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.
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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
The story continues …
Gavin, what a great start. As any Catholic boy who grew up in the church, this was always on your mind up to a certain age. And if it stayed, the fantasy was there every night. And if you were lucky, you got the young priests assigned to your parish. Matteo is one of those boys that didn't change. And Lorenzo may have been one of them as well. This is going to be a battle of the flesh against the mind.
This is going to be a great read. And might bring back memories from the childhood of anyone who experienced this.
Desire buried in religion, deeply hot and deeply damning. Hail Marys aren't going to be enough.