Want & Patience

Erotic short. A priest is attended to by their maintenance man. 

1.4k, rated E, cis M/M. Fingering, anal, teasing, lots of intimacy and warmth. 

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It’s late evening, and as the sun has dipped below the horizon all the warmth of the day has flowed out with it. Hart shivers a little as he steps from the main hall of the temple and into the side chamber, where Barrow Tuck is just kneeling at the hearth and laying logs on the fire.

When the flames flare into life, it’s a marked relief, although it’s just an initial burst of warmth as they take light – it’ll take a little while for the warmth to radiate outward and settle into the room, and Hart draws the curtain across to keep it inside.

Tuck is an adept worker. He tends the fruit trees in the temple gardens, monitors them closely for signs of rot or disease, tends to their cuts and bruises as lovingly as a father might tend to those of a clumsy child, encourages the birds that devour inconvenient beetles and caterpillars, waters and prunes and cares and loves.

He has other duties, of course – tends to the fountains and weeds back interloping bushes and grasses from the main paths, puts out fresh water for street cats, sweeps the temple steps.

Technically, lighting the fires isn’t one of those duties, but they don’t add it to the duty schedule for the lay-brothers and junior priests until winter sets in, and autumn is still lingering on.

“Hullo, Brother Hart,” he says in his very quiet voice, which is low and naturally husky.

Hart’s flesh feels warm under his robes as he slowly draws closer, closer to the fire and closer to Barrow, who is bigger than Hart is. Hart is plump but on the shorter side, and he’s never run especially hot, but Barrow Tuck is a big man although he holds himself like a smaller one, is hairy and fat and so very tall.

Hart feels warmer as soon as he’s closer to him, and Barrow settles back into the big chair beside the fire, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, knees only spread a little, so that when Hart comes to settle in his lap, he has a firm foundation to seat himself on.

He exhales immediately, and Barrow smiles at him.

This isn’t technically part of Barrow Tuck’s duties either – nor even one of his usual rewards for his work, although Hart is glad to offer it to him. It’s a mutually beneficial practice, he thinks.

Hart gasps as Barrow slides his hands under his robes and slides them up his thighs, because his hands are rough and hard and calloused and very, very warm against Hart’s chilled skin. His breath hitches as one hand slides confidently about his cock and grips at it, Barrow’s thumb sliding up and down the shaft and working him to hardness.

Hart tips his head forward, his brow against Barrow’s, their noses against one another, and he breathes roughly, his hands trembling before they come to settle on Barrow’s broad shoulders, gripping at the fabric of the shirt he wears under his coveralls, which are hung up on the rack beside the outside door.

Barrow gently twists his hand, making Hart grunt, bracing himself against Barrow and spreading his thighs a little wider, his knees pressing against the chair either side of him. Barrow’s other hand slides up and under Hart’s thighs, and one of his big, blunt fingers rubs dry against Hart’s hole, massaging the muscle.

Hart moans, and Barrow laughs and says, “I know, I know. You want it so badly, don’t you?”

Hart heaves in a breath, the sound wet and full of need, as Barrow continues to work and play over the flesh, to massage the outer ring of his ass whilst he roughly handles his cock with the other hand. He’s careful and focused about it, so much so that there’s no burn whatsoever, only the dry pull against skin and trembling shoots of pleasure that run up his spine and send blood rushing downwards, to sensitize his ass and his cock but also to warm his thighs and his belly and his buttocks.

“Please,” Hart whispers, and Barrow laughs again, the sound low and resonant and full of warmth, even as his thumb comes away from Hart’s hole and rubs playfully over the sensitive flesh of his perineum, making him squirm and let out choked noises of want and need.

It feels so good, the gentle pressure, the rub and easy massage against the flesh, and he can feel it in his cock, feel his balls tightening a little, feels so fucking good, so… good. Hart slides his hand over Barrow’s breast, stopping for a moment to feel the weight and warmth of one of his tits under Hart’s hand, and then he slides his hand down over his body, over the swell of Barrow’s belly, but Barrow catches him before he can grip at his crotch.

Hart’s noise is plaintive and desperate, humiliatingly so, and it makes Barrow chuckle as he draws Hart’s hand up to his mouth and sucks on his fingers. Hart’s cock and ass are neglected as Barrow steadies his position with his other hand, and laves his tongue over the underside of Hart’s fingertips, his tongue hot and dexterous and very wet. He looks down and into Hart’s eyes, very intentional, very careful.

He always tends to Hart as carefully as he does the trees and his other temple duties – he handles the priests with all the tenderness and devotion he thinks appropriate for that which is the property of and domain of the gods he serves, so he says.

The thought warms Hart whenever he thinks of it, that Barrow should think of him in those terms, as belonging to the gods he serves, and only temporarily of use and pleasure to Barrow. Loaned out, perhaps, like one of the tools he uses.

He sucks on Hart’s fingers, hollowing his cheeks, and Hart wriggles in his place. Barrow releases his hand, and Hart tries to slide his hand between his own legs, greedily presses it up between his thighs, to smear the wetness around his hole, pressing in a little as he does so. It’s not enough, really, especially not when Barrow is so much bigger than he is, bigger than he can take dry or without preparation.

“It is good, I think, to see a priest so keen for pleasure and satisfaction,” Barrow rumbles. “Through your mouths, good food and drink is transferred to the gods – surely, pleasure must follow along the same tracts.”

“Always so divinely minded,” Hart manages to say. “You’re a better priest than I am.”

Barrow kisses him, tugging Hart with one big hand against his lower back against his breast and belly, and Hart grinds up against him through his robes and Barrow’s shirt, feeling the pressure and pleasure against his prick even through all the fabric.

Reaching for the oil from the side table, handy and right within reach, Barrow unlaces his trousers and slides his cock out, slicks himself swiftly and practisedly before swiping a little more lubricant over Hart’s hole, and then he hikes up Hart’s robes and pulls him down.

He’s rougher in this moment than he has been, more demanding and showing the slightest bit of impatience, and Hart whines as he feels himself opened up by the heavy weight of Barrow’s cock, as he’s firmly pressed down onto it so that it slides inside him and settles there, and fuck, fuck, but it feels good, it feels good to be so full, and to be so warm.

He wants to bounce in his place, wants to enjoy it, but just as he starts to move Barrow grips his hips and roughly presses him down again, so that he’s slotted in place and still.

“Let me warm you up a bit first, Brother,” Barrow murmurs, chuckling through Hart’s frustrated keen of loss. “You just stay right here a minute.”

He needs it, fucking desperately, loves the feeling of being full and warm but also craves the rest, wants to be empty again, wants to feel the pressure and drag at his insides, wants to rub his cock against Barrow’s belly, wants the bounce, wants the fucking exercise.

“Soon,” Barrow says. “Not just yet.”

And he holds Hart in place until he’s nearly crying from want.

Only when the first tear falls does he, chuckling, let go of his grip, and Hart begins to ride him in earnest.