Chapter 15 Callahan
“Blessed is the man that endureth temptation: for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life, which the Lord hath promised to them that love him.”
— James 1:12 KJV
Callahan had known better than to hope for Dorian on Sunday. He had known better on Monday, too. But by Tuesday the waiting had worn him raw, a thin wire pulled tight across his ribs. Guilt gnawed at him—had he pushed too far last week, left the boy in a torment he couldn’t endure? To keep his hands busy he prepared for Wednesday Mass, heard the scattered confessions of the faithful, restocked the sacristy with hosts and grape juice. The ordinary tasks should have steadied him. They didn’t.
Instead his mind circled back to Sunday, to the slow sweep of his gaze over the congregation, searching for one dark head that never appeared. He had lingered after the final blessing, scanning the thinning crowd, telling himself it was pastoral concern. When he spotted Elara slipping out, he had crossed the nave before prudence could stop him. The note he pressed into her hand had been carefully worded—Revived Faith remained open to Dorian, confession schedules listed, priests named. A lifeline offered in priestly charity. A selfish lure, if he were honest. He had prayed Dorian would choose Tuesday.
The thought of Dorian kneeling in the confessional before Rier—spilling those intimate, shameful secrets to that cold, correct old man—twisted something vicious inside Callahan’s chest. Rier would never understand the particular ache Dorian carried, the family wounds, the hunger that warred with faith. Rier would never falter, never fall. Callahan envied the certainty even as it shamed him.
“Father Callahan.”
Callahan jolted, heart slamming upward. “Mother of God.” He crossed himself hastily and turned.
Dorian stood in the aisle, half-lit by colored glass, a wicked tilt to his mouth. “Don’t worry, Father. I won’t tell anyone you took the Lord’s name in vain.” The wink he gave was slow, filthy.
Callahan’s neck burned. “Thank you,” he managed, voice clipped. “How may I help you?”
Dorian lifted the torn bottom half of the pamphlet, the scrap where Callahan had scrawled his note. “Got your message. And unless I’m mistaken, it’s Tuesday.”
Heat crawled higher, flooding Callahan’s face. “Then you’ve come to confess.”
Dorian’s gaze flicked toward the empty pews, then back. “I think this confession needs more… privacy, don’t you, Father?”
Callahan turned so Dorian wouldn’t see the tremor in his hands. They climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor far too quickly. The key rattled in the lock; the door shut behind them with a soft, decisive click. The office was small, plain—oak desk, ancient computer chair, two overstuffed guest chairs, walls bearing their two familiar photographs: the bishop handing over the keys to Saint Jude’s, and the faded shot of the shelter on opening day, the paint beneath it still cream where the sun hadn’t reached.
Callahan drew a breath, rolled his shoulders back into the posture he had worn for years in courtrooms and pulpits, and faced the younger man. “Did you behave?” He stepped forward. “Did you obey your Father?”
Dorian’s back met the edge of the desk. “Yes, Father. Haven’t laid a hand on myself since last Tuesday.”
“Did you suffer?”
“God, yes.” The groan was low, almost reverent. “Edging’s brutal. Makes the waiting worse.”
Callahan caught Dorian’s chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting it down until their eyes locked. “But you liked it, didn’t you? Being under my control.”
Dorian leaned in; their noses brushed. His breath was warm against Callahan’s mouth. “I think you like watching me suffer.”
Callahan’s tongue wet his lower lip. “Hard not to. Desperation looks holy on you.”
Dorian’s fingers found the rosary at Callahan’s waist, toying with the beads. “Not very polite to tease, Father. I’d hate to be the reason you break your vows.”
I broke them the moment I locked that door. “My vows only forbid touching,” he said, the lie tasting like ash and wine.
Dorian eased onto the desk, legs falling open in clear invitation. “So you just want to watch, Father?”
Callahan stepped between those spread thighs, hands braced on the wood to either side, leaving a careful inch of air between their bodies. “You’re lucky I don’t bend you over this desk like you begged me to that first night.” His voice dropped. “Tread carefully.”
“You’re teasing again,” Dorian whispered, pupils blown wide.
“Behave.” Callahan bent his head, lips ghosting over the warm skin of Dorian’s neck. “And follow your Father like a good parishioner.”
“Fuck.” Dorian’s hand settled over one of Callahan’s, heavy and grounding. “Yes, Father.”
“Good boy.” Callahan’s pulse thundered in his ears. “Tell me what you want.”
Dorian tilted his head farther, offering more skin. Callahan’s teeth ached to mark it again, to renew the bruise that had long faded.
“You already know,” Dorian said, voice rough. “You just like hearing me beg.”
“Confess it. Be freed from your penance.”
A soft groan. Dorian’s fingers tightened around Callahan’s hand. “I want you to control me, Father. Tell me how to please you.”
The last thread of restraint frayed. “So eager.” Callahan’s tone was warm with approval. “Touch yourself the way you do when you’re alone thinking of me.”
He straightened, stepping back just enough. Dorian shifted farther onto the desk, sliding one hand beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. “Like this?”
“Slowly.” Callahan rested his free hand on the clothed curve of Dorian’s hip. “What else do you do?”
Dorian gathered the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and clamping it between his teeth. The motion revealed a strong torso dusted with dark hair, silver bars glinting through both nipples, ink sprawling in intricate patterns across skin. He trailed fingers over his chest, tugging the piercings, twisting them until his eyes fluttered shut and a muffled moan vibrated against the fabric.
Callahan’s throat went dry. “Good. Now take yourself out for me.”
Dorian shoved the sweatpants lower. His cock sprang free, flushed and leaking. He wrapped his hand around it and began a lazy stroke. Callahan’s own arousal strained painfully against his slacks, but he kept his hands where they were—one braced on the desk, the other drawing slow circles on the strip of bare skin above Dorian’s waistband.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmured. “Tease yourself until I say stop. You don’t come until I allow it.”
Dorian whined, eyes pleading.
Callahan tilted his head. “Did you think penance would be easy?”
A frantic shake of the head. The shirt dropped from Dorian’s mouth. “No, Father. But please—let me finish. Let me make a mess for you.”
“No. You’ll stop when I tell you.”
“Please, I’m close—”
Callahan slipped the rosary from his belt and pressed the wooden beads to Dorian’s lips. “Open.”
Dorian obeyed instantly. Callahan fed the beads into his mouth until only the crucifix remained outside, resting against his chin. “Stop.”
A muffled whine vibrated around the wood, but Dorian’s hand stilled. Callahan listened hard—no footsteps in the hall, no voices below. Still, the risk sat cold in his stomach. He leaned in, voice barely audible. “I wonder what you’d beg for if you could speak. Would you ask me to touch you?”
Dorian nodded, eyes glassy.
Callahan’s smile felt sharp. “You haven’t touched yourself since last week. You waited for my voice, my permission.” Pride and lust coiled hot inside him. “Such a proud boy, brought low for a priest.”
Color flooded Dorian’s cheeks.
“Stroke again.” Callahan’s other hand settled on Dorian’s hip. “Come for me. Make your mess while I watch you fall apart.”
Dorian’s muffled cry was swallowed by the beads as his body curled forward, forehead dropping to Callahan’s shoulder. Shoulders shook; warm breath fanned Callahan’s neck in ragged bursts. The scent of sweat and release hung thick between them.
Callahan stood motionless, letting the moment settle. When Dorian finally lifted his head, chest still heaving, Callahan carefully drew the damp rosary free and tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear.
“You did beautifully.” He pocketed the beads, crossed to the bookshelf, and pulled tissues from the pink box. He offered them without quite meeting Dorian’s eyes.
Dorian cleaned himself in silence, then slid off the desk to rearrange his clothes. Callahan hovered, uncertain. The urge to pull him close, to soothe, warred with older, colder instincts.
He cleared his throat. “Going forward, I think we should keep some… distance. For both our sakes.”
Dorian’s mouth tightened. He nodded once, stiff. “Right. Yeah. Of course.” A short, sharp exhale. “See you around, Father.”
He was gone before Callahan could speak again.
Callahan sank into his chair, the office suddenly too quiet. The faint musk still lingered. He pressed his fingers to his eyes.
God save me, what am I doing?