When Trent
approached the university library entrance to leave for the evening the
following Tuesday, he saw Gus’s truck parked in the lot and drew back. There was
another exit available to him at the loading dock on the other side of the
building. He left by that way and took a roundabout route home. When he got
there, he locked the door behind him, pulled the blinds, didn’t turn on any
lights, and sat there, in the dark, waiting.
When the
pounding on the door started, he tried to ignore it. But his body betrayed him.
His memory went to the times Gus had fucked him and how rough he’d been and the
heights of arousal and satisfaction he’d taken Trent to. He started to tremble
and to go hard. With faulting steps, he moved to the door and opened it.
A fist lashed
out and caught him in the cheek, making him stagger back and sink to the living
room carpet. Gus followed his fist into the room, slammed the door behind him, and
jumped on top of Trent’s body. Trent had gone down on his back. Gus backhanded
Trent across the face one way and then the other and Trent lay there, quietly,
whimpering as Gus ripped Trent’s dress shirt open and stripped his trousers and
briefs off his legs. Trent spread and bent his legs and pushed his pelvis up to
give Gus a good angle to thrust inside him.
But Gus didn’t
penetrate him with his cock immediately, He crouched on top of Trent, holding
the smaller man in thrall, while he entered him with, first, one finger and
then another and a another, up to his knuckles, and began to move his hand.
Whimpering, Trent moved with him, concentrating on the pleasure and pain of the
finger fuck, trembling with fear and anticipation of it becoming a fist fuck,
finding, to his consternation, that he wanted to know if he could take a fist
and whether the pleasure of it would overcome the pain of it. Gus held his face
close to Trent’s, watching the reaction in Trent’s eyes and expression to what Gus
was doing—what more he could do. But then, with a laugh, he withdrew his hand,
and Trent came in a gush of cum. Gus rolled over on top of Trent’s body, thrust
his cock inside the passage, dug down into Trent’s core, and started punishing
him with the metal of the thick PA ring in his cockhead, fucking him on the
floor in the darkened living room.
Trent moved his
arms around Gus’s chest, grasping the muscular black man’s shoulder blades and
put his pelvis in motion, entering the combined rhythm of the deep, rough fuck
and murmuring, “Yes, yes, yes.” The murmuring was cut off, though, as Gus
grasped Trent’s throat between his beefy hands and started the choking breath
play.
He fucked on
and on. Trent arched his head, staring at the unseen ceiling overhead, gasping
for breath as he was permitted, and . . . strangely, but surely . . . reveling
in the total-taking fuck.
When Gus was
gone, Trent lay there, thinking about what his life had become since he moved
to Asheville. He hadn’t been this wanton before then. This whole Friday Group
thing—and Gus on top of that—was pulling him down into a hell, a hell lined
with pleasure. He liked the attention. He liked having a man’s cock churning
inside him. Hell, he loved having two men’s cocks churning inside him. He had
been in ninth heaven with the attention the three men had given him in the
Grove Park Inn suite the previous Friday—the worship of his body, the taking of
everything from him. And how the novelist had pulled him into his life—and probably
was including him in his current novel. And Gus—the danger of him. The
blackness of him, not just in skin tone but also in the hell he pulled Trent
into and beat him into a vulnerability and openness, and took, took, took from
him.
Where was the edge
of what he would take—of how much degradation and pain he would endure for the
pleasure he was getting?
What was wrong
with him? Was Asheville and its pleasures, temptations, sins, and demands
someplace he should not be?
With a groan,
he rose from the carpet and stepped over to the door to close it. Gus had left
it ajar and snow had drifted in. He dragged himself into the bathroom, turned
on the light, and started to inspect the bruise on his cheek where Gus had hit
him. He could see the red marks of Gus’s fingers on this throat, but he knew
from experience that they would be gone by the day after next. It was winter,
the Christmas season. He could wear a turtleneck sweater and no one would be
the wiser. The bruise on his cheek would deepen in color. He would have to
become an expert in applying makeup.
It only was
when he had that thought that he realized he’d let Gus do this again—and again.
He wouldn’t have the false courage of trying to hide from him behind the door
with the lights off ever again. He’d let Gus use him up totally if that’s where
Gus was headed with him—although there was added arousal and sexual
satisfaction in angering Gus a bit so that he’d be more brutal and demanding.
Being power fucked on the floor in a darkened room was kind of hot—even the
worry that Gus was going to sink his fist in him and fuck him with it had made
him hard and throbbing and panting and had contributed to a glorious release.
* * * *
Are you
serious, Trent thought the next Friday night when the white poker chip plunked
down in front of him at the Friday Group’s table on the third level of the
Battery Park Book Exchange. A priest wanted to fuck him?
Many of the eight
at the table were regulars he met one of the previous two times he’d come to
the meeting. The only new member—regular but new to him—was a handsome young
man, Rick Weaver, who had been introduced as a semiprofessional actor at the
Asheville Community Theater by night and a guide at Biltmore, the biggest draw
in Asheville, by day. The 8,000-acre Biltmore estate, including the largest
private residence to have been built in the United States, had been the home of
Vanderbilts and now was a major shrine to the opulent early nineteen hundreds
that was open to the public. It was particularly popular now, in the Christmas
season, as many of its 250 rooms were decked out in seasonal decorations and
could be toured. Julian had been after Trent to get one of the Friday Group
members to take him there, noting, rather cattily that Trent should remember that
he was introduced into the Friday Group to get a free Christmas season tour of
the city not just to see how quickly he could collect cockings from all of the
regular group members. Heretofore Trent had pointed out that a tour of the
Biltmore wasn’t cheap.
And now Trent
had his chance to see the Biltmore. Not with the newly arrived member, though.
He obviously was candy, like Trent was, and in high demand. Trent got the
impression that Weaver didn’t come to the Friday Group all that much but that
he was sex on a stick and in high demand when he did. Nearly all of the
available poker chips that evening were sitting in front of him—except the
white one from Monsignor Emeritus Antoni Skileri, the old but distinguished-looking
and ramrod-straight priest. The white one had been dropped in front of Trent.
Julian had
already left with the music hall director, Daniel Park, before Rick Weaver had
arrived. All those left with poker chips except for the priest were wooing
Weaver, though, which left Skileri free of competition to sit beside Trent and
touch the young man intimately in a way people let expressive Italians get away
with while he talked about the history of the nearby Basilica of Saint Lawrence.
This Catholic church was where, Julian had informed Trent, the monsignor was in
hiding from decades of having topped young priests and led them into sin.
Weaver hadn’t
come empty handed. He’d brought two free passes to the Biltmore Christmas house
tour that evening at 9:30. When he offered them to the group, only the priest
and Trent had shown interest. The interest of everyone else there was to take
Weaver somewhere and fuck him.
There was no
competition for the tickets then, and, almost salivating, the monsignor had
developed a plan of he and Trent going together, having dinner at the Stables Café
next to the house before taking the tour. After the estate tour, Monsignor
Antoni could show Trent around the Basilica of Saint Lawrence he’d been
describing to the young as something of Asheville that had to be seen at
Christmas time. Then he’d drive Trent home. He had access to a church car.
Trent was a little panicked by the thought of a highly placed Catholic priest
fucking him in his mean one-bedroom apartment, but maybe it wouldn’t come to
that. Trent was a little squeamish about being fucked by an old priest to begin
with.
Thus, it was
easily settled. Trent would do as Julian said was a reason to hook up with the
Friday Group—he’d see Asheville at Christmas time at someone else’s expense and
if it turned out he was laid in the process that was open as well.
Trent realized
he was becoming seriously overactive in getting laid and he wasn’t sure he wanted
a priest on top of and inside him, but the monsignor was still a handsome man,
in shape for his age, and Julian more than once said Skileri had a cock that
should be experienced at least once—that none of those young priests he’d laid
over several decades had complained.
So, that’s what
Trent and the monsignor did. They left the Friday Group early for the members
to fight over Rick Weaver’s tail and Monsignor Antoni drove Trent up to the extensive
Biltmore estate, where they ate a fancy dinner in a restaurant that had been created
in what had been a huge horse and carriage stable in the late nineteenth
century and that was attached to an even more huge French Tudor palace that
took the pair an hour and a half to oh and ah through the mere 10 percent of
its rooms that were on Christmas display.
When they had
done that, they motored back down the mountain and into Asheville and to the
Basilica of Saint Lawrence, which Trent also had to admit was very impressive. The
church decorated itself for Christmas almost as elaborately as Biltmore had.
The monsignor
had given Trent an expensive meal at the Stable Café and accompanied the young
man on a tour of the Biltmore, an Asheville must see, especially at Christmas,
which Trent would have been hard pressed to manage on his own, since he didn’t
have a car. So, Trent thought it only polite to let the old priest show him the
inside of his church at night. It was closed to the public at night, of course,
but the priest emeritus had the run of it. As far as could be determined Skileri’s
only duties to the church now were to remain hidden to the media. Trent had to admit
when Monsignor Antoni turned on all of the lights and the young man saw the
multiple gigantic and lighted and decorated Christmas trees and wreathing that he
was floored by the beauty of the place.
Fifteen minutes
later he was floored and being fucked by the monsignor on a padded mat hidden
in a space between a decorated Christmas tree and a wall beside the altar in a
side chapel. Julian had been right. The monsignor had probably the longest cock
of all of the Friday Group members and he knew how to use it, to reach high up
into the passage of a young man and hold the submissive in panting thrall to it
as the bulb kissed and caressed every surface of the young man’s inner core.
The monsignor
had deftly gotten Trent naked and opened his own cassock down the front and brushed
it open to reveal and wiry, hard, well-muscled body and a godawful long
erection. The cock wasn’t thick, but that only added to the image of it as a
snake that could—and did—caress and bite at its head. They knelt on the mat,
the monsignor behind Trent, one of his arms wrapped around Trent’s belly, holding
the young man close into him and the hand of the other cupping Trent’s chin and
arching the young man’s head back into the hollow of Monsignor Antoni’s
shoulder. Trent jerked and cried out in a plaintive pain-pleasure echo through
the vastness of the church proper while Skileri thrust up deep inside his
passage, moving farther up with each thrust until he had arrived deep in the young
man’s soft core. There he worked his magic with his caressing bulb, while Trent
panted and sighed—and came and then came again until they rested—the priest’s
cock still deeply sheathed and Trent slumped forward onto his chest, his arms
flung out in sacrificial supplication, while Skileri, still ramrod straight in
his kneeling position, massaged the muscles of the young man’s back.
The priest didn’t
go flaccid. He may have taken something to keep in hard, because he did remain hard,
and when he’d caught his breath from the initial fuck, he pulled Trent up from
the mat—the man was unusually strong for his age—and carried Trent over to the
adjacent altar, the priests gaping cassock billowing around his hard, spare frame.
The marble surface of the altar was clear, no doubt cleared by Skileri earlier
in the day precisely to accommodate this sacrifice of Trent’s body to the sin
of sex.
He laid the young
man stretched out on his belly on the altar, his left arm dangling over the side
of the altar. Skileri deftly mounted the altar, put an arm under Trent’s belly
to lift the young man’s buttocks slightly to accommodate the slide of the cock,
and then mounted Trent’s ass, thrust deep inside him, and fucked him again. Groaning
softly, Trent maintained the stance of presentation of his ass to the priest’s
cock, and not just endured but reveled in the magic of the deep, rhythmic
thrusts inside his soft core. The priest’s flared black cassock covered them
both as the monsignor leaned over Trent and kissed and nibbled the base of his
skull while he moved his long, long cock deep and Trent rhythmically rocked his
pelvis up to meet the deep thrusts of the priest. If anyone had been watching,
it would look like a large, black bird of prey was fluttering and undulating on
the surface of the altar.
They wouldn’t
have been far off in the interpretation of what Monsignor Skileri was tearing
out of the young man.
It was almost a
mystical experience for Trent. Henceforth he would not shy away from having a
white poker chip land in front of him during a Friday Group gathering at the
Battery Park Book Exchange.
* * * *
The next Tuesday,
instead of going home from work, Trent took the bus into the downtown area and
went to the Battery Park Book Exchange. He knew that Art Hilliard, the
assistant manager there, worked the dayshift on Tuesday’s. Art was at the bar
in the entry foyer when Trent brushed the snow off his coat and shoes and
entered the book store. There was snow on the ground from previous days and a
light snow was adding to that. Darkness had already fallen for the day.
“Trent,” Art
exclaimed when he saw the young man entered the store. “Is it Friday already?”
“I was hoping you
were coming off work and would go down to Pack Square Park with me,” Trent said.
“I understand that the Christmas tree and decorations in the park are
spectacular and it’s something I haven’t seen yet in Asheville at Christmas
time.”
“Is that all
you’ve come for?” Art asked.
“No, it’s not.
Can you come with me?”
“There’s no
doubt that I can come with you,” Art said, with a grin plastered across his
face.
They emerged
from the store arm in arm and Trent paused on the sidewalk.
“You’re
trembling,” Art said.
“It’s the cold.
I’ll adjust,” Trent answered.
It wasn’t the
cold, though, that had made Trent tremble. A truck was pulled up in front of
the store. It was Gus’s truck. Trent could see that Gus was in the truck.
Surprisingly, when Gus saw that Trent was with another man, Art, he pulled away
from the curb and drove off. Trent let his breath out. “Which way to the park?”
“This way.
There are vendors there. Perhaps we could get hot dogs and eat them under the
falling snow,” Art said, as they started off walking.
“Whatever you
want,” Trent said.
“Then maybe to
O.Henry’s for a drink and to mingle and dance a bit.”
“Whatever you
want.”
“And maybe
afterward—”
“Whatever you
want.”
“It’s the young
cock you crave, isn’t it?” Art asked, with a grin.
“Yes. Anything
you want.”
Trent didn’t
have to think about Gus crashing into his apartment that night, because he
spent the night in Art’s bed, under Art. And it turned out that Gus didn’t appear
subsequently either. Gus was being tracked down for skimming bottles of liquor
he was supposed to deliver to clubs, including the Battery Park Book Exchange,
the managers of which were on the outlook for him, and he had left Asheville by
Wednesday morning, never to return again. Trent’s sex life became a little less
bizarre as a result, unless one considers being fucked by a long-cocked retired
priest on a church altar bizarre.
-FINI-
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