by Lola Darling
“Tell me what you want, Darren,” he commands.
I wet my lips. “I want you to fuck me.”
His palm slaps across my ass, leaving a bright red mark and a sharp sting in its wake. “Be detailed.”
“I want you to claim my ass. Fuck me, take me, use me however you want.”
He massages the spot he just slapped, his fingers kneading the red mark, making the sting melt into something deeper and more pleasurable. As he’s doing that, he parts the cheeks of my ass, leaning in until the tip of his cock touches the sensitive, vulnerable space between. He runs his length up and down my ass, coating me with the lube slathered all over him.
“Has anyone ever fucked you here before?” he asks, as his hard tip touches my entrance, then glides away again, down to rub the sensitive fold just behind my balls.
With difficulty, I manage to suppress a shiver of anticipation. “Never.”
I can almost hear the possessive smile in his voice when he answers, “Good.”
Without warning, his pinky finger slides up to the small, puckered entrance of my ass, pressing gently there, then slowly increasing the pressure. I groan against the wooden table as his finger enters me with a faint popping sensation, then begins to inch farther inside of me. It hurts, but he spreads his other palm flat against my back and orders me to relax. Something about his calm, steady voice, and the fact that he’s only ever brought me pleasure before, lets me obey him. My muscles go limp, and the pain in my ass begins to blend into pleasure as his pinky finger hits its limit inside me.
He draws it out again, still slowly, and I take a breath as it snaps out of me. But the beat of rest doesn’t last long. He pushes another finger into me now, his middle finger, fatter and longer than any of the rest. Another groan escapes my lungs, but this one is filled with more pleasure. Especially when he curls that finger in me to press against my inner wall, against the hard little ridge there, a spot that sends a flood of pleasure rushing through my system.
“You’re so fucking tight, Darren.” He says this half like an admonishment and half like praise. “I’m going to have to work on you. It may take a long, long time.”
A thrill tingles along my spine. “Good,” I answer, glancing over my shoulder. Our eyes meet, and his gaze holds onto mine as he draws his finger out of me and positions the tip of his huge, throbbing cock at my entrance. He keeps his eyes on me and pushes his hips forward, stretching me, sending another spike of pain through me, as his head thrusts into me.
He moves with slow, steady pressure, watching me all the while, taking me one inch at a time. I’ve never felt anything like this, stretched and full and straining, and yet it comes with a deep, aching pleasure that builds with every inch of that gorgeous cock he pushes inside.
“I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk straight,” he promises, those green eyes still capturing mine, and my throat goes dry with anticipation. Fucking hell, I never knew I wanted this until now, but oh, I do. I want him to claim me, own me, mark me as his. I want him to take control of my pleasure again, to make me come whenever he wants.
With one final thrust of his hips, he drives his cock fully inside of me, his hips pressed up against my ass. My body strains to adjust to his girth, so much thicker than the fingers that came before him. But even as my walls strain around him, he starts to pull away again, hands gripping my hips. He draws halfway out of me, then thrusts back in, faster this time. My hips dig into the edge of the table with the force of the motion, and my engorged dick sways beneath us, heavier than it’s ever felt before, desperate with lust.
He drops one hand from my waist to wrap around the base of my cock, squeezing just hard enough to restrict the blood flow, to make it feel even fuller, thicker, and I moan, desperate for a release. A bead of moisture collects at my tip, hangs there, as his hips withdraw, and he slams his dick into me again, still keeping hold of mine in his fist, and using his other hand to position my hips right where he wants them.
It is total and complete submission. It is something I never knew I’d be capable of.
It is sheer ecstasy.
“Fuck, Paul, you’re so fucking huge,” I manage to groan, as he thrusts into me again, then again.
He builds up a rhythm, fucking me harder, faster, his cock plunging all the way inside of me. “You’re mine,” he growls, his voice feral with lust, and I arch my back in agreement, letting him take everything he wants.
Eventually he starts to move his hand with his hips, dragging those rough fingers of his, still slick with the lube, up and down my cock as he drives into my ass over and over. The combined sensation of his cock pressing against my walls, running over that sensitive spot, all while his hand pounds at me mercilessly, has me dangling at the brink in no time.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” I groan, but his hand stills in response, tightens around me.
“You don’t come until I say so,” he orders, and though I try to thrust against his hand, it’s no use. He moves to keep his hold on me, but he’s stopped sliding his hand along me, and I can’t find a spot to hit that release I so desperately need.
“Fuck, Paul, I need to come,” I beg, when he keeps fucking me, withholding my orgasm.
“Not yet.”
I’m going to go crazy with lust. My mind has narrowed down to two tiny points, and there’s nothing else in the world. There’s his gorgeous cock plundering my ass, and there’s his strong hand wrapped around my dick, starting to move again, but too slow, not fast enough to get me off. Because he knows exactly what he’s doing, and his goal is to make me suffer.
“Please. Please, I fucking need it.” I’ve never begged in my life, but God, he knows exactly how to drag it out of me.
“You don’t,” he assures me. “Not yet.”
I lose track of how long we go. I’m lost in the push and pull, his strong, sure thrusts, and my own desperate ones. Finally, his hand tightens around me, as his cock seems to swell in my ass, and his own breathing grows faster in my ear as he bends across me, his hard abs digging into my back.
“Now?” I gasp, because I’m going to come any second whether he gives me permission or not. His hand clenches my cock, his thumb pressing across my head as he takes me faster.
“Now,” he says, and I’m coming almost before the word is out of his mouth. My seed spills across his hand, across the floor in front of us, and he keeps pumping my cock with his fist, milking every drop from me, until I’m shaking with the release, my mouth open in a loud moan, my head thrown back and my body arched.
The orgasm lasts longer than I ever imagined possible. The hot peak sears through my body, keeps going, and I’m lost in a white-hot film of ecstasy, my hips bucking against the table. Vaguely, I’m aware of Paul releasing my twitching cock, grabbing my hips with both hands to fuck me faster. The thick, full sensation of him deep in my ass stretches me farther, drags the orgasm on, as he comes too, with a deep-throated grunt, his cock spasming inside me.
I clench my muscles hard, and I’m rewarded with a gasp from him, his cock still twitching wildly. When he finally pulls out, we’re both coated with sweat, panting, our eyes alight with that faint post-orgasm sheen. My lips find his almost before I know I’ve stood up, and fucking hell, he’s right. That one motion alone makes me feel so sore. I’m going to feel this fuck for days to come.
A reminder of the fact that I’m his, now.
He parts his lips to catch my tongue with his, and we both taste like hot sex, all hormones and salty sweat. When we part again, his eyes are hooded, dreamy, when they focus on mine.
“I can’t resist you anymore, Darren. I need to have you.”
“I’m yours, Paul. I belong to you.” As soon as I say it, I know it’s true. It doesn’t feel scary or weird the way it has when I’ve made this promise to other people, to women in the past. It feels right, in a bone-deep, visceral way. Right now, I belong to this man, and it’s where I was always meant to wind up in the world.
“Meet me aft
er mass?” His eyes sparkle as he says it. I can already tell he has ideas.
And I already want to find out what they are. “Of course.”
Chapter Eight
He picks me up in a rental car, and for a second when the car pulls up to my house, I almost don’t recognize him. I’ve never seen him out of his garb—I’m not even sure he’s allowed to go without his vestments—and yet here he is in jeans and a T-shirt. It’s the first time I’ve been able to see his neck and his collarbone while he still has a shirt on. I can’t resist leaning in to kiss his collarbone as we pull away from the curb, and he laughs, running a hand through my hair playfully.
“Where are we going?” I lift an eyebrow at him.
But he only shrugs, a tiny smile darting over his mouth. “You’ll see.”
It’s late evening by now, since it took him a while to finish up mass and perform all the duties that come afterwards. By the time we reach the spot where we’re headed, the sun is dropping below the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of fiery red on its way out.
We pull into a lot filled with other cars, a huge screen set up at the far end, surrounded in the background by the few brightly lit towers of downtown, and I break into a grin.
“What’s playing?” I ask as we park toward the back of the drive-in theater. A few guys and girls on roller skates breeze past, trays of food and beverages balanced above their heads as they deliver them to the windows of waiting viewers.
“It’s western week,” he tells me. “I’ve got a thing for old school cowboy flicks.”
I can’t resist a smirk. “Cowboy fetish, huh? Good to know.”
He laughs softly. “Something like that.” His hand curls around mine, and I lean across the console to rest my head on his shoulder as he tunes the radio to the station that will let us listen along.
“I’ve never been to a drive-in,” I admit, as he adjusts the volume. There’s a commercial playing now, reminding us about the snacks and beverage orders we can place.
“Really?” He lifts his eyebrows, dares a glance at me. “I used to come all the time with my family. It was my one escape. The only time we were allowed to watch movies, and only classics at that, but still.”
I blink, surprised. “You weren’t allowed to watch movies?”
“We didn’t even own a TV.” He shrugs one shoulder in that way he has. It’s really fucking adorable, actually. “My parents believe TV breeds idleness and sloth.”
I can’t help laughing a little, but he does, too. “Well, they’re probably not wrong,” I point out. Then sneak another glance up at his strong profile in the dim light from the screen. “Is that why the church relaxes you? Because you were raised in it?”
“Probably.” He rolls his shoulders, adjusts in his seat to lean his head down against mine. “I mean, I hold very different views about Catholicism than my parents.” He curls his fingers around mine to squeeze. “Clearly. But the basics, the real faith, not the modern trappings that people have added onto it, that has always been a huge source of comfort for me. The teaching that we must always work to help those less fortunate than ourselves, and take care of others, love them no matter what they do to us, because at the end of the day, we’re all in this together, we are all God’s creatures … That’s helped me through a lot of really terrible times.” He brushes his thumb across the back of my hand in a slow, steady rhythm. “It saved my life, really. I would’ve gone off the deep end, otherwise, after …” He closes his eyes, swallows hard.
“After Marcus?” I prompt softly.
He nods.
“We don’t have to talk about it.”
“It’s okay. I can, now. My faith has done that much for me. I know that he’s moved on to a better place, he doesn’t need to suffer anymore. Honestly, it’s those of us he left behind that I mourn.” Paul’s mouth quirks into a wry smile. “But it took me a long time to get there.” His eyes dart to mine, and I can read in them what he’s thinking. What he’s afraid to ask.
How I’m doing with Gabby.
I twine my fingers through his. “I don’t know if I’ll ever quite get there,” I reply, my voice quiet. “I’m not sure what I believe about this world or … Or any next worlds. I mean, of course I like to hope she’s somewhere better, but …” I shake my head.
“What was she like?” Paul leans his seat back, and I curl up along the crook of his arm.
“Driven. Dedicated. A genius, really, on the piano. She was one of those prodigy kids, and we all thought she’d be off playing concert halls by age 16, world-famous by 20. But then the depression hit … She’d go from a high, playing the best she’s ever been, into this spiral where she could hardly coax out a note that sounded right. When she auditioned for Julliard, she was in one of the latter moods.” I grimace at the memory, and Paul sighs regretfully beside me. “But we were making the best of it. We had—we have a band, though without Gabby, it’s … I don’t know what will happen now. We were auditioning, playing slightly bigger venues every time. I just … I feel like if we’d gotten a chance, if we’d gotten that one big break, then maybe she would have been okay.”
His cheek comes to rest on the crown of my head, his hair falling down to brush my temple. “Or maybe not,” he replies, and I can feel the reverberation of his baritone voice echoing down my body. “That’s the hardest part. The what ifs they leave behind. You’ll never know what could have changed things, because there is only this outcome, only this reality.”
“How the hell do you deal with that, though?” I ask, surprised to feel a sharp sting behind my eyes. I haven’t cried about Gabby in over a week now. I thought maybe I was past the displaying emotion phase, and moved on to the deadened denial phase.
“One day at a time,” he answers, and it’s not what I want to hear, it’s not a simple solution. But it’s the honest one, and somehow, hearing it from him, with his hand wrapped so comfortingly around mine, makes me feel like maybe he’s right.
So I nestle in closer to his shoulder, and I let myself fall into the world of cowboys and bank robbers and high-speed horse chases. And for an hour and a half, I manage to forget about all the shitty parts of the world.
***
My phone buzzes as we pull up outside my house, but I ignore it. No time for that now. Paul’s still here.
He reaches across the car to wind his fingers through my hair, and as our lips sink together, I swear, tonight is as close to a perfect date as I’ve ever experienced.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Paul murmurs when we separate. “You know what I am; you know I’ve taken vows. If we keep seeing each other, it could never be public, never be open. That’s not a life I want to drag you into.”
“You aren’t dragging me.” I shake my head hard, grasp the back of his neck to force his eyes to lock onto mine. “I want this, Paul. I want you. I don’t care if we have to sneak around—so be it. If that’s the price of this feeling, of this thing we have together, then I’ll pay it every damn time.”
“This is probably the most selfish thing I’ve ever done.” He closes his eyes with a grimace.
“So? You deserve to be a little selfish, sometimes. You deserve to be happy too, Paul, instead of always making it about everyone else’s pleasure, everyone else’s release.”
His lips quirk into a faint smile. “I’m starting to think you might be a bad influence on me, Darren.”
I grin. “Good.”
His lips find mine, and for a long moment, there’s no more talking. There’s only our hands all over one another in the dark car, our breaths hot in each other’s mouths. When we peel apart again, with a regretful sigh from him, I know it’s almost time to part.
But he brushes my hair back from my forehead and meets my gaze one last time. “So we’re really doing this?” he asks, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him unsure. I don’t think I realized, until this exact moment, just how much he wants me. He wants me with every ounce as much burning desire as I do him.
“We are.” I nod firmly, as if by saying it, I can make it come true. “I’m yours, Paul.”
“And I belong to you, Darren,” he whispers.
I hold onto those words long after his taillights fade in the distance, back off to the rectory to explain his absence to his brothers. While I’m left here alone, to trudge up the long walk to my house, and sleep alone in my cold, empty bed.
My phone buzzes once more in my pocket as I turn to climb the steps. I’d forgotten about it ringing earlier. I tap on the screen, pull up the voicemail, expecting a message from Monica, maybe, or perhaps my parents.
When I see the name on the screen, though, instinct makes my stomach curdle. I swallow hard, and tap on the voicemail, switching it to speakerphone so I can hear as I shove open the door to my place.
“I hope you’ll understand someday why I did it,” says Henry on the message. “It’s for your own good. Hate me now if you need to, but one day, you’ll thank me.”
That’s it. I listen to it twice more, as a growing cloud of foreboding builds around me. But there’s nothing else. No other clues to what he means. What exactly he did.
I check his Facebook page, his other social media sites, but he’s just posting the same crap as ever. Photos of his dinner at some seaside bar tonight, and then a couple snaps of him at a club dancing with a hot Latino guy. No indication anywhere that he’s done anything to himself, so at least I can relax on that front. I’d hate to be the cause of yet another person’s deadly self-harm. I’ve got enough of that on my conscience.
But I still don’t understand what he means. I finally manage to fall asleep, phone curled in my fist, three hours later, and it feels like the same kind of sleep I’d had the night Gabby died. A fitful sleep, full of dread, anxiously awaiting the storm I know is coming.
Chapter Nine
The other shoe drops first thing the next morning. I wake up to the sound of my doorbell ringing frantically, pounding through my skull. I fling myself out of bed and grab the nearest clothes—jeans and a T-shirt that I yank over my head. I don’t know who the hell would be here this early—a quick glance at my clock reveals that it’s only 6AM. Way before my wake-up call.