There was the sound of clothes brushing against wood. Then Illias’ voice came out lower, closer, “Do I make you hungry, Father?”
I starve for you.
“Does listening to my depraved confessions fill you with hunger?” Illias provoked.
You make me salivate.
Sin filled his mouth, pressed against his lips, begged to be spoken, to be heard. Cantrell swallowed his answer but the remnants remained on his tongue. “Continue your confession.”
“That’s all the answer I need.” Illias sounded so very pleased with himself.
Self-restraint waning, Cantrell shoved his tongue between his back teeth, closed his eyes then exhaled slowly. “Continue your confession,” he repeated with more sternness than before.
“Shit, yes sir,” Illias said with a breathless chuckle. “I confess to gluttony. I’ve been allowing myself to overindulge in self-pleasure as of late. I can barely keep my hands above my waistband most nights.”
Cantrell stifled the noise that threatened to slip past his lips at the thought of Illias desperate and feverish in his bed as he stroked himself, Cantrell’s name on his lips like a desperate prayer, head tilted back and eyes closed.
“I have one recurring fantasy that this priest makes me beg for him. Edging me for hours on end until I’m leaking against my stomach and I’m so close that I can barely form a coherent sentence, but he forces the words out of me. Makes me tell him just how desperate I am for him to touch me.” A small dark chuckle echoed in Cantrell’s ears. “Honestly, Father, it’s kinda pathetic how desperate I am for him.”
Christ. Cantrell was a weak man and he struggled to find the resolve to not stray.
“How desperate?” The question hung in the air for a brief moment, filling Cantrell with fear that he made the wrong choice. That he should have kept the burning question to himself and not let it pass his lips.
“Do you really want to know, Father?” Illias’ voice was less teasing than before, as if truly checking that Cantrell wanted to know. And God, did he want to.
“Lay bare your sins.”
Cantrell’s voice didn’t waver. Hints of his past leaked through his words, coating them with a layer of demand. Illias inhaled sharply. Cantrell suppressed a delighted smirk. He leaned into his position as a priest, morphed it into something wicked. A role that allowed him some form of retribution for enduring such temptation. “I can’t provide penance without knowing the severity with which you have sinned against our Father by lusting after one of His servants.”
“Yes Father,” Illias submitted, voice pitched just a fraction higher than normal. “I’ve fantasized about him punishing me, giving me a penance for my sins in the form of a spanking. He spanks me until I’m crying, but I don’t beg for him to stop. I beg for more, for him to hit me harder until I come just from his hand on my ass.”
Cantrell imagined Illias bent over the desk in the rectory room, hands bound behind him while he was paddled for his sins. Cantrell grabbed his rosary again, tethering himself to reality before he became consumed by fantasies that would never come to life. “A glutton for punishment, I see.”
“I love it. Is that a sin, Father?”
“Gluttony,” Cantrell began, knuckles aching from the grip he had on his rosary, “is certainly a sin, but seeking penance for our sins is not.” His heart hammered in his chest because this,thishe could provide. Providing a penance, a punishment, wouldn’t break his vows. He was allowed to punish, and dear God above, it made himesurient. “Is that what you need? A penance for your sins?” He needed the confirmation, needed Illias to say the words, to give consent.
“Yes, please, Father,” he asked—no, begged.
Cantrell straightened his spine and pushed his shoulders back, slipping further into a headspace he thought was long buried. “Complete your confession.”
“I am sorry for these and all of my past sins,” Illias complied without hesitancy.
Cantrell’s hunger clawed up his throat, filling his mouth with the sweet nectar of sin. He savored the taste of each word on his tongue as he spoke, “Your penance is to refrain from self-pleasure for two weeks—”
“Father, you can’t possibly expect—”
“Would you prefer I make it three?” Cantrell threatened before Illias could finish, drawing a startled breath from him.
“No, sir.”
At Illias’ quick submission, arousal shot through Cantrell so violently it hurt. “At the end of those two weeks, you are to come back for another confession. Only then will you be released from your penance. Do you understand?”
Illias’ breathing hitched. “Yes, Father.”
“Good boy.” Cantrell twitched underneath his cassock at the sound of a muffled whimper on the other side of the wall. “May you go in peace.”
Illias bid him a good evening before leaving Cantrell on his own once again. Satisfaction along with fear weaved through him. He had received a portion of what he craved, but at what cost?
