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“—Perhaps a mandatory retreat,” Thomas protested, pacing back and forth.
Vincent leaned forward and took his beloved Dean’s hand, attempting to tug him down onto the loveseat next to him. Thomas resisted, and he let him go with a sigh. “My dear, of course if you need a rest, you should take it. You know that Tedesco keeps urging me to use Castel Gondolfo. Perhaps we could have Aldo go with you, for company—”
“Hey! Don’t involve me in this,” Aldo said, looking up from his laptop in alarm. “The last time I went on a trip with him, we ended up missing our flight. I never want to be forced to sit in Heathrow for six hours again.”
“It was only three hours—the rest was going through security and waiting for our plane to board, which we would have had to do in any case. And for the last time, the traffic jam on the M5 wasn’t my fault,” Thomas protested, then turned back to Vincent, who quickly stifled his smile at the familiar banter. “Of course I don’t need a rest! But you’ve already refused my resignation, or a public penance—”
“The traffic jam might not have been your fault, but it wouldn’t have mattered if we’d left at 6 am, like I’d wanted to,” Aldo muttered, overlapping with Thomas’s last appeal.
“I just don’t see why any punishment is necessary at all, Tomás,” Vincent said, after an admonishing glance at Aldo. “It was an honest mistake.”
“And the man is a toad anyway,” Aldo pointed out. “It’s not as if he didn’t deserve it.”
Now it was Thomas’s turn to glare at his old friend. “But we’d already planned a public rebuke for tomorrow, as well as the homily tonight. Now, after this embarrassment, we’ll have to change those plans.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aldo said, flapping his hand. “It’s not like you called up a journalist deliberately—you didn’t even know the man was there, let alone that he had a hot mic. For that matter, if you want to press charges, we may actually be able to get him arrested. I’m talking it over with the Roman gendarmes. That would probably placate the Americans—you know how they love arresting people—”
“They?” Vincent murmured.
“—and it would make the next reporter who catches something juicy while filming B-roll of St. Peter’s think twice about publishing it,” Aldo continued without missing a beat. “Two birds with one stone.”
“I was on a public street,” Thomas said, frowning at him.
“You were having a personal conversation in a place where you had an expectation of privacy,” Aldo responded. “That adds some nuance, and nuance is what lawsuits thrive on.”
“Going after the journalist will just prolong the story!”
“Exactly,” Aldo said, smiling smugly. “I’m also going to try to get it on at least one late night talk show.”
“Aldo!” Thomas yelped.
“I’ve been talking to Graham,” Aldo went on, ignoring Thomas’s protest. “He owes me a favor for giving him my backstage pass for that Cher concert I had to miss for the Conclave. It’s still a long shot, of course—they’ve probably already done the joke to death. Still, having it brought up by a seventy-five-year-old Catholic Cardinal has got to give it that extra bit of oomph.”
“In any case,” Vincent said, glaring mock-sternly at them both, “telling your aide to be sure to cover the couches before the Vice-President’s visit does not constitute a punishable offense, my dear Thomas. Especially as they are quite nice couches, not deserving of such treatment,” he added, patting the upholstery next to him fondly.
Aldo snickered. Vincent grinned back at him.
“But, Your Holiness, the precedent—” Thomas started, only to flush as Vincent’s eyes widened in outrage. He backtracked quickly, “Vincent, I meant. Vincent. I’m sorry—”
“We’ve discussed this. In private, Thomas, at least. Please.” Vincent looked up at him with a pained expression, and Thomas wilted even further.
“Good luck with that,” Aldo muttered. “Unless you’re going to finally give him that spanking he’s been asking for all these months—” He stopped talking abruptly.
Vincent turned to stare at him, but Aldo studiously avoided his gaze, staring down at his lap with his fist braced over his mouth, one knuckle between his lips. Vincent looked back at Thomas, next. His lover had gone almost as red as his fascia; his lips were pressed firmly together, and his eyes were fixed on the ground.
“Really?” Vincent asked, beginning to smile. “Do you think that would help? Thomas, you should have told me about this much earlier.”
“Vincent!” Thomas hissed, flushing even brighter. But he didn’t say no. And his eyes had gone dark and intent.
Vincent glanced back and forth between the two other men once more. The tips of Aldo’s ears were slowly tinting a delightful dusky red, and Thomas’s lips had parted in anticipation. The air in the room had gone very still and electric—like standing under a thunderstorm just before a lightning strike.
Vincent abruptly came to a decision. “Aldo,” he said quietly. “Would you lock the door, please?”
Thomas’s only reaction was to take a deep, ragged breath. Vincent looked back at him, raising his eyebrows in question. They had talked about this—well, not the spanking, that was altogether new. Although it wasn’t exactly a surprise, now that Vincent had a chance to think about it. But the other part of it, they’d discussed, or he wouldn’t have sprung it on him like this. That said, Thomas probably hadn’t expected Vincent to introduce the idea quite this abruptly… But when their eyes met, there was nothing but heated anticipation there, and Thomas nodded slightly.
With that concern abated, Vincent turned toward Aldo, his heart starting to pound with excitement. But to his surprise, Aldo’s head was still ducked down to his chest, his expression tight and unhappy, with no possibility of Vincent catching his eye.
“Of course, Your Holiness,” he said stiffly, shutting his laptop with a snap.
As Vincent exchanged a look of bewilderment with Thomas, Aldo slid the computer into the bag next to his chair, slung it over his shoulder, and walked toward the door. Enlightenment only dawned on Vincent as Aldo opened it and started to walk through.
“Aldo!” he snapped, half standing in his chair. “Wait!”
For a second, he thought he would be ignored. But then Aldo half-turned in the doorway, looking back at him with a tortured expression worthy of a martyred saint.
Vincent let himself sink back down. “Thank you,” he said, his voice breathy with relief. “What I meant to ask was—will you please lock the door, with yourself on this side of it?”
Aldo’s eyes widened. Returning to the proper side of the door, he stared wordlessly at Vincent, his eyebrows raised and his mouth hanging just slightly open.
“Only if you wish to stay, of course,” Vincent added.
Aldo took a deep breath, then nodded. What followed would have been worthy of an Italian farce: Aldo closed and locked the door, his every jerky movement betraying his nerves, and then walked back to his seat. As he sat down, he dropped his bag to the side of the chair, leaned down to prop it up more neatly, straightened up, leaned over again as the bag fell over to correct it again, straightened up again, crossed his legs and uncrossed them, moved the bag for a third time (under the chair, this time), then planted his feet together and clasped his hands tightly in between his clenched thighs.
As this all finally wound down, Vincent glared pointedly at Thomas, jerking his eyes toward where Aldo was still wringing his hands nervously together.
Thomas winced and nodded, crossing to crouch down next to the chair. “Aldo?” he prodded gently, reaching out and resting a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright? If… If you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to…”
“Of course I want to, that’s not… Are you sure about this, Tom?” Aldo asked quietly. “It’s—it’s been a while since we were last… together, and even then, it wasn’t…”
His voice was hushed enough that, combined with the awkward, half-stuttered sentences, Vincent had to strain his ears to hear him at all. Had it not been for his years of living in war zones, where the softest sound missed might make the difference between live and death, he wouldn’t have been able to make any sense of it.
“Oh, my dear,” Thomas said, his voice equally low. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Aldo’s. “I know I haven’t been there for you as I should have been, these last few years. I’m so sorry.”
Vincent really should have tried not to listen, to give them some privacy. He didn’t. Aldo leaned into Thomas’s embrace as if he couldn’t help himself—nuzzling against Thomas’s forehead and bringing his arms up to wrap around Thomas’s back. The two of them swayed back and forth minutely, bent into one other over the arm of the chair. They were beautiful together. Vincent didn’t want to look away.
“I’ve missed you so much, darling,” Thomas went on. “Vincent helped me realize how foolish I’ve been, thinking that I was nothing but a burden upon my loved ones.”
“Tommy!” Aldo protested, his voice wounded. He jerked back, staring at Thomas accusingly. “Of course I wouldn’t—”
Thomas stopped him by laying two fingers against his lips. “Can you forgive me?” He kept his fingers on Aldo’s lips for a second longer, then moved them to the side, stroking his cheekbone.
Aldo’s expression softened, then tilted with amusement. “Now, how could I refuse such a spectacular gesture of apology?”
Thomas’s eyes twinkled as he looked over at Vincent. “Yes, well,” he said, raising his voice back to normal. “Apparently someone got tired of my dithering over whether or not you were going to give me a second chance.”
Aldo’s lips twitched as he followed Thomas’s gaze. “Remind me to send someone a thank-you card, then.”
Vincent grinned back at him, giddy with excitement. “I’ll pass on the thank you; how about a get out of jail free card, instead? If that means that you wish to go ahead?” he added hastily, remembering that he shouldn’t have been able to hear their entire conversation.
“Mmm. One moment,” Aldo said, wrapping one hand around Thomas’s neck.
Vincent watched avidly as he pulled Thomas into a deep, passionate kiss, their tongues glinting wetly as they tangled together. Thomas almost overbalanced, leaning into him, and had to clutch at the chair to keep from falling over. Aldo held him close for several heartbeats, then let him go, drawing back with a smug look. Thomas stayed where he was, bent awkwardly over the chair arm, a dreamy, blissful look on his face.
“Thomas, querido,” Vincent called, after a long moment. He pressing his lips together to hide a fond, amused smile as Thomas jerked his head up, blinking dazedly at him. “Take your time, but when you’re ready, I’d like you to lay down over my lap, please.”
“Yes, Vincent,” Thomas said reverentially. With a low groan, he heaved himself to his feet, then walked over to Vincent with the same gliding, performative stride that he used to line up for the Eucharist, planted his knees on the couch cushion next to him, and then laid himself out on Vincent’s lap as over an altar.
Vincent had never particularly believed that the discipline of chastity that the Church insisted upon was effective or necessary for holiness. He had met men he believed were sainted who had longtime lovers; had met others who had never touched another person intimately but were among the vilest souls he’d ever had the displeasure of encountering. But sometimes, he couldn’t help but wonder if what he did with Thomas was damning—not because it broke the sixth commandment, but because it violated the first.
But he found the worship too addictive to ever give it up.
For a while, he just ran his hands across the bountiful feast laid over his thighs, enjoying the feel of the soft wool of the simple black cassock sheltering his beloved’s body. Finally, he moved his hands above Thomas’s fascia and pulled the cassock up from underneath it, gathering it in bunches at the middle of his back.
Aldo sucked in his breath as Vincent pulled Thomas’s trousers down, yanking them just below his buttocks without bothering with the intermediate step of undoing his belt or waistband. Vincent flashed him a warm grin, enjoying the way Aldo’s ears had turned into a solid, inviting red, the color creeping down into his face, as well. But his focus was rapidly drawn back to the man quivering over his thighs. He kneaded Thomas’s asscheeks briefly, enjoying the little shivers that rippled across his beloved’s flesh as Vincent fondled him.
“Jesus,” Aldo whispered.
“Something to say, cariño?” Vincent asked playfully, looking over at him.
The flush started spreading across Aldo’s cheeks. “Have the two of you really not done this before?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “You seem… very good at it.”
Vincent shook his head, answering freely. “Not this, no. Other things, certainly, but I didn’t realize that our Thomas likes pain… in this context, at least,” he added, shaking his head as he thought back over several disparate aspects of Thomas’s personality—things he’d noticed over the last several months, but hadn’t quite tied together into a coherent picture until just now. “I should have.”
Aldo’s eyes grew wider at Vincent’s plural possessive pronoun, his expression turning hungry and a little lost, like a child handed a long-desired Christmas present that he wasn’t sure he’d be allowed to keep.
Meanwhile, Thomas was starting to shift against Vincent’s thighs—not quite humping his lap, but as if he wanted to. Vincent tsked and brought his hand down experimentally, hitting right where Thomas’s cheeks bulged out over his belted waistband, sandwiching the flesh between his hand and the rigid layers of fabric. Thomas groaned, his hips still working mindlessly against Vincent’s lap.
“Oh, my God,” Aldo whimpered.
It was possible, Vincent realized suddenly, that he had avoided becoming aware that Thomas would like something like this because he had absolutely no idea how to do it. Was he supposed to hit with his full hand, or just the palm? How hard? How often? Where would be most effective? Normally, of course, he would be only too delighted to play around for a while, answering his questions with the scientific method. But Vincent was guilty enough of the sin of pride to not wish to appear as if he didn’t know what he was doing in front of Aldo, even when it was the plain truth.
Fortunately, the life he had lived had made him fairly good at improvising, and exceedingly good at appearing that he was doing things intentionally and with great deliberation when he was, in fact, flying completely by the seat of his pants. Besides, he had the advantage of the several months he and Thomas had spent exploring one another’s bodies. He knew that the spots just below and above the slight curve of Thomas’s ass were much more sensitive than the flatish tops; that Vincent could drive him crazy with a few orders and the right attitude; and that the touch of skin on skin would intoxicate his beloved faster than any other stimulus.
He caressed Thomas’s ass gently, moving his fingers in circles, dipping below the bunched-up waistband to see him shiver, then skating his fingernails along the top, just below the lumpy fascia. He waited until Thomas’s instinctive shivers started to reside, then spanked him twice in quick succession—sharp, stinging hits—once on each buttock. He managed to shock a slight squeal out of Thomas with the second—he clearly wasn’t expecting it, so soon after the first—and Vincent grinned and went back to petting Thomas’s ass lightly as he considered his next move.
“Vincent, please,” Thomas groaned. He moved with more purpose against Vincent’s hip—clearly trying to get him to strike him for it the way he had before.
Vincent pursed his lips disapprovingly. But then again, it wasn’t as if he was doing any of this as a punishment. Why shouldn’t he give Thomas exactly what he wanted? With that in mind, he slapped the left side of Thomas’s ass next. He enjoyed the way it made that cheek push into the next, causing a ripple effect, so much so that he did it again, then struck the other side. Thomas gasped breathlessly.
“Harder,” he begged. “Please, Vincent—”
Vincent hit him harder—full and square, right on the top left of that glorious ass. Then again. He felt as if he were driven by the twin incarnations of lust and gluttony as he drank in Thomas’s needy, pathetic noises—imagined them sitting on his shoulder, grotesque little goblins as they were often depicted, cheering him on like football hooligans at the World Cup.
“Harder—” Thomas demanded again.
Vincent balked. Thomas’s ass was a bright, strawberry red now, with a rapidly-disappearing white mark in the shape of Vincent’s hand. If he hit him much harder, he might actually leave bruises.
“Please, Vincent,” Thomas said again, seeming to sense his doubts. “I can take it.”
Without another option, Vincent lifted his head and looked over at Aldo, raising his eyebrows in question. His Secretary of State was still sitting pinned to his chair—his hands clenched on the sides of the thin wooden seat, his mouth hanging slightly open, and his eyes at once dazed and intent. He didn’t seem to register or parse Vincent’s silent question. After a moment, Vincent realized that Aldo’s gaze was so fixed on Thomas—whether on his ass or his face, Vincent couldn’t be entirely sure—that he likely hadn’t even registered the movement.
“Do you think he can take more, Aldo?” Vincent asked softly, breaking into Aldo’s reverie.
“Please, Aldo,” Thomas groaned. “Tell him I can take more—tell him—”
Aldo looked… conflicted. After a moment’s hesitation, glancing back and forth between them, he got up and approached. A few feet away, he paused, looking at Vincent for permission. At his nod, he closed the last of the distance and knelt at the end of the couch, just in front of where Thomas had his face once more buried in the cushions.
“Let me see you, Tommy,” he whispered, folding his arms over the couch arm. “I need to see those baby blues to see if you’re okay, hmm?”
Vincent felt a deep tugging in his heart as Thomas lifted his head in response to his lover’s entreaty, and slowly pried his eyes open, looking Aldo in the face. Vincent had, often enough over the last several months, felt envious of the clear intimacy between the two of them. He’d formed many intense relationships—love forged in the crucible of faith and potential martyrdom—but few long-lasting ones. Even the handful of people still alive whom he’d known for decades (discounting family, who were an entirely different can of worms) couldn’t compare—they’d mostly grown apart once they were no longer in forced propinquity.
But watching Aldo reach out and cup Thomas’s cheek, his own face alight with love… Oh, there was still a whisper of envy in Vincent’s heart. But the emotion rising strongest in him right now, in matching pace with the lust he’d already been flooded with, was joy.
“Please,” Thomas begged again.
Aldo stroked the side of his face with his thumb, then looked up at Vincent and nodded solemnly.
Taking a deep breath, Vincent pulled his hand far back behind his head, taking more care and preparation than he had for any of the previous hits, and then brought it down with every ounce of his strength, sending it whistling through the air and hitting Thomas’s left asscheek with a resounding smack.
Thomas shouted in shock and pain—his arms and legs jerked up even as his butt rippled with the impact of the spank, and he yanked his head out of Aldo’s hand and reburied in the cushions, groaning.
Vincent held his breath, waiting for one of the two of them to reprove him—to tell him that he hadn’t been meant to hit that hard, that he should have known better, he had done too much, wanted too much, was too much. He was always too—
Thomas moaned—a shockingly loud, uninhibited sound for such a reserved man, full of desire and bliss. Vincent’s spiraling demons slowly quieted down, taking watchful roosts in the corners of his brain.
“Oh, God, Vincent…” Thomas whispered, his voice hoarse with lust.
A needy finger, full of hunger, crawled up Vincent’s spine as he heard that voice. Something similar must have happened to Aldo, because when he raised his eyes to meet Vincent’s, over Thomas’s shaking shoulders, were wide and black, pupils expanding to fill the iris.
“Do it again,” he said, almost as hushed and guttural as Thomas’s.
Vincent inhaled sharply, then obeyed. Thomas squealed this time, the sound of it ringing beautifully in Vincent’s ears, and he did it twice more without Aldo’s urging, only pausing the bare minimum needed to wind up between spanks, gloring in the delightfully breathy noises and choked gasps he was driving from his beloved’s lungs.
Thomas was unabashedly humping his legs by this point, and Vincent could tell from the frantic way his was moving and the tight muscles in his back and shoulders that he was getting close. He could scarcely believe it—Thomas had trouble getting hard more often than not, and when he was able to maintain an erection, it usually took him considerable time to climax. Of course, Vincent’s loved spending intimate time with Thomas whether he was able to orgasm or not, and he rather enjoyed coaxing his lover’s body into cooperating, but… A snarky part of him wanted to point out to Thomas that if he’d just told him that pain was the key months ago, they could have had a lot of additional fun during that time.
Which was, perhaps, one reason that he decided to be a little cruel.
He bent over Thomas’s shoulders, whispering in his ear, “Show me how much you’re loving this, then, mi amado,” and then, after making Thomas wait for another key few seconds to get especially keyed up, he spanked him again—a light, barely stinging slap, his hand scarcely skimming across the top of Thomas’s ass.
Thomas yelped in complaint and turned his head to glare at Vincent over his shoulder.
“Was that not what you wanted, my dear?” Vincent asked, smiling at him as innocently as he could manage.
A short, choked-off snort of laughter erupted from Aldo.
“Vincent,” Thomas rasped protestingly.
“Who knew the Pope would be such a tease?” Aldo asked, chuckling.
Vincent tore his eyes from Thomas’s in order to grin mischievously at Aldo. “Well, he’s so much fun to play with,” he pointed out. “How could I resist?”
“Aldo—” Thomas said suddenly, entreatingly, “if you wanted to—”
“Oh, don’t even think about it,” Aldo said quickly. “If Vincent wants to stretch out the torture, that’s his business. I’m not getting between the two of you.”
“And here we were hoping that you might,” Vincent said; he kept his voice light and playful, but his eyes, fixed on Aldo’s, were serious and steady.
Aldo looked blank for a second, as if he genuinely didn’t understand what Vincent was getting at it; then, as understanding dawned over his face, he blushed hotly, a deep red flush washing down from his ears and spreading splotchily across his cheeks and neck.
“You—” he started, only to stall out, staring incredulously back and forth between Thomas and Vincent. “Really?”
“Oh God, Vincent, you’re evil,” Thomas complained. “You couldn’t wait to start this conversation until after I—”
He stopped and swore aloud as VIncent brought his hand down in another spank, a hard and heavy one this time, catching him by surprise.
“My goodness, Thomas,” Vincent said. “What language!”
“I don’t think I’ve heard you say fuck in ten years,” Aldo added, admiringly.
“I’m surprised it was that recent,” Vincent said, rubbing and squeezing the sore spots on Thomas’s ass just to make him squirm.
“Oh, it took him a good couple of years after he got back from New York to lose the habit,” Aldo explained. “I remember one time, right in front of Pope John Paul II—”
“Aldo! You are not telling the umbrella story right now!” Thomas commanded.
“But it’s such a good—”
“No, Al—oh, fuck! Bloody fucking hell, that’s so good, Vincent, please, I’m so close—” Thomas waved a desperate hand in the air, and Aldo caught it. He pressed it tightly between both of his, then bent down over the couch arm and brought it to his lips, kissing Thomas’s knuckles fervently.
Vincent couldn’t resist the desperate note in Thomas’s voice—he lifted one leg, bracing it on the coffee table and giving Thomas something to grind against, then spanked him three times in quick unison—not quite as hard as the worst spanks he’d dealt out earlier, but enough to leave livid white marks against the solid, dusky red that he’d made of Thomas’s ass, that faded only slowly—and then, just as Thomas was starting to unclench a little, thinking he was pausing, three times more. As the last one came down, Thomas came against his knee with a wail. Vincent and Aldo’s foreheads almost knocked together as they both bent down over their beloved, drinking in every last sound that fell from his lips.
As the echoes died down, Vincent bent down even further and brushed his lips across Aldo’s mouth, lightly and tentatively. Aldo didn’t pull away. His mouth was pleasant to the touch, soft and warm. As Vincent pulled back a little, scanning his face, his eyes were closed, his face upturned, as if welcoming more, and so Vincent bent down and kissed him again, letting his tongue trickle across his lower lip. Aldo parted his lips with a gasp; he tasted divine, his mouth perfectly wet and plush and slick, and Vincent pressed in closer, bringing a hand in to grasp the side of his neck.
“Oh God, Vincent,” Aldo moaned, wrenching his mouth away. “Jesus, that was so hot. Please, I need—” Mindlessly trying to get closer, he almost kneed Thomas in the head as he half-vaulted, half-fell over the couch arm, rushing to kneel directly in front of Vincent rather than being awkward off to his side. He pulled him into another fervent kiss, ignoring the slight squawk Thomas let out as he was smushed between them.
VIncent was feeling only slightly less desperate—beneath his enshrouding robes, he was urgently hard, wet and dripping with it. “Thomas,” he grated, pushing Aldo just far enough away that he could get the words out. “I’m going to need you to get up, please.”
Thomas groaned. “Aldo—help me,” he pleaded, craning his neck around. “I can’t get up from this position alone without either crushing Vincent or falling flat on my face.”
Aldo snorted with laughter and quickly levered his arms under Thomas’s torso—Vincent managed to avoid yelping as Aldo’s hands grazed along his thighs—and started to heave him up. Working together, the three of them managed to get Thomasback up onto his knees, whereupon he was able to, slowly and painfully, pivot into a normal sitting position. He winced visibly as his bare, bruised ass came into contact with the couch cushion, despite the soft suede, and he immediately tried to push himself up, one hand braced on the couch arm, only to fall back down with a pained groan. Vincent couldn’t help but huff out a short chuckle, which built to a full-bodied laugh as Thomas turned to him with a betrayed expression on his face.
“Despite many blessings the Lord has seen fit to bestow upon you, you too must eventually grow old, Vincent,” Thomas said, his voice drenched with satiation and contentment despite his evident attempt to sound cross. “And on that day, you will rue this lack of charity today.”
Still in front of them, Aldo giggled, then slapped his hand across his mouth.
Thomas mock-glared up at his friend. “Et tu, Aldo?”
“I suppose this is the wrong time to point out that I’ve been urging you to do yoga in the mornings with me for decades,” Aldo said, grinning down at Thomas even as he held out both his hands.
With Aldo pulling at his hands and Vincent helpfully pushing at his shoulders, Thomas managed to get off the couch with minimal fumbling. He’d scarcely regained his feet than Aldo was falling back down to his knees, shoving Vincent’s robes out of the way.
It wasn’t until Aldo was dragging his drawers down, his hands trembling against Vincent’s fevered thighs, that Vincent remembered that there was a rather important conversation they hadn’t yet had.
“Uh—” he said eloquently, as Aldo stared down at his small cock and lightly furred cunt. “So…”
Thomas knelt down behind Aldo, resting his chin over his shoulder. “We’ll explain everything later. Hmm?”
“I—” Aldo said, and stopped.
Thomas reached around his chest, gently picked up Aldo’s hands from where they were still resting on Vincent’s calves, and pulled them behind Aldo’s back, drawing him into an affectionate armlock.
“You wouldn’t want to leave something as important as this half-finished, now would you?”
Vincent opened his mouth to protest—they should discuss this, not pressure Aldo into doing something he might not be comfortable with, and Vincent should have known better, should have explained things to his Secretary of State long before this, but he’d been afraid, and intimidated, and then he’d… Well, their relationship had deepened, grown playful and intimate, and he’d forgotten that they’d never actually—
“No, I wouldn’t,” Aldo whispered, before Vincent could find the words.
And then he bent forward, taking Vincent’s cock into his mouth.
Vincent slapped a hand over his mouth, stifling the shriek that wanted to emerge at the unexpected pleasure.
Aldo’s eyes, as he rolled them up to peer at him, were mischievous, and he let go of Vincent’s cock just long enough to add, “But that had better be a hell of an explanation, Your Holiness.”
Vincent rather wanted to protest the title, but the pleasure shooting through him as Aldo rolled his cock between his tongue and his lips was far too overwhelming to make any coherent sense.
“Oh my God,” he whimpered, as Aldo began to suck. “Oh my God—”
“Lower down, too,” Thomas urged, pushing Aldo harder into Vincent’s cunt. “You can get your tongue all the way in there—”
VIncent moaned, arching back helplessly, as Aldo matched his actions to Thomas’s words, plunging his furled tongue deep into Vincent’s dripping cunt. Vincent worried, for a moment, that Thomas might be forcing him into something he wasn’t entirely comfortable with, but Aldo’s enjoyment of the situation—including having Thomas at his back, trapping him in between his broad chest and Vincent’s cunt—was evident; he ate Vincent out voraciously, letting out little eager sighs and hungry gasps around the muffling walls of Vincent’s thighs.
“Put your hands on his head,” Thomas said, his voice thick and hoarse with lust. “He likes to feel held down.”
Groaning at the very thought, Vincent wrapped his palms around the back of Aldo’s skull, enjoying the feel of the soft, tender fuzz on the stretch between his ears, that was all the evidence that remained of the hair he’d once had. Aldo didn’t resist, gladly allowing Vincent to guide his mouth this way and that, working him back and forth between his cunt and his cock, until he came with a hoarse shout, collapsing against the couch as he stiffened and shook. Even then, as Vincent’s hands fell limply to the cushions next to him, he didn’t let up—Thomas shoved him forward, keeping his face buried in Vincent’s cunt, and Aldo continued lapping and sucking at him, ignoring Vincent’s whimpers and cries of overstimulation, until he came again with a scream, his entire body convulsing under Aldo’s ravenous mouth.
“Oh my God, Tommy, please—please!” Aldo whimpered.
The sight that greeted Vincent as he as he opened his eyes would live with him forever—Aldo, his face painted wetly with Vincent’s cum, almost crying with urgent passion as Thomas, kneeling at his side, lapped up the slick fluids from his face.
“Please, I need it, need you! Fuck me, Tommy, please—” Aldo begged, even as he plunged a hand into his own trousers, shoving his cassock roughly out of the way.
Thomas groaned. “Perhaps if I was thirty years younger, darling…”
“Bring him back over here,” Vincent ordered.
Not that they’d gotten very far, but Thomas correctly interpreted his demand, turning Aldo around to face him again and pulling his arms behind his back once more, trapping him for Vincent’s pleasure.
Vincent didn’t make him wait, unbuttoning his cassock just enough to pull it off over his head and yanking his waistband open. As Aldo’s mouth opened in a silent cry of pleasure, he ran the palm of his hand through his own slick cunt and then began jerking him off, watching intently as what was left of Aldo’s brilliant mind rapidly unraveled.
“Oh God, Vincent—fuck, fuck, how are you so good at that, I—oh my God—”
Vincent leaned forward and kissed him, stopping the urgent flow of words from his mouth even as his back arched like a bow and fluid splattered into Vincent’s hand.
Afterward, the three of them sprawled exhaustedly on the small couch, bodies and limbs overlapping.
“You know, somehow, I’m not sure that was an effective punishment,” Aldo said, speaking mostly to the ceiling, laying almost flat on his back with his head hanging over the edge of the couch and his feet up in Thomas’s lap.
“The only way to measure a punishment’s effectiveness is how well it prevents the crime from being committed again,” Vincent murmured, the words muffled by Aldo’s chest. He hummed as Thomas stroked his naked back. “And I don’t think Thomas will call me Your Holiness again any time soon.”
“I don’t know,” Thomas said. “I’ve never found you holier.”