The church was almost empty, just the faint smell of wax and old wood and the red glow of the sanctuary lamp, watching like a single unblinking eye. Father Patrick was only thirty one, the youngest priest Saint Agnes had ever ordained. They still whispered about why a man that beautiful had taken vows. Ten years ago. He'd been just Patrick, the kind of boy who made sorority girls drop their books in the quad. He'd loved one woman with every
reckless beat of his heart. She left him at the altar in front of four hundred guests, veil fluttering behind her like surrender. The humiliation carved something raw inside him. He disappeared into seminary the same week, shaved his head for a while, starved himself on bread and silence until the ache dulled to a bruise he could carry. He thought the collar would protect him. He thought desire had died with that abandoned wedding. Until tonight, eleven seven pm.
The church was cold. The Radiator's long dead Father Patrick knelt in the confessional, rosary wrapped tight around his knuckles, rehearsing the Act of contrition under his breath, like armor. Then the other door opened. Bless me, father, for I have sinned. The voice shot straight to his heart. He froze, how long since your last confession? A low laugh, Ha, since before you put on that collar? Patrick. His heart's slammed once, hard enough to crack a rib through the lattice.
He saw only shadow in the glint of a silver chain disappearing into cleavage. But he knew that perfume, He knew that laugh ten years dissolved like incense in water. Say my name, she whispered, Say it like you used to when you begged me not to leave. His throat worked. Then he whispered defensively. This, this is a sacrilege. Sacrilege, she echoed softly, almost tenderly, then let out a shuddering
sigh as her hand moved. Listen, that's the sound of the girl who should have been your wife, touching the place you first claimed. The wet circles grew faster, obscene, in the hush of the church. I ran because I was terrified of how much I needed you. I've been empty for ten years. Fail me again, Patrick, even if it's only with your voice, your forgiveness. I'm on my knees, pleading, ruin your vows for me, I'm yours. He listened attentively. He could hear the fabric of her dress shifting and
a soft, deliberate sigh. Then she whispered back, I'm touching myself right now, Patrick, ride here in your sacred little box. Do you want to hear how wet confessing to you makes me? He should have rung the bell for the Sacristan, should have fled into the night instead, his forehead pressed to the wood partition as if he could reach through it. I left because I was weak, he rasped, controlling his voice, still whispering. I swore i'd never you swore a lot
of things. She cut in gently, by your body, never lied to me. Then Patrick heard a slick sound, slow, filthy circles. His eyes widened, staring hard through the lattice, unsure what he might see. She continued, her voice cracking with something deeper than lust, regret, raw and aching Patrick. I made a mistake, the biggest mistake of my life, leaving you that day. I was scared, stupid, running from something too real. I'm so sorry, God, I'm so sorry.
The words hung in the dark, mingling with the wet rhythm of her fingers, plunging deeper faster now, as if punishing herself with pleasure. I want you back, she begged, voice trembling on the edge of tears and ecstasy. I never stopped wanting you. No one else ever came close. Please forgive me, take me back. I'm yours, Patrick always was. I'm fingering myself thinking of you, begging you like this
because I can't live without you any more. Her please turned desperate, hips grinding against her hand, the slick sounds growing louder, obscene. In the holy silence, she continued begging him, desperately, trying to seduce him. Remember the night before our weddin, we took each other's virginity. You fucked me in the bridle, sweet Patrick, Remember against the mirror so I could watch you lose control. His cock surged so fast it hurt, Trapped beneath layers of black wool and guilt. He bit
down on his fist to keep from groaning. Tell me to stop, she breathed, and I will or tell me to keep going until I come screaming the name of the man who should have been my husband. His hand moved without permission, fumbling buttons, shoving fabric aside. When he wrapped trembling fingers around himself, it felt like the first mortal sin he'd ever truly wanted describe it. He heard himself beg the same broken voice that had pleaded with
her not to leave him a decade ago. I have three fingers inside me now, she whimpered, voice shaking with pleasure and sorrow, stretching myself the way you used to. I'm dripping down my thighs onto your pretty velvet kneeler when I come. I want you to come with me. I want you to ruin those perfect vows the same way you ruined me for any other man. Please, Patrick, come back to me. He stroked himself in frantic silence. Every pump a betrayal, every breath of prayer turned inside out.
The lattice rattled faintly. He realized he was thrusting against it like an animal. I'm close, she whimpered, Patrick, look at me, forgive me, love me again, against every shred of sanity. He leaned closer to the screen. The dim red glow painted his face in blood light, and there she was, her eyes, those same, lost, desperate eyes staring back at him, repentant. The silence stretched, why now, after all this time? But the answer was already burning in
those eyes. Come for me, father, she ordered through her begging. Come while you damn your soul and take me back. He broke with a strangled cry, spilling hot over his fist, his cassock, the confessional floor, ten years of penance dissolving in ropes of white. On her side. She arched thighs, trembling, a low keen tearing from her throat as she followed him over silence, only the wet sound of their breathing
and the slow drip of what they'd done. Her voice drifted through the lattice, soft and loving, almost a prayer. I'll keep coming back every Saturday on my knees until you absolve me, my love, until you come back to me. The door closed, heels faded down the aisle. Father Patrick stayed on his knees until dawn, sticky and shaking, the scent of her perfume and spit and sin thick in the air. He did not rise to say mattens. He did not wash, He did not pray for strength or
deliverance or the grace to resist. Instead, he pressed his forehead to the cold lattice one last time, breathing in the fading trace of her spent desire, and whispered into the empty confessional the only prayer left to him, Come back to me, ruin me again. Then he stood, legs trembling, and walked to the sacristy door. He left it unlocked. He no longer feared damnation. He craved her absolution, and she always came.