Page 17 of Always Alchemy

‘The act of physical love isn’t a sin, if it’s enjoyed within the sacrament of marriage,’ he tells me carefully.

‘I’m not married,’ I lie. ‘And my fantasies aren’t about being with one man. They’re about being with multiple men at the same time, and having all of them use my body however they want.’

‘Dear God,’ he mutters. He wipes a hand over his face. ‘That is a mortal sin indeed. And tell me, have you ever acted on these wicked fantasies?’

‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘Plenty of times.’

There’s a pregnant silence. My nipples harden, brushing against the soft silk of my dress. My breasts feel full and heavy.

‘Do you allow these men to profane your body?’ the priest asks eventually.

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Tell me what you let them do to you.’

There’s a movement through the fretwork. I could swear he’s reaching down and touching himself.

‘I let them do whatever they want with me. I let them strip me naked, and lay me down on a bed, and tie me up if they like, and touch me however they want.

‘I let them pull and suck on my nipples, and lick my pussy, and slide their fingers inside me. And I let them come on me and put their dicks in my mouth, and I allow them to fuck me however they want.’

I stare at his profile as I answer. I can see enough to know his gorgeous jaw is clenched, his eyes squeezed closed. His lips begin to move silently, although whether he’s seeking salvation for the sinner across from him or for strength for himself is unclear.

That arm of his is still moving, and then there’s the unmistakable sound of a zip being pulled down, and God.

I’ve made this priest hard.

I’ve made him want to touch himself.

My words have crept through the barriers of the fretwork and his protective layer of priestly garb, right through to the core of him. The core that makes him a man, that no amount of kneeling and praying and beseeching and shuffling of rosary beads can erase.

‘How does it make you feel when they do these things to you?’ he grits out. ‘Do you feel contrition for your sins? Are you here to repent?’

‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘I feel the shame of it, but it’s… it’s glorious. It makes everything brighter. Sharper. I know how sinful it is, but I don’t want to stop.’

On the other side of the screen, fabric rustles.

‘Is your body having a sinful reaction right now, just recounting these transgressions?’

‘Yes, Father,’ I murmur, and God knows, it’s the truth.Between my recollections of my darkest, most vital couplings, and the viscerally physical reaction this beautiful man of God is having to me, and his obvious torment, and the womb-like sanctuary this confessional offers, I’m all at once feeling alive and vulnerable and shameless and fatalistic.

As if, by coming to this priest and making my burdens his, I have the breathing space to marvel at my sins and delight in them rather than letting them suffocate me.

The low rasp of his next words breaks my reverie.

‘Show me.’

‘I—what?’ I manage.

For the first time, he permits himself to turn and face me. The shadows in the booth only accentuate the hard, symmetrical planes of his face.

The eyes so full of pupil they’re practically black.

The full lusciousness of his bottom lip as he tugs at it with his teeth.

He’s so beautiful.

‘You just confessed to having a physical reaction to your sins—although not the one God would wish you to have. Your nipples must be hard, no?’

---