Forgive Me Father for I Have Sinned

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been, umm, quite some time since my last confession." A thud sound came from the other side of the booth and a distinct sound of shuffling feet. Tommy shifted nervously on his knees and gazed up at the grating, waiting for a response.

"I'm happy to hear your voice, young man. What seems to be troubling you?"

"Father Mulroney? Are you okay? Your voice seems a lot deeper than usual."

A series of deep coughs followed before Tommy heard the voice again. "Thank you for your concern, my son. I must be coming down with a bit of a cold. Pay it no mind, let's focus on you first."

The confessional, and the church around them, was deathly quiet. Tommy had purposefully waited until the last parishioner left before making his way to the booth. The church would likely be empty until the morning. After his previous confession, he was left with such an upbeat and happy outlook that Tommy had forgotten how nervous he had been. Clearing his throat, he began.

"Well, you remember what I told you before, Father? About my coach and the shower."

"Vividly child, continue."

"Well, It--It happened again." Tommy swallowed hard and closed his eyes. "You see, Father, ever since that Friday, I've--well, I've been helping men." Tommy squeezed his eyes together tightly as if a bolt of lightning would strike at any moment, but it didn't.

"Hmm, I see. How many, err, men, have you helped, my son?" The voice came out clear enough, but the breathing became ragged.

"Four so far, Father."

"So far?"

The confessional felt like it was rocking slighty. Tommy thought he was imagining it and continued. "Yes, Father, so far. And that's why I'm here today." Tommy was starting to relax, and his voice sounded less crackled and nervous. "I enjoy it."

The sounds from the other stall were a cacophony of coughs and spluttering. "Enjoy--oh Lord, enjoy what, my son?"

The confessional booth was silent except for a light, continuous creaking. Tommy smelt the familiar aroma of musky lockerrooms and breathed it in deeply. "The attention, Father." Tommy didn't wait for another response; he had broken the seal on his guilt, and he didn't want to be stopped from revealing the secret that burned inside him. "I enjoy helping these men because they make me feel good like I'm wanted. Every time Coach Masters introduces me to one of his friends; I feel needed."

"Your coach is pimp--arranging these meetings for you?" His voice was raspy now, staggered like speaking with a dry mouth.

"Yes, almost every Friday, one of his friends needs help. Coach Masters has even started paying me $20 a go for my time. The last time, with Mr Francis, he said I was cheap at triple the price. He told me that the last time he had such good service was when he was in Thailand." Tommy was beginning to boast about his talents. "And I've heard about those Thai massages, so if Mr Francis thinks I'm that good, I must be doing well. Don't you think, Father?"

"Oh, I don't doubt it at all, boy." There was a deep sigh, and he continued slowly. "And these encounters, are they always at school?"

"Yep, every time. Coach says it's because the showers are big enough for me to work. Oh, and he can make sure that I'm safe." Tommy beamed a big smile, warming at the thought of his Coach taking such good care of him.

"Oh, does your Coach stay in the showers while you work?"

"No. Coach Masters can see me from the security cameras he had installed."

All movement ceased in the other compartment until an intrigued voice replied. "Security cameras in the school showers?"

"Yeah, Coach said that there's been bullying in the school, and he wanted to make sure it didn't happen during his classes. I've not noticed any myself, but Coach assured me that he takes the videos home every night and watches them closely. Coach also said he's already had personal one-to-ones with at least ten students thanks to what he's seen on the cameras."

"I bet he has, the lucky--" The voice trailed off as his mind wandered for a moment before circling back. "Tell me, my son, do you give these men--the full service?"

"What do you mean, Father?" Tommy asked, honestly clueless.

Tommy couldn't see his confidant smiling at his naivety. "Those certain things that only wives normally do."

"Oh, you mean working the tension out of their penises and removing the excess protein build-up?"

It took a moment for Tommy's reply to be fully understood. "Umm, yes?"

"Yes, I do that each time. Coach says it's because I'm so good, I force the protein build-up to the penis as the last place I work on." Tommy smiled a smug, satisfied smile. "It's how all the professional massage therapists do it."

"Wow."

"I know, right. I feel so lucky that Coach Masters chose me for this duty. I still can't help but feel guilty." Tommy looked up the roof of the confessional and placed a hand on each wall. He could hear the same creaking noises as last time. "Father, you have a problem with your wood. You should get it treated."

A silence fell over the confessional until a spluttering breath replied, "Wha--?"

"Your wood needs to be treated properly. You know, by a professional."

The silence lingered for a moment. "My wood?" A single finger poked at the grating, ensuring nothing could be seen. "A professional? Like you, perhaps?"

Tommy looked at the grating, a little confused, "No, I can't work wood that well."

"What about what these men have told you? I think they would disagree."

"Silly! No, they think I'm a professional masseuse, not a carpenter. It would help if you had someone look at this booth; It keeps creaking."

It felt as though the temperature in the confessional had risen several degrees. The older man could feel his face changing to a mix of red and purple hues as the image of Tommy on his knees in a shower cubicle circled in his mind. "Oh, yes, of course."

"Now, if you had a protein build-up, well, I could help with that; Carpentry, no chance."

A fit of coughing erupted from the other side of the partition. "Fu--"

"Father? Are you alright? Did you want me to get you a glass of water?"

"Sweet--child, no--thank you, I'm----okay. But perhaps--no, no, never mind, continue."

Tommy shuffled closer to the partition and placed his hands on either side, facing the grate. "Please go on, Father, I'll do anything you want," Tommy could see the priests vestments rise and fall with his breathing, although he didn't think it was healthy for the Father's breathing to move quite that quickly. "Just tell me what you want."

The voice from the other stall had lost some of its politeness. "I want you to demonstrate your skill."

"Which skill?" Tommy was eager to please but unsure what he could do.

There was a ruffling of clothing, and Tommy could hear footsteps in the next booth. A curtain fell over the grate, plunging Tommy into almost complete darkness. A latch was heard turning, and Tommy could hear the grating being opened. "I need help to relax, boy; I think you know what to do."

A flutter of light cast across Tommy's face as the curtain moved. A shaft of light illuminated the object coming into view. He knew what it was; he'd seen more than his share recently. When his belly was fully pressed to the grating, the fat shaft, sizeable bulbous head and heavy balls hung in front of Tommy's face. Tommy reached his tiny, delicate fingers upwards and circled the weighty cock. All that could be heard was a meek answer, "Okay."

A moment later, accompanied by a deep grunt, the head of his cock disappeared into a soft, wet mouth. This young lad had skills, alright. He managed to take half of the girthy member without trying, and not once did Tommy scrape his teeth along the shaft. "Good, Boy. Work that cock."

"Call me Baby Boy." The quiet request came out in a way that made each word sound like it was coating in saliva. Then he plunged back down on the cock like a lollipop.

"That's it, Baby Boy. Suck my cock." The older man purred. He yearned to grab hold of the Boy's head and jackhammer his little mouth, but the Boy knew what he was doing. The treatment his cock was receiving was indeed that of a professional, even if Tommy thought he was only "helping out".

Tommy sucked the head and worked the shaft with both hands. Rotating them hard, wringing the thick cock out into his mouth. He placed one hand on the big balls attached to the gleaming shaft and began to squeeze. The priest moaned in response.

Again Tommy pushed his head down on the Father's shaft, inch after inch, then tried a little more. He felt it building and let it go, coughing and spasming as the head of the Father's cock triggered Tommy's gag reflex, but Tommy didn't pull back. The Boy had learned how much this could help men. It wasn't comfortable for Tommy, but he wanted to be professional. This blowjob wasn't for him; it was for the Father. Thinking that way always made Tommy laugh, well, when he didn't have a huge cock choking him anyway.

It was a good thing that Tuesdays weren't popular at the church. The lewd noises coming from the booth were not subtle. It was a familiar sound to Tommy. He knew that it meant two things, one the Father was in real need of help today, and two, Tommy's work had almost reached its conclusion. Tommy reverted to sucking on the large round cockhead while twisting his hands, stroking his length with one hand, and squeezing the fat balls with the other. Loud panting sounds emanated from the other side of the partition. "Almost there, Baby boy."

With one final grunt, Tommy felt the cock start to spew out a thick load of cum to the back of his throat. Tommy didn't think twice before swallowing each time his mouth filled. Usually, he would keep it in his mouth to show to the man he was helping. Coach Masters said it was good practice to visualize how much protein had built up from their exercises. This time, however, separated by a partition, he figured swallowing it would be fine.

Working the softening cock with his hand and mouth, the Boy's attention began to send shockwaves up through the owners entire body. "Whoa, Baby. I think that's enough."

As the deflating cock withdrew from the Boy's mouth, the grating closed, and the older man slumped down in the chair and sighed. "Do you feel better, Father?" Tommy said.

A broad smile was painted on the man's face, but Tommy couldn't see it. "Fu--Yes, yes, I feel great. And, may I ask, why Baby Boy?"

Tommy giggled quietly, "It's something one of my clients calls me, and it always makes me feel wanted and loved. It's silly, I know."

"Nonsense, we all need a little love from time to time."

"So, Father. Was I good? Would you say I was a professional?"

Again the stupid smile burst across his face, and he gently cupped his bulge. "Yes, my son, very professional, indeed."

Tommy sat back very happy with himself, full of new vigour and importance. "And my feelings of enjoyment for my work, that's not sinful, Father?"

"No. Not directly. However, I believe it's important that you maintain your high levels of professionalism. As such, I think you should come here once a week, so I can ensure that your standards don't slip. Tuesdays, like tonight, are quiet enough; the evening would be best."

"If you think that's for the best, then of course." Tommy paused, "Is that everything, Father?"

"Yes, my son, now, off you go."

"Thank you, Father, and I hope your voice gets better soon. Although, I kind of like how deep it's gotten." Tommy stood up and pushed open the confessional door. He quickly bowed his head toward the altar, then turned and ran down the steps into the fading evening light.

As the church again fell quiet, soft footsteps began to echo around the large hall, stopping outside the confessional. The knock on the wood was almost deafening in the quiet.

The door pushed open, and out stepped the occupant. "Well, the work won't take too long. The wood needs a little treatment, and the creaking will stop."

"And cost?"

"I reckon I can do it for free, considering our little arrangement here tonight."

"Was his confession really that--potent?"

"He's a cock-whore if ever I knew one. Excuse the french, Father."

Father Mulroney smiled at himself. His calculating scheme had paid off, and he began thinking of all the jobs he could get done with little Tommy's help. "That's quite alright, I suspected as much. I've heard enough confessions over the years to know the signs. I trust he didn't suspect anything?"

"Well, the voice was a little difficult, but he didn't seem too phased. The result was the same anyway." The contractor picked up his clipboard and measuring tape. "He'll be here every Tuesday evening."

"What for?" The Father said, surprised.

"Penance, and to make sure his skills are still up to par." The contractor said with a smirk. "I saw how your eyes lit up when you told me about his little story. I suggest you avail yourself of his talent; you won't regret it."

"Oh, well, when you put it that way. I should support my parishioners in any way I can. Don't you think?"

"Exactly. Right, so Thursday, I'll be round and get all the work done. It shouldn't take more than an hour." The contractor turned to leave but turned back to face the priest. "Oh, before I forget, I suggest we widen that grating. Might think of lowering it a little too."

"Why?"

"Just a little. Let's say about this wide." The contractor held his hands up either side of his head, then brought them down in an arc, stopping in front of his groin. With a little pelvic thrust, he added. "So, you can get hands-on with confessionals in future." He winked.

"Ah yes, I see." The priest thought for a moment, then looked up at the contractor, his lips pursed to ask a question. "Do you know anyone good with roof tiling?"

"I know a guy. He has a team of twelve, good rates too. Why?"

"I was considering getting the vestry roof fixed."

The contractor smiled. "I'll send him around. What you say, Tuesday sound good?"

Father Mulroney nodded his head gently, "You read my mind."