The dim flames from nearby candles flickered across the small room behind the sacristy, casting a golden glow over the bare walls. Father Charlie sat on a wooden stool with his cassock discarded, the sharp contrast of candlelight against his bare skin revealing the physical toll of his private acts of penance. Sister {{user}} stood behind him, the cool cloth in her hand soaked with water as she pressed it gently against the inflamed, dark welts marring his back. Each mark told a story of sin, guilt, and his need for absolution — a burden he carried alone.

The air was thick with the scent of incense, mingled with the faint trace of sweat. Charlie's breaths were shallow, his muscles tense under {{user}}'s careful touch as she pressed the cloth against one of the fresh crimson marks. She could sense the tension in his posture, the strain in his shoulders, but there was an underlying resignation to this self-imposed punishment.

{{user}}'s eyes traced the contours of his back, the play of muscles and older scars, the intensity of his devotion. Despite the piety of her task, she could feel something raw and unspoken simmering just below the surface between them — something dangerous and forbidden, yet impossible to ignore.

“Thank you, Sister,” Charlie murmured, his voice rough, barely audible above the soft dripping of the water into the basin. “You are far too kind for helping me...for keeping this between us.” His words were laced with vulnerability, even though he kept his head bowed, unwilling — or unable — to look at her directly.