Chapter 13 Callahan
“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”
— 1 John 1:9 KJV
The weekday quiet used to gnaw at Callahan. In those first years after ordination, the empty hours stretched like a desert, and he filled them with frantic motion—polishing already-gleaming candlesticks, rearranging the sacristy drawers, anything to keep his hands busy and his mind from wandering. An idle mind is the Devil’s playground, his old seminary director had warned. Back then Callahan had nodded solemnly, believing it with every fiber of his being.
Now, older and wearier, he cherished the silence. It let him read without interruption, answer emails for Saint Jude’s, or simply sit with a cup of Earl Grey and watch dust motes drift through the colored light. Today, though, the quiet was no refuge. Dorian’s morning plea still echoed in the narrow supply closet, the memory of that desperate whisper—Yes, Father—coiling low in Callahan’s belly like a live wire.
He tried to read. The book lay open on his lap, but the words blurred. All he could see was Dorian’s throat marked by his own teeth, the faint plum shadow still visible beneath the collar of that threadbare band tee. All he could feel was the throb of his own pulse, insistent and shameful.
Ridiculous to call the boy the Devil. The Devil didn’t sweat from honest labor, didn’t smell of sawdust and summer heat. Dorian was simply a man—beautifully made, infuriatingly bold—and that was worse, somehow. A testament to God’s artistry, yes, but one Callahan wanted to bind in red rope and watch squirm.
His face burned. He snapped the book shut and stood. Cold water. That was what he needed. A quick splash in the narthex restroom to shock the sin out of his blood.
He was halfway across the entryway when the front doors opened. Sunlight flooded in, white and blinding, and when it faded Dorian stood silhouetted against the closing oak.
Hair tied back messily, strands escaping to frame his face. Shirt clinging to him with the day’s sweat. The bruise on his neck had ripened to deep violet, tooth marks still clear.
Callahan stopped. Laced his fingers behind his back to hide the tremor. “I didn’t expect to see you again today.” His voice came out steadier than he felt. “Are you seeking confession, or have you come for another purpose?”
Dorian’s gaze flicked past him, checking the nave, then settled heavy and hot. “I can’t wait until next Tuesday.”
Something dark and proud twisted through Callahan’s chest. “I’ll ask again.” He lifted his chin. “Are you seeking confession, or have you come for another purpose?”
Dorian shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve… come to confess, Father.” The words dragged, reluctant. “But only if you’ll let me.”
Callahan studied him—the raw edge of his lower lip, the glassy desperation in his eyes—and felt the last pretense of impartiality slip. “That depends.” He turned toward the nave, gesturing. “Can you manage another week?”
Dorian made a small, broken sound. “Please, Father. It hurts.”
Good. Callahan didn’t say it aloud. Instead he walked toward the confessional booths, trusting Dorian would follow. He always did when he was this far gone.
The booth welcomed him like an old habit. Dark wood, worn velvet kneeler, the faint bite of myrrh lingering in the air. Callahan sat, folded his hands in his lap, and drew a slow breath. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been one week since my last confession.”
Callahan’s mouth curved, hidden by the screen. “Your commitment is admirable, my child.”
“It’s not salvation I’m committed to, Father.” Dorian’s voice dropped, rough with certainty. “It’s you.”
The words struck like a match. Callahan’s heart slammed against his ribs. Could Dorian hear it through the lattice? Could God?
“You’re the only one who can make me this desperate without even touching me,” Dorian went on. “No one else has ever managed it. It spins my head—how hard you make me, just keeping me under your thumb.”
Callahan swallowed. “So you’ve… enjoyed your penance?”
“Fuck no.”
A startled huff of laughter escaped before Callahan could stop it.
“I’ve been miserable,” Dorian said, rushed and honest. “Can’t think straight. Well—that’s not true. I think plenty. Just none of it helps.”
“Perhaps I should extend the penance, then. Since lustful thoughts still plague you.”
“Please, Father—anything but that. I’ve been good. So good.”
The need in his voice scraped along Callahan’s nerves like fingernails. He was perilously close to giving in. “Have you? Because if memory serves—”
“I messed up, I know. But that guy only caught my eye because he looked like you. All I could think about was you.” A shaky exhale. “Fuck, I’d drop to my knees right now and beg you to touch me if I thought there was even a chance.”
Old hunger stirred, vicious and familiar. Callahan felt the careful wall he’d built over years begin to crack. “Would you beg to be released from your penance?”
“We both know the answer.”
He was tired of hiding behind rubble. “Then beg for me.”
A low, helpless groan filtered through the screen. “Please, Father. Release me. Let me touch myself for you. I’ll be good—do whatever you say. Anything.”
Anything. The word dangled like forbidden fruit, ripe and heavy.
Callahan’s pulse thundered in his ears. He thought of past scenes gone wrong—of limits crossed in ignorance, of the sour aftermath—and reined himself in. Greed was a sin for a reason. “I release you from your penance.”
“Thank you.”
The soft rustle of fabric, the faint sigh of relief. Callahan’s mouth went dry. “Already touching yourself?”
“Can you blame me?” Dorian’s voice cracked. “I’m so fucking wound up I can’t—”
“Keep your hand above your jeans while you confess.”
A strangled curse. “I accuse myself of—” His breath stuttered. “Greed. God, I want your hands on me so bad.”
Callahan closed his eyes, listening to the frustrated drag of denim.
“Please, Father—can I touch skin?”
“Not yet.”
Dorian whimpered. “I dream about you groping me until I’m wrecked. There’s this one dream that always finishes me off. Want to hear it?”
“It’s my duty to hear all your sins.”
A throaty groan. “I imagine you taking me right here in the confessional. Weeks of listening to me spill filth, and finally you snap. Pin me between you and the door. Make me take everything you’ve been holding back.”
Sweat slid down Callahan’s spine. The booth felt suddenly airless.
“Please, Father—can I—”
“Yes.”
The sound of a zipper, the shift of cloth, then the unmistakable slick rhythm of skin on skin.
“I wish you could see how bad I need this,” Dorian rasped. “I’m dripping for you.”
Callahan couldn’t stop himself. He leaned forward and looked through the small grated window.
Sunlight slanted in from the high transom, gilding Dorian’s face in pale gold. Sweat gleamed on his brow, on the stretched column of his throat. His shirt was rucked up, exposing the taut plane of his stomach; jeans and briefs shoved down just enough. His fist moved in steady, desperate strokes, thumb swiping over the flushed head to spread the slickness. Each pass drew another bead of precum that caught the light like a pearl.
Dorian’s eyes opened, found the screen, and held. A slow, wicked smile curved his mouth even as his hips jerked. “I can feel you watching, Father. Didn’t peg you for a voyeur.” He arched, moaning softly. “But if you like the show, I’m happy to perform.”
Callahan jerked back, fists clenched so tight his nails scored half-moons into his palms. The pain grounded him, barely. “Anything else you wish to confess?”
“Only that I want you to watch me fall apart.” The cocky lilt was back, threading through the strain.
“What do you seek?”
“Whatever you’ll give me.”
“Tell me exactly.”
Dorian’s breathing fractured. “Permission. Please, Father—let me come.”
The wet sounds filled the booth, obscene and sacred at once. Callahan wanted to hear him shatter. Wanted it so fiercely his own cock ached against his thigh.
“Finish your confession first.”
“That’s cruel.”
“If you don’t finish, you don’t finish.”
A wounded sound, then silence as the rhythm stopped.
“You will receive a new penance for tempting your priest.” Callahan’s voice was steady, almost gentle. “You may touch yourself, but you are forbidden to come until your next confession.”
Dorian’s inhale shook. “Yes, Father.”
“Now give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.”
“And His mercy endures forever,” Dorian muttered, sullen and spent.
“Go in peace.”
The door creaked open, footsteps retreated, the outer doors thudded shut. Only then did Callahan unclench his hands. Angry red crescents stared up at him from both palms.
His body still burned. The ache had not lessened; if anything, it had sharpened into something exquisite and terrible.
He stayed in the booth a long while, listening to the church settle back into silence, wondering how much longer he could keep pretending the wall still stood.