Father Francis Velasco was a serious and chaste man. He was the faceless shepherd who led but never mingled, who made his name known but remained a mystery to even his closest followers. Those who met him were changed by an unchangeable force. He lay with no one, and never would he partake in the pleasures of the flesh among his people.
But Lorenzo was an outsider. A stranger. He was not Anasazi.
Therefore, the rules didn’t apply to him.
Lorenzo disrobed on Father Velasco’s orders; the Padre remained clothed and his face unseen. The pilgrim was determined to prove his devotion—when the Father demanded him to be on his hands and knees, he did so without hesitation. When the Father pointed a long finger between his own legs, Lorenzo fumbled beneath his robes until he found what he was looking for. In any other church, this would be taboo—they’d be excommunicated in a second. But Lorenzo loved and trusted Father Velasco with all his heart… he knew what he was doing. If the Padre wanted him to indulge, so be it.
The pilgrim wrapped his trembling but eager hands around the Father’s shaft. It struck him how cold it was… like ice. Thinking of little but warming him up, Lorenzo trailed his tongue along the sensitive flesh, learning its bumps and ridges. He followed the pulsing vein up to the tip, closing his lips around it in a gentle suck. The Padre seized his head and shoved him down, dragging an astonished muffle out of the pilgrim. Lorenzo sputtered and coughed when he was pulled back out, but he was only given a second to catch his breath before Velasco pushed him down again. The pilgrim squeezed his eyes shut, moaning helplessly around the other’s cock as he drowned in the flavor of flesh and musk and ashes.
This went against everything Lorenzo believed in… what he was taught, what he was supposed to value. To be purified by Father Velasco was to become his whore; to be sanctified is to offer his body to the Lord. The longer the pilgrim bobbed over his shaft, the tighter his insides coiled with shame along with an unfamiliar extraordinary ecstasy. He whimpered and crossed his legs in a fruitless attempt to tame his growing need—when he attempted to palm himself, Father Velasco’s bony fingers grabbed his wrist to stop him.
The Padre pulled back from Lorenzo, leaving him in a bemused stupor as the head of his cock departed his lips. Had he done something wrong? Lorenzo stiffened as his superior tilted his chin to cast his gaze upon him. Velasco traced his moist lips, then slowly wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb. The pilgrim quivered—the Father’s touch was as holy as the blessing he was still waiting for.
Father Velasco instructed him to bring him a salve. Lorenzo returned with a jar of aloe vera, asking him if this was what he wanted. Velasco nodded. When he asked what he intended to use it for, the Padre told him to lay over the altar on his stomach—once again, Lorenzo obeyed and he struggled with tangled emotions of exposure and arousal. The pilgrim’s breath hitched as a cool aloe-slicked finger worked its way inside of him.
Lorenzo grit his teeth, his hands gripping the ends of the platform as he endured the odd probing and jabbing sensation. He couldn’t allow himself to stop because of a little pain—the Father was counting on him. The pilgrim turned his gaze toward the statues and decor: the gentle stone faces of angels and saints whose hands clasped together in prayer, the elegantly carved ivory crosses, the dancing flames upon golden candelabras.
Lord, please give me strength. Lord, please help me merge with Father Velasco. Lord, please give me the power to bring him warmth.
The more he prayed, the more his walls opened—just as Lorenzo was getting used to the Padre’s touch, Velasco withdrawn his finger. The pilgrim couldn’t help the disappointed sigh falling from his lips, but he wouldn’t linger on the emptiness for long. Father Velasco—tall, dark, and imposing—lay on his back before the pilgrim on the altar. Swathed in shadow and the ink black of his robes, he gave Lorenzo the jar and ordered him to climb on top of him: “Be thorough.”
Lorenzo nodded. He planted a small kiss on the head of the Padre’s freezing shaft, then coated it with as much aloe vera as possible. Once Father Velasco was sufficiently slick, Lorenzo set the jar aside and braced himself. Pangs of hesitation snared the pilgrim: could he do this? Would it fit? Was it right? Was it wrong? Was Father Velasco mad? Was he himself mad?
Either way, the pilgrim made his decision.
Lorenzo seated himself aboard Father Velasco, receiving him down to the hilt. A labored gasp escaped him as his insides were pushed open—everything was tight, too tight, like a sword plunged into him and he was its insufficient scabbard. Shaking, Lorenzo unsteadily lifted himself up to the tip. Velasco’s hands seized his own, sinking his nails over his wrists. The pilgrim felt his cold, cold fingers entwine with his—that was enough to give him courage through the pain. Despite the Padre’s freezing flesh, a fire flickered to life within him.
Rain battered the roof of the chapel. The window flashed with lighting from the storm, but Lorenzo and Father Velasco were dry and safe on the altar, occupied only by each other. Lorenzo murmured verses to the Father as he adjusted to his girth—specifically those from the Song of Songs, a celebration of coitus under God. He whispered about loyalty, sacrifice, and salvation. He squeezed Velasco’s hands to comfort the trembling man beneath him.
“I am yours, Father Velasco.” Lorenzo promised. “Everything I am, everything I believe… it belongs to you and the Lord. I give you my love, my devotion, my body and mind and soul. I will become one with you. I will free you from the frozen prison you are enslaved in and grant you the warmth of an eternal spring…” Lorenzo gasped as he hit a particular spot—the pilgrim’s speech hurried as he bounced faster over the Father. “And—And I’ll grant you the heat of the most tropical summers… not an arid drought, but the lush and wild storm of—oh! Ohh!”
The Padre seized Lorenzo’s hips and bucked. As he rocked back and forth inside the pilgrim, Lorenzo basked in the attention; his walls squeezed Velasco like a vice, possessing the Father and intending to keep him to himself forever. Nails raked along each other’s backs as the intensity of the thunderstorm surged outside. Alongside the rumbling thunder, the pilgrim’s low voluptuous moans flowed through the room in contrast to the silent Padre. His face flushed visibly crimson in the brief flashes of lightning, but Velasco stayed swathed in shadow. Overpowered by passion, Lorenzo leaned in to kiss him—but before his lips could meet his, the Father promptly shoved him down over his chest, gripping the fur of his head hard.
“I-I’m sorry…!” Lorenzo winced. “I—!” Velasco’s relentless thrusts cut him short. The pilgrim grit his teeth, clinging tightly to his partner’s chest as his own shaft strained against his robes, craving release.
Pale gray skin was exposed through a parting of dark cloth, and Lorenzo gazed at Father Velasco for permission. The Padre loosened his grip. Starting with a tentative fluttery kiss, the pilgrim trailed his lips over his chest… he closed his eyes with a weak hum as Velasco petted his head. Encouraged by his approval, Lorenzo traced his tongue over the Padre’s nipple, circling and sucking. As the Padre slammed inside him again and again, Lorenzo matched his treatment, sinking his teeth over various areas of his chest. His eyes were hooded in lust as Father Velasco’s flesh turned red and blue and purple from his mouth. The next thing he knew, the pilgrim shivered and a long arduous moan escaped him; his entire body tingled with an unspeakable bliss.
The inside of the chapel flashed white. Thunder roared.
Father Velasco gasped, arching his back with a slight tremor.
Lorenzo lay limp and panting over the Padre, unwilling to separate from him. Father Velasco looked at him silently, save for his ragged breathing, then draped his trembling arms over the ravished pilgrim. For a fleeting moment, they were both warm.