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Outside, the Sistine Chapel clamours with noise and activity, but in the Room of Tears it is silent except for the sound of two men breathing.
Thomas looks down at where Benítez is still patiently holding his hands. If he were anywhere else but here, he would scream. He had already been thanking God for giving them a worthy pontifex in Benítez. He thought that his duty as Dean was complete, that the future of the faith was secure once more.
Now, he doesn’t know what to think. What does the pope’s secret mean for the Christian religion? If this gets out, it will inflame their brother cardinals, not to mention the rest of the world. Can this truly be God’s will?
No, Thomas should be honest: he is also wondering what this revelation means for this thing, this unnameable tension that has been rising between the two of them over the last few days. For an indulgent moment, he allows himself to ponder what lies beneath the Holy Father’s robes, but he stops before his mind goes too far down that path.
Finally, Benítez speaks, a hint of a serene smile on his face. How can he smile?
“Cardinal Lawrence, I don’t expect you to accept this easily. It is a burden I have carried on my own for many years. But I know you are a man of God—I only pray that you take His counsel in this.”
“Your Holiness, I—” Thomas chokes up.
Benítez immediately pulls him into an embrace, flooding Thomas’ nose with his smell, like smoke and sweat and fresh grass and simply man. Such a relief after many days in the Sistine Chapel—all that medieval dust and decay and the Italian perfume they spray everywhere to cover up the decay. Benítez has nothing to cover up.
He takes another deep breath, and in that moment he feels Benítez’s lips at his neck. Thomas flinches then finds himself relaxing into the touch. Benítez begins to kiss his throat and jaw, slowly and carefully. Oh, God. Thomas closes his eyes—
A loud rap rings through the room. Someone outside shouts, “Are you ready, sirs?”
As the door starts to open, the pope does the most shocking thing possible. He tilts his head up and licks Thomas’ ear. Benítez whispers oh-so-softly, his hot breath sending shocks through Thomas’ body, “If you still wish to continue this, come see me tonight. It is your choice, Cardinal.”
Thomas already knows what he will choose.
Thomas walks the familiar hallway of the Casa Santa Marta, where he knows that Benítez has been moved into a larger but still modest suite. He thinks of the roar of the crowd earlier today, how delighted the world’s Christians are at this brown-skinned and soft-spoken pope, who has served in the most dangerous places in the world and dares to call himself Innocent.
Can Thomas bear to keep the pope’s secrets? Can he bear not to?
He spots two Swiss Guards standing at attention and knows he has come to the right door. Nodding at the guards in acknowledgment, he knocks three times.
Benítez opens the door at once. Like Thomas, he has changed back into his simple clothing, all black except his white clerical collar and silver cross. His brown feet are bare.
To Thomas’ great surprise, he has also pulled his hair back into a tiny ponytail. It makes his tired, dark eyes look even larger. It is at this moment when Thomas finally admits to himself what he and the pope are about to do. Just seeing Benítez in casual clothes again, looking so pure and lovely, makes his heart twist in a funny way.
“Your Holiness,” he manages.
“Dean. Please excuse the state of my dress.” Benítez gestures at himself as if embarrassed. He’s putting on a show of plausible deniability for the guards. “Thank you for coming at such a late hour to discuss this urgent matter of…administration…”
As soon as the door closes behind them, Benítez pulls him into a full body hug. “I want to apologize for that episode earlier. I…had a feeling that it would be welcome, however. I am glad that you are here.”
As soon as Thomas returns his sheepish smile, Benítez kisses him again, on the lips this time and a bit clumsily. He’s a man of contradictions, thinks Thomas. Clearly inexperienced—perhaps he is one of the few of us to keep his vows—but confident enough to pull that stunt earlier in the Sistine Chapel, of all places! Still, the kisses are warm and welcoming, already enough to stir a reaction in Thomas’ cock as he returns the kiss with as much enthusiasm as he’s receiving.
The pope starts leading him though the small sitting room and into the bedroom, continuing to touch Thomas everywhere—his face, his back, his hands, his chest.
By the time they reach the bed, it is almost unbearable for Thomas. Benítez’s touches are as sweet as the man himself, but in each kiss and grasp is the promise of more. A simmering heat, ready to burst. Thomas decides to give his pope that more.
He pushes Benítez onto the bed and kisses him hard while groping up and down the pope’s whole torso through his clothes. Benítez starts to moan so loudly that Thomas has to cover his mouth and remind him that the walls are thin here, though in truth he would love to hear that sound again, damn any pretence of propriety.
They struggle out of their clothes until they are both bare-chested. Thomas admires the planes of Benítez’s chest, shining a beautiful bronze in the lamplight, and traces the rangy muscles on his arms and stomach. Thomas is self conscious of his own aging and wrinkled body, soft despite his sporadic eating habits, but Benítez touches him reverently, like something beautiful.
“Have you done this before, Cardinal?” he asks quietly, stroking Thomas’s ribs.
“Yes. But it has been a long time.” Thomas thinks of his university girlfriend and also lets himself acknowledge whatever happened between him and Aldo—those secret, heartbreaking, desperate two weeks when they were young bishops, until they both realized that they could never make one another happy.
“I have some experience with both women and men,” Thomas adds gently. Strangely, after a lifetime of guilt, he feels almost thankful for these experiences and hopes they have prepared him to take care of his new pope. “Have you...?”
Benítez shakes his head.
“No. But after my...discovery of the truth of my body, I began to explore it on my own. With my hands and with—” He hesitates and pronounces the words carefully, in Spanish: “...un vibrador y un dildo.”
Thomas freezes in place, split between blacking out in shock and giggling like a schoolboy. He tries not to picture how a dildo might be used inside the Holy Father’s body. Instead, he asks the pope a question that has been troubling him for a long time, but especially in the last few days.
“Have you ever felt that such...activities are sinful? Especially for men of our calling.” He touches the cross still hanging around Benítez’s neck.
The pope speaks firmly now. “As I told you, it took considerable time and prayer to accept myself. But I ultimately came to the understanding that God made our bodies. He made all of us. I joined the priesthood to do good in the world and to honour Christ—tell me, how does it honour God to follow these little rules made by men?”
Thomas stares at him, shocked that the pope of all people could speak like this. Benítez finishes: “And so, for the first time in my life, I felt no shame in these things. Why should we not enjoy the gifts of our bodies, alone or with a friend?”
A friend. Thomas laughs. “Then I am glad to call you my friend, Holy Father...Benítez. Vincent.”
Vincent’s face creases back into a playful, wicked grin and then suddenly they are kissing again, rolling on the bed and grinding roughly. Vincent’s hair finally comes loose and Thomas relishes the silky tickle on his face. Together, they coax the fire between them, burning hotter and hotter and hotter.
After a few minutes, Vincent stops them suddenly, choking out apologies. Then he stands and unbuckles his belt without ceremony. He looks at Thomas seriously.
“I want to share this with you very much. But I must warn you again that my body is different from other men. If you reject it, I will forgive you, of course, but it would wound me deeply.” He sighs, as if embarrassed at the notion of caring for his own feelings. “So, please, are you sure, my Thomas?”
His Thomas.
Thomas stands up to look the pope in the eye. He kisses his cheek. “I am sure, Vincent. So help me God, I am sure.”
Chucking softly now, Vincent pulls down his trousers and underwear in one motion. Thomas sees...he is not quite sure what he sees, but it’s not unpleasant: a large clitoris (or small cock...?), a few inches long, rising proudly out of Vincent’s dark pubic hair.
He wants to see more. He pushes Vincent down so that he’s sitting on the bed. Vincent laughs again and spreads his legs, intuiting what Thomas wants. Thomas kneels on the carpeted floor, resting his head between the pope’s legs. He nips at Vincent’s thighs, helping him spread further, and reveals Vincent’s velvety folds and cunt, already wet and swollen.
Thomas has never been more aroused in his life. Who knew, he marvels, who knew that God made the perfect man by giving him a cunt.
Then he sees the final surprise: a glint of silver, reflecting off a barbell pierced through the hood above Vincent’s clitoris. He blinks and looks up at Vincent, who nods, smiling again. Thomas touches the metal carefully. So brazen! Of all things!
“Can you feel it?” he asks, voice full of wonder.
“With the vibrator, yes.” Vincent leans down to touch Thomas’ hair. “I had it done in Rome, in place of the canceled surgery. The piercer was a very sweet Italian girl—I let her assume that I was a transgender man.”
He wanted to celebrate his female parts rather than obliterating them. Thomas understands, suddenly. He wants more than anything to celebrate Vincent for what he is. “So beautiful...” Thomas murmurs. “I want to...”
Too embarrassed to say what he wants out loud, Thomas tries to show Vincent through touch. He kisses down Vincent’s lower belly until he brings his lips to the cool metal. He hums against it experimentally. Vincent’s reaction is immediate: he moans sharply, quiet and insistent, almost a mewl.
It is a balm to Thomas’ ears. He continues exploring with his mouth, licking the shaft of Vincent’s clitoris and then sucking the tip with his lips. In return, Vincent starts to rock in a steady rhythm, rubbing himself on Thomas’ chin, covering them both with slick liquid. Thomas follows the wet trail down, taking deep breaths of the musky-salty scent, at first lapping delicately at Vincent’s folds and then probing more deliberately, making Vincent sigh with pleasure. Thomas feels like a supplicant, kneeling before his pontiff with only himself to offer.
Finally, he dips two fingers into Vincent’s silky, wet entrance. He is unbelievably tight, but his walls yield to Thomas’ fingers. Vincent starts rocking harder and faster, meeting every thrust with a moan. He clutches at Thomas’ face and drags his fingers through his scalp, making Thomas shudder as he continues to lick and suck and nuzzle and thrust with everything he has.
It does not take long until Vincent is on the brink. As his moans crescendo, Thomas gently tugs at the silver barbell with his mouth, sending Vincent over the edge. He whimpers Thomas’ name over and over uncontrollably. Thomas keeps up the rhythm of his lips and tongue and fingers, fucking the pope through his orgasm.
In Thomas’ fifty years in the church, it is the most holy thing he’s ever experienced.
When he finally stops clenching around Thomas’ fingers, Vincent flops backwards, groaning “Oh, Thomas, my love!” as he pulls Thomas on top of him. Thomas already has his hands in his pants, desperate for relief. He flips them so that he can be surrounded by Vincent, trapped under his pope.
He almost brings himself off like that, surrounded by silky black hair like a veil, warm brown skin against his chest, Vincent’s rough hands roving his back. It all feels so right that Thomas can’t feel an ounce of guilt. He almost weeps.
Then, when Thomas says he’s close, Vincent shifts and asks, slightly shyly, if he can put his mouth on Thomas’ cock. Thomas, not able to imagine anything better than what he’s currently experiencing, just groans in assent, which turns into a moan of pleasure as Vincent starts licking, then sucking, making Thomas come with a full body shudder down his pope’s throat.
Vincent cries out along with Thomas and moans in satisfaction as he pulls his sticky mouth off Thomas’ spent cock, already fingering himself toward another orgasm. As Thomas holds him close, he rocks his fingers in and out frantically, moaning Oh God, Oh Father, Oh Jesus between broken cries of my Thomas, my Dearest, my Love.
Some would call it blasphemy, but to Thomas these words are as beautiful as a hymn.
“My Vincent,” he whispers like a prayer to this beautiful man, his priest, the Successor of St. Peter.
Watching Vincent so unashamed, Thomas can understand his ministry: Vincent Benítez believes in penance, in steadfastness, but also in joy, and in love, and in revelling in that love. With his long eyelashes against his cheeks and his hair wild around his face like this, Vincent looks androgynous to Thomas for the first time since they’ve met. And that’s a precious gift, too, that he can know and see all of Vincent.
Soon Vincent is coming in his arms with a flurry of little moans and sighs and prayers, and Thomas feels awash in warmth and light. Bless this singular flame of a man! This brother who burns so bright with God’s light that anyone can see it. In the embrace of God’s chosen representative, how can he feel sinful?
Afterwards, Vincent falls quiet again, wanting to do nothing more than nuzzle Thomas’ bare chest. Even now, he is the picture of papal serenity, positively radiating that deep inner peace that made the other men of the conclave so jealous. Thomas understands a little more of that now, what it took for Vincent Benítez to become Pope Innocent.
“Vincent,” he says again, trying to convey everything he’s feeling. “That was perfect. You are perfect. May God grant me the grace to deserve you.”
“Oh, Thomas, I love you so—” is all Vincent can manage, trailing into a contented grunt. In response, Thomas kisses his pope with all his heart and hopes he never, ever has to stop.