“Wait, wait!” Lash shouts.
It’s the first sign something strange is about to happen. Pocket waits in the hallway, dread sitting cold in the pit of their stomach. After a moment, the door unlocks, swinging open to a seemingly empty apartment, and Pocket steps in. It shuts behind them, and only then does Lash make his appearance.
A heavy black cassock hangs over him, the only other color a pop of white at the collar. The garment strains across his chest and nips in at the waist in a manner Pocket has never seen on a legitimate man of God. He has removed the sleeves, leaving behind a ragged hemline, probably because Lash is allergic to having his arms covered. But given the way it’s stretched around the rest of his body, Pocket can respect that his biceps may simply be too big for the costume. Regardless, Lash is dressed like a priest, albeit a ridiculous one.
“What is this?” they ask.
“The Lash is ready to take your confession, baby.”
“Absolutely not.”
He visibly deflates. “Come on, babe. I saw the way you stared at the Venator in the hideout.”
“Because it’s weird that a priest is working for a Patron.”
“Sure, of course. We all know you hate a muscular older man.”
“He’s a priest.”
“Tonight, so am I!” Lash flexes, because of course he does. “And I’m ready to make you see God.”
Embarrassment floods through Pocket on both their behalves. “Do you know anything about how this is done?”
“Uh, I went to mass once with a girl I was trying to talk into premarital pounding. How hard could it be? Come on, confess something.”
They weigh their options. They can argue with him and feel embarrassed the whole time, or they can play along and feel embarrassed the whole time. The result is kind of the same, except that one is a hassle and the other has orgasms at the end of it. Well aware that this may indicate Lash has done irreparable damage to their psyche, they give in.
Absent a confession booth or any sort of partition, they wave him onto the couch then sit at the opposite end. They start, “Forgive me, Father—”
“Whoa, not the roleplay I was thinking.”
“—for I have sinned,” they continue with a glare. “Pretty recently, actually. I just thought about killing my boyfriend.”
“Okay. Yeah, I guess that’s a sin, but do you have anything really juicy?”
“Fine. I have regular sex with a man outside of wedlock.”
“Hell yeah, you do.” They don’t even have to look to know he’s gloating.
“And I’m planning to do this ritual where I help one Elder God take down another and set the winner free into this world with uncertain consequences, mostly because if I don’t, it’s basically guaranteed my dad will destroy the world in a different way. It’s a pretty raw deal, actually.”
Without even skipping a beat, Lash says, “Sure. But back to that disgusting, immoral sex stuff...”
“Right.”
“Have you thought about anything particularly sinful recently? Maybe something to do with a nasty priest.”
Pocket stares for a moment at the ceiling. Lash is looking right at them, not even pretending there’s any barrier between them. With a tired sound, they give in. “Fine. The Venator is very handsome, but no, I didn’t have any dirty thoughts about him. He’s a priest. A real one. Or close enough.”
“And you don’t want to do anything nasty and disrespectful with him?” Even without looking, they can hear the filthy smile in Lash’s voice.
“I really don’t.” It occurs to them they can give Lash a taste of his own medicine, so they add, “Not him in particular.”
“Go on,” he prompts. “What other vile thoughts have you had? Maybe some kinda fantasy you’d like to get off your chest?”
Despite Pocket’s myriad forms of baggage, the religion thing has never played a huge role in their life. It’s not a source of any strong feelings in any direction, except perhaps for the residual shame they feel over sex at times. They find nothing particularly interesting about a priest costume or this scenario, but even dressed like a lunatic, Lash himself is sexy, especially with the arms out of his stupid costume. They focus on that part and lean back in their seat. “Sometimes I think about my boyfriend keeping his cock inside me all day long. Not even fucking, really, but just having it there, keeping me full of it.” They can’t quite stop their smirk as they say, “I know he’s older, so it would probably be difficult for him to stay hard the whole time—”
“Not true. The Lash is up to any challenge, especially dick challenges.” He clears his throat. “Or so I’ve heard. Continue, heathen.”
“Okay,” Pocket sighs. “Sometimes I think about him holding me down for real. Actually, with all his strength, so I can’t fight back even if I wanted to. He could do anything he wanted like that, you know? Anything at all, and I’d just have to take it.” They wet their lips. “Sometimes there’s an audience, all of them watching and nobody doing anything but staring. I can’t stop him, and he doesn’t care if I get off. He just takes what he wants until he finishes inside me, then he gets up, and he lets all those people watching take their turn. I take dick after dick and pretend to hate it, but we both know I don’t. I love every second of it. Every cock, big or small. Hours of it, fucking the come out of me and filling me up again, until I pass out. Then when everyone’s had their fill, he comes back, and it’s his turn again. First and last, and I can’t do anything about it.”
Lash takes a moment of silence, perhaps feeling true reverence for once, before he breathes out hard. “Holy shit, babe. Is any of that true?”
“I just made it up on the spot.”
“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,” he complains.
Pocket fights to keep their face as neutral as possible. “How many Hail Marys is that, Father?”
“Uhh,” Lash answers eloquently. “You do those on your knees, right?”
Pocket snorts, but with embarrassingly little coaxing, they do get on their knees on the sofa beside him. They don’t fight it when he grabs them by the back of their collared shirt and pushes. The stupid polyester robe is heavy, but they yank it up Lash’s legs to find him, of course, completely naked beneath.
Then they don’t think of much else at all, because he’s guiding their mouth down to meet his half-hard cock. They bend down to take it between their lips, one hand wrapping around the base to help them along. He hardens quickly between their mouth and hand, and his grip on their neck never lets up. He’s holding them down, just like they said in their “confession.” When they realize, their heart rate quickens, pulse leaping against the side of their throat, and the first burst of precome fills their head with his taste.
He throws the heavy robe back over their head, then returns his grip to the nape of their neck through the itchy fabric now, and then their whole world narrows down to this, the darkness around them, Lash’s cock sliding slick in their mouth, their hand wringing at him until he’s fully hard, throbbing thick between their fingers.
His other hand slides down their spine, fingers squirming beneath their belt, into the back of their trousers, pawing at their ass through their underwear. The girth of his wrist pulls their belt tight against their belly, leather and wool digging a hard line into the skin.
He figures it out soon enough, once he realizes he can’t do much as long as they’re too trapped by their clothing for him to reach anything. He clumsily yanks their belt open, their pants down, creates only the space that he needs. Then his hand returns, fingers wet this time with some conveniently placed lube, and it creeps beneath Pocket’s underwear.
Fingers slide slick down their crack, then one pries at their hole, circles it wetly, wriggles until just the tip is in. They’re still sore from the last time they bottomed for him, and they groan at the ache, but they aren’t going to ask him to stop. He eases that single finger in to the first knuckle, feeds them only tiny increments at a time. It’s teasing, too slow, and they’re squirming anyway, muscles working at it trying to draw more in.
They shudder, try to focus on the weight on their tongue, lips stretching as they take in more of his cock than before. He rewards them by inching that finger in farther, and now they understand the game. They slide deeper, and so does that finger. They pull their hand off his cock to stroke his balls instead, gentle and coaxing while their mouth swallows him down. They feel him nudging at the back of their throat, and they get the whole finger, all the way in.
They breathe deep in the stagnant air then let their throat open around the intrusion. It threatens to choke them. It’s so big that it’s a struggle every time, but every time, they manage, sheer willpower urging them on. They master themself again, swallow the head of his cock down their throat, and a second finger nudges in beside the first.
They let the pressure of the hand on their neck urge them downward, until they’re drooling straight into his pubic hair, working with the scant space he’s allowing them. He barely lets them up to get even the smallest sip of air, and they feel their face go hot and ugly, feel the snot tickling at their sinuses, feel the tears pricking at their eyes.
His fingers slide smooth inside them now, slick with lube and moving like a knife through butter. Their legs spread and their knees shake as his thick knuckles slide past their sensitive rim over and over again. Time seems to lose all meaning here, with Lash’s hand on their neck to guide them, pressuring them down and holding so his cock slips as deep down their throat as it will get, and his fingers fuck into them, and they’re not full exactly but they have something in each end, which always feels decadent and filthy.
Lash’s fingers jam in deep, all the way to the webbing, then barely move, stroking hot along their insides and not ever really budging. Their legs shake with the effort of staying like this, and their neck stiffens from the tension, and their jaw and lips have moved beyond aching and into numb.
Something about Lash always unlocks this horrible animal need in them, a bottomless sort of hunger, and the tangle of shame that comes with it only adds to the strength of their desire. It’s not an insurmountable amount of shame with him, either. Maybe with someone else, but not Lash. So here in the dark, with him holding them down, it’s easier to admit to themself how much they love something stuffed in both ends, how much they adore choking on his cock.
They close their eyes and let themself get lost in the taste and the smell of him, the weight of him in their mouth, and the constant intrusion of his fingers. He says something above them, the hand on their neck squeezing tight, and then he shoves them down and holds. His iron grip would be terrifying if it were the wrong person, and even with Lash, Pocket’s heart suddenly speeds up, rabbit quick, as they realize they can’t move. Not at all. Not unless he wants them to.
His cock twitches in their mouth, slicking up the back of their throat, and they just swallow and swallow, and they stop fighting his grip and relax into it instead, suckling around him while the heat inside their body builds, builds, and then shudders through their limbs. They come in their pants with Lash’s fingers inside them, and they don’t stop sucking until they’ve milked him dry and he’s yanking them off of him.
They lie panting with their head on his thick thigh, rubbing their cheek against the hairy skin there, while his fingers ease out of them. They almost want them back, even while their body still hums in the aftermath.
Lash yanks the robe back up, and the bright light stings Pocket’s eyes, but at least the sweat on their face begins to cool. When his hand returns, it’s to pet through their hair, no longer pinning them by the neck. “You’re absolved or whatever,” he says.
Pocket chuffs against his thigh, unwilling to move at the moment. “Thanks.”
They lie there for a time, eyes closed and listening to both their breaths slow down. When they’ve recovered and can sit up properly, Lash asks, “So you like the costume?”
“I think you should burn it.”
“But that was sexy!”
“The costume is stupid,” Pocket says, then elects to soften the blow. “You are sexy.”
“Amen to that,” Lash agrees. Then he’s pulling them close, sprawled across his lap so he can kiss them.
They give in for a moment, body sagging against his. When he lets them go, they fist a hand in the stupid collar, feeling the prickle of heavy, itchy fabric. “Seriously, though. Burn this.”