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Benoit silently despairs of the state of his joints as he lowers to his knees before Father Jud.
The heavy curtain of the confessional drapes along his back, hiding him from view almost entirely, save his feet, which stick out rather unfortunately. Benoit pays it no mind—indeed, he feels a thrill comparable to the one he gets when the pieces of a mystery click together at the thought of someone wandering inside and catching a glimpse of his polished shoes—focusing on the way dim light plays on one side of Father Jud’s face, the rest of it obscured in shadows. He looks down at Benoit from where he’s perched at his seat, almost regal in his purple vestments, his brows furrowed in confusion despite a flicker of faint amusement, which—Benoit, the great detective that he is, notices—lifts the corner of his lips minutely in a semblance of a smile.
The fabric of the vestments is soft underneath Benoit’s hands when he settles them on Father Jud’s knees, feeling their sharpness. The dull thud they make on the wooden walls of the confessional when Father Jud spreads them as far as they can go sounds too loud in the confined space they share. Benoit trails his palms further, sliding over muscled legs hidden under cloth.
Father Jud’s fingers are curled together, polished beads of a rosary twisted around them. They unfurl under Benoit’s touch with little hesitation, the rosary sliding to the side of the seat to be lost somewhere between Father Jud’s thigh and the confessional wall. His knuckles, when Benoit thumbs at them, seem rough and reddened, probably from the chill that seeps through the walls of the church, most likely from the punching bag that has found residence in the corner of his room at the rectory.
Benoit lifts his head at the little exhale from above, cataloguing the twitch of Father Jud’s brow, the rising of his chest with each breath, the dilation of his pupils, which follow the motion of Benoit’s tongue as he slides it over his bottom lip. Flickers of light dance in his dark curls, specks of dust floating in the air barely perceptible.
Father Jud eases one of his hands, places it on top of Benoit’s head, softly urges him to lay it down, close to where their hands are intertwined on Father Jud’s legs, his forehead cushioned by the vestments. He caresses his hair with the same gentleness he uses to comfort the parishioners. From experience, Benoit knows that he can grip it with the same fervor he grips the rosary, can cling to it with the same reverence he clings to the word of God. For Benoit, who considers himself to be a proud heretic, this is another reason to fuel his pride.
Benoit lets his empty hand fall down, turns his head so that his cheek lies on the cool ornate material, touches the hem of the vestments—he never quite managed to remember the names and purposes of all the pieces—and slips his fingers under the cloth. The fabric bunches at his elbow as he travels higher, finds the jut of an ankle, follows the seam of Father Jud’s pants with his thumb until it reaches the inner thigh, draws a couple of slow circles. He drops a kiss to a knee freed from the weight of the vestments; his fingers sneak higher still, their tips careful as they follow the hard heat hidden underneath the pants.
A sharp intake of breath rattles the tense silence. Benoit swallows the smirk that threatens to escape but allows the mirth to play in his eyes as he looks up, gratified to see a dusting of pink on high cheekbones, a glimpse of teeth through parted lips. The hand in his hair tightens and, after a moment of hesitation, tugs Benoit’s head closer to where Father Jud seems to need it most.
Benoit, the most ardent, the most devoted follower of Father Jud, obliges; his nose tingles with the smell of myrrh, and soap, and hot wax, and something less spiritual, something deliciously secular and human, as he presses his face to the front of a pair of slacks. A hushed “shit,” more an exhale than a murmur, reaches his ears when Benoit finds the button and pushes it through the hole, tugs the zipper down, and turns his head up slightly to pass his lips over a damp spot darkening the simple grey underwear.
Muscles under his hands tighten, thighs surging up for a second, then relax, legs falling impossibly further apart. Father Jud slides forward a little as Benoit’s fingers find their way under the elastic and tug it down, letting it off with a snap just below tightly drawn balls.
Benoit, shooting a brief glance up to witness the deepening blush and the nervous fluttering of nostrils, lets saliva pool in his mouth and opens it to wrap around the equally wet head. Elated, he savors the taste, musky and heady, and the fingers that subconsciously tug at his hair just on the right side of painful. As he swallows and slides down, careful so that his teeth don’t graze the sensitive flesh, his lips tight and tingly, Benoit, pushing vestments more out of his way, gets to work with single-minded focus. He pays attention to the underside, presses in with his tongue, breathes through his nose, hollows out his cheeks, circles his fingers firmly around the base. The obscene wet sounds, gasps, and curses—and occasional hushed “Gods” and “Jesuses”—fill the confessional, echoing in the small space.
Benoit rewards Father Jud with a particularly harsh suck, hums in appreciation deep in his throat when he feels an ankle press at his own crotch, forgotten and straining his pants, and adjusts his stance to grind against it. A thought about the seeming indignity of his position crosses his mind, here and gone in an instant.
Benoit kneels at the altar of the rational. Similarly, he kneels at the altar of Father Jud.
Sweat gathers at the nape of his neck under the collar of his jacket; his hair falls onto his face and is swept away by trembling fingers, gathered into a fist on top of his head. The guiding hand of Father Jud nudges him closer, holds him still as his hips snap up, lacking control or precision. Benoit allows it to happen, is glad to bear witness to such agitation, is pleased beyond measure to be the reason for it, cannot keep the appreciative moan from slipping out, muffled.
He feels fifteen again, fumbling in one of the empty rooms of Catholic school with his fellow classmate, spoiling his pants in mere minutes.
A dull thump indicates Father Jud’s head being thrown back, a shaky inhale and stillness, a desperate clutch at Benoit’s hair indicates his closeness. Benoit, rarely one to abandon his endeavors without seeing them to an end, stays put, eases his throat, licks at the slit, and swallows down every last drop of his sacramental.
After he grinds his hips firmer into an ankle supporting him, after he feels the searing band of pleasure coiling inside him snap with one more pull on his hair, as he lays his head down, breathing harshly, gasping for air, he licks his lips and, looking heavenwards, he says, “Forgive me, Father Jud, for I have sinned.”