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.
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.