Chapter Nine
Cantrell
“Now no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous: nevertheless afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them which are exercised thereby.”
There wasn't much for Cantrell to do to keep himself from routinely checking the clock as the day drew on. Miniscule tasks such as switching out the burnt-through candles and sweeping the narthex only kept him so busy. He found himself hand cleaning every window within the church just to keep from being idle. Alas, none of it was enough to keep his mind from wandering. Had Illias decided not to come? Perhaps after Cantrell left the bar, Illias found someone that could satiate his hunger the way Cantrell could only wish to. Illias could be asleep in another man’s bed, covered only by a thin sheet and nothing else.
Confession the furthest thing from his mind.
Sighing, Cantrell sat in one of the pews to rest his tired bones.
He wondered what it was like to live without thinking about the sin’s one had committed.
Years ago, before the priesthood, when he was a still selfish and careless young man, Cantrell didn’t think twice about sin.
Now, it consumed him whenever he was still for too long.
Mind eager to remind him that he could not hide from the man he used to be.
He recalled what he had been told in seminary, how laziness was the Devil’s workshop.
The concept led to Cantrell attempting to keep as busy as possible, only taking a break to eat, cleanse, and sleep.
Ultimately, it guided him to take responsibility of Saint Anthony’s once he became a priest. The shelter was hard, time-consuming work, but in it, he found joy and purpose.
For years, he was content with his life. His choices.
Then Illias Koller happened.
Illias was a breath of new life, awakening the flames of desires that Cantrell thought were too old to reignite.
Illias reminded Cantrell of someone he knew, someone he hurt.
An ex from over a decade ago. The one that got away because Cantrell was too young and foolish to recognize just how much he had hurt her in his undying need for more.
When she left, everything in Cantrell’s life went with her.
He struggled to pick up the pieces of his shattered heart, attempted to find solace at the bottom of a bottle.
After one too many lost nights, Cantrell began to attend the only recovery program in Dunwich, held by Saint Anthony’s.
Slowly, he pieced himself back together.
Became drawn to priesthood, as it provided the life he needed to never become the same man again.
However, since his first interaction with Illias, old habits had crept back in.
The church doors groaned open, pulling Cantrell from a dangerous spiral.
He rose and stepped into the aisle, turning in time to see Illias walk in.
Lust coursed through Cantrell’s veins. A silver slip-chain collar, glinting in the faint sun trickling in through the windows, lay across Illias’ collarbones.
Cantrell imagined hooking his finger in the ring at the end of the chain and pulling it until the links bit into Illias’ neck.
Illias looked Cantrell up and down, slight smirk arising. “I’ve come to confess my sins, Father.”
“Right, of course.” Cantrell’s heart thumped, knowing the confession was prompted from foolish envy and not a true desire to confess. He pushed his glasses higher up on his nose. He gestured to the booths at the back of the nave. “Lead the way.”
Cantrell kept his eyes trained on the back of Illias’ head as they walked over to the booths.
Matthew 5:29 repeated in Cantrell’s head.
If your right eye causes you to stumble.
Illias paused in the doorway of the confession and looked at Cantrell.
Their eyes locked. Gouge it out and throw it away.
Illias leaned against the door as he toyed with the end of his necklace.
The chain pressed against the delicate skin of his neck.
It is better for you to lose one part of your body—
“Don’t forget to share your sins too, Father.” Illias winked and stepped into the booth.
—than for your whole body to be thrown into hell.
The color drained from Cantrell’s face at the reminder of what he said, the promise he made to know if others touched Illias the same way Cantrell craved to. He crossed his body and stepped into the booth. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.”
“I admire your dedication to salvation, my child,” Cantrell praised all too causally.
“I’m glad it pleases you, Father.” Illias’ voice—tempting and salacious—belonged in the depths of Cantrell’s imagination. “I confess to the following sins—well, sin, I suppose. As you I’m sure you’re well aware by now, I’m a lustful man.
“Only because of a certain priest. God, I want him so badly, Father. It's driven me to seek attention from other men in hopes that I can get some release, but all I can think about is him,” Illias said, a wishful undertone to his words. “I wish it was him pushing me face first into the back of a car as he shoved my jeans down far enough to enter me, rough and hard, exactly the way I like it.” Illias paused and Cantrell choked back a groan as he imagined what could have been if he hadn’t fled the first night they met. “Shall I keep going?”
Cantrell touched his rosary. A leash of his own making with enough slack to let him inch closer to the point of no return but keeping him from straying too far. “Continue.”
“I will, but, after you, Father.” Smugness coated his words. “Confess to me your sins.”
Lowering his hand back to his lap, Cantrell relaced his fingers. His sin sat heavy on his tongue. Sharp and acidic. “Greed,” he admitted. “As a young man, I had an insatiable hunger for control and sex.”
The words tumbled freely once the dam broke, not caring what Illias may think. If it would scare him. A desperate part of Cantrell hoped his admission would, then he could repent for his own lust and find his path again.
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, this he could provide.
Providing a penance, a punishment, wouldn’t break his vows.
He was allowed to punish, and dear God above, it made him esurient.
“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?