Sullivan (Kinktober: Day 7)

His hands burned; the rosemary necklace pressed into his palms seared like a stinging flame, and he clenched it tightly, as though letting go would mean certain death. His face flushed as he stared downward, legs pressed together in tense restraint. The confessional booth was unlike any other. Many came here repeatedly, burdened by countless sins. Lust, of course, was a common confession, its admission often accompanied by trembling breaths of shame and embarrassment. But this man—his words were a tangled blend of shamefulness and yearning, not to be seen but something far more than that, as though he had sinned deliberately and wore his defiance unapologetically. The booth divided them, yet the man's voice flowed smoothly between the barrier, laced with an unsettling mix of seduction and conviction. Sullivan held his breath as the man spoke, his words dripping with desire, detailing every aspect of Sullivan in a way that felt sinful to hear. It was as if merely listening to this confession was a transgression in itself. Sullivan bit his lip, clutching the rosemary tightly—goodness, would this man ever stop speaking so earnestly? The effort to stop himself from rubbing his thighs together was overwhelming. The confession booth was stiflingly hot and humid, in stark contrast to the cold, calm night outside the church, where statues of their lord and savior stood illuminated. The night air pressed against the stained glass windows, their intricate designs glowing softly.

"Father, you seem to be breathing heavily. May I ask why?"

Sullivan nearly gasped, startled as he shifted in his seat.

"Ah, I—it's just feeling a bit claustrophobic in here, you see?"

he stammered, swallowing hard. Perhaps he should repent later for almost giving in to such temptation.

"Well, I'm sure our Almighty Lord is merciful and forgives all sins, doesn't He?"

He hoped to wrap this confession up quickly. Just the mere thought of this man's desires, his lust for him, Sullivan, was overwhelming. It was so unbearable—Sullivan could hardly believe anyone would think of him in such a way. Go-... gosh, if he weren’t a son of God, he would just—The man’s cologne wafted over the divider, intoxicating Sullivan as he breathed it in deeply. He fluttered his lashes, his hand instinctively rising to cover his mouth. That voice—smooth and honeyed—was so captivating, so achingly beautiful, to only be dripping with lust and desire. If only the Lord weren’t watching...he would overcome guilt and touch himself already-

“Ah-!”

Sullivan gasped at the mere thought, knowing that even entertaining such ideas was a profound sin. A few more fleeting thoughts of this nature, and he feared he might succumb to an even greater transgression. Chastity—a solemn vow to abstain from all forms of sexual intimacy—was the singular commitment Sullivan had devoted himself to uphold, resisting every temptation that sought to break him.

“What’s wrong, priest? You seem to gasp?”

Sullivan flinched at his voice. Was he daydreaming the whole time? Disreagaring the man’s talking.

“I-...Nothing- just..”

Head racing with thoughts of excuses, fuc- fudge!!

“Uhm,”

Clearing his throat. “Something must have brushed past me, I merely thought it was a bug of some sort. Continue on!”