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Suguru liked the Church, really. It had been his only solace in a childhood filled with a haunting black hole of hollow nothingness. When Sunday came in those golden rimmed days, faded like an old photograph, it didn’t matter that his father didn’t look at him twice, or that his mother wept quietly into the phone with her own mother at the wee hours of the morning about what she could do to make Suguru better, more palatable, less strange, secrets that she kept to herself and that Suguru did his best to forgive and forget; it didn’t matter that Suguru had no friends, despite everyone’s politeness towards him in the small public school he attended, a class of maybe ten children—that was more out of fear than out of respect, anyway; it didn’t matter that Suguru broke a wounded bird’s neck between his small hands in the empty front yard of his home, that he had another’s blood under his fingernails when he came home from class to an empty house that echoed back his “I’m home!”.
During Mass, there wasn’t anything staining his skin or eating his innards from the inside out, there was only the young, handsome priest that spoke in a calm voice, that told Suguru redemption awaited him, that lay the body of Christ on the middle of Suguru’s waiting tongue with deft, well-manicured fingers. There was God, all-loving and all-knowing and all-consuming, surrounding Suguru from where he kneeled on the piers, killer hands pressing palm against palm as he let His body dissolve in his mouth, among unsaid prayers, with his eyes peacefully closed, away from the freezing stoicism of his father and his mother’s unfounded worries. God saw him as he was: a savior of the weak, a protector of those below him, the patron saint of lost souls.
Suguru never went without crying during prayer—silent tears that fell out of compassion and disgust for those he viewed as helpless, like his parents and his classmates and his teachers—and this went without notice until he was a teenager in his last year of junior high school, knees still bruised from seeking absolution in his house and the house of God (were they so different?), and he was stopped by his priest as he left the chapel with a hard, unforgiving gaze focused on his father’s balding spot. He had called Suguru to the side, told him he could see something in his eyes, something different and conflicted and in need of forgiveness in the way only He could give him, and Suguru’s lips parted without a sound, a breath escaping them. He’d been seen and chosen.
He never told anyone about what happened afterwards, both because no one asked him why Father Ken kept his eyes locked on Suguru during Mass or why Suguru’s hands were red and raw from too much hot water and antibacterial handsoap, and because he could not recall it enough. The memory was muddled, dirty mud water like the puddles in early February in the corners of the balcony of Suguru’s room, melted pleasure that’s just a bit disgusting and ugly: their mouths meeting in a bruising kiss that Suguru was convinced was also the priest’s first, his delicate hands pulling the hem of Suguru’s dress shirt out of his slacks and running up and down the slowly developing muscles of Suguru’s growing body, whispered promises of love and acceptance and purging and this was God’s plan for Suguru, didn’t Suguru need a Father, anyway? And like all those other times where Suguru felt the closest to Him, in a private prayer between only him and His Savior at the pews and the creaky wooden floor of Suguru’s room and the stained tiles in his high school bathroom, Suguru cried in ecstasy, the Father, and revulsion, the Son, and realization, the Holy Spirit.
He returned to that same chapel week after week, gaze never wavering from Father Ken’s piercing, hungry brown eyes—burning with the flames of Hell itself, Suguru was sure—no matter how much his stomach twisted, the breakfast he had eaten in a hurry threatening to spill into his mouth and over the pristine floor of the chapel, onto his slacks, the same ones the priest had had his big, warm palms over and under. Suguru believed him, regardless of the phantom feelings and the nightmares he woke up from in a cold sweat and remembering nothing, because Suguru believed God and Suguru believed he was meant to release more than the innocent animals from their pain. Father Ken wasn’t harmful and he sure wasn’t the issue, he was exactly who Suguru wanted to be. He persued priesthood once he finished high school, telling only his mother he would be moving out in a week’s time. “So soon?” she had said, with tears in the eyes Suguru saw whenever he looked at himself in the mirror, monolids and dark circles and short eyelashes and just a hint of a wrinkle under them. Suguru had smiled, no teeth and closed eyes, and said: “I’m afraid so.” Later, he had dreamed of Father Ken’s hands on his stomach, pressing down and down until Suguru’s flesh gave out and he bled out slowly, painlessly onto his sheets and Father Ken’s fingers. His uneasy grin was burned into Suguru’s retinas when he forced himself to wake up, that image reflecting on the empty walls of his bedroom.
He left his small town and then the only slightly bigger inner city of his university, settling into a small suburbean area in Greater Tokyo, with a parish he adored and cherished, that he guided every Sunday in his gentle hands, promising them salvation and validation, a place where they could belong. And every Sunday his scorching, scrutinizing eyes glossed over with elation, warm like nectar in his veins, and every Sunday they softened when he did as He had done and placed the Body of Christ onto the eager tongues of His followers, searching for the boy he would lead with heavy hands and vows hushed hot against his lips. It took him until the week after his 36th birthday, which he had spent scratching his left arm until he bled, his heart tight in his chest, palpitating dangerously with something akin to panic, if Suguru could panic. They had met on a cold Tuesday evening, the boy rushing to the confessional as Suguru was blessing one of the stoups, his quick but heavy footsteps echoing in the otherwise empty church, bouncing off the stone and stained glass windows. Suguru raised his head to silently thank Jesus, his body naked and vulnerable as Suguru had once been, bleeding from holy wounds, before he silently and softly made his way to the booth. He drew the curtain as he listened to the sinner’s heavy breathing, shallow like he’d holding back tears long before he ever set foot inside the church, and leaned back against the wooden wall, his hand carefully drawing the screen back. He never looked at those who confessed to him, not out of respect for their privacy but because he could not truly focus when he could tell they were not serious, were simply seeking an escape from the guilt that gnawed at their bones like wolves’ teeth, and to them Suguru could not lie and tell them all they had to do was pray and they would be as pure as him.
The shuffle of fabric followed by paper unfolding brought Suguru back to where he sat, and he ran his fingers through his hair as he listened to the boy speak, his words quiet though coated with a thick paint of anger that made his voice tremble. “Good afternoon,” he mumbled, followed by: “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” He was quite emotional, this one, and expressive, too. Genuine. Suguru always had preferred genuine people. “It’s been…,” the sound of his fingertips touching to the rhythm of the numbers that hissed out of his lips, “10 years since my last confession, I guess.”
Suguru did not question this—it was far too common for people to be led astray, to let their sins consume them and pile up on their back until they were grinding their spine to dust, and only then did they truly seek redemption. He thought it ridiculous and borderline blasphemous, but he was not who was to judge, so he kept those opinions between himself and God, who Suguru knew would never reject him. Were He capable of picking favorites, he would be it, this much he’s sure of.
A shuddered breath. “I feel lost.” That was hardly a sin, but Suguru didn’t voice it. “…I killed a bird.” There it was.
“I see,” Suguru offers, hands flexing one over the other where they sit on his lap, the silk of his stole soft against his skin.
“I just wanted to help. It was hurt, Father. It was still small and fell off the nest, I think its neck was broken, but I know you shouldn’t pick them up ‘cause then their moms don’t want them. There was no bird on the nest, but I didn’t want it to be rejected because I decided to play the hero. I just gave it a swift death instead, but I can’t stop thinking about it. I see its blood on every rock I walk by. On my hands. I’ve called to God and I’ve heard nothing.” It didn’t matter that this wasn’t true: birds didn’t have a strong sense of smell, the mother bird would have never smelled the sin on her young’s feathers. Suguru refused to correct him, as that was not the point of his confession, rather the overwhelming guilt that Suguru never found chasing him whenever he did the same. “I just wanted to be good,” his voice cracked.
“You are good, my child.”
The boy tried to speak again, but no real sound came from the other side of the confessional, only repressed little sobs and sentences that died as soon as they met the stale air, half-spoken words that Suguru couldn’t quite perceive. “It’s not… It’s not that I doubt Him, Father. But, sometimes I find myself wondering… If He’s out there—all of Him, Father, all of Him—, then why am I so utterly alone? Why did that bird have to die? Why is it impossible for anyone to truly see me?” A muscle above Suguru’s right eyebrow twitched and he pressed his thumb against it, massaging the area softly. “Father, I feel like I’m going to die alone and unloved. I can’t feel Him, I can’t feel anyone, I just want to do good. I want to do good. I want things to change, I want to be that change and I can’t make myself do anything. I exist for a reason and I don’t know what that reason is,” he kept rambling, hushed and choked out phrases that Suguru had to pay close attention to, even if he desired oh, so much to silence him, to assure him he was loved and good, as Father Ken had done with him. Suguru slowly set his hand down and smiled to himself. “Nobody wants to have anything to do with me. I’m too arrogant, too full-of-myself, or whatever they say. I don’t… I don’t disagree, but that isn’t a crime. It’s not a sin to know your own self-worth. I try to help those I can, but it seems that’s more of a curse than a blessing.” An echo of a soft thud; Suguru could picture the boy’s head hitting the wall of the confessional booth. “I suppose… I have killed in order to help, I’m lost in faith and life, I just want to know this is worth it. I want to know He is worth it.”
“He is always worth it,” Suguru stated, a little too severe, but then he took in a breath as he had taught himself to when he had been only a child, and shifted his features into a kind smile, one hidden from the boy, but audible in his sentences. “I understand, my child. It’s not unusual for one’s faith to falter. However, God is good and God is merciful, He will always find it in Him to forgive you.”
“…Thank you, Father.”
“Are you sorry for your sins?”
Suguru could only hear his own breathing and heartbeat, so fast on the adrenaline that he felt coursing through his veins, and he broke his own pledge, turning his head to the screen to catch a glimpse of the boy. Though covered partially by the lattice partition, Suguru could tell that he was, simply put, an angel brought to his parish by God, his favorite season brought to life by His hand: his hair as soft and white as the fresh snow that piled up on the front yard of Suguru’s childhood home, his eyes bright and vibrant and so, so blue, just like the clear sky on a brighter day. He hid these breath-taking things behind circular black lenses, and the sunglasses slipped a little down the bridge of his nose. His gaze focused deeply on his lips, shiny with a pink gloss, and Suguru felt as Father Ken must have, his skin prickling hot under his robes, white flames of righteous desire licking at his spine, rendering his nerves to ash. The words “yes, Father,” stumbled out of the boy’s pouty mouth and Suguru did nothing to wave away the thoughts of how soft it must feel, on his own and on his hard cock, drool dripping from the corners.
“He will save you, my child. I’m sure of it.” Suguru didn’t move when the boy turned his head to stare at him, eyes big and wide, that overwhelming blue burning even brighter due to the tears that clumped his long eyelashes together, and the whites of them ran red from the veins that stretched like roots of an old tree, a pain that Suguru could almost taste in his mouth, not unlike when he drank the blood of Christ from his chalice. It engulfed Suguru, this picture of a devastating wave of an emotion he could not name but that he knew was good and just, and he turned his head after offering him a soft smile. “One Our Father every day and two Hail Marys before you sleep until next week. Then, I want you to meet me here, at the same time as today.”
“Oh. Yeah, okay.”
“I just want to help you, my child,” Suguru said, voice syrup thick with something akin to deception, though Suguru heartily believed that he really would be leading him down the right path, the path of forgiveness and belonging and Truth. “You may say the Act of Contrition.”
There was a pause, a silence that spoke louder than if either of them had uttered a single word. “I’m sorry, Father.”
“Ah, that’s alright.” Poor lost lamb, he really did need Suguru, his guiding hands to travel over his naked skin, to help him achieve salvation much like Suguru himself had reached it. He was the shephard, after all, and he would not fail God in this mission. He closed his eyes and leaned back, then began to cite the Act of Contrition himself, the words leaving his lips calmly and articulately, and he paused after every sentence in order for the boy to repeat them back at him in his own trembling voice that washed over Suguru like warm, fresh river water; cleansing and purifying. A new kind of baptism. “Amen,” he finished.
Suguru waited longer than he had expected, than the time frame he had given that lost soul, but he knew better than to distrust His judgement, he knew better than to question His plan, he knew better than to not simply do as instructed by Him and wait. He occupied himself with the various problems related to the parish, with the alter boys and the choir that needed their supervision in order to be truly perfect and in touch with God’s words and God’s intent and God’s help, with other members that were equally in need—though not one of them lit the same kind of fire deep in his guts that his chosen one had, its ambers still burning as Suguru lingered for his presence.
But, as Suguru knew, as Suguru had studied, as Suguru had learned, patience was a virtue and it was going to be rewarded, and so his reward came in the form of a Winter day, delicate and pretty and desperate, through the church doors and into the vestibule, footsteps so loud they echoed in the depths of Suguru’s soul, telling him just who it was that had arrived as he had been turned towards the altar, his eyes boring into those of Jesus Christ, that large wood crucifix holding a carefully crafted Lamb of God, his painful features etched into the stone as if the artist had felt His misery on his own skin. He didn’t speak at first and Suguru remained still, allowing his want to consume him wholly before he, guided by Christ, could finally look away from His eyes and into the angel’s He had sent him. He stood in the middle of the central aisle, head cast down in what Suguru could only imagine as shame for having missed their original planned date, as if he were sinning by merely forgetting, like a shepherd dog who has lost its owner’s most precious sheep. But this boy wasn’t the dog; he was the lamb and the lamb had crawled back into the dog’s hold and the shepherd was going to reward the dog.
“I’m sorry, Father,” he said, then he looked up at Suguru with parted lips, words that held themselves back from being spoken as Suguru slowly made his way to him, and his eyes widened when Suguru’s hand, so soft and kind and good, touched the gentle skin of his cheek, his thumb brushing just under a small pimple that had begun to grow; a hint of an age that could easily be dismissed by his height.
“No need,” Suguru spoke, lowering his hand to rest casual but heavy on the boy’s shoulders. “Oh, but I must ask your name. I pride myself in knowing everyone in the parish, but since you’re so new I haven’t had the opportunity. Besides, confession is no place to ask such things,” he excused both himself and his lamb, his free hand waving in the air dismissively.
“Oh, it’s Satoru, Father.”
Suguru’s fingers dug into the fabric of Satoru’s shirt, a well-groomed gakuran that told Suguru what he had already guessed: Satoru was only a high schooler. That didn’t quite matter, though, did it? Suguru himself had only been fourteen when Father Ken’s touch had saved him, and it’s always best to guide them towards the path of Truth when they were young, before sin accumulated and left them soiled and filthy and contaminated. And yes, God would forgive them, God is all-good and all-kind and all-compassionate, but Suguru was not God. He was a dog starved for acknowledgement and this lamb was his reward. “How beautiful.” Satoru grinned at him, though Suguru could see the high of his cheeks ruddy, perhaps both from embarassment and that same recognition Suguru had also so desperately craved. “Come with me to my chambers, Satoru,” he beckoned.
Satoru’s smile faltered a bit and Suguru feared that he had been too direct, too blunt and too explicit in his desire for him. “I came to confess again, Father Suguru,” he spoke. Suguru took a deep breath in order to not take him right away; it wouldn’t be good, it wouldn’t be the same and Suguru so awfully needed it to be the same. “I’m sorry—”
“No need,” he repeated himself, hand moving to press his thumb against Satoru’s bottom lip, a silent promise of the absolution he would soon receive. “You can do that in private with me. I will hear you and I will forgive you and God will lead you towards righteousness again.” As his sunglasses slipped down his nosebridge, Satoru glanced down at where Suguru’s finger rested and then looked up into Suguru’s eyes with his half-covered ones, hopeful things in which Suguru saw also confliction and, most importantly, devotion. Suguru smiled again, soft and genuine, something that reached his small eyes. “Will you follow me, Satoru?”
“Of course, Father,” he whispered in the same way Suguru did his prayers, a tone of voice low and aimed only towards God and His helpers.
Suguru pressed his fingertip harder against Satoru’s mouth, then let go of him entirely, turned around and let Satoru follow him up the stairs to the altar, then down into the sacristy, which he had to unlock and hold the door open for Satoru to enter before him. Suguru closed the door gently behind him and locked it as he watched Satoru look around the small room, walking almost nervously towards the desk where Suguru had laid his stole on, perfectly draped over the mahogany wood as he always made sure to leave it. An impulse, or a push from above, made Suguru take the first steps towards Satoru, pressing against his strong back and entrapping him there by laying his hands on the desk, right next to where Satoru had set his.
“Father Suguru?” His voice was airy, not quite scared but most certainly doubting himself for having agreed to follow Suguru into the cramped place that smelled like just a bit of dust and mold, the way churches always do.
Suguru lifted his left hand to hook it under Satoru’s chin, the other holding his small waist under his large palm, and he pressed his lips to Satoru’s ear. His body shuddered against Suguru’s own, and those embers of desire that Satoru had lit inside of him burned brighter and out of control, devouring his lungs and his stomach and his heart, so much so that Suguru could taste their ashes on his tongue as he spoke. “You don’t have to worry. I’m only going to help you, Satoru.” He lightened his grip on Satoru’s hip and began to rub it softly, a reassuring hand rather than a heavy one. “Relax for me. I’m going to save you, you just have to trust me.”
“I thought priests took a vow of celibacy,” Satoru tried to joke, but his voice was lacking in the boistorousness that Suguru had caught a hint of previously and it trembled at the end of his sentence.
“Satoru,” Suguru whispered against his cheek and the cold temples of Satoru’s sunglasses bumped into his nose; he made sure his words conveyed just how much Satoru needed his help, how much he needed his touch and his teachings and his mouth on his skin. “I would never do anything to hurt you. You must understand that I only act upon God’s wishes and He wants you to achieve complete absolution through me. Take, eat; this is my body,” he quoted and felt Satoru relax ever so gently against his chest, trembling only a little in what Suguru could easily interpret as enthusiasm and poorly concealed need. “Through me, you will more directly reach Him.” Though Satoru’s muscles weren’t locked anymore, Suguru could tell he wasn’t completely sold on this idea, this situation; there was the telltale of Satoru’s breathing, a little faster and shallower than Suguru would find ideal. “Satoru, when I was your age I was chosen by my priest and I have been closer to God since. It’s real, it helps you, it feels like you’re one with your Father, like the Holy Spirit is bursting through your veins, like the Son is holding onto you because He knows you will lead him towards salvation.” Suguru paused, more for his own sake than Satoru’s, as his throat began constricting around his sentences and his eyes grew misty and unfocused and there was the phantom pressure of hands on his chest and his thighs. Suguru thought this to mean that he missed it, that one time that he had managed to get so close to his Savior he could taste His blood and His flesh on his tongue stronger than during any Eucharist. If he could ensure Satoru could experience that same revelation, why shouldn’t he do it? “I have been looking for you for years,” he whispered. “At every single Mass, I let my eyes wander over the people, seeing if any of them would be my own chosen one. My angel that God has so, so kindly brought to me.” His hands roamed the expanse of Satoru’s chest, deft fingers groping and digging and tearing at the buttons of his uniform, but Satoru kept himself still. “I have been waiting for you, my child. Just you. When you confessed to me all those days ago, I felt as Adam must have felt when he lost a rib and saw Eve come into life. God has made you for me, Satoru. I’m sure of it. It was His plan for you to have sinned and to have reached me, and it’s His plan for you to let go and let me help you.”
Suguru felt a soft press of lips against the freshly shaved skin of his jaw and hope grew roots in his lungs, where they twisted and intertwined with the desire that had been spreading, hungry and frantic, for thirteen years. “You promise this will help me?”
Suguru released Satoru and let him turn around, strong hands on small hips, so that they could face each other, look into the other’s eyes and understand what they were about to do. There was a small, unsure voice in the back of Suguru’s head, something tiny and impercetible and ugly that sounded awfully like Suguru before puberty hit him, before that fateful afternoon in that small town cathedral, before the summer fruit flies gathered around his body, something hot and rotting like a not yet ripe apple with teeth indents left out in the sun for days. Suguru pushed it down, as he always did, and leaned in until he could feel Satoru’s warm breath on his lips, though he didn’t kiss him. “I promise you, you will achieve salvation through me. You just need to be receptive, alright?” Suguru could see the fiery doubt that still lit Satoru’s bright eyes, but he knew he would crumble, snap in half once Suguru got his hands on him.
Satoru’s hands were surprisingly steady when they reached up, as his dainty and soft fingers touched the freshly-shaven skin of Suguru’s cheek, pads rubbing over the small bumps that were once a stubble. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he said, voice low and so seductive Suguru began to wonder if he really was as innocent as the childlike behavior with which he carried himself made him seem. “It’s been a week and a couple of days since my last confession.”
Suguru closed the gap first, lips pressing feverishly and hungrily against Satoru’s, and when he licked at his bottom lip, Suguru tasted the undeniable artificial sweetness of cherry lipgloss: the forbidden fruit between his teeth, its juices spilling into his mouth. He ran the tip of his tongue over the droplets of blood that swelled up from his bite, and Satoru whined, his fingers slipping into Suguru’s long hair, twisting but not pulling. Suguru had been holding Satoru’s waist with a desperately greedy hold, but he released it in order to pull his shirt from where it tucked into his uniform pants. He broke away from Satoru’s unexperienced mouth in order to lick at his neck instead, teasing his pulse point with the tip of his teeth, as one of his hands occupied itself with pulling at the collar of his gakuran, and Satoru helped with its chore, tilting his head to give Suguru a better reach to bite into the supple flesh. He felt Satoru open his skinny, long legs and then whispered encouragement against his lips, so Suguru slotted one knee between them and moaned hot and wet against the flesh of Satoru’s throat when he felt his cock kick against his robes. Satoru pulled at the carefully put up bun that sat on the top of his head and moaned gently as he rut against Suguru’s leg like a sexually pent-up dog, its inhibitions long gone, torn to shreds by raw desire and need. He panted like one, too, and Suguru shut him up by pushing his tongue past Satoru’s lips, the hand that had been on the gakuran now holding Satoru’s jaw still. He parted again and ran his tongue over his bottom lip to catch the spit that had split right in between them, that had splashed over his and Satoru’s chins, his starved gaze burning into the way Satoru broke. Suguru repressed a sigh and lowered his hand to press against Satoru’s chest over his white undershirt, strongly suggesting that he should lie down with the sharp bones of his spine rubbing through the soft cotton and against the harder, polished wood of Suguru’s desk. “I want to see you when you come. When you reach Him.”
Suguru undid Satoru’s belt and uniform pants swiftly and with restrained strength, and pulled them down forcefully, one warm, big palm against the small back of Satoru’s back and Satoru moaned quietly at the display of roughness and impatience. Of need. Of desire. Of cycles. “Father Suguru,” he gasped wetly, trembling against Suguru’s hand.
“Tell me what you’ve come to confess, my child,” he said as he ran the very tip of his index finger over Satoru’s clothed cock, straining pathetic and fat against his navy blue boxers, then dug it into the large wet spot right by the waistline. What Suguru had forgotten about teenagehood was how much of it was consumed nearly entirely by the horrific forest fire that went by the name of Lust. His mouth grew dry as he began to rub circles over Satoru’s covered cockhead, as Satoru mewled into one of his hand, the other digging desperately into Suguru’s white robes, a few loose strands of thick straight hair tangled between his fingers.
“Call me Satoru, please,” he asked, eyes wide and wet behind those dark lenses, and Suguru could only smile at the quiet and polite request. “And… Can you touch me for real, Father?” The title seemed too sensual in Satoru’s sweet and flirtatious voice and Suguru’s brain felt a small shortcircuit flashing through it as it attempted to process how that thought made him feel, if his stomach was turning in his gut out of guilt and despair or because he felt happy and excited; out of enthusiasm, rather than shame.
“Lower them, then,” he said, words hushed and shallow like his breathing, and he let go of Satoru completely, his hands falling limply by his sides as he watched Satoru push his boxers down to join his uniform pants by his feet, pooling around his shoes. He struggled a bit to get his feet past both pieces of clothing, but he managed to and he even looked at Suguru searching his eyes for praise that he knew he deserved. “Good, Satoru.” And Satoru smiled widely and his sunglasses slipped fruther, revealing bursts of freckles by his eyes, such youthful things. “Your top, too. You were born nude, and you will be reborn nude,” he continued. Despite himself, he could hear how he was putting on the tone he saved for sermons, something charismatic and lively, faux sweet.
Satoru did as asked and Suguru began to unbutton his cassock from his fascia down, a good fifteen buttons only, and then undid his belt and the buttons of his slacks that began to stick to the back of his knees with sweat. Satoru leaned back against the desk, his virgin flesh ruddy and eager and on a decadent display, and Suguru’s hand nearly subconsciously wrapped itself around his aching, heavy cock, dark with blood, which jumped against his palm at the touch and the sight. “I’m faltering again,” said Satoru, touching himself as he held his gaze firmly on the way Suguru did the same, then spat on his palm and Suguru watched as Satoru’s big hand engulfed his cock entirely. He cursed under his breath and walked closer to Satoru, kissing him again and again, his free hand gripping Satoru’s wrist so that he would stop masturbating in front of Suguru. With a final lick against the tip of Satoru’s tongue, Suguru leaned back and hoisted Satoru up with his hands on his waist, thumbs pressing down on his abdomen, and his hunger lead him to slam Satoru’s back against the wood, his surprised yelp echoing in the small room. “Father Suguru, I feel so alone,” he gasped out while Suguru held his thighs between his strong fingers and pushed them against Satoru’s chest. “I feel so alone.”
“I’m right here, Satoru,” Suguru whispered, devoted and eager and secretive. Satoru’s skin was soft and pliant under his rougher touch and he had to force himself to let go of his legs once they were settled over his shoulders, heavy over Suguru’s cassock, as he was too drunk on the sight to properly focus. “God is always with you,” he said before pressing three fingers against Satoru’s bottom lip, the few remainers of his lipgloss sticking to his skin like arousal. Satoru opened his mouth in the same way he did to receive communion wafer, pouty lips parting as his tongue peaked out, trembling with effort. A muscle by the corner of Suguru’s left eye spasmed at the depravity and, losing what little control he had, shoved his fingers past Satoru’s teeth, made sure to press heavy against his tongue as the muscle dipped under the weight. A small, strangled moan resounded in the room, reverbating deep in Suguru’s very soul, corrupting it thoroughly before saving him all over, and Satoru closed his lips around the digits and began to earnestly suck them, while drool pooled by the corners of his mouth.
There was something divine about Satoru draped over the desk where Suguru took care of parish problems, where he planned Mass, where he would space out without meaning to because the mahogany was too similar to the one in his childhood chapel. Something so beyond profane it became holy again; an ouroboros of pleasure. Suguru’s breath was shallow and he could feel his heart squeezing by his left breast, underneath all those clothes, and Satoru kept on wetting his fingers, eyes half-closed, his eyeslashes long and white and beautiful. Suguru pressed a kiss against the middle of his forehead, then the naked skin of his midriff before kissing him twice more on each shoulder, as his drenched fingers smeared the spit over Satoru’s chin, where Suguru felt the growing bump of a blind pimple. To make sure the drool wouldn’t dry before he could finger Satoru open, he quickly pressed two of the fingers against his puckering hole, an entry that was more forced than Suguru would have liked, but he had no lube on him and as such it would have to do. With this in mind, he lifted his free hand to Satoru’s mouth and told him simply to lick it, which Satoru did, whining in delight at the taste of his sweat, and in this only furthering the holy fire consuming Suguru whole. Suguru only retrieved his hand back once he was done opening Satoru up, done preparing him for sanctity and piety and release. Saint Satoru, he thought as he withdrew his fingers and wrapped his hand dripping in spit around his painfully hard cock, what a beautiful title.
“Take; this is my body,” said Suguru as his cock breached Satoru’s virgin hole, a bit too dry and too big and too thick, but Satoru did not falter as he claimed his sin was and only threw his head back as he moaned, a divine and full sound. “Will you allow me to stand in for God?” Suguru kept pushing, giving Satoru inch after inch of his dick, and he took it so wonderfully well. A hand on Satoru’s slim waist, thumb dug into the skin that nearly broke under the nail, the other by Satoru’s head, supporting Suguru’s weight and holding down wayward tuffs of pure, white hair. “Will you let this kind priest fuck you into absolution, Satoru?”
Satoru gasped wetly, so soft and quiet, and then held Suguru’s face between his hands—big and soft, unfit for a high schooler but telling the story of a spoiled young boy nonetheless—and pressed innocent, chaste kisses against Suguru’s lips. “Please, Father. Baptize me, I need to be baptized again, I need you. I need you,” and Suguru could hear something a bit more intense and complicated than simple lustful need, rather a fact that Satoru needed Suguru to be reborn into sainthood. A fact Suguru understood in the depths of his very soul. And with God as his guide, Suguru kissed Satoru on his lips again, now nude things that no longer tasted of cherry but instead of dirty and ugly sin, which Suguru licked at and sucked away, as his cock drove in and out of Satoru’s ass slowly and deliberately, as he let God speak through his body and his actions, as he let Satoru be forgiven and set down the righteous path.
“Satoru, Satoru,” he gasped out, gravelly and shallow, as his hand swayed with Satoru’s hips, helping him fuck himself on Suguru’s cock and then he growled like a dog starved to the bone seeing freshly butchered meat, thick with blood that drips onto the vile and nasty ground; Satoru hadn’t grown enough yet and Suguru could see the tip of his cock distending Satoru’s smooth and nearly hairless stomach. “May He help you, may He guide you like He did me, may He protect you like He did me, may you find Him, may you be forgiven and guided and loved and fathered,” Suguru’s whispers were strained from the effort of holding both of them up, to ensure Suguru would not crush Satoru’s pubescent body with his own adult one, but that didn’t seem to matter, as Satoru moaned and whimpered and sobbed, his fingernails scratching angry red lines on Suguru’s skin, the place his hands found themselves in as he pushed them past Suguru’s cassock, his trapezius muscle twitching underneath Satoru’s touch. “You’re going to be free, you’re going to be loved, you won’t need them again, you won’t need them ever again,” Suguru continued, his eyes clenched tightly which made his forehead crinkle and begin to nurse a headache right down the middle. “You can trust me, Satoru,” he said and he felt his throat close up as tears wet the bridge of his nose. “I have you right here, I won’t let anyone or anything hurt you, you are under my protection and you are under God’s protection, you will never be alone, you will be wiped clean, a new beginning… You’re going to be happy. You won’t need them anymore. It’ll just be you and you’ll have found Him for He has brought you to me in order to do so. I am here to help you, I am here to guide you into Our Father’s hands, onto his rough hands, and He will kiss you as if you have been missing from home for a very long time. And He will lay you bare in order to better see what sins you still carry on your skin, to better understand what He is forgiving. And with everything, everything, He will fuck you and He will cleanse you by fucking you just as I am now because He is working through me.”
“Suguru,” Satoru whined and let himself fall backwards, no longer holding himself up with his hands behind Suguru’s neck, digging into his cassock and then below it, too. “Father. Father. Father.”
“Father’s right here,” Suguru assured him with words that sounded a bit too choked up, a bit too emotional. Suguru could only assume this was the same euphoria felt by his own savior, something otherworldly, miraculous, beyond heavenly, something pure and good and all-consuming; God’s love. “Satoru,” he groaned as he felt his balls tighten and the heat that had begun pooling in his navel, as he heard his own breathing quicken, as he closed his eyes in ecstasy. “Satoru, He needs you to come first. He needs you to come first, to come on my cock, to use me in order to achieve pure elation. Only then, fuck, only then will you be able to be like me, okay? You have to be the happiest you have ever been, and you will be because you will see Him. And then you will take me in your mouth and you will drink from my cock as if it’s Christ Jesus’ blood.”
“Yes, Father. Amen,” Satoru said, interrupted by pathetic little whines fucked out of him.
“Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.” Suguru leaned back and began to touch Satoru’s cock with his now free hand, pre-cum sticking to his skin like his lipgloss had before, and he had to close his eyes and take a deep breath in order to not ruin God’s plan for Satoru; his hand completely engulfed Satoru’s still growing cock and not even the cockhead peaked out of the fist he had closed around it. It was a sight that carried too much eroticism, as Satoru’s pre leaked from between his fingers, like an open wound that one can’t help but dig one’s fingernail into.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Satoru yelled and soon it no longer sounded like two separate words, but a more desperate and imploring noise that sounded a lot like “han-you”, this scream-whispered with every breath that he took or exhaled, in a perfectly synchronized dance with Suguru’s harsh and fast thrusts, deep, deep, deep and then suddenly stopped. Satoru’s high-pitched whimper cut itself off as he shook his head and swayed his hips, ass clenching hard and sweet around Suguru’s cock, and cum splattering over his navel and up to his chest, a smaller drop falling over his chin and sliding down his neck, slow and delicious over his Adam’s apple. Suguru stared at this painting before him, not having averted his eyes since he had opened them, his lungs nearly crushed under his ribs from the pressure of the complete and total angelic image, white on tan on white and beautiful and bright blue eyes staring at the ceiling and past Suguru himself, glossed over and ghostly like the half-smile on his lips.
Suguru calmed himself and prevent his impending orgasm by breathing slowly, bringing himself to his body fully again, then he pulled out of Satoru’s gaping hole, shivers running down his spine once the cold air of the sacristy licked at his cock, that pumped hot and heavy with blood. He stepped backwards, carefully as he could feel his legs tremble and he did not particularly want to fall, and then pulled at Satoru’s pale thigh; when he received no response, he smacked a heavy hand over Satoru’s soft cock, smaller now than before, sensitive from his orgasm and still sticky with cum. Satoru whimpered and lifted his head, his sunglasses hanging from his right ear only and drooping over his face, bangs hiding most of the iridescent blue of his eyes, a murky red blush starting spotty on his cheeks and growing darker as it traveled past his throat and over his chest. He looked ethereal, a stained glass window portrait come to life, colorful and vivid and unnatural, and Suguru felt nothing but gratitude towards His Father that he had rewarded his patience and love and sacrifices with such a wonderful lamb from, no doubt, God’s favorite flock. “Kneel. Kneel like you do when you pray,” he told him, his voice failing him between intakes of breath and Satoru obeyed, sluggishly pushed himself off Suguru’s desk, bringing Suguru’s stole down with him which pooled at his knees and drooped over his thighs, and supported himself with his hands on Suguru’s clothed thighs. The weight was familiar in a way that made Suguru’s stomach turn and he felt phantom touches over his arms and his chest. They didn’t feel bad, though, so he didn’t do anything; why break what doesn’t harm you?
“Father Suguru. You’ll save me, right?” Satoru asked this with half-lidded, teary eyes and Suguru bit down on his bottom lip in order to stay quiet, something awful growing inside of him. “I will never leave you if you do. I will never distrust our Father again,” he begged.
Suguru held Satoru’s face in his palms as carefully as he managed, and Satoru’s head shook from how much Suguru’s hands trembled. Suguru breathed shallowly as he pulled down at Satoru’s lip, a silent order to open his pouty mouth and splay out his pretty tongue, which Saoru obeyed, wordless. “My child, you must take my cum on your tongue the way you devour Jesus Christ’s flesh. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father.” How devout Satoru sounded, how pious, how faithful.
“You will be reborn anew and you will never know loneliness again for He will be with you until the end of times,” Suguru said and now his voice trembled, too. He could no longer tell who he was speaking to, if to himself or to his sinner. “Eat.” He pushed his cockhead past Satoru’s lips, weighing heavy on his tongue, and Satoru only gagged once, taking it all and taking it well. He seemed like he had previous experience with a cock in his mouth and Suguru felt the ugly sludge of jealousy run through his veins, making him settle one hand on the back of Satoru’s head, fingers clutching hair strands between them as his nails scratched at Satoru’s scalp, and the other by his jaw, his thumb caressing Satoru’s soft and awfully hot to the touch skin. “Good. Very good. Taking all that Father gives you, all that God Almighty wants you to have.” Satoru only moaned gently and Suguru shuddered at the sound reverbating over his sensitive skin, and then Satoru slowly moved one of his hands to fondle over Suguru’s balls, hiding still under his boxers and slacks, and Suguru threw his head back in ecstasy as Satoru sped up, his other hand wrapping tightly and deliciously around what little of Suguru’s cock he could not take. Suguru cursed breathlessly before starting a delirious version of the Prayer of Absolution, his orgasm growing nearer and nearer, completely and utterly destructive as much as it was completely and utterly cleansing. “Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace,” he gasped, his hips thrusting shallowly into Satoru’s tight throat, that constricted around the thick intrusion. “And I absolve you from your sins.” Suguru lowered his head again to look at Satoru before he held him down completely and fucked his mouth with no inhibitions, not anymore. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son,” and Suguru let out a raspy moan before he strained out the rest of the prayer as he came: “and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.”
Satoru’s throat constricted around Suguru’s cock as he diligently swallowed the cum that tainted his tongue and throat, divine elixir beyond either of their understanding, and Suguru gasped in oversensitivity. He guided Satoru’s still suckling mouth away from his softening dick, careful fingers framing his soft cheeks, palms cradling the jaw that grew sharper day by day, and then he massaged Satoru’s tongue as his cock fell against his sacred robes, defiling them with bodily fluids from them both, the evidence of the Holy Matrimony between Satoru’s spit and Suguru’s cum drying and leaving ugly little patches behind. “Amen,” said Satoru when Suguru finally let go of his tongue, his voice worn out and just a little rough.
Suguru couldn’t find himself to let go completely of Satoru, not yet. Not when the sunlight was bleeding through the azure blue colored glass window of the sacristy so beautifully, draping over Satoru’s half-lidded, vivid eyes—which irises only seemed to glow brighter now—, the slope of his nose and his freckles that grew a deeper color, more visible from the touch of the sun. His lips were parted only enough that Suguru could see his front teeth, saliva smeared over his mouth that had once dripped over his chin, and his cheeks carried a healthy, saintly red. Suguru ran his thumb over the spit and pressed it against his own lips, whispering a quick prayer, then pushed back Satoru’s bangs that stuck to his forehead with sweat and did a sign of cross over the smooth skin of his forehead. “You’re born anew, Satoru,” he told him secretily, because this was only meant to be kept between themselves and God. No one else had to know, no one else should know, no one else could know because it did not matter if they knew and they would never quite understand. Suguru didn’t say this, but he knew Satoru understood him when he smiled and Suguru saw a peak of his yaeba; he knew because they were one and the same.