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In the last installment of One and Only

In the first installment of One and Only

It was Wednesday evening, and he and Jacob were doing up the dishes. They’d whipped up a stir-fry. They were getting better at cooking together. It was one of the things they enjoyed. They’d stopped in at a bookstore downtown and assembled an array of cookbooks. The plan was to tour the world—culinary-wise. They had four nights a week they could dedicate to it.

Ethan looked at the time on his phone. Joanne would be there any minute. She was stopping by for a drink. The kids were with a babysitter. She was heading out with a group of girlfriends for the night, but she was stopping at his place first.

The doorbell rang.

Ethan looked at Jacob. “Are you ready for this?”

Jacob took a deep breath. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“All right. Let’s get this over with.” Ethan headed for the front entry and opened the front door. Joanne stood there looking incredible. She was all done up for a night out. She was wearing the perfume Ethan had always liked so much. It brought back a lot of memories.

They’d had good times together. He had loved her once.

“You look nice,” Ethan said.

“Thank you.” Joanne peeled off her coat and handed it to Ethan. She wandered toward the kitchen as Ethan hung it in the closet. Ethan caught up and went to stand beside Jacob.

Joanne was visibly impressed. Her eyebrows rose, and she looked at Ethan.

“Joanne … this is Jacob.

Jacob reached out and took Joanne’s hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Can I get you a glass of wine?” Joanne nodded, and Jacob turned to retrieve a glass.

Ethan and Joanne went to the living room and took up places across from each other while Jacob fussed about in the kitchen. They had made appetizers as well.

Joanne leaned forward toward Ethan.

“Jeez, Ethan,” she whispered. “When you said he was gorgeous, you weren’t joking.”

She sat back as Jacob made his way into the room. He set her glass of Sauvignon Blanc down along with a tray of sweet potato crostini with prosciutto, honey-roasted figs. He and Jacob had progressed with the difficulty of the dishes they had started creating.

Jacob took a seat beside Ethan.

“This looks delicious,” Joanne said. “Who made it?”

Jacob smiled. “We did. We’re on a bit of a cooking kick.”

“I’m so glad I haven’t had dinner yet.” She lifted a napkin and took one of the appetizers. She took a bite, hummed with satisfaction, then leaned back on the sofa.

“So, tell me how you two reunited,” she said.

“We were at the same live music event,” Ethan answered.

“I was on a date,” Jacob added. “Caught sight of each other across the room.”

“It was like two damned magnets,” Ethan said. “We just snapped back together.”

“Sounds romantic,” Joanne said.

Jacob smiled at Ethan. “It was. I told him I still loved him that same night.”

Ethan laughed. “Couldn’t let him go after that. I still loved him, too.”

“Took you a while to tell me.” Jacob took a sip of his wine.

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Ethan looked at Joanne. “I had a few things I had to work out in my head. How it was going to affect the kids was top of my list. Having a new person on the scene, especially it being a man in love with their dad … I knew it might be hard for them.”

Joanne shook her head. “It shouldn’t be. Laura’s best friend has two moms.”

“I know, but that’s not their dad.” Ethan looked at Jacob. “Jacob isn’t used to kids. I knew this would be hard for him, too.” He stared at his hands. “I was also terrified to be in love with a man. This is an accepting city, but I needed to be sure I was ready for it—the stigma.”

“I’m sorry you have to feel that way,” Joanne said. “It shouldn’t be like that.”

Ethan sighed and caught Joanne’s gaze. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

Joanne leaned forward and touched Ethan’s knee. “I just want you to be happy.” She turned to Jacob. “So … what do you do for a living?”

“I’m an RN in a long-term care facility.”

“How do you like it?”

Jacob smiled. “Love it. Can’t imagine working anywhere else.”

“Family in town?” she asked.

“Not really.” Jacob furrowed his brow. “They wrote me off when I told them I was gay.”

Ethan reached for Jacob’s hand. They’d talked at length about Jacob’s feelings regarding his family abandoning him. Both his parents and his sister lived in town. He hadn’t seen them in twelve years. It was still a deep, festering wound in Jacob’s soul.

“I’m so sorry,” Joanne said.

Jacob sighed. “It is what it is.”

“Well ….” Joanne set her napkin down and rose to her feet. “I have to run. It was lovely to meet you, Jacob.” She looked at Ethan. “Whenever works for you and Jacob to introduce him to the kids, I’m good with it. I’ll talk to them first, so they know what to expect.”

“That would be great,” Ethan said as he followed her to the door. He retrieved her coat, and she kissed him on the cheek and said goodnight.

Ethan pressed the door closed.

“That went well,” he said.

Jacob trapped Ethan against the door. “It did … so now what?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Upstairs.”

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Ethan followed Jacob up the stairs to the bedroom. Their lips met, and the dance began as they removed each other’s clothes. Jacob pushed Ethan toward the bed when they were rid of them.

After the meeting with Joanne, they both needed to relieve a little stress.

“Bend over,” Jacob said. “We have more work to do on you.”

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Finn has been in love with his stepbrother, Rhys, for as long as he can remember.

Years ago, one desperate attempt at a kiss in the basement ended with Rhys shoving him away hard enough to draw blood—breaking Finn’s heart and forcing him to run. Now back in the family home and living under the same roof again, Finn knows he’s walking straight into temptation.

Rhys is bigger, rougher, and no longer willing to pretend. He’d pushed Finn away because he wanted to do the right thing. Not because he didn’t want him.

Now, a heated glance and a lingering touch threaten to shatter their restraint. Because no one has ever captivated Finn like his stepbrother.

No one has ever made him ache this badly.

And this time, Rhys isn’t pushing him away.

The cargo truck I’d rented idled in the driveway, its engine rumbling through the quiet suburban street as I looked up at the house I’d grown up in.

I sat behind the wheel for a long moment, staring at the familiar one-story house of my childhood. The same white siding, the same maple tree in the front yard, the same porch where we had once roughhoused as kids.

I couldn’t believe I was back here like this—broken, defeated, crawling home at twenty-four with my life packed into the back of a rented truck.

After killing the engine, I threw open my door and got to work shifting everything into the house. After several trips, I hauled the last box from the back, muscles burning under the weight of clothes, books, and the scattered remnants of a life that had imploded six months earlier.

I thought I was past this. Past needing to crawl back home. The divorce between my mom and my stepdad had torn through the family like a storm, leaving wreckage in its wake. I lost my job right after, couldn’t find another in time, my savings drained away to nothing, and my apartment lease ended without renewal. Suddenly, there was nowhere else to go.

My mother had already moved across the country with her new boyfriend.

My stepdad had gone off on some vague pilgrimage to find himself out west.

That left only Rhys.

And the family home.

Rhys stood on the porch, arms crossed over a broad, powerful chest, watching with that familiar mix of irritation and reluctant duty. Thirty-six now, my stepbrother had been the steady one—the rock who stayed behind while our parents’ once solid marriage collapsed.

Single again himself after a quiet breakup, Rhys had offered my old room without fanfare. “It’s not like I need the space,” he’d said over the phone, voice gruff.

I had accepted because pride was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Now, as I dropped the box inside the door, our eyes met, and the air thickened with everything left unsaid. We hadn’t parted ways on good terms.

“Is that the last of it?” Rhys asked, tone short but not unkind.

“I know, but I promise, it’s not much.

“It’ll all have to fit in your room.”

I pushed past him. He hadn’t even bothered to help me unload a single thing. “I know. You told me. I ditched most of my belongings. Are you happy?”

“You’re the one who wanted to move in here.”

My back tensed. “I didn’t have a choice, Rhys … and you know that.”

“You could’ve moved in with Mom and Carl.”

I twisted and glared at him. “And move to Florida. Are you serious?”

He didn’t argue. He just stepped aside as I pushed past him into the house, our shoulders brushing for the briefest second. That single point of contact sent an unwelcome spark racing down my spine.

I lifted one of the boxes and headed down the hall. My old room looked exactly as I’d left it six years ago: the same twin bed with its creaky frame, the beat-up wooden desk, the dresser with one drawer that always stuck, and the dusty bookcase still half-filled with old paperbacks.

I tossed the box onto the bed and used my keys to slice open the tape. I spent the next several hours unpacking in heavy silence while Rhys watched an action movie in the living room, the low rumble of explosions drifting down the hall.

When the television was quiet, I snuck into the kitchen and decided which groceries to buy based on available space. Rhys had already split the fridge in two. His stuff on the top, and an empty shelf for me on the bottom. Divided like our lives had been for the past six years.

Rhys had carried on here—quiet, self-contained, carrying the weight of the house on his broad shoulders like it was nothing. While I ran off to Chicago, escaping the rejection that had shaken my core, he stayed behind, fixing cars by day and quietly keeping this place from falling apart. He was the reliable one. The responsible one. The brother who never caused trouble.

The first few weeks settled into a careful, tense dance of avoidance. Mornings meant hurried coffee in the kitchen, me slipping out early for my new entry-level job before Rhys woke for his shift at the garage.

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Evenings brought separate meals eaten in different rooms and firmly closed bedroom doors. But the old house had ways of forcing intimacy. The thin walls carried the low hum of Rhys’s late-night TV shows. The shared bathroom still smelled strongly of his soap—motor oil, cedar, and that deep, masculine scent that had always made something restless stir under my skin.

I told myself it was temporary. Just until I got back on my feet. Yet every time Rhys’s shoulder brushed mine in the narrow hallway, something restless stirred under my skin. Something permanent.

Something destined.

The shift between us started late one night.

We’d barely spoken more than a few stiff sentences since I moved in. Even though I was back in my childhood home, I felt more alone than ever. One sleepless night, I wandered down the hall for water and found Rhys on the couch, nursing a whiskey and staring at nothing.

“Can’t shut your brain off either?” Rhys asked, voice rough with exhaustion.

“No.” I tucked my arms across my chest and waited.

We talked then—really talked—for the first time in years. About the divorce, the vicious fights, the blame each parent had hurled at the other, the hollow ache of watching two people who once loved each other tear everything apart.

I sat on the opposite end of the couch, knees drawn up, and for the first time in months, the painful knot in my chest began to loosen. Rhys listened without judgment, his dark eyes steady on mine, offering quiet, grounded words that felt like anchors in a storm.

Night after night, it became our ritual: hurt poured out in fragments, comfort given in the space between us, but unspoken words still clinging tight.

So many years ago ….

Rhys had been living in the basement at the time, in a space carved out among cement walls and low ceilings. Down where the washer and dryer lived. Where light barely made its way through the rectangular-shaped windows, looking out at the long, burnt, eye-level lawn.

I’d been down there, looking through his CD collection when he’d arrived home from work. He’d shot me that irritated look but said nothing to deter me. He just went about his business, switching out of his oily work clothes and changing into worn, grey sweats and a t-shirt.

He’d caught me staring, my gaze drawn to the bulge between his legs as one pair of pants came off, and before the others went on. My attention had lingered longer than I’d meant to.

I’m not sure what I’d been thinking, or why I had abandoned my search for music and set out for something I had no claim to. Rhys had taken a firm step back, his ass hitting the dryer as I’d clung to the front of his t-shirt. When I’d stretched up to capture his perfect lips, he had shoved me so hard, I’d tumbled back and cracked my head on the corner of a travel chest.

Twenty stitches later, and a grilling from my mom on the drive home worthy of the CIA, I’d locked myself in my cramped, stale bedroom for three days. It wasn’t simply embarrassment over what I’d done, but the aching reality that Rhys didn’t want me the way I wanted him.

I’d moved away as soon as I could. Two days after graduation. Denver to Chicago, where I’d been barely surviving. Now, I was back, Rhys’s presence impossible to escape.

We switched from talking about the divorce to our own relationships.

Rhys wasn’t much of a talker, but when he did speak, his words landed with quiet weight. He had this way of listening that made you feel seen—really seen—like he was turning over every piece of what you said in his mind before offering anything back.

I confessed how lost I felt, how every date I’d been on ended in polite disappointment because something had always been missing.

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Rhys shifted closer on the couch, his big, calloused hand settled on my shoulder in what should have been a brotherly squeeze. But his thumb traced a slow circle against the fabric of my shirt.

The touch burned straight through me.

My breath caught, sending heat pooling in my belly, and when I glanced up, Rhys’s gaze had darkened—protective instinct sharpening into something hungrier, more dangerous.

Neither of us pulled away.

Rhys’s thumb kept moving—slow, deliberate circles that felt anything but brotherly. My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I was sure he could feel it through my shirt.

“You always did look at me like that,” he said, voice low and rough, almost accusatory, but also gentle. “Even back then. Like you were starving and I was the only thing that could fix it.”

I swallowed. “And you shoved me into a trunk for it.”

His hand stilled. For a second, I thought he’d pull back, that the old wall would slam down again. Instead, his fingers tightened on my shoulder, pulling me a fraction closer.

“I was thirty. You were barely eighteen. And you were my fucking stepbrother.” He exhaled sharply. “I panicked. Thought if I let it happen even for a second, I’d never come back from it.”

The admission hung between us, heavy as the storm outside. I could smell the whiskey on his breath, the faint motor-oil-and-soap scent that still lived in my memories. My gaze dropped to his mouth, the same mouth I’d tried to claim all those years ago.

“And now?” I asked, barely above a whisper.

Rhys’s dark eyes searched mine. Something raw and exhausted flickered there—years of holding back, of being the “steady one” while everything around him fell apart.

His free hand came up, hesitant, and cupped the side of my neck, thumb brushing my jaw like he was testing if I was real.

“Now I’m tired of pretending I didn’t want it too.”

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In the last installment of The Confessional

In the first installment of The Confessional

I watched Matteo hobble out of the confessional, lips still slick and swollen, tongue darting out to chase the last traces of me like he savored the Eucharist itself.

His steps were slow, deliberate, thighs trembling from the way I had stretched and filled him minutes earlier. Mrs. Dempsey stopped him near the font, murmuring some small request about a candle. His eyes were glassy, distant. He answered her in soft, monotone words, nodding mechanically. She didn’t notice the faint sheen on his chin, the way he shifted his weight as though he still felt me buried deep inside.

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His gaze lifted, found mine across the nave—and the stupor shattered. A slow, radiant smile broke across his face, the kind reserved for someone who had just handed him the most exquisite gift. Complete ownership. I could have done anything to him—anything—and he would have submitted to me without hesitation, eager, grateful.

He already had. He had licked the confessional wall clean for me, tongue dragging over every sticky pearl I left behind, rubbing his face through it like a penitent anointed himself with sin.

I would give him more. So much more.

Yet as I stood in the empty nave, my chest ached with a tenderness I could no longer deny. This was not conquest. I had fallen deeply in love with my stepbrother long before he ever crawled to me.

The love I felt for Matteo had cracked every vow I ever made, and I had chosen, willingly, to let it. God is love, the Scriptures say. Could this deep, desperate need, this overwhelming desire to hold and protect him, be a shadow of that same divine fire? Or were we damned to hell?

If we were, then the sin we shared belonged to both of us. I had opened the door first, and he had answered with the same honest longing I carried in my heart. For months, I had fought it. Telling myself it was only protectiveness, only brotherly affection, only a momentary weakness when his confessions stirred something forbidden in me. But then, he pushed open my door and found me stroking myself to his name, and everything changed.

When he dropped to his knees and crawled across the rectory floor to me, eyes wide with hunger and trust, every argument I had built against this love collapsed in a single breath. In that moment, I stopped resisting. I let myself want him completely, let myself take what he so willingly offered, and felt the last of my resistance shatter into pieces I would never gather again.

I was already lost to him—and in that loss, I had come to understand him deeply. I knew Matteo needed to serve; it was woven into his very soul, the way he had always knelt at the altar, the way he now knelt for me.

And because I loved him, I wanted to meet him exactly where he was: on his knees, offering everything, finding peace in surrender.

I would not take that from him. I would give him the safety and the purpose he craved, even as I gave him my heart in return.

I touched my chest, above my heart, where it was still beating rapidly. His scent still clung to me, sweat-soaked skin, the sharp tang of his arousal, overlaid with the sacred incense that never quite left this place. Even after his shower, he had come to me ripe, needy, body already primed.

The smell of him on my face, my neck, my cassock made my cock thicken again beneath the heavy wool.

There was no forgiveness left for either of us.

To keep sinking deeper into this forbidden heat—where every whispered confession drips with sin, every stolen touch burns hotter than hellfire, and two souls damn themselves beautifully for one another—consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Unlock the rest. Let the velvet close around you.

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In the last installment of Age of Mycea

In the first installment of Age of Mycea

Morning came, and preparations were made, organizing tables to receive citizens and seating for those who would interact with them in the square. The king occupied one table where a line was already forming. He would be approving taxes, hearing from those with issues with their neighbors, and addressing legal matters that needed attention or clarification.

The taxes would then be turned over to the bookkeeper.

Punishments and other decisions would be implemented immediately.

Sebastian usually would have played the king’s part, but this morning, he found himself standing behind Meshia, whispering to him every so often when someone came to the front of the line whom Meshia had no prior experience with.

“Next.” Meshia motioned for a man and his young son to come forward. They had a white goat in tow, one with the exuberance of a young squirrel. It was likely a yearling at most.

The thin man bowed. “Your Majesty.”

“Taxes.” Meshia crossed his arms. Sebastian tried his best to contain a grin. It was going to be one of those days. More livestock. At least they would be eating well for a while.

It wasn’t as if the monarchy needed the money. It was a formality, the tax collection. The empire had enough gold and jewels to hold them over for a hundred lifetimes.

“This goat here, if it pleases Your Majesty. I was injured this past year. Unable to work on milling lumber. I have not been able to provide for my wee son here.” He looked down at his son, no older than five. “I’m all he has. We’ve been relying on the kindness of neighbors.”

Meshia tapped his pencil on the tally sheet. Sebastian could sense him hesitating. The goat was a perfectly acceptable way for this man to pay his taxes.

Surely, he would not expect more.

The king rose to his feet, circled the table, and squatted down to be eye level with the young boy. Sebastian had not noticed, but the boy was crying.

Meshia placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Is this goat your friend?”

The boy nodded, tears running down his face. He swiped a hand across his skin to clear them in an attempt to appear stoic. Meshia rose to his feet and turned to the father.

“Consider your tax debt paid, but I will not be taking your son’s friend from him. And I never want to hear word that you sold or slaughtered this animal, or your tax will become due … and worse.”

Meshia made his way back to his seat. “Have I made myself understood?”

The man nodded and bowed. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I will obey your request.” Meshia grunted and waved the next in line to him. It was a woman with a basket full of eggs.

Before he had a chance to speak to the woman, the sound of something being dragged through the square could be heard. Sebastian rose on his toes to see Krunk lumbering toward them, a bloody mess of flesh and torn clothing gripped tightly in his hand.

Meshia met him halfway across the stone cobbles of the central square. All eyes were turned toward him, a crowd gathering. Sebastian shifted his position, watching the villagers for anyone who might object to the example Meshia was about to make of this man.

The man in Krunk’s grasp was made to kneel at the king’s feet. He had to be held from tipping over; the man’s consciousness was wavering. His head lolled side-to-side, both eyes bloody and swollen shut. His nose was broken in multiple places, and his teeth hung haphazardly from his puffy and drooling mouth. The rest of him seemed to be in no better shape.

Sebastian stepped closer to the spectacle unfolding. Krunk had done his best work for whatever crime this man had committed.

“I see you received my message.” Meshia grasped the man’s hair, forcing him to look up at him. “I trust Krunk explained everything, and we won’t need to have this conversation again.”

A slurred response of “Yes, Your Majesty” tumbled from the man’s mouth.

Meshia released the man’s head and clapped his hands together. “Excellent.” He strode back to his table and took up his seat again. “Next.”

The poor woman nearly dropped her eggs; she was shaking so badly.

The road had been heading upward for hours now. The climb was made more difficult as the sky opened once more, pouring rain down upon them.

Whereas the road earlier had been packed well, the incline of this portion of the trip resembled trudging up a rivulet-streaked riverbed. The cart would often need all men to dismount and push. It was slow going.

As the sun began to set, the decision was made to stop and make camp for the evening. Sebastian grabbed one of his saddlebags and handed his reins to one of his men. Before long, he was scurrying down an embankment, a cliff’s edge, to an escarpment he had discovered years back when trying to get a better look over the valley.

Sebastian turned when he heard small rocks tumbling down from along the path, indicating someone else was making their way to what he had hoped would be a private place to reflect.

A short scuffling sound, then Meshia appeared. He stopped short. “Sorry, I didn’t know anyone else knew about this place.”

“Your Majesty.” Sebastian bowed. “I found it quite by accident.”

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Meshia was taking in the expanse below them, a smile on his face. “My mother used to bring me here when I was young. It was our secret spot.”

Sebastian shrugged his saddle bag onto his shoulder and started for the path.

“I’ll leave you alone.”

Meshia touched his arm. “No, sit. I could use some sane company. I appreciate your men for volunteering for this trip, but what, by all the angels, are you feeding them? I can’t bear to hear one more vulgar recounting of their sexual exploits.”

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Sebastian snorted out a laugh and found a place to sit. He opened his bag and ripped a loaf of bread in half, handing one half to Meshia. He did the same with a piece of jerky. “It’s possible I encourage them, Your Majesty.”

Meshia turned the bread over in his hand. “Sebastian, we’re alone. You can cut the subservience.” He brought the bread to his nose and sniffed it.

“Right then. Meshia, sit your ass down and eat.” Sebastian grinned and patted the piece of ground to his left. He exhaled a relief-filled breath as Meshia took a seat beside him, closer than he had anticipated, their shoulders touching. He tucked a piece of bread into his mouth.

Meshia pulled a thin strip of jerky away with his teeth. Chewed and swallowed.

“Please tell me you brought this with you, and it’s not some of that conjured rubbish you’re always munching on.” Meshia was one of the few people who knew he could conjure.

“I get hungry.” Sebastian waved his piece of jerky in front of Meshia. “I promise it’s from the inn we just left. Pocketed on site.”

Meshia grunted his acceptance and went back to looking out over the valley as he ate the food Sebastian had given him.

Sebastian pointed to where he was looking. “If it wasn’t for the thin plumes of smoke, you’d never know there are villages down amongst that thick tree cover.”

Meshia nodded, his features becoming contemplative. Lips soft but brow furrowed. “My mother used to call it the Mycean Sea of Green.”

“You don’t usually speak about your mother.”

“Not to most, no.” Meshia pressed his knee to Sebastian’s leg. “It’s too painful.”

Sebastian peered at the tortured man seated next to him. There was a level of trust between them that had never existed before that night—a closeness.

He touched Meshia’s knee with his hand.

“Meshia ….”

Meshia brushed the crumbs from his hands and rose to his feet.

“We should get back to camp.”

The men were predictably rowdy, seated around the campfire. Sebastian smiled. He might have magically conjured a bottle of rum, transporting it from the inn to his saddle bag once the dinner dishes had been cleared away.

Chicken again. Always chicken.

A fat boar would make a welcome change.

Meshia excused himself and headed for where the horses were corralled. They were just out of sight of the campfire in the darkness.

Sebastian set his cup down and followed him, taking a different route than Meshia had, so it would not look as if he were following him. He found the king brushing down his horse, a task that had already been completed.

Sebastian stepped up beside him and patted the neck of Meshia’s steed, whispering some comforting words to it, but it wasn’t the horse who needed to be soothed.

“Meshia ….” He placed his hand on Meshia’s, stopping him from brushing, and settled his other hand on Meshia’s back. “You were watching me with those women.”

Meshia exhaled and yanked his hand from Sebastian’s hold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Last night. Your face … your eyes.” Sebastian stepped closer to Meshia. The pain he had witnessed, the longing, the sadness—it had melted his heart that a man so often temperamental, angry, and unfeeling could exhibit such emotion.

“Sebastian, it was a mistake what happened between us on Kronos.” Meshia turned away and retreated to the other side of his horse. “We thought we were going to die.”

Sebastian followed him and pinned him against the nearest tree. His lips were close enough to kiss him. Maybe he should break the tension hovering between them. “Have you never wondered why I was the one thing you desired most before you died?”

Meshia was tracking Sebastian’s gaze. This was the closest they had been to each other since that night. The temptation to draw his king back into what they had experienced two years ago was excruciating to delay a moment longer. He needed Meshia’s touch so badly.

Time and place. And this is not it. The best he could manage was to sneak into Meshia’s tent later that evening once the rest of their entourage was asleep.

Before he could whisper to Meshia what he was thinking, the ground shook beneath their feet, causing Sebastian to stumble into Meshia’s arms.

Meshia clung to him, momentarily, until Sebastian took a step back as a violent shudder reverberated, shaking needles loose from the trees above and frightening the horses.

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Krunk came running through the darkness, nearly tripping in his haste. He slid to a stop near the two men, unaware of what had been transpiring; his focus was on urgency.

“Your Majesty.” He bowed. “Commander. The Neter colony is under attack.”

As if to amplify that fact, the sound of bombs dropping could be heard. The ground beneath their feet echoed the unfolding reality of what Krunk had told them.

They rushed to the edge of the cliff overlooking the valley. In the distance, the colony of Neter was lit up by explosions in the night, revealing its location amongst the trees.

Sebastian ducked instinctively as three dart-shaped ships flew overhead, destined for the colony. Not their ships. They did not have technology like that in their arsenal of flight craft.

Meshia grabbed Sebastian’s arm. “We need a ship. The queen is there on her own.”

“Zoltar is there with her, and Queen Lakeda is more than capable of managing the armies until we get back. We are riding. I won’t have the king lost in a downed ship.”

Meshia scowled but agreed, accepting the reins of his now saddled horse.

They took off at a gallop into the night.

The story continues … soon …

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In the last installment of One and Only

In the first installment of One and Only

It was like any other day. Jacob needed to ensure the care aides were attending to everyone who needed to be up for breakfast. Some residents liked to sleep in. That was the benefit of having the kitchenettes. The care aides could scramble up some eggs and make some toast for the late risers.

Then he’d do rounds with meds.

The thing that was different about today was that it was Monday. He’d be seeing Ethan tonight. He was looking forward to it. Ethan was going to teach him how to make a curry. Then they had a movie they both wanted to watch. Just normal stuff. Stuff couples did together.

He never thought hanging with someone like that could be so fulfilling. Of course, it helped that he was crazy about the guy. Crazier every day. And it was mutual.

They were so connected.

He just needed to get through today.

“Mr. Jacob.”

“Yes, Mrs. Carmichael?”

“How is your new boyfriend?”

Okay, he might have told anyone who would listen that he had a new boyfriend he was in love with. A boyfriend who absolutely adored him.

“He’s gorgeous and delicious. And I’ve never been happier.”

“I love—love.” She gripped Jacob’s hand. “I’m so happy you found someone.”

“Thank you, Mama.”

“Are you going to marry that lucky boy?”

Jacob shrugged. “I just might.”

“We could have the wedding here.”

“I suppose we could.” Jacob laughed. “Might be a little strange.”

Mrs. Carmichael toddled off and headed for the lounge area. She liked her programs. Soap operas. They were insufferable, but she loved them.

Jacob sank into an armchair and stared into nothingness.

He’d never said it aloud before.

That he might consider marrying Ethan. If they got to that place. Their relationship was still fresh. They had a long road ahead of them. This Monday would mark a full month since they ran into each other. Jacob had been sticking to monogamy, but he was getting fidgety.

His gay dating app had messages piling up.

The twins had been pressuring him to break his dry streak. The thought made him warm all over. Being speared at both ends, rotisserie style.

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He pushed up and out of the chair. He knew better than to start fantasizing at work. He made a point of being professional. He was serious about his job. These people needed him.

Lunch came and went. More meds. Some wound care. They had a couple of bedridden folks who needed extra care to ensure they didn’t get bed sores. Today, he treated those who were there.

Heels were a particular concern. That and the buttocks and hips. They all had alternating pressure mattresses, but sometimes that wasn’t enough.

He finished cleaning and redressing a particularly nasty open pressure wound near the tailbone of one of the residents. You had to have a strong stomach for some of his work.

Jacob collapsed behind his desk. Very soon, he would head home to get ready to see Ethan. A shower and clothing change. Out of his scrubs and into something sexy. Ethan liked when he dressed in his more revealing clothes. At home and when they were in public.

Ethan liked to show him off.

They often went out for dinner. Sometimes they went to see some live music. He’d even suffered through a game or two in the local sports bar. They had Monday to Thursday to explore each other and their favorite things. It just happened that Ethan was his utmost favorite thing.

He loved playing with him. Ethan was damned innocent when it came to sex. The things he had taught Ethan would make most men blush. Right now, they were on a toy kick.

Jacob looked at his phone. 6:45 pm. He’d be free as soon as he gave his report to the next RN taking over for the night shift. The day had been straightforward. There wasn’t much to report.

He was out of there right on time.

Showered and wearing one of his sultrier outfits, he arrived at Ethan’s. Ethan had a bottle of wine breathing on the kitchen countertop.

“So … curry. Where do we start?” Jacob poured himself a glass of wine. Ethan already had one. He wandered over to the countertop scattered with ingredients. It looked complicated.

“I have something I want to talk to you about first.”

Ethan looked as though his nerves were getting the better of him. For a second there, Jacob thought Ethan was about to do something really stupid.

“I think I’m ready,” Ethan said.

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Jacob tipped his head. “Ready for what?”

Ethan pinned Jacob against the counter and brushed his lips across Jacob’s. Jacob took the opportunity to kiss him. The dance of their lips was languid and held the answer.

“You’re giving me my freedom,” Jacob panted against Ethan’s lips.

“I love you. Just promise me it won’t impact our time together.”

“I promise it’ll be Friday and Saturday night only.”

“And you’ll phone me.”

“Long before I’m naked.”

“And then you’ll come home to me.”

“Every single time.”

His phone was already burning a hole in his pocket. The twins were first on his list. Daniel would have been second, but that would have been breaking one of their rules.

He’d slept with him before.

“Tell me about one of your dates,” Ethan said.

Jacob raised his eyebrows. “Like in detail?”

That was a twist.

Ethan took hold of Jacob’s hips, swayed them back and forth, then pressed what turned out to be a hard cock against Jacob’s now more interested one.

Jacob licked his lips. “Okay. Let me tell you about Daniel. He’s the date I canceled for you, but I’d been with him before.”

“What did you do?”

“We started with dinner. I was only allowed to have a salad.”

“Allowed?”

“Daniel likes to take charge.”

“Describe him.”

“Blond. Mid-forties. Tanned. Built like an Adonis.”

“His cock?”

“Thick and stocky.”

Ethan pressed closer and kissed the side of Jacob’s neck. “What did he do to you?”

“Took me to his house. He has a special room.”

Ethan panted in Jacob’s ear as he ground his cock against him.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

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I released the Untouchable audiobook just this past month, and I still haven’t quite come down from it. There’s something surreal about hearing these characters—Rory, Denver, all of it—brought to life in a way that feels so immediate, so intimate. This series has always meant a lot to me, but experiencing it in audio added a whole new layer I didn’t expect.

Creekside Valley has been one of those worlds I keep returning to, not just because of the romance, but because of the emotional depth these characters carry. Untouchable, in particular, holds a special place for me—the vulnerability, the healing, the slow, fragile build of trust.

If you’ve been following the series, you already know how much heart lives here. And if you’re new to it, this might be the perfect place to step in.

Jump right in and check out this title!

Some scars are too deep for the eye to see—but not for the heart to feel.

Rory has spent years building walls no one can breach. Marked by a past that still echoes through his bones, he trusts nothing—not even the quiet strength of the bear spirit within him. Touch is a threat. Connection, a risk he refuses to take. Silence is safer.

Until Denver.

There’s something different about the way Denver reaches him—something impossible. He can step into Rory’s dreams, slipping past every defense, every locked door. What he finds there isn’t just pain—it’s a loneliness so profound it aches. And instead of turning away, Denver stays.

Night after night, in the fragile space between sleep and waking, something begins to grow. A connection neither of them fully understands. A bond that feels as dangerous as it is necessary.

But the past doesn’t loosen its grip easily. And learning to trust—truly trust—may be the hardest battle Rory has ever faced.

Now brought to life in audio, every breath, every moment of hesitation, every flicker of hope feels closer—more intimate than ever.

Some stories aren’t just heard.

They stay with you.

Check Out Untouchable!

In the last installment of The Confessional

In the first installment of The Confessional

Work was torture. My mind kept dragging me back to the church, to that locked office, to being on my knees and the thick, velvet weight of Lorenzo’s cock sliding past my lips.

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That first rectory taste—licking him clean after he spilled to my name—had been nothing compared to last night in his office.

I could still feel the ache in my jaw, the pulse against my tongue, the hot flood of his release when he’d emptied himself down my throat while I mumbled the Lord’s Prayer around him.

Grunting. Suckling.

Worshipping the new center of my universe.

No longer just serving the Lord.

Serving him.

I hoisted another bundle of roofing tiles onto my shoulder, muscles straining under the weight, and carried them to the hoist platform.

We were re-roofing a tidy Victoria house today—gingerbread trim, soft sage siding, the kind of place I usually notice, cataloging its charm.

Today? Nothing registered.

My head was full of him. The low command in his voice, the way his fingers had framed my skull like a benediction while he fucked my face with liturgical rhythm.

“You doing all right today, Matteo?” Gary’s arm landed heavy around my shoulders—friendly, steady, concerned. My boss had a soft spot for me; I reminded him of his deceased son.

I blinked hard, forcing focus. “Yeah. Just … a lot on my mind. Sorry if I’m slowing us down.”

“You’re moving like you’re underwater, kid. Pick it up a bit—we’ve got to wrap by Thursday in time for Easter weekend.”

I nodded, throat tight. “It’s just church stuff on my mind.”

Gary’s brow lifted. “Father Lorenzo holding up okay with the other priests away?”

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Lorenzo wasn’t just holding up. He was thriving in his solitude—setting himself up as my sole point of gravity. The man I needed to command me.

The one I ached to please, to fill, to empty myself for.

“He’s … blessed,” I managed. “Guided by the Spirit. Bringing comfort to everyone who needs it.” I cleared my throat. “He’s managing well on his own. Praise be.”

Gary clapped my shoulder. “Good. Don’t let church stuff drag you under. Hustle, yeah?”

I grabbed the next bundle and moved faster, letting the repetitive motion dull the edges.

The rest of the afternoon blurred—lift, carry, stack, repeat—while Lorenzo crowded every corner of my brain. His taste. His scent.

The way he’d called me “good boy” when I swallowed every drop.

By the time I got home, I was wrecked—sweat-soaked shirt clinging to my back, muscles aching, cock half-hard just from the memory of him. I steadied myself against the hallway wall when I heard his voice drifting from the kitchen. Deep, smooth, rumbling like distant thunder.

He was here. Visiting our parents like nothing had changed.

I ducked my head in so Mom wouldn’t scold me later for being rude. The sight of him, broad shoulders filling the chair, long legs stretched under the table, white collar stark against tanned skin, nearly buckled my knees. He turned, caught my eye, and smiled, warm—brotherly.

Innocent.

As though I hadn’t choked on his cock last night.

As though I hadn’t swallowed his cum while reciting scripture.

“Hey, Matteo.” He rose, crossed the room in two strides, and pulled me into a hug. His body pressed close—solid, warm, carrying the aroma of soap and the spring heat. His mouth found my ear.

“You smell exactly as you should,” he whispered, breath hot against my skin, voice low and warm. “Sweaty … and so full of the same longing I feel.”

I clung to him so I wouldn’t collapse, fingers digging into the back of his shirt. My cock jerked hard against my jeans.

He pulled back, voice carrying normally again. “After dinner, I was hoping you could help me with something at the church. I need your … unique expertise.”

The praise hit like a caress. I had satisfied him. He wanted me again.

My chest hummed with dark pleasure.

“Yes, Father,” I said softly, head dipping in instinctive reverence.

He ruffled my hair—affectionate, possessive—then let his fingers linger a moment longer, thumb brushing my temple gently.

“Go shower.”

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I jogged upstairs, stripped in my room, then stepped under the scalding spray. The water pounded my shoulders, but all I could think about was him downstairs, calm, composed, chatting with our parents, while I stood naked above him, cock thickening at the thought of him

I ran a soapy hand down my chest, pinching a nipple until it stung, then lower—over the freshly shaved skin of my groin, my balls, the smooth length of my thighs.

I’d taken the razor to everything last night. Arms, legs, chest, groin. Bare. Vulnerable. Pure for him. Ready to be marked, used, and owned.

My palm wrapped around my cock—slow, deliberate. One long stroke. It throbbed in response, leaking steadily. I could edge myself right here, chase the brink, spill for him in secret.

But I stopped. Hand falling away. Breath ragged.

My pleasure belonged to him now. He would decide when—or if—I came.

To keep sinking deeper into this forbidden heat—where every whispered confession drips with sin, every stolen touch burns hotter than hellfire, and two souls damn themselves beautifully for one another—consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Unlock the rest. Let the velvet close around you.

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There’s something uniquely powerful about the erotic fiction community on Substack, and it’s something I’ve come to value more with every passing year.

It isn’t just about the stories. Though the stories are bold, intimate, and unapologetically alive. It’s about the people behind them. The voices that refuse to be quiet. The writers who show up, again and again, to put desire, vulnerability, and connection on the page in a world that often wishes they wouldn’t.

I love this community because it feels like defiance and belonging at the same time.

We’re constantly navigating a landscape that tries to diminish what we do. Erotic fiction is dismissed, shadowed, hidden, or outright erased depending on the platform or the moment. There’s an ongoing pressure to soften it, sanitize it, or pretend it doesn’t exist at all.

But it does exist—and it matters. Deeply. Because erotic fiction gives people a safe space to explore themselves. It offers release, curiosity, fantasy, and sometimes even healing. It lets readers feel seen in ways they might not experience anywhere else.

That’s why I keep saying we’re stronger together—and I mean it.

When we support each other, amplify each other, and stand beside each other, we create something that can’t be easily pushed aside. We build a network where readers can discover new voices, where writers can grow without fear of being isolated, and where creativity isn’t stifled by shame. Community turns something fragile into something resilient.

I’ve been on Substack for two and a half years now, and I’ve spent sixteen years writing in the MM+ space. I’ve learned a lot along the way—about craft, about platforms, about what it means to keep going even when it feels like the odds are stacked against you. And because of that, I don’t just want to exist in this space—I want to contribute to it.

If someone has a question, I want to help.
If someone is unsure where to start, I want to guide.
If someone needs encouragement, I want to give it freely.

Because none of us got here entirely on our own.

This community thrives when we show up for each other—not just as writers, but as people who understand the courage it takes to create this kind of work. And if I can be even a small part of making that path easier for someone else, then that’s exactly where I want to be.

Writing MM+ Romantasy as JT Fader has always felt a little like opening a hidden door and finding a universe waiting on the other side.

There is something electric about blending the mythic and the intimate. About placing swords, spells, and ancient rivalries alongside longing glances and trembling confessions.

MM+ Romantasy lets me explore power and vulnerability in the same breath. It gives me the freedom to build epic stakes while centering queer love as the story’s beating heart.

When I began the Circle Trilogy, I wanted to create a world that felt vast and dangerous, yet deeply personal and romantic. Magic in that world is not just used as a weapon. It forms a bond

What I love most about this series is how immersive it feels. I get to design ancient systems of magic, layered political conflicts, and landscapes that feel almost tactile.

But the real thrill is watching three men stand at the center of that storm and realize that the fiercest battle isn’t the war outside. It’s the war inside themselves. Writing those emotional arcs, especially in high fantasy settings, feels both indulgent and sacred.

My Drakkar Coven series, filled with vampires and shifters, lets me play in a darker, more sensual space. Here, the stakes are more immediate, and the atmosphere is charged with danger. Coven politics, supernatural hierarchies, and forbidden bonds create a playground for tension.

Then there’s my Creekside Township Rivals series, where wolf shifters rule their small town. Writing rivals-to-lovers arcs in that setting gave me a different kind of thrill. The battleground might not be enchanted forests or coven chambers, but the emotional stakes can be just as fierce.

Across all these series, what delights me most is the act of world-building. I love sketching out histories, secret lineages, and social rules. I love inventing cultural rituals and asking, “How would love look here? How would desire be shaped by this world?”

Creating my own universes gives me control, yes, but it also gives me the joy of discovery. Often, the characters surprise me, bending the world in ways I hadn’t planned.

I grew up loving epic fantasy and paranormal stories, but so often the love stories didn’t reflect the lives and desires I wanted to see. Writing as JT Fader is my way of carving out that space. Of placing two or more men at the center of prophecy, power, tenderness, and triumph.

It feels rebellious and restorative at the same time.

Ultimately, writing these series is pure joy. Whether I’m crafting ancient magical bonds, dark coven seductions, or small-town rivalries that spark into something deeper, I’m chasing the same thing: connection.

The thrill of watching souls collide and choose each other against fate, against fear, against history never gets old.

Building worlds is magic, but watching love take root inside them?

That’s the real enchantment.

In the last installment of One and Only

In the first installment of One and Only

There, he’d said it. Exposed his heart to the man who’d plagued his dreams. He’d carried those words around his entire adult life. Those feelings he had for Jacob. All those nights with Jacob in his arms had often brought him to tears. He had wanted to speak those words against Jacob’s skin before he kissed his neck. They had always stuck in his throat.

His heart had wanted Jacob … his mind hadn’t been ready.

He hummed against Jacob’s lips. They had locked onto each other after words of love were shared. He was ready now. His mind had caught up to his heart.

They were reluctant to pull apart.

“My kids,” Ethan whispered.

“I know.” Jacob rubbed his thumb across Ethan’s bottom lip. “Go. I’ll eat before I come over on Monday. How soon do you get home from work? I finish at 7.”

“I was going to cook.”

Jacob smiled. “Oh, you will be. But not in the kitchen.”

Ethan tipped his head. “I want to spend some time getting to know you better.”

“We lived together for nine months.”

“That was then. We’re very different people now.”

“Fair enough.” Jacob put his hand on Ethan’s chest. “I’ll let you cook me dinner.”

Ethan looked over his shoulder at the door. “I really have to go. The kids have probably torn the van’s interior to pieces. Shoes, then dinner at the mall tonight.”

“Yay.” Jacob smirked. “Sounds like a blast.”

“Story of my life.” Ethan reached for Jacob’s face. “One more kiss.”

After a quick one and an exchange of I love you, Ethan was out the door. The inside of the van looked like a granola bar had exploded. “What the heck happened in here?”

“You were taking so long, we got hungry,” Laura said. “What were you doing with that man in the crazy clothes? I’ve never seen a guy in pink pants before.”

“Just sorting out some stuff.” Ethan started the van. The mall was fifteen minutes back in the other direction. “His name is Jacob. I knew him in university.”

“He dresses weird,” Oliver said.

“You need to mind your own business,” Ethan answered as he pulled out of Jacob’s driveway. He was soon on the highway, headed back toward town. Herding kids around a mall was not his idea of a fun Saturday evening, but he had Monday to look forward to. And Sunday with the kids. Sunday was always fun. He made a point of taking them somewhere special. This Sunday was mini-golf and maybe a batting cage. Maybe the swimming pool. He hadn’t decided yet.

Life was good.

Ethan grinned as he drove.

He’d told Jacob he loved him.

Finally.

“What are you smiling about?” Laura was in the passenger seat. She was staring at him. She shoved him in the shoulder. “Seriously, Dad … you’re freaking me out.”

Ethan looked over at her. “Why? Is your dad not allowed to be happy?”

“Not unless I know why.”

Ethan huffed out a laugh. There was no way he was telling his kids about Jacob yet. Joanne needed to be told first. They’d decide together when the kids would find out their dad was in love with another man. The man in the funny … tight and sexy, pink pants.

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In the first installment of The Confessional

I’d been frozen in the driver’s seat for nearly fifteen minutes, rain streaking the windshield like tears God refused to shed for me.

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The rectory scene replayed in merciless loops: the rug beneath my knees, the velvet heat of Lorenzo’s softening cock against my tongue as I licked him clean, the way his spilled release had coated my mouth—thick, salty, sacred in the most obscene way possible.

I’d crawled to him on my hands and knees across the shadowed rectory bedroom floor, heart hammering so hard I thought it might crack my ribs.

I’d taken him into my mouth like salvation itself waited at the back of my throat—like if I sucked hard enough, deep enough, devout enough, I could drink down forgiveness and scour away every filthy thought that had haunted me for months.

I’d licked him clean instead of finding salvation.

Slow, careful strokes of my tongue along the sensitive underside, gathering the slick traces of his release where it had spilled over his fingers and shaft after he’d stroked himself to the edge.

I chased every drop like it was holy water, like tasting him could purify me.

Instead of washing me clean, I’d only damned myself deeper.

No absolution waited at the end of that act—only the slow burn of certainty that every path I walked now led straight to hell.

I could feel the flames already, not roaring yet, but licking quietly at the frayed edges of my soul: a low, patient heat that curled through my chest, my belly, my groin, reminding me with every heartbeat that I’d knelt not for God, but for a man.

For Lorenzo.

For the forbidden shape of his pleasure in my mouth.

He hadn’t come to our home since. Not a single dinner. Our parents asked; I lied about him being busy with sermons. But the silence between us wasn’t distance, it was shame so heavy it kept us both away from the same table.

I still woke up every night gasping, cock leaking against my stomach, his name a broken moan in the dark.

I looked out through the windshield. Today was Mass. I couldn’t stand at that altar with his taste still phantom on my tongue and pretend my soul wasn’t black with it. Confession first. Absolution, or at least the illusion of it, before I changed into my vestments and served.

I groaned—low, animal—and shoved the car door open. Cool rain hit my face. My legs felt unsteady as I crossed the threshold into the church, the familiar hush closing around me.

He was there, near the holy water font, speaking quietly with three silver-haired women. Black shirt, white collar, sleeves rolled to show the corded strength of his forearms. He looked every inch a venerated and respected priest in the parish—composed, compassionate.

Until our eyes met.

The sight of him ripped through me in layers. The brother who’d carried me on his shoulders when I was small. The man I’d admired, emulated, and loved in every innocent way.

The priest I was proud of, whose homilies still made my chest ache with reverence.

And then—lower, hotter—the Lorenzo whose cock I’d worshipped on my knees. My jeans tightened instantly, cock swelling thick and insistent, the denim suddenly too rough against my sensitive skin.

Lust slammed into me so hard I forgot how to breathe.

Longing.

Famine.

The bone-deep need to kneel again, to serve him in the only way that felt true. I walked toward them on autopilot. Lorenzo’s gaze flicked up.

For one heartbeat, something raw flashed in his eyes—hunger, guilt, recognition, then vanished behind that perfect pastoral mask. He murmured an apology to the women, touched one gently on the arm, and closed the distance between us.

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“You look like you need something, brother,” he said, voice low enough that only I could hear the tremor beneath the calm.

My mouth went dry. I swallowed, tasted the ghost of him again. “I need to confess.”

He studied me, long, searching, then slid his arm around my shoulders. Heat poured through his sleeve into my skin; I nearly buckled against him.

My cock jerked painfully as he guided me toward the confessional, his fingers firm on my shoulder; a claim on me no one else could see.

I stepped inside the narrow dark. The booth smelled of old wood, candle wax, and the faint musk of countless sins whispered through the lattice. I knelt on the worn kneeler, forehead pressed to the patterned wood, heart hammering so violently I thought the screen might rattle.

The air felt dense here, hotter, like the space itself knew what we’d done and what we still wanted to do. I waited, trembling, for the soft scrape of the grate opening—and for whatever absolution or damnation came next. When I heard it, I trembled, filled with shame.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” The words scraped out of me, hoarse and trembling. “It has been four days since my last confession. In that time, I have committed sins of the flesh ….”

My fingers knotted together until the knuckles ached.

No more hiding behind pretty phrases.

No mercy for myself.

“I sucked another man’s cock,” I said, voice wavering. “I licked every thick drop of his cum off him like it was holy. I swallowed it all. I wanted it inside me. I wanted it to fill me—for him to own me.”

Sweat slid slow and hot down the back of my neck, escaping down my spine, soaking into my shirt. I could still feel the stretch of my jaw, the weight on my tongue.

“I crawled to him,” I went on, barely breathing. “On hands and knees across the rectory floor like a bitch in heat. Like I was made to serve at his feet. A priest. My own stepbrother.”

The confession burned hotter than a fever.

“And God help me, I fucking loved it. Every humiliating inch.”

A low, guttural sound leaked through the screen—half growl, half stifled moan.

“Continue,” Lorenzo rasped. His voice was dark velvet now, lust wrapped in clerical calm, but the roughness betrayed him. He wanted this as badly as I did.

My cock throbbed so hard it hurt, straining against denim, a wet spot already blooming. I shifted on the kneeler, thighs trembling.

“I want it,” I whispered.

“Which part?” His question came deliberate, dripping with deep hunger. “Crawling on your knees for me … or opening wide and letting me fuck your throat until you swallow every drop?”

I sucked in a shaky breath, the air in the booth suddenly too thick, tainted by our filthy words. My forehead stayed pressed against the lattice.

“All of it, Father,” I said, the title obscene and devotional at once. “The shame. The taste. The way you held my head and fed me like I was yours to ruin.”

Another quiet growl vibrated through the lattice—primal, possessive, barely leashed.

“You need more than a few prayers, Matteo.” His voice dropped lower, intimate—dangerous. “You need guidance. Intensive. One-on-one. In my office. We’ll kneel together. We’ll pray for your soul … and I’ll teach you exactly how to atone.”

The promise landed like a hand around my throat. I pictured it instantly. Locked door, his desk, me on the floor again while he “counseled” me with fingers twisted in my hair and his cock sliding past my lips.

I leaned harder against the screen, lips almost brushing the lattice. “Yes, Father.”

“Two Our Fathers,” he said, the words steady but frayed at the edges, like he was holding himself together by threads. “Five Hail Marys. And when the church empties tonight … you come to me. We begin your real penance then.”

The grate slid shut with a soft, final snick.

I stayed there on my knees in the suffocating dark, lips parted, tasting the memory of him, cock aching, heart pounding with equal parts terror and craving.

Two prayers to beg forgiveness.

One promise to fall deeper.

I was already hard and leaking just thinking about tonight.

To keep sinking deeper into this forbidden heat—where every whispered confession drips with sin, every stolen touch burns hotter than hellfire, and two souls damn themselves beautifully for one another—consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Unlock the rest. Let the velvet close around you.

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In the last installment of Age of Mycea

In the first installment of Age of Mycea

Meshia found himself out on the inn’s front steps, looking out at the square, wondering what he was doing here. There had been no reason for him to make this trip. His citizens were more than capable of traveling to the capital to have their grievances heard by him if they were not satisfied with the rulings laid down by the commander of his third.

Sebastian had taken to the position with ease. He had not heard any complaints about Sebastian’s decisions. His rulings were fair—his punishments, just and swift.

He trusted him.

Meshia sighed. He trusted Sebastian with more than hearing grievances. They had a secret. A secret that could ruin him.

A secret that could bring down the empire.

He took the steps down to the muddy square. It had stopped raining, but everything was still dripping from the downpour. He looked up into the hills. There was someone he wanted to see tonight. Someone who could take his mind off the intricacies of the situation he had placed himself in with Sebastian. It had been many years. It was time to pay her his respects.

He headed toward a slope that banked away from the square, up into the trees. If she were still in the same place, he should have no trouble finding her. He glanced over his shoulder at the shadow that was following him; Krunk was certainly diligent in his duty.

Meshia exhaled, distracted. Sebastian knew how to command his battalion so that they came to adore him. They would follow him anywhere. It was an incredible skill. One he did not possess himself. True to his nature and his lineage, he tended to rule by fear.

A legacy his depraved father had instilled in him.

The cottage appeared through the trees, smoke billowing from the hearth within. He tapped on the door, expectant of the kind face that would appear.

The sight of her nearly stopped his heart.

Carmella had been his first love. Years of gathering taxes with his father, King Amundar, had placed him in Carmella’s path time and again from the age of eleven. Year after year.

Over time, they had fallen in love, much to his father’s outrage.

One summer, they had arrived at the village in time to see Carmella’s wedding. His father’s design. Typically, they would not have been in the vicinity so early in the summer. His father had arranged the marriage and purposely made sure Meshia was there to witness it.

It was the kindest of cruelties his father had ever exacted upon him.

The last time Meshia had seen Carmella, she had been married with two young children. Now she was a widow. Her husband had given his life in the war on Kronos.

“Carmella …,” he whispered.

She bowed. “Your Majesty.” Stepping back to allow access, Carmella squeezed against the wall of the small cottage. “What brings you to my doorstep?”

“It’s been a while since I’ve been to Sibas. Six years. I couldn’t find myself here without coming to see you.” Meshia looked around the one-room cottage. There were gaps in the walls letting the night air in and broken windows with ripped pieces of cloth guarding against the wind. He scuffed his feet. The floor was dirt, and mud was seeping in along the edges. To either side of him were sleeping platforms, broken and heaving, thin, torn blankets covering moldy nests of hay.

Meshia scowled.

“Have you not been getting your widow’s pension?” This beautiful, caring woman should not be living like this. If he’d had his way, he would have married her in his youth and brought her back to the castle. Treated her like the queen she would have become. But it wasn’t to be.

But this instead? The pension he had set up for widows should have afforded her more comfort than she was currently enduring.

Carmella sat on the edge of one of the sleeping platforms. “A portion of it. The mayor takes most of it as an administration fee.”

She reached for Meshia. “Sit with me.”

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“Carmella, that’s not right.” Meshia raised his hand. “Wait.” He reached back and opened the door. As expected, Krunk was standing guard outside. He gave Krunk a brief accounting of what had been happening with the widow’s pension fund. That the mayor had been wiping it out with a fee.

Krunk simply nodded and headed off in the direction of the village square.

Carmella furrowed her brow. “Is he …?”

“He’ll deliver a message for me, that’s all.” Meshia sat beside her and reached for her hand. “Where are your children?”

“They are with my mother tonight.”

“Are they well?”

“Almost fully grown now. Candalee will be fourteen next spring. Arum eleven.”

Meshia simply nodded.

Carmella squeezed Meshia’s hand. “Why now? Why are you here?”

“I wanted to offer my condolences for the loss of your husband. I’m sorry it has taken me so long to find my way to Sibas to do so.”

Carmella dipped her head. “Thank you. It was a great loss. I had come to love Keb. Even though your father arranged the marriage, he chose well. I am certain it was not on purpose, but Keb was a gentle, loving man. Poor as we were, we were happy.”

“I’m glad of that, at least.”

“And you?” Carmella straightened up and smiled. “Your marriage. Is it as wondrous as one would imagine it to be? Surely having a queen such as Lakeda has brought you great joy.”

Meshia stared down at the ground. “You would think, but it is a marriage of convenience—political, truly. I was forced to choose. I chose Lakeda. She was best suited to the task.”

Carmella brushed her hand across Meshia’s. “Surely, you’ve formed a connection between the two of you. A bond of sorts. Something.”

“I respect her.” Meshia rubbed his thumb across Carmella’s wrist. “I respect her ability to rule and her agility and courage on the battlefield.”

“Ah ….” Carmella sighed. “Is there someone else in your life?”

Meshia rotated his head, attempting to relax his shoulders. Even thinking about Sebastian brought on a great deal of stress. “Perhaps, but they are unattainable.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. I can’t bear to think you’re unhappy.”

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“I’m content.” He released Carmella’s hand and patted her leg. “I have other matters that are of more imminent importance than my personal life.” Meshia rose to his feet. “It has been wonderful seeing you.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “I won’t stay away as long, I promise. And the problem with your pension will be solved shortly.”

Carmella opened the door and gripped Meshia’s arm as he was about to step through the doorway. “Perhaps the unattainable will become attainable.”

Meshia touched Carmella’s cheek, brushing his fingers along her jaw. “Perhaps.”

The walk back was peaceful; the trees’ stillness was only interrupted occasionally by the wind. He loved Mycea. Every heavily wooded mountain peak and valley, from ocean to ocean, of the temperate rainforest he called home. Seeing Carmella had soothed him somewhat. She had always had a calming effect on him. She would have made him happy.

He decided to enjoy the quiet for a while, heading into the trees along a path that led to more houses. He found a stump to sit on and just pondered life for well over an hour. It had certainly come with some twists and turns.

Sebastian being one of them.

Just let it go.

Meshia dismissed the thoughts rampaging through his mind and made a start toward the inn. The path back was serene; the scent of damp cedar invigorated him.

He took the steps two at a time, feeling somewhat lighter. The pub in the inn was unexpectedly quiet. Only a few of Sebastian’s men were still perched around the table, tankards of ale in hand, barely keeping their heads above the wooden table planks. The stairs to the inn’s rooms were to the rear of the space. Meshia made his way to them, stepping over a few of Sebastian’s troops who had not quite made it up the stairs before passing out.

He would be sharing accommodation tonight with Sebastian and two others. Krunk, who was likely not back yet, and one other. Meshia pushed open the door and ducked inside. Sebastian was still entertaining the two guests he had invited up to their room in his absence.

Meshia sat on the edge of his bed and began unlacing his boots. It was far from the first time he had been in the same space as Sebastian when he had been rutting. There was no other word for it. The emotion and tenderness Sebastian had exhibited when they were together were not there with any of these conquests he picked up along the way.

It was pure animalistic Cardinian nature at its fullest. Sebastian’s ability to fuck his way through a population was regrettably impressive.

He slipped one boot off and looked up. The firelight was reflecting warmly off the smooth surface of Sebastian’s chest and down his chiseled abs. He became mesmerized by the fluid movement of Sebastian’s seemingly perfect body.

His gaze traced the enticing curve of Sebastian’s muscular thigh as Sebastian mounted one of the women. It sent a crushing pain through his chest as he watched them together. When Sebastian looked over at him, Meshia was overcome by a deep sense of longing and shame.

Flustered, he looked away and began working on his other boot. Throwing his second boot under the bed, he stripped back the blankets. He climbed in, pinching his eyes closed, and attempted to block out the sound of Sebastian’s escalating arousal and his ultimate release.

The initial sound didn’t last. Hushed whispers drifted across the room instead. Rustling petticoats. Shoes. The door of the room creaked open, then clicked shut. Silence followed.

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“You didn’t have to do that for me,” Meshia ventured.

They were alone in the room. Their fourth was probably one of the men passed out on the table downstairs. Sebastian padded across the floor toward him, a sheet wrapped around his waist, bits dragging, bunching, barely held in place by Sebastian’s fist.

He squatted beside Meshia’s bed.

“You know I did.” His free hand hovered above Meshia’s cheek. After a moment of hesitation, he brushed his knuckle across it. “I’ll never forget.”

After Sebastian went back to his own bed, Meshia lay awake, replaying the feel of Sebastian’s skin against his. The soft touch of his knuckle on his cheek. The emotion that had accompanied that touch. The intention … the promise.

Sleep was impossible after that.

The story continues … soon …

In the last installment of One and Only

In the first installment of One and Only

Jacob ended the call and tossed his phone onto his bed. He was glad they had cleared that out of the way. His need for an open relationship. He loved Ethan with his whole heart, but there was still some wiggle room along the sides to fulfill his sexual appetite.

He’d told Ethan the truth during their call. He just found people to be interesting. Men, more so, of course. Their little quirks in bed. Their fantasies. Their kinks. Even talking to them brightened his day. Men were beautiful—all of them. He wanted to taste them all.

Jacob rolled and grabbed his phone. He needed to cancel tomorrow’s date. And all the ones for the next three weeks at least. Tomorrow would have been interesting.

Daniel liked ropes.

He’d slept with him before. He was worth a repeat.

He’d forgotten to mention that to Ethan. That he would never sleep with the same guy more than once while they were together. He opened his messages and sent him a text.

The rules needed to be clear. That much he knew.

Jacob swiped the screen on his phone. 11:10 pm. It was still early for him. He usually didn’t fall asleep until at least three in the morning on a weekend. Unlike when they were in university, he could mess around with a guy for hours until they were both sweaty and spent.

He needed to go out.

Jacob headed for his closet. He flicked through his night clothes as he tried to decide what he wanted to get up to tonight. He was restless. Ethan was the last guy he’d slept with this week. The rest of the week, he’d felt in limbo. It had given him a chance to think about them—us.

Us.

Such an unfamiliar concept.

He arrived at what he wanted to wear. Tight pink pants and a sheer, silver top. He felt like dancing. That’s what he needed. A little innocent bump and grind.

Walking into the nightclub, the thudding bass filled his chest. Spoke to his soul. He immediately spotted a group of friends. These were his people—this was their space.

“Hey, Jacob.” His friend Mikey swooped in and put an arm around his shoulders. “Didn’t think we’d see you tonight. Thought Daniel would have you all tied up by now.”

“Bit of a snag with that.” Jacob wandered over to the bar and ordered two crantinis. He was at least that many drinks behind everyone else. “You remember that guy? University guy.”

“The one you’re still in love with?”

“He moved back to Victoria.” Jacob cleared his throat. It was annoying having to yell everything. He leaned in close to Mikey as they slipped into some seats with their group.

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“You gonna talk to him?” Mikey asked.

“Oh, no … it has gone so much further than that already.”

“How far? What on earth did you do?”

“We had the talk.”

“What talk?”

“The one I’ve never had before. The open relationship one.”

Mikey leaned back, furrowed his brow at Jacob, then shouted in his ear.

“So, you’re a thing now?”

Jacob nodded and sucked back one of his drinks.

“You don’t do things,” Mikey said, then took a sip of his cocktail. His brow was still furrowed. He shoved Jacob. “Then why aren’t you with Daniel?”

“I agreed to take a break from men for a few weeks.”

“Brutal. How are you holding up?”

Fuck off.

“I’m not a deviant. I can handle it.”

After throwing back a couple more crantinis, Jacob cruised onto the dance floor, prowled around until he found a hungry participant, and seriously invaded his personal space.

It was a dance he’d perfected.

Swaying to the music, his target placed his hands on Jacob’s hips and wandered in close behind him until his hard cock was pressed against Jacob’s ass.

Jacob leaned back into it. His cock and his chest.

He hummed as the guy wrapped his arms around his waist and ground against him. The anticipated hot breath appeared on his cheek. “Do you want to get out of here?”

Jacob’s gut clenched. He was ripe for a good fucking. But he had promised Ethan.

“Not tonight, sweetheart. I’m off the market … temporarily.”

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The guy kissed his ear. “Find me when you’re free again.” Then Jacob was alone. It was an uncomfortable feeling. He should have been heading out the door with someone.

Maybe he was a deviant.

The thought led Jacob back to the bar. Drink after drink—after drink. His friends eventually had to haul him out of there and put him in a cab. He didn’t remember much after that.

During the early morning hours, Jacob spent much of his time with his head in the toilet. So far, monogamy wasn’t looking good on him. He laid his head on the cold porcelain. Love was the only thing holding him to this agreement. Love and the stirrings of something so much deeper.

His body shook as he sobbed into the toilet.

Something so much deeper.

It was there.

And he was terrified.

When Jacob finally came to, it was three in the afternoon. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten in twenty hours. He fell out of bed onto his hands and knees.

The room was still spinning.

The older he got, the longer it took to recover after a night out drinking. At thirty-six, he was starting to feel like an old man. Aside from work, his life had been one long party.

Drinking and fucking. Fucking and drinking.

Why on earth was he pulling Ethan into that life? He loved the man too much. He flopped down on the floor and rolled onto his back. How his love had survived so many years apart, he wasn’t sure. Ethan was never far from his thoughts. Even when he was with other guys.

Jacob slapped his hand over his eyes. Maybe that’s why he did it—fucked his way through life. He’d been trying to wipe out his feelings for Ethan.

Now, Ethan was back in life.

He’d gotten ugly with his face in the toilet. Sobbing. His face was streaked with tears. His nose running—face mottled. All sorts of things were shifting around inside him, threatening everything he loved about his life. The excessive alcohol had brought it to the surface.

He lifted his phone and opened his text messages.

His friend Mikey would set him straight.

Jacob: “I’m in trouble.”

Mikey: “Why are you in trouble?”

Jacob: “I’ve got these weird feelings when I think about him.”

Mikey: “Like what? Stomach cramps. What?”

Jacob set his phone on his chest. He wasn’t sure how to articulate what he was feeling. It was foreign to him. He scowled and lifted his phone. His thoughts had gathered and become clear.

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Jacob: “I can see a future with him.”

Mikey: “Oh, jeez. You are in trouble.”

Jacob: “What do I do?”

Mikey: “Honestly. Run with it. We can’t keep playing the game forever.”

Jacob: “You were supposed to talk me out of it.”

Mikey: “You’re a sweet guy. You deserve a little happiness.”

Jacob: “Not sure I agree. I need to think.”

Mikey: “Sounds like you’ll have a few weeks to do that.”

Jacob: “Don’t remind me.”

Jacob tossed his phone onto the carpet. He was exhausted. But he needed to haul his ass out to the kitchen. Mac & Cheese sounded like the solution to his complaining gut.

That and a cigarette.

He clambered to his feet and stumbled down the hallway, using the walls to get him to his destination. He only made it as far as the living room sofa.

He flopped down on it, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling. He was in crisis. He fell over onto his side and looked at his phone. He wanted to do something he shouldn’t.

Don’t do it.

Don’t do it.

Fuck it.

His fingers and emotions took over.

Ethan’s contact screen.

“I need you.” And his address.

There was no answer. Ethan was probably busy with his kids. That would be a constant in their relationship. No weekends together. Jacob typically worked during the week. Aside from the occasional Saturday, he only had weekends off. How were they going to make this work?

He closed his eyes. His stomach would have to wait. He curled up and fell asleep. The sound of the doorbell and the resulting lurch toward the door were unwelcome intrusions.

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Until he saw who it was.

He could see through the glass. Ethan stood outside his townhouse door. Ethan kept peering over his shoulder at a burgundy minivan parked in Jacob’s driveway.

Jacob opened the door.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d come,” he said.

“Well, I did. Can I come in?”

Jacob looked past Ethan’s shoulder to his driveway. The van was rocking around. He had his kids with him. Jacob felt guilty in all kinds of ways for hauling Ethan away from them.

“You didn’t have to—”

“You have no idea how much I did.”

Ethan gripped the front of Jacob’s shirt and walked him backward into the front entry. Jacob groaned as Ethan pressed his back against the wall and captured his mouth.

There was so much desperation and passion in that kiss that it nearly melted Jacob into the wall. It took him a moment to recover when Ethan stepped away.

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I rolled over, eyes still closed, and slammed my palm onto the bedside table, fumbling with my phone, my alarm blaring at the ungodly hour of 5:45 a.m.—which might’ve been funny considering my life if it didn’t mean dragging myself out of bed and heading straight to the church.

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It was still dark out; the only evidence that the world existed outside my bedroom was the sound of rain spattering against the glass after four nights of torment. Dreams that left me slick and aching, then bled into daylight until I could barely breathe around the shame.

My hand drifted down, tracing the outline of my sleep shorts. The fabric clung, damp with precum, betraying me before I even opened my eyes.

A low groan tore from my throat—half pleasure, half self-loathing.

It happened again.

I ghosted my fingertips along my length, heat pulsing under the thin cotton. The blankets cocooned me, a false sanctuary against every sermon I’d ever heard about purity, about the godly man’s duty to master his flesh. But my body didn’t care about sermons.

It wanted release.

It wanted him.

My growing lust was intent on breaking down my walls.

I can’t.

I abandoned my desire to touch myself, snatched my phone, and crawled out of bed.

Wednesday meant early Mass at 6:30 a.m. Our Lady of Blessed Divinity had claimed me since baptism. Nineteen years of prayer, Latin responses, and the weight of expectation. Today, I would be alone as the only altar server because the others were in school. I was the eldest, and my work schedule bent around the liturgy because my boss knelt in the same pews.

After a cold shower that did nothing to cool the fire under my skin, I found Mom in the kitchen, coffee already poured. She lived for these small acts of devotion.

“Toast?” she asked, glancing at the clock.

“I can run on coffee for the time being. Lorenzo and I are going for brunch after Mass.”

“Father Lorenzo.”

I winced. The title still felt wrong on my tongue. He’d been Lorenzo since I was four—tall, patient, the one who bandaged my knees and taught me how to pray the rosary properly.

Now thirty-two, my stepbrother, the youngest priest at the parish, wore black like it was made for him, the white collar a stark line against his throat.

He’d always been there for me. Our parents had worked endless hours, then poured the rest of their time into church volunteering. Piety ran in the family. At least in deeds. My mind was a different story, a shadowed vault where desire had taken root years ago and refused to die.

Not sure when I realized I was gay. I probably always knew. There was no time in my life when I’d been interested in girls. The boys always looked and smelled nicer to me.

Which screwed me up when it came to being an altar server. Our church wasn’t progressive. Girls weren’t permitted to be servers. At fourteen, crammed into the sacristy, donning our vestments, I’d been bumping up alongside other boys as we changed for Mass week after week.

The first time I’d sprung a boner in that room, I’d been horrified. Thank whatever deity was looking out for me, the flowing cassock and surplice did an excellent job of hiding my body’s reaction to the scent and proximity of the young men I spent so much time with.

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Last week, Lorenzo finally appointed me Master of Ceremonies—long overdue recognition. The role required arriving early to prepare the sanctuary, review the Roman Missal, and set out the linens and sacred vessels. It also meant standing mere inches from him, sharing the same heavy air laced with incense and my unspoken desire.

It terrified me as much as it thrilled me.

Because lately, the dreams weren’t vague anymore. They wore Lorenzo’s face. His hands. His voice murmuring Latin as he pinned me. Today, in confession, I would confess. Not the face in the fantasies, but the fantasies themselves.

God would take this burden.

He had to.

“Bye, Mom.” I gave her a kiss on the forehead.

“Wait.” She dug around in her sweater pocket and produced a rosary. “I found this rosary that belonged to Father Lorenzo’s grandmother in a box of his dad’s memorabilia when I was tidying up.” She pressed the string of beads into my hand. “Could you give it to him, please?”

“Sure thing, Mom.” I tucked it into my pants pocket and dashed out into the warm, spring rain without a coat, my coffee cup in hand, to the car my parents let me use to get around.

Once at the church, I hurried through the downpour, slowed only to genuflect toward the tabernacle, then approached Lorenzo as he arranged hymnals in the pews. He looked up. That smile—soft brown eyes, warm as dawn—hit me like a fist to the sternum.

So beautiful.

So impossibly untouchable.

My breath hitched. Heat flooded my cheeks; lower, my cock twitched, insistent. I must have looked wrecked because his brow furrowed.

“What’s wrong, Matteo?” Lorenzo closed the distance and settled his hand on my shoulder.

The weight. The warmth through my damp shirt. I nearly swayed into him.

I swallowed. “Can you take my confession before Mass?”

He squeezed my bicep, gentle, brotherly, and devastating. “Of course, brother.”

“I’ll get changed first.” I dropped my gaze, unable to hold his. The scent of ancient, polished wood was the only thing keeping me from unraveling.

In the sacristy, I shut the door and slumped against the wall, chest heaving. Forehead pressed to the cool paneling, I licked my dry lips. Tears stung.

My erection throbbed, almost painful. One look at him and my body ignited, mocking every vow I’d ever made, every prayer for deliverance. I’d spent nights on my knees at my bed’s edge, begging God to rip this out of me.

Instead, while on my knees, my mind conjured Lorenzo’s lap, supporting my head, his cock heavy and close enough to taste, his fingers threading through my hair in benediction.

I wiped wet streaks from my cheeks, pulled on the cassock and surplice, and returned where Lorenzo waited, arm sliding around my shoulders—protective, paternal. He guided me to the confessional like I was fragile.

This was it.

Absolution waited on the other side of the grate.

The thin wooden door of the confessional clicked shut behind me, sealing out the dim nave light. I dropped to my knees on the worn velvet cushion, the familiar give of it under me feeling obscene now. My heart slammed against my ribs like it wanted out.

Lorenzo slid the grate open with a slow, deliberate rasp.

The sound alone made my cock twitch.

I bowed my head, hands clasped. Sweat already slicked my palms, my throat, the small of my back beneath the cassock. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

My fingers trembled as I traced the cross over my chest—forehead, heart, left shoulder, right—like I could still claim any of it belonged to me.

“Amen,” Lorenzo responded. The single word fell through the lattice like a stone dropped into deep water—solid and weighted. It took me a while to speak, my throat bobbing.

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“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three days since my last confession, and I have willfully entertained impure thoughts and desires … more than twenty times.”

“You wish to repent for your sins.” Lorenzo’s voice slipped through the lattice, low and steady. It curled around my spine and settled hot between my legs.

I wiped my hands on my thighs, then balled them into fists.

“Yes, Father.”

“How long have you been having them for?”

I sighed. “Generally, for years … but recently, they’ve become more … focused.”

A soft grunt. Distress? Disappointment? I should have come sooner.

“Sex dreams,” I forced out and clutched my hands together. “Gay ones.”

Silence stretched, then a hushed, “Carry on.”

My leg jittered. “About … a member of the clergy.”

He swallowed audibly. “Here? In this church?”

“Yes.” My voice cracked. “I pray for strength. God gives me enough to hold back. But I want—” I stared at his profile through the lattice. “I want him.”

The moments after my admission lasted for a few inhalations, then he looked over his shoulder at me and leaned closer to the lattice. “Matteo, you can’t have thoughts like this.”

“I can’t help it. I want him so badly it hurts.”

“That is not God’s plan for you.”

Lorenzo’s voice came out measured, almost too careful, like he was choosing each word from a narrow selection of safe ones.

He cleared his throat, a small, dry sound that echoed in the narrow booth, and eased back from the lattice. The sound of his breath, the faint pressure of his presence, vanished in an instant.

The sudden emptiness clawed at me. A hollow ache behind my ribs, a shiver that had nothing to do with the chill of the confessional and everything to do with the space where he should have been.

I stayed perfectly still, palms pressed to the wood, forehead almost touching the screen, listening to the faint creak of the bench as he shifted farther away.

My cock throbbed once, traitorously, at the memory of how close he’d been only seconds ago—his voice stroking me like fingers, his scent bleeding through the gaps in the wood.

I swallowed hard, tasting coffee and shame.

And waited for him to offer me some peace.

Because he always did.

He was my stepbrother … and my priest.

“Try to find a quiet moment each day,” he continued, steadier now but still rough around the edges, “and pray on this. One Our Father. Four Hail Marys.”

I heard the faint rustle of his cassock as he shifted—nothing more. No warmth returned. No shadow leaned closer. Just the soft scrape of wool on wood, the sound of distance.

“Now,” he said gently, “your Act of Contrition.”

The words rose in me like a reflex, but this morning they felt heavier, sharper against my tongue. I spoke them slowly, each syllable a small wound.

“God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins ….”

My voice caught once, barely audible. I wasn’t lying—not exactly. I detested the thoughts that came unbidden in the quiet hours, the ones that stole into my mind when the church fell silent and the only sounds were my own breathing and the rustle of parishioners.

I hated how those images followed me to bed, how my body betrayed me in the dark, how I woke flushed and ashamed and still aching for something I knew I must never seek.

But the detestation never lasted. The longing always returned, quiet and persistent, like a prayer said too many times.

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Lorenzo stayed silent through my Act of Contrition. When I finished, he leaned in again, his breath brushed the lattice, soft and even, but there was no tremor in it, no hunger I could hear.

Only calm.

Only duty.

“I absolve you from your sins,” he said, the words sacred and sure, “in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

The formula should have brought relief. Instead, it landed like cool water on fevered skin—brief comfort, then nothing. The ache between my legs didn’t fade. It simply settled deeper, patient, waiting.

“Amen,” I whispered.

“Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.”

“His mercy endures forever.”

The responses came automatically, but my throat felt raw as I said them. Mercy. I didn’t feel merciful toward myself today. I felt greedy. Weak. Filthy in ways confession couldn’t reach.

“Go in peace.”

His voice was gentle, tender. The same tone he used when he blessed the sick, when he laid a hand on a grieving shoulder. Nothing more. Nothing suggested he saw me as anything but a penitent brother in need of guidance.

I pressed my palm to the lattice anyway, foolish, hopeless, fingers spread as though I could feel the heat of him on the other side. There was only cool wood. Only silence.

“Thanks be to God,” I answered, barely above a breath.

He didn’t move to close the grate.

I didn’t rise.

Then the grate slid shut with a quiet, final click.

I remained kneeling a little longer, forehead against the lattice, breathing in the faint trace of him that still lingered in the booth.

Trying to convince myself it was enough.

Knowing it never would be.

When I finally stood, legs unsteady, cassock brushing my aching erection with every step, I told myself this was the last time I’d let the thoughts win.

I told myself I’d pray harder tomorrow.

I didn’t believe any of it.

But I walked out into the dim nave anyway, carrying the weight of his voice, and the secret heat that still burned low in my belly.

I slipped straight into a pew to do my penance. I didn’t look up when Lorenzo passed by me, heading for the sacristy. It was difficult to concentrate on my penance when my mind was filled with him, naked and grunting in pleasure.

I doubled down, pressed my eyes closed—hard, and filled my mind with prayer, but Lorenzo kept making an appearance, grunting and growling “Oh, God,” as he fucked me.

Unable to do my penance, I lingered on my knees, willing my body to calm. The crucifix stared down; Mary’s statue offered quiet grace. I breathed her presence in, begging for purity.

A few parishioners wandered into the nave as I prepared for communion. I kept my mind on my list of duties by whispering Hail Marys to stay focused.

When I reached the sacristy after completing my tasks, Lorenzo was changed and ready for Mass, wearing vestments that barely reached his ankles because of his impressive height.

We gathered the necessary items and began Mass. I moved through my duties on autopilot, guided by years of repetition, while Lorenzo filled the sanctuary with fervent, unwavering devotion and praise. Only once did I stumble—watching him receive the Host on his tongue, then drink from the chalice. I hummed low, imagining that mouth on me instead.

Guilt crashed in.

I was defiling God’s house with every impure thought.

When we slipped back into the sacristy, I changed and waited for my stepbrother to bring up my need for spiritual counsel, but instead, Lorenzo ignored me, changed, and then left the room.

I entered the nave, where a few parishioners were waiting for the confessional. I slipped into a pew to wait for Lorenzo to finish so we could go to brunch together as planned. The creak of the wooden floorboards and kneelers as people moved about brought on a wave of unease.

I could feel God judging me.

The last person left the confessional, and Lorenzo stepped out. His expression changed from peaceful to tortured when he looked up and saw me waiting for him.

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I hadn’t wanted to burden him with the ragged state of my soul. Now, I’d made him worry about me. He walked toward me, his pleated, black slacks, dress shirt, and white collar insert, reminding me that he was a man of God. He rested his hand on the back of the pew I was in.

“Matteo, I don’t think I’m up for having brunch today.”

I nodded, unsurprised. “Okay.”

He stepped aside. I passed close—too close—catching the clean soap on his skin, the faint musk beneath. My body clenched.

“Maybe Sunday?” he offered quietly.

I shrugged. “I just wanted … time. Just us. As brothers.”

His fingers curled around my arm—light, but electric. “I want that too. But today, I need ….” He exhaled. “We need to talk. Properly.”

I met his eyes. They burned. “I know.”

I looked everywhere but at him. Stained-glass saints, flickering vigil candles, the wooden floor that suddenly felt like it could swallow me whole. “I’ll see you for Sunday Mass.”

“We’ll go for brunch after.” He stepped closer, voice low and careful. “I promise. We can spend some time reconnecting. It’s been a while.”

I nodded, my throat tight. “Okay.”

I couldn’t escape fast enough. The heavy oak doors thudded shut behind me. Lorenzo would stay, tidy Missals, reset the altar, and receive the afternoon penitents who came seeking peace.

I had none to give or receive.

In the car, I slammed the door and pressed my forehead to the steering wheel, lungs burning. Each breath tasted like incense and sin.

Lorenzo was going to be my damnation.

And worse. I wanted him to be.

Halfway home, my fingers brushed the rosary in my pocket. The one I’d promised to give him. Simple black beads, a small silver crucifix, a cherished item from Lorenzo’s grandmother.

Mom would ask. She always asked about my day. Muttering my annoyance under my breath, I swung the car around and headed back to the church, back to the center of my obsession.

The church was empty, cool, and shadowed. Lorenzo wasn’t at the altar or in the pews. I slipped through to the back offices. His door stood propped open, but the room was dark.

I decided he was probably in the rectory getting something to eat, so I headed to the building next to the church. The rectory door closed softly behind me. Kitchen empty. No scent of coffee or food. Frowning, I glanced up the narrow staircase to the bedrooms. Three priests lived here; two were on sabbatical. Lorenzo carried every Mass alone these days.

Then I heard it—his voice, soft, rhythmic. Not preaching. Not praying.

Repeating.

Curiosity pulled me up the stairs like an invisible leash. I stopped outside his door, ear hovering, heart hammering so loud I feared he’d hear it.

The sounds resolved into something unmistakable: slick, urgent rhythm.

A low groan. And my name.

“Matteo ….”

My blood turned molten. I could tell he was stroking himself—slow at first, then faster—panting my name like a litany.

“Yeah … that’s it. Take it, Matteo. Take it all.”

My cock surged painfully against my zipper. Every vow I’d ever whispered, every Hail Mary on sore knees, dissolved. Lorenzo—Father Lorenzo—my stepbrother was lost in a fantasy about me. The hunger wasn’t one-sided. It was shared. Sacred and profane in equal measure.

My hand found the knob before reason could stop it.

I pushed the door open.

Lorenzo’s eyes snapped to mine. He didn’t stop. Didn’t cover himself. He knelt on the rug, black slacks pooled at his ankles, thick cock glistening in his fist. Tall, broad-shouldered, still half in his clerical shirt—white collar stark against flushed skin … he looked like sin incarnate.

His gaze raked over me, dark and ravenous.

“Matteo,” he breathed again, his voice wrecked. His hand sped up, deliberate, holding my stare as he chased release. Muscles flexed beneath his sleeve; a bead of sweat traced his throat.

Then he came—hard, hips jerking, thick ropes spilling over his fingers and onto the rug with a soft, obscene patter.

The sight broke me.

I dropped to my knees. Crawled the few feet between us like something starved, something damned. No hesitation. No prayer. Just need.

I buried my face in his lap. His cock, still twitching, slick with his own release, slid between my lips. I moaned around him, tasting salt and musk and forbidden heat.

My tongue swirled over the sensitive head, chasing every drop, humming with desperate greed. He was thick and heavy on my tongue, veins pulsing under velvet skin. I sucked harder, deeper, cheeks hollowing as I took his waning thickness to the back of my throat.

Lorenzo’s hand settled on the back of my head—gentle at first, then firmer. Fingers threaded through my hair, guiding without forcing. “God … Matteo,” he rasped, voice cracking on my name.

His hips rocked shallowly, feeding me more. The scent of him, sweat and spent arousal, flooded my senses until nothing else existed.

This was peace. This was where I belonged. Kneeling before him, mouth full of his cock, serving in the most blasphemous way possible.

The filthy holiness of it sang through me: stepbrother, priest, my ruin and my salvation.

Then guilt crashed in like ice water.

What the hell was I doing?

I wrenched back so fast I nearly choked. His cock slipped free with a wet sound that echoed in the quiet room. I scrambled away on hands and knees, bile rising in my throat. My ears burned; my skin crawled with shame so thick I could taste it.

“Matteo … wait.”

His voice followed me, raw and pleading, but I was already bolting. Down the stairs, through the rectory, out into the rain. I didn’t stop until I reached the car, slamming inside, chest heaving.

I’d defiled him. Defiled myself.

Defiled everything holy.

A prayer appeared on my lips as I realized I wanted more.

The story continues …

In the first installment of Age of Mycea

2 years later

Their horses tripped along through the mud, throwing wet clods of earth upon the forelimbs and hooves of the beast behind them, the heavy downfall of rain making matters increasingly worse.

A lumbering cart and twelve armed men atop twelve horses.

A road centuries old.

Scattered, plodding, the autumn winds were bending the trees along the narrow road that had been traveled countless times to undertake this task. The Capital Region was far from vast, fortuitously. The small villages of lumber suppliers that occupied the valley surrounding the Neter colony on the planet of Mycea were few but spread a fair distance apart.

It would take them the better part of two weeks to reach them all.

The task was simple. Collect taxes, hear grievances, and log new applicants eligible to receive military widows’ pensions. It was time-consuming and tedious for all involved.

Sebastian shifted in his saddle, finding enjoyment in the comforting creak of the leather and the scent drifting up from his wet gloves, reins, and leather breastplate. Months, sometimes years, on various battlefields had warmed him to the subtle sensations of simply being alive.

The Neter Round Road, with its rutted surface, unavoidable pits of thick mud, and dense Mycean forests overshadowing it, was as familiar to him as the Neter colony itself. His quarterly task was to make this trip: him, nine of his best men, and the bookkeeper.

Sebastian straightened, peering above the shoulders of the men in front of him.

This time was different. King Meshia had decided at the last minute to come with them. He desired to meet the citizens in their home villages to hear their grievances rather than have them travel to the Neter colony. Sparing them the long trek to the opulent palace he called home.

The king’s natural inclination did not typically lean in the direction of accommodation when it came to his citizens. It was a welcome change. Something had shifted in the king since the war on Kronos. The battle had left scars, not all of them visible.

The ground grew increasingly pungent the more the rain fell, the horses’ hooves and the wheels of the cart churning up the wet, fragrant soil. Of all the planets, Mycea was one of the wettest. Only rivaled by Kaenum, a planet whose military was always seeking its independence from the empire. They were also disorganized, leading to tactical mistakes.

They’d been under the empire’s thumb for over a century.

They were going to stay there.

Sebastian adjusted his reins, switching hands. Up ahead, the king led the procession: his posture exuded self-assurance and confidence in his position. King Meshia was a born ruler. Decisive, intelligent, and impartial. He ruled with the skill of one many decades older than himself.

The respect Sebastian felt for him was immense.

He watched the languid motion of the king’s body, his hips, his shoulders rocking rhythmically with the movement of his horse. Sebastian grunted his appreciation. He had followed those broad shoulders into many battles in the ten years he had served under him.

He would lay down his life to protect them; die for the man wielding them.

Sebastian scrubbed a hand across his mouth. It had been two years since he had been summoned to the king’s tent on Kronos. Two years of wondering what it had meant.

If anything at all.

They had lost many soldiers the following morning, but a blizzard had moved in, giving them the cover they needed to adjust their position. They had barely escaped with their lives. Reinforcements had arrived the next day, and they had driven the Marjar from the planet, maintaining control over the valuable source of ore that was crucial to their military.

His relationship with the king had been strained for a while—awkward even. Time had improved that. Now their interactions bordered on playful. His comfort level with the military leader he served so faithfully had developed into a friendship of sorts.

He was careful not to expose the shift in their relationship in front of his troops. The king was, as always, first a monarch. Addressing him had protocols Sebastian felt compelled to observe.

Woefully, being subservient came naturally to him—an unfortunate remnant of his heritage. The struggle to overcome it and become a leader had not come easily.

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Sebastian of Cardin, Commander of the Third. The title had been hard-earned. He had worked his way up from the very bottom. Lower than the bottom. He was Cardinian, and Cardinians did not typically amount to anything more than their master’s favorite slave.

The opportunities he had been afforded were thanks to his former owner. A young girl, named Lakeda, now the queen to his king, had insisted that he receive a complete Mycean education in their childhood. Mandatory military training included.

On her eighteenth birthday, the day she unexpectedly set him free, she had given him the most incredible gift he could have received. Freedom and the education and training to thrive.

It was midday, and it seemed they were not stopping for a break. The king likely wanted to get to the next village before nightfall. They had fallen behind because of the heavy rain, which was soaking everything. The canvas of the cart they used to store supplies and the variety of taxes collected was sagging in places and darkening from the wet.

Sebastian shivered.

The turning of the cart’s wheel was causing him a great deal of annoyance. The timing was off. Not even suitable to hum a tune along with. One-two-three-four-pop. A beat of five, time and again. One-two-three-four-pop. He directed his attention elsewhere—namely, his stomach.

Sebastian tied his reins and flipped open one of his saddlebags. It took him less than a moment to magically conjure an apple and a loaf of sourdough bread into its interior.

He took a large bite of the apple. It was not stealing. Not really. The proprietor at the last inn had offered them any provisions they needed. The fact that he had taken some now rather than when he had been standing there in the inn should not matter.

What mattered was that no one saw what he was doing.

It was a learned fact that, throughout history, few Cardinians had the capability to conjure. Those who were discovered to have them were considered dangerous. Often killed. Sebastian knew of only one other: a powerful wizard-level conjurer. One he would protect at any cost.

“How do you still have food, Commander?”

A massive soldier to his left, one that had served with him for years, leaned toward him. Half of his face was marred by the effects of a broadsword slicing through his flesh, leaving him with only one good eye. He was a good man, Krunk. Loyal.

He had volunteered to come on this venture to act as a bodyguard for the king. All the men on this trip were from Sebastian’s battalion. Over the years, he had cultivated a steadfast crew.

Sebastian grinned. “Superior rationing skills, I guess.”

“Pass me some of that bread.” Krunk snorted his appreciation when Sebastian ripped a hunk of bread from the round and handed it to him. There was more than enough to go around.

Especially when he could conjure more whenever it ran out.

It was the perfect solution to his constant hunger. If it were not considered unseemly to be seen drinking wine atop his horse in front of the monarch, life would be perfect.

Many hours later, the village of Sibas came into view as they crested a hill. The first thing one noticed about Sibas was the abundance of wood carvings. They began long before you saw the rustic log-hewn buildings. This was a community of carvers—a people in love with their surroundings. It always brought Sebastian joy to see the artistry in the totems and animal carvings.

The totems often stood 15 feet tall, though some were taller. Each family had its own ranking of animals, carved in the form of their lineage. Smaller depictions of bears, foxes, cougars, and even rabbits littered the square at the center of the village. Most of the main buildings faced that square. Residences tended to be scattered throughout the surrounding hills.

The inn they were headed for lay directly in the village center.

Once there, Sebastian swung his leg over his horse’s head and slipped off his saddle, landing deftly on his feet. He passed his reins to one of the inn’s stable hands.

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King Meshia headed straight for the inn, but Sebastian held back. Soon, news of their arrival would circulate throughout the village. Before long, women would be gathering at the inn looking for him. It was a side of his routine he preferred the king not be privy to.

Sebastian snorted out a laugh. If the king did not know by now that the commander of his third battalion had a penchant for amenable company, he had not been paying attention. It was different now, though. Now that the two of them had been intimate. Or maybe it wasn’t. A night of weakness is hardly a reason to change how I live my life when in the king’s company.

He pulled the canvas of the cart tight and retied the knot, securing it for the night. They had collected extraordinarily little so far. It was unlikely anyone would be so bold as to break into the king’s tax cart. They would be disappointed if they did. All the coins were with the bookkeeper and would be guarded within the inn. The cart only contained in-kind tax contributions. Mostly chickens. They would be eating chicken for the entire journey if this trend continued.

Stalling techniques at their natural conclusion, Sebastian headed for the inn. One he knew well. The men were already gathered in the pub area. The volume of their voices drowned out the conversations of other patrons. They were a raucous group. One of the reasons he typically chose these same men to make the tax rounds with him. They made the entire boring venture more entertaining and salaciously worthy of their Cardinian commander.

Sebastian slipped onto a portion of a bench at the end of the table next to Krunk. King Meshia, who had seated himself at the head of the table, was to his left. The king looked lost amidst the chaos that Sebastian’s men were creating. Drink and food orders were flying with little regard to the fact that the head of the empire was seated at the same table with them.

The proprietress spotted Sebastian’s raised hand and made her way over to their table, one hand on her hip. “Yes, Commander, you beckoned.”

“Sasha darling, I think the king would like to order.”

Sasha, to her credit, did not falter. She pulled off a perfect curtsy, head bowed.

“Your Majesty. I had no idea. Please accept my apologies.”

Meshia waved his hand at her, dismissing her atonement. “Two drafts of your best beer and two ….” He looked at Sebastian and smirked. “Make that three meat pies.”

Head bowed, she curtsied, then backed away. “Your Majesty.”

“You know me so well,” Sebastian whispered. Krunk was occupied with a conversation at the other end of the table. It was just the two of them. The thought made Sebastian feel warm inside. He could not shake the memory of what they had done together in that tent on Kronos.

Meshia had been a tender, generous lover. Spending his time acquainting himself with every curve and angle of Sebastian’s body. His soft lips seeking out those areas that would drive Sebastian wild with desire. The passion he had shown that night was evident in everything Meshia did. Sebastian could see that now. And it made it harder to forget—to let go.

“You’re always hungry.”

Sebastian softened his expression. “For more than food.”

“Yes, well ….” Meshia took a sip of the beer set before him. The white foam collected on his upper lip, pooling at the peak. The temptation to lean over and lick the froth from Meshia’s lips was nearly overwhelming. Sebastian cleared his throat and took a sip of his own beer.

Giggling could be heard coming through the front door of the inn. Sebastian leaned back, preparing himself. The evening’s entertainment was there in full force. Celina had brought her cousin with her again. Sebastian set his beer down. Gertrude? His last time in Sibas was a bit of a blur. Without Meshia’s presence, drinking astride his horse was not an uncommon occurrence.

He usually arrived in Sibas three bottles of wine ahead of the game.

Sebastian broke out his best smile as the two women approached. “Celina, darling, aren’t you just the most scrumptious thing in the whole damned place this evening?” The sentiment was genuine. Celina was a beautiful woman. And crazy intelligent. They had spent as much time talking as they had fucking over the years. Maybe more.

Celina slipped into Sebastian’s lap and wrapped an arm around his neck, nuzzling his ear. Gertrude brushed her hands through his hair as she came to stand behind him.

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The look on Meshia’s face was telling.

Their night together had meant more to him than he was willing to let on.

“I’ll eat later.” Meshia rose to his feet, pushing his chair back. He laid one Neter gold coin down on the table. Enough to pay for whatever food, drink, or entertainment Sebastian’s men might find themselves craving tonight. He tapped his finger on it, then turned and left the inn.

The story continues …

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Hope you enjoyed these sensual images from my ‘Ass’ folder. Watch your inbox for The Black Velvet Gallery’s next post.

Image credits remain with the original creators and copyright holders. Shared here for illustrative purposes only.

This series contains intense age play and Daddy/little dynamics with adult diaper use, breastfeeding/nursing scenes, and dubious consent due to extreme regression. It features a strong power imbalance, forced dependence, and elements that may read as humiliation or manipulation within the kink context. Intended only for adults 18+ comfortable with these specific themes—skip if any part sounds triggering or unwanted.

Eric gave me Toby for my birthday: paid, pretty, and perfectly bratty. He dropped his bowl, earned a stinging wooden spoon until his ass glowed red, then nursed at my chest while I jerked him to a trembling finish.

When he snuffled under my belly, sucking like a starving piglet, I was hooked.

Toby slipped into little space like he belonged there—craving the highchair, the diaper, the rules, the filthy safety of my lap.

Eric and I want him to stay. Not for pay. For real.

Come home to us, Toby.

Daddy’s waiting.

In the last installment of Wedding Gift

In the first installment of Wedding Gift

Boy was a bit squirmy in the highchair as he reached out with grasping hands for what was on my plate. I ignored him, busy taking some meat from the meatloaf and ribs, and cutting it up into small bites. I added a few potatoes from the potato salad as well for variety.

“Now, be careful with this, Boy.” I set his plastic bowl in front of him, and his fingers were straight into it. He was messy, but he managed to get most of the food into his mouth.

With only a few morsels left, he clung to the bowl and looked at me. Then the little bugger lifted the bowl from his highchair tray and dropped it straight onto the floor.

It landed with a clatter and spilled its contents.

I grabbed his wrist and smacked his hand. “No. Good boys don’t do that.” I turned away from him as he whimpered and started crying. I wanted to finish my dinner before punishing him.

He was throwing a fit by the time I finished eating, twisting and turning, and pounding on the tray as he tried to wiggle his way out of the highchair.

I cleared my plate and put it in the dishwasher, then went to deal with him. I removed the tray and unlatched the belts holding him in place, and he slid right out onto the floor.

He immediately regressed further, crawling his way from the kitchen into the living room. I followed him because that’s where I wanted him next.

“You were a very bad boy.” I sat on the sofa and beckoned to him. “Come here.”

Boy shook his head.

My facial muscles and jaw tensed, and my ears burned. He was walking a fine line. “Come here right now, or the spanking is going to be so much worse.”

Boy sighed, then crawled toward me. He managed to get himself to his feet by hanging on to the front of the sofa. It intrigued me that he was fully embracing all aspects of little life.

Perhaps it was something he needed in his adult life.

“Onesie and diaper off, and lie across my lap.”

Boy did what he was told—slowly. His bare ass was soon in the air above the narrow surface of my knees, his head and legs hanging off either side of me. I knew this position would make the blood pool in his head and make him dizzy.

It was all part of the discomfort.

“Eric, darling, I forgot to bring a wooden spoon with me.”

Boy’s muscles tightened. If he thought he was going to get away with a spanking from my hand, he had another thing coming. I didn’t mess around when it came to discipline.

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Eric entered the living room and handed me the spoon I’d been after. “Here you go.” My husband tipped his head and smiled. “Mind if I watch?”

“Absolutely not. Take a seat.”

Boy used his toes, which were touching the carpet, to hoist himself higher. I ran the palm of my hand over his ass cheeks, then my finger down his crease.

He trembled at my touch.

I started with some light tapping with the flat of the spoon, readying him for what was about to happen. My first full strike made him squeak and jump, and struggle to get away.

I held him firmly in place.

“You start squirming, and this will go on for longer.”

Boy relaxed. “Yes, Daddy.”

“That’s a good boy.”

I looked over at Eric. He had his hand down his pants, primed to stroke himself as I lay down red splotches on Boy’s ass.

My husband loved to see me as a Daddy.

I didn’t hold back. One spank after another, back and forth, from cheek to cheek, in the same place for maximum pain. Boy was on the verge of blistering when I eased up.

His ass was a glorious shade of apple red.

Eric had cum all over his hand. He liked watching pain inflicted. Craved it more than I was comfortable with. He stood to leave the room and wash up.

“Can you bring me the wound balm out of the cupboard in the bathroom, Eric?” I rested my hand on Boy’s ass, and he hissed but remained bent over my knee.

Once I had the balm, and Eric left to do his own thing in the kitchen … the man was always baking for me, I spread the creamy paste delicately over the crimson areas, being careful as I rubbed it into his skin. When I was finished, I directed Boy to climb off my lap. He did and ended up on the sofa beside me, clutching my arm with the remnant of sweet tears in his eyes.

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I looked at him sternly. “Will you ever throw your bowl on the floor again?”

Boy shook his head, like he was a dog trying to dispel water from his fur; fast and aggressive. He’d learned his lesson. “No, Daddy … I promise.”

“Good boy.” I stroked his hair, undid my shirt, and encouraged Boy into my arms. He immediately latched on to my nipple. It was getting a bit sore from all the attention.

The more the better. I was a nipple torture fanatic.

As he nursed, I brushed my hand from his chest to his abs. His skin was so soft and warm. I wandered lower and grasped his cock. He only stopped sucking for a second, then restarted.

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