The Confessional (Part 7) | Matteo

The Letter of Surrender | MM Romance | 18+

In the last installment of The Confessional

The Confessional (Part 6) | Matteo

In the first installment of The Confessional

The Confessional (Part 1) | Matteo

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

---

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