After the final blessing on Sunday, the church emptied quickly. The heavy wooden doors thudded shut, leaving only the soft glow of the sanctuary lamp and the faint scent of incense lingering in the air.
Father Elias locked the main doors from the inside.
“Stay exactly where you are, Timothy,” he said calmly, voice carrying through the empty nave. “The others will be joining us shortly.”
Timothy remained on his back beneath the altar, legs still spread, lips swollen and shiny, his cassock and surplice rumpled and stained with spit and pre-c*m. His c**k throbbed untouched in his trousers, aching from the long, denied arousal during Mass.
He heard three sets of footsteps approaching from the sacristy.
The other altar boys appeared: nineteen-year-old Marcus, tall and athletic with dark ha
