Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Cantrell
“My flesh and my heart faileth: but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion for ever.”
In the beginning years of priesthood, the weekday silence drove Cantrell mad.
He would buzz around the church doing menial tasks or organize and reorganize the storage room.
Anything that kept himself busy. An idle mind is the Devil’s playground, his seminary teacher once told him.
Back then, he agreed full heartedly, but with age, he was grateful for the lulls in activity.
He was able to sit for a while and indulge in a book, or handle business for Saint Anthony’s.
Somedays, he allowed himself to slip out to the rectory to make a cup of Earl Grey tea.
However, after his run-in with Illias that morning, making a cup of tea wouldn’t keep his mind from becoming a playground for the Devil.
If the Devil was a six-foot cocky brat with tattoos.
Cantrell huffed out a breath at the thought of Illias being the Devil.
An absolutely ridiculous notion. The Devil took on many forms, but man was not one.
No matter how tempting Illias was, he was no Devil.
If anything, he was a testament to God’s artistry.
Skin the same shade as precious brown topaz and a sturdy, muscular build that would look beautiful wrapped in red rope.
Face warming in a mixture of shame and arousal, Cantrell set aside the book he was attempting to read and stood.
A cold splash of water will set me straight.
He headed towards the narthex where the bathrooms were.
As he walked through the entryway, the doors of the church opened.
White sunlight poured in through the crack, temporarily blinding Cantrell.
The door closed with a soft thud and there stood Illias; hair haphazardly pulled back with a few loose strands framing his face, skin coated in a thin sheen of sweat, and smelling of a hard day's work.
“I didn’t expect to see you again today.” Cantrell laced his fingers behind his back. “Are you seeking confession or have you come for another purpose?”
Illias’ eyes flickered over Cantrell’s shoulder briefly before settling on him. “I can’t wait until next Tuesday.”
A deprived pride twisted through him, morphing his position into something more blasphemous than sacred. “I’ll ask again.” He tilted his head back. “Are you seeking confession or have you come for another purpose?”
“I’ve…come to confess, Father.” Illias shifted his weight, looking off to the side as he rubbed his neck. “But only if you’ll allow it.”
Cantrell turned towards the nave then gestured for Illias to move closer. “That depends.” Cantrell examined Illias’ face, noting the desperate gleam in his eye and bitten-raw lips. “Can you handle another week?”
Illias made a choked noise. “Please, Father, it hurts.”
“Good.” You know what it’s like for me. “That’s the point of your penance.”
He walked towards the confessional booths knowing Illias would follow.
Desperation made one eager to submit without a second thought of what they were doing.
Cantrell knew from experience just how far a desperate man would be willing to go for release.
He also knew how far his own desperation would make him fall if he was not careful.
Cantrell welcomed the safety of the confessional booth, hidden from curious eyes and ears. He placed his hands in his lap as he took a deep breath, letting the smell of myrrh and frankincense calm any lingering nerves. “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.”
“Your commitment to salvation is honorable, my child.”
“It’s not salvation I’m committed to, Father. It’s you.”
Cantrell’s breath caught in his throat. Despite already knowing, hearing it aloud made his heart drum louder than the trumpets of Heaven. Could Illias hear it? Could God?
“You’re the only one who’s able to make me this desperate without having to touch me. No one's ever been able to do this to me. It makes my head spin with how hard it makes me, being under your control,” Illias continued.
“So, you’ve enjoyed your penance?” Cantrell asked with a hint of amusement.
“Absolutely not.”
Cantrell barely managed to muffle his chuckle at Illias’ rushed answer.
“I’ve been fucking miserable. I haven’t been able to think because of it. Well, that’s not exactly true. I’ve thought of quite a few things, but they only made serving my penance more difficult.”
“Perhaps I do need to lengthen your penance then, since it seems you're still struggling with your lustful thoughts.”
“Please, Father, anything but that. I’ve been so good for you.”
Cantrell nearly caved at how needy Illias sounded even through the lattice screen. “Have you? Because if I recall—”
“I made a mistake, I know, but I was only tempted because he looked like you. All I could think about was you. I mean, fuck, I’d get down on my knees and beg you to just touch me if I thought there was a chance in Hell you’d do it.”
Depravity slithered through Cantrell’s mind, leading him further from salvation, away from his calling but towards the man he once was. “Would you beg to be released from your penance?”
“I think we both know the answer.”
Cantrell’s restraint was nothing more than a decrepit wall that crumbled the second he laid eyes on Illias. Cantrell merely hid behind its remnants, pretending he didn’t want to devolve back into sin. And he was tired of pretending. “Then beg for me.”
Illias let out a small, low groan that worsened the ache between Cantrell’s thigh. “Please, Father, release me from my penance. Let me touch myself for you. I promise I’ll be good for you, do whatever you say.”
White-hot arousal curled through Cantrell. His desires were vicious, hungry beasts nipping at the first sight of food in a decade. He dared to provoke them further. “Is that all?”
Illias whined, the sound high and pitiful, like a wounded pup. “Please, Father, have mercy. I’ll be good for you, only touch myself with your permission, come with your permission. I’ll do anything. Just, please, release me from my penance.”
The temptation of anything hung in front of Cantrell like ripe fruit ready to be devoured. Old appetites resurfaced with a vengeance, prepared to be filled with whatever provided. “Anything?”
“Anything.”
Cantrell hummed, thinking of all the possibilities that come with such a promise.
Of course, later—if there was a later—he would warn Illias about the dangers of such promises.
A scene could turn sour at the blink of an eye when an unknown or undiscovered limit is pushed.
Something Cantrell experienced first-hand and never wanted to repeat.
Previous experiences muddling down rampant lust, Cantrell composed his thoughts.
Reminded himself that he was in control, not his greed. “I release you from your penance.”
“Thank you.”
A sigh of relief, faint and muffled by the wall separating them, met Cantrell’s ears. “Touching yourself already?”
“Can you blame me?” Illias’ voice wavered, breathing already deepened. “I’m so—ah—fucking wound up. I couldn’t hold back anymore.”
“Keep your hand above your jeans while you give your confession,” Cantrell ordered, wanting to draw out the confession for 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 felt right. 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 simple no, 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 be torture,” 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.
“May you go in peace.”
Cantrell listened to Illias leave and waited until the doors echoed in the nave before he allowed himself to relax. He uncurled his hands and looked down at the angry red crescent moons indented in his palms. But more than just his palms ached.