Work Text:
The incense in the church was thick, cloying, a shroud for hypocrisy. It did little to mask the scent of old stone, candle wax, and the quiet desperation of the faithful. Father Ancunín stood at the altar, a vision of pious devotion in his black and silver vestments. His voice, a rich, resonant baritone, washed over the congregants as he delivered the sermon on the sanctity of the soul and the finality of death. He was the perfect priest—poised, eloquent, beautiful.
He was also a liar, and currently fighting for his very soul to remain in his body.
It had started as a game, a delicious blasphemy. Ruyn, his shadow, and Iris, his light, two of his most devoted—and most wicked—parishioners. They had separately discovered the priest's proclivities for the flesh, and instead of recoiling, they had embraced him. He had taken them in confessionals, in his private chambers, in the shadowed alcoves of the church after hours. He had never, ever considered this.
He was mid-sentence, extolling the virtues of a virtuous life, when he felt it. A cool hand sliding up his leg under the heavy fabric of his robes. He didn't flinch. He couldn't. He kept his eyes on the assembled masses, his voice never wavering as his heart hammered against his ribs. He knew that touch. It was Ruyn's.
He risked a glance down. The altar was a high, solid structure of marble, and the space beneath it, hidden from the congregation by the altar cloth, was a shadowed sanctuary. And in that sanctuary, two figures knelt. Ruyn, her mismatched eyes gleaming, her long white hair almost emitting its own light. And beside her, Iris. Their blue and green hair was a splash of impossible color in the solemn gloom, their bright blue eyes fixed on him with a look of pure, unadulterated mischief. The prominent scar that cut across their cheek only seemed to enhance their impish grin. They were both hidden from the waist down, a secret shared only with him and the gods he was supposed to be serving.
"…for the flesh is temporary," Father Ancunín continued, his voice tight. "A vessel for the spirit, to be treated with reverence, not debased by fleeting, carnal desires."
As he spoke the words, Ruyn deftly unfastened his trousers. His cock, already half-hard with trepidation and arousal, sprang free into the cool air. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry.
He saw Iris lean forward, their expression one of intense concentration. Then, Ruyn leaned in, her cool, familiar mouth engulfing the head of his cock. The shock of it, the stark contrast of her cool tongue against his heated flesh, made him grip the altar, his knuckles white. She took him deeper, her movements slow and deliberate, a silent sermon of sin. He had to stop this. He had to. But how? To kick, to move, to make any sudden gesture would draw the eyes of every single person in the pews. He was trapped, a martyr to his own lust.
Just as he was acclimating to the cool, slick pressure of Ruyn's mouth, he felt another sensation. A warm, gentle hand cupped his balls, massaging them with a firm, knowing pressure. It was Iris. The dual stimulation was staggering. Ruyn's cool mouth on his shaft, Iris' warm hand on his sac, a perfect, torturous balance of fire and ice.
"The path of righteousness is narrow," he ground out, his voice strained as Iris began to roll his balls in their palm, their thumb pressing deliciously against the sensitive skin behind them. "It requires… discipline. And sacrifice."
He looked down again. Iris' bright blue eyes were locked on his, sparkling with mirth. They leaned in, their warm tongue joining their hand, laving at his sac with broad, wet strokes while Ruyn continued to suck him. The feeling was overwhelming, a wet, hot-cold chaos that made his knees feel weak.
Then, they began to alternate. Ruyn pulled off him with a deliberate slowness, and immediately, Iris took him into their warm, wet heat. As Iris began to bob their head, Ruyn leaned in, her cool mouth finding his balls. She took one into her mouth, her tongue swirling around it with a sharp, teasing pressure that was worlds away from Iris' soft warmth. He had to stifle a groan, his sermon becoming a meaningless drone.
"And so…we must…turn away from…from temptation…" He gasped, a barely audible sound that he prayed was lost in the cavernous space. "We must…resist the…the devil's…embrace…"
They switched again. Ruyn's cool mouth returned to his cock, her hand replacing Iris' on his balls, her cool fingers a stark, thrilling contrast. Iris, in turn, began to kiss and nip at his inner thighs, their warm breath a ghost against his skin. It was a relentless, maddening cycle of pleasure, each sensation bleeding into the next until he could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.
He saw them share a look, a silent, wicked communication. Then, they both leaned in at once. He felt two tongues, one cool and one warm, lapping at his shaft in tandem. They traced him from base to tip, their mouths meeting in a messy, open-mouthed kiss around the head of his cock. At the same time, four hands—two cool, two warm—caressed his balls, massaging and stroking until he thought he would explode from the sheer, overwhelming stimulation. The sight of it, the sheer, unadulterated depravity, was his undoing.
He was going to come. Right here. In front of everyone. While speaking of the sanctity of the soul.
He tried to pull back, to shift away, but they simply followed, their mouths and hands a united, unyielding force. They weren't going to let him escape.
And then, Iris decided to test the very limits of his control.
While Ruyn’s mouth continued its exquisite torment on his cock, Father Ancunín felt a warm, slick finger press against the tight pucker of his ass. He went rigid, his entire body locking down in a mixture of shock and a sudden, terrifying thrill. This was new. This was a line he hadn't let them cross before.
He opened his mouth to protest, to shift, to do something, but Iris was relentless. They circled the rim with a maddeningly slow pressure, their other hand never ceasing its gentle massage of his balls. And then, with a deliberate, inexorable push, they slid inside him.
A choked, strangled sound escaped his throat. He quickly turned it into a violent cough, gripping the altar so hard he felt the marble threaten to crack under his fingers. The sensation was blinding. A bolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shot up his spine, so intense it was almost painful. Iris’ finger found that spot inside him, that secret, hidden place, and began to stroke it with a knowing, expert precision.
"…for in the end," he rasped, his voice cracking, "we are all…judged…for our…our transgressions…"
That was it. The word was his undoing. With a silent, choked gasp, he came. His orgasm tore through him with the force of a divine revelation, a hot, thick flood of his essence spilling onto their waiting tongues. He saw them both lick him clean, their eyes never leaving his, sharing his release between them. It was the most profane, most intimate thing he had ever witnessed.
He sagged against the altar, his body trembling, his sermon completely forgotten. For a long moment, the only sound was his own ragged breathing and the distant, echoing voice of his own words, "…judged for our transgressions…"
He felt them withdraw, their touch disappearing as silently as it had arrived. He risked one last look down. They were both gone, vanished back into the shadows from which they came, leaving him alone, hollowed out, and utterly undone.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, straightening his robes with trembling hands. He looked out at the congregation, who were now staring at him, waiting for him to continue.
"My apologies," he said, his voice hoarse but steady. "A… moment of spiritual reflection."
Father Ancunín finished the sermon on autopilot, his mind a complete blank. When the service finally ended and the congregants filed out, he remained at the altar, a statue of a man, staring at the spot where his two beautiful tormentors had disappeared.
Art by @israfela1.bsky.social
