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When Vitari drew closer, Francis couldn’t resist pressing close, answering his body’s call. The full-length naked feel of Vitari was poetry made flesh. Their thighs touching, soft hairs brushing, cocks nudging, hands stroking. He’d never tire of exploring Vitari’s body, of reveling in the feel of male without shame and guilt assaulting him from all sides.
“You’re the only man who’s been mine,” Vitari whispered, bowing their heads together, like a confession. “I was… confused, for a long time. Not sure if I was broken, because I got hard for men, because of… that place. My whole life I’ve hidden who I am, what I want. Numb inside, you know?” His fingers laced with Francis’s. “But not here, not with you.”
Francis swallowed hard. “I know.”
“Yeah. I guess you do, you beautiful fucking Saint of Disaster.”
“Well, I’m definitely no saint?—”
Vitari leaned in to capture his mouth in a kiss. Francis teased away, lips skimming.
“You’ve no idea how much you save me, Francis, every day.”
Francis rested his arms over Vitari’s shoulders and bumped noses. He didn’t have the right words, not like Vitari, didn’t know how to tell him his heart beat for him, so he brushed their lips together, as though he could say it with a kiss. Soft, at first, careful. Learning, like they had learned to be with each other in the beginning. Then, he deepened, pushing in, teasing Vitari’s mouth harder, tasting him, beginning to know him like no other ever had. And when Vitari kissed him back, he felt the love on his lips.
It wasn’t just sex; what they had together transcended need, it felt… divine.
Vitari pulled away first but stayed so close his dazzling eyes and smile were all Francis could see. He’d once thought this man was a devil. He never could have known Vitari would be his savior.
The cold, hard press of the gun’s barrel dug into his chin, lifting his head. Vitari grinned. “Let’s get creative.”
“Is it loaded?” Francis asked between his teeth.
“Padre, it’s always loaded.”
Lust sparked down his back and pooled in his groin, bringing his cock back to life. This was probably a terrible thing to be doing, and despite Vitari’s insistence he could do no wrong, wanting Vitari to hold the gun on him, to stroke him with it, felt like taboo, making him hunger more for it.
“Get over by the couch,” Vitari ordered and eased off, allowing Francis out from under him. Vitari backed him up, toward the couch. This was going to get visceral, and Francis already panted hard for it.
“You want this?” Vitari asked, taking a step back, showing him the gun at ease in his fingers. Then he jerked the slide, making Francis jump.
“Oh, fuck me, Padre. The look on your face is priceless.”
Francis bit his bottom lip. Vitari was naked, and hard, and holding a gun. Francis was naked, and hard, and might be about to combust on the spot.
Vitari’s grin slid sideways. He circled the gun. “Turn around.”
Francis turned.
“Get on your knees.”
He placed his knees on the couch, hands on the back cushion, and bowed his head… waiting. Vitari’s warm fingers touched his thighs, then eased off. His right hand vanished, and cool, hard metal pushed against the nape of Francis’s neck. He’d wondered where it might go, but there it was, and down his spine, it stroked. His cock jumped, seeking friction. With his head bowed between his arms, he saw how his dick hung low. Cum leaked. He didn’t care.
This was most certainly not in the Bible.
The gun’s muzzle spread his ass and stroked down, skimming over his hole, then continued on and nudged his balls.
Francis panted like a dog, and his dick ached, full and heavy. He wanted to touch himself, wanted Vitari to touch him, but not yet.
Would Vitari’s cock touch his hole, or would it be the gun?
Then Vitari’s left hand spread his left cheek, and a soft, wet flick of the tongue passed over his hole, setting him ablaze. He choked on a moan. Could a man come from barely being touched, just from anticipation? Vitari’s dark chuckle tightened Francis’s balls, and his probing tongue flicked and teased. Then, Vitari’s hot mouth was replaced by the cold, firm press of metal. There it was.
A rush of lust tangled with a mess of right and wrong resulted in Francis’s thoughts abandoning him altogether, leaving him to feel. His breath stuttered. His balls contracted, dick pulsing. He gripped the back of the couch, knuckles whitening, and Vitari began to stroke the gun in and out.
He might have lost his mind in those moments, only finding it again when Vitari’s fingers grasped his dick and pumped. He fought not to come, but half of him was already falling.
Then the gun was gone, Vitari’s hand vanished, and with a tight grip on Francis’s hips, Vitari turned him, shoved him ass-first into the couch, spread his knees, and swallowed his dick, balls to chin. Francis was done. Ruined. Scorched alive. He cried out and came so hard down Vitari’s forgiving throat that the rush branded Francis’s soul.
