Page 25 of Lake of Sin

“I am not here to talk about love. I am here to talk aboutus.Do you feel what I feel?”

He did not answer me, turning away in shame. I reached out and pulled his chin back towards me.

“Tell me,” I urged him. My eyes flickered down to where the bulge beneath his robes was growing steadily in size.

“Yes.”

I crowded against him, turning his body so we were facing the altar. Then I pushed him up the steps until we were beforethe pure marble slab, lined with a purple cloth and covered with candles and crosses.

I made sure to disturb none of it as I pressed Oliviero face down onto the mensa. Then I carefully rolled up his cassock until it was bunched around his neck, and his whole lower half lay exposed to me.

His legs quivered. His feet were as bare as our brethren’s, and I watched with desire as he strained on the tips of his toes, calf muscle bulging with the effort. He wore simple black shorts and a white linen shirt. I reached up, fingers gliding beneath the shirt to touch the belt of skin around his waist.

He shivered. “Wait?—”

I stopped moving but kept my fingers pressed to him. “No one has to know.”

“God will know,” he whispered.

“God does not care half as much as you think it or wish it. I called to him for my whole life. Only Asmodeus answered.”

“As is the devil’s way.” He was shivering, straining to look at me over his shoulder. But I wasn’t holding him down anymore. He could have stood and run at any time.

He was just like me.

“I am no devil, nor demon. I’m a man, same as you. And I have wanted you for years.”

He melted visibly, exhaling so shakily that he spread himself further across the mensa. One of the crosses wobbled precariously from a tap of his outstretched arms.

“If you participate and realise you were wrong—that youhatedit, and you are full of shame—then repent and tell the truth to the bishop. Tell him a demon of lust took the form of Don Alessandro and, to save your brethren, you gave yourself to ensure their purity.”

Oliviero quivered, “A lie.”

“Is it?” I ran my hands up his exposed legs and tugged gently at the shorts. “Are you telling me youdowant this?”

Oliviero gasped, evidently surprised at what he had said—at what he had realised about himself.

“I. . .” he whimpered. His body shifted away from my touch, though at times it would betray him, pressing back into me. His back was arched.

“Let me show you what I tore open Hell for,” I breathed against his skin.

Barely a second passed before I heard him relax. He shivered and turned his face away from me. I knew the urge to hide one’s face and I awarded him that vulnerability. He was regarding the cross, I thought. He was saying his own prayer.

But in the end, he could not resist.

“Yes.” Mouse-like, ever so quiet. “Yes.”

I gently pulled down his shorts.

Oliviero roughly inhaled, gasping as the chill touched his exposed ass. His skin was smooth, the hair fine in both colour and thickness. I gripped him, squeezing against the firm muscle. How good he looked stretched out like that. The swell of his balls hung beautifully between his legs. I pressed firmly against his lower back, encouraging him to spread further, and I caught a glimpse of his quivering hole.

I leaned into the crack between those two muscles and licked.

“Ah!”

Oliviero bucked in surprise, clenching hard. I pressed his cheeks apart, spreading them for better access. My gaze trickled down the length of Oliviero’s spine. I thought I was well past the days of considering myself a holy man, but I understood something in the alabaster perfection of his body; how easy it could be to worship.

I buried my face right in the middle of him, slowly, as if not to spook an animal. I nuzzled, opening my breath to exhalewarm breath. It was enough to make Oliviero pigeon-toed, knees turning inward as he fought himself. He bowed his head, and I heard a soft, near-impatient whine. Vassago had made me love this, and how I wanted to see Oliviero melt with pleasure. I grazed my stubble against him, and he bucked toward me. His balls lurched upwards, and I pressed the broad, flat span of my tongue to his hole. Oliviero’s cry was ragged. I dragged my tongue over him in long laps, and then in circling motions, teasing at the knotted muscle as it pulsed and squeezed. The sound grew increasingly sloppy; there was the wetness, my rough breathing, and Oliviero’s whines. But I could draw more out of him: I wanted to hear him beg, to moan my name, to become so wanton and free that he was transformed by his pleasure. I pressed the tip of my tongue to him and pushed, pushed,pushedinside. Splayed as he was, I was the one who bounced back and forth, neck bobbing to fuck forward with my tongue. Every thrust made Oliviero squirm, his knees turning inward.

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