Chapter 31 Callahan
“My soul breaketh for the longing that it hath unto thy judgments at all times.”
— Psalms 119:20 KJV
The quiet in Dorian’s townhouse felt different from the rectory’s silence. There, emptiness pressed in like a judgment. Here, the air carried traces of life—coffee grounds left too long in the French press, the faint cedar of Dorian’s cologne lingering on a thrown jacket, the low hum of the refrigerator. Callahan stood in the living room, hands in his pockets, letting the warmth settle over him. It was the kind of warmth that came from someone actually living in a place, not just enduring it.
His own room at the rectory held almost nothing he could call his own. Two photographs on the wall—one of his mother before illness dulled her eyes, one of himself and Father Davidson in seminary days. On the desk, the straight-razor kit an old friend had given him. Across the foot of the bed, the frayed knit blanket a woman from the shelter had pressed into his hands his first year. And hidden between pages of a worn Latin breviary, the napkin with Dorian’s number and address scrawled in hurried pen. That was all.
He drifted to the bookshelf. A new frame had appeared since his last visit—a cloud-shaped thing holding a photograph of Dorian and Elara behind raised garden beds, both of them sun-struck and laughing, dirt on their forearms. Callahan’s chest tightened. He had burned so many bridges in his youth, convinced righteousness required it. Now the absence ached like a bruise he kept pressing.
A plain leather-bound book caught his eye—no title on the spine. He pulled it free, settled into the recliner, and opened to the first page.
This album belongs to Dorian R. Koller.
He turned the page.
Warning! Exclusively for select audiences.
Curiosity overrode caution. The next spread held two black-and-white photographs. In the first, Dorian knelt in intricate shibari, dark rope framing the narrow dip of his waist, the swell of his chest. In the second, the same body bore the rope’s aftermath—deep braided indentations across pale skin. Callahan’s pulse thudded in his ears. He tried to remember the last time his own hands had tied a proper harness, but the memory dissolved beneath the image of Dorian bound in red.
Page after page revealed more: Dorian blindfolded, gagged, wrists lashed to ankles, thighs forced wide by a spreader bar, cock heavy between them. Callahan’s slacks grew tight. He shifted, pressing the heel of his hand against himself through fabric, breath shallow. The anticipation of Dorian’s return coiled hotter with every photograph.
“Enjoying my album, Father?”
Callahan startled so violently the book nearly slid from his lap. Heat flooded his face. He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, avoided Dorian’s eyes. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
Dorian locked the door, toed off his shoes, and crossed to the kitchen still speaking. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. I thought it was hot—walking in, seeing you touching yourself to pictures of me.” His voice muffled briefly as he leaned into the pantry, then emerged with a wrapped box. He returned to the living room and held it out, small smile playing at his mouth. “Happy birthday.”
Callahan blinked. He had forgotten the date entirely. “How did you—”
“Calendar at Saint Jude’s. I was going to wait until Tuesday confession, bake a cake, do dinner, the whole thing. But you’re here now, and it’s the actual day.” Dorian shrugged, arms already trembling from the box’s weight. “Take it before I drop it.”
Callahan set the album aside and accepted the gift. The wrapping paper came away to reveal a boot box. He lifted the lid and stilled. Inside lay polished black leather boots, mid-calf, impeccably made.
“Dorian.” His voice cracked.
“I can return them if—”
“No.” Callahan looked up. “They’re perfect.” He reached out, cupped Dorian’s jaw briefly. “You’re perfect. Thank you.”
Dorian’s grin flashed, bright and a little shy. “Want to try them on?” He stepped closer, mischief sparking. “I could put them on for you.”
Callahan leaned back in the recliner, extending one leg. “Go ahead. Get on your knees for me.”
Dorian dropped without hesitation. He lifted the first boot from the box, loosened the laces with deliberate care, then cradled Callahan’s heel and guided his foot inside. Fingers worked the laces tight, tied them into a neat bow. He repeated the ritual with the second boot, slow, reverent. Candlelight slid across the leather like oil.
Dorian’s gaze lifted, dark and hungry. He bent and pressed a kiss to the polished calf.
Fire shot up Callahan’s leg. He leaned forward, fisted Dorian’s hair, and yanked his head back. “Did I give you permission to kiss my boots, pet?”
“No, Sir.” Dorian’s voice shook with want; he leaned into the grip.
“How do you ask?”
“Please, Father.” Dorian wet his lips. “Please let me kiss your boots. Let me show you how much I worship you.”
Callahan tightened his fingers until Dorian inhaled sharply. “Say it again.”
“I worship you.” The words spilled out breathless. “I’d kiss the ground you walk on if you told me to. Lick your boots clean. Anything.”
Heat surged through Callahan, thick and dizzying. “Go on, then. Show me.”
Dorian bent, mouth warm against leather. He kissed the toe of each boot, dragged his tongue in slow, wet stripes up the shafts, leaving shining trails. He kissed along the calves, inching toward the top edge before retreating, worshipful and shameless. At last he pressed his lips to the inside of Callahan’s right knee, then rested his head against the left, eyes closed as if in prayer.
Callahan’s cock throbbed. “What is it, pup?”
Dorian flushed deeper, sat back on his heels, and spread his knees wide. The bulge straining his jeans was unmistakable. “Please.”
“Use your words.”
Dorian’s hips rolled forward, seeking friction against nothing. “Please let me show you how much I worship you. You don’t even have to touch me—just let me worship you.”
“Tempting.” Callahan pressed the sole of one new boot against Dorian’s crotch. Dorian gasped, blush flaring. Callahan twisted slowly, drawing a broken whine. “But you’ll have to earn your sacrament, pet. Beg like a good boy, and maybe I’ll use that pretty mouth.”
Dorian ground against the leather. “God, please, Father. Wanna taste you. Wanna feel you in my throat. Can’t stop thinking about you fucking me—please, I want you to spread me open, want you inside me so bad—”
Callahan palmed himself through his slacks, watching. “Greedy little thing. I could watch you hump my boot for hours, couldn’t I? Bet you’d come just like this, listening to me talk.”
Dorian whimpered. “I would. Anything. But please—use me. Ruin me.”
Callahan unfastened his slacks, drew himself free. He stood. “Open your mouth.”
Dorian obeyed instantly, tongue out, eyes locked upward.
Callahan slid between his lips. “Hoc est corpus meum.”
Dorian took him to the root, nose buried in salt-and-pepper hair. The vibration of his moan rippled through Callahan’s spine. Callahan knotted both hands in Dorian’s hair and held him there, hips jerking at the wet heat after so many years of nothing. He wanted to savor it, but the sight—Dorian on his knees, mouth stretched, tears gathering—shattered restraint.
Jealousy flared. “Is there a picture of you like this in that album?”
Dorian’s eyes flicked up.
“There is.” Callahan pulled back until only the tip rested on Dorian’s lower lip. “Isn’t there?”
“Yes, Sir.” Dorian’s voice rasped. He wrapped a hand around Callahan, stroking slow. “But you can replace it.”
Callahan groaned, thrusting into the fist. “I’ll replace every fucking photo of you with another man. No one gets you like this but me.” He guided Dorian forward again. “Now take your sacrament.”
He fucked Dorian’s mouth in earnest, chasing the edge. When climax hit, he pulled free with a gritted “Fuck—” and spent across Dorian’s tongue, cheek, the back of his own hand.
Dorian, unprompted, drew Callahan’s hand to his mouth and licked it clean, eyes never leaving his. “Thank you, Father.”
“Good boy.” Callahan tucked himself away, breathing hard. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I need more.” Dorian’s pupils were blown wide.
“How do you ask?”
“Will you touch me, Father? Please?” He shifted forward, straddling Callahan’s boot again. “I’ve been good. Please fill me. I want you inside me so fucking bad.”
Callahan watched him grind, helpless and desperate. “Is there lube in your bedroom?”
“Nightstand drawer.”
“Strip and bend over the couch for me, pet. I’ll be right back.”