I tried to make sense out of the last several days as the plane began its descent across the eastern Atlantic into the peninsular city of Dakar, capital of Senegal. From there it would be several hours of a dusty ride northeast to the village of Sagata, in Louga Province. I tried hard not to think of this as a banishment, and why it might have been banishment baffled me. The bishop had seduced me. I hadn’t been anything but reserved in the monastery until he had lain with me–or, more pointedly until I had agree to lay under him. I was very careful because of my past. But then, of course, Bishop Dominic had known of my past. And with the power that gave him over me, what choice did I have but to lay under him when he commanded that of me?
It was black men–large, muscular black men–who had been my downfall. Bishop Dominic was a large black man. The man sitting next to me in the plane was one too. Big, muscular, a heady musky scent of masculinity about him. Someone who could hold me captive and have his way with me, as men had when I was working the streets of New Orleans–before I was saved, brought into the Catholic Church, and given purpose and a cassock.
I sensed that the man sitting next to me in the plane–most probably a Senegalese businessman–was interested in me. But he hadn’t signaled nor did I expect him to. My black cassock now was a barrier to that. I had taken up the priesthood for the barrier it would provide.
It didn’t provide a barrier to Bishop Dominic. He’d said that it was a reality of his sect of the Liberal Catholic Church, a progressive, serving church that worked the streets of New Orleans–the soup kitchens and the food pantries, the addiction and AIDS clinics, and the counseling for the downtrodden and social victims. I had been such a victim of society, he told me. I grew up virtually on the street. And being small of stature, more pretty than handsome, and vulnerable, I was able to survive on the streets of New Orleans only by selling my body to men.
That had all changed, of course, with the Liberal Catholic Church took me in, gave me a home and a purpose, and sent me through seminary. Bishop Dominic had guided me the whole way. And when I was under his charge, in his monastery, he explained to me that his was a particularly liberal sect of the Liberal Catholic Church. He said that, although certain things were banned, personal pleasure and physical release weren’t–and receiving this from and giving it to other men wasn’t irrevocably counted as a sin. Bishop Dominic certainly had his way with walking the edge. There were limits, though, to what would stop short of sin in men having their pleasure with other men. Physical penetration was a sin. These limits didn’t prevent him from touching me and kissing me. And it didn’t prevent him from coming to my cell in the night, lying beside me, and touching me intimately to evoke physical release and urging me to do the same with him.
Release was good and necessary, he’d said. It wasn’t sodomy in his sect’s definition of the term. The full meaning of this meant nothing to me at the time. I probably should have asked for specific guidance. Over the weeks the touching led to grasping and stroking with the hand–and providing sexual release, first him masturbating me and this moving into the two of us masturbating each other simultaneously. Eventually, it went to him lying on top of me or stretched out behind me, or the two of us standing, and him holding me close, and masturbating me while I held his cock between my thighs and he stroked it there to an ejaculation.
There was a steady escalation of the need for arousal and release, though, and one night we were breathing hard and writhing against each other, his shaft between my thighs, his hand on my cock, and I begged, “Do it. Take me. Don’t tease me anymore. Fuck me.”
I was in such a state of arousal, having had men inside me before, that my mind went to all of the black bulls–muscular, powerful men just like the bishop–who had taken me fully. My need and pleading moved his arousal beyond his control, and he brought his thick, hard cock up, entered my ass slowly but deeply, and began to move it increasingly vigorously inside me. I had been fucked–and roughly so–before. There was nothing I was doing with him that I had not experienced with men before. We bucked against each other to a shared ejaculation, his shaft deep inside my channel. He satisfied my need as well as any man had done. I could tell that he had been equally moved and satisfied–at least to the fulfillment of his release.
It then had been as if he’d been struck by lightning, though. He sprang from the bed and ran out of the cell, crying out “Sodomy!” Moments later he reappeared, demanded to take my confession as a tempter, and handed me a hand whip. My penance was painful and self-inflicted. He assured me that his would be too. He stayed around to ensure I used the whip on myself and it seemed to me that he enjoyed watching that.
I didn’t see him after that. I was confined to my cell. Two days later I was called into the presence of Father Mark, Bishop Dominic’s confessor, and informed that I was leaving imminently for a foreign mission assignment to a Liberal Catholic Church community church and school in Sagata, Senegal. It was, of course, spoken of as a privilege and a progression of my training as a Catholic priest. I had difficulty seeing it that way.
I didn’t understand what I had done. I didn’t understand the difference between what Bishop Dominic seduced me into doing and what sodomy was–at least how the bishop’s sect defined sodomy.
* * * *
The two men, both big, black, muscular brutes, wearing loincloths were wrestling in the center of a crudely marked ring in the dust at the center of the village. Each was trying to take the other down as they locked chests, embraced each other with muscular arms, and danced around in a circle. It aroused me. I knew both of the men, and both of them aroused me even when they weren’t pitting muscle against muscle in a dance of control and domination. I was hard inside my black cassock, and I so wanted to touch myself. But there was no way of doing so in the public square without attracting notice.
Idrissa, the rectory’s cook and housekeeper, tall, willowy, and dark brown, stood beside me, egging the men on. One of the men in the ring, Malik, was my driver–and Idrissa’s lover. The two made little effort to hide their sex play from me. Indeed, when I had been driven from the airport–by Malik–to the bishopric in Dakar, Bishop Jawara, yet another black giant, had alluded to the relationship between the two.
“There is a certain intimacy going on in the rectory of your church and school, Brother Gordon,” he said. “I didn’t want you to think I didn’t know and would worry about telling me, but the men aren’t priests and we are a tolerant sect. They are both good men–and are faithful to the church. You will find that life in this part of the world is simpler and more primeval than in most.”
The bishop was standing close to me when he said that, touching the sleeve of my cassock, and exuding the same manly musky scent as the man sitting next to me on the plane had done. Because of my past, I had difficulty sometimes determining when a man was being friendly and solicitous and when he wanted to be intimate. This was such a moment.
As we had moved into the aisle when the plane landed, that man on the plane had touched me as well, given me a look of lust, and murmured, “It’s a pity you are a priest.”
He had stood there momentarily waiting, I am sure, for me to respond that being a priest need not be an impediment. He knew, from having looked in my lap, that I had gone hard on the plane from our arms and thighs brushing. They had come into contact because he was such a massive man that he took up more than his allotted seat space. I think he could smell the arousal on me as I had smelled the musky maleness and sex on him.
But, my back still smarting from the penance I had done for the sin of sodomy–even though I’d been the one penetrated rather than the one doing the penetration–I held myself in check with the man on the airplane.
It was rough, still being hard from the closeness of him, upon seeing my driver, yet another powerfully built black man, holding the sign with my name on it at the arrivals gate.
“Thank you for the guidance, Father,” I’d said to Bishop Jawara, willing him to move away from me. The man on the plane had put me in the mood. I was being sorely tempted, first by the man on the plane; then with fantasies of being fucked in the backseat of the church automobile by the driver, Malik; and then thoughts of being laid out on the desk in the bishopric and dominated by Bishop Jawara, who was standing so close to me and touching me in a way that he probably saw as friendliness but that I was receiving as the wish for intimacy.
I knew I had to fight these feelings. I knew that I was here because I hadn’t been successful yet in doing so. It helped, though, to know that Malik’s sexual interest lay elsewhere, even if under my own roof.
The other wrestler in the ring was someone I knew too–the auto mechanic who kept the church automobile in top shape and a close friend of Malik’s–close enough to visit us often. And close enough for Idrissa and Malik openly to scheme also for him to become my lover. It was as if they knew about my struggles, and, increasingly, I came to believe that they did.
Idrissa and Malik did little to hide their intimacy from me. Idrissa slept in the house and Malik in a room over the garage, but in those first few weeks that I was learning my way in this new situation, I saw them together frequently–kissing and touching each other. And Idrissa’s door would be open more than a slit when they were on his bed, locked together and rocking back and forth. They did a lot of penile play, stroking each other, Malik stroking their cocks together–much as Bishop Dominic had done with me–but they carried this through to consummation, Malik’s shaft inside Idrissa’s channel, and Idrissa, the thinner, more willowy of the two, moaning his surrender.
At the height of my frustration of witnessing this, Jakab, the auto mechanic, started visiting the compound. He joined the small church choir I put together, enriching the sound with his silky-smooth deep bass. He was on the front pew for Sunday mass, his hulking presence unavoidable as there rarely were more than a dozen at mass. Suddenly, our ancient Land Rover was needing almost constant attention, and Jakab would be there, stripped to the waist, his muscular torso gleaming with a sheen of sweat as he and Malik worked on the car. Malik occasionally peeked to see if I was watching, which, of course, I was.
Increasingly, Jakab looked up to catch my gaze as well, his look being the familiar look of lust I’d so often seen in the eyes of the men I serviced before taking up the priesthood–and occasionally since then as well. I’d seen it in the eyes of Bishop Dominic and in the eyes of the man on the plane. I’d even seen it in the eyes of Bishop Jawara in Dakar, although at the time I had tried to convince myself that this wasn’t so.
I’d only seen it for each other in the eyes of Idrissa and Malik, though, so it was much a relief to me when the day came that Idrissa suggested that I accompany them to a swimming lake some ten miles into the bush from Sagata. I went willingly, stripped off my cassock without inhibition just as the two of them stripped down, when we had walked to the side of the lake from the Land Rover, and went immediately into the water. Idrissa and Malik came into the water too, but I remained separated from them, as they were being intimate in their embrace in the water. I stayed in rather longer than they did, swimming out to the middle of the lake and back before I swam back to the shore.
When I came out of the water, I saw that Malik and Idrissa were sitting, naked, barely concealed in a bed of tall ferns at the base of an umbrella tree. Malik was sitting cross-legged with Idrissa in his lap, facing him. The two were totally engrossed in each other and in each other’s pleasure as they engaged in the special penile play I’d seen them taken with in the rectory. They were kissing, Idrissa’s hand caressing Malik’s biceps, as Malik encased their cocks together and stroked them in an act I knew by the term frottage.
I should have gathered my cassock and gone on back to the Land Rover to wait for them to be finished, but instead, infused with arousal and need, I crouched down to where I could watch them enjoying each other’s bodies without being in the direct line of sight of either.
I watched, panting quietly and fondling my own cock and balls as Malik repositioned their cocks, docking them, pressing the bulbs together and pulling the foreskin of his thick cock over the longer, slimmer cock of Idrissa. I could hear Idrissa’s deep moans as Malik held the two cocks together, the tips of their cock bulbs caressing each other, both covered by Malik’s foreskin. He was stroking the two cocks together.
My fingers went to the bulb of my own cut cock, the shaft hard now from the effect of watching the two beautiful naked black Senegalese men making their bodies one, rocking back and forth, and moaning their shared pleasure. As I’d seen Malik doing with Idrissa earlier, I worried the urethra opening of my cock head with the pinky of one hand until it opened for me and gave me penetration. At the same time I spat on the fingers of my other hand, reached under my buttocks, resting on my calves in the crouch, and found my passage opening with the wetted fingers. I was able to open myself up and reach my prostate with my fingertips. I vaguely realized that this was penetration, and thus farther than my sect permitted me to go. It wasn’t penile penetration, though, which seemed to be Bishop Dominic’s primary concern. I was too aroused for a theological discussion on that, though. My sexual frustration had become overpowering.
Idrissa gave a little cry and Malik pulled his foreskin back off the bulbs of their cocks to reveal that Idrissa had come, slathering their cock bulbs in seminal fluid. Immediately, Malik tipped Idrissa’s pelvis back with an arm around the slimmer, smaller man’s back, pushed his own hard cock down with the other hand, and pulled Idrissa’s hips into his, slowly impaling Idrissa’s passage on Malik’s thick shaft. The two embraced closely with arms wrapped around the other’s torsos and lips possessed by the lips of the other, and Malik sent them into a rocking motion that had his cock moving in Idrissa’s passage.
Sodomy, I thought. This was definitely sodomy in my sects’ books. But Bishop Jawara had specifically told me that the church servants lived under different restrictions than the village priest did.
Still, I longed to be taken as Idrissa was being taken.
I continued fucking my urethra slit with my pinky and my passage up to my knuckles, reaching and rubbing my prostate. I was about to come when I noticed movement in the foliage off to the right of the obliviously fucking couple. We weren’t alone. There weren’t just three of us here. I was distressed to see the hulking, muscular body of the Senegalese auto mechanic, Jakab, rise up from behind tall ferns. He was magnificently naked and cupping a gigantic erection with his hand.
I don’t know if he had been watching Malik and Idrissa fuck as I had or had been watching me, but it didn’t matter. He was looking at me with a lust in his eyes that couldn’t be mistaken. And I was in an unmistakably compromised position.
Both fearful and overwhelmed with arousal and an aching need I had to struggle with, I rose, turned, and started walking into the field of four-foot-high elephant grass behind me. I had no conscious idea why I went in that direction rather than toward the safety of the Land Rover, if indeed the Land Rover could have offered sanctuary.
Jakab had signaled his interest in and desire for me in so many ways in the previous few weeks that I couldn’t misunderstand his lust and intentions. I heard him behind me, walking carefully, but then increasing speed, as I was doing.
I was running and thrashing through the elephant grass, with Jakab easily narrowing the distance between us, as, panting heavily and whimpering, he caught and tackled me from behind in a wallow by the side of the lake where the grass had been beaten down by wild animals.
There was no preparation, no foreplay, no time for discussion or pleading. Jakab, towering over me and sixty pounds my better in muscular weight and a Senegalese wrestling champion to boot, came down on my back, collapsing me to the ground. His fists grabbed my wrists, forcing my arms above my head.
He growled only one statement, as his knees forced my thighs apart, “Up on your knees; raise your ass to me.” Moaning deeply and terrified of the size of him, but needing him so, so badly, I responded as he demanded, raising my buttocks with my knees, presenting myself for his taking. And take me he did, huffing and puffing as I sobbed and writhed in pained response to the difficulty of sheathing his thick cock inside me with no more preparation than the opening I’d done of the channel myself.
But then he was inside me, deep, and began to pump me and I was lost to everything but the feel of the throbbing shaft filling and stretching me, mastering me in glorious pain-pleasure that I had wanted from him for too long.
He didn’t torture-pleasure me for long. Just a few minutes of deep stroking and he came inside my channel in a series of explosions. I hadn’t had time or opportunity to come myself, imprisoned as I was under him with my wrists trapped over my head. But Jakab proceeded to take care of that himself.
“As you enjoyed watching Malik do to Idrissa,” he said for the first time after commanding me to give myself to him, and as he said that, he rolled over into a cross-legged sitting position and pulled me into his lap. He held our cocks together, me still hard, he only half-erect now, but massive in size, and started to stroke our cocks. Exhausted from the fury of his fucking before, I let my torso fall back, shoulder blades pressed into the beaten elephant grass and arms stretched out in surrender and supplication.
When I felt him press the bulbs of the two cocks together, though, and his foreskin stretching over the bulb of my cock, I pulled myself up, grasped his bulging biceps as Idrissa had down with Malik, and pressed the top of my head between his pectorals. My eyes were downcast, watching Jakab caressing the bulbs of our cocks against each other inside his covering foreskin as he stroked the two shafts together. I was panting and so was he, both of us building up in intensity, his cock engorging again.
Building quickly up to a climax, I cried out and came inside the fusing of our docked cocks. He pulled his foreskin back to let my cum burble over the heads of both cocks. As Malik had done with Idrissa, though, he gave me no time to respond in any way, although my impulse was to go into an intimate and closely embracing kiss.
He tipped me back, pulled my passage onto his cock, deep, grasped my hips with his hands, and began to pull me on and off his reinvigorated shaft.
“No, no, we can’t. I can’t,” I cried out. “I can’t go this far.” But he laughed and proved that he could and that I could. I gave up the struggle and gave into lust when he was several inches inside me. Once again, I allowed my torso to fall back onto the beaten elephant grass, spread my arms out wide, and totally surrendered to the mastery of his fuck.
I could have escaped him after he fucked me that first time, although it wouldn’t mitigate my sin no matter how many times he fucked me here now. When he was finished seeding me again, he rose, ran to the water, and dove in. He spent a good twenty minutes playing in the water. As soon as he had entered it and come up again for air, he let out a war whoop of victory–which, I’m ashamed to say, made me grin–and made like a dolphin playing in the lake. At any time, I could have gotten up, returned to where I had come out of the lake myself, retrieved my cassock, and returned to the Land Rover. But I didn’t do this. I also didn’t join Jakab in the lake. I was torn between joining him and begging him to fuck me again in the water and my duty to fight my baser desires and escape the situation.
I was still struggling with myself when he came out of the water, flopped down beside me, and reached for my cock. Turning all thoughts off from what I should do, I lay there, stretched out, beside him, taking his cock in my hand as well, and we masturbated each other to a mutually timed ejaculation, after which he rolled over on top of me, taking my breath away as he pinned me to the elephant grass matting under me, and, for the first time, covered me with kisses, as I reciprocated.
As he regained his vigor, which didn’t take the young, virile bull long, he stood, bringing me up with him, draped my body in front of his, facing away from him, his cock up my ass channel, holding me in a bear hug, with me wrapping my legs around his thighs and digging my ankles into his calves, as he fucked me to another of his ejaculations.
He was on top of me, between my bent legs, kissing me on the mouth, and fucking me deep in a missionary position, when darkness overtook us and, at last, I realized that this glorious day was over–a day that I would have to put out of my mind; a day that I would have to scourge myself raw for in seeking penance.
I pulled out from underneath him then and stumbled back to the Land Rover, riddled with guilt, no less than because I was totally satiated with having been repeatedly sodomized anally in the eyes of my church. Jakab, thankfully, didn’t follow me. Somehow we both would need to forget that this happened, I thought, and I would need to seek penance.
Malik and Idrissa were waiting beside the Land Rover, knowing what Jakab and I had been doing, probably very pleased with themselves for having brokered that.
I wouldn’t forget it anytime soon, though, I knew as I climbed into my bed that night. My back was raw from my having knelt in front of the altar in my bedroom, murmured my sins, and struck myself on the back again and again with the many-strands hand whip with the knotted ends. I moaned as I turned to my side, unable to sleep on my back.
And I knew I could not forget what had happened, when I heard and felt the springs of the bed complain as the massive naked body of Jakab stretched out, facing me, and, as his lips went to mine, his hand docked our cocks, his foreskin pulled over my bulb, the tips of the two bulbs caressing, as he stroked me to a burbling flow with the sheath of his foreskin.
“Please, please, I want you to fuck me, but I can’t, I just can’t. My faith, I–”
“I’ve already fucked you, and I’m going to do it again,” Jakab responded. “I’ve made you come; I’ve given you release. I am not sodomizing you tonight, though. Isn’t that what the bishops have been telling you not to do? I did it this afternoon, as my reward and as a humbling concession to your need for you, and I feel that your back is raw from your penance for that. We are at a new beginning. I will take you in other ways but sodomy now and you can make peace with yourself while still finding release.”
I sighed as he drew us closer, forcing his long, thick cock between my closed thighs and beginning to stroke, as he reached between us, fisted my cock, and masturbated me.
“Like this, nearly every night,” he murmured. “No penetration. No sodomy. But repeated release.”
* * * *
“Yes, I know your sin,” Bishop Jawara said when I visited him for confession and consultation in his office the next day. I stood just inside the French window out onto a balcony, not able to be seen from the outside but looking at seminary students walking across a quad. I found I was unable to face the bishop. “Yes, I sent Jakab to you, Brother Gordon–just as Bishop Dominic sent you to me. We are a liberal sect, taking a literal interpretation of sodomy, but you wanted your bishop to cross that line. You have had to learn the difference between sodomy and pleasurable release of tension. Jakab has been a means for showing that to you. When you were sodomized by him–by one-time dispensation–you rightly saw that as sin, and your self-punishment penance for that was proper. What Jakab said he did with you last night is within acceptable bounds–there was no penetration yet I think you found that there was sufficient release. Bishop Dominic and I are asking you to just not take it farther than Jakab did last night. Do you understand?”
“I’m beginning to,” I answered. And I was. I didn’t flinch as I felt his presence now close behind me. He was reaching around and gathering my cassock up around my waist. As he pushed my briefs down, and I stepped out of them, I realized that he was naked, his hard cock pressing at the base of my spine. I whimpered at the thought of what was happening.
“And do you understand that I am asking you to do that with me now and then with Bishop Dominic when you return to New Orleans? Far enough for pleasure and release, but no farther?”
“Ah.”
“Fear not,” he whispered. “There will be no penetration. No sodomy by our sect’s interpretation. Penetration is not required to give either of us release and peace.” One of his hands went to my cock and the other one to my chin, cupping it pulling my head back and turning it so that we could kiss.
His hard cock slipped into my crack, between my buttocks, the underside against my entrance, rubbing up and down inside the crack. I understood that it would continue to do so until the bishop ejaculated and that his stroking of my cock with his hand–coupled with the arousal his attentions brought–would bring me to completion too. I was to stand here, in his embrace, until we both had had our pleasure and release. And I now understood that there would be no penetration, that, according to the unrecorded tenets of my sect what the bishop did with me would not be sodomy, and therefore, I would not have to do penance for what I now was enjoying.
I would try, and I hoped it would be enough. But I’d had more from men–so much more.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.