A Conversation with Cardinal Dolan
CHAPTER THREE: The Sinful Scoop
Featuring the Archbishop of New York, Cardinal Timothy Dolan
The sacristy of St. Patrick’s Cathedral hummed with the lingering scent of frankincense and beeswax, the air thick with the weight of sacred ritual. Cardinal Timothy Dolan, his black clerical suit crisp, the silver pectoral cross glinting against his broad chest, was shrugging out of his chasuble after evening Mass. At 74, his 6’3” frame carried a stocky heft, softened by a slight paunch that jiggled faintly as he moved. His thinning gray hair was neatly combed, framing twinkling blue eyes and a jovial smile that could charm a congregation or a skeptic. His deep bass voice, warm as a sip of Jameson’s, filled the room with an effortless authority.
Father Stephen Ries, his 45-year-old priest-secretary with a boyish face and nervous energy, fussed over the chalices, his cheeks pink as he stole glances at the scene unfolding. Thomas “Tom” Reilly, a 28-year-old journalist from the New York Post, leaned against the sacristy’s oak doorway, his 5’11” lean, athletic frame sharp in a tailored navy suit. His blonde hair, combed back neatly for the occasion, gleamed under the dim light, and his blue-green eyes sparkled with a mix of curiosity and mischief. His notebook, ostensibly for an interview about a charity gala, dangled loosely in his hand, a flimsy excuse for his presence.
“Tom, my boy, you’re early!” Dolan boomed, his voice carrying a surprising machismo that made Stephen fumble a chalice. “What’s the rush? Hoping to catch me in my skivvies?”
He winked, his belly laugh rumbling like distant thunder.
Tom’s lips curled into a smirk, his eyes flicking to Dolan’s white Roman collar, stark against the black clericals. “Couldn’t wait to get the real story, Your Eminence. Didn’t expect you so… relaxed.”
Dolan’s eyes locked on Tom’s lips, a hungry glint flashing across his ruddy face.
“Relaxed? Kid, I’m Ascot’s the patron saint of comfort, and I’m the cardinal of cozy!” He chuckled, adjusting his bishop’s ring, the gold catching the light. “Stephen, we’re taking this interview to my chambers. Make sure we’re left alone—no shepherds disturbing this flock, eh?”
Stephen’s jaw tightened, his baby-face flushing deeper, but he nodded, scurrying off as Dolan gestured Tom toward a discreet staircase. The walk to his private chambers was a gauntlet of dodging parishioners and nodding at staff, Dolan’s large hand grazing Tom’s lower back, a possessive edge to his touch.
“Damn, kid, you do work out,” he muttered, squeezing Tom’s taut shoulder, his fingers lingering on the journalist’s bicep as he steered him into a dimly lit hallway. The heavy oak door to his bedroom clicked shut, and Dolan’s grin widened, his blue eyes dark with intent. “You’ve been sniffing around my story for weeks, Reilly. Time to get the unfiltered scoop.”
Tom didn’t hesitate, closing the gap and crashing his lips against Dolan’s, his tongue plunging into the cardinal’s mouth with a hungry edge. Dolan moaned, a low, desperate sound that vibrated through his stocky frame, the Archbishop of New York reduced to a trembling mess. His thick tongue lapped at Tom’s, greedy and sloppy, like a man starved for communion. His calloused hands tore at Tom’s suit, buttons popping as he ripped open the shirt to reveal a lean, toned chest, nipples tightening in the cool air. Dolan’s fingers fumbled with Tom’s zipper, diving into his briefs to wrap around his 7.5-inch cock, the shaft hot, thick, and pulsing with a slight upward curve. His thumb smeared precum over the smooth, sensitive head, teasing the slit with a rough twist that made Tom’s hips buck.
“Lord have mercy, you’re packing more than a front-page headline,” Dolan quipped, his voice a mix of awe and self-deprecating humor.
Dropping to his knees on a plush chair, Dolan’s eyes widened at the sight of Tom’s cock, the bulbous head glistening.
“Well, bless me, Father, this is a divine revelation,” he said, his lips trembling as they brushed the warm tip.
The cardinal’s experience was evident—decades of clandestine encounters had honed his skill. His mouth engulfed Tom’s cock in one fluid motion, lips wrapping tight around the thick shaft, his nose buried in blonde pubes as he deep-throated with practiced ease. Tom groaned, fingers tangling in Dolan’s thinning hair as the cardinal’s tongue swirled, cheeks hollowing with each fervent suck. Saliva dripped down Dolan’s chin, his eyes watering as he gagged, throat clenching around the sensitive head. He bobbed with a sloppy, feral intensity, one hand kneading Tom’s medium-sized balls, the other stroking the base, spit and precum slicking his lips in a glistening mess.
With a wet, obscene pop, Dolan pulled off, a thick string of saliva and precum dangling from his swollen lips to Tom’s throbbing cockhead.
“Holy smokes, kid, you’re a tougher assignment than a Vatican audit,” he panted, his jovial face flushed with need. “I want you to fuck me, Tom. Give this old sinner what he deserves.”
Tom’s blue-green eyes flickered with hesitation, then darkened with lust.
“As you wish, Your Eminence,” he growled, voice low and commanding.
Dolan stood, shrugging off his clerical jacket, the silver cross swinging as he let his pants drop, revealing his 6.5-inch cut cock, the light shaft and pink, bulbous head twitching beneath a slightly sagging sack. Bracing himself on the bed, his thick, pale ass framed by bunched fabric, the white collar a stark contrast to his exposed vulnerability. Tom knelt behind him, spreading Dolan’s cheeks to reveal a tight, puckered hole dusted with gray hair. He spat, the saliva landing with a wet gleam, then leaned in, his tongue lashing out in a slow, deliberate stripe across the sensitive ring. Dolan jolted, gasping, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, that’s a new kind of absolution!” as Tom’s tongue circled the rim, teasing the twitching muscle before diving inside.
The musky, earthy heat was intoxicating. Tom’s tongue probed deep, lapping at the quivering walls, alternating between languid licks and sharp, stabbing thrusts. Dolan’s groans echoed, his robust frame shuddering as Tom’s hands gripped his hips, pulling him back onto his face. He sucked the rim, then darted his tongue in again, feeling the muscle loosen, slick and warm. Dolan’s heavy balls twitched, precum dripping in thick strands onto the bed, his 6.5-inch cock bobbing with every flick.
“Lord, forgive us, but don’t stop!” Dolan panted, grinding back, his voice raw with desperation.
Tom pulled back, spitting on his fingers and pressing one against Dolan’s entrance, the tight ring yielding to the slick intrusion. The heat clenched, then relaxed as he worked the finger in and out, curling to graze the cardinal’s prostate. Dolan’s cock jerked, leaking more precum as Tom added a second finger, scissoring to stretch him wider, his other hand stroking Dolan’s shaft, thumbing the slick head in rhythm with his thrusts.
“You’re tighter than a parish budget, Cardinal,” Tom teased, his voice a low growl.
Standing, Tom kicked off his trousers, his 7.5-inch cock rigid, veins bulging, the head slick and flushed. He spat again, the glob landing on Dolan’s puckered hole, then lined up, the tip nudging the slick rim. He pushed in slowly, the velvet heat gripping him like a vise, inch by agonizing inch. Dolan gasped, hands clawing the sheets, his gold episcopal ring glinting as his body stretched to take Tom’s full length. Tom paused, balls pressed against Dolan’s ass, feeling the pulsing heat.
“You’re taking this like a saint, Your Eminence,” he murmured.
Dolan pushed back, grinding onto Tom’s cock with a needy groan. “Don’t tease an old man, kid—give me the full homily!” he begged, his humor cutting through the raw need. Tom grinned, pulling out until just the head remained, then slammed back in, setting a brutal pace. The room filled with the sharp slap of skin on skin, mingling with Dolan’s booming, “Bless me, Father, for I’m loving this sin!” as Tom pounded harder, each thrust hammering the cardinal’s prostate. Sweat beaded on Tom’s lean frame, his hands leaving red marks on Dolan’s hips. He reached around, stroking Dolan’s cock, the shaft throbbing, slick with precum, balls slapping against his wrist. The contrast of Dolan’s black clerical shirt, white collar, and pale, broad ass—still framed by black socks—was a sight Tom savored.
“You’re eating this up like Sunday brunch, aren’t you?” Tom snarled, nipping Dolan’s earlobe. Dolan nodded, his jovial face twisted in ecstasy, mouth open in a stream of moans.
Tom’s thrusts grew erratic, his balls tightening as his climax neared.
“Gonna fill you up, Father,” he warned, voice strained.
“Yes, my son—baptize me!” Dolan cried, his cock erupting without warning, thick ropes of cum spraying across the bed, splattering his cassock, his body convulsing in waves of pleasure.
The sight sent Tom over the edge. He buried himself deep, cock pulsing as he unloaded, hot cum flooding Dolan’s ass in powerful spurts, the heat overwhelming. His hips jerked, milking every drop, until he collapsed against Dolan’s back, both men panting, slick with sweat.
Tom pulled out slowly, watching his thick, white cum leak from Dolan’s stretched, reddened hole, dripping down his balls onto the bed. He helped Dolan stand, the cardinal’s collar askew, his face a mix of shame and sated bliss, the silver cross swaying against his heaving chest. They fucked well into the evening, the room heavy with the scent of sex and cigar smoke, until Tom finally dressed, his blue-green eyes locking onto Dolan’s with a silent promise.
“Next week, Your Eminence?” Tom asked, his smirk sharp as a headline.
Dolan’s belly laugh boomed, warm and sonorous, his ruddy cheeks glowing.
“You’re a devil, Thomas Reilly, but I’ll be waiting—same time, same pew!”
He winked, adjusting his collar with a chuckle, already reaching for his Jameson’s.
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