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Every scratch of Father McKinsey's pen on paper seems to drag across his skin, digging in painfully. The noise is all that fills his head. He can almost see the smooth, looping letters of the older man's handwriting. Each new loop, dash, and period is another step closer to Father McKinsey getting up from his desk, sitting next to Nathaniel on the couch, and his will being tested. He will fall to temptation, to sin, and Nathaniel will spend tomorrow evening paying atonement for it.
He hasn't finished his penance for this evening. His composition notebook sits open on his lap. Father McKinsey wrote a verse and line at the top of the page that Nathaniel was to copy fifty times. He's just over halfway through and he needs to be much nearer to done than he is now. It's just so hard for him to focus.
'So submit yourselves to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Draw near to God, and he will draw near to you. Cleanse your hands, you sinners, and purify your hearts, you of two minds. -James 4: 7-8'
I am a sinner. I must cleanse my hands, purify my heart, and draw near to God.
Over, and over, and over. His hand still aches from yesterday, and the day before. He thinks he must be so very far from God. There isn't any way for him to draw nearer to God, not when he's like this. How can a filthy sinner like him get nearer to God?
The scratching stops, and Nathaniel struggles to pull in his next breath. He doesn't look up from his notebook, his pencil gripped so tightly he's worried he might break it. Nathaniel half hopes that if he just doesn't look up at him, then Father McKinsey will leave him alone. He starts the next line in his notebook, his hand shaking as he traces out the letters of the verse. S-o s-u-b-m-i-t y-o-u-r-s-e-
"Have you finished your lines, Nate?" The question shouldn't catch him off gaurd, but Nathaniel still jolts where he sits, his heartrate spiking in his chest. He needs to respond to Father McKinsey, but his mouth feels glued shut. "Is that a no?" The chair behind his desk scrapes against the floor as he pushes back and stands. Nathaniel still doesn't look, focusing on the wobbly letters he's written until a pair of black dress pants invades his view. He doesn't attempt to hold onto notebook as Father McKinsey takes it from his hands.
"I'm sorry," he whispers to his knees, watching the knuckles on his left hand go white around the pencil. The man sighs softly above him and Nathaniel flinches. He tries to stay calm as the Father sits down, the cushions dipping slightly as he does. He sets his thick hand on Nathaniel's knee, dwarfing it in comparison.
"Thirty-five isn't too terrible. Why don't you go ahead and finish this last one for me, please?" He holds the notebook back out to Nathaniel. The sickly sweet voice he uses gives Nathaniel no comfort. Thirty-five is not fifty. He has not done enough. He has to write very slowly for the letters to be legible and all the while he can feel Father McKinsey watching him. C-l-e-a-n-s-e y-o-u-r h-a-n-d-s, y-o-u s-i-n-n-e-r-s.
Nathaniel can't help but wonder what his hands will be doing once they've finished this line. What will Father McKinsey's hands do? What filth, what affront upon God will happen here on this couch? Under the watchful gaze of the portrait of Jesus Christ above the crackling fireplace, what sins will Nathaniel make the Father commit? And how could he stop it if he really wanted to?
He won't look to Jesus Christ for answers, he won't call for the Holy Spirit. God does not draw near to him. He is a filthy sinner, damned for all that he has brought upon Father McKinsey. He finishes the line with the command that he must cleanse his hands, purify his heart, and draw nearer to God, but as the notebook slides off of his lap, and Father McKinsey takes the pencil from his hand he couldn't feel further from the Lord.
"This is good work, Nate, but you know I expect better." There's that big hand on his knee again, making him feel oh-so small. "Sometimes I worry for you, son. You just can't help yourself, can you?" He just can't help himself. Father McKinsey has said it before, and he keeps tempting the man, so there must be something sick inside Nathaniel that keeps him acting this way. "Draw near to God, and he will draw near to you. Cleanse your hands…" He doesn't finish the verse, his words trailing off as he picks one of Nathaniel's hands up.
His thumb crosses over the width of Nathaniel's hand and he strokes a soft little arc against the skin there. They haven't even really conversed yet, Nathaniel has barely spoken to the Father, and yet the man is losing sight of the Word just by Nathaniel being near him.
Father McKinsey tugs on his hand and suddenly their lips are crashing together. He always feels lost when they kiss, overwhelmed by the Father's beard against the skin of his face, and the soft, wet push of the man's tongue into his mouth. He hasn't even said anything, he hasn't done anything, yet he's tempted a holy man into sin. No matter how many lines he writes, no matter how many Hail Mary's he does, he will always be a wretched sinner. An evil thing that drags Father McKinsey to depths of sin that the Father will be lucky to escape when he is rid of Nathaniel forever.
His hand slides up Father McKinsey's thigh to rest on the bulge in his pants with such a familar motion that he hardly even notices the way the older man's grip on his wrist doesn't loosen until he's touching his bulge.
"We shouldn't," Father McKinsey gasps, breaking the kiss suddenly. Nathaniel tries to pull his hand away, acquiescing to his words, but the Father stops him. He keeps Nathaniel's hand on him. He feels the way Father McKinsey's member begins to harden in his slacks and Nathaniel knows this won't end until the Father has spent himself and kneels to pray for forgiveness. He wants it to be over and the quicker he can make Father McKinsey get to that point, the better.
So, despite himself, Nathaniel squeezes. The light pressure makes Father McKinsey groan and his eyes flutter shut, so he does it again. He's never been able to make the Father avoid temptation, so he will try to hurry through. What does the Bible say? Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death… Once again, he must walk alone, but he's done it before, so he can do it again.
Using his mouth is not his favorite option, but it puts his lower half out of Father McKinsey's reach. Nathaniel slips off the couch and to the floor. He turns away from the portrait Jesus Christ as he settles between the Father's legs. He doesn't need to feel the judgement he knows is on the Lord's face as he witnesses the sins Nathaniel is about to commit, the sins he is about to make Father McKinsey commit. He squeezes and squeezes, hoping that each motion pushes the Father closer to that finish line.
Some small part of him regrets choosing this option, knowing the foul taste about to be on his tongue as he undoes Father McKinsey's belt, but he'll take that over the horribly awkward and borderline painful feeling of Father McKinsey's fingers inside him.
"Nate…" Father McKinsey whispers, "Son, you- you shouldn't-" He cuts himself off with a groan, shifting his hips forward on the couch, giving Nathaniel easier access as he unbuttons his pants and works on getting his penis out. He doesn't grimace at the sight of the older man's private parts anymore, he's seen it too many times for the thing to be a surprise. It's bigger than Nathaniel's, but he's only eleven. It's thin enough to wrap his hand around, but he's yet to be able to fit the length of it down his throat. That's something Father McKinsey seems to want him to be able to do, always telling him to go deeper, pushing on his head to try and encourage it.
He swallows hard before leaning forward, trying to prepare himself for the task ahead. The taste is as unpleasant as it always is, but it's just another thing he's used to at this point. Father McKinsey is groaning softly as he winds his fingers into Nathaniel's hair. It makes something coil tight in his stomach, not the forced pleasure the Father sometimes wrings out of him, but something more dire. Something that scratches at his insides. He tries to focus on breathing in through his nose as he sinks further down on Father McKinsey's penis.
He wishes he were anywhere but here. There are grunts and groans and moans that Nathaniel takes a positive signs from the Father. He does every little trick he's been taught; he twists one hand at the base of the member and brings his other hand up to Father McKinsey's testicles to squeeze them lightly like the man likes.
"Oh, Nate…" Father McKinsey moans his name like he's anything other than a filthy sinner who will burn in the pits of hell for this. It makes him feel something he can't explain, this white hot thing at the center of his chest like a firework that hasn't gone off yet. All he can do is hold onto it and hope he doesn't hurt anyone else with his explosion. He tries to turn his brain off for this, to not have to think about what's happening. In his mind he's in his bed, curled up and drifting off to sleep, listening to Matthew snore up a storm. That annoying and ever present rumble that he can't sleep without now, after a year of rooming with him.
His stomach drops, feeling Father McKinsey's other hand card through his hair. Now he's got both hands on his head. He tries with all his might to stay calm, but he can't help but fear the Father pushing him down before he's ready. Nathaniel rushes his process, pushing the thing in his mouth further in, sinking down more. He must, he can't let Father McKinsey take control. He makes an easy rhythm of it, up and down, just as easy as breathing. It isn't, but maybe if he pretends it is, then at some point it will be. Every time he pushes himself to go deeper, to take more. Maybe if he can push all the way down it'll make this take less time.
Maybe his throat feels better than his mouth.
"Ah, Nate…" The hands in his hair tighten and fear speeds his movement. He picks up his pace, pressing down as hard as he can. Again, and again, and again, and again. He grips Father McKinsey's thigh with one hand, getting out of his own way, digging his fingers into the man's slacks. As he gets closer to getting Father McKinsey's penis all the way into his mouth, his nose begins to brush against the man's pubic hair. It itches his nose unpleasantly every time he sinks down close enough. His brow draws together and he tries to steel himself against the feeling, against the taste, against this entire experience.
He just can't help himself. It's what Father McKinsey says. He is a filthy sinner, impure, foul, and wretched. Nathaniel will never be close to God, for what could He want with a sinner like him? He just can't help himself, can he? Can he? Here he is, on his knees for Father McKinsey, when he should be on his knees praying to his heavenly Father. All he can think about anytime he's in Father McKinsey's office is how the Father will touch him, how he'll be asked to touch, the immoral sins he'll tempt the Father into commiting. He can never focus on the pennance he is meant to do, the shame he should feel, or his relationship with the Lord. All he thinks about is Father McKinsey.
"Hnn! Nate!"
It's Father McKinsey's noise of surprise that gets Nathaniel to realize he's pressed all the way down, nose nestled in itchy hair. A faithful follower of Lord our God? How can he be when he has a priest's cock all the way in his mouth?
He can't pull up from there, strong hands hold him down, and Nathaniel begins to panic. He can't breathe and Father McKinsey won't let him up. He needs to breathe! Nathaniel struggles against the man's hold on him, making a noise he's never heard himself make before. Finally, he's let up and he pulls all the way off, gasping for air. He struggles for a moment, coughing as he tries to get himself under control. His throat still feels like it's so full that he can't seem to pull in a big breath. Nathaniel blinks hard, sending tears streaking down his cheeks.
"I'm sorry," Father McKinsey whispers softly, leaning in close to him. One of the hands that held him down now cups his cheek and the Father presses their foreheads together. "I'm sorry, son. I lost myself. You know how I get around you. You know what you do to me. I lost control."
"I couldn't breathe." Nathaniel sounds whiney and petulant, even to himself, but it's true. He still struggles to draw in air.
"I know, I’m sorry. It was all the way in, I couldn't- You felt so amazing. I couldn't focus on anything else." Father McKinsey presses a kiss to the side of his mouth and Nathaniel turns from it, worried that another full kiss is coming. He can't help the frown that pulls down the corners of his mouth. Then he's sniffling, tears prickling in his eyes.
Nathaniel blinks heavily and whispers, "Please… don't push me down. I can- I can do it." He's been putting Father McKinsey's penis his mouth long enough to know how to pleasure him, to know how to bring the man to the finish line. He can take it all the way in now, he doesn't need to be forced. He can't help himself, right?
"Alright, I won't. I promise." Father McKinsey pulls his face back toward him and despite Nathaniel's hesitancy they're kissing. He feels Jesus Christ's eyes boring into the side of his head, disgust hiding in the frown that tugs his lips down. There's no way he can ask forgiveness. No atonement that will wash his sins clean. Nathaniel is a sinner, he is impure, unclean, and he is going to burn in the pits of Hell for what he does to Father McKinsey. Something soft and wet slips between his lips so Nathaniel makes a squeaky little noise.
It's not often he and Father McKinsey kiss, even less often that the man's tongue ends up in his mouth. Nathaniel would honestly rather have Father McKinsey's penis in his mouth. His tongue slides all around, against his teeth, the roof of his mouth. It feels like he's being explored. Sometimes he worries that Father McKinsey will slide his tongue under his skin and all across his body, finding the sickness in him that damns him to Hell. He's already bringing such shame and sin onto Father McKinsey, it would be disastrous for the Father to stumble upon that evil. Nathaniel doesn't want him to be damned the way he is, so he pulls back to break the kiss. That sort of thing doesn't get the Father closer to the finish line anyway. It really feels like a waste of time, on top of everything else.
"You promise?"
"I promise." The word of a priest should be his bond right? What's that verse? Let us hold unwaveringly to our confession that gives us hope, for he who made the promise is trustworthy. Nathaniel wishes that those words made him feel better. He can't take comfort the way he's supposed to in the word of the Lord. He can't take comfort in prayer. He can't take comfort in his heavenly Father. All he can do is take Father McKinsey's penis back into his mouth.
Nathaniel's hand shakes again as he wraps it back around Father McKinsey. He knows what to do. He does. He struggles to keep his eyes on the goal. They dart around to look at anything but what he's holding, the flames that flicker in the fireplace, the worn patches o the couch cushions. The feeling of it, warm and heavy is almost worse without the sight of it, but he struggles to look. He must look. He knows the taste is going to be no better the second time going in, but hopefully this will be over soon. He's already climbing into bed in his mind.
Turning his head toward the Father makes it difficult to breathe in, but he knows he just has to push through. So, Nathaniel makes himself lean closer, even if he feels like a rabbit edging toward a trap.
Going down on the penis makes his heart slam against his ribcage. Nathaniel swears he can hear it pounding on bone, a rapid thump thump thump that's accompanied by something rushing in his ears. It seems he's already forgotten how to go all the way down. The tears come back, so he slams his eyes shut. It's okay because he knows how to get Father McKinsey to finish without taking the whole thing in. He's done it lots before. Nathaniel brings his left hand back up to the man's testicles to squeeze. Just like he was taught. He knows what to do because he does it all the time. He just can't help himself, right?
The fireplace crackles. Father McKinsey groans softly. A clock ticks on the far wall. But all Nathaniel can hear is his own whimpery little breaths. He huffs and puffs, shaky noises pushed through his nose, trying so desperately not to choke. His skin crawls at his own pathetic little display. He wants to stop feeling this way, to stop being this way. Father McKinsey says he just can't help himself. It's true, he knows it's true. Look at him, here on his knees, defiling a servant of the Lord. He's sick, he's a sinner.
He would stop if he could.
But he knows he will spend so many nights here. He will tempt Father McKinsey and cause a holy man to break his sacred vow of chastity. This is just how things are, no matter how much it makes Nathaniel want to scream. He stifles a sob, knowing he'll choke if he starts crying. He just has to make it to the end and by the sounds Father McKinsey is making they're almost there.
"Ah, Nate. Oh! Yes, I-" He cuts himself off with a grunt, setting a hand on Nathaniel's shoulder. He promised. Nathaniel squeezes his eyes tight, speeding up, desperate for this to be over.
The Father's hand digs into his shoulder so Nathaniel isn't caught off guard by the rush of semen that flows into his mouth. With relief and practiced ease he swallows it down, ridding himself of the foul taste and texture. He longs for his comforter to be wrapped tight around his body.
"Oh- oh, my," Father McKinsey gasps. "You… You can go, son. I must pray."
Nathaniel stands on wobbly legs and darts out of the priest's office. He doesn't look where he's going, running on instinct. The halls of the school blur in his vision. He keeps going, trying to find somewhere he doesn't feel the burning gaze of the Lord his God.
He's in the cloisters before he even realizes, fresh air filling lungs that gasp wildly. Nathaniel stumbles toward the courtyard. It's empty. Everyone else has gone to bed. Some insects buzz gently, but otherwise the night is quiet. He falls to his knees at the base of the tree in the center and tries to catch his breath, wishing he could wash the lingering taste in his mouth.
He is a filthy sinner, impure, foul, and wretched. He is damned to Hell. There is no grace of God for a sinner like him.
But he has to try. It's all he can do.
Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. 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. Amen.