[SS-1661] Penance Punishment

PENANCE PUNISHMENT

My keys tap my thigh when I walk. clink… clink…

They stand in the side room by the chapel, where the stained glass makes the wall look like it’s bleeding wine and honey. One lamp is low and warm, and it turns skin into bronze. It turns sweat into something shiny, like a sin you can see.

They are both grown men. Both students. Both tired of failing. That’s why they are here.

The younger one stands at the rail, bare chest tight, hands gripping the wood. He tries to look calm, but his breath keeps giving him away.

The other one is down on his knees beside him, broad and heavy, head tilted up like he’s waiting for a command. Their simple white underwear looks too bright in this red light, like a mistake that got blessed.

“You missed your tasks again,” I say. My voice is flat, almost sleepy. “So now you will do penance the slow way.”

They don’t argue. They just nod. Small nods.

I step close enough that they can smell incense on my sleeves.

“Hold,” I tell the kneeling one. He wraps both arms around the younger one’s thigh. Tight. Not gentle. Like he needs the strength to obey. The younger one shivers and presses his hips a little into the rail, like the wood is the only thing keeping him from falling. His stomach is pulled in hard. His throat works when he swallows.

“Look at him,” I whisper to the kneeling one. “Not the floor. Him.”

The kneeling one lifts his face. His cheek brushes the younger one’s hip. It’s not a kiss, but it feels like almost. He breathes there. The younger one’s eyes flutter, angry and needy at the same time.

“Count,” I say. “Breaths. Out loud.”

“One,” the younger one rasps.

“Two,” the kneeling one answers, low.

They keep going. The numbers make a loop. The lamp hums. My keys answer them. clink… clink… It gets trance-like, like the room is rocking. The kneeling one’s hands slide a little, just from sweat and grip, and his fingers press into the curve where thigh becomes hip. The younger one’s knees tighten. His underwear pulls taut, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the thick, swelling shape of his cock pressing against the seam. He bites his lip like he’s trying to bite back a sound.

“Lower,” I say, soft.

The kneeling one sinks more, chest against the younger one’s leg. His face is now level with the straining bulge. The younger one’s hips twitch, then still. He blushes under the red light like it belongs there. The kneeling one’s breath is hot and damp through the cotton, and the younger one lets out a choked gasp, his knuckles white on the rail.

Then I move them to the plain table by the rough wooden door. The older one lays forward, arms folded, cheek turned to the side. The younger one stands close behind him, hands hovering, waiting.

“Serve,” I murmur.

Hands press down on shoulders. Slow. Firm. The kneading is steady, like prayer done with palms. The older one’s hands work down the younger’s back, thumbs pressing into the groove of his spine until he’s gripping the older brother's ass, squeezing the firm muscle through the thin cotton. The younger one exhales and makes a small broken noise that sounds nothing like a hymn. His hips rock back, an involuntary plea.

“Punishment requires offering,” I say, my voice a low thread in the heated air. The younger one hooks his thumbs into the waistband of the other's underwear and pulls them down, slow, exposing the pale, tense curve of his ass. The older one shivers, his face buried in his arms.

The younger one kneels. He spreads the other's cheeks, exposing the tight hole. He leans in and spits, a direct, filthy act, then presses his tongue against the puckered skin. The bigger cries out, a raw, ragged sound. The younger one licks him, a wet, invasive rhythm, fucking him with his tongue, his hands holding him open. The older one pushes back, shame forgotten, lost to the slick, probing heat.

When the young one stands, his own cock is rigid, jutting from his underwear. He spits into his palm, slicks his shaft, and presses the head against the older man's wet, loosened hole. He pushes in, one slow, relentless inch at a time. The bigger seminarian whimpers, his body stretching, burning, yielding around the thick intrusion.

The young seminarian sets a deep, punishing rhythm, his hips slapping against the ass. Each thrust drives a grunt from the older one's lungs, his cock trapped and leaking against the rough wood of the table. The room smells of sweat, incense, and sex. The only sounds are the slap of skin, the harsh gasps for air, and the steady, hypnotic hum of the lamp.

“This is your punishment,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over their exertions. “To be held here. To be seen here. To be filled. To not escape.”

The younger one’s thrusts become erratic, his grip tightening. He buries himself deep with a final, guttural groan, and the older man feels the hot pulse of his cum flooding his insides. A moment later, the bottomed seminarian's own orgasm tears through him, his cock pulsing as he spills onto the floor beneath the table, a broken sob escaping his lips.

And the room keeps glowing, and they lay there, spent and trembling, sinking deeper into something sweet and wrong.

--------------

If you want advanced access to ten more chapters of the latest tagalog full fiction story ahead of blog readers and get other perks such as weekly teasers and a feature in one #squirtershorts within the month, please subscribe to patreon.com/jockwonderlust. If you want to support me and my craft, please subscribe!