’d ever made, every prayer for deliverance. I’d spent nights on my knees at my bed’s edge, begging God to rip this out of me.

Instead, while on my knees, my mind conjured Lorenzo’s lap, supporting my head, his cock heavy and close enough to taste, his fingers threading through my hair in benediction.

I wiped wet streaks from my cheeks, pulled on the cassock and surplice, and returned where Lorenzo waited, arm sliding around my shoulders—protective, paternal. He guided me to the confessional like I was fragile.

This was it.

Absolution waited on the other side of the grate.

The thin wooden door of the confessional clicked shut behind me, sealing out the dim nave light. I dropped to my knees on the worn velvet cushion, the familiar give of it under me feeling obscene now. My heart slammed against my ribs like it wanted out.

Lorenzo slid the grate open with a slow, deliberate rasp.

The sound alone made my cock twitch.

I bowed my head, hands clasped. Sweat already slicked my palms, my throat, the small of my back beneath the cassock. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

My fingers trembled as I traced the cross over my chest—forehead, heart, left shoulder, right—like I could still claim any of it belonged to me.

“Amen,” Lorenzo responded. The single word fell through the lattice like a stone dropped into deep water—solid and weighted. It took me a while to speak, my throat bobbing.

Get 40% off forever

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three days since my last confession, and I have willfully entertained impure thoughts and desires … more than twenty times.”

“You wish to repent for your sins.” Lorenzo’s voice slipped through the lattice, low and steady. It curled around my spine and settled hot between my legs.

I wiped my hands on my thighs, then balled them into fists.

“Yes, Father.”

“How long have you been having them for?”

I sighed. “Generally, for years … but recently, they’ve become more … focused.”

A soft grunt. Distress? Disappointment? I should have come sooner.

“Sex dreams,” I forced out and clutched my hands together. “Gay ones.”

Silence stretched, then a hushed, “Carry on.”

My leg jittered. “About … a member of the clergy.”

He swallowed audibly. “Here? In this church?”

“Yes.” My voice cracked. “I pray for strength. God gives me enough to hold back. But I want—” I stared at his profile through the lattice. “I want him.”

The moments after my admission lasted for a few inhalations, then he looked over his shoulder at me and leaned closer to the lattice. “Matteo, you can’t have thoughts like this.”

“I can’t help it. I want him so badly it hurts.”

“That is not God’s plan for you.”

Lorenzo’s voice came out measured, almost too careful, like he was choosing each word from a narrow selection of safe ones.

He cleared his throat, a small, dry sound that echoed in the narrow booth, and eased back from the lattice. The sound of his breath, the faint pressure of his presence, vanished in an instant.

The sudden emptiness clawed at me. A hollow ache behind my ribs, a shiver that had nothing to do with the chill of the confessional and everything to do with the space where he should have been.

I stayed perfectly still, palms pressed to the wood, forehead almost touching the screen, listening to the faint creak of the bench as he shifted farther away.

My cock throbbed once, traitorously, at the memory of how close he’d been only seconds ago—his voice stroking me like fingers, his scent bleeding through the gaps in the wood.

I swallowed hard, tasting coffee and shame.

And waited for him to offer me some peace.

Because he always did.

He was my stepbrother … and my priest.

“Try to find a quiet moment each day,” he continued, steadier now but still rough around the edges, “and pray on this. One Our Father. Four Hail Marys.”

I heard the faint rustle of his cassock as he shifted—nothing more. No warmth returned. No shadow leaned closer. Just the soft scrape of wool on wood, the sound of distance.

“Now,” he said gently, “your Act of Contrition.”

The words rose in me like a reflex, but this morning they felt heavier, sharper against my tongue. I spoke them slowly, each syllable a small wound.

“God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins ….”

My voice caught once, barely audible. I wasn’t lying—not exactly. I detested the thoughts that came unbidden in the quiet hours, the ones that stole into my mind when the church fell silent and the only sounds were my own breathing and the rustle of parishioners.

I hated how those images followed me to bed, how my body betrayed me in the dark, how I woke flushed and ashamed and still aching for something I knew I must never seek.

But the detestation never lasted. The longing always returned, quiet and persistent, like a prayer said too many times.

Share

Lorenzo stayed silent through my Act of Contrition. When I finished, he leaned in again, his breath brushed the lattice, soft and even, but there was no tremor in it, no hunger I could hear.

Only calm.

Only duty.

“I absolve you from your sins,” he said, the words sacred and sure, “in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

The formula should have brought relief. Instead, it landed like cool water on fevered skin—brief comfort, then nothing. The ache between my legs didn’t fade. It simply settled deeper, patient, waiting.

“Amen,” I whispered.

“Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.”

“His mercy endures forever.”

The responses came automatically, but my throat felt raw as I said them. Mercy. I didn’t feel merciful toward myself today. I felt greedy. Weak. Filthy in ways confession couldn’t reach.

“Go in peace.”

His voice was gentle, tender. The same tone he used when he blessed the sick, when he laid a hand on a grieving shoulder. Nothing more. Nothing suggested he saw me as anything but a penitent brother in need of guidance.

I pressed my palm to the lattice anyway, foolish, hopeless, fingers spread as though I could feel the heat of him on the other side. There was only cool wood. Only silence.

“Thanks be to God,” I answered, barely above a breath.

He didn’t move to close the grate.

I didn’t rise.

Then the grate slid shut with a quiet, final click.

I remained kneeling a little longer, forehead against the lattice, breathing in the faint trace of him that still lingered in the booth.

Trying to convince myself it was enough.

Knowing it never would be.

When I finally stood, legs unsteady, cassock brushing my aching erection with every step, I told myself this was the last time I’d let the thoughts win.

I told myself I’d pray harder tomorrow.

I didn’t believe any of it.

But I walked out into the dim nave anyway, carrying the weight of his voice, and the secret heat that still burned low in my belly.

I slipped straight into a pew to do my penance. I didn’t look up when Lorenzo passed by me, heading for the sacristy. It was difficult to concentrate on my penance when my mind was filled with him, naked and grunting in pleasure.

I doubled down, pressed my eyes closed—hard, and filled my mind with prayer, but Lorenzo kept making an appearance, grunting and growling “Oh, God,” as he fucked me.

Unable to do my penance, I lingered on my knees, willing my body to calm. The crucifix stared down; Mary’s statue offered quiet grace. I breathed her presence in, begging for purity.

A few parishioners wandered into the nave as I prepared for communion. I kept my mind on my list of duties by whispering Hail Marys to stay focused.

When I reached the sacristy after completing my tasks, Lorenzo was changed and ready for Mass, wearing vestments that barely reached his ankles because of his impressive height.

We gathered the necessary items and began Mass. I moved through my duties on autopilot, guided by years of repetition, while Lorenzo filled the sanctuary with fervent, unwavering devotion and praise. Only once did I stumble—watching him receive the Host on his tongue, then drink from the chalice. I hummed low, imagining that mouth on me instead.

Guilt crashed in.

I was defiling God’s house with every impure thought.

When we slipped back into the sacristy, I changed and waited for my stepbrother to bring up my need for spiritual counsel, but instead, Lorenzo ignored me, changed, and then left the room.

I entered the nave, where a few parishioners were waiting for the confessional. I slipped into a pew to wait for Lorenzo to finish so we could go to brunch together as planned. The creak of the wooden floorboards and kneelers as people moved about brought on a wave of unease.

I could feel God judging me.

The last person left the confessional, and Lorenzo stepped out. His expression changed from peaceful to tortured when he looked up and saw me waiting for him.

Get 40% off forever

I hadn’t wanted to burden him with the ragged state of my soul. Now, I’d made him worry about me. He walked toward me, his pleated, black slacks, dress shirt, and white collar insert, reminding me that he was a man of God. He rested his hand on the back of the pew I was in.

“Matteo, I don’t think I’m up for having brunch today.”

I nodded, unsurprised. “Okay.”

He stepped aside. I passed close—too close—catching the clean soap on his skin, the faint musk beneath. My body clenched.

“Maybe Sunday?” he offered quietly.

I shrugged. “I just wanted … time. Just us. As brothers.”

His fingers curled around my arm—light, but electric. “I want that too. But today, I need ….” He exhaled. “We need to talk. Properly.”

I met his eyes. They burned. “I know.”

I looked everywhere but at him. Stained-glass saints, flickering vigil candles, the wooden floor that suddenly felt like it could swallow me whole. “I’ll see you for Sunday Mass.”

“We’ll go for brunch after.” He stepped closer, voice low and careful. “I promise. We can spend some time reconnecting. It’s been a while.”

I nodded, my throat tight. “Okay.”

I couldn’t escape fast enough. The heavy oak doors thudded shut behind me. Lorenzo would stay, tidy Missals, reset the altar, and receive the afternoon penitents who came seeking peace.

I had none to give or receive.

In the car, I slammed the door and pressed my forehead to the steering wheel, lungs burning. Each breath tasted like incense and sin.

Lorenzo was going to be my damnation.

And worse. I wanted him to be.

Halfway home, my fingers brushed the rosary in my pocket. The one I’d promised to give him. Simple black beads, a small silver crucifix, a cherished item from Lorenzo’s grandmother.

Mom would ask. She always asked about my day. Muttering my annoyance under my breath, I swung the car around and headed back to the church, back to the center of my obsession.

The church was empty, cool, and shadowed. Lorenzo wasn’t at the altar or in the pews. I slipped through to the back offices. His door stood propped open, but the room was dark.

I decided he was probably in the rectory getting something to eat, so I headed to the building next to the church. The rectory door closed softly behind me. Kitchen empty. No scent of coffee or food. Frowning, I glanced up the narrow staircase to the bedrooms. Three priests lived here; two were on sabbatical. Lorenzo carried every Mass alone these days.

Then I heard it—his voice, soft, rhythmic. Not preaching. Not praying.

Repeating.

Curiosity pulled me up the stairs like an invisible leash. I stopped outside his door, ear hovering, heart hammering so loud I feared he’d hear it.

The sounds resolved into something unmistakable: slick, urgent rhythm.

A low groan. And my name.

“Matteo ….”

My blood turned molten. I could tell he was stroking himself—slow at first, then faster—panting my name like a litany.

“Yeah … that’s it. Take it, Matteo. Take it all.”

My cock surged painfully against my zipper. Every vow I’d ever whispered, every Hail Mary on sore knees, dissolved. Lorenzo—Father Lorenzo—my stepbrother was lost in a fantasy about me. The hunger wasn’t one-sided. It was shared. Sacred and profane in equal measure.

My hand found the knob before reason could stop it.

I pushed the door open.

Lorenzo’s eyes snapped to mine. He didn’t stop. Didn’t cover himself. He knelt on the rug, black slacks pooled at his ankles, thick cock glistening in his fist. Tall, broad-shouldered, still half in his clerical shirt—white collar stark against flushed skin … he looked like sin incarnate.

His gaze raked over me, dark and ravenous.

“Matteo,” he breathed again, his voice wrecked. His hand sped up, deliberate, holding my stare as he chased release. Muscles flexed beneath his sleeve; a bead of sweat traced his throat.

Then he came—hard, hips jerking, thick ropes spilling over his fingers and onto the rug with a soft, obscene patter.

The sight broke me.

I dropped to my knees. Crawled the few feet between us like something starved, something damned. No hesitation. No prayer. Just need.

I buried my face in his lap. His cock, still twitching, slick with his own release, slid between my lips. I moaned around him, tasting salt and musk and forbidden heat.

My tongue swirled over the sensitive head, chasing every drop, humming with desperate greed. He was thick and heavy on my tongue, veins pulsing under velvet skin. I sucked harder, deeper, cheeks hollowing as I took his waning thickness to the back of my throat.

Lorenzo’s hand settled on the back of my head—gentle at first, then firmer. Fingers threaded through my hair, guiding without forcing. “God … Matteo,” he rasped, voice cracking on my name.

His hips rocked shallowly, feeding me more. The scent of him, sweat and spent arousal, flooded my senses until nothing else existed.

This was peace. This was where I belonged. Kneeling before him, mouth full of his cock, serving in the most blasphemous way possible.

The filthy holiness of it sang through me: stepbrother, priest, my ruin and my salvation.

Then guilt crashed in like ice water.

What the hell was I doing?

I wrenched back so fast I nearly choked. His cock slipped free with a wet sound that echoed in the quiet room. I scrambled away on hands and knees, bile rising in my throat. My ears burned; my skin crawled with shame so thick I could taste it.

“Matteo … wait.”

His voice followed me, raw and pleading, but I was already bolting. Down the stairs, through the rectory, out into the rain. I didn’t stop until I reached the car, slamming inside, chest heaving.

I’d defiled him. Defiled myself.

Defiled everything holy.

A prayer appeared on my lips as I realized I wanted more.

Get 40% off forever

The story continues …

One forbidden crawl across the sacristy floors.

One taste that damns them both.

No absolution left—just raw, desperate need.

Will they burn together … or burn the world down first?

AI book trailer video created by Maxwell George.