15. The Divine Glory Hole
Chapter fifteen
The Divine Glory Hole
Cassian
The day unfolded like any other, though the absence of signs pressed heavily on me.
My prayer had been sincere, yet the heavens seemed quiet, leaving me adrift in a sea of doubt.
No. Have patience. A sign will come.
The morning was routine duties.
I led the early prayer service, oversaw the cathedral staff, and greeted congregants as they came to light candles and pray in silence.
Each task demanded my attention, but my heart felt disconnected, as if tethered to some other plane where Celeste’s presence loomed large and heavenly.
There was an update on her mother late in the morning.
Sister Eleanor approached me with her usual kind smile and shared that Mrs. Jackson had spent the day humming and smiling.
My heart warmed with that news.
“Also, Celeste visited her most of the morning,” Sister Eleanor added. “She’s such a good daughter. She read passages from the Bible, stayed by her side, and even tried—again—to pay us for her care.”
I smirked.
A soft chuckle escaped the sister’s lips. “Of course, we turned her away, just as you instructed. She’s quite persistent, Father Cassian.”
"She is.” I couldn’t help but chuckle.
Her determination was endearing, her refusal to simply accept charity spoke to her humbleness. She was proud but not prideful, and her efforts to shoulder her burdens alone were admirable, even if ultimately futile.
Hmmm.
For a fleeting moment, I wondered if Celeste’s humility was a sign.
Could this be God’s way of showing me her true nature, her worthiness?
The idea flitted through my mind, but I dismissed it quickly.
No. I don’t think this is the sign.
Her humbleness was no more a divine sign than the sun rising each morning. It was simply another facet of Celeste—a beautiful one, yes, but not the answer to my prayer.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of tasks. A meeting at lunch with the cathedral’s trustees demanded my attention, their discussions revolving around funding allocations and upcoming renovations.
I contributed where necessary but kept my thoughts on Celeste and the prayer I’d whispered in the gym.
By the afternoon, my focus shifted to confessions. This was a constant in my schedule—a place where the souls of the penitent met the absolution of God through a vessel as flawed as myself.
Today, the weight of it felt heavier, pressing down on me like the layers of sin that clung to my heart.
The confessional schedule was designed to accommodate our parishioners’ busy lives.
The session began promptly at 4:00 pm and lasted until 7:00 pm. It was a window for the devout who wanted to unburden their hearts before the close of the day.
Some came weekly as if their sins were as routine as their prayers.
Others appeared sporadically due to their guilt accumulating until they could no longer carry it alone.
At 6:30 pm, the cathedral staff and nuns broke for an early dinner, leaving me alone with the parishioners.
It was during that quiet time when I liked to sit and be alone on the altar. That had become a ritual of sorts—my time to speak to God without the formalities of prayer.
Today, I wondered if I would make it to that altar, or if my own guilt would crush me before then.
Will I learn Your message there? Is that the moment You will give me a sign?
At 8:00 pm, the staff would return refreshed and ready to lead the evening prayers.
With a long sigh, I entered the confessional to begin the session.
This responsibility had always been the darkest and heaviest one to bear, and today it felt particularly so because a confessional was more than a booth; it was a sacred space where the most broken sought absolution and where priests were called to be vessels of God’s grace.
And this confessional, like everything else in the cathedral, was far from ordinary. It stood at the heart of the cathedral and was an imposing structure crafted from dark, polished mahogany.
Unlike the modest confessionals of smaller parishes, this one was expansive, more akin to a private study than a traditional booth.
On my side, in the priest’s chamber, I sat in an upholstered chair made from deep burgundy leather. Its arms were adorned with subtle gold inlays shaped like vines.
Above me, the small arched ceiling bore intricate carvings of angels and cherubs.
The faint scent of roses floated in this space.
To my right, the lattice screen was carved with delicate precision, allowing me to hear the penitent’s voice without fully seeing their face.
Yet even this partition was a work of art due to the wood being inlaid with mother-of-pearl that shimmered faintly in the low light.
The other side of the confessional was equally ornate. Plush velvet cushions lined the kneeler, ensuring comfort for those who came seeking absolution.
This confessional was designed to envelop both priest and penitent in a cocoon of sacred intimacy, shielding them from the outside world.
But as I settled into my seat, I couldn’t help but think of this confessional’s darker history.
The priest before me had been banished, disgraced in a scandal that still lingered in hushed gossip among the congregation.
I turned my gaze to the carved lattice screen.
The divider still had not been rebuilt after the last priest’s disgrace. Perhaps, that was why the story continued to linger.
And it was a tale of betrayal and perversion.
Of sacred vows broken in the most obscene way.
The diocese had tried to keep it quiet, but news of it spread like wildfire even to other cathedrals and churches.
Even now, my congregants spoke in hushed tones of the priest who had turned the confessional into his personal den of debauchery.
The mad man had cut a small, crude hole at the base of the divider and, with a blasphemous arrogance, called it the Divine Glory Hole.
The name itself was an affront—a mockery of everything sacred, as if his actions were some twisted homage to God rather than a vile desecration.
It wasn’t just the act of carving the hole; it was the calculated way he had wielded it as a tool for his depravity.
He hadn’t simply stumbled into sin—he had constructed a conduit for it, a portal through which he could channel his darkest desires.
The stories had leaked slowly at first, but as the evidence mounted, so did the sordid tales of what transpired on the other side of that confessional divider.
He preyed on the vulnerable—the desperate penitents who came seeking forgiveness.
He would sit there, cloaked in his cassock and his voice low and soothing as he offered absolution laced with erotic suggestion.
“God works in mysterious ways,” he would say, leaning closer to the lattice screen. “Sometimes, He asks us to prove our faith. . .to show our devotion.”
It was said he started with congregants—lonely widows, guilt-ridden wives, even young virginal women.
They would kneel on the velvet cushion, heads bowed, unaware of the dark intent simmering on the other side.
First, he would guide them gently using his voice as a balm.
And then, he would take out his cock and lower himself to the base of the screen, positioning himself against the crudely cut opening he had made on the screen.
And then he would put his cock through that hole.
The women, caught in his web of manipulation, would follow his lead. Their lips, trembling with the same confessions they had spoken moments before, would touch his cock at his command.
That was the power of a priest.
Even I could feel the great depths of that power during confessionals, in the way the penitents knelt before me, their voices trembling as though I held the keys to their salvation in my hands. Their willingness to do whatever and say whatever to get that salvation was clear. They would do anything, even if it meant. . .getting on their knees and opening their mouths to take my cock.
I gritted my teeth.
Yet his sins didn’t just stop with the penitents.
The scandal grew darker still when it came to light that his actions extended beyond the vulnerable flock. It wasn’t just congregants who had been caught in his snare but the very women of God themselves.
The nuns—the sisters of the cathedral—had been his victims too.
He had taken their vows of chastity and twisted them into something unrecognizable.
Some were young. They entered the confessional, believing themselves to be under the spiritual guidance of a holy man.
Others were older, steadfast in their faith, their decades of service making them all the more susceptible to his authority.
For them, he spun a different narrative.
He cloaked his demands in the language of theology, invoking scripture to justify his depravity. He would quote passages about obedience, about submission, twisting their meaning until the sisters were too tangled in doubt to resist.
“It’s not just a hole in this confessional,” he reportedly told one nun. “It’s a conduit for God’s grace. . .a way for us to transcend the flesh and connect with the divine.”
And so one by one, the nuns knelt, their hands trembling as they placed their mouth in front of the divider, awaiting his cock.
And they said, he would groan, praising their “devotion” as they sucked him off.
Sister Margaretta once confided in me, her lips tight with disdain, “They say he made the nuns swear on the Bible before performing their. . .duties. Can you imagine, Father? I, of course, never knew about such things when I was here, but from now on I will be vigilant."
The thought churned my stomach, though not entirely out of disgust.
Right now. . .a darker part of me—a part I despised but couldn’t ignore—wondered what if Celeste was here.
Would she kneel as I placed my cock through the opening?
How would it feel to let Celeste take my cock into her mouth, her lips worshipping me in the same way those poor, broken souls had worshipped him?
The idea was obscene, monstrous, yet it simmered in the recesses of my mind like an ember waiting for the right breath to ignite it.
And I hated myself for it.
No. You’re not as bad as him. Not innocent, but not him either.
Perhaps right now, I wasn’t just fighting against my own desires—I was battling the ghost of his sins, trying desperately to prove that I wasn’t like him.
Still, my breath hitched as an image formed in my head with a startling clarity I couldn’t control.
Celeste, kneeling just beyond the screen, her lips parted as she waited, her eyes heavy-lidded with the same hunger I felt every time I thought of her.
What would she really do if I slid my length through the divide?
Would she hesitate, or would she lean forward, her tongue tracing the sensitive tip, her mouth warm and wet as she enveloped me?
A shudder coursed through my body.
And that dark part of me—sinful and treacherous—whispered, You could do it better than him—more discreetly. You could have Celeste in this confessional without being caught, sucking you off every afternoon and no one would ever know as you came all over her pretty face.
I clenched my fists tightly against the arms of the chair.
Stop it.
But the fantasy wouldn’t leave. It unfurled in vivid, torturous detail, each imagined movement, each phantom touch, sending a pulse of heat straight to my core.
I could see her mouth working my cock.
I could feel her tongue against me, her lips tightly pursed. I imagined her head bobbing, the rippling heat of her mouth sending swells of erotic pleasure through every vein in my body.
The shadows danced in my vision as the fantasy became too real, and a groan slipped past my lips.
My hand instinctively moved over the front of my trousers, feeling the hardness that strained against the fabric.
It would be so easy to give in to these desires right now, to lean back in this plush chair and lose myself.
People could come in here and confess their sins, and I could be jacking off the whole time.
Control yourself.
Still, I could feel her warm breath against my cock, the soft slide of her tongue exploring every thick inch of my length.
Her hands, small yet firm, wrapped around me in a vice-like grip, as she moved with a kind of fevered urgency that betrayed her own desire.
Stop it. . .
Intense need shivered through me.
I could almost hear the rush of her breath, the gentle wet sounds she’d make—almost imagine the taste of my name on her lips.
A groan escaped my lips.
I am so lost. . .
I was no better than the priest who had been banished. At least he had acted on his perversions, making his darkness visible to the world.
I sat here, cloaked in my supposed righteousness, all while my mind conjured images that were just as vile, just as damning.
“Am I any different?” I muttered under my breath, and the question came close to burning my tongue.
That priest had cut a glory hole in the confessional, but I had carved my own wicked hole in my soul.
Hadn’t I?
Every glance I stole at Celeste, every moment I spent reliving the taste of her pussy, every sinful fantasy that played out in my mind—it was all evidence of my unworthiness.
If the confessional was a sanctuary, I had already turned it into my prison.
And if I let these thoughts fester, it would become something worse.
A knock sounded.
I tensed.
The knock came again.
Then, Sister Agatha spoke, “Father, the confessionals will now begin.”
I cleared my throat. “Thank you. Let the first one enter.”
“Okay, Father.”
I straightened myself and prepared for my duty.
Will the sign come from one of the penitents?