“Keep your hand above your jeans while you give your confession,” Cantrell ordered, wanting to draw out theconfessionfor however long he could.
“Fuck.” Illias huffed. “I accuse myself of the following si-i-n.” His breathing stuttered and Cantrell ached to know how Illias was touching himself. “Greed. God, you have no idea how much I want your hands on me.” Another pitiful whine pierced the air. “Fuck,please Father, can I touch?”
Cantrell willed himself to sound indifferent rather than teetering on the point of no return. “Not yet.”
“Oh my God,” Illias groaned. “I dream about your hands all over me, groping me until I’m a mess under you. I have one recurring dream that always does it for me. Do you want to hear it, Father?”
“It’s my responsibility as your priest to hear your confessions.” Cantrell ignored the weight of the rosary around his neck. “Confess unto me all your sins.”
“I’ve imagined you having your way with me in the confessional after weeks of enduring my confessions.”
Heat filled the confessional booth. Sweat dripped down the nape of Cantrell’s neck, sliding down his spine.
“You’d have me on my knees, trapped between you and the door.” Illias groaned, this one more throaty and raw. “Please, Father, can I—”
Without a hint of hesitation, Cantrell gave permission. He strained his ears to listen to the quiet sound of clothes brushing against the wood and hitched breathing.
“I wish you could see how fucking needy I am right now. Go-ah-d, Father, I’m fucking dripping for you.”
Before Cantrell could stop himself, before he could give himself a reason not to, he peered through the small window. Sunlight trickled in from the top of the confessional, bathing Illias in pale yellow. The soft lighting reflected off the perspiration covering his face, giving him an angelic glow. Movement further down Illias’ body caught Cantrell’s attention. He dropped his eyes to see Illias shirt pushed up to expose a sliver of his stomach and his pants crudely shoved down. Cantrell watched in rapture as Illias’ hand worked the length of his cock, squeezing drops of precum from the tip with every upstroke. He flicked his thumb across the tip, catching a bead of precum that glistened in the dim light. A smirk formed across his perfect lips.
“I can feel your eyes, Father.” His eyes opened and he peered at the lattice screen. “I didn’t take you for a voyeur.” He arched his back, moaning softly as he squeezed himself. “But if you like to watch, I’m not opposed to putting on a show.”
Cantrell tore his eyes away and curled his hands into fist. He dug his nails into his palms, reminding himself to not stray too far. To not lose himself again. His head spun with intoxicating arousal. “Is there anything else you would like to confess to?”
“Other than wanting you to watch me make a mess of myself? No, Father.” Illias’ signature coyness was back and it irked Cantrell in a way that he could not explain.
“What do you seek?” He dug his nails harder into his palms.
“Whatever you’ll give me.”
“I need you to tell me what you want,” Cantrell commanded and it feltright. He knew how to do this, how to sink into this depraved part of his mind like he never left it behind.
“Give me permission,” he rasped out, “Please, Father.”
Cantrell listened to the wet sounds of Illias’ hand moving and his ragged breathing. A fiery need to hear Illias fall apart in the confessional again burned beneath Cantrell’s skin.
“Finish your confession first.”
“That’s cruel,” Illias complained. “I’m so clo-oh-se, I can barely think.”
You haven’t seen cruel yet.“If you don’t finish your confession, you don’t get to at all.”
“I can’t—fuck—please, can I come? I’m right fucking there—I just need you to say it. Please, please tell me I can come.”
Cantrell denied Illias with a simpleno, knowing that hearing him fall apart on the other side of the thin wall would be Cantrell’s own undoing. Illias whined but didn’t protest and the noises ceased.
“You will receive a penance for your temptation of a priest. While you may act upon your desires, you are not allowed to make yourself come until your next confession.”
“What? No, Father, please, that’ll betorture,” Illias pouted, his voice high and pitiful like a dog begging.
“You will listen and obey your priest.”
Illias inhaled sharply. “Yes Father.”
“Now give thanks to the Lord for He is good.”
“And His mercy endures forever,” Illias grumbled.
