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The air was thick with the scent of old incense and inked parchment while Father Bartholomew’s footsteps echoed through the empty hall. The sconces bolted to the church walls flickered every now and then, casting a rather restless shadow along the stone corridor. His body practically ached from how long his form had been slumped inside the cramped confessional box, though he mused such sacrifices were worth it, if only to have the company of the lord during these confessions.
Through the long hours of sitting in confession, his hair had strayed from the meticulously kept bowl-cut coiffure, and his hands were stained with the soot of countless wicks, yet he found solace in knowing that, after such a day, he could finally rest. It had been a long day, and his eyelids were growing heavier by the minute. A yawn managed to escape his lips, his mind having grown numb to the monotonous, almost-somnolent murmur of his confessors. He was used to hearing all manners of sin. Though now, his own body was wracked with sloth.
He was shaken from his thoughts as the heavy oak doors of the hall creaked open, and a chilling, sharp draft blew in. The candles around him were snuffed out in an instant, cascading the area in a thick darkness. Bartholomew blinked rapidly, his eyes attempting to adjust to the dark as he heard the soft pattering of boots echo closer to him.
"Father..." the figure breathed out lowly, the silhouette of their body ever so slowly walking down the corridor. Their voice was deep, hoarse, almost as if they had not spoken for an eternity. Yet, the way they spoke was smooth, like that of silk running against one's skin.
The priest shivered... His hand tentatively began to stretch out towards an extinguished sconce, as if it would help in some way.
"Leave them," the figure quickly interjected. "The shadows are quite beautiful, don't you agree?"
"Who are you?" Bartholomew croaked out, his fingers still grasping the air vacantly.
"You know who I am, Father." They merely responded, though as they had gotten close enough, their metal-clad hands stretched out, brushing up against the warm flesh of the priest's cheeks.
His voice… It was familiar, wasn’t it? Something about it crawled beneath Bartholomew’s skin, itching away like a damned parasite.
After such a lingering pause, the figure stepped forward, just enough for the dim remnants of light to catch the unmistakable curve of a smile beneath the facepaint.
"I see it now," he mused, smug, sickeningly amused. "You do remember me. You’re just afraid to say it.”
The sinner. The heretic. Of course Bartholomew recalled him.
“…You should not be here,” Bartholomew finally managed to mutter in a shaky breath. Air felt trapped within his chest, like a bird thrashing against its cage, his heart smashing against his ribs. “You have no place in this house of God. The Lord is watching.” He spat, though his words were hollow.
"Is he? Is he really watching you, Bartholomew?" Perpetua quickly retorted, a small, almost mocking, smirk tugging at his black-painted lips. “Shall I wait for a smiting, hm?
Bartholomew shuddered at the way the heretic spoke his name, like the devil whispering in his ear, tempting him.
"He watches us all," the priest insisted, though the words felt dry upon his tongue. He tried to move his hands, to clasp them together, to pray for his lord’s guidance and presence, but his body was frozen. He was petrified.
Perpetua merely chuckled at the response, or lack thereof, before the clawed hand slid down. His fingertips brushed against the priest's Adam's apple, which bobbed ever so slightly.
"If he does watch…" He murmured, his voice low, his breath hot against the clergyman's cheek. "Then perhaps he's pleased with what I'm going to do."
And then his lips were instantly on Bartholomew's. The kiss was firm, hungry, like a wild animal devouring its quivering prey. His lips were surprisingly soft, a warmth against the priest's own cold lips, as his other hand came to rest on his thigh, the metal claws digging into the flesh through the cassock.
The priest's mind was spinning, his thoughts muddled and jumbled together as his hands shakily grasped at the heretic's robes. He needed to push him off. This was wrong, all wrong.
Heresy. Blasphemy.
So why did it feel so right? Why did his skin burn and tingle under his touch? Why did he want to lean into the kiss, despite knowing that the devil was tempting him, enticing his fragile and broken soul?
After a moment, Perpetua drew backward, with a ragged breath, gazing at Bartholomew’s panting, flushed face.
His tongue flicked out, wetting his bottom lip before the metal hand moved, sliding down and grasping Bartholomew's crotch.
"What are you-" Bartholomew began, only for the heretic's fingers to rub against the fabric.
"Hush." He breathed out, his hand massaging him slowly, "This is a house of God, as you said. Wouldn't want him to hear this, now would we…?”
With a whimper that spilled from his clenched teeth, the priest shook his head. He felt dirty. Filthy.
Yet, when he looked down, his body was wracked with arousal. He wanted this damned and forsaken heretic. He needed him.
"Good boy." Perpetua mused, leaning in to press his lips against Bartholomew's ear, his tongue tracing along the lobe, "Now, let me take care of you."
Without a moment's hesitation, his metal-clad hand tore at the cassock, exposing the priest's body, his hardened cock, and the way his body quivered at the chill that had enveloped the area. A man rather well built for a priest, though with a sweet little gut, Perpetua noted.
His hand moved, wrapping around Bartholomew's erection. The claws barely grazed against the skin, enough to elicit a small shiver from the priest, as his hand began to move, slowly at first. He wanted to savor the moment. To bask in the way the priest squirmed beneath his touch and mewled with desperation.
"Tell me, does the Lord do this for you?" He growled, his grip tightening ever so slightly as his hand quickened its pace, the claws threatening to tear the skin and yet never squeezing just hard enough to do so.
Bartholomew bit the inside of his lip, hard, in an attempt to stifle his moans. It was difficult. Oh, so difficult. The heat within his belly grew, the knot of arousal twisting ever tighter as Perpetua's hand worked, faster and harder.
"I don't think he does," Perpetua almost casually mused, his hand never slowing. "I don't think the lord is quite so generous. So forgiving."
"He is-!" He choked out, a shuddering, broken moan spilling past his lips, as his eyes fluttered shut from the stimulation.
"You're a poor liar," was the chiding response given by Perpetua. "But that's alright. I forgive you, Father. I forgive you for all of your sins."
Bartholomew's thighs clenched with a ragged gasp from his lips, the soft cord within his gut snapping and his body shuddering and quivering. He felt so weak. So pathetic, especially as his cock twitched in the sinner's palm.
"What a mess you've made, Father. How impious," Perpetua murmured after a moment, bringing the metal gauntlet up and allowing the slick seed to drip off the claws. He watched the cum slowly slide down the silver metal, his tongue flicking out and lapping it off as if he were feasting on ambrosia.
"Mmmmnnn... Delicious. Perhaps you're a meal more fitting of the devil, no?" Perpetua mused, his gaze flickering down to rest upon Bartholomew's still aching cock, which leaked to drip seed down his padded thighs. It slid down his lower half, leaving a trail while threading through any leg hair in its path.
The priest's head spun, his mind hazy and unfocused. He couldn't think straight. Not now.
"Now, why don't you repent for your mess, hm?" Perpetua suggested, his hand moving to rest on the clergyman's shoulder, lightly squeezing his sweaty flesh. "On your knees, Father. Don't make me ask again."
Bartholomew couldn't help but feel as if a serpent was whispering such commands into his ear, akin to the very demon that once sullied the mind of Eve herself.
Was this the temptation she once heard within such blessed lands?
But, with a slow breath, his knees came to rest on the cold, rough cobblestone, the hard surface stinging against his bones while his hands moved up. His fingers were shaking and twitching, almost uncertain in their movements while he grasped at the front of Perpetua's cassock, fumbling and trembling like an overeager child.
Perpetua's hand stroked through his sweat-slick hair, the claws combing through the strands while he murmured praises. "That's it. What a good boy." He muttered, an undertone of mocking and yet almost soothing comfort present within his voice.
Oh, how the priest's body burned at his words. He needed this. He needed to repent, if not for the Lord, then for his own sake. To quench this damnable hunger.
His hand moved, pushing aside the robe's hem to expose Perpetua's own stiff, leaking member. It was impressive, and he would have been a fool to deny it. Even more so a fool than to allow this to happen in the first place.
Slowly his fingers wrapped around his cock, stroking him ever so slowly, the precum acting as a natural lubricant while he began to pump him, his thumb grazing along the slit.
"Ahh, that's it," Perpetua breathed, his metal glove tangling within the sweaty locks. "Use your mouth, Father." He growled, his hips rutting up and pressing the head of his cock against the priest's lips, which parted without a second thought.
His lips closed around the tip, his tongue swirling and lapping at the seed, which had already begun to spill forth. The taste was bitter and musky, not unlike an overripe or rotted fruit, and yet it was a delicacy like no other to Bartholomew. He was so hungry for more.
Forgiveness. Mercy. Repentance.
He felt the metal claws tug his head forward, forcing his jaws to relax as Perpetua's cock slipped further and further into his mouth. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes, and his jaw ached with the way his lips stretched around him. It stung, and yet it felt so damned good.
"Mmm, what a good cocksucker," Perpetua mused, a groan spilling past his lips as the priest's tight throat spasmed around his length. "How did you... mnnn, get so good, hm?"
He pulled back, allowing Bartholomew a moment to breathe, only to thrust back into his throat. He began to move his hips, slow, deliberate thrusts at first. His pelvis would lightly collide with Bartholomew's chin, the priest's drool and precum dripping from the corner of his mouth.
"Did you practice on that wooden cross in your chambers, Father?" Perpetua teasingly purred, a low moan falling from his lips, "How naughty, how filthy, how sinful."
Perpetua slowly began to quicken his pace, his grip tightening on Bartholomew's scalp. The metal claws licked against his skin, softly dragging along the scalp, just barely soft enough to prevent the spill of blood.
The soft rocking of Perpetua’s hips reached a fast, rapid pace as he chased his climax, his breath ragged and hoarse while his cock twitched. He was so close. So dangerously close.
"Mnnnn, Father..." He groaned, his thrusts growing sloppier and more erratic, until finally, his head rolled back and he grunted out in pleasure.
His cum splattered along Bartholomew's tongue, the thick seed pouring into his open mouth.
It was a rather odd taste, a blend of salt, bitter acrid musk, and something he couldn't quite place his finger on. Perhaps the taste of his own sin.
Perperua’s cock slipped out quickly, spit and cum dribbling down from Bartholomew’s mouth onto the floor as the priest attempted to breathe.
Though with the pleasure came the burning feeling of shame. Of guilt.
"Do you accept my forgiveness, Father?" Perpetua murmured, his voice gentle, yet there was a sharp edge to it. A threat.
"Y-yes." Bartholomew gasped, swallowing the cum down as his own member ached for his touch. He needed to cum, and yet, he was too afraid to do so. Too afraid of what the Lord might think.
"Good. Very good."
Perpetua straightened his cassock and stepped away, tucking his wet cock within its confinement again. Through the faintest glimmer of moonlight through the window, his painted lips quirked into a smile.
Of satisfaction, perhaps. A gentle, rare tenderness, perhaps. Or maybe simply just pride at what he made this holy man do.
"Until we meet again, Father," Perpetua said, bowing his head in a mockery of a farewell, and with a rustle of his robes, his form slipped into the shadowed corner.
It was as if he had never even been there in the first place.
Bartholomew merely sat, kneeling down upon the floor with the taste of his own damnation thick upon his tongue.
His cock remained hard and aching between his legs, and the shame burned, twisted, and gnawed within his gut.
Perhaps he could confess his sins.
Perhaps God would forgive him.
Perhaps.
Perhaps not.
"Forgive me, Lord. For I have sinned."
The silence of the empty room was his only answer.