by Lola Darling
She always complained about that, after her first attempt. How Monica and I never left her alone, never let her breathe.
Then a deep voice interrupts my approach.
“No talking.”
I freeze in my tracks, still half-hidden from the bench by the line of bushes. I recognize that voice, though I only met him for a few minutes earlier, when Monica insisted on introducing the two of us, despite my reservations (and, okay, the fact that I’d called him an asshole to her face earlier in the day).
Jonathan.
Which must mean Monica is with him.
I should back away now. Leave them be, to whatever the fuck they’re doing. But some uncontrollable urge possesses me. Curiosity, maybe, or maybe something darker. I take half a step closer, until I can see between the drying leaves of the fauna between us.
Monica is sitting straight on the bench, Jonathan wrapped around her like he’s taking control.
He is, actually. I watch him pinch her breast through her sweater, and her head falls back on her neck, lips parting in another faint gasp. That explains the sound that led me here.
In spite of myself, in spite of the fact that I’m not into Monica at all, not like that, I can feel my cock beginning to twitch again, stiffening. I’m not really thinking about them, as I watch them on the bench. I’m thinking about Father Kendrick, about his warm, strong hands, and the salty flavor of his finger on my tongue.
I’m thinking about him as I watch Jonathan put his finger in Monica’s mouth.
“Make this wet.”
She sucks on his finger the way I want to suck Father Kendrick’s cock. Hard, wet, sloppy, like she’d give this man whatever he wanted.
“Your legs are crossed. Spread them,” he orders, after making her look at him.
I watch her obey his every command, unzipping her pants when ordered, touching herself at his command. The weight of my own need hangs heavy between my legs, painful at this point. I’m so fucking hard that I’m going to need to sneak off to a private corner of my own, preferably one where I can close my eyes and picture the Father on his knees in front of me as I wrap my fist around myself.
But then a hot, warm body presses up against mine. I don’t even need to turn around. I can fucking smell him, that infuriating, addictive scent, sandalwood and salt and still a hint of frankincense and myrrh still clinging to him from mass.
I didn’t know he was coming to the wake. But of course he would. Why wouldn’t he? He’d been at the mass.
“Father Kendrick.” I tilt my head toward him, but before I can meet his eyes, he rests his hand on my jaw and turns my face forward again, making sure I’m watching the scene before us. Monica has her hands down her jeans now, her face turned to Jonathan, eyes half-closed, lost in pleasure at his order.
“Paul,” he corrects. A tiny smirk works its way onto my mouth at that.
“Paul,” I repeat.
His hand drips down my jawline. His fingers are rough against my stubble, a match striking a matchbox. Flames ignite inside me. Fucking hell, I’ve never been this hard in my life. I can already feel a drip of pre-cum against the fabric of my boxers. If it were possible to come without touching my dick, I think I would have just at the feel of his hand as it wraps around my neck, inching down my body slowly.
He is in control, and he knows it. His hand glides over my chest, digging into my muscles, tracing my pecks, pinching at the hard little buds of my nipples through the thin fabric of my shirt. I expect him to stop there, tear my shirt off, trace his hands over my abs, maybe, but he doesn’t.
That hand keeps sliding, down my chest, pressing into every ridge of my abs. His body folds over and behind mine, and I can feel the hard dig of his cock against my ass cheek. Fuck. Just fucking feel the size of him. He must be at least 9 or 10 inches long, and thick. I’ve never been with a man that large before.
Or one this commanding.
His hand reaches the hem of my jeans, and he leans in, his lip brushing my ear, his stubble scraping the side of my cheek. “Undo them,” he says.
I’ve been thinking about this all day. Fuck, for the last two days and nights, really. Ever since I met him in that pew. Ever since his skin first touched mine.
I turn my head, lips groping for his, but he pulls away and grips my balls through the crotch of my jeans in response. Not too hard, not enough to really hurt, but enough to send a shockwave of sensation through my body. Enough to warn me.
“Don’t move unless I tell you to,” he says, and his voice has gone low and dark with danger now.
God it’s fucking hot.
I wet my lips, my eyes already half-shut with pleasure. His fingers still grip my balls, the pressure straddling that delectable border between pleasure and pain, desire and ache. “Yes, Father,” I reply, and my own voice comes out throaty, like I’m so choked with lust I can hardly speak.
Which is true.
So, still facing front, not looking at him, I reach down and undo the zipper of my jeans, spreading them apart for him.
“Kneel,” he hisses, and I swear my cock jumps at the sound of his voice, the extra flow of blood hits it so hard.
I drop to my knees without hesitation. Whatever he wants from me, whatever he wants to do to me, he can have it. I’ll give it all to him.
He kneels behind me, and I don’t even care that my knees are digging into the flower beds of the yard, or that anyone could wander down from the house and find us here like this. I don’t give a fuck. I’ve lost the ability to think about anything but this man and his hands and his mouth and his voice and his scent.
His one hand shoves my boxers down, my cock springing free, so hard it rises nearly vertical, pointed up at my chest right now. His other hand rises to my mouth again.
“Lick,” he commands.
I trail the flat of my tongue up his palm until I reach his fingertips, and then I suck his index and middle fingers into my mouth, swallowing them all the way down to the base of his digits. I wrap my tongue around his fingers, coat them in my saliva, and the whole time that now-familiar taste of him rushes back in, fills my senses. This is his body, given up for me. Or is it vice versa, mine for his?
Either way, it’s a deal with the devil I’m willing to make.
He pulls his fingers from my mouth, holds his palm flat before me again, but I already know what he wants. I lick his thumb next, from the fat bulb at the bottom to the hard little callous at the end, then dip my tongue into the crevice between his thumb and his forefinger. I lick and suck until he’s drenched, and I’d have kept going except he pulls his hand away without warning, drops it to slide wetly down the faint V of muscles leading to my groin.
I grit my teeth, let a faint groan escape through them, and he tuts a little behind me.
“No sound,” he orders. “Not this time.”
With difficulty, I clamp my mouth shut, lips pressed hard together to remind myself. I have a feeling this is an order I’ll be hard-pressed to keep.
Then his hand folds around the base of my cock, thumb above me, fingers below, pushing at my taint, and I stop worrying. Spots dart across the corners of my vision, that’s how little blood is left keeping me upright. He wraps that hand around me slowly, so damn fucking slowly that my hips buck of their own volition, trying to shove forward into him, instinctual.
“I said don’t move,” he repeats, and his other hand dips between my legs to cup my balls, warm rough fingers a warning against my sensitive skin.
It takes every ounce of self-control I possess to hold myself there, balanced on my knees, unmoving, hips not thrusting, no sound coming from my throat, as he begins to slide his hand up my length. At the tip of my cock, he brushes his thumb across me to collect the bead of pre-cum moisture from my tip. He smears this all over the head of my dick, then rubs his palm down my head as he pulls his hand back down my length.
He does it slow at first, torturously slow. A faint whimper of frustration escapes without my permission, before I wrestl
e my voice box back under control. I wait, expecting punishment, retribution, but he is forgiving this time.
Suddenly, his hand tightens around me and starts to move in earnest. He pumps up and down my length, grabbing my hips with his other arm and pulling my body against his, so our narrow hips dig into each other’s and his cock presses hard against the soft flesh of my ass. He drives his hand up and down my length mercilessly, his rhythm increasing with every shove, until the dots at the edges of my vision take over entirely, and there’s only a white-hot haze, with him at the other end of it.
I’m at the brink faster than I care to admit, no amount of clenching and gritting my teeth and willing myself to hold on, to make this sensation last as long as possible can stop me getting there. Just when I decide to let go, to let the orgasm take control, his hand drops my cock entirely.
I can’t help it this time—I gasp aloud, half-protest and half-desperation. He can’t leave me like this. I need to come. I’m dying from it, my cock so thick and heavy between my legs that I won’t be able to stand if I don’t finish here and now.
“Do you want to come, my son?” His voice is a purr, a self-satisfied smirk, right behind my ear. Then his lips press the soft spot just beneath my earlobe, and I shudder, my whole body shaking with need.
“Yes, Father. Please.”
“You’ll need to ask.”
I grind my molars together. “I said please, Father.”
“Please what?”
I swallow hard, struggling to think through the haze of want. “Please let me come.”
He waits a single, infuriatingly long moment. It might only be a second, but caught in this juxtaposition between heaven and hell where I am, balanced on the brink, it feels like an eternity. Then without warning, his hand clamps back around my cock. “Come,” he orders, and I had no idea I could do that, come on command, but oh God, I do.
I double over with the force of my orgasm, my cum spilling onto the ground in front of us, all over his hand, almost my jeans, but he catches it deftly, with a practiced move, his palm spreading to collect every drop that didn’t already hit the dirt of the garden.
I keep going, longer than I ever have before, emptying myself into his palm, my cock spasming hard with every fresh wave of cum. Finally, with a huge gasp for air, I finish, and he slides his hand over me, coating my dick in my own cum, wiping it across my crotch too, so I’ll feel it all day long, even when I pull my jeans and boxers back up.
Then he lifts his hand to my face, a faint sheen of my juices still coating his fingers and palm.
“Clean it off,” he says.
I lick every inch of his palm again, tasting myself and him mingled together, a new flavor every bit as intoxicating as him on his own, because it’s both of us combined. I lick and suck until his fingers and palm are cleaned of every drop of me, and I would have kept running my tongue over his calloused fingers—calloused from what, I wonder, what does this priest face in his life to make his hands so world-weary? —except he stills me with a soft grip on my shoulders, and pulls his hand away.
I turn around now, wanting to reach for him, feel him against me once more. But he’s already standing, dusting dirt from his knees.
I stuff myself back into my jeans, shoving to my feet as I pull the zipper. “Paul,” I start, wanting to grab his shoulders, draw him against me. Wanting to feel those full lips against mine.
But he’s already turning away from me, a heavy shoulder blocking my path. “That was a one-time thing,” he says, those green eyes fixated on the house, refusing to meet mine.
“Paul,” I repeat, a little louder. A little angry, now. How can he do that, go from completely in control of me, ruling over me, giving me more pleasure than I knew was possible, straight into this closed-off robotic expression?
“I can’t do this,” he says, his voice hard as iron. Before I can wrap my head around this, before I can come up with anything even approaching an adequate reply—what the fuck do you mean, you just did it, maybe, or perhaps, why the fuck not—he’s already walking back up the path out of the garden, toward the house, the crowd of people.
The wake, which until this moment I had forgotten entirely about.
Figures. Just when I realize what could fix me, what could remove me from my own pain long enough to make the world seem semi-okay again, it’s taken away.
Fact of the matter is, I’ve never felt as right as when Paul had his hands on me, his voice in my ear.
And from the looks of it, I’ll never feel that right again.
I turn to follow Paul into the house, when my foot nudges something in the soft loam of the garden dirt. I glance down at it, lean over to reach for the object.
A simple gold chain, attached to a watch I don’t recognize. It’s a little dirty from where it fell, but otherwise undamaged thanks to the soft dirt here, freshly churned around a little patch of flowers Gabby and Monica had been working on.
I brush the dirt from the back of the watch and turn it over in my palm.
To Paul, reads a small, curling inscription across the back. All my love, Marcus.
Chapter Five
Three days have passed. Three days since the wake, since we put my sister into the ground.
I’ve lost count of how many hours it’s been now, since her death. It doesn’t seem worth counting them anymore. Why bother? There’s only forever left to live through.
I’m not eating. Barely sleeping. I lie awake at night and think about the only thing that distracts me from the ache in my chest every time.
Him.
I picture his firm body naked before me. I picture myself running my hands over him, worshipful, as he grips my hair in his fist, directing my head where he wants it to go, toward his gorgeous, thick cock, curved up toward me like it’s begging me to suck it dry.
I picture that cock poised behind me, parting my ass cheeks, teasing at my entrance.
I picture him fucking me the way I’ve only ever dreamed of being fucked. Until I’m helpless to resist. Until I’m so bruised I can’t walk the next day.
I failed to find Father Paul Kendrick at the wake to return the watch he dropped in the garden. If I’m honest, I didn’t try all that hard. At night, when it’s gotten too late and my eyes have gone dry from staring wide-eyed at my ceiling, I flick on my bedside light and study the inscription again. Run my fingers over the smooth metal that he touched, that he carried in his pocket with him for who knows how long.
But now, after three days of letting that tiny little keepsake soothe me, I know I need to do the right thing. Return it.
So, first thing after I finish calling the manager of the hotel where we’ve got a gig next weekend, what will be our first without Gabby—another painful jolt, another pang in my heart—I hop into my car and drive to the church. Funny, how I spent years avoiding this place, and now it seems that I’m here all the damn time.
I guess it’s true what my distant relatives say, about tragedy driving the wayward Catholics back to mass. But this probably wasn’t how the conservative Catholics who raised me pictured this going, when they told me that as a rebellious teenager. Certainly they didn’t imagine the sexy, dominant gay priest who would beckon me back into the church, anyway.
But when I climb the steps into the church and pace the empty halls, my heart sinks in disappointment. He’s not here.
It takes me a while to find the little office off to the side, through the attached school where they teach Sunday school every weekend. Voices drift through the semi-deserted halls, so I follow them to a room with a half open door. The voices hush when the floor creaks beneath me, and I hear the high-pitched, muffled laughter of a woman, followed by the soft sound of a slap against a fabric-encased body part.
Sounds like I’m not the only one who’s been inspired to mess around this close to church.
A moment later, a brunette with flyaway curls sticks her head into the hallway. Her eyes lock onto mine, and her cheeks flush as she pats at her mor
e-mussed-than-it-probably-was-a-few-minutes-ago hair. “Can I help you?” she asks breathlessly.
“I’m looking for Pa—Father Kendrick?” I correct myself mid-speech. After all, how many parishioners would be on a first name basis with the new priest? I don’t want to draw any more attention to myself than necessary.
Strictly speaking, if I really didn’t want to draw any attention, I’d just leave the watch with this woman and skip out of here. Go back to swiping through the bottomless pit of vapid hotties I found on that dating app where I met Adam. Surely not all of them are as useless as he turned out to be.
But I can’t shake my memories of Paul. Can’t forget the feeling of his hand wrapped around my cock, quite literally driving me to my knees, or the sound of his harsh voice in my ear, taking me over in a way I never even knew I craved.
“He works at A Safe Place on Tuesdays,” the woman says, jerking a thumb toward a little flyer tacked to the bulletin board.
It takes me a moment to piece together that it’s even Tuesday today. God, I’m a fucking mess. But I follow her gesture to the little flyer, remove it from its thumbtack and read the description across the top.
A Safe Place for children of all ages, is a charity run by … blah blah. I read between the lines.
It’s a halfway house.
I open my mouth to ask the woman what he does there, if he’s preaching, if it’s a private event or what. But she’s already slipped back inside her side office, the door shutting firmly behind her this time. The soft laughter is even louder now, like she’s assessed me and decided I’m not a threat, so she can be as loud as she wants with whoever she’s got inside there.
With a shrug, I tuck the flyer into my back pocket. There’s an address at the top, not a far drive from here.
And I’ve got a watch to return.
