Elder Nicholas Michaels Bottoms For Beaux Matthews

Elder Michaels’ knees dig into the plush carpet of President Beaux Matthews’ office, his palms slick with sweat. The oiling ceremony from weeks ago replays in his mind—the way Matthews’ calloused hands had glided over his bare back, the whispered prayers that morphed into something darker, hungrier. Now, the scent of cedar and sacramental wine clings to the air as Matthews looms over him, a leather-bound Bible in one hand, a coiled rope in the other.

“You think I don’t know?” Matthews’ voice is low, venomous. “You think your weakness is hidden?” He drops the rope, his boot pressing between Michaels’ shoulder blades, forcing him prone. Michaels’ cheek grinds into the carpet, his cassock hiked up, ass exposed. Matthews’ palm cracks down—a sharp, stinging slap that blooms heat across his flesh. Michaels bites back a moan.

The spanking escalates, each strike calibrated to blur pain and pleasure. Matthews’ breaths grow ragged, his composure slipping as Michaels’ hips buck involuntarily. “Filthy boy,” Matthews snarls, yanking Michaels upright by his collar. “You’ll take your correction properly.”

Michaels is bent over the oak desk, his wrists bound with the rope. Matthews’ fingers, slick with sacramental oil, probe his hole—a mockery of the anointing rite. Michaels chokes on a sob, his cock straining against the desk’s edge as Matthews breaches him with two thick digits. “This is your penance,” Matthews growls, twisting his fingers, scissoring him open. “You’ll learn to crave discipline.”

Matthews’ cock replaces his hand, uncut and heavy, slamming into Michaels with a force that rattles the desk. The crucifix on the wall trembles as Michaels’ cries fill the room—half prayer, half debauchery. Matthews fists his hair, yanking his head back. “Look at Him,” he hisses, forcing Michaels’ gaze to the cross. “He sees you. He knows.”

Michaels’ orgasm crests untouched, his cum streaking the polished wood. Matthews follows, his hips jerking as he spills into Michaels’ ass, the heat of his release mingling with the oil. They collapse, Matthews’ weight pinning him, his lips grazing Michaels’ ear. “Confess,” he murmurs.