Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Cantrell
“My soul breaketh for the longing that it hath unto thy judgments at all times.”
Illias’ home was quiet without him there, yet somehow Cantrell didn’t feel nearly as cold as he did in the quietness of the rectory.
There was a natural warmth to a place that was lived in, not simply inhabited.
Decorated with the very essence of what it means to be human.
Items that were loved, photos of cherished moments, objects that held memories.
All the things the rectory lacked. Things Cantrell missed.
His room at the rectory was mostly bare save for a few personal items he was allowed to keep.
Ones he could not bear to part with. Hung on his wall were two pictures: one of him and his mother before her eyes grew tired, and one of him and Father Davidson before Cantrell became a priest. Sat on his desk, next to a small lamp, was a straight razor shaving kit gifted to him by an old friend.
Folded and laid across the foot of his bed, a knitted throw blanket that was frayed along the edges; made by one of the women at the shelter and given to him during his first year working there as a priest. Hidden between the pages of a well-worn Latin book, the napkin Illias scribbled his number and address on. So few items he held close.
Cantrell noticed a new frame on Illias’ bookshelf.
Shaped like a cloud and holding a picture of Illias with Charity.
They stood behind the garden beds, faces dewy with sweat and smiles nearly as bright as the sun.
Even fewer people, he thought, longing for that closeness again.
Wishing he had not destroyed bridges with friends from his youth.
Praying that one day he would be brave enough to try to reconnect.
Apologize properly for the way he treated them.
One day, he thought while he pulled a non-titled leather-bound book from the shelf. One day.
He settled into the recliner, crossing his ankle over his knee.
He cracked open the book to the first page and found, This album belongs to, with Illias R.
Koller written on the line below. Cantrell flipped to the next page.
Warning! Exclusively for select audiences was written neatly in Illias’ handwriting.
Curiosity getting the better of Cantrell, he turned the page.
Two black-and-white photos of Illias were taped on the following page.
In one, Illias was posed and tied intricately in shibari rope.
The dark rope crisscrossed his body, accenting the small dip of his waist and the swell of his pecs.
The second photo revealed the aftermath of the first. Deep divots that mimicked the braid of the rope marked Illias’ body.
Cantrell tried to recall the last time he did a proper tie, but his mind only conjured thoughts of Illias in red rope.
On the next few pages were more black-and-white photos, most of which included Illias in some sort of bondage situation.
Carefully posed and bound. Some blindfolded, others gagged.
Every photo Cantrell looked at made him more and more anxious for Illias to get home, his slacks growing uncomfortable with each flip of the page.
Eventually, bondage photos gave way to more precarious ones.
Ones with Illias face down, ass up, spreader bar holding his legs apart.
Cock hanging between his thighs. Cantrell slipped a hand between the album and his lap, palming himself while he continued through the pages.
“Enjoying my album, Father?” Illias’ smug voice pierced through the sounds of Cantrell’s heavy breathing.
Cantrell fumbled the album, face scorching. He cleared his throat. Adjusted his glasses. Avoided looking directly at Illias. Humiliated at the fact he was caught even though it was by the very reason he had started to. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Embarrassed you got caught?” Illias teased, locking the door while he took off his shoes.
“You don’t have to be.” He headed to the kitchen but continued to speak, voice raised, “I thought it was hot. Walking in, seeing you touch yourself to photos of me. Maybe you should take that album back with you, consider it part of…” his voice became muffled as he spoke into the pantry.
Illias turned around, box in hand, then walked back to the living room.
He presented it to Cantrell with a small smile. “Happy birthday.”
“You…how did you…” Cantrell’s mind struggled to comprehend the situation at hand, stalled by the very fact he had forgotten his own birthday.
“There’s a calendar at Saint Anthony’s with birthdays on it. I was going to wait until next Tuesday but you’re here now and it’s your actual birthday, so here you go. I was going to bake a cake and do dinner, but you know,” Illias shrugged, “shit happens.”
“Thank you, but—”
“Oh my God,” Illias groaned, rolling his eyes. “Take the box and open it, my arms are tired.”
Cantrell refrained from chastising Illias about using the Lord’s name in vain.
He took the box from Illias, eyebrows rising at the weight of it.
He sat aside the album to make room on his lap then sat the box down and began to peel the wrapping paper.
“Illias,” he gasped when he saw the label on the box.
“I hope you like them,” Illias said, rubbing the back of his neck. Cantrell removed the lid to reveal the polished black leather boots inside. “I thought maybe—I don’t know, I can return them if you don’t like them.”
“No,” Cantrell blurted. “I mean. They’re perfect,” he looked up at Illias, “you’re perfect. Thank you.”
Illias perked up. “Would you like to try them on?” He took a step closer, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I can put them on for you.”
“Go ahead,” Cantrell said, relaxing into the recliner, “get on your knees for me.”
Illias sank to his knees then took the box from Cantrell’s lap.
He carefully removed the first boot. Loosened the laces with a reverent tenderness.
Slowly, Illias cupped the back of Cantrell’s heel and lifted his foot.
Slid the boot on and over his tapered slacks.
Nimble fingers tightened the laces, tied them into a perfect bow.
Illias repeated the process for the other boot, with the same care and slowness.
The boots hit mid-calf on Cantrell, making them taller than the battered ones he owned.
Soft candlelight reflected off the smooth polished surface of the leather.
Illias gave Cantrell a heated look, then leaned down and pressed a kiss to his leather-clad calf.
Arousal shot through Cantrell like electricity, setting every fiber of his being on fire and pushing him fully into a headspace he thought he’d lost. Cantrell leaned forward, fisted Illias’ hair and pulled his head back.
“Did I give you permission to kiss my boots, pet?”
“No, Sir,” he gasped, leaning into Cantrell’s fist, eyes blown with need.
“How do you ask?” Cantrell asked, knowing how desperately they both needed this. Needed to step back from the world for just a moment and indulge in one another. Consume one another.
“Please, Father.” Illias’ tongue darted out, wetting his lips. “Please, let me kiss your boots. Let me show you how much I worship you.”
Cantrell tightened his grip in Illias’ hair, causing him to inhale sharply. “Say it again.”
“I worship you,” Illias repeated breathlessly. “I’d kiss the ground you walk on if you asked. Lick your boots clean. Whatever you asked.”
Searing lust ran through Cantrell’s veins. Made him heady with want and need. “Go on then.” He released Illias’ hair. “Show me.”
Illias bent at the waist, kissing the top of Cantrell’s boot.
Arousal pulsed through him as Illias’ warm tongue and mouth moved across the leather in a wanton display of devotion.
Slicking the leather with saliva with every pass of his tongue.
Conjuring images of what else Cantrell could use such a sinful mouth for.
Illias kissed along Cantrell’s calf, inching closer to the edge of the boot then trailing back down.
Illias pressed a kiss to the toe of each boot, then to each calf right at the edge of the leather.
He looked up at Cantrell, eyes holding nothing but pure devotion, and kissed the inside of Cantrell’s right knee before resting his head against the left.
It was unholy the way Illias made Cantrell want so viciously.
Made him want to ruin Illias for anybody else.
“What is it, pup?” Cantrell asked, wanting to know exactly what was going through Illias’ mind.
Illias’ face reddened as he sat back, spreading his knees apart.
Putting himself on full display. Cantrell’s gaze dropped to Illias’ crotch, bulge straining against his jeans.
Bringing his eyes back up to Illias’ face, Cantrell asked, “Is there something you want?”
“Please,” Illias whimpered.
“Use your words and ask properly,” Cantrell ordered, a devious smirk on his lips as he pressed his foot against Illias’ crotch. Illias sucked in a breath, blush worsening. Cantrell carefully twisted his foot against Illias’ cock, making him whine and curl forward. “Speak, pup.”
“Please, let me show you how much I worship you.” He grabbed Cantrell’s foot, grinding against the sole. “You don’t have to touch me, just let me worship you.”
“A very tempting offer, pup, but you’re going to have to earn the right to sacrament if that’s what you're after.” Sinful delight at using such a sacred act to allude to something much more depraved curled in Cantrell’s core.
“I want you to beg for it like a good boy. Then maybe”—he twisted his foot, drawing another pitiful noise from Illias—“I’ll use your pretty mouth. ”