Absolution - Father Charlie Mayhew x Reader
warnings: self-discipline, caning, unprotected sex, girl i honestly don’t remember what else tbh those are just the big ones
required listening: Sanctified by Nine Inch Nails; Discipline by Nine Inch Nails
a/n: this is a first draft, so I’ll come back and change any mistakes or errors. I literally haven’t written a fanfic in over a year I think so this was mostly for my own enjoyment, if you happen to also enjoy it — awesome! Also I’m uploading this from mobile so sorry for any formatting errors!
I listened to Father Mayhew’s sermon intently. He spoke with fervor, with energy, that the other priests could never quite grasp. Father Mayhew’s thunderous voice echoed through the chambers, but he could just as easily speak as softly as a whisper. How he managed to hypnotize me with just the way he carried himself was something to be studied.
“Now, let us receive the body and the blood of Christ, our savior,” he called out to his congregation. As his eyes fell upon me, a covert smirk grew on the corner of his lips, acknowledging me with a gentle wink.
I grew flustered, rarely used to being greeted in such a manner by a man so….
Like clockwork, I, along with another nun, stood up from the pew and approached the table of chalices, eucharists, and communion wafers, grabbing the chalice of wine carefully with both of my hands — my palm at the bottom and the other on the stem. Making my way over to the father, I bowed before him and presented to him the blood of Jesus Christ.
Father Mayhew towered over me, like a lion before a lamb. His dark eyes glistened against the glowing haze of the chalice, but his gaze never faltered away from me. His expression was stoic; neither corner of his mouth breaking into a smirk. In my time that I’ve known Father Mayhew, during communion is the only time I’ll ever see him quiet and assertive yet gentle. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one to quiver before him.
He grabbed the chalice from my hand, our fingers brushing against one another, and took a sip of the wine, wiping the rim of the cup with a cloth. A second nun stood next to him with the silver bowl of wafers — the body. He grabbed one, mouthing an “Amen,” before placing it under his tongue. He then turned to me and quietly said, “Sister?”
I stood in front of him, my hands in prayer. Father Mayhew carefully lead the chalice of wine to my mouth. My lips parted slowly as he tilted the cup toward me. I took a small sip, but still, a tiny drop managed to miss my tongue and linger on my bottom lip, ever so slowly making its way toward my chin. Right when I was about to lift my wrist to wipe it away, Father Mayhew beat me to the punch, using the edge of his thumb to wipe away the rogue drop. His warm finger slowly lined the contour of my lip, my stomach jumping at his touch.
I tried so hard to not break our eye contact but I grew so nervous and shy that I had to find security in glancing over to anything else except Father Mayhew’s eyes.
I watched his big hands reach into the bowl for the Eucharist. He held the small, beige wafer in front of my eyes, “The body of Christ.”
I meekly said, “Amen,” looking down at his robe before slowly opening my mouth to receive the body of Christ.
Father Mayhew led his fingers toward my face and carefully tilted my chin upward, forcing me to look right at him as he inserted the body into my mouth, resting it on my tongue. “Amen,” he repeated in a low voice.
I quickly did the sign of the cross and retreated to the pew, lowering the kneeler under the bench in front of me and resting my knees against it. Usually, I’d pray for my family back home — my parents, my grandparents, aunts, cousins, and siblings — but this time I prayed for myself. I was ashamed of the wicked thoughts trickling into my brain. Lord, please wash away the filth harbored in my thoughts and my dreams. I thought the more I tightened my eyelids, the better my prayer would be answered.
After mass, Father Mayhew and I stood by the doors to the church, saying goodbye to the congregation. I politely smiled at every parishioner as they left, shaking the hand of anyone who offered theirs. “Thank you for attending,” I’d occasionally say. I’d also occasionally glance over to Father Mayhew smiling at his parishioners, giving them a strong handshake. Sometimes I’d find he was already looking at me, which triggered my attention to return back to the parishioners.
After everybody had left, I made my way over to the pews to fix any stray bibles that were left on the benches. I’d carefully put them back in the wooden holder, all evenly spaced and evenly counted. Row by row, I took my time, not in any particular hurry.
The sound of echoing footsteps making their way closer and closer made me curious. I looked up and saw Father Mayhew standing at the end of the row, waiting for me to get to the end. There weren’t any stray bibles in that particular row, so I made my way over to him.
“Hello, Father,” I respectfully bowed my head to him, but only ever so slightly. I reserve a full bow only for mass.
He smiled, “Incredible mass, don’t you think, Sister (Y/N)?”
“They’re all incredible,” I replied. “Much more engaging than the ones back home, I’d say.”
The father smiled and glanced down at his red boots before his gaze fell back on me, “That’s right. Today marks two years since you’ve come to California.” He was quiet for a beat, “Are you going to celebrate?”
I stumbled on my words. I actually wasn’t planning to do anything special, except my usual routine. I nervously laughed, “Oh, no,” I shook my head, “It’ll just be another day for me — journaling and such.
He smirked, stepping closer and leaning his mouth toward my ear, “May your journal be blessed by your thoughts, then,” he whispered.
His low, soft voice was like a spark to the gasoline in my body. He stepped back and gave a gentle smile before walking away. I stood there, paralyzed and catching my breath.
Immediately, I abandoned my task and retreated to my room. I rushed through the hallways and through the courtyard, impure thoughts racking my brain the entire way. The moment I reached my room, I closed the door behind me and locked myself in, free to heave in peace.
My mind was in a flurry. I couldn’t stop hearing Father Mayhew whispering to me; I couldn’t stop replaying the moment his fingers brushed mine; and I certainly couldn’t stop replaying the moment he wiped away the wine from my lip.
I must get rid of these thoughts. I must get rid of these thoughts.
The chest in front of my bed stared at me. I walked past it and made my way towards my record player, a vintage wooden box. It was an elaborate thing — one given to me by my mother for my 13th. One would assume I’d have a collection of records to reflect such a setup, however, I was only ever an owner of one 7-inch single, and that one single was a very formative one.
I retrieved the 7-inch from its sleeve and quickly placed it on the platter, carefully hovering the needle over the record and pressing play. Sleep Walk by Santo & Johnny loudly started to play through the speakers, so loud I could barely feel my own heart beat.
I closed my eyes at the sound, already feeling some soothing but not enough. I turned my back and stared at the chest, slowly approaching and kneeling down before it, steadying my breathing. I opened the chest and retrieved something personal wrapped tightly in cloth, unraveling it to reveal my journal, a single pen, and a black rubber exercise band.
I grabbed the hem of my dress and pull it back, placing my thighs through the rubber band and opening my journal to the next blank page. I took a deep breath before I grabbed hold of the pen and began to write, one sentence at a time.
May our lord absolve me of my sins.
As soon as I finished writing the period, I slipped my hand between the skin of my thigh and the band, pulling it away from my leg as far as I could before releasing my grip and letting it loudly snap at my thigh, quietly groaning at the lingering sensation, watching the area of impact turn bright pink before proceeding to write.
How can one lust over a man of the cloth?
Another yank of the band — SNAP.
I have found my path toward faith, yet I am none the wiser.
SNAP.
My love should not be directed toward any man, especially one who stands in His place.
SNAP. The pain was beginning to sting badly, each strike more painful than the last. The pauses between the punishment and writing became longer.
I beg for forgiveness, hoping that God will take this burden from me, that He will cleanse my thoughts.
SNAP.
God, give me strength.
SNAP.
My session of discipline would continue until the record player repeated the single three times before the needle retreated by itself, and by then, my legs would have been in so much pain that I could barely feel them and I would’ve forgotten the impure thoughts.
As the room fell into silence, I heard the quick shuffling of feet outside my door. I quickly placed everything back in its right place and rushed to my door, opening it to find out if anybody was lingering outside. I found the hallway empty, only the wind blowing through the open windows and swaying the sheer curtains around.
I closed my door back up and put away the items back into the chest and turned off the record player, slipping the 7-inch back into its sleeve and resting it on the shelf below.
I lifted my dress to see that I had drawn some dots of blood, all of them along where the rubber band landed in a straight line across both of my thighs.
To further cleanse myself, I grabbed my shower caddy from the cupboard and made my way to the floor’s bathroom.
After my scalding shower, I lingered in the bathroom doing my nightly routine — brushing of the teeth, brushing of the wet hair, applying lotion all over, and putting on my silk slip. I carefully and precisely folded my habit, gathered my items back into their caddy, and walked back toward my room, my hair leaving the occasional drip of water behind on the floor.
When I walked into my room, I was surprised to find Father Mayhew sitting on the chest at the foot of my bed. “Father?” I questioned.
He turned his head and smiled, standing up, “Forgive me, Sister. I didn’t think you’d be getting ready for bed so early in the night.” His gaze into my eyes faltered, slowly falling to look at my slip.
I grew shy, hiding behind my wet towel. I tried to pull down my slip to avoid him noticing my bruised thighs, “No, forgive me. I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”
“No apology necessary,” he spoke softly, his words almost melding together.
I trembled, partly because I was still humid from my shower but also because Father Mayhew was making his way closer to me one slow step at a time. He couldn’t have been making his way any slower. The memory of today’s mass flashed into my mind. It was all torture.
I cleared my throat, pushing away the thoughts, “What can I help you with, Father?”
Father Mayhew was quiet, studying my face. He stepped aside and motioned to the chest, “I’d like for us to talk,” he grabbed the wet towel from my hands, “Please, sit.”
I followed his instruction, awkwardly holding my arms as I walked toward the chest and sat facing him, hugging the bed post next to me.
I watched him close the door and open the towel completely, “I noticed you were somewhat distant in today’s mass — distracted,” and placing it over the back of the wooden desk chair. He turned around and walked toward me, speaking carefully, “Is everything ok?”
His concern seemed genuine; I could see it in the slight furrowing of his brow. Nonetheless, I felt nervous under his eyes, shifting my body on the chest. “Everything’s fine,” I spoke softly, though there was a little tremble in my voice. I had hoped he didn’t catch that.
He nodded slowly, stepping closer again, his eyes never leaving mine. “We all have distractions, Sister,” he said, his voice dropping to that same low, intimate tone he had used earlier in the day.
I swallowed hard, unsure how to respond, so I looked away, unable to meet his gaze any longer. “Forgive me for my behavior,” I mumbled, my hands clutching the bedpost beside me.
He placed his hand under my chin, lifting it so I could look at him, “Everyone’s thoughts stray once in a while, (Y/N),” he spoke gently, “but it’s important that we know where to return our attention,” he smirked, almost… devilishly, dare I say.
His words seemed innocent enough, but the deliberate pace of them combined with the way her stood over me, holding my chin… it left a knot in my stomach that I don’t think will untie itself any time soon.
Father Mayhew stepped back, giving me space, though his presence still filled the room. “Tomorrow, I’d like to assign you a task,” he said, his tone more neutral now, though the subtle shift did nothing to ease my discomfort. “The relics in the sacristy need attention. They haven’t been properly cleaned in some time, and you have the most delicate of touches,” he smirked and flickered his eyes downward for a brief moment, then back up to meet mine. “Maybe a bit of quiet reflection could ease your mind.”
My heart pounded in my chest. I forced a smile, standing slowly, hoping he would take the hint and leave me to sleep, “Of course, Father. I’ll take care of it.”
However, as soon as I stood, I found myself too close to him. I could almost smell the cologne under his chin. I couldn’t have him in my room any longer; all that he did and spoke only made my mind race even more. I glanced around the room, slipping past him and making my way toward the door.
He turned and nodded, that faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth again. “Good.”
I opened the door, holding it open by the doorknob, still nervous.
He walked past me but immediately stopped in the door way, backing up and leaning into my ear, his eyes darker in the dim light of the room. His deep voice sent goosebumps through my everything, “Don’t worry, Sister. You’ll find some of the relics will quell your mind.”
He pulled away and didn’t wait for a response, not that I had one, leaving me in the doorway. I stood there frozen in place, my breath shallow and uneven. His words echoed in my mind, their meaning heavy, yet veiled enough to be explained away. But the lingering sensation of his touch, the way his presence filled the room, was impossible to ignore.
Despite my prayers, which have become almost daily now, it seems the Lord was testing me even more. I closed the door to my room and climbed into bed. The more I tried to brush away the echo of Father Mayhew’s voice in my head, the more I couldn’t fall asleep. I could still feel his warm hand on my chin. The image of his smirk replayed in my mind.
I tossed and turned, facing toward my nightstand. I couldn’t stop thinking about Father Mayhew seeing me in my nightdress. Any woman that hadn’t taken her vows would have wanted him to grab at her right then and there. She would’ve wanted him to move his mouth down to her neck and whisper sweet nothings to her skin. He’d tug at her nightdress, slipping his hand under the silky fabric and…
I couldn’t fight the thought any longer. I turned to the photo of Jesus Christ on my nightstand and whispered, “I’m sorry,” before pulling the photo down and slowly slipping my hand under my nightdress.
I woke up suddenly in the morning, not remembering falling asleep. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows on the walls of my small room. My body felt heavy, as though weighed down by the thoughts and… dreams of the night before. That’s when I realized that my hand was still inside my underwear. I lay there for a moment, my heart pounding as memories of Father Mayhew flooded back into my consciousness—his touch, his words, the way he made me feel. Shame crept in once more, settling like a heavy blanket over me.
I sat up slowly, my body stiff from the tension I had carried through the night. I glanced at the photo of Christ on my nightstand, face down, as if hiding from my guilt. I hesitated before reaching for it, my fingers brushing the edges of the frame.
“Forgive me,” I whispered again, though the words felt hollow.
I washed and dressed quickly, slipping back into the comfort of my habit. As I made my way to the sacristy, where Father Mayhew had assigned me my task, my mind raced with conflicting thoughts. How could I focus on prayer and penance when my heart and body were so thoroughly confused? I had come to this life to serve, to dedicate myself to something higher. But now, everything felt tainted by the desires I was struggling to suppress.
The sacristy was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of incense and old wood. The relics gleamed faintly in the soft light, their golden surfaces covered in a fine layer of dust. I gathered the cloth and cleaning supplies, kneeling before the altar as I began my work.
For a while, the silence brought me peace. I focused on the repetitive motion of wiping the relics clean, letting the rhythm of my hands lull my thoughts into something more manageable. I admired the bead and embroidery of some of the clothing, awed at the craftsmanship.
I finished dusting off the holy clothing, wiped down all the chalices and processional crosses, and tidied the tithe baskets. The only thing left of my task was to organize whatever was in the big wooden armoire at the end of the room.
I approached the dusty armoire curious, having never opened it before. I pulled at the delicate golden handle to find it stubborn like it hadn’t been opened in a long while. With more force, I busted it open, speechless to find a collection of vintage wooden canes all in display.
They were all unique, some skinny, others more ornate, some longer, others shorter. They all had one thing in common, though — they weren’t for walking. They were all too thin to support a person’s weight. These were whipping canes.
My heart raced as I took in the collection of canes. I hesitated, my hand hovering over one of the canes. It was slender, polished, with intricate carvings along the handle. I felt a pull, a strange mixture of fear and fascination. My fingers grazed the cool wood before I quickly pulled my hand back as if burned.
Suddenly, the memory of Father Mayhew’s words from last night surfaced again, “You’ll find some of the relics will quell your mind.” Was this what he had meant?
Something compelled me to reach and hold one in my hands, admiring its quality and design. My knees felt weak.
I heard the distinct sound of familiar footsteps behind me. I froze, my heart skipping a beat. The heavy footsteps were deliberate, echoing through the stone hallways. I wasn’t quick enough to place the cane back in its rightful position before Father Mayhew entered the sacristy.
“Sister,” Father Mayhew’s voice called out softly, calm yet commanding, “What did you find?”
I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breath, “I managed to get the armoire open.”
He slowly approached me, the sound of his footsteps louder with each step. Finally, he stood behind me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his body. “Yes, it’s very old,” he chuckled quietly, “We have no use for them, so they might’ve collected some dust.” He grabbed the one I had from my hands, dragging his fingers across its length, smacking it against his open palm, “Intricately made, aren’t they?”
I gulped at the sight of him whipping his own hand. It was like an image straight from one of my dreams. “Very,” I spoke quietly.
Father Mayhew’s gaze lingered on me as he twirled the cane slowly between his fingers, the air thick with unspoken words.
“Do you like it?” He asked, quickly glancing down at my lips.
“Yes, it’s very beautiful,” I answered, staring at his fingers play with the cane.
He smiled, “Why don’t you keep it?” I stood frozen. I wasn’t sure what to say, but that was fine because Father Mayhew opened my hands with his and placed the cane on my palms. “You’ll find a use for it.”
His words seemed to pierce through the quiet of the sacristy, stirring something deep within me that I had been trying so hard to bury. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. I just stood there, my fingers trembling as I clasped the cane in my hands.
His eyes held mine for a long moment before glancing down at the cane in my hand. I felt trapped—by him, by my own thoughts, by the confusion swirling in my chest.
“I—” I started, but the words failed me. What could I say? That I already have my own device for self discipline?
Father Mayhew smiled faintly, an unreadable expression crossing his face. He closed the doors of the armoire. Then, turning toward me, he placed a hand on my shoulder, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of my habit.
“There is no shame in needing guidance,” he whispered, his voice soft yet carrying an undeniable authority.
I couldn’t look at him, my head bowed as I tried to steady my breath. His hand remained on my shoulder for a moment longer. Then, just as suddenly, he stepped back.
“My door is always open if you need it — guidance.” With that, he turned and walked out of the sacristy, his footsteps fading into the distance, leaving me standing alone amidst the relics and the whispers of my thoughts.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my body trembling as I looked back at the closed armoire. The sight of the canes was still burned in my mind, as was Father Mayhew’s touch, his words, his presence.
That night, I kneeled before the chest in my room, Sleep Walk already playing. However, this time I didn’t feel ready to use the cane Father Mayhew had given me. It didn’t feel like it was mine yet; it still felt like it was his and his to use only.
I stood up and stopped the record player, walking over to my armoire and grabbing my shower caddy and nightdress.
had been so caught up in my thoughts that I didn’t realize a week had gone by. I spent nights restless, regretfully touching myself to the thought of Father Mayhew during some of those nights. I made sure to punish myself after, though, I still hadn’t found the strength to use the cane.
That restlessness continued during mass. I wasn’t paying attention, which I hope didn’t offend Fagher Mayhew, as I usually am the most attentive in all the masses, but I just couldn’t face him. I sat on top of my hands and stared down at my thighs, thinking maybe if I could just slip away and do a quick routine of self discipline that my mind might clear. But I fear the moment I walk into my room and see the cane on top of the chest that I might freeze again.
The image of Father Mayhew holding the cane in his hand — it was simply too much for my mind. It was driving me crazy.
Father Mayhew had to call on me twice before I realized it was time for communion. I snapped my head up at the mention of my name leaving his mouth. He looked at me confusedly, his brows furrowed before discreetly pointing at the chalice. I was like a deer in headlights, however, some autopilot kicked in and I followed his order.
I grabbed the chalice and scurried over to him, bowing down and presenting him the blood of Christ. He seemed irritated at my lack of focus, his brow still furrowed as he took a sip from the chalice and wiped the print of his lip with a handkerchief. “Amen,” he quietly whispered as he grabbed a wafer from the nun next to him and placed it on his tongue.
He then turned me to me, any gentleness in his eyes that he had currently wasn’t present. He grabbed the chalice, holding it in front of me. “The blood of Christ,” he spoke.
I nodded my head and lead my lips to the cup. He tilted it toward me, and I only expected to take a sip but he tilted it further. I was caught off guard, almost coughing at the bittersweet taste. He retreated the chalice and wiped my lips for me before grabbing a wafer and holding it in front of me. “The body of Christ,” he whispered.
I gazed into his eyes, “Amen,” I quickly whispered.
I opened my mouth slowly and watched him hold my chin as he lead his other hand with the wafer into my mouth. He gently placed the wafer over my tongue and closed my mouth for me, smiling.
After mass, I was sure to keep my distance from Father Mayhew. I didn’t join him in sending off the parishioners by the door, choosing instead to help fix the bibles. I went row by row, as usual, until the very last parishioner left. I heard Father Mayhew’s steps grow closer, more assertive, until he reached me.
I slowly looked up at him, scared to meet his eye. Before he could even open his mouth, though, I spoke. “Father, I’m sorry for not being as present today,” I stumbled, “I didn’t mean to embarrass you during your sermon. It’s just…” my eyes flickered down, “the distractions seem to be more unavoidable this day.”
He was quiet for a beat, “Then, I guess we’ll just have to clear that mind of yours,” he spoke assertively. “Meet me in my room in an hour.” He turned to walk away, but he stopped himself, looking away from me as he spoke, “and bring the cane.” He continued walking, his robe floating in the air.
I watched him walk, gulping the knot in my throat away. I stood frozen, the weight of Father Mayhew’s words pressing down on me like a sledgehammer. My thoughts began to spiral into a mess, my breath hitching as the reality of his request settled over me.
An hour.
I made my way to my room, locking myself in and kneeling in front of the chest, rocking back and forth as I prayed, prayed for an entire hour. Though, I could feel my words didn’t have the same weight to them.
The cane taunted me, ominous. I knew what Father Mayhew was asking of me. The church doesn’t allow such… discipline anymore. It’s antiquated, so they say. However, I find my routine calms me — the repeated snaps of the band against my skin, being able to physically see my punishment instead of just reciting so many Hail Marys or Our Fathers as they direct in confessionals.
The thought of Father Mayhew being at the other end of that discipline… it sent shivers throughout my spine; it made my stomach tighten, and it made me want to squeeze my thighs together and… no. I shouldn’t be thinking that. However, I couldn’t deny that a part of me was waiting for the hour to pass by as fast as possible.
I glanced at the clock. In fact, time did pass by quickly.
My hands trembled as I stood up and towered over the chest, my eyes locked on the cane as I reached for it. As soon as I held it in my hands, I could feel the weight of Father Mayhew’s hands on the other end. How could something so light feel so heavy?
For a moment, I considered not going. I considered staying in my room, hiding away, but deep down, I knew that wouldn’t solve anything. In fact, I think it would make Father Mayhew even more irritated with me.
And so, I gathered my composure and made my way toward Father Mayhew’s room, which was on the second floor, gripping the cane so tightly that I might’ve been strong enough to snap it in half.
As I approached the stairwell, to Father Mayhew’s floor, I could feel my heart beating out of my chest. Each step I took echoed through the space, the sound of my own footsteps unnerving me. The hallway leading to his room was dimly lit, only the evening sun flickering through the trees outside the window. The closer I got to his room, the more I wanted to run back to mine.
When I reached his door, I hesitated, my hand hovering over the wood, but the thought of his voice, the warmth of his hand, pulled me forward. I knocked softly.
“Come in,” came his voice, low and smooth.
The door creaked as I pushed it open. Father Mayhew stood by the small alter in front of his window, facing out into nature in nothing but his black pants and red boots. I was frozen in the doorway.
His body was intimidating. Not to idolize a human, but his big, sculpted biceps made him look like a god. What mostly caught my eye were the stitched scars adorning his back like a collage, some old, some new. I had never seen them before. Somehow, they made him seem more endearing to me.
He didn’t turn when I entered, his hands tightly clasped behind his back, though I could feel the shift in the air. The tension was palpable.
“Would you mind closing the door?” he asked quietly, finally turning to face me. His eyes were unreadable, dark in the candlelit room.
I swallowed, nodding as I stepped further into the room, closing the door softly behind me. The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken words. I hid the cane behind my back, hoping he’d somehow forget what he asked me here for, though I knew that was impossible for him to do.
Father Mayhew walked toward me, his movements slow, deliberate. He stopped just in front of me, our bodies so close that I could smell the eucalyptus body wash coming off his bare shoulders, still damp from a shower.
His gaze was intense as his eyes trailed down from my eyes, to my lips, to my chest, then to my hands. He saw I was hiding them behind my back, so he slowly reached out to my arm, tracing his fingers down to what I was holding — the cane.
He wrapped his hand around mine; I exhaled at his touch, which was warm and dominant. He slipped the cane away from my hands and looked down at me. “I trust you know why I asked you to bring it,” he spoke quietly.
I gulped, nodding my head. He stepped away, giving me room to catch my breath. He held the cane lightly, his gaze never leaving mine as he paced slowly around me, the sound of his steps echoing in the small room. I felt vulnerable in his presence. Again, I was the lamb and he was the lion.
“There’s something sacred about discipline,” he said, his voice soft yet authoritative. “It cleanses the soul, purifies the mind. But it’s not just physical. It’s spiritual.” He stopped behind me, the cane brushing lightly down my entire spine, an intense tickle that made me tremble. “Do you understand, Sister?”
I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing, but the sensation of the cane against my back made it difficult to focus. I nodded again, “Completely,” I whispered.
“Good.” His voice was gentle now, almost tender, though the intensity of the moment remained.
He circled around me once more, finally coming to a stop in front of me. He lifted the cane, dragging it lightly up against my stocking, lifting a bit of my habit. His eyes perked up when he saw the bruises along my thigh. “I see you’ve already begun your penance.”
There was something about the way he seemed to relish in the discovery, something that made me feel both exposed and understood.
“Tell me, Sister, how do you discipline yourself?” He questioned. His words hung in the air, heavy and deliberate.
I didn’t know how to answer him. Every bruise on my skin had been an attempt to atone for the thoughts, the feelings I couldn’t control. But now, standing here with him, I wasn’t sure if they had absolved me or if they had only deepened the shame.
“A rubber band,” I meekly answered. I don’t know what it was that I simply couldn’t ignore his questions. I had to tell him, like I wanted his validation.
He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to lift my chin so that I had no choice but to meet his gaze. “Do you find that the discipline eases your mind?”
“For a moment,” I mumbled.
He stepped back, waving the cane around as he talked, “Until you have to discipline yourself again.”
I nodded my head. He did understand me. How could he not? Clearly, he also does his own penance. He absolutely understands what it is to feel like your mind is betraying you.
He exhaled a deep sigh, choosing his words carefully and he gazed at the tip of the cane, almost mesmerized. “Perhaps,” he murmured, “what you need isn’t more discipline, but someone to help your mind find its way back. Like I told you before, my door is always open for guidance.”
His words stirred something deep within me, a mixture of fire and fear. I wanted to believe him, to believe that he could somehow lead me back to the light. But the way he touched me, the way he looked at me—it felt anything but pure.
“Father Mayhew,” I whispered, barely able to speak.
He caught my nervousness and softened his expression, “We’re here to guide each other, (Y/N).” He walked toward his altar and moved his kneeler to the foot of his bed.
I watched his bare muscles flex as he carried the heavy object, setting it down as gently as possible. He grabbed the Bible beside the window and reached out for me to grab it, patiently waiting. I sheepishly reached out for it and looked down at the leather-bound book, admiring its softness.
He pointed to the kneeler with the end of the cane, “Kneel.”
Carefully, I clutched the Bible in my hands and approached the kneeler, slowly lowering myself onto it and placing the Bible down in front of me. My feeling of nervousness shot up a billion times higher the moment Father Mayhew wasn’t in my line of sight anymore. I could feel him loom over my shoulder, the cane in view of my peripheral.
“Open it to 1 Corinthians chapter 10 verse 13,” he commanded, but not unkindly.
My breath caught in my throat at his request, and for a moment, I hesitated. But something in the quiet power of his presence, compelled me to obey. I flipped the book open, dragging my fingernail along the thin pages, skimming through until I found the passage.
“Read it,” he spoke, his voice unfaltering.
I swallowed, steadying my breath, and began to read aloud, my voice soft and trembling. “No temptation has overtaken you,” my entire body shivered as Father Mayhew dragged the tip of the cane along my spine, lifting my habit and fisting the excess cloth with his large hand. I closed my eyes at the feeling of both the cold air caressing my behind and the fact that I knew Father Mayhew was looking at my choice of underwear — a lacy black pair attached to my stockings, “except what is common to mankind.”
As soon as I was about to continue reading, I felt the cane whip against my butt, a nice, cold sting across both cheeks. I breathily yelped, not expecting him to cane me mid passage reading.
The feeling, the sting… it was thrilling, much better than the sting I receive from my rubber band. Though, I’m not sure if what I’m feeling is from having Father Mayhew be the one to punish me. Yes, it hurt, but it wasn’t painful. It was just right; it was perfect.
I looked back at him, half intimidated, but mostly to see what expression he had on his face. He had closed his eyes, clenching his jaw, breathing heavily. He rested his hand on my shoulder, rubbing the edge of his thumb back and forth, soothing himself. He opened his eyes, locking his gaze to mine, “Continue.”
I turned back to face the open Bible, picking up where I left off, “And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear.”
The high pitched thwip of the cane cutting the air gave me a split second to brace for its impact. I groaned and clutched the edge of the kneeler, breathing heavily. Father Mayhew was also breathing heavily; I could feel his warm breath barely reach the edge of my ear. Lord, forgive me for thinking that I don’t want it to end.
“Continue,” he ordered.
I prepared myself to finish the final line in the passage, clearing my throat, “But when you are tempted…” I paused for a second, composing myself, “he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.”
THWIP.
The last whip stung the most. I whimpered out through my teeth, feeling Father Mayhew’s hand tighten around my shoulder. While resting my cheek to his hand, I reached for his fingers with mine, slowly weaving my fingers between his. He traced his hand along my neck, composing himself. How I wished his touch had lingered a little longer.
The silence that followed felt thick, as though the air between us had grown heavier. Father Mayhew stepped toward the alter and gently placed the cane across the table. With his back to me, I watched it rise and fall slowly as he breathed, collecting his thoughts. The faint glow of candlelight cast shadows across his body, giving him an almost ethereal presence. I stayed kneeling, gripping the edge of the Bible, unsure of what was expected of me next.
“Did our session… satisfy you?” he asked quietly, his voice laced with something deeper than mere authority.
It was a question with layers, one I knew exactly how to answer. My cheeks flushed with heat, I spoke, “Yes, Father.” It was the most honest answer I could give.
Father Mayhew turned toward me then, his eyes softer, though still unreadable. He approached slowly and knelt beside me, his closeness once again sending that familiar shiver up my spine. His hand reached out to rest on the Bible beside my hand, his fingers brushing ever so slightly against the edge of my palm. He held my gaze, and for a brief moment, I saw something vulnerable in his eyes, something that made my chest tighten.
Father Mayhew’s hand tightened on the Bible, his knuckles white. He stood abruptly, turning away from me as if he needed to regain control. His sudden distance left me feeling exposed, as though the air between us had shifted once more, but this time, it felt cold.
“You’re dismissed,” he said, his tone clipped, though I could hear the strain in his voice. “Go back to your room, Sister. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I didn’t move immediately, the weight of the moment still pressing down on me. Slowly, I rose from the kneeler, my knees stiff from the strain. As I turned to leave, I glanced at Father Mayhew one last time, hoping for some kind of explanation in his eyes, but he kept his back to me, staring at the flickering candles on the altar.
A couple of weeks pass.
In the morning, I took an early stroll, believing it might satiate my hunger better than a simple bagel. I also thought it prudent to reflect away from the church, without the tempting thought of Father Mayhew in the vicinity.
I quietly hummed, as I hovered my fingers over the tall grass and bushes. Flashes of being in Father Mayhew’s bedroom popped into my head. The Apostle Paul was right; He, God, did provide me with a way out of my temptation — my session with Father Mayhew. I only wish he wasn’t so cold toward me when it finished. I thought it would’ve brought us closer together.
In fact, he had been a little distant ever since. He’d only approach me when he absolutely needs to, usually to tell me about the week’s events or what needs to get done. Of course, though, he’d break that pattern whenever he found that I had done something incorrectly, calling me to his room for another caning session. This ebb and flow of our situation would continue for weeks.
The way he gripped my shoulder, the warmth radiating from it when I pressed my cheek against the back of his hand… the sting of each striking of the cold cane…. I could still feel Father Mayhew’s breath behind my ear.
It was wrong to think, but… I enjoyed every second of having him discipline me. Nobody could make me squirm like he does, and I’m sure he enjoyed watching me do so.
A shiver ran through me, not from the cold, but from the vividness of the memory. The way my body had reacted to him was unmistakable. It wasn’t just the pain, though that had been sharp and real, but the intimacy of it, the way he had wielded control over me so effortlessly. I’d never imagined I would enjoy something like that — the powerlessness, the submission. But in his hands, it had felt like I was offering up something sacred, something he alone could understand.
I stopped beside a tall bush, its leaves brushing against my fingertips, and sighed deeply, taking in the view before retreating back to the convent.
As soon as I arrived, I went up to my room, placing the flowers I collected in a porcelain vase, carefully separating each of them so they could be displayed properly.
“Pretty,” I heard behind me.
I jumped, startled at the presence of somebody standing at the doorway. Of course, I knew who it was. I turned around and clutched my Virgin Mary pendant. “Oh, Father,” I caught my breath, “I didn’t expect to see you until today’s mass.”
He was in his black priest garb, hands clasped behind him. He smiled, stepping into my room and closing the door behind him. He approached me, standing close and reaching his hand out. I thought he was reaching for me, but I watched his hand reach further and gently caress the wild sunflowers, “How was your walk?” He grabbed a stem and pulled it toward his nose, sniffing it before putting it back.
I hesitated to answer. “Introspective,” I replied quietly, smiling to myself. I crossed the room, feeling Father Mayhew’s eyes on me, “Is there anything I can help you with?” I approached my dresser and nervously tidied the objects on top.
“Not right now,” he spoke intimately. He slowly stepped toward the center of my room, standing next to the wooden chest.
I turned around, unafraid to look him in the eye anymore, “Perhaps, later,” I softly spoke, hoping he’d read between the lines.
His eyes looked toward my bed, his fingers trailing the edge, “Yes, maybe.” It was like he was teasing me, purposely letting the silence linger.
He crouched down a bit over the wooden chest. I, thinking he would be curious enough to open it, lunged forward before stopping myself when he sat down on top of it. He saw I had hesitated in my action, motioning me toward him with his hand.
I inched closer. He looked at the contour of my legs and waist, taking a deep breath. He hesitantly reached his hand out to my thigh, slowly dragging his fingertips up and down my leg. “Don’t come to mass today,” he spoke, almost as if he was thinking out loud.
I was confused at his request. “Father, I’ve never missed a day.”
He nodded his head and sighed, gripping the side of my thighs with both of his hands. He studied my body; there wasn’t a single inch he didn’t look at. I cautiously lead my hand up to his head, slowly moving it towards his hair, curious to see if he’d reject my hand. It was already styled in his usually slicked-back manner, so I was careful to not ruin it. I felt him shiver under my touch, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw.
“You’re a distraction,” he whispered.
I was offended by his words, pulling his head back by his hair. I looked down at him unmercifully, “I am not the distraction, Father.”
Father Mayhew’s breath was caught, taken aback by my sudden power. For a moment, there was something wild in his eyes—surprise, yes, but also hunger. I had never seen him like this before, vulnerable and open. His lips parted slightly. He wanted to maintain control, to keep the facade of the untouchable priest. But right now, beneath my hand, that mask was slipping. It was intoxicating.
“Then what are you?” he asked, his voice low and raspy.
His question hung in the air, daring me to answer.
I leaned in, my breath brushing against his face, and whispered, “Justified.”
His grip on my thighs tightened, and I could feel the tension radiating from him. For a second, I thought he might pull me on top of him, s, but instead, he let out a shaky breath and let his hands fall away from me, resting his forehead against my stomach. His back fell up and down as he breathed, “(Y/N), you…” his voice trailed off. He had never said my name without Sister being attached to the front of it. “You turn me into someone else.”
“Something we have in common, then,” I quietly said, running my fingers through his hair, slightly tugging when I reached the back of his head.
I felt his hands grab at my waist, pulling me in closer to him. My breath quickened at his touch. He trailed his finger tips from my ankle all the way up to the hem of my habit, sliding his hand under my dress and finding the edge of my underwear.
He had never reached there before. Usually when he disciplined, all he’d ever do was just pull up my skirt or dress, but not once did he ever touch my underwear. My leg quivered under his touch, but I didn’t want to fight it.
He pulled down my underwear, letting them fall to the floor. The room, usually so calm and familiar, now felt charged, as though it were holding its breath along with me. The cool air hugged every one of my crevices, a feeling I’d describe as… freeing.
I, then, felt his fingers move to the back of my knee, lifting my leg and placing my foot next to him on the chest. I let out a breathy exhale, tightening my grip on his hair.
He paused, his forehead still pressed against me, his breath hot against my clothes. For a moment, I thought he might stop, might pull away, retreat back behind the walls of his priestly composure, but instead, he tightened his grip around my thigh, his fingers pressing into me with a kind of desperation that thrilled me.
"Tell me to stop...” he whispered, his voice thick with restraint, yet his hands betrayed him, pulling me closer still.
A small part of me knew that what we were doing was dangerous, reckless. But in that moment, I didn't care. I couldn't. All I could think about was the way his hands felt on me, the way his body seemed to melt against mine as he gave in to the desire.
I swallowed hard, my heart pounding against my chest. My hand moved to the tip of his chin before I even realized what I was doing. I forced him to look me in the eye. Applying pressure to the situation, I said, “I don’t want you to.”
That was all it took. His control snapped, and before I knew it, he had pulled me onto his lap and ripped the habit off my head. He tugged at the buttons of my shirt, pulling them apart to expose my chest. His lips brushed against my collarbone, hot and urgent, as his fingers traced patterns over my thighs.
His touch was electric, sending a wave of heat coursing through my body. I gasped softly as his lips found the nape of my neck, his kisses desperate and hungry. Father Mayhew's breath came in shallow, ragged bursts as his hands roamed, exploring every inch of exposed skin.
The fabric of my habit bunched in his grip as he pulled me tighter against him, the line between priest and penitent completely obliterated.
I tilted my head back, surrendering to the sensation of his mouth on my skin, the heat of his body pressed against mine. It was a collision of opposites — his restraint, now unraveling, and my control, which I had never truly wielded before. Every kiss, every touch, was a betrayal of everything he had vowed to uphold. And yet, it felt like liberation.
As I unbuttoned Father Mayhew’s shirt, I watched his hands find his belt, and in one swift motion, he unbuckled himself and unzipped his pants, pulling them slightly down and pulling his hard dick out. His eyes, dark with a mix of desire and conflict, locked with mine, and for a fleeting moment, I saw a flicker of hesitation. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by something far more primal.
He inserted himself into me, immediately letting out a deep moan and digging his hands into my hips while burying his head into my neck. I sharply exhaled feeling him inside me, arching into his touch, his breath hot against my skin.
I looked down at myself slowly bouncing on top of him, unable to fathom this was really happening. The fiction I made up in my head, one I thought was fleeting, had come true — I was fucking the priest.
As we moved together, a heady mix of pleasure and power clouded my mind. His hands on my body, the way he breathed my name — it felt like a prayer, like he was asking for mercy.
He grabbed my waist and guided me, having me ride him faster. As I moaned out Father Mayhew’s name, Charlie, he leaned in and kissed me on the lips, devouring me whole. The taste of his lips sent me into a frenzy. In my head, all I could picture was all of the times I had looked up at him, at his lips, when he gave me the communion wafer and he’d say an ‘Amen.’
As I continued the fast pace, he pulled away from my lips, squinting his eyes and parting his mouth open. “(Y/N),” his voice trembled as he bucked his hips further into me.
As soon as I thought he would cum, he grabbed me by my hips and flipped me onto the bed, my back shivering at the cold sheets below me. He held my hands apart as he thrusted as powerful as he could. It made me go wild, arching my back and moaning as quietly as I could, but it just felt so good I couldn’t keep quiet.
The harder he pushed into me, the more my words became breathy. I couldn’t even get his name out anymore, my words turning into guttural moans the moment I’d manage to spit out a, “Char-“
He lowered his mouth down to my breast, licking one while pinching at the other. That was enough to get my dam to break. I clutched his back, digging my nails into his shoulder and completely forgetting about his wounds.
He had hissed into my ear at the pain, but to him, it was a sensation that had allowed him to cum inside me. He groaned into my ear, breathing deeply as he came and digging his head into the crook of my neck and embracing me with his arms.
The earth stood still. We held each other in that position for a few moments until we both caught our breaths. He removed himself from inside me, his juice dripping out of me like melted ice cream. He buried his face into his hands, deeply sighing. Had he regretted our indiscretion?
He stood over the bed, removing his hands from his face and watching me in a calculating manner. He spoke in a low tone, “Do you have a towel?”
Tired and vulnerable, I weakly pointed over to the cupboard behind me. As he walked around the bed, I flipped onto my side, looking over to the picture of Jesus Christ on my nightstand, which I was too caught up to turn it away.
Father Mayhew walked back around toward me, already having wiped himself down and fixed his pants. He folded the used, red hand towel inward and sat down next to me, carefully flipping me toward him and motioning for me to open my legs. I hesitated. He gently grabbed my leg and pulled it toward him. He slowly wiped away the bodily fluids at my opening, almost studying my anatomy, like he was cleaning some fragile thing.
I twitched at each soft stroke of the towel against my sensitive skin, looking away to avoid looking into Father Mayhew’s eyes as he cleaned me. He finished up, sitting in silence as he folded the dirty towel inward and inward again. I studied him. I desperately wanted to know what turmoil was going on inside him. It felt like I was staring into a deep, dark ocean.
He took a deep breath and stood up from the bed, looking down at his feet with his back toward me, “Don’t come to mass today,” he spoke softly again before walking out of my room.
I was speechless. This feeling of anger and worthlessness bubbled inside me. How could Father Mayhew do something as intimate as this then leave me alone in the room, naked, when I am in just as much uncertainty of this thing as he?
I made my way over to my record player, standing over it trying to fight back a tear. I quivered as I reached for the 7-inch, removing Sleep Walk from its sleeve. That feeling of uneasiness grew inside me as I placed the record on the platter and pressed play.
The sad hums of the steel guitar echoed through my room as I walked to the wooden chest and kneeled. I opened the chest and retrieved my journal, the single pen, and the black rubber exercise band.
Already knowing my routine, I placed my thighs through the rubber band. This time, though, I didn’t bother to start writing before beginning to strike myself, not holding back.
The loud snaps sounded like clockwork, rhythmic and borderline hypnotizing. I fought tears with each snap of the band against my thighs watching the area of impact become inflamed and nearly bloody.
SNAP.
SNAP.
SNAP.
SNAP.
SNAP.
By the end, my legs were bleeding. However, I still wasn’t satisfied. It didn’t feel the same as when Father Mayhew would cane me. I felt empty. He was missing.
As the room fell into silence, a feeling of guilt lingered in me. I stared at my closed journal, feeling badly that I had skipped such an integral step. Before the feeling could grow, I grabbed the pen and opened it to the next blank page, writing one singular sentence.
He is my sin and my saving grace.
With that, I closed the journal and wrapped everything together, placing it inside the chest.
I followed Father Mayhew’s instructions. I didn’t go to today’s mass and neither did I go to mass the day after. Some of the nuns would question me in the hallway about my absence. All I had to say to them was that I had a little bit of a fever and didn’t want to get any of my fellow sisters or parishioners sick. In fact, those two days of mass that I missed, I spent buying the morning after pill and chugging gallons of vitamin C. I wasn’t taking any chances.
As the third day approached, I had to return to the routine of my duties. The absence was becoming too noticeable, and despite my inner turmoil, I knew it would raise further suspicions if I stayed away from the church any longer. I dressed in my habit, wrapped my hair neatly, and made my way to the chapel for the morning mass.
Walking through the halls, I felt different. Each step echoed through the convent, the familiar sights and smells now tinged with a sense of secrecy. The nuns smiled warmly at me as I passed, their kindness making my chest tighten with guilt. If only they knew….
The chapel loomed ahead, its tall doors standing like a gateway to judgment. I paused, hand hovering over the cold wood before finally pushing it open. The moment I stepped inside, I felt a wave of tension roll through me. The air was thick with the scent of incense, the soft murmur of prayer echoing off the stained-glass windows.
And there, at the front of the altar, was Father Mayhew.
His presence dominated the room, even though he was kneeling in prayer, his head bowed in what appeared to be a display of humility. But I knew better now. I could still feel his hands on my body, his breath against my neck. My heart pounded in my chest as I found a seat near the back, trying to avoid his gaze.
The mass began as usual, his voice carrying through the chapel with the practiced cadence of a man who had done this a thousand times before.
As Father Mayhew spoke from the pulpit, I sat in the pews, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. The morning light streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting soft hues of color across the stone floor, but I could barely focus on the beauty around me. All I could see, hear, was Father Mayhew.
“Temptation is subtle,” he said, his eyes scanning the congregation, though I could feel them linger on me for just a moment. I looked down, unable to meet his gaze, my pulse quickening.
“It disguises itself as something innocent, something that feels right in the moment.” His words were heavy with meaning, and I knew the entire room could feel the weight of them, but only I understood the truth behind them.
My fingers trembled as I clutched the rosary in my lap, trying to steady myself. I felt like everyone around me could see it, could sense what had happened between us. Every word he spoke seemed aimed directly at me, a private message hidden within a public sermon.
“To face temptation is to confront the deepest parts of ourselves, the parts we keep hidden, even from God,” Father Mayhew continued, his voice quieter now, almost pained.
Every word he spoke felt like a blade cutting through me, each sermon and prayer now layered with the weight of our sin. My heart pounded in my chest. The memory of his touch, of the way we had crossed that forbidden line, flooded my mind. I could still feel the heat of his body, the pressure of his lips against mine, the sharp contrast between the holiness of this place and the sin we had committed within it.
As his voice filled the chapel once more, I forced myself to look up at him. His face was composed, but there was a darkness in his eyes, a shadow of guilt that mirrored my own. He wasn’t just preaching to the congregation. He was preaching to himself, trying to wrestle with the same demons that haunted me.
I felt a lump rise in my throat as he finished. “Let us not be deceived into thinking that we can hold fire to our chest and not be burned.”
The words stung, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. I wanted to believe that what we shared wasn’t wrong, that it could somehow be justified. But hearing him speak like this, hearing him talk about temptation and guilt as if he were naming every sin we had committed, I knew there was no escaping it.
The silence that followed his “Amen” was suffocating. I kept my head down, gripping the edge of the pew as the service went on, focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of the congregation’s voices.
When it came time for communion, I hesitated. The thought of approaching him now, after everything, was almost unbearable. Yet, to refuse would be to refuse Christ. I needed to act as if everything was normal, as if I wasn’t silently screaming beneath the surface.
When it was my turn, I made my way to the front, my hands trembling slightly as I held them out for the Eucharist. Father Mayhew’s eyes met mine, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to stop. His expression was unreadable, his lips pressed into a thin line. His hand shook as he placed the wafer on my tongue, a gesture that now felt tainted, laden with unspoken tension.
“Body of Christ,” he murmured, his voice tight.
“Amen,” I whispered.
I returned to my seat, trying to calm the storm inside me as the mass came to an end. The final blessing was given, the congregation slowly began to rise, their voices mingling in quiet chatter as they prepared to leave, but I stayed rooted to the pew.
As the last of the parishioners filed out of the chapel, I looked up to see Father Mayhew watching me from the altar. His gaze was intense, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the lectern. There was something raw in his expression — anger, shame, perhaps even longing — but he quickly turned away as some of the parishioners approached him at the lectern.
Some unknown force possessed me, picking up my legs and leading me towards Father Mayhew’s bedroom. I don’t know what it was that brought me there; perhaps my subconscious thought it was time for a conversation.
When I got to his room, I closed the door behind me. What caught my eye, though, was the small, red hand towel Father Mayhew had used to clean me was neatly laid out on top of his bed. I walked closer, my steps quiet and light, brushing my fingers against the towel. It was hard and dry, not washed.
I walked to the chair in his room and sat down, patiently waiting.
About an hour passed before I heard the door knob rattle, the door swinging open. Father Mayhew was taken aback by my presence in his room. “Sister, what are you doing here?”
He closed the door behind him, carefully walking across his own room, mindful of his movements. He sat on the bed opposite me, studying my demeanor.
I gathered all of my strength to say, “I like how you make me feel.” I glanced down at the floor, then back up at him to find him surprised by my words.
He sighed, tangling his fingers together, “Our indiscretion was a momentary lapse of judgement.”
“Momentary?” I questioned. “Was it momentary when you touched my lips after every sip of a communion wine? When you’d order me to your room?” I stood up from the chair and walked over to him, “It was never momentary, Charlie.”
The use of his name in a context outside of sex startled both of us, and I saw the flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes. For a moment, we froze, the tension between us unbearable. I could feel the pull, the same magnetic force that had drawn us together before. But this time, it felt different. This time, it felt like we were standing at the edge of something dangerous, something we couldn’t come back from.
“I don’t regret it,” he spoke, my voice steady, despite the whirlwind of emotions. “But we can’t keep going like this.”
“And why not?” I asked, caressing his cheek, kneeling before him. “Deuteronomy chapter 11 verse 26,” I recited, “‘See, I am setting before you today a blessing and a curse.’”
He moved my hand away, standing up and walking toward the altar by the window, “I don’t feel guilty for betraying our vows. I feel guilty about the fact that I don’t feel guilty about it at all. That’s why I’ve tried to keep my distance.”
Charlie stood at the window, the light casting shadows across his face as he stared out in silence. His confession hung in the air like incense, heavy and cloying, filling the space between us with the weight of what we had done. I could see the conflict tearing him apart, the pull between his duty and the desire that neither of us could deny.
I rose from the floor, walking slowly toward him, my hands trembling. “If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
His eyes met mine with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. For a moment, I thought he would push me away again, would end this before it could go any further. But instead, his hand slowly rose to my cheek, whispering, “Then God help us both.”
In that moment, the world seemed to fall away, and everything we had been fighting against—the guilt, the fear, the shame—melted into the background. There was only the two of us, bound together by something neither of us could fully understand, something that felt more powerful than any vow we had taken.
I stepped closer, resting my head against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath my fingertips. We stood there in the stillness, our breaths mingling, the weight of the world on our shoulders.
He led his hand to the cane in the center of the altar, tracing its edges and holding it in his hands. He opened my hands and placed the cane in them. It felt heavy in my hands, like it was carrying all of the secrets Charlie and I carried.
As I looked down at the cane, I felt his hand caress my cheek again, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “I want us to switch this time.”
The words hung in the air between us, sharp and unexpected. I stared down at the cane in my hands, its weight seeming to grow heavier as his meaning settled over me. My breath hitched as I processed the shift, the power he was offering me, the reversal of roles.
I looked up at him, uncertainty swirling in my chest. “You… want me to?” I whispered, my voice barely audible in the silence of the room.
He stepped closer, his gaze intense, unwavering. He brought his lips to my forehead, giving me his blessing. “(Y/N), you are my punishment and my absolution.” His fingers brushed mine where they gripped the cane, his touch sending a familiar shiver through me.
Slowly, I nodded, accepting the responsibility he was placing in my hands. The cane felt cold, foreign, yet somehow fitting as it passed between us. I could sense the anticipation in the air, the tension thick enough to cut. This was a different kind of surrender, one where both of us stood on equal ground, where both of us would be tested.
He took a step back, his breath steady but his expression revealing the storm of emotions beneath the surface. His eyes never left mine as he took his shirt off and grabbed the kneeler, placing it in front of his bed and lowering himself to his knees, his hands resting at his sides in a posture of submission. It was a gesture I never imagined I’d see from him — the man who had once wielded authority over me now kneeling, offering himself up to the consequences of our shared transgressions.
I stood there, my grip tightening around the cane as I stared down at him. The gravity of the moment pressed down on me, but there was no going back now. What lay ahead wasn’t about punishment or power — it was about understanding.
I took a deep breath, stepping forward with slow, deliberate movements. The room was silent, save for the faint creaking of the wood beneath my feet. Charlie remained still, his body tense but unmoving, his back exposed and vulnerable. The act of holding the cane, of standing over him with the authority he had once held over me, was overwhelming in its intensity.
I lifted the cane, my pulse racing, and brought it down with a soft, controlled stroke against his back. The sound was barely audible, more a whisper than a crack, but his body tensed beneath the impact. A breathy moan escaped him, his fingers curling into the wood of the kneeler.
I paused, searching his body for any sign of regret or doubt, but he remained composed, his eyes closed in silent acceptance. He wasn’t asking for punishment; he was asking for release. I struck him again, a little harder this time, the cane leaving a faint red mark on his skin. The tension in the room thickened, the intimacy of the moment deepening.
As I continued, each strike a measured and careful act, his breathing became more ragged, his body trembling ever so slightly beneath the cane. I knew I could stop at any time, that he wouldn’t ask for more than I was willing to give, but in this shared ritual, there was something cleansing — something that felt like a confession neither of us could voice.
Finally, after what felt like hours but was only minutes, I lowered the cane, my hand shaking as I released it. I stood behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my fingertips. He nuzzled his cheek into my fingertips, kissing them slowly. Eventually, his kisses grew hungry, turning his head and kissing my hand then moving his mouth up my arm. He pulled me down by the arm and sat me down on the bed.
Charlie’s kisses grew hungrier, his hands moving over my body as if claiming me once again. His lips traveled from my hand to my arm, then up my neck, before finally returning to my mouth with a fervor that made my head spin. There was no hesitation now, no second-guessing. He knew what he wanted, and so did I.
I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him closer, feeling the heat between us build to a fever pitch. His body pressed against mine, the weight of his desire palpable, his hands wandering with an urgency that mirrored my own.
The cane lay discarded on the floor, forgotten in the heat of the moment. What had begun as an exchange of control had now become something else entirely.
I could feel the muscles in his arms tense as he positioned himself above me, his breath hot against my skin. The room seemed to shrink around us, the world outside fading into nothingness as we became lost in each other.
There was no room for doubt, no space for guilt or hesitation. The vows we had taken, the lives we had promised to live-none of it mattered in this moment. All that mattered was the way he made me feel, the way l made him feel.
His hands roamed my body, finding every curve, every dip, every place that made me gasp. I responded in kind, my fingers tracing the lines of his back, the ridges of his muscles, the places where I had struck him with the cane just moments before. There was a strange poetry to it all, the way pain and pleasure intertwined, the way power shifted between us with each touch.
I whispered, my voice steady and certain, “I want you."
Charlie looked into my eyes, his expression soft but resolute. "You already have me."
He wasn’t holding back like he was before, but even then it felt so good. This time, it felt even better. I helped him unbuckle his pants as he ripped off my vest and shirt. Our hands couldn’t get enough of each other’s bodies.
As I kissed his shoulder and trailed my way to the corner of his jaw, I could feel his fingers tugging at the underwear under my skirt. He quickly pulled both of them off, tossing them next to the cane on the floor.
He pulled himself back, admiring my body like this had been the first time we’d done this. Suddenly, I grew shy, joining my knees together. He pulled himself out of his underwear and massaged my legs open.
Charlie entered me in one fluid motion, and we both gasped, my back arching as I met his thrusts. There was no gentleness now, no restraint — just the unrelenting drive to lose ourselves in each other.
The sound of our breathless gasps filled the room, mingling with the faint echoes of the world outside—distant, irrelevant. It was only the two of us now, our bodies intertwined, bound by the weight of everything we had done, everything we had become.
“Charlie,” I moaned into his ear.
Hearing his name escape my mouth had triggered him into tightening the grip on my hips, his pace quickening as he pulled me closer, deeper. As the pressure built, my nails dug into his back as I clung to him, both of us lost in the moment.
And then we were both there, teetering on the edge before the dam finally broke. The release was explosive, a rush of pleasure so intense it was almost blinding. We cried out, his name on my lips, mine on his, as the world seemed to shatter around us.
In the aftermath, we collapsed together, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat, our hearts pounding in unison. The silence that followed was heavy but comforting, like the calm after a storm. I could feel the warmth of his breath against my skin, his body still pressed on top of mine as we lay there, both of us trying to catch our breath.
For a long time, neither of us moved. The weight of Charlie’s body on top of me was comforting. His hand trailed down the side of my body trying to find my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine, and in that simple gesture, there was more understanding, more connection than any words could have conveyed. He was in no rush to leave this time, which I thought showed some acceptance of this entire thing.
He rolled his body over to the space next to me, pulling me on top of me and laying my head on his chest, kissing my forehead as he dragged his fingernails up and down my back. It was all soothing.
I closed my eyes, listening to Charlie’s heartbeat under my ear. “What does it all mean now?”
Charlie continued to drag his fingers repeatedly, taking a deep breath, his chest rising and falling beneath me. For a long moment, he said nothing, and I wondered if he was searching for the right words, or if he even had an answer at all.
“It means,” he finally whispered, his voice low and tired, “that we can’t go back.” He sighed, his fingers pausing their movement. “The guilt, the shame, they’ll never go away. But this… what we have…” He trailed off, his hand tightening slightly around mine. “It’s real. That’s what I know for sure. More real than anything else I’ve ever felt.”
His words hung heavy in the air, and I could feel the weight of them pressing against my chest. There was truth in what he said, but it didn’t ease the gnawing uncertainty in my stomach. The gravity of what we had done—and what we were doing—felt overwhelming.
“Where do we go from here?” I asked softly, my voice barely audible against the backdrop of our shared silence.
Charlie shifted beneath me, his fingers resuming their soft strokes against my skin. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice rough with the weight of his own confusion. “But we’ll figure it out. Together.”
Despite everything, despite the sin, the broken vows, and the uncertainty that lay ahead, there was something undeniably powerful in the bond we had forged. Something that went beyond right or wrong, beyond the confines of our faith.
For now, that had to be enough.
“I’d like to give you something,” I whispered. I stood up from the bed, still without clothes, and walked over to the chair, reaching for that all too familiar wrapped box. I walked back over and sat down next to him. Charlie sat up on the bed, curious. I unwrapped the journal carefully to reveal the deepest part of my soul.
He inspected the journal without opening it when his eyes fell to the rubber band. “This is how you discipline yourself,” he thought out loud. “And this…?” He asked as he opened the journal, skimming through the words, “Your confessions.”
“I want to surrender myself to you, Charlie,” I spoke softly.
He set everything aside and kissed me. Bare, he walked over to the drawer near his alter and opened it, pulling out a flog. My breath hitched at the sight of it. I had no idea this is what he used to discipline himself. He walked back over to me and sat down, wrapping my hands around the flog.
“I surrender myself to you, too, (Y/N),” he whispered.
I studied the flog, looking at every knot at the opposite end of the handle. This flog held every one of Charlie’s secrets and confessions, and he had given it to me. It felt like a holy artifact in my hands. After having seen Charlie act somewhat distant for some time, with the exception of right now, I felt honored to finally be let in.
I set the flog aside and gave him a passionate kiss, falling into an embrace and lying back down on the bed. I pressed a kiss to his chest, closing my eyes as exhaustion began to pull at me.
The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear was grounding, a soft, comforting pulse that seemed to synchronize with my own. There was a weight to everything that had happened, but in this moment, I allowed myself to be suspended between reality and whatever this was.
The future loomed uncertain, with questions that would demand answers soon enough. But for now, there was only the present—his body against mine, the warmth of our shared breath, and the heavy stillness of the room. For now, we were absolute.
