The Confessional (Part 2) | Matteo

The Taste of Forbidden Salvation

In the first installment of The Confessional

The Confessional (Part 1) | Matteo

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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.

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.

“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.

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