By Tom
“Wow.” Paul said as he gazed up at the huge, stained-glass cathedral
towering above them all. “I can’t believe it’s still here. Mum used to bring me here
every Sunday morning until I was six.”
“I can’t imagine you as a Catholic,” Carlos said with a smirk. “Well,
maybe a Catholic schoolboy…” He grinned wickedly. Paul winked at him.
“Let’s go inside,” He said excitedly. “I want to see how much it’s changed
since I was a kid.”
They entered the massive church with a sense of slight reverence, mostly
just awe at the size and beauty of the building. It was slightly dusty, deathly silent,
and breathtakingly beautiful. Stained glass dyed sunlight around them, and swirling
dust motes glittered in the vividly pure sunlight. Carlos looked uncomfortably
around, feeling decidedly out of place, until he spotted a small dark space in the
corner.
A confessional.
“Hey, Paul.” He touched the singer’s arm and pointed towards the space,
little more than a perfectly black slot in the wall built of delicate, decorative dark
cherry wood. Paul clearly remembered being forced to sit in it before, way back in
his past, and confess. He didn’t remember what he had done, but it hadn’t been bad.
It was time to give that confessional the best confession of its long life. One hell of
a good story to tell, Paul thought.
“Carlos, I can’t believe you!” Paul tried to suppress a giggle. “It’s not fair
that you’re the smart one.”
“Well, it’s certainly not fair that this is the first smart thing I’ve thought of
that you’ve acknowledged.” Carlos stooped slightly to kiss Paul’s lips.
“In the house of God. Brilliant.”
“Well, you always did have that nun fetish, didn’t you?”
“True.”
They found themselves at the confessional, shut in it in the dark. Paul’s
breathing was already fast as Carlos kissed his throat, and he moaned as those sharp
teeth snipped at his skin gently.
“Paul, you dirty boy. You corrupt, unholy, sinful boy.” Carlos said, his
voice a smile.
“Forgive me,” Paul said, deceptively sweet with manifest sarcasm.
“Confess.” Carlos whispered, as Paul knelt on the small wooden bench. He
ran his hands up and down Paul’s shirted chest, before pushing his hands
underneath it. “What do you want me to do to you?”
Paul groaned as Carlos’s fingers circled his nipples lightly. “Fuck me,
please, Carlos.” He whispered breathlessly, pulling Carlos roughly down to kiss
him.
Carlos laughed, and it was a deep, husky sound. Paul smiled back. The bare
light filtering in through the top threw the singer’s soft face into stark relief.
“Point taken.” Carlos grinned, kissing the tip of Paul’s nose gently. Paul
closed his eyes and tilted his head to catch Carlos’s lips in a lingering kiss, tongues
intertwining hungrily. Paul wrapped his legs around Carlos’s waist, and the bassist
shoved his hips against Paul’s almost brutally. Paul moaned at the friction.
Carlos felt wonderfully corrupt as he pushed Paul’s shirt open and attacked
the pale flesh he exposed, at the same time wedging a knee tightly between Paul’s
thighs, coaxing a whimper from the provoked singer.
Carlos ran his hands down the sides of Paul’s body until he reached his hips,
squeezing Paul’s ass tightly. The blonde man tipped his head back in shameless
hunger, exposing his pale, gleaming throat to Carlos’s hungry mouth.
“Fuck, Carlos, please!” Paul arched into him, desperate for the shudder of
ravenous pleasure that grinding their hips brought.
For Carlos, this was the craziest, most twisted erotic thrill. Those blue eyes,
the eyes of a little boy. And Carlos would be the priest, seducing this innocent, this
boy. He felt dirty in the most deliciously pleasurable way; this was sin at its finest.
But in a moment, Paul’s eyes were no longer saintly, nor virtuous; they
darkened, misting with lust and love, as deep and warm as the sky. Even in the faint
light, they were bright and dancing.
Carlos pushed his hips against Paul’s again, delighting in the way Paul
squirmed against him. Seducing the innocence. His lips whispered across Paul’s
throat and he finally started to work on the vocalist’s leather belt, undoing it swiftly
with the motions of extensive practise.
With deft fingers, he coaxed out Paul’s rigid cock from his grey cotton
boxers. Paul, still wedged on Carlos’s knee, gave a guttural moan and pressed
himself harder against Carlos, desperate for contact.
“Dirty little Catholic slut,” Carlos murmured, manipulating Paul’s hard
flesh with a series of taut, delicious caresses. Paul made a sound, half assent and
half animal, deep in his throat as Carlos squeezed tightly. “F-fuck, Carlos…” He
stammered, breathing heavily.
“Hmm? What’s that?” Carlos smiled almost complacently. Paul felt equal
ripples of pleasure and annoyance shoot through him.
“Please, fuck me.”
Carlos chuckled esoterically, and his voice came from deep in his throat,
husky, sensual, smoky, like dark chocolate and coffee. “You really are a slut, aren’t
you?” He said into Paul’s ear, licking the pink conch, sucking the lobe. “My slutty
little Catholic schoolboy.”
“Only yours.” Paul replied, pressing his lips to Carlos’s in short, dry pecks
until Carlos plunged his tongue deep into the hot cavern of Paul’s smoky mouth.
Carlos turned Paul so that he was kneeling on the small wooden bench that
had served as a seat for so many people over hundreds of years confessing their sins
and receiving their absolutions. Now Paul and Carlos were using it, probably for
the first time for this particular confessional, to commit a sin rather than confess it.
Carlos undid his thick black belt and slacks with a provoking indolence, and
Paul groaned in starved vexation. Only when Carlos’s hands, slick from the
application of saliva to cock and entrance, pulled on his hips did Paul rein in his
complaining overtures.
Paul’s short nails scratched across the glossy dark wood as Carlos moved
deeper, deeper into him. He wished there was more room, but he wasn’t
complaining much; the cramped space made for even closer contact. Closer to
Carlos. Closer to heaven.
When Carlos’s hips met the back of Paul’s thighs, he stopped for a moment
to catch his breath. It was hot in the tiny, confined space, and fresh air was
impossible to breathe. Sweat was already moistening his forehead, and Paul was
nearly slick with it.
The reaction was immediate as Carlos moved, slowly, slowly. “Faster,
Carlos. More.” Paul demanded of the bassist, who was moving at a pace neither
slow nor fast. “More!” He nearly shouted, pushing back against Carlos.
“Paul…Paul,” Carlos whispered, wrapping an arm around the blonde’s
chest. “Fuck, Paul…” He reached around Paul with his other hand and wrapped it
around Paul’s aching cock, jerking it at the same pace as his thrusts without
speeding or slowing.
Any other demands or complaints Paul may have had were forgotten, lost in
the flicker of light that burned the edges of Paul’s senses.
He didn’t think he could take it. Carlos’s slow, deep strokes left his body
hungry at his withdrawal, bursting at the thrust, in absolute need of more. It was
ecstasy and torture. “Please,” He sobbed, arching back against Carlos. This was
heaven, it had to be, in this incommodious little chasm in a cathedral. Delicious,
soaring, frustrating pleasure, unable to get enough and finding what he had now was
already unbearable.
He realised, distantly, that he was crying out, half of his moans of Carlos’s
name, the other half wild animal sounds, wordless sepulchral cries for release, for
this bliss that Carlos was slowly inviting into him.
Well, maybe not slowly. Carlos found himself hardly able to keep the pace,
and as he tensed in anticipation of the boiling flood rising ahead of them both, he
sped up, fulfilling Paul’s commands and his own need for more of Paul, always
more.
Paul’s cries rose in volume until the tiny space echoed, and Carlos felt the
blonde’s entire body quaver, tense, drawing tight with the loud moan constricting
Paul’s lungs, and in turn drawing Carlos into his own orgasm. Into a heaven he
thought never existed.
They slumped in a messy huddle, sobbing for breath. Paul clutched tightly
to Carlos’s hands, kissing the pads of his long fingers gently. Carlos traced Paul’s
flushed, sweaty features with kisses, his swollen, rosy lips and cheeks, those bright
blue eyes.
After a few minutes of breath-catching, they disengaged. Carlos helped Paul
to his feet, where he swayed, weak-kneed. Carlos did up Paul’s belt, then his own,
and carefully arranged his hair, then Paul’s, at least so that they didn’t look like they
had just been fucking in a confessional.
As Paul did up the last button on his shirt, Carlos pushed open the door to
the tiny cubicle and breathed in a wonderful lungful of fresh, cool air. Paul closed
his eyes at the feel of the gentle breeze against his sweaty, glowing face.
He smiled at Carlos, looking up at the bassist with a sort of awed
amusement. “You’ve made me all unclean now. I should just turn right around and
go back in and confess.”
Carlos’s face split into a wry grin.
“Why not? Try me, schoolboy. I’ve got all day.”