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The hall was silent except for his voice.
Suguru Geto conducted his sermons the way he conducted everything else. Unhurried and deliberate, each word placed with the precision of someone who had considered and rejected every other alternative. His followers sat in rows with their faces tilted upward toward a man who was, at this exact moment unbeknownst to them all, fighting for his life behind the podium.
Under the silk of his robe, your mouth was on him.
You had positioned yourself there during the opening chant. Slid beneath the draped cloth when the lights dimmed, knees pressing into the cold stone floor, the wood of the lectern against your spine. He had not acknowledged you. Had not looked down. His voice had not wavered when your fingers found the ties of his robe and pulled.
That was twenty minutes ago.
___
His cock was, and you had experienced it extensively, in the hours before and after services, absurd. Not in size alone, though that too was considerable, but in shape. Curved slightly upward, enough that when you took him deep, the head pressed against the roof of your mouth in a way that made you salivate. Thick, veined, with a pronounced coronal ridge that caught on your lips every time you pulled back. The head was flared, with a flush that deepened as he got harder, the slit always wet, always weeping something salt-sweet in varying quantities depending on what stage he was at in his arousal. There was also the frenulum, a tight string of skin on the underside just below the head, and you had learned early that pressing your tongue flat against it made his thighs lock.
You started slow, not taking his cock into your mouth immediately. Your tongue was flat against that same spot, pressing in, holding for a count of three while his hips did the small involuntary shift they always did when he was trying not to move. Then you dragged down. Slow, following the thick vein from head to base, your lips barely touching, your breath warm against him. His cock twitched. A bead of pre-cum swelled at the slit and began to roll, and you caught it with your thumb, spreading it over the head in slow circles.
Then your mouth replaced your thumb.
Just the head at first. Lips sealed around the ridge, tongue flat against the frenulum, a gentle pulsing suction that made his hips jerk once before he controlled them. Release. Again. Each time your tongue swirled the ridge, dipped into the slit, lapped up what was leaking there steadily now, salt and something muskier, a little sweeter.
___
You took him deeper in stages.
Head plus an inch, held, your throat relaxing. Then more, the curve of him requiring you to tilt your head, adjust the angle, and suddenly he was sliding past the soft palate and into your throat. You breathed through your nose. Held. Then pulled back slow, your lips dragging in a tight wet seal, stopping when only the head remained to swirl the ridge again before taking him back down.
Suguru’s hand found the back of your head, resting, fingers spread wide, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear. Not pushing yet.
His other hand was on the podium.
"...The world tells you that attachment is natural," he was saying, and his voice was like silk, the register that had convinced hundreds of people to give him everything they owned. "But attachment is the chain. Attachment is the cage. When you let go of what you think you need…"
You swallowed around him.
His hand on the podium tightened. The wood creaked. A few heads turned at the sound and he smiled. Serene, benevolent, entirely composed, and continued without missing a beat.
‘‘...you discover that what you actually need has been within you all along.’’
The fingers at the back of your head curled into your hair.
You developed a rhythm. Deep and slow, the kind of pace that let you feel the weight of him on your tongue, the heat of him in your throat. Your hand worked what your mouth couldn't reach, twisting on the upstroke. Your other hand cupped his balls, heavy and full, rolling them gently, feeling them pulse with his heartbeat. The key was variation. Not just the same motion repeated. Anyone could do that. The key was keeping him uncertain, keeping the next sensation just different enough from the last that he couldn't brace for it.
Sometimes, just the head. Lips around the ridge, tongue working the frenulum, hand pumping the shaft, fast. Sometimes, all the way down, nose pressed to his pelvis, held there while your throat pulsed around him in slow rhythmic squeezes. Sometimes, pulling off entirely and licked the shaft from base to head, pressing your lips to the skin behind his balls, coming back up.
Sometimes, his favorite, the thing that cracked his voice every time, you took him deep, and swallowed.
Not a gag. A swallow. The controlled constriction of your throat around the head, the wet pulsing pull of it. His whole body would lock when you did it. Shoulders back, spine straight, like he was receiving revelation. Suguru would make a sound that was almost a moan before he would catch it.
"-the ego," he continued, somehow, and his voice had dropped half an octave, gone thicker, "...wants you to believe that pleasure is something to be pursued. But pleasure, like pain, is just a signal. A current. You can choose to let it pass through you without…"
You pulled off entirely. Let the cool air hit his sensitive cock. He twitched, visibly, the head dark and flushed and wet. You wrapped your hand around the shaft, tight, fingers barely meeting, and spat on your palm. Not for the lubrication, not entirely, though there was that too. For the sound of it in the small space beneath the lectern. For what the sound did to the next sentence that came out of his mouth.
___
Suguru bit down on the next word. Turned it into a pause that was supposed to seem contemplative.
"-without attachment," he finished.
You began to pump. Fast, irregular, your other hand pressing into his perineum, the spot behind his balls, the internal root of him, massaging in small, rhythmic circles.
His thighs were trembling.
"It wants you to believe," he said, and the cadence of his speech had begun to accelerate, matching something only you could feel, "that letting go means losing yourself. But letting go is the only way t-to find-"
You took him back in. Just the head, tongue working the frenulum in a fast, insistent rhythm while your hand pumped the shaft. The tip of your tongue tapping against that tight string of skin, over and over.
His breath caught, sharp and audible.
"-to find what you've been looking for," he managed, now strained.
His balls had drawn up tight. That was the tell. Not the pre-cum, that came and went, but the weight of them changing, going firm, pulling close against his body. You cupped them and felt them pulse under your fingers.
You took him all the way down and swallowed.
Held it. Your throat constricting around the head in a long slow squeeze, your tongue pressed flat, your nose against his pelvis, the black patch of hair, his scent filling your lungs, musk and salt and clean skin.
You swallowed again.
His hips jerked. A small desperate thrust he couldn't stop. His hand in your hair twisted and above you, in front of two hundred people, Suguru Geto's composure cracked.
"...surrender is not-" he started, and his voice split, "-weakness."
He cleared his throat. Smiled. His eyes were glassy. His pulse was visible at his throat.
You sucked. Hard. Deep, vacuum-sealed suction, cheeks hollowed, tongue flat, throat pulsing in rhythmic squeezes while your hand worked the base and your other pressed that spot behind his balls.
"The current," his voice was fraying at the edges, "will carry you."
His balls were fully drawn up, pulsing under your fingers. His cock was throbbing, the head swollen and sensitive. You dipped your tongue into the slit. Pressed, licked the pre-cum out of him. Then took him deep in a single slick motion right as he started cumming.
The first pulse hit the back of your throat. You swallowed. The second. The third. You kept swallowing, your throat working around him, your nose still pressed to his pelvis and his hand now trembling in your hair.
Suguru did not make a sound.
Not one.
His body locked, and his mouth fell open, and his eyes closed, and then he was very, very still. Just breathing. Just trembling. Just standing there, the prophet of his new world, while you licked him clean.
When you pulled off, his cock was still half-hard, twitching against your lips. You pressed a kiss to the head.
Above you, he cleared his throat.
"As I was saying," Suguru continued, and his voice was hoarse in a way that made his congregation lean forward with concern, with love, with the desperate need to be near him and hear more of him, "surrender is only the beginning."
His hand gentled in your hair. Stroked once. Twice.
His thighs were still shaking during the chant that followed. Still shaking through the blessing. The first time he had looked at you directly since you slid beneath the tablecloth, and he was already half-hard again.
Then he lifted his chin, addressed the congregation, and continued his sermon like the past few seconds had not happened.
As far as his followers knew, they had not.