R-18: SINNERS CONFESSION

It was a quiet Sunday in church. As always.

Too quiet, if Rum were being honest, which he usually was, to a fault and to everyone’s discomfort. The Pastor's family sat in their regular pew, picture-perfect as ever. Daddy Pastor up front, all scripture and sanctimony. The wife beside him, pearl earrings and piety. And then there was him—Elijah.

Rum’s eyes were locked on the pastor’s son the moment he walked in, late and unrepentant, hair messy, shirt rumpled, not even bothering to hide the hickey from the night before under his collar. He didn’t care. He never did. He was the wrong kind of familiar here, like a stray cat that pissed on the altar and dared someone to stop him.

He dipped his fingers in the holy water, made the sign of the cross like it didn’t burn.

Rum had grown up in this town. Baptized in this very church. His mother dragged him here every Sunday like it would fix him. It never did. If anything, it made him worse.

Take today, for example.

He was standing three pews back, tongue pressed to his cheek as he watched Elijah greet the congregation with that awkward politeness that made people think he was “sweet.” Rum knew better. Sweet boys didn’t fidget like that during sermons. They didn’t glance back at the confessional like it whispered their name.

Holy water, communion wine, God’s body in a wafer—what a fucking joke.

He knew exactly where his mouth had been.

Wrapped around cócks in public bathrooms. Whispering filth into ears at the back of midnight parties. Screaming into mattresses with teeth marks on his thighs. That was his religion. That was where he felt closest to God—when he was being ruined.

Rum snorted softly as the chalice passed down the line. Wine. Shared among sinners pretending they weren’t all jerking off to the choir girls or séxting someone during the sermon. He took the goblet like a good boy, brought it to his lips, and looked directly at the pastor.

The Pastor gave a polite nod. Cold. Controlled.

Rum smiled like the devil and took a slow, obscene sip.

He was twenty now. Grown. Legal. Dangerous.

He’d moved back to this shithole of a town three months ago and already knew half its secrets. But Elijah? That one was locked up tight.

After the service, the Elijah and his family stood near the altar, exchanging pleasantries with the usual Sunday crowd. Rum stayed where he was, chewing his gum slow, watching Elijah talk to his mom. His voice was soft, his posture perfect.

Rum’s eyes slid down his back, lower, tracking the curve of him under those well-behaved slacks.

Goddamn.

He knew he shouldn’t think it. That Elijah was the last person who’d ever look at him like anything but a stain on the pew. But lately, Rum had started noticing things, like how Elijah’s eyes lingered a second too long. Like how his lips parted just slightly when Rum walked in.

The boy was cracking.

And Rum was going to break him.

“Holy shit,” Rum muttered, low and amused. “Now I don’t even know if I want to fvck the Pastor... or let the Pastor's son rail me into the floorboards.”

And the worst part?

He wasn’t even kidding.

______

It was late afternoon when Rum came back to church.

The place was nearly empty, stained glass glowing dull with the last bleed of sunlight. The silence felt thicker than usual, like it knew he was about to say something unholy.

He looked like the devil’s date.

The dress clung to him, black, thin-strapped, indecent. It dipped low at the back, rose high on the thighs. No shame. No apology. Just bare legs and skin that glowed like sin under dim chapel light. He’d even worn heels. Patent leather. Just to be a díck.

Click. Click. Click.

Every step echoed as he made his way down the aisle. The confessional waited at the side, wood dark and creaking, like it knew what he was about to do.

Rum slipped inside.

He heard the other side click open a moment later—quiet, hesitant.

"Ru—"

"I need to confess," Rum cut in, eyes fluttering shut, head leaning back against the wooden panel. “I needed to talk to someone. About my... urges.”

A pause.

“Go on.”

Rum bit his lip.

“I’ve been having thoughts. Bad ones. Wanting to do things. Needing things done to me.”

Elijah didn’t speak. But Rum could hear his breathing. Measured. Controlled.

Barely.

“I want to be fvcked,” Rum said, slow and deliberate. “I want someone to shove me down, rip this dress up, and split me open on their cóck.”

Silence.

Then a low exhale.

Rum’s hand moved, delicate, obscene—slipping under the hem of his dress. The lace of his thong barely covered anything.

“I’m touching myself,” he said, voice light as a hymn.

“Rum.”

Elijah’s voice was strained. Full of warning. Full of want.

“Don’t stop me now,” Rum whispered. “You can leave.”

His fingers brushed over his cóck, half-hard, leaking, trapped against his thigh and aching for friction. He slid his palm down, slow, curling around it.

“Do you think I’m disgusting?” he asked, teasing. “Touching myself in church. In front of a man of God.”

“You’re twisted.”

“And hard,” Rum breathed. “Bet you are too.”

A pause.

“I’ve been thinking about it for days,” Rum continued. “You. Pressed up against me. Shoving my legs open. Telling me to shut the fvck up while you ruin me.”

A sharp shift of movement on the other side. Wood creaked.

Rum moaned—soft, breathy, dangerous.

“I want to choke on it, Elijah,” he said. “I want to feel it hit the back of my throat. I want you to fuck me so hard I forget how to walk.”

The divider between them shook slightly, just a tremor. Rum’s hips lifted into his own hand, strokes faster now, teasing the head, rolling his thumb over it.

“I’m getting close,” he whispered, panting. “Are you hard? Are you fvcking throbbing thinking about splitting me open in your father’s church?”

“Rum—” Elijah’s voice cracked like glass.

Rum bit his lip hard, head dropping forward.

Then the divider slammed open.

The door opened. Elijah stood there, flushed and furious, chest rising and falling like he’d just committed a crime.

“Get in here,” he said, voice raw.

Rum didn’t wait. He crawled into Elijah’s side like a good little sinner.

Elijah shoved Rum against the wall the moment the curtain fell closed.

The kiss was brutal. Teeth. Tongue. Months of tension burning into bruises. Rum móaned into his mouth, grinding his hips up, hands fisting in Elijah’s shirt.

“Fvcking hell,” Elijah growled. “You’ve been begging for this.”

Rum laughed breathlessly. “Then take it.”

Elijah spun him, face pressed to the booth wall, dress shoved up to his waist. He dragged his hand down between Rum’s cheeks, felt the slick warmth already there.

“You’re wet.”

“I prepped before I came,” Rum panted. “Didn’t think you’d last long.”

Elijah’s fingers sank in, two at once. Rum gasped, arching, nails scraping against wood.

“You’re such a slut.”

“Then fuck your slut.”

Elijah didn’t have to ask again.

He spat into his palm, slicked himself up fast and messy, and gripped Rum’s hips with a force that promised bruises. The moment the blunt head of his cóck pressed against Rum’s entrance, both of them exhaled like they'd been underwater, like this was air after months of drowning in denial.

Then Elijah pushed in. Not slow. Not gentle.

He bottomed out in one brutal thrust, tearing a cry from Rum’s throat that echoed through the booth like a damnation.

“Fvck—Elijah—”

Elijah’s hands tightened. “So fvcking tight,” he hissed. “You wanted this?”

“I want everything,” Rum gasped, forehead against the wooden panel, eyes fluttering shut. “Want you to use me. Ruin me. In this fvcking box. While your father prays outside.”

That snapped something.

Elijah started to move, deep, punishing thrusts that rocked Rum forward with each slam. The wall creaked beneath his palms, wood biting into his skin. But all Rum could feel was Elijah splitting him open, filling him like he’d waited his whole damn life to claim this filth.

Rum whimpered, dizzy with how hard he was getting pounded.

Every thrust hit home. Sharp, perfect, relentless. Elijah moved like he’d waited for years to lose control, and now that he had, he was never taking it back.

The sounds were obscene, slick skin, heavy breathing, the brutal rhythm of flesh meeting flesh. Rum could barely keep upright, clinging to the wall as Elijah wrecked him from behind.

One hand slid around his throat, tugging him back.

“I should be praying,” Elijah growled against his ear.

“You are,” Rum moaned, pushing back onto him. “This is prayer.”

Elijah shoved deeper, harder, fingers closing just enough to make Rum’s breath stutter.

“You love this?” he panted. “Getting used in God’s house? Defiling the confessional?”

“Yes—fvck—yes. Defile me.”

Elijah’s control snapped.

He fvcked him harder, faster, grunting with each thrust, voice unraveling into broken sounds of lust. His fingers found Rum’s cock again, slick and leaking—and stroked in rhythm, pumping him like he wanted to force the orgasm out.

Rum cried out, wrecked and perfect, his back arching as he spasmed around Elijah’s cóck.

He came with a choked sob, spilling into Elijah’s hand, his entire body trembling as pleasure crashed over him like holy fire.

Elijah didn’t stop.

He fvcked him through it, chasing his own end like a man possessed. A few more savage thrusts, then Elijah slammed in deep, his grip bruising, cóck pulsing as he came hard inside Rum, filling him with every last drop, gasping his name like confession.

Rum slumped forward against the booth, sweat-soaked and shaking, cúm dripping down his thigh.

Elijah stayed pressed to his back, forehead against the wood, still inside him, still breathing like he couldn’t believe what he’d just done.

“God,” he whispered.

Rum chuckled hoarsely, lips curling. “You think He’s still listening?”

Silence.

Then Elijah pulled out slowly, watching his cúm slide out of Rum’s ruined hole.

Rum turned, eyes half-lidded, mascara smudged, face flushed.

“I’d sin again for you,” he said softly. “I’d sin better.”

And Elijah—

Elijah was already hardening again.

Because once you fuck a sinner in the confessional, you don’t stop.

You preach with your cóck.