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Sing His Praise

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Adjusting to the whimsy of Dio’s proclivities is difficult, given Enrico’s stern and unforgiving background. Even after several months with Dio (intense, heated months that already feel like years), even after sinking into a life debauched and full of Dio’s exotic preferences, there are still days when Enrico feels that he’s not exciting enough.

Dio always argues otherwise. It’s not Enrico’s body or his sexual prowess to which Dio is attracted (however, he never denies his fondness for both), but Enrico’s mind. It’s the clever games he plays, the wit that twists his tone in casual statements seeming unobtrusive to any bystander.

It’s only a matter of time before Enrico brings these delightful mind games to the physical realm.

It is Sunday, and although Dio’s mansion in Cairo isn’t exactly the most worshipful place, Enrico refuses to allow location to destroy tradition. He wakes early as he does on every Sunday, showers and adorns himself with a subtle cologne, then pauses when he stares at his shadowed reflection in a long, ornate mirror. He sees his nakedness, his vulnerability, and Dio sprawled across the mattress behind him, half-hidden by the drapes of a velvet canopy.

That is when his young, eager brain begins to work. It’s the perfect time to implement this plan, this fantasy that he’s envisioned since the last time he departed from Dio to live again amongst normalcy in the Everglades.

The thin, lacy things hide in the bottom of his travel bag. He peers again at Dio, just to make certain that he is sound asleep beneath the dawn’s mighty influence, then slips into the fabric that’s so delicate he’s afraid Dio will tear it to shreds just by looking at it.

The creamy-white stands out beautifully against darker skin, and Enrico compliments himself for choosing the color he did. White, he thinks, so frequently painted as a symbol of purity.

Utter nonsense.

He pulls his robes over his shoulders, misplaced against the irreverence of the garments beneath (Enrico knew that Dio would have been disappointed had he not picked a bra, garters, and tights along with the panties—Dio enjoys an all-or-nothing philosophy, he’s discovered) and glosses adoring fingers through the strands of Dio’s hair that sit like misplaced sunlight against his pillow.

There is a chapel of sorts in the mansion, now—a new addition Dio has installed since Enrico’s last visit. Whether the effort was made to please his lover or only to ensure that the practice of organized religion stays entirely separate from Dio’s own spaces, Enrico isn’t sure. Regardless, he is appreciative, and he slides within the empty room along with the tiny particles of dust that float silently along their way. Damp air (unusual for Cairo) fills his lungs while he allows his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

The vague shape of an altar greets him at the room’s opposite end, as well as a bookcase full of what Enrico presumes are Bibles and other related tomes Dio has gathered for him. Most are in Arabic, purchased from antique stands in the Cairo marketplaces, but that matters little. Enrico has his own text.

He reads.

This Sunday is quieter than many other Sundays. There are no sermons, no hymns, only a young man out of place in a den of wickedness. The garter and the hem of the panties scratch against delicate skin when he kneels in prayer, but Enrico quickly loses time, and the sensations of the flesh mean little to him—

Until he finds himself enveloped in shadow and turns to see a very familiar silhouette in the doorway.

“Are you enjoying the chapel, precious?” Dio seems even taller where he leans against the doorframe and coats the altar and Enrico’s book of prayers in shadow.

Enrico turns and grins at him, although his eyes remain stoic and focused elsewhere. “Yes, Dio. Thank you—it’s a lovely space.” He may be lying a little—it’s a small room, compared to others in the mansion, and rather barren. Still, Dio’s effort is clear, and that is what matters. Enrico twists his torso and swings his legs out from beneath him, lifting himself from the spot where he kneels so diligently. He imagines inviting Dio inside to share in quiet meditation, but the back of his heel catches on his robe’s hem, and he’s losing his balance when he stands—

Although Enrico’s recovery is graceful, nearly inhuman in his agility, the damage has been done. Dio’s eyes see everything.

Particularly, they see a peek of glistening nylon.

“Lovely stockings.” Dio’s voice quivers with glee. “You certainly are an interesting one, Enrico. So full of surprises.”

Enrico can only imagine the blush crawling across cheekbones that seem sharper each time he visits Egypt. “I-I didn’t intend for you to see them here.” Of course Dio was meant to see them, but not here, not in the chapel, not when Enrico is still mid-prayer.

He doesn’t have to invite Dio inside—he’s already walking in, invading the holy space like a cancer, and Enrico watches manicured fingers twitch with the need to grab and tear and see more, more, more.

“Then what did you intend?” Dio stops immediately in front of him, peers down, and splays the fingers of one hand over Enrico’s heaving chest. As expected, Dio’s touch catches against the lace beneath the robe. Mischievous eyes narrow.

Now that Dio asks the question, Enrico is embarrassed to say that he doesn’t know what he intended at all. It’s unlike him, and he chides himself for making such bold moves without a firmer plan. Prayers and primes combine in ways that only Enrico’s brain can manage, and he lets himself sink into those thoughts to keep his breathing steady when Dio so easily tears sacred vestment.

Enrico lies bare before the altar. He’s used to accepting vulnerability, but not this way. Confession requires humility, as does the act of worship with which he is so familiar, but Dio is a different god who commands a devotion all his own. Enrico watches a pink tongue swipe gorgeous lips when the weight of Enrico’s robes falls to his ankles and Dio sees the panties and the garter for the first time.

“Stunning,” Dio says, and Enrico knows that he is. He remembers turning in the mirror, peering at the curvature of his ass through the fabric’s near translucency, watching the way the cut of the panties barely held his cock. He knows why Dio is panting and hungry, and he finds tinges of pride within the forceful beats of his heart.

Praises are sung that morning, but the hymnal is tossed aside amongst sighs and murmurs and moans. Dio’s mouth lights on heated skin, sometimes the lace catches in his teeth, and Enrico doesn’t even concern himself with the robes that lay in tatters on the stone floor around them. Instead, he stares with neck upturned towards the high ceiling and the cobwebs, to the dull gold crucifix that hangs upon the wall, and thinks only of delighting in his sin.