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Mouth against mouth, hands cupping his cheeks. A gentle touch, kiss to the forehead, then those hands travel down, down— they settle between his legs. He writhes against the touch, but when he tries to object, nothing comes out of his mouth. He shakes his head, over and over, but the warmth pressed against his hardening penis doesn't let up.
Olivine wakes with a startled gasp, drenched in sweat. He's alone in his dorm room, sunlight streaming through a miniscule gap in the drawn curtains. Olivine, a dutiful student of the Sorcerer's Trials, usually wakes with the sun, and has little need for an alarm. But he can tell, from the drowiness behind his eyes, that he'd slept longer than he intended.
It was all due to what he had accidentally seen in the library last week— two of his classmates, kissing and touching each other, indulging in each other sexually.
He had shamefully touched himself, secretly, while watching them. Ever since, he had abstained from masturbation, to repent for his sin, and to steer himself back on the right track.
As a servant of Klein, he wasn't supposed to indulge in sinful desires. The first two times he'd had this dream, he had clasped his hands together and desperately recited prayers until his erection had waned. But this time, he didn't think he could wait it out. The itch of arousal still thrummed under his skin, to the point that his head was spinning.
He was destined to become a preist of Klein, and to take over the Water Temple. His classmates and his teachers, all of them relied on him, constantly reminded him of his responsiblities and his position. He had to keep himself chaste and pure, above all wordly desires, in order to lead followers of Klein in a healthy, holy lifestyle.
But he was seventeen years old, and when he saw his classmates together, even just holding each others' hands or whispering together— their adoring gazes toward each other that turned heated— he wanted what they had.
Olivine turned over on his bed with a groan, burying his face in his pillow. He bit back a groan as his aching dick brushed against his sheets. He shouldn't. He couldn't. But some devilish voice in the back of his head tried to justify it— if he didn't touch himself, it wouldn't count, right?
And when Olivine rolled his hips down onto the mattress, the relief he felt went straight to his head. He rocked against the bed, feeling his underwear growing wetter as the head of his cock brushed the fabric, again and again.
He wasn't supposed to want this, especially not with other men. But in his dreams, all of them, he was held tenderly by large, firm hands. The man wouldn't have a face, but Olivine would feel his fingers wrap around his dick, would try to pull away, knowing it was wrong, but the partner in his head would pull him back in again, soothing him with kisses that made his brain feel as if it were melting.
Olivine felt as if he were possessed— his hips moved almost of their own volition, like they weren't attached to him, like he wasn't in control. It felt too good to stop. And he thought to himself, how euphoric it would be, to rub himself off like this on that man's lap, to feel his heat. He wanted to press his head against a partner's shoulder, to bury his face in their neck, to press his lips to their pulse and know that they were alive, that there was someone who wanted him.
Olivine had many admirers, that he knew. But they admired him for the front that he put forward— a good student, a good brother, a pious follower. He wondered often, if he'd ever be loved if they knew his true self. He had faith that Klein watched over him, but he wondered too, if his God still loved him despite his sin. It was one thing, to be able to forgive others for their past transgressions— it was harder for Olivine to forgive himself.
Because he was meant to be a figurehead, an ideal for others to aspire to. He was untouchable, for his own good. But as high of a pedestal his peers put him on, Olivine was human, with the same bodily needs and instincts as others. But it was the deliberate suppression of his earthly desires that was supposed to set him apart from others.
He thrusted against the sheets frantically, pulling down his waistband to free any barrier to his pleasure. He slid his arms under his pillow again and buried his face into it, muffling the whines that threatened to spill from his lips. He wanted to cry, wanted to scream— at the fact that he couldn't stop himself, and the fact that it just felt so unmeasurably good.
"Forgive me," he whispered to himself. "Oh, Klein, please forgive me, I—"
He cut off, breath catching as the way he angled his hips rubbed the head of his cock just right.
"I just can't stop, I want— I need—" He didn't know why, but it seemed like talking made his head fuzzier, like it was bringing him closer and closer to the edge— partly pretending as if someone where there, watching, and partly knowing someone was: his God could see him.
"I know that I've failed you, that I'm depraved, and I promise—" he breathed heavily, even more ashamed at the thrum of arousal that burned even hotter under his skin after thinking about being watched. "Promise, I'll never do this again. This is— this is my confession, please—"
The loud groan he made when he climaxed ripped through his throat, and he pressed his open mouth to his pillow, hips stuttering as orgasm washed through him. He whined softly during the aftershocks, tears soaking his pillowcase. He had gotten what he wanted, but as he wound down from it all, he felt a profound sense of emptiness.
Had the momentary pleasure been worth the sin?
Olivine knew— likely not. He'd have to abstain for months to repent, find an adequate release for these improper feelings before they consumed him from the inside out. If he could not resist the temptation of a dirty dream, how would he be able to resist future temptation? How would he keep himself on a holy path?
He forced himself to rise, looking forlornly down at the wet tracks left behind on his pillowcase. He couldn't let this continue. Klein heard his confession. He would be forgiven, for now, and start anew. And if his thoughts began to stray, he'd put himself back in place, no matter how much it hurt.