The glove and the collar

The rectory was still, lit only by the faint golden spill from a desk lamp. Father Brad Whittaker sat at the edge of an old oak armchair, the burner phone hidden in his palm like contraband. The screen glowed in the dark, casting a blue light over his knuckles, which were white from the way he gripped it. 

He scrolled an app he swore he’d delete after just one more look. Profiles, a mostly anonymous and faceless parade of torsos and gear, harnesses and collars, whipped past. One profile pinged. 

DOM_MASC45 // 18 ft away 

Brad froze. No photo, just a single line of text in the bio: You kneel because you want to. The top of the profile hit him like incense smoke to the lungs—the username’s location, 18 feet away. 

The rectory was connected to the church. 

He tapped the profile. 

Age: 45. 
Into: Leather. Gloves. Impact. Control. 
Status: Online now. 

His pulse crashed. He stared at the screen, thumbs unable to move. Then, just beneath the stats, a trio of faceless thumbnails loaded—thick-fingered hands in glossy black gloves. 

Brad killed the app and set the phone down. The shame came fast and hot, crawling up the back of his neck like a flame. He stuffed the phone into his desk drawer, breathing shallowly, his thoughts firing a thousand miles a minute. 

This is nothing. Just noise. Just temptation. 

“Father?” 

Brad’s blood turned to ice. The voice echoed down the cinderblock stairwell from the church above. It was calm and deep, a smooth baritone he instantly recognized. 

Thomas Bell. 

The successful local businessman, always in the papers for service on one board or another,  had recently been elected to the parish finance council. Thomas was devout. He never missed the 7 a.m. Sunday Latin Mass. He always knelt with perfect posture and never mumbled an Et cum spiritu tuo. 

He always came to Mass alone, with no wife or kids in tow. He must’ve been single or perhaps married to someone outside the faith. Brad had never asked, but he’d wondered because Thomas was mind-numbingly sexy in a way that felt almost cruel: thick through the chest and arms, clean-shaven jaw beneath a precise, close-cropped goatee, hair swept back with distinguished silver kissing his temples. He was middle aged, broad shouldered, and never less than immaculate, whether in a winter pea coat or a summer-weight blazer. 

Brad stood too quickly, knocking his chair back with a scrape. He stepped through the door and up the short staircase that led to the side entrance of the church. The lights were low, and the winter twilight seeped in through the stained glass, illuminating the scene of the Annunciation just enough to make out the details. The air was cold, but Thomas stood like a monolith in his tailored wool coat, snow dusting his shoulders. 

Brad forced a smile. “Thomas. I didn’t realize anyone was here.” 

Thomas’s eyes gleamed beneath his silvering brows. “Just thought I’d drop off the budget proposal. Didn’t mean to interrupt anything.” 

“Not at all,” Brad said, voice too tight. “Always happy to talk about numbers.” 

They spoke briefly. Inane church business—new pew repairs, deferring maintenance on the terrazzo floor for yet another year, the never-ending calendar of fundraisers. But Brad could barely hear it. His eyes kept flicking to the gloves peeking from Thomas’s coat pocket. 

Then, just before leaving, Thomas slid them on, one hand at a time, slowly, with practiced, sensual movements. 

Shiny black leather. 

He flexed his fingers. The seams stretched, then snapped back with a quiet creak. 

Brad’s breath caught. Thomas noticed. He had to have. He met Brad’s gaze and smirked faintly. Then—a wink. Slow. Deliberate. 

“Stay warm, Father,” he said. And he was gone. 

The door clicked shut behind him. 

Brad stood alone in the chill air, throat dry, collar suddenly too tight. 

Father Brad had fasted from more than just food that week. He hadn’t touched the burner phone in days, keeping it in the drawer beneath his breviary, where he could pretend it didn’t exist. He buried himself in scripture and parish paperwork, recited extra rosaries with near-violent intensity, and took long walks in the cold evening air until his face stung with winter windburn. 

And yet, Thomas Bell haunted him. Not in dreams, not in voice, but in the echo of that single, brief encounter. In the phantom sensation of cold, black leather against his jaw, even though it had never touched him. In the gleam of candlelight on polished gloves that Brad couldn’t stop seeing whenever he closed his eyes. 

By Sunday morning, he felt raw beneath his cassock. He went through the rituals of the Mass like a man underwater—scripted, automatic, drowning. 

Thomas sat in his usual place, the third pew, directly in front of the ambo. Impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, black gloves resting neatly atop his folded coat, he radiated composed attentiveness. He sang the Latin responses along with the rest of the faithful, but Brad swore he could hear Thomas’ baritone voice carrying underneath the rest. 

Every time Brad turned to offer a “Dominus Vobiscum” to the people, Thomas’ eyes were on him, not intrusive or needy, just watching. Brad looked away before he forgot his place in the Mass rubric. He was being irrational; everyone looked at the priest during Mass. And yet, Thomas’ gaze felt like something else. Expectant. Possessive, even. 

On Monday morning, Susan, the parish secretary and all-around busybody, bustled into the office with a clipboard and a mug of coffee that filled the tiny workspace with the scent of fake French vanilla. 

“I went ahead and updated your calendar for the week, Father,” she said, leaning back into her chair and peering into his open office. “A couple of meetings needed to be shuffled around. Covering confessions for Fr. Preston at St. Monica’s on Thursday. Oh, and dinner at Mr. Bell’s home tomorrow night.” 

Brad looked up from the chicken scratch notes he’d taken on next Sunday’s readings. “Thomas Bell?” 

“That’s right.” She flipped a page. “He said he wanted to discuss parish business, informal, nothing big. Seven o’clock.” 

“I don’t think that—” He faltered. “I mean, I’m not sure that’s necessary.” 

Susan blinked at him over the rim of her glasses. “People invite you over for dinner all the time, Father. It’s not like he asked for candlelight and roses.” She chuckled. “He said he’s making cassoulet. Whatever the hell that is.” 

She caught herself. “Sorry, Father. Whatever the heck.” 

Brad gave her a tight smile. “Don’t worry about it. Thank you, Susan.” 

But his stomach was churning. 

That night, the rectory was bone quiet. The crucifix above his desk seemed to watch him as he sat in the dark, burner phone in hand. He hadn’t even turned the lamp on. Only the blue light of the screen cut a cold line across his face. 

He stared at the icon for a long moment. Hovered. Then tapped. It loaded slowly as if it knew he was stalling. Then, there it was. 

DOM_MASC45 // 0.9 mi away 

Brad opened the profile with numb fingers. Thomas had posted a new photo. It was the same pair of gloves, but not worn this time; they were simply draped over a leather armrest, illuminated under a bright light. 

Brad’s heart kicked against his ribs. He didn’t touch himself. He didn’t dare move. He just stared. 

He couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He wasn’t afraid of temptation. He wanted it. 

Silence had settled in like the snowfall outside. 

Father Brad sat with his back too straight on the edge of Thomas’ low leather sofa, his hands resting in his lap, thumb and forefinger nervously twirling the stem of the empty wine glass he’d politely declined to refill. The condo around him was lit in soft amber tones—recessed lighting, maybe, or cleverly hidden lamps. No overhead glare. Nothing to cast harsh shadows or judgment. 

The air smelled faintly of cedarwood, expensive leather, and the lingering aroma of the most decadent dinner Brad had eaten in months. He glanced again at the towering casement windows behind them, twelve stories up, overlooking a grid of city lights that twinkled in the snow. They stretched floor to ceiling, framed in black steel that matched the brutal elegance of the rest of Thomas’ home. Of course, no one could see in from here, but that didn’t stop the irrational hum of fear in Brad’s spine—as if someone might be hovering just beyond the glass, watching. 

Not God, not the devil. Someone worse. The bishop. 

He shifted in place. His collar pinched. His shoes, which he polished obsessively that morning, pinched, too. 

Thomas sat on the opposite end of the couch, casual but not careless, one arm draped along the backrest, the other holding his own nearly empty wine glass. His suit jacket was gone, revealing a deep blue dress shirt open just at the throat. His sleeves, rolled up during meal prep, exposed powerful forearms that couldn’t have come solely from work in some C-suite. 

They’d talked for hours. Mostly church politics. The slow turning of Vatican wheels and the whispered possibility of the new Pope allowing wider latitude on the Latin Mass. They’d debated with civility. Discussed. Agreed. Disagreed. 

But it wasn’t the conversation Brad remembered. It was the tone beneath it. The eye contact that lingered half a second too long. The weight of pauses that should have been comfortable but weren’t. Thomas, patient as ever, let the silence stretch. 

“About the other night,” he said finally. 

Brad went still, the kind of stillness he reserved for solemnities and temptations. “What about it?” he said quickly. Too quickly. 

“You know what.” 

“I don’t think we need to talk about it.” 

Thomas didn’t move. The wine in his glass was like a frozen lake, so steady were his hands. 

“Don’t you?” 

Brad turned toward him slightly, his face neutral and his expression practiced. But his pulse was hammering in his neck. 

Thomas went on, voice soft, as if they might be overheard. “Seems like we’re both looking for something. And hoping no one accidentally discovers that we might have found it.” 

The words hung in the room, heavy and true. 

Brad said nothing. 

After a long moment, Thomas stood. He moved with his trademark calm, assured pace that had unnerved Brad since the first time they’d shaken hands after Mass. No rush. No uncertainty. 

He walked to the coat closet near the door, opened it, and reached up to the shelf. When he turned back, he held something in one hand—black leather gloves folded over each other, the fingers curled like they still remembered how to grip. Brad couldn’t look away. 

“I couldn’t help noticing,” Thomas said, “that you seemed pretty interested in these.” 

He didn’t grin or leer. He simply let the gloves hang between them to be venerated like a relic. Thomas stepped closer. Brad remained on the couch, hands still folded in his lap, breath shallow. 

“Do you trust me, Father?” Thomas asked. 

Brad’s eyes flicked up. “I don’t know.” It came out as a whisper. 

Thomas nodded. “Good.” 

He unfolded the gloves like Brad unfolded his chasuble before Mass. One at a time, Thomas slid his hands inside them, clenching and unclenching his fists to work the tight leather further down over his fingers and palms. The creak was soft, but in the quiet room, it sounded deafening. Their glossy surface caught the light and gleamed. 

Brad stared. Thomas stepped even closer, close enough now that Brad could smell the leather. It smelled warm, oiled, and faintly sweet beneath the sharper scents of cedar and wine. Thomas extended one gloved hand to Brad’s jaw, thumb at his chin, fingers curving gently along the line of his throat. As he tested Brad, Thomas’ expression was almost tender. 

Then the first slap came, a sharp report of leather against skin. Violent and sudden but restrained. It turned Brad’s head to the side. His breath caught in his throat. But he didn’t pull away. 

Thomas waited, watching. “Still with me?” 

Brad didn’t trust his voice. He just nodded. 

The second slap landed harder. Not brutal, but heavier. It echoed in the loft like an exclamation point or the Amen after a sin confessed. 

Then came the third. And the fourth. 

A rhythm emerged. Measured and methodical, each strike rang out like a bell in an empty cathedral. Brad’s breath grew ragged. Not from pain. From release. 

The impacts peeled back layer after layer: first fear, then denial, and ultimately shame. Each pause felt like a forgiveness he hadn’t earned. 

Brad risked a glance up. Thomas’s expression had changed. The tenderness was gone. His brow was furrowed, his mouth drawn tight. It wasn’t anger. It was intensity. Controlled rage, directed not at Brad but at whatever had twisted this man into hiding. 

The next slap landed even harder. Brad’s face burned. “You’re not supposed to do this to me,” he whispered. 

Thomas didn’t hesitate. “No,” he said. “But you need someone to.” 

Brad trembled. Not from fear—no, that had burned off somewhere between the second and third strikes—but from emotion with no name, rising inside him like a tide. Thomas crouched in front of him and placed one gloved hand at the back of Brad’s neck. Steady, solid, and anchoring. He looked deep into Brad’s eyes. 

“Forgive me, Father,” he said solemnly, “for I have sinned.” 

Brad’s throat tightened, but the words came without thought, as natural as breathing. “May God give you pardon and peace,” he said quietly. “And I absolve you of your sins.” 

And then, a final slap, harder than all the rest. Brad’s jaw snapped to the side, skin stinging sharply and deeply. He feared it would bruise. But then, he almost instantly realized that Thomas would never let that happen. 

Brad swallowed, breath shaky, eyes stinging, as Thomas peeled off one glove with a clean, practiced motion. He reached out with his bare hand and, with the back of his knuckles, brushed softly down the curve of Brad’s reddened cheek. 

“I wish I could ask you if you wanted to stay over,” Thomas said. “But…” 

Brad gave a dry half smile. “We both know that’s not an option. But thank you.” 

Thomas lifted his still-gloved hand—glossy, slick, the leather shining in the low light—and wiped a bead of sweat from Brad’s brow. The gesture was oddly tender, almost reverent. 

Then he rose and extended a hand. Brad took it and let himself be pulled up. As he stood, he caught Thomas’ scent, leather and musk, clean skin and faint cologne. His warm, heavy presence lingered in the breath between them. Thomas looked down at him, still holding his hand. 

“I want to have you back,” he said. “Whenever you can fit me in.” 

Brad looked up into eyes that were no longer interrogating him. “I want to come back.” 

They said nothing else for a moment. Just stood there, the room silent but not empty. Then came the small talk: a few words about the meal, something vague about the finance council. Soft, easy, and completely unreal. 

Thomas walked Brad to the door. His movements now carried a gentler kind of command. Before he opened it, Thomas paused. Rested his hand on the doorknob. 

“Ready to be ourselves again?” he asked with a smirk. 

The elevator ride down was long and quiet. Brad kept his eyes on the seam of the metal doors, ignoring his reflection. The sting on his face hadn’t faded. If anything, it had bloomed. When he stepped out into the night, the cold struck him like penance. It soothed the heat of his cheek. He didn’t flinch. 

Thomas’ parting words resounded in Brad’s mind. 

Ready to be ourselves again? 

For the first time in a long while, Father Brad Whitaker had felt like himself.