Poppy
one year later
Three a.m. Christmas morning. You have me sitting at the edge of a pew, my hands folded in my lap. I wanted this, I remind myself. I asked for this. But still, I’m nervous. Nervous that we’ll get caught certainly, (although it’s Jordan’s church and I know he won’t be back inside until dawn.) And I’m nervous about why—why we are acting out this fantasy or memory or whatever it is. It makes me nervous how much I want it, how much I dream about it. And it makes me nervous how aroused I am right now, doing nothing more than waiting for you in a dark, empty church.
When you asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I’m sure this wasn’t what you expected to hear.
Your footsteps echo throughout the lofty sanctuary, loud and clear in the silence, and then I feel it, the gentle tap of two fingers on my shoulder, and I look up.
I practically come just by looking at you.
The flickering glow of candles illuminates your cheekbones, your square jaw, your nose that’s bumped slightly in the middle from the time your brother pushed you face-first off a trampoline. Your face is scruffed with a day-old beard, and your hair has grown a little longer than you usually wear it, just long enough for me to slip my fingers through and grab onto. A small smile is on your wide mouth, just a hint of that dimple I love so much, and as always, you’re so hot and intensely fuckable that I have to restrain myself from diving for your dick.
But it’s what you’re wearing that sets me off: belted black pants, long-sleeved black shirt, and—God help me—your collar.
Your collar, snowy white against the black of your shirt and setting off the strong lines of your throat. Your collar, which looks so natural on you, as if you’d never stopped wearing it. As if you were born to wear it. Did you know that you walk differently with that collar on? Stand differently? As if you’re bearing both a burden and a joy at the same time. It’s fascinating and beautiful and so fucking magnetic.
“I’m Father Bell,” you say, as if we’re meeting for the first time. “What brings you to the church today?”
Role-play. We haven’t done it very often, so even though my heart is already racing and my thighs are already squeezing together at the sight of you in your collar, I feel a little self-conscious when I say, “I’ve never really been in a church before. I guess I’m just looking for guidance.”
We’re play-acting a version of how we first met. Me, lost and vulnerable, wandering into a church. You, intelligent and friendly and trying not to notice how your body responds to me.
You sit down on the pew, keeping two careful feet between us. For propriety. For morality. If this had been five years ago, I would have looked down, abashed at my own desire for you. I would have tilted my body away, trying to preserve your vows as I battled off the strongest attraction I’d ever felt in my life. But five years ago, we were in a church to pray.
Tonight, we are here to play.
I slide closer to you, making a show of adjusting my skirt so that you can see the top of my stocking and the clip of my garter belt. Your breath catches and our gazes meet momentarily. Then you blink away and clear your throat. “I’m happy to give any guidance you might like.”
“And company too?” I let my hand drift over yours for the barest second before pulling it away. “I’m so lonely.”
“Your loneliness can be cured through worship. And discipline.” Your voice goes dangerous on that last word, and I shiver.
“Discipline?” I say in my breathiest voice, the one I know drives you mad.
“Spiritual discipline,” you clarify sternly.
I unfasten the top two buttons of my sheer white blouse, reaching past the expensive fabric to run my fingers along my neck. You watch those fingers with intensity, swallowing as I dip my fingers lower to trace along the lacy edges of my bra. I let my legs uncross and begin to fall open…
“Enough,” you say, truly stern now, those green eyes flashing. “Do you think it’s acceptable to tempt a man of God? To torment him?”
Torment him, torment him.
The words reverberate throughout the room, furious echoes coming back to rebuke me. Searing rage rolls off you in waves and you abruptly stand, the outline of that delicious cock straining against your pants. You grab my wrist and yank me roughly to my feet, dragging me away from the pew and into the wide center aisle, where you throw me onto my knees.
This is part of it, I know, a part we had discussed and set boundaries for. But your anger feels so real right now, and my blood is pounding with equal parts adrenaline and lust, and I can’t help but wonder if this fury you’re summoning comes from a real place, real memories. Did you feel like I was some sort of Jezebel come to torment you back when we first met? I often felt like I was, and sometimes I still feel like that. But as you’ve told me, where there’s guilt, there’s grace, and right now my grace is fisting a hand in my hair and forcing me to look up.
I smile—I can’t help it. You’re so fucking handsome and strong right now, so forbidden in that collar, and I love that you’re mine. I love it so damn much that it’s hard to breathe sometimes.
You frown at my smile. Your face is kinglike, displeased and radiating with power, and your pulse jumps on the side of your throat. “Is this amusing to you?” you demand, pulling my hair harder.
I wince but my smile recovers. I can’t help it, really. “I’m just happy,” I confess.
For a moment, your authoritative veneer thins and the sweet, tender man inside shines through it like a light. I know what I said has nestled itself against your heart. You give me an almost imperceptible wink followed by a swift grin, and then you’re back to business, back to your role as my personal sex apostle. “Are you happy to be on your knees?” you growl.
I nod, licking my lips.
You growl again, this time without words, the hand not in my hair reaching for your belt buckle. With a few deft moves, your buckle and zipper are open and your fly is parted. Now my mouth really is watering, and you tease me, drawing out your cock but at first only tracing the tip along my lips, rubbing the underside of your shaft on my face. “Open,” you say, and I do. You shove in rough and hard, and I moan at the silky feel of your skin, the way my tongue can trace the wandering paths of your veins.
“You’re enjoying this,” you accuse. “Slut.”
Oh God. My panties. So wet at that one terrible word.
You withdraw, your cock jutting up wet and dark from your pants. “What to do with a bad girl who enjoys her punishments, hmm? I could fuck your mouth, but I already know you like that too much. I could fuck your cunt, but a whore like you would get off on that, wouldn’t she?”
Slut. Bad girl. Whore.
Awful words. Disrespectful words. But when the man I love calls me these things in private, my body responds enthusiastically.
You squat and reach under my skirt, impatiently nudging my knees farther apart with your hand. And then a finger is there, pushing aside my soaked panties and probing up. I gasp.
“So wet,” you say, disgusted. You add another finger, your thumb working on my clit, and I can feel how slippery my pussy is, how it’s making your skin slippery too. You know what you’re doing as you crook your fingers and press into my secret spot, but you still glare at me as my cunt clenches around your fingers and as I ride out the waves on your hand. Your dick is practically carved from granite right now, stone hard and darker than the rest of you. I can see beads of pre-cum leaking from the tip. I want to lick them.
You notice where my eyes are going. “No. You can’t have it.”
It’s hard to manage a pout while my body is still coming down from climax, but I do it, and I see the ghost of a smirk on your lips before you regain control. You stand up and grab my elbows, forcing me to my feet as well.
“It’s time to confess your sins, little one,” you say ominously. And then we’re going toward the confessional.
This is the most pre-meditated part of our night together—lube, baby wipes and a towel are tucked under the confessional bench—yet I find myself completely lost in the moment as you drag me to the small wooden stall.
You sit, still keeping hold of me, and then you spin me so that I’m facing away from you. My skirt is pulled down and my panties torn off (I’ve learned to buy cheap ones when I know I’ll be fucking you.) The garters and stockings stay.
“Take off your blouse.” The slight hoarseness in your voice betrays you. I feel your hands roughly plumping and squeezing my ass as I do what you ask. “Now kick off your heels.”
I obey and then I look back at you over my shoulder.
You’re sitting with your legs spread and your feet flat on the floor, your pants lowered just enough for your cock to be free. Your jaw is set, your eyes are dark, and your hands are rough on my skin as you continue to fondle my ass.
You own this confessional. You own me.
I see you reach over for the small white tube, clicking it open and lazily dribbling the cold, clear gel onto your cock. The first time we did this, we used anointing oil, too desperate for each other to wait to find something more suitable. (Or at least something less blasphemous.) The memory makes my core heat up all over again, everything below my navel tingling and humming and alive.
“You’re making me sin,” you reprimand as your hand begins to slowly pump your cock. Lube glistens over the dark, hot skin, and I see you curl your fist tighter. “You’re making me do something I shouldn’t do. You’re making me want it. That’s very, very bad of you.”
Can a man look regal as he strokes himself? I don’t know, but that’s how you look right now, with the muscles of your arms and shoulders bunching beneath your shirt and your powerful legs splayed out and your magnificent cock so prominent and proud.
“Am I in trouble?” I ask coyly, batting my eyelashes.
“So much trouble,” you mutter and then one of your hands wraps around my waist and yanks me back and down.
The moment your dick presses between my cheeks, I feel my nervousness from earlier melt away. This is what we do, this is who we are. I can’t lie and tell you that you being a priest didn’t make me want you at first. I can’t lie and tell you that the forbidden beginning to our relationship doesn’t still get me hot, get me off sometimes when I think about it.
But at the heart of us, at the bedrock of our love, there is only raw trust and deeply rooted hope. Yes, I fell for you because you were a priest. But I stayed in love with you because you were you, Tyler Bell, smart and jealous and spacey, and devoted and tortured.
All of this I feel as the wide crest of your crown slowly pushes past the first ring of muscle and then the second, all while you are pressing me down onto you, impaling my tight ass on your erection. I focus on breathing and opening, on relaxing for you, breathing in controlled, shuddering breaths until my ass cheeks are pressed into your groin and I’m as far down as I can go. You’ve bottomed out, and you allow yourself a muttered fuck, that’s tight.
We pause like this, you leaning your forehead against my back and me speared on your cock, facing away from you and looking out of the open door of the confessional and into the empty sanctuary.
“Ready, lamb?” you whisper in my ear.
I hate not being able to see you, but it forces me to pay attention to everything else even more: the rasp of your voice, the rough pads of your fingers as they caress my breasts, the thick erection filling me up so full that I can barely stand it.
And then there’s no telling where the role-play ends and we begin anymore, because your hands move to my waist, lifting me up and down, up and down, and it’s rough enough that my safe word floats to the surface of my mind. But for every deep thrust where you bury yourself to the balls, for every whispered slut and make me come, make me fucking come, there is a light kiss between my shoulder blades, a hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
I love it. And by the end of it, the emotional charge of our play-acting and the sweetness lingering underneath and the brutal ass-fucking have all contributed to my mind feeling blissed out, spaced out, my orgasm erupting out of nothing and rippling through nothing, and I’m a body of contradictions—tense and relaxed, shuddering but calm, present but also soaring far above it all.
As I come, you move my ass onto your dick so hard and fast that I almost scream, and then you grunt lamb, and finally, you pulse deep and long inside of me, marking me as yours as you release, your fingers digging into my waist.
Te amo, you croon into my hair as we both come down. Te amo.
I love you.
“I love you too,” I mumble, my body too come-drunk to operate properly.
You chuckle at the way I’m slumped back against you, and then you’re helping me up, helping me clean myself before you help me dress again.
We are both sheepish as teenagers when we emerge from the confessional and into the sanctuary. You even have an adorable blush high in your cheeks as you pluck unconsciously at your collar. We will drive back to our hotel and then wake up in a few hours to spend Christmas with your parents. But first…
“That was the best Christmas present I’ve ever gotten,” I tell you, leaning up on my tiptoes to kiss your mouth. “Now can I give you yours?”
“Of course,” you say, amused and happy, and I skip off to my purse where I pull out the small box. As I hand it to you, I think about this year. About what we’ve lost, but also what we’ve gained. My flagship studio exceeding all expectations. The book deal for your memoir, which already has huge buzz a few months before it hits the shelves. A new place in the city. A better understanding of each other.
You tug the ribbon of the box and then carefully open the wrapping paper by sliding a finger under the seams. And when you see what’s inside the narrow box, tears fill your eyes.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” I tell you. “I’m scared. But I know that no matter what happens, we will endure it together.”
“Oh my God, lamb,” you breathe in wonder. The box tumbles to the ground as you reach for my face. And before your mouth crashes into mine in the happiest, sweetest kiss I’ve ever had, I catch sight of your present upturned on the ground.
A white stick with a little blue cross in the window. The answer to a hundred thousand prayers. Prayers that seem to swirl and dance around me now as you rejoice with me.
“Amen,” I murmur to those prayers, my lips moving against yours as I speak the word out loud. “Amen.”