Forgive Me, For I Have...

Forgive Me, For I Have... Forgive Me, For I Have...

Status: Finished

Genre: Gay and Lesbian


Status: Finished

Genre: Gay and Lesbian


An erotic encounter between a tormented priest and a confessor, pushing the envelope of religion and introducing a dip into sin.


An erotic encounter between a tormented priest and a confessor, pushing the envelope of religion and introducing a dip into sin.


Submitted: November 10, 2009

A A A | A A A


Submitted: November 10, 2009



Flame on the sea…

The sunset reflecting through the rose window and down upon the scarlet runner between the pews always reminded him of fire on the ocean, the way each multi-hued shatter of color washed over the mahogany benches. It bathed the entire sanctuary with Eden’s serenity and the candles were a lighthouse of bright beckoning as blood-drenched rays possessed the entire church with a sense of mystery, of secret, of guilt.

He went inside the confessional and closed the slender door behind him. With the darkness came the guiltiest of God’s children, as though the light of day would reveal them for what they were: liars, cheaters, murderers, thieves. They would slink like wolves against the wall, the shadows their only friends. They would sink to their knees on a small plush cushion and pray that the priest would not recognize their voice or the way their breath rippled the small sheer curtain that separated them. Praying for redemption, begging for forgiveness.

But how does one forgive the sins that rage within their own mind?

Oh God… Father McNealy thought as he heard the door open, listened to the scuffling of awkward feet as the parishioner knelt and folded his hands beneath his chin. Please, Father, if you exist…do not let it be him again. Spare me this torment.

“Father, forgive me for I have sinned. I have had impure thoughts about a man.” The raspy voice floated between the curtains to his burning ears. His heart stopped. It was him…the man with the laughing green eyes and the dirty dishwater blond hair that always fell against his cheek like a lover’s touch.

Hands clenched around the white collar as though to wrench it from his neck. He suddenly found he could not breathe. It felt as if cotton had lodged itself just behind his Adam’s apple. He thought he would faint. Images flooded his mind with desire and filled his soul with sin.

“Speak of your sins, my child, and be forgiven.” Was his voice truly so choked? Could the man on the other side hear the guilt, the need that permeated his normally smooth tones? Did he even know that he’d been watched as he lit candles for his family; that a lonely man had dreamed of him again and again, writhing with an ache no drug could cure?

“F-father, I know that homosexuality is a mixed issue in the church these days.” The man began and Father McNealy braced his hand against the wall. No! It’s not a sin! Let me show you! God be damned! He wanted to scream. He wanted to rip that fragile barrier away from between them and taste, feel, and take.

“I’ve tried, Father. I’ve tried so hard. I don’t want to go to Purgatory, Father. But, I don’t know what to do!” The voice was desperate, insistent. “I can’t stop thinking about him. God, Father! He’d feel so good. I know he would. All I want to do is rip his clothes off and have him suck me dry. He’d taste so good and oh God, to be inside of him, stretching till it hurt. Why, Father? Why am I tormented like this?”

His heart pounded in his ears and he didn’t think he would be able to form any sort of coherent reply. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled lazily down the side of his straining neck. When did it get so hot in here? The room was closing in on him.

“My child, homosexuality is a sin within the church. You must have faith in God that your trial will pass.” His voice was choked.



He berated himself better than any cardinal or bishop could. He berated himself every night while his hand was wrapped around himself, as he pumped himself to completion until he was raw and every touch meant pain. He damned himself with each stroke, cried out to the Devil as he spilled seed out onto his bed sheets. God could give ecstasy to Mary, but no ecstasy was to be given a celibate priest whose only taste of flesh had once been that of another man.

“Don’t you tell anyone or you’ll go to Hell.” The priest had hissed in his ear. “Your whole family will go to Hell.” That Irish brogue still rang in his ears, but it did nothing to quell the thoughts that sought to consume him. They all had the fear of Purgatory. The man who knelt mere feet from him had the same fear that many a Catholic man and woman had possessed, had harbored within their heart as they admired in one fashion or another a member of the same sex.

“Father, did you hear me?” The voice on the other side of that curtain was filled with vulnerability.

“No.” Father McNealy’s voice cracked. “What did you say, my child?”

“I said I don’t think I can help it, Father. Every time I see him I just want to know what it’s like to rake my fingers through his hair. I want to take him by the hips and bend him against me. Oh Christ.” The man’s voice grew ragged with desire and Father McNealy only had a moment to guess whether or not he was touching himself beyond the fine film of black between them.

Father McNealy’s hands shook. I believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth…..and God saw that the light was good….Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall fear no evil…

“Go, my child, and sin no more.” He managed to say, his breath coming in quick gasps as he fought not to slip his own hand down, grip himself there and feel that pulsing thickness against his palm, wishing it was the hand of the parishioner with his dancing eyes on him. He could imagine that dirty dishwater blond hair hovering above him, could almost feel himself taking him from his knees the way the man wanted of whoever it was that plagued his mind.

“Father?” The voice was confused.

“Just go.” Father McNealy said. “Go now.” The desire was raw in his voice, as though the Devil himself were controlling him tonight.

There was silence in the other booth and then the scuffling of someone rising to their feet. There was a rush of cigarette-scented air as the door of the other booth slowly shut, and then the sound of footsteps walking away from him.

He released his breath in an explosion of relief and disappointment as he leaned his fevered cheek against the cool smooth wood. How many tears had these walls soaked up? How many fevered prayers issued forth from the mouths of priests had been absorbed into this dark and decadently secret booth of sin?

What is he doing now? The tortured priest wondered. He imagined delicious and sinful things that made his body pulse with yearning. Perhaps he was in the back pew, in the corner where the shadows were thickest. Maybe he was thinking of his lust or maybe…oh God in heaven…maybe he was punishing himself by stroking to completion in the church. Father McNealy’s hands came unwittingly up to his temples, pressing against the bone there and feeling the blood rush beneath his fingertips. No. No, no, no. Stop thinking. Just…stop.

He pushed himself to his feet and threw open the door. It swung into the confessional wall with a crash and sent the booth trembling like his faltering faith. He ran from it, ran from that haven of lustful thoughts and half-confessed dreams.


But there would be no permanent relief from those cramped walls, those tear-stained benches. The next night he began his walk again and this time he paused at the altar. He looked up at the crucified Christ with his nailed hands and feet, his tortured face. Oh if only it were so simple to nail oneself upon a cross and forever be made a king, a saint, a redeemer. As he sat there in that hushed and holy darkness caressed by flickering candles he found himself wondering for the first time: Did you – Lord of all Lords on high – ever desire another man?

He crossed himself and with a jagged breath made his way beside that altar and to that booth of sin, that booth of yearning that hid and created more than was ever forgiven by a soiled priest’s tongue.

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

Sweet mother of God! He was already in there. Waiting for Father McNealy to sit and wait for the first guilty child of Heaven. The priest’s heart threatened to suffocate him as it jumped into his throat, but he was at a point where he could no longer understand.

“I have had impure thoughts about a man.” Was it his imagination or was the voice silky smooth? It caressed over his senses like thick dark velvet that whispered of sex and finer things.

“S-state your sins, my child, and be forgiven.” His voice was barely a whisper and he thought his fingers would surely break from the intensity with which he gripped his knees.

“My lust cannot be slacked by my own hand, Father. I only want him more. I’m headed for Purgatory, Father. I cannot deny it any longer. I want him. I want him to fill his mouth and his throat with me. I desire you.” The voice suddenly stopped.

I desire you. Father McNealy was frozen in place. Any words he’d prepared to speak lie forgotten in the heavy air.

I desire you…

His voice was choked and gasping when he finally did speak. “Do you not mean ‘him’, my child?” It would be too good to be true…too bad to be true. Surely all of these nights…all of these hours listening to a damned man’s prayers for forgiveness, these graphic accounts of sucking and stretching and…He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose. There was still silence in the other booth.

With his heart pounding in his chest he leaned forward slightly: Just enough to see that the profile of the other man was still there. He was on bended knees, his hands folded beneath his chin. Even as Father McNealy peered through the lacy barrier he watched with fascination as the man’s lips moved, as he repeated the statement: “Father, I desire you.”

Such delicious vulnerability echoed in those tones, such rapturous torment. “I know it is a sin.” The shadowed man said. “But I have watched you, Father. I watched you light the candles, as you bent over the altar. It made me think of…” The man sucked in his breath and didn’t finish the statement, but there was no need to. The priest who sat inches away from him in the confessional booth had a visual clearer than any words could ever express dancing across the inside of his closed eyelids.

“I’ve seen you watching me too.” The parishioner continued when Father McNealy said nothing, too entranced by his own thoughts and his own rampant erotic fantasies to give voice to anything coherent. “You watched me light the candle for my sister. You know she’s a whore, Father, and both of us know that no candle is going to save her soul. No god wants a two-bit hooker at the gates of Heaven. But I keep coming here because I know you watch me. You watch me and sometimes I hear you gasp, hear you mumble the Hail Mary to yourself and douse yourself in holy water as if that will make it go away. I want you, and with Jesus himself as my witness I know you want me.”

Could he deny it? His tongue felt dry in his mouth and his heart beat out a staccato rhythm that he thought the man would surely hear through the lacy partition. He opened his mouth to say something. He had all sorts of grand, regal thoughts that would surely gain him points with God and save him unnamable torment if he could just utter it. “You speak blasphemy in the church of God. Satan has forced these false impressions upon you!”

But none of those words fell from his lips when he opened his mouth to speak them. Instead a choked voice wafted between the confessional partition, filled with longing and guilt: “Yes, I want you.”

It was the parishioner’s turn to be silent and Father McNealy heard him release a breath that had been held too long. Was it a sigh of relief? Shock? Or was the air just as oppressive in his side of the booth as it was where the priest sat?

The curtain rustled and it moved. Father McNealy barely contained a small sound of wanting when hands appeared through the curtain. They were reaching for him, searching for him, and for a moment he was transfixed and unable to do anything but stare.

Those hands were calloused, as though the parishioner had spent many days out in a field. They were the hands of a farmer – dirt underneath the fingernails, a tattered band aid over the knuckle of his index finger where a knife or a hammer may have missed its mark as he strung fencing or did household repairs. He knew they were a little too large for the rest of him and conveyed strength. Something told him those fingers could be soft as silk if they wanted to be, that they could stroke him to completion without hesitation and without tiring. Those hands reached for him, strained for him. A small sound escaped him.

“Father? Please?” The voice was plaintive. It was hoarse and once again Father McNealy was tormented with visions filling his mind. Graphic representations of the things the parishioner had told him. Those things had been about him. There was no doubt of it now. He could rake fingers through that dirty dishwater blond hair if he wanted. Those hands searched for him in the flickering darkness and he found his own smooth pale fingers reaching out and taking those hands, feeling those calloused palms under his own unblemished fingertips. Fingertips that had never done a day’s worth of manual labor: hands that belonged to a man who spent his days in prayer and his nights in torment.

A small sound escaped his throat and those calloused hands clenched around his, pulled at him as though to draw him through the small square opening inch by inch. But he was only drawn a few feet. Then the hands disappeared. The words “this is a sin” were on the tip of his tongue but lie forgotten when he felt something pressing against his cupped palms that had frozen when the parishioner’s touch had left him.

Fingers curled instantly around the velvety smooth and rigid shaft that had been pressed into his hands. A soft moan reached him from the other side of the booth and he thought he would faint. This must be a dream. I will wake soaked in my own sweat with desire throbbing through to my core. But if it were a dream it did not end. Instead his fingers caressed and he could feel the man’s pulse through blood vessels gorged with a torrent of desire, could feel the slickness of excitement that covered the circumcised head. His fingers caressed down the length and it was not only the parishioner that moaned.

All penance, all sins, everything that could have even begun to make an inkling of sense fled from his mind like a ghostly apparition. The only thing left was his hands upon the hard length that pressed itself into the tunnel he made, the soft gasps and moans that echoed in the small wooden chamber. “Yes, Father.” The voice oozed with decadence. “Oh God. Yes!”

The cry rang out into the sanctuary and it gave Father McNealy pause. “Don’t stop.” The voice was commanding. It was a farmer’s voice, a leader’s voice – gruff and confident. The plaintiveness and uncertainty of the sinner had faded and had been overtaken by the lustful drives of a man not accustomed to being told “no”, perhaps a man who wouldn’t even admit in the morning that he had wanted another man.

Perhaps if God himself had dropped down into that small humid booth it would not have been enough to keep his hands from moving, to stop the teeth that grazed against a full bottom lip as he felt the muscles tremble and grow taut beneath his fingers. The Blessed Mother herself would not have been able to induce his prayers, and no angel could have given him the ecstasy he desired. He closed his eyes and focused on that velvet hot flesh soaked with desire, concentrated on the way his hand slid so sure and so skilled up and down that length of promises.

Hail Mary, full of grace. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Hail Mary… The prayer was whispered on trembling lips that occasionally gasped from pleasure, paused to swallow and moan. The man was praying and it gave Father McNealy pause.

“Damn you. Don’t stop!” The voice hissed and heat flared low and wide through Father McNealy’s loins. This is what he yearned, this is what he dreamed. To be commanded in such elusive and precarious fashion. To give pleasure and yet feel that perhaps he had no true control over the situation at all. He felt himself grow rigid, straining the seam in his pants to the limit and he gave a throaty moan. In response the man through the barrier thrust himself against the hands that caressed him and the Hail Mary began issuing from his lips afresh.

It must be a dream. It must be a trip of insanity. Too many nights alone had stolen his strength and his faith in God. All that existed was this moment with its choreography of sin.

The parishioner pressed himself to the wall and Father McNealy found himself gazing at lace-framed hands caressing over the swollen length of the other man. Another sound escaped him. “Take me.” The voice commanded and there was only the briefest moment of hesitation. He drew the object of his desire through that lacy fringe and after only a moment of trembling delight fit his mouth around him. There was no time to grow accustomed, no time to savor the taste. The farmer, the sinner, the lover pushed himself roughly between the priest’s teeth, over his tongue, down his throat.

The inability to breathe was an aphrodisiac of light asphyxiation to the priest who had found his way to his knees, but not to offer up any prayer of repentance or regret. Fingers slipped through that small opening and drew jean-clad hips closer against the wall so that he could more readily reach him; more completely draw him in and rake over him with lips, teeth, and tongue.

Even in this sinful dance Father McNealy noted that the denim beneath his fingertips was well-worn and frayed at the pocket edges. The hard-working middle class man who probably had a wife and kids at home, probably even a dog and a pickup truck. A hard-working farmer man who spent his days soaked by sweat under a hot sun and who by night took his sunburned flesh and dirty tousled hair into the church where he would lust after a priest.

All of these thoughts incensed the priest further and his mouth sought to swallow the other man whole, make himself drown in the promise of an outpouring of ecstasy. And ecstasy came when he felt the man’s hips shiver beneath his fingertips, felt the surge beneath his tongue before the deluge poured from the fount he sought to consume.

All was quiet after the cries echoed through the church and its sanctuary. Father McNealy finally released the parishioner from his mouth, instantly yearning for him again. Years of torment could not so easily be quenched and his fingers trembled as the calloused palms took them and pushed them back through the lacy partition.

There were sounds and the priest’s heart jumped as he had the dreaded thought that the parishioner was leaving. Don’t leave! He wanted to shout, but he was too stunned, the taste of the other man still lingering on his tongue.

But as he peered through that veil of black he saw the profile settle and the hands fold themselves beneath the chin once again. The man was once again in the position of the remorseful sinner and Father McNealy’s heart sank as he had a dreadful hunch that the parishioner was going to confess the sins he had just committed to God. But the whispered words that met his ears caused his heart to skip a beat and then a smile to break out over his face:

“Forgive me, Father, for I will sin. I have impure thoughts about a man.”

© Copyright 2020 Anajiel. All rights reserved.

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