Chapter 21: The Altar of Devotion
The wine stain watched from the floor like a blind eye. Paul’s declaration still vibrated in the air molecules, a tectonic shift that left the room unfamiliar. Riley slept, a deep, sober sleep Paul never experienced, his face slack against Paul’s chest. Paul stroked the dark hair, listening to the strong, steady pump of Riley’s heart—a sound that anchored him more than any scripture ever had.
Dawn came, grey and wet. Riley woke to an empty space, the blanket cool. A spike of irrational panic speared him before he heard the soft clink from the kitchen.
Paul was at the small formica table, two mugs of steaming tea before him. He wore Riley’s threadbare Henley, the collar stretched, drowning his slender frame. He looked like a ghost haunting the wrong life.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Riley’s voice was sleep-rough.
“Don’t,” Paul said simply. He pushed a mug toward Riley’s chair. “The silence is… loud. In a new way.”
Riley sat, wrapping his hands around the warmth. “Regrets?”
“No.” The answer was immediate, sharp. Paul looked out the window at the fire escape. “Terror, yes. A kind of glorious, free-falling terror. But no regret.” He turned his unnervingly brown eyes on Riley. “Do you?”
“Only that I didn’t finish that beer last night. Tea’s a piss-poor substitute.”
A real smile, then, breaking through the ethereal solemnity. It changed his entire face. Riley’s chest ached.
The day unfolded with a strange, fragile normalcy. Riley went to the garage, came home smelling of gasoline and metal. Paul had attempted cooking; a pot of something charred and unidentifiable sat in the sink. He’d instead organized Riley’s books by color, which Riley found both absurd and endearing.
Evening found them on the couch, the TV a blue flicker neither watched. The space between them was charged, humming with the unsaid. Paul’s bare foot rested against Riley’s thigh. A casual point of contact that burned.
Riley’s hand found Paul’s ankle, his thumb stroking the delicate bone. “Come here.”
Paul went without hesitation, shifting to slide between Riley’s legs, his back against Riley’s chest. Riley wrapped his arms around him, chin resting on Paul’s head. They watched nothing.
Paul’s hand drifted down, palm flat against Riley’s stomach, then lower, tracing the outline of his cock through his jeans. It stirred, thickening under the touch.
“You’re insatiable,” Riley murmured into his hair, but his hips pushed minutely into the contact.
“You are my sacrament,” Paul whispered back, his voice low and utterly serious. “My only true communion.”
The words, so solemn, so obscene, sent a jolt through Riley. He turned Paul’s face and kissed him, hard. It was a claiming. Paul melted into it, turning his body, straddling Riley’s lap, their groins pressing together through denim.
Riley broke the kiss, breathing hard. “On your knees.”
A flash of something wild in Paul’s eyes. He slid off the couch, sinking to the floor on the worn rug. His hands went to Riley’s belt, deft, unhurried. He popped the button, dragged the zipper down. The sound was obscenely loud.
He pulled Riley’s jeans and briefs down just enough to free him. Riley’s cock, already fully hard, curved up against his stomach, thick and veined. Paul gazed at it with a reverence that was almost blasphemous. He leaned forward, not taking it in his mouth, but first nuzzling the heavy sac beneath, inhaling deeply. He pressed his whole face into Riley’s balls, kissing the soft skin, licking a slow stripe along the seam.
“Christ,” Riley hissed, his hand fisting in Paul’s hair.
“He’s not here,” Paul murmured, his breath hot. “Just you.”
Then he took the head into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the crown, collecting the bitter salt of pre-cum. He sank down, his lips stretching into a tight, perfect ‘O’. Riley watched, mesmerized, as inch after inch disappeared into that wet, willing heat. Paul’s eyes were open, locked on his, tears already welling from the strain. He took him deep, until his nose was buried in coarse pubic hair, his throat working in a long, forced swallow.
The feeling was catastrophic. The wet suction, the scrape of teeth, the total surrender. Riley’s head thumped back against the couch. He didn’t thrust, letting Paul set the pace. Paul pulled back until just the tip remained, then plunged down again, a deep, rhythmic fucking of his own mouth. Drool slicked Riley’s shaft, dripped onto his balls. The wet, gagging sounds filled the room, a liturgy of filth.
“So good,” Riley grunted, his hips giving a tiny jerk. “Your mouth is a fucking miracle.”
Paul moaned around him, the vibration traveling straight to Riley’s spine. Paul’s own hands were between his legs, Riley could see them moving, fingers working desperately at his own cunt through the fabric of his sweats. The desperate, needy picture of it—this beautiful, ancient creature on his knees, gagging on his cock while frantically fingering himself—unmade Riley.
“Stop.” The command was ragged.
Paul pulled off with a wet, gasping pop, a silver strand of saliva still connecting his swollen lips to Riley’s glistening tip. He looked wrecked, divine.
“Up. Now. I need to be inside you.”
Paul scrambled onto the couch, shoving his own sweats down. He was wet, his folds swollen and slick, his clit a hard, eager peak. He straddled Riley again, this time guiding Riley’s cock to his entrance. He paused, the broad head just nudging at his opening, and looked Riley dead in the eye.
“This is my church,” he whispered, voice shattered. “The only one that’s ever been real. Right here. On your cock.”
He sank down.
The penetration was slow, inexorable, a splitting, filling burn that made Paul cry out, a sharp, broken sound. Riley gripped his hips, holding him still, letting him adjust to the massive girth. Paul’s inner muscles fluttered wildly, trying to accommodate him.
“Move,” Riley growled.
Paul rose, then sank again, deeper. He set a slow, rolling grind, taking him an inch more each time. His head was thrown back, the line of his throat exquisite. Riley could see everything—the stretch of his body, the way his soft breasts swayed with the motion, his nipples long and dark and hard. He leaned forward and took one into his mouth, sucking hard.
Paul screamed, his rhythm breaking. “Oh, God! Riley, please!”
“I’m your god now,” Riley snarled against his skin, the words torn from a place of dark, possessive truth. He took control, surging up into him, driving Paul down onto his lap with punishing force. The pace became frantic, brutal. The couch slammed against the wall in a steady, protesting rhythm. Paul’s cries were continuous, shattered phrases of prayer and profanity.
“Yes! Fuck! My god, my god, I’m yours, I’m—“
Riley felt Paul’s cunt begin to convulse, a series of tight, rhythmic clenches that milked his cock. Paul’s climax ripped through him silently, his mouth open in a soundless scream, his body bowing like a drawn bowstring.
The sensation tipped Riley over. With a final, deep grind, he buried himself to the hilt and came, a hot, pouring rush that seemed to have no end. He held Paul there, impaled, as he pumped his release deep into that clutching heat, their bodies fused.
They collapsed sideways onto the cushions, a tangle of limbs and damp skin. Riley was still half-inside him. Paul’s face was buried in Riley’s neck, his breathing ragged little hitches.
The room settled. The TV droned. The wine stain stared.
Paul’s voice, muffled against his skin, was so quiet Riley almost didn’t hear it. “What do gods do after worship?”
Riley pressed a kiss to his sweat-damp hair. “They get their worshipper a towel. And then they figure out how to build an altar that doesn’t squeak.”
Paul’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. Or maybe it was a sob. Riley held him tighter, feeling the phantom wings of a past life beat against the confines of their small, rented room. The future was a dark, unknown road. But for the first time, Riley wasn’t looking at the taillights disappearing ahead of him. He was looking at the figure walking beside him, their fingers laced, stepping into the dark together.