Chapter 11: The Cassock Conundrum
The laughter from their stolen morning still hung in the air of the rectory bedroom, a giddy counterpoint to the serious black wool Jud was currently wrestling with. The cassock, an old spare of Paul’s, was a disaster. It pulled across his shoulders, but the real problem was the front. The heavy, shapeless garment was now anything but shapeless on him.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Jud muttered, fumbling with the buttons. The cloth strained violently across the full, heavy swell of his breasts. Each nipple, thick and prominent, created a distinct, obscene tent in the fabric. He tried to adjust himself, but his hands only made it worse, cupping and emphasizing what he was trying to hide.
Paul watched from the edge of the bed, a smile playing on his lips. The sight was absurd, and beautiful, and so uniquely Jud it made his dead heart ache.
“Maybe Bev was right,” Jud groaned, turning his profile to the mottled mirror. The cassock hugged the new, softer curve of his waist before flaring slightly over his hips and ass. “I should just walk around naked. Save the diocese the tailoring fees. Or maybe wear lingerie under this. A nice lace teddy. Really confuse the flock.”
Paul barked a laugh, but it died when he saw the genuine frustration etching lines around Jud’s eyes. The humor was a shield. Jud saw a freak in the mirror. A walking blasphemy.
Paul rose, crossing the sun-sliced room in three silent strides. He stopped behind Jud, not touching him yet, their reflections meeting in the glass. Jud’s gaze was downcast, fixed on a stubborn button.
“Look at me,” Paul said, his voice soft.
Reluctantly, Jud lifted his eyes.
Paul reached around him, his hands skimming the tortured wool over Jud’s ribs, coming to rest on the heated, firm swell of his breasts. He didn’t grope. He held, reverently, his thumbs tracing the hard nubs of Jud’s nipples through the cloth. Jud’s breath hitched.
“No,” Paul murmured, his lips close to Jud’s ear. “You won’t walk around naked. You’ll acclimate. We’ll find a tailor on the mainland, someone discreet. Or I’ll learn to sew.” He squeezed gently, and Jud leaned back into him with a sigh. “But Jud… look.”
He stepped back, his hands falling away, forcing Jud to see his full reflection. The morning light from the barred window cut across the room, illuminating the dust motes and Jud’s form. The cassock didn’t hide a thing. It outlined everything. The powerful shoulders of a man tapering into a breathtakingly feminine waist. The profound, heavy curve of his chest. The generous swell of his hips. The black wool was suddenly the most sensual garment Paul had ever seen.
“Holy shit,” Paul breathed, his voice thick.
Jud blinked, confused. “What?”
“You look incredible.”
Jud snorted, a dismissive sound, but Paul was already moving. His earlier arousal, a constant simmer since the epiphany days before, became a raging heat. He saw it now—not a priest in ill-fitting robes, but his priest, clothed in the trappings of their shared, impossible faith, body transformed by a need only Paul was meant to meet.
He closed the distance between them in an instant. His hands grabbed Jud’s hips, spinning him roughly away from the mirror and then pushing him back against it. The cool glass kissed Jud’s shoulders. Paul hitched one of Jud’s thick thighs over his own hip, hiking up the cassock. His fingers delved into the loosened waistband of Jud’s simple cotton briefs, tearing them down without ceremony.
“Paul—Mass—” Jud gasped, but it was half-hearted, already dissolving into a moan as Paul’s cock, heavy and slick at the tip from his own anticipation, found the soaked seam of him.
“Fuck Mass,” Paul growled, but there was a smile in it, a wild joy. He notched his head against Jud’s entrance and pushed, burying himself in one long, brutal stroke.
The sound was obscenely wet. Jud’s back arched, his head thunking against the mirror, a cry ripped from his throat. Paul’s own vision whited out for a second at the stunning, velvet heat. He folded over Jud, one arm bracing against the glass, the other hand fumbling with the cassock’s buttons. He got two open, enough to wrench the fabric aside and free one heavy, perfect breast. He took the large, dark nipple into his mouth without preamble, sucking hard.
“Oh, God! Fuck!” Jud’s hands scrambled against the mirror, then found purchase in Paul’s hair, clutching, pulling.
Paul fucked him in sharp, deep jabs, the angle against the mirror forcing Jud onto his toes, taking him impossibly deep. Each thrust dragged Jud’s sensitized clit against the rough weave of Paul’s trousers, a dual assault that had Jud babbling. The mirror fogged with their breath, juddering in its frame with their rhythm.
“You see?” Paul panted against his nipple, tongue circling the taut peak. “See how fucking beautiful you are? Holy. You feel that? That’s my cock in your holy cunt. Dressed like a goddamn sacrament.” He punctuated each word with a驱动.
Jud could only moan, his body aflame. The coarse wool scratching his thighs, the cold glass on his back, the searing heat of Paul filling him—it was a sensory overload that short-circuited every last shred of shame. This was him. This was them. It was messy, and loud, and real.
“Should I…” Jud gasped, a wild, liberated laugh bubbling up through his pleasure, “should I dress as a nun next time?”
Paul stilled for a second, then a dark, genuine laugh rumbled from his chest. He pulled his head back to look at Jud, their eyes meeting in the fogged mirror. Jud’s were bright with tears and wicked glee.
“Don’t you fucking dare joke like that,” Paul said, his voice a low, possessive thunder, and began fucking him again, harder, faster. “Or you’ll never leave this goddamn house. I’ll keep you in that habit, bent over this mirror, for a week.”
The image, the sheer audacity of it, tipped Jud over the edge. His orgasm tore through him with a silent scream, his cunt clamping down on Paul’s length in violent, fluttering waves. The milking sensation pushed Paul over right after. He drove in to the hilt, his knot beginning to swell, locking them together as he pulsed, hot and endless, into Jud’s depths.
They slumped against the mirror, a sticky, breathless tangle of limbs and black wool. Paul’s softening cock was trapped inside by the knot, Jud’s spend leaking around it, soaking the torn underwear around his thighs. They stayed like that, panting, coming down, their laughter returning in soft, exhausted huffs.
“We’re going to be so late,” Jud murmured, nuzzling into Paul’s neck.
“Mmm. Then we’ll be late.” Paul kissed his temple. “Help me with these buttons.”
They cleaned up in a frantic, clumsy dance, Jud’s large nipples refusing to be hidden again, straining the thin cotton of his undershirt. The cassock, now smelling of sex and sweat, was buttoned crookedly. Paul straightened his own robes, his fingers lingering on Jud’s hip.
They slipped into the back of St. Patrick’s just as Bev was finishing the first hymn. The small congregation turned, their faces a mixture of curiosity and concern. Father Paul, looking unusually rumpled, and Father Jud, flushed and disheveled, his cassock wrinkling in odd places.
Bev’s eyes, sharp as flint, swept over them. They lingered on Jud’s chest, on the unmistakable outline beneath the fabric, then on the fresh love bite just above his collar, poorly hidden by a slanted stance. A slow, knowing smirk touched her lips before she turned back to her hymnal, the picture of piety.
Jud felt a fresh wave of heat flood his cheeks, but it wasn’t entirely shame. It was something else, something defiant and new. He caught Paul’s eye. Paul gave him a tiny, almost imperceptible wink.
As they took their places at the altar, the familiar rituals settling around them, Jud felt it. The solid, locked feeling of Paul’s knot was gone, but a deeper, more permanent anchor had taken its place. It sat in his gut, warm and sure. He was a scandal in a cassock. An incubus at the altar. And for the first time, standing in the house of God beside the vampire he loved, Jud Duplenticy felt, not like an aberration, but like a miracle.