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Vincent first wears the white and gold corset for himself, on a day when he has no appearances and can laze about in his rooms in gym shorts and bare feet getting accustomed to his new purchase. He covers himself in a Habemus Papum hoodie from the Vatican giftshop when the sisters bring his meals and only takes it off when he's sure he'll remain alone for some time.
The corset is an embroidered silk brocade garment that extends over his shoulders in broad, tapering straps, covers his chest but for a deep V where the two sides of his chest are pushed up and together, held in place by a column of metal hook and eye closures. From there, the corset's gold-accented boning forcibly cinches his ribs and soft belly, stopping just above his hip bones.
His hips and thighs flare notably in comparison. Aside from his chest, Vincent doesn’t have what anybody might call curves. He hasn't wanted them most of the time. When he was a child, any trait he harbored that might have been likened to girls was roundly mocked by his classmates. That included his pudgy cheeks and wide, trusting eyes. When he first found out he was intersex, Vincent began to loathe his soft features that he saw as proof of a life lived in deception of God. He starved the fat from his face and ran until his slim legs were as muscled as an athlete's.
He wanted to be what a man was, but all he became was brusque and distant. He had excised all the tenderness from himself and left none for his parishioners. He was a brick wall none could climb, and he was trapped inside while they were out.
He learned to box because he wanted to be a defender, but he was a born pacifist and would not throw a punch. He stopped helping with the children for fear that it was his innate femininity that drew them to him and he to them, yet he could not bear their sad-eyed disappointment when he declined for the umpteenth time to play.
When one of his parishioners cried at a terrible, violent loss and he hesitated to comfort them, questioning what it said about who he was inside, he decided it was time to resign. Whatever these organs made him, fighting his nature had made him worse. He was little use to anyone like this.
The late Holy Father had disagreed. Though he had not initially been apprised of Vincent's medical struggles, he roundly rejected his resignation a second time once he knew. He said Vincent had come too far to turn back in his mission, and that abandoning his flock would be a coequal sin with abandoning himself.
"You wouldn't hesitate to offer grace to another in your position. Where is your grace for that man?"
"Am I a man?" Vincent had punished the ambiguity of himself with apathy. He had ignored his body into sickness. The late Holy Father had summoned him to Rome when Vincent collapsed of hunger and high fever for the fourth time.
"That's for you and you alone to decide. Are you?" The former Pope was a fierce man whose piercing eyes would not have been out of place on an archangel’s flaming rings. When he asked a question, that question demanded only the most honest response.
"I feel I am,” Vincent admitted. “I have always felt I am." Never mind how he had been teased for being the wrong kind of boy and then the wrong kind of man. He was in fact a man.
"Then the matter is settled. How do we make your existence tolerable to you?"
"I don't want to live in this way." He gestured to his abdomen, his soft belly that even hollow was evidence of what was within.
"There are procedures that can be done to alleviate the most upsetting aspects of your condition."
"I would want them–all of it–gone." Vincent worked with women and had dealt with matters of female reproductive health for well over a decade by this point, but he couldn’t say the words when discussing himself. It was a profane act.
"I'll make the appointment...if you're sure." Here, the late Holy Father had gentled himself to the parish priest he had once been in a past epoch. The Vatican wasn’t a manger for the gentle.
"It’s the only way," Vincent had emphasized, but in the end he hadn’t been as able to convince himself. God had created him with this form for a reason. He was meant to use this experience to become more useful for God, he was sure of it, but how could he do that if he changed it? Would that in and of itself be an affront to God?
Vincent hadn’t been sure but he'd known it wasn't a mistake he could live with much less reverse. He'd cancelled the procedure and the late Holy Father never again asked after the matter. Instead he had shockingly elevated Vincent to a cardinal in pectore. For his services to the Church and for his devotion to God. It was a remarkable gesture of trust that Vince treasures to this day.
He's wondered more recently if the older man would have backed his corner as passionately had he known what Vincent might do from it.
Vincent pulls the laces securing the rear panels of his corset until he finds it just a little hard to breathe. His flesh spills out from under the expensive garment. He feels caged for all the proverbial bars titillate his flesh where it overflows.
There is too much of him, everywhere, and he likes it.
He scrutinizes his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Shakes his wavy hair out of its habitual low ponytail so its ends tease his neck. He strips out of his shorts, and now he's naked from the waist down. He looks wanton. No, he looks brazen. He could seduce a cardinal looking like this. One specific cardinal who is constantly on his mind.
Vincent next wears the corset under his cassock and mozzetta with nothing besides his customary socks to pad the deflated insoles of his Converse. His lower half, he leaves bare to watered silk and undyed cotton. Each step fondles him into a heightened state of semi-erectness. He remains red-cheeked and bright-eyed the whole day.
He gets no end of compliments for how trim he looks. Does he workout? Not the way most think. Has he been dieting? If anything, Vincent eats more regularly than ever in his life, usually to ensure his hungering dean eats as well. Nevertheless, Vincent can't help reveling in his created hourglass shape. Thomas's arctic stare rakes Vincent up and down anytime their paths cross. Thomas needn't say a word to be asking for a peek underneath.
Vincent grants his wish during their next lunchtime meeting in the dean’s office.
Thomas is speaking about their upcoming travel itinerary until he realizes Vincent isn’t sitting across his desk from him but is stripping. His blue grey eyes take in the scene, instantly surmising this meeting will not be productive in the way he planned.
Vincent releases the buttons of his mozzetta. He unties his dove white fascia.Then he sets aside his zucchetto to avoid it being misplaced or, worse, crushed. Vincent has high hopes for his meeting agenda.
Thomas swallows. His throat is dry as the Americas amid a hundred-year drought. "What are you wearing?"
"Something I treated myself to. Isn’t it beautiful? What artistry." Vincent strokes the gold fleur-de-lis embroidery that creeps up the sides of the corset like heirloom rose vines up a trellis.
"The craftsmanship is singular. How did you come about it?"
"Instagram. I was using Ray's phone when I saw the ad. I always like to support small businesses."
"So you ordered a–a piece of lingerie?" His erudite tongue tangles over the word.
"Why not?"
Thomas sits forward, managerial concern warring with desire. "Does the designer know who you are?"
"Ray arranged for an alias and a P.O. box for me. He also helped me with the measurements. He's very talented. If we ever get on his bad side, the tell-alls will be extensive."
Thomas scoffs. "I intend to be dead before that happens."
"You intend to be dead before lunch most days." Vincent can only laugh since he knows nothing short of an act of God could compel Thomas to leave him.
"Also not untrue." Thomas shrugs. "Are you comfortable?"
"Yes and no.” Vincent saunters to Thomas’s side of the desk. Thomas toes his chair around to meet him. Vincent tuts when Thomas spreads his legs. This isn’t going to be their usual game where Thomas finishes down Vincent’s throat and Vincent finishes himself while Thomas watches. Today, he craves a change of pace. “I feel aroused and constricted which makes me more aroused." He flicks a coquettish glance down at Thomas. "How do you feel about that?"
The cardinal’s fingers find Vincent’s kneecaps through his cassock. Thomas is enamored of Vincent where he’s boniest. Knees and elbows, his ribs and shoulders. He grips them like a chalice to drink from.
"I’m interested." He cranes his neck to peek into the gaping recesses of Vincent's open cassock. "What else are you wearing?"
Vincent rolls his shoulders. He feels like a silver-screen vixen at how Thomas hangs on his every word. "Nothing."
Thomas levies a brow. "Nothing, as in?"
Vincent lets the unfastened mozzetta and cassock slip from this body. "Nothing."
Thomas goggles. “Bloody hell."
"I thought you'd like that, my Thomas."
Vincent throws his vestments safely out of the way at the far end of Thomas's desk.
“Take yourself out for me.”
Thomas moves with haste at the promise of sex. No sooner has Vincent spoken his command than Thomas’s cassock is up and his trousers are open. He presents himself for inspection, not out of pride rather with the expectation that Vincent will find him wanting and still have him. To Vincent, Thomas’s cock is ideal: a slender, ruddy length that thickens at his touch. It slaps his shirt with a fleshy splat when Vincent lets go, staining the black fabric with precum. Thomas twitches toward tissues only to subside when Vincent doesn’t grant him permission. Thomas is his creature as he is Thomas’s, but it’s Vincent who shepherds and Thomas who submits to be led.
“Making a mess on the clock? I don’t remember that on the agenda.” He rubs Thomas’s spongy tip, licks his fingers when he spurts wet across the back of his hand. “What’s our rule, hmm? Remind me.”
Thomas grunts through his ardor. “Never leave evidence. We make evidence, we make it disappear.” He bites his lips; they’re already cracking under the pressure.
Vincent reclines against his desk and lifts a foot to rest on his thigh. “Then, make it disappear.”
Thomas’s eyes are drawn to the gleaming silver plug gleaming between Vincent’s cheeks. Thomas fans Vincent’s leg aside to nose past his erect cock to the plug. He sucks the handle. Vincent exhales in a burst; anytime Thomas is touching him he struggles to breathe. The pointed tip of Thomas's tongue dancing over his stretched hole sends chills down his legs and up his spine.
“Thomas, please.”
Thomas fucks the plug in and out of Vincent’s ass all while kissing the heated flesh. There’s little that obsesses him like being inside Vincent somehow, pleasuring his personal saint. Vincent’s cheeks darken in a flush at the knowledge that Thomas’s immortal soul is his to save and yet this man prays at his altar night after night, painted in the wine of his mouth and the blood of his body.
Thomas scoops Vincent up to deposit Vincent in his lap. His cock positively leaps between their bellies when Vincent reaches behind himself and carefully removes the plug Thomas has become so distracted by. He taps his dean’s jaw, signaling Thomas to open his mouth and slips the slick plug between his lips as a reward.
Thomas, food-averse Thomas, sucks Vincent’s taste from the chrome plug as if consuming the one sweet he permits himself all year.
Vincent kisses his chin. “Good boy.” He licks the drooling corner of his lips–how his Thomas drools when nourished the way he needs. “My good boy.”
Thomas’s chest vibrates with a noise of unadulterated feline pleasure. Vincent tugs the plug from his dean’s mouth with his teeth and sets it on the desk. Enough toys, all he wants is Thomas now. Vincent rubs their cocks together impatiently. Lightning pleasure arcs from the head of his cock to his core. He came to seduce Thomas and all along he’s been seducing himself.
“Time is ticking, mi tesoro, and Ray is listening.” He nods toward the door where the monsignor works, unaware, on the other side.
“Ray won’t say a word.”
Vincent lifts himself above Thomas’s cock. “And if he sees?” Vincent pouts at Thomas’s vacant stare. “Are you planning to share my gifts with him?” He sinks down on Thomas as slowly as he can, crediting a lifetime of fútbol for the strong thighs that let him control his descent. Thomas whines in the back of his throat, grabbing ineffectively at Vincent’s hips to urge him to go faster. Before they come flush together, Vincent is already rising, panting uncontrollably at the bliss-ache of being stretched wide and gut-deep. Thomas grinds the heel of his palm on his belly, feeling for the bulge of his intrusion. Vincent shudders and drags himself along Thomas’s cock, lighting fireworks behind his eyes, feeling sparks along the walls of his insides.
“Speak,” he commands, already shaking from his oncoming climax. Thomas is inside him; Vincent feels like he might erupt from pleasure.
“Hmm?”
Vincent drags Thomas’s momentarily gormless mouth into a kiss. He wants this man seared the way he burns inside. Can’t Thomas feel how he burns? They’re a flame and none of it is brimstone. He scratches Thomas’s nape, uncaring of the marks he leaves. Feel me all day. Feel me all your life.
“Speak now,” he pants, “or else Ray will become suspicious." He bites Thomas’s lip until he flinches, lucid at the taste of blood. “He’ll see.” He pushes his silk-encased chest to Thomas’s worshipful lips. “Speak.”
Stripped down to his corset, Vincent rides his Secretary of State through their designated conference period while Ray sits outside none the wiser. Thomas maintains a reassuring patter of semi-coherent conversation for Ray to barely overhear whilst Vincent glides up and down his cock at a pace that elicits only the faintest creaking from Thomas's old office chair. To say nothing of his throbbing old bones.
Vincent banters haltingly back to all of Thomas's barely cogent stammering with nary a stumble as his tightly-laced corset steals his breath. His chest spills over the neckline. ('You can call them tits, Thomas,' Vincent has teased him time and again, knowing Thomas short-circuits at the mere idea of papal tits). Vincent drapes his arms over Thomas's shoulders, pushing the succulent flesh of said tits together for Thomas's inspection.
Thomas weaves his fingers through Vincent's laces, tugging sharply when Vincent rises with Thomas's seeping head just nudging at his narcotic slickness. Vincent hisses, tightening gloriously, and then sinks down again in a decadent, blood-hot drag along Thomas's length. A sticky churn of precum and lube drips down Thomas's balls, smeared over his lap with each asynchronous clash of flesh.
Their lips hover together, unable to touch amid their halfhearted deception. Vincent laughs at Thomas's moue of discontent as his tits bounce a hair too far for Thomas to get one in his mouth.
Thomas yanks on Vincent's placket and nabs a nipple the instant it's in striking distance, Vincent yelps and moans, the sounds tumbling over each other in an arresting cacophony that catches Ray's notice.
"Holy Father?"
"It's f-fine," Vincent stumbles, his once cavalier demeanor dismantled. "I lost my balance."
"Eminence?"
Thomas releases Vincent's plump nipple with extreme reluctance. "All is well, Ray. Nothing to concern yourself with. I have him." Thomas reaches behind his holy father and lays three warning slaps across his bare backside. Vincent convulses deliciously on Thomas's cock. He can take–and loves–a little pain.
Vincent circles his hips to soothe the dogged ache inside, and Thomas lifts him like a spectacularly warm fist, drawing his delicious heat along his aching length from throbbing base to leaking tip. Vincent braces himself on the desk, letting Thomas use him as he's frequently too shy to do in bed.
Vincent's voice goes high and breathy where the corset cinches him in. "Come, fuck me like you mean it. You can't break me."
Thomas's voice dips to a whiskey inflection. "Careful, dearest, before I test that assertion."
"Fuck me, cariño, if you can,” Vincent taunts, knowing that Thomas will rise to the challenge.
Thomas lifts Vincent up on the desk—those visits to the Vatican gym do for their sex life what they never accomplished for Thomas’s self-loathing—and then drags him down by his corset, driving himself as far inside as he can whilst Vincent keens beneath him, nearly folded in half by Thomas's thrusts. He bites at Vincent’s exposed nipples when he isn’t twisting Vincent’s laces, knowing the constriction gives Vincent an orgasmic headrush.
Vincent loses track of their feigned conversation, only aware of two things: Thomas driving into him and the dwindling supply of oxygen in his lungs. Vincent tightens his legs around Thomas’s pistoning hips and tugs his cock in rabid counterpoint to Thomas moving inside him. He knows grey blue eyes and the frescoed ceiling and slick dripping down his thighs to his hole and silver specks and then dark spots invading his vision, his body weightless like air. Vincent is euphoric and breathless. This must be what heaven feels like.
His orgasm strikes like a knock and then a flashbang—awareness and then breathtaking light, heat, and a gasp like a man caught in a riptide. Waving. Drowning.
Thomas kisses him silent when he threatens to shout and steals his last first, wheezing breath.
Vincent pinches his waist when his words fail and Thomas withdraws immediately, an expression of worry stealing over his handsome face. When Vincent can’t call up the energy to reach for his face, Thomas leans down to meet his hands. “Darling?”
Vincent smiles to signal he’s all right, just winded. Thomas gathers him up under the waist, kisses him across his cheeks as if he can bless him into wellness.
“It’s okay.” He’s embarrassed to admit he struggles to get the words out. He loves to play this game, but sometimes he’s not careful and Thomas worries. Vincent finally gives in and unfastens the busk of his corset to fully inflate his lungs. His ribs expand and he can take a deep breath for the first time in hours. He’s beginning to understand why the designer advised wearing an undershirt. Bruises are already forming where the bodice compressed his abdomen. He’ll delight in letting Thomas kiss them better night after night.
Thomas eyes the abundance of bare skin suddenly freed of silk brocade. “Are you all right?”
“Perfect, mi amor.” He means it; he’ll just need a while longer to be convincing.
Thomas regards him, clear-eyed. “You used the signal.” Since they became a couple, their intimate experiments have required them to devise various means of calling a halt, some of them verbal and others visual or sensory. If Vincent needs Thomas to stop touching him and can’t speak, he pinches Thomas’s side, an area he knows his body-conscious partner is sensitive about. Vincent doesn’t do this lightly.
“I pushed us too far and you brought us back.” He kisses Thomas’s hand and holds it to his slowing heart. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
“I should have noticed you were in distress.” His expressive mouth turns down in regret.
“You noticed when I signaled.” Vincent breathes more easily. “You did everything right. I love you.”
Thomas’s distress eases, although his worry lingers in the grooves between his eyes. “I love you.”
Thomas rubs his bare side. The reddened imprint of the laces and boning on Vincent’s flesh distracts Thomas from his guilt. Vincent hasn’t any confidence that will last, but he’ll make the most of it now. Thomas’s erection has flagged but isn’t gone. Vincent has thrived in worse conditions.
Vincent traces the marks impressed upon his skin to watch how Thomas’s eyes darken a second time. “You like it?” He wets his lips. “Show me.”
Thomas looks from the clock to the door. Tick-tock.
Vincent opens his legs to give Thomas extra visual motivation. He snaps his fingers. “!Ándale!”
Thomas returns to his cock, guilty but determined, unable to deny himself what he needs. He rolls his thumb under on the glossy head of his cock with one hand and strokes his throbbing shaft with the other. He looks Vincent over like a man possessed by an incubus intending Vincent to be his next victim. (Vincent will leave his bedroom door ajar; he won’t wear a stitch to bed tonight.) Thomas groans piteously under his breath, fucking his fists with less finesse but more speed, greater friction.
Vincent rubs his legs together to feed his own surging arousal. Thomas’s hands blurs on his cock as he chases his orgasm like the hound he is. Vincent presses his tits together and with a filthy twist of the wrist about the head of his cock, Thomas spirals into orgasm. Ropes of come spill high on Vincent’s chest and then his belly, flooding the groves left by his corset like slow-moving rivers. The final pulse streaks Vincent’s upper thigh.
Thomas rests his body alongside Vincent’s, mindful of soiling his cassock. My shepherd, Vincent muses with such love Thomas will never believe it.
Vincent permits himself a final luxurious stretch as his strength returns to him. Their scheduled time is almost up. Taking visual inventory of his clothes to redress, he swirls a finger through the come on his belly and holds it to his dean’s kiss-bruised lips. “You know the rules, mi amor. Clean up your mess.”
Lick by lick, Thomas makes the evidence of their rendezvous disappear.