Confessional

"So, was it everything you imagined?"

Marcus lay back against the pillows, still catching his breath. His thick fingers absently smoothed over his stomach, a gentle motion, like he was settling himself back into his body after having given it over to something raw and urgent. The man beside him, whose name he had already half-forgotten—Dan? Don?—turned on his side, propping himself up on one elbow.

Marcus chuckled, his voice still hoarse from exertion. "Yeah. Yeah, you were good." He patted the man's thigh, a gesture meant to be reassuring, though it probably came off as absentminded.

"Just good?" The younger man smirked. He was younger, though not by much—maybe late forties, a bit leaner but with a softness around the middle that suggested he, too, had long since given up on the rigid expectations of youth.

Marcus exhaled, shifting his weight on the mattress. "I don't hand out gold stars, kid."

The man laughed. "Fair enough." He traced a finger along Marcus's chest, trailing through the sparse graying hair there. "You’ve got that look about you. Like you’ve still got something on your mind."

Marcus hesitated. He wasn’t the type to talk about these things. He wasn’t shy, not exactly, but there was a difference between doing something and speaking it aloud, giving it a shape that couldn’t be taken back.

"Just thinking."

"Thinking about what?"

Marcus glanced at him. It was easy enough to just brush past it. To let the moment dissolve into sleep or silence. But maybe it was the afterglow, or maybe it was the way the room felt—warm, thick with the scent of sex and old cologne—that made him let his guard down just a little.

"Something I’ve never done," he admitted.

Dan—or Don, whatever his name was—cocked an eyebrow. "Oh? Something left on the bucket list?"

Marcus licked his lips. He shifted onto his side, looking at the man more fully now.

"Yeah." He hesitated, then let it spill out. "I’ve always had this… thing. A fantasy, I guess. About an old priest."

His bedmate blinked. "A priest?"

Marcus nodded. "Not just any priest. A real old one. A lifer. The kind who’s been married to the Church longer than I’ve been alive." He huffed a little, shaking his head. "I don’t know. Something about that. The years of restraint, the devotion, the… repression. I like to imagine him finally breaking. Or maybe just letting himself be led. Guided."

The man beside him was quiet for a long moment. Then he grinned, wide and teasing. "Shit, Marcus. Didn’t peg you for the sacrilegious type."

Marcus smirked. "It’s not about that. It’s not about God or sin or whatever. It’s about… control, I guess. The slow surrender. The idea that this man has spent a lifetime saying ‘no’ to his body, and then suddenly, finally, he says ‘yes.’"

The words hung in the air between them.

Finally, the man let out a breath. "Damn."

Marcus shrugged. "Guess I’m full of surprises."

Dan—or Don—traced a finger along Marcus’s stomach again, contemplative. "You ever tried to make it happen?"

Marcus shook his head. "Nah. Just one of those things I keep in here." He tapped his temple. "Besides, I wouldn’t even know where to start. Not exactly the kind of thing you bring up in casual conversation."

The man laughed. "Yeah, I can’t imagine there’s a section for that on Craigslist."

Marcus grinned, but there was something wistful in it. "No. Probably not."

They lay in silence for a while after that, the weight of the unspoken pressing just a little heavier now.

Marcus hadn’t planned on stepping inside the church.

He was just walking, killing time in a city that wasn’t his, one of those places he never intended to visit but ended up in anyway. Work had sent him here—some bullshit conference he’d already skipped half of. It was cold, colder than he liked, and he had no real destination. Just moving.

Then he saw him.

An old priest, cherub-like in a way that reminded Marcus of those paintings in European museums—soft-faced, pink-cheeked despite his age. Late seventies, maybe older. He had that roundness that came with time, a body that had settled comfortably into itself.

The priest dragged a sign across the sidewalk, the effort making him puff a little. Marcus slowed his pace, reading the bold lettering:

CONFESSIONS 12-2PM

He checked his watch. It was 12:17.

He kept walking.

Or, at least, he should have. But he didn’t.

Instead, he stopped at the edge of the church steps, looking up at the heavy wooden doors. His heart thudded in his chest, and for a moment, he was irritated with himself. It was just a stupid thought. A half-serious joke in his head. He wasn’t actually going to do it.

But then, the priest turned, wiping his hands on his robe, and their eyes met.

There was something in that gaze. Not suspicion. Not judgment. Just a calm, quiet patience. Like he was used to lost men standing outside his door, debating whether or not to step inside.

Before he knew what he was doing, Marcus climbed the steps.

The confessional smelled of wood polish and something faintly floral, like an old woman’s perfume lingering from a past visit. The partition was thin, the mesh screen barely obscuring the shadowed figure on the other side.

The priest cleared his throat. “Whenever yer ready, son.”

Marcus almost laughed at that. Son. If anything, he was closer to this man’s age than to being anyone’s son. But it wasn’t the word that got to him—it was the voice. That soft Irish lilt, round and steady, like the warm hum of an old song. Something about it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He exhaled, pressing his hands together like he was praying.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

The priest waited, patient.

Marcus swallowed. "There’s something I’ve wanted for a long time. A fantasy, I guess. Something I’ve never done.”

The priest’s voice came low and even. “Go on now.”

Marcus hesitated. Then, in a low voice, he said, "I’ve always wanted to be with a priest."

Silence.

It stretched long enough that Marcus considered just getting up and walking out. But then, the priest spoke, his words softer now. “Ah… ya mean… spiritually?”

Marcus let out a short, dry laugh. "No, Father. I mean physically. Sexually.”

The words sat heavy in the air, and for the first time in years, Marcus felt a flicker of shame. He wasn’t a man prone to embarrassment, but here, in the dim hush of the confessional, he felt like a kid admitting to stealing candy.

The priest exhaled, slow and thoughtful. “And why d’ye think this desire’s stayed with ya all this time?”

Marcus thought about that. Thought about what he’d told the man in his bed just days ago.

"I don’t know. Maybe it’s the idea of someone who’s spent their whole life denying themselves, finally lettin’ go. Maybe I like the idea of bein’ the one who breaks through all that restraint. Maybe it’s the control. Maybe it’s… the surrender.”

The priest made a soft sound in his throat, a quiet hmm that sent something sharp and electric down Marcus’s spine. “And do ya believe fulfillin’ this fantasy would bring ya peace?”

Marcus exhaled through his nose. "I don’t know. But I think about it a lot. More than I should."

Another pause. Then, the priest said, “Ah, desire isn’t a sin, lad. It’s what we do with it that shapes us.”

Marcus smirked, though the priest couldn’t see it. "That sounds like the kind of thing a priest says to someone who just told him they want to fuck a priest."

This time, the priest chuckled—low, breathy, almost indulgent.

"Aye… I s’pose it is."

The sound of it did something to Marcus.

His fingers curled into his palms, heart suddenly beating faster. "Have you ever broken your vows, Father?"

Silence.

Then, the priest spoke again, softer now, his voice slipping through the mesh like a hand on the back of Marcus’s neck.

"D’ye want me to lie to ya, lad?"

The confessional was silent for a long moment, the air thick between them.

Then the priest spoke again, his voice quieter now, like he was giving Marcus something fragile.

"Call me Father O’Connell.”

Marcus’s breath hitched. That voice—Jesus, that voice. The way the Irish lilt wrapped around the words, warm and knowing.

"Step out now, lad. And follow me."

Marcus didn’t hesitate. He pushed the wooden door open, stepping into the dim light of the empty church. The space was vast, shadows pooling in the high corners, the stained glass throwing muted colors across the floor.

Father O’Connell emerged from the other side of the confessional, adjusting his robe, his face even softer up close—rosy cheeks, round in the way men get when they’ve stopped fighting time. But his eyes were sharp, studying Marcus with an intensity that sent heat low in his stomach.

Without another word, the priest turned and walked.

Marcus followed.

O’Connell moved slowly, with the careful steps of a man carrying both age and secrecy. As they passed the pews, he let out the occasional huff, a quiet grunt of effort as he led Marcus toward the far end of the church. They reached a heavy wooden door, half-hidden in the stone, and the priest pushed it open, revealing a set of narrow stairs leading downward.

He turned back to Marcus, breathing a little heavier now. "Go on, then. Down ye go."

Marcus descended, the air growing cooler with each step. He could hear O’Connell behind him, the shuffle of his robes, the soft wheeze of his breath. The steps seemed to go on forever, carved from old stone, until finally, they opened into a low-ceilinged room—an old bomb shelter, reinforced concrete walls lined with dusty shelves and forgotten relics of another time.

The priest stepped in behind him, shutting the heavy door with a deep, echoing thud.

Marcus turned to face him.

O’Connell’s chest was rising and falling, a sheen of sweat on his forehead from the effort of the descent. He looked at Marcus, eyes dark with something unreadable. Then he reached up and unfastened the collar at his throat, letting it drop onto an old wooden table with a soft clink.

"Well now, lad," he said, voice lower, heavier. "I think it’s time we made those fantasies o’ yers come true."

O’Connell folded his thick arms over his chest, eyes steady on Marcus. “Let’s have a look at ye, son.”

Marcus swallowed. He’d stripped for men before—many times, in fact. But never like this. Never in the cool, hushed space of an underground chamber, with a priest watching him with that quiet, unhurried gaze, as if appraising something sacred and profane all at once.

He kicked off his shoes first, then tugged his sweater over his head, letting it drop to the dusty floor. The belt came next, then the button of his jeans. He hesitated there, fingers hooked in the waistband.

O’Connell made a low sound in his throat, somewhere between a hum and a chuckle. “Ah, now, don’t be shy. I can see ye’re not built for it.”

Marcus smirked, exhaling through his nose as he shoved his jeans down his thighs, stepping out of them. That left only his briefs, stretched snug over his thick stomach, his growing arousal already pressing against the fabric. He hesitated for just a moment before pushing them down, letting himself stand bare before the old priest.

O’Connell let out a slow breath.

His eyes traveled over Marcus—taking in the heavy curve of his belly, the broadness of his chest, the soft thickness of his thighs. His expression didn’t change much, but something flickered behind his gaze—something unreadable, something thoughtful.

Then he reached out and patted Marcus’s stomach, fingers pressing lightly into the flesh. “Yer a well-fed one, aren’t ye?” His hand lingered, just a moment longer than necessary. “I like that.”

Marcus’s breath hitched. Christ.

O’Connell straightened up, cracking his neck with a quiet grunt. Then, just as matter-of-factly as he’d asked Marcus to strip, he reached for the buttons of his black clerical shirt. His thick fingers worked the fastenings slowly, methodically, parting the fabric to reveal a chest dusted with gray hair, a belly softened by age but still broad and solid.

Marcus watched, pulse pounding in his throat, his cock already thickening. He could hear his own breathing, hear the faint shift of fabric as the priest shrugged the shirt from his shoulders.

O’Connell moved to his pants next, undoing them with the same unhurried precision, letting them pool around his ankles before stepping out of them. He stood there in nothing but his black boxers, his pale skin flushed from exertion, his round belly rising and falling with slow, steady breaths.

Marcus bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to groan.

Then, with one last glance up at Marcus—one last unreadable flicker in those sharp, knowing eyes—O’Connell hooked his thumbs into his waistband and pushed the final barrier down, letting it fall to the floor.

Marcus sucked in a breath.

The old priest stood before him now, just as bare, just as exposed. But there was no hesitation in his stance, no shyness in the way he looked Marcus up and down, as if he’d been doing this his whole life.

“Well, I s’pose I best get to it, then,” O’Connell muttered, almost to himself.

And then he stepped forward, his warm, solid hands coming to rest on Marcus’s sides, fingers pressing into soft flesh as he tilted his head up—just slightly, just enough.

And then he kissed him.

It was slow at first—testing, searching—but not hesitant. O’Connell kissed like a man who knew exactly what he was doing, his lips firm, his mouth warm. He tasted faintly of whiskey and something older, something settled deep into his skin over the years.

Marcus groaned, deep in his throat, his hands finding the priest’s back, feeling the warmth of him, the weight of years and experience pressed against his own.

O’Connell’s fingers tightened on Marcus’s sides, pulling him in closer, pressing their bodies flush together—belly to belly, chest to chest.

Marcus was already hard. And from the way O’Connell’s body reacted against him, the old priest wasn’t far behind.

O’Connell stepped in closer, their bodies nearly touching, the heat of him radiating between them. His breath was warm against Marcus’s face, lips slightly parted, his eyes dark with something knowing, something settled.

Then, without hesitation, he opened his mouth for a kiss.

Marcus seized him, hands gripping the thick flesh of the priest’s back, pulling him in, crushing their bodies together. O’Connell groaned into his mouth, low and rough, as their bellies pressed against each other, the warmth of skin against skin setting off something electric.

The old priest didn’t just let himself be kissed—he took it. His mouth moved with hungry precision, lips pressing hard, tongue flicking past Marcus’s teeth with an eager, almost greedy push. His thick hands gripped Marcus’s sides, kneading at the softness of his body, fingers digging in, as if testing the weight of him, the give of his flesh.

Marcus shuddered at the feel of it. The certainty. The sheer rightness of it.

O’Connell pulled back just a breath, eyes flashing up at Marcus, his lips slick and parted. “Ah, yer a hungry one, aren’t ye?”

Marcus didn’t answer. He just grabbed the back of the priest’s head and kissed him again, harder, deeper. Their bodies moved against each other, grinding slow and filthy, breath coming in heavy bursts. O’Connell grunted, his fingers sliding lower, gripping the heavy curve of Marcus’s ass, pulling him in with a force that sent a bolt of heat straight to Marcus’s cock.

The old priest laughed, breathless, against his mouth. “That’s it, lad. That’s the spirit.”

And then he pushed Marcus back—gently, but firmly—guiding him, pressing him, until his back hit the cold concrete wall of the shelter. O’Connell stepped in again, mouth trailing down Marcus’s jaw, scraping teeth over the soft skin of his neck, biting just enough to make Marcus gasp.

The priest’s breath ghosted over his ear.

“Now, let’s see if ye’re as devout as ye claim.”

Marcus shivered at the authority in Father O’Connell’s voice, a mix of anticipation and something akin to devotion. He lowered himself to his knees on the dusty floor, his gaze locked onto the priest’s face. O’Connell was already hard, his cock standing erect against his stomach, and Marcus reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he touched it.

The priest’s hand rested on the back of Marcus’s head, guiding him gently but firmly. “Take it, son. Show me how much you want this.”

Marcus complied, his lips wrapping around the velvety head of the priest’s cock, feeling it pulse against his tongue. He took him in inch by inch, until his nose was pressed against the warm, musky scent of O’Connell’s groin. He could feel the priest’s thighs tense against his cheeks, his breath hitching as Marcus began to suck in earnest, his cheeks hollowing with each movement.

“Yes, that’s it,” O’Connell murmured, his Irish accent thick with arousal. “Suck it like it’s the holy communion, like you’re saving your soul with every stroke.”

Marcus moaned around the priest’s cock, his own arousal surging at the words. He wanted nothing more than to make this man come undone, to see that calm facade crack and reveal the passion hidden beneath. As he worked his mouth over O’Connell’s shaft, feeling the priest’s hand tighten in his hair, he knew he was getting closer to that moment.

With a firm grip, Father O'Connell's hand tightened in Marcus's hair, gently but insistently guiding his face away from his cock. He stepped back, breathing heavily, and then he turned around, presenting his ass to Marcus. His voice was firm, almost commanding now. "On your knees, my son. It's your turn to worship."

Marcus's heart raced as he knelt down, his eyes fixed on the priest's pale, dimpled flesh. He leaned in, his mouth watering at the thought of what he was about to do. O'Connell spread his legs slightly, giving Marcus better access. "Take me," he whispered. "Take all of me."

Marcus didn't need any more encouragement. He parted the priest's cheeks with trembling hands, exposing the tight, pink hole hidden beneath. He licked his lips, then pressed his mouth against it, tasting the faint musk of age and experience. O'Connell let out a strangled gasp, pushing back against him, urging him deeper. Marcus's tongue darted in and out, exploring, teasing, until the priest's body began to shiver with need.

"Fuck," O'Connell breathed out, his voice tight with arousal. "Fuck me, yes."

And with those words, Marcus plunged in, eager to satisfy the man before him. He licked and probed, his tongue slipping inside, savoring the uncharted territory. The priest's moans grew louder, his hips rocking back to meet Marcus's eager mouth, as the line between holy and profane blurred into something more primal and raw.

Marcus felt himself getting harder with each stroke of his tongue, the wet sounds of his worship echoing in the small space. He knew what was expected of him now—what the priest desired. He'd never done this before, but he knew he wanted to give it to him. He wanted to be the one to bring him to climax, to make him forget about his vows and his sins.

When O'Connell finally pulled away, panting, Marcus looked up at him with a mix of awe and hunger. The priest's eyes gleamed in the dim light, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"Good," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Very good. But we're not finished yet, lad."

Marcus rose to his feet, his own arousal now a palpable force between them. The priest turned to face him, his eyes gleaming with a challenge. Marcus stepped closer, his cock standing at full attention, and reached down to stroke O’Connell’s cheek with a gentle thumb.

O’Connell’s smile was both shy and eager as he bent over the small wooden altar in the corner, his ass jutting out like an offering. Marcus took a moment to appreciate the sight, then stepped closer, his hand wrapping around his own hard cock, and positioned himself behind the priest.

“Are you sure?” Marcus asked, his voice hoarse. “There’s no turning back from this.”

The priest’s response was to spread his legs wider, to arch his back and push his ass back against Marcus’s crotch. “Stop yer yappin’.”

Marcus didn’t need to be told twice. He slid the head of his cock against the priest’s hole, feeling the warmth and wetness there. He paused for a moment, feeling the weight of the moment, then pushed forward, feeling the resistance give way as he entered O’Connell for the first time.

The priest’s cry was muffled by the fabric of his own robe, which he’d bunched in his mouth. Marcus’s eyes rolled back in his head at the feeling—it was tight, so tight, but oh so perfect. He began to move, slow at first, then building up speed, his hips slapping against O’Connell’s ass with a rhythm that seemed to echo through the very stones of the church.

“Yes, yes, oh God, yes,” the priest moaned, his voice now clear, the words a desperate, keening prayer.

Marcus' thrusts grew stronger, deeper. He could feel the priest’s body relaxing around him, accepting him, welcoming him in a way that was as profound as it was carnally satisfying. He reached around, his hand finding O’Connell’s cock, stroking in time with his movements.

Marcus felt himself getting closer, the pressure building, his vision swimming with the intensity of the moment. He leaned over, pressing his chest to O’Connell’s back, their bodies slick with sweat. He whispered into the priest’s ear, his voice a mix of wonder and need.

“Do you like it, Father?”

O’Connell’s reply was a choking sound, his body tensing, his hips bucking back against Marcus. “Oh, yes. Yes, it feels... it feels like...”

He pumped harder, feeling the priest’s body begin to shake with the force of his own climax. And then, with a final, powerful thrust, Marcus emptied himself inside the priest.

They stayed there for a moment, bodies entwined, breathing heavy, hearts racing. Then, with a final, shuddering sigh, O’Connell pulled the robe from his mouth and whispered, “Amen.”

And with that, O'Connell turned back around, his cock standing tall again, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. "Now, show me how much you've learned. Take it back. Take all of it."

Marcus leaned in, eager to please, eager to taste the priest's release. He took the cock back into his mouth, bobbing his head, feeling it thicken and pulse with each stroke. He could feel O'Connell's hands grip the edge of the wooden table, knuckles white with the effort of holding back.

Then, with a sudden burst of speed and urgency, the priest came, hot and thick, filling Marcus's mouth. He swallowed, eagerly, savoring the salty taste, the proof of their shared transgression.

When it was over, O'Connell leaned back, panting heavily. "Ah, that was... that was..." He couldn't find the words.

Marcus just knelt there, knees sore, mouth sticky, feeling something he couldn't quite name. It was more than satisfaction. It was like he'd found a piece of himself he didn't even know was missing.

The priest looked down at him, his eyes soft. "You've got a way about you, son. A way of making a man feel... alive."

Marcus just nodded, still kneeling, still worshipful. "Thank you, Father."

O'Connell reached out, placing a gentle hand on Marcus's cheek. "No, lad. Thank you."

As Marcus put on his clothes, the significance of their actions settled over him like a warm, heavy blanket. He observed Father O’Connell getting into his vestments, the fabric brushing softly against his skin as if nothing significant had occurred. The old priest moved with efficiency, almost as if performing a familiar ritual, suggesting he had done this many times before. Marcus couldn't shake the feeling that this was not an uncommon event for O’Connell.

As they left the basement, O’Connell was stopped by another priest, while Marcus continued toward the exit.

When Marcus glanced back, he saw both priests looking at him.

"Marcus!"

His heart skipped a beat as he turned around. There was a glint of mischief in the priest’s eyes.

"Father?"

O’Connell gestured for him to return, speaking in a conspiratorial tone. "Father Murphy handles confession in the evenings. He has a gentle way with words—it might do you some good after today."

The other priest, a stocky man from the Midwest with sharp blue eyes, gave a knowing smile. "Father O’Connell mentioned you might need some guidance, Marcus. I'll be here for confession tonight. After what I've just heard, I suspect you have quite a few sins to confess."