Tangled Sheets (36 page)

The man reached forward and took Maguire's hand, placing it on his chest. The hair felt rough beneath his fingers, and the skin radiated a warmth that seared his flesh and sent shivers through him. He moved his hand down tentatively, feeling the curves and valleys formed by the man's bone and muscle, covering the expanse of his wide torso with trembling fingers. He put his other hand on the ringless nipple, feeling it press into his palm like a small tongue.

He ran his hands down, stopping when he reached the border marked by the man's waistband. He didn't know what would happen next, but he knew to wait until he was told.

“Sometimes, Father,” the man said softly, “faith needs to be restored.”

He put his hand on Maguire's shoulder and pushed him down to his knees. From his position on the floor, Maguire was looking directly into the well-worn crotch of the man's jeans. He saw the whiteness of the creases where they slid around the man's heavy cock and full balls, the cloth worn thin and smooth from constant contact with his body. There was a threadbare spot where the fat cockhead swelled out and threatened to break through, and the priest could see a glimpse of flesh through the straining threads. Suddenly he needed desperately to know what was beneath the faded denim.

But the man had other ideas. He lifted one booted foot and placed it on the priest's shoulder, rubbing it against his cheek. Maguire smelled the wetness of the leather, felt the heaviness of the boot against the bones of his shoulder.

“Worship is such an individual experience, don't you think, Father?” the man said. “We all need something different from our God.”

Maguire nodded as the man ran the boot across his face and over his lips. The leather was old and worn soft and smooth from repeated rubbing and exposure to the wind and water. The priest licked tentatively with his tongue, tasting the faintly musty scent of the cow skin and the man's scent mingled with the more recent addition of rain. The stipples of the hide teased his lips, and his mind was filled with the image of the man walking in the boots over city streets and faraway roads, the miles of wear impressing themselves into the leather like an imprint of his travels, the bones of the man's foot softening the resistant leather with each step.

He ran his mouth over the black skin as if kissing the foot that lay beneath it, trying to reach through the tough leather to caress the toes and the skin made rough by miles of walking. He felt the curve of the boot over the toe and then the valley where it joined the sole. Soon he was eagerly washing, slurping at the leather, grinding his mouth against it. He ran his lips along the thick stitching on the sides, caressing the seam with his tongue. As he did it, snatches of thoughts, half-formed, swirled through his mind mixed with the peculiar ecstasy he was experiencing from worshiping the man's feet. Was sex perhaps just another kind of religion, just as visceral and heart-stopping as the celebration of the Eucharist? Was he in some way drawing closer to his own soul, becoming more alive? He felt that somehow this was true, but the answer danced just out of reach.

His hands were holding the boot tenderly as the man leaned against the altar, staring down at Maguire and pinching his tits, twisting the gold ring slowly. The leather was warming under the priest's searching fingers, and he marveled at how alive it felt. He was also aware that his prick was straining against the pants he wore under his robes. It pressed along his belly painfully, and he wanted very much to touch it. But attending to the man's boots called him, and he knew that stopping now to free his cock would break the spell that held him tightly in its grip.

He noticed, too, that the man had a hard-on. It stretched down his left leg, the fabric bulging out like a pale blue vein beneath the skin of the jeans. Maguire reached forward hesitantly, expecting the man to push him away. But when he looked up, the man simply nodded and he continued, his fingers fumbling uneasily with the buttons. Finally, he managed to get the first one undone. After that, the others came easily, sliding open like the locks of a hidden door. He saw that the dark hair formed a thick patch, and pulled at the sides of the man's pants to better see what grew in the strange garden.

As they slid over his legs, his cock came into view. As thick as Maguire's wrist, its head arced downward, pushed forward by a set of large hairless balls that swung like ripe fruit beneath it, the ballsac stretching under their weight. The oversized head was round and tapered to a blunt point, halved on its underside by a valley that led to a dark piss slit surrounded by tiny pink lips.

Maguire stared at the big prick in front of him, watching the balls rise and fall with the man's breathing. He reached up and cupped the sac in his hand, feeling it roll over the sides of his palm, sensing the life within it. He ran his fingers along the thick shaft, tracing the hairs that covered the first several inches before giving way to smooth warm flesh.

He leaned forward and kissed the heavy knob at the end, his lips parting and his tongue sliding into the mouth of the piss hole, tracing the smooth curve of the head as it ran down and then back up and over the shaft in an arc. He put his mouth carefully around the tip, letting his lips close over it and tasting the thick scent that filled his head.

The man's hand fell on his neck, urging him forward. The head slipped into Maguire's throat, blocking his breathing and forcing him to take in air through his nose. Still the man didn't stop. He pushed several more inches into the priest's gullet. Then he began to work himself slowly in and out, pulling the head along Maguire's tongue until it reached his lips, then drilling back in, each time forcing another inch in. Maguire soon learned to adjust to the thickness and sucked eagerly at the big tool working his mouth.

The man leaned forward, shoving his entire prick into Maguire's face. The priest shuddered, gagging on the meat that poured past his lips, the hair that scratched at his lips and tongue. Then his nose was pressed against the man's stomach, his chin nestled in the warm ballsac between his legs. The man's full length snaked into him, the vein under his dick beating fiercely against Maguire's tongue and filling his throat with heat.

Again the man worked his way out, and Maguire was able to suck more easily, slurping hungrily at the head as it exited his mouth. The man didn't move, so Maguire continued to bathe the head, rolling his tongue around and around the big crown while kneading the balls in his fingers. He slid his tongue along the veiny shaft, tracing the hardness to its root in the man's crotch. When he felt the prick melt into the softness of the man's ballsac, he began to lick in wide strokes, washing the pouch eagerly. Holding the beating cock in one hand, he burrowed deeper into the musky jungle between the man's legs, sucking at the hair on his thighs, rubbing the precious contents of his sac against his lips.

Maguire slipped one of the fat round balls into his mouth, sucking gently and letting his tongue feel the weight of it. It felt to him like eating the egg of a strange bird, and he thought of the sweet syrup he knew lay at its center. Letting the nut slip out of his mouth, he slid back up the man's prick, licking every inch until he reached the pinnacle once more. A thick stream of cock juice was flowing from the man's hole, and Maguire lapped at it eagerly. He slid his lips around the tip, milking it slowly and steadily. With his hand he pumped the shaft, matching the motions so that the man's dick became a part of a machine made of flesh and blood and bone, a piston that worked its way in and out of the channel of Maguire's throat.

The man moaned above him, a deep growl that rang in the priest's ears. He was using Maguire's mouth for his pleasure, thrusting quickly and savagely, his big hand pressing the priest's face against his groin until his balls slapped dully against his lips. This excited Maguire, and he felt something in himself open up as the big cock burrowed in his throat. This was something he could feel, something he could grasp on to and believe in with all of his heart. He sucked eagerly and needfully, taking from the man what he so desperately needed.

Suddenly the man pulled out of Maguire's mouth, leaving him gasping for breath, a string of cock slime dangling from his lips like a broken spiderweb. He stood back, smiling, and picked up the chalice from its place at the foot of the cross. Holding it in one hand, he continued to jack his tool, his big hand wrapped so tightly around his shaft, wet with Maguire's spit, that the head blazed a deep purple. His balls rose and fell like clockwork with the motion of his fist, and the priest stared at them, awed by their raw beauty.

Watching the man jack off reminded Maguire of the pictures of martyrs he used to look at in the seminary library, their bodies pierced and torn but their faces masks of ecstasy, as if the purity of pain were also the perfect joy. The man was wholly caught up in the rapture of his own prick, his face reflecting every pull and tug of his hand, lines of pain and pleasure crossing his lips as he groaned to the machinations of his prick and balls. He stretched his dick out in front of him, his hand pulling it down and out to its full length, the head pointing into the cup he held below it. Drops of precum slid from his gasping slit and fell fat and wet into the remains of the sacred blood of Christ. Maguire was dimly aware that he should be outraged at this, but instead he was overcome by the purity of the act.

As the priest stared, the man tensed, his hand grasping his balls tightly around the base. The engorged cockhead grew even larger as blood roared into it and a flash of white spilled from its lips, falling in long ropes into the chalice. The man continued to come, his seed streaming out in spurt after spurt, his fingers pumping his balls for the last drops. When he had finished coming, he put one long finger into the cup and stirred slowly, mixing his spunk with the wine. He lifted his hand, drawing out a thin strand of wine-colored cum, then slowly licked the liquid off, sucking his finger deep into his mouth.

Setting the chalice down, he carefully removed his boots and pants, folding them and setting them aside. Completely naked, he shone with a pale gleam of sweat that looked to Maguire's eyes almost like moonlight. His thick legs were covered in the same hair that spread over the rest of his body, and he somehow seemed more complete without clothes than with them, as if the jeans and jacket had been a disguise to hide what he really was.

He picked up the chalice and stepped toward Maguire, his bare feet making no sound on the stone. Leaning down, he offered the cup to the priest, holding it against his lips as if he were now the one administering Communion.

“Faith, Father,” he said, “comes only to those who partake.”

Maguire shut his eyes and drank. The mixture of cum and wine filled his mouth and he gulped, tasting the mingled flavors of the juice and the man's scent. His hands trembled as he tried to hold the man's hand back, to stop the flow that filled his mouth. But the stream came thick and steady, and he nearly choked getting it down.

When he had drained the cup almost to the bottom, the man pulled it away. Maguire opened his eyes and saw that the man was smiling at him and holding out his hands. The priest took the offered hands and was pulled to his feet. The man came forward and lifted the robe from around his head, leaving him wearing the black pants and shirt that were under it.

The man's cock was hard again, jutting out from his body and up toward his belly. He undid Maguire's shirt, pulling the buttons open roughly. He pulled it off and tossed it on the floor. Then he undid the priest's pants, shoving them down his legs. Maguire stepped out of them, standing before the man wearing only the silver cross around his neck. The man reached forward and pulled on Maguire's cross, snapping the chain easily. He held it up in front of him, watching it turn in the air slowly like a bird on a string unable to fly away.

“Symbols, Father,” he said, “are so important. They help us believe in what we can't see.”

Maguire winced as the man grasped his balls tightly and pulled them down and away from his body. Holding the cold metal of the cross tightly against the tender area below the priest's asshole, the man wrapped the chain around his balls and cock, pulling it taut until the metal bit into Maguire's skin. The tie beam of the cross pressed painfully between his balls, one falling on either side of it. His prick, engorged with blood, stuck stiffly out, the chain encircling it and binding it to the crucifix.

The man turned Maguire and came up behind him. Dipping his hand into the chalice, he took the remaining wine and stroked it onto his dick. His thick fingers slid between Maguire's ass cheeks, coating his crack with wine and cum.

“Do you believe in miracles, Father?” he asked, his voice low in Maguire's ear.

The priest shook his head. “I don't know,” he said slowly. “I've always thought that miracles belonged only to those who talked to angels.”

The man laughed. The head of his cock was tickling Maguire's hole, rubbing teasingly against the tight opening.

“Angels come in many forms, Father,” he said, and slid his prick deep into the priest's ass.

Maguire's mouth flew open as a searing pain tore through his body, threatening to shatter his bones. But no sound came out, only a short burst of air. He leaned forward across the altar, his head resting at the foot of the cross, his lips open in an unspoken prayer. The man's cock throbbed deep inside his belly, pulsing with heat, each spasm sending new tremors throughout the priest's burning bowels.

The man pulled back, his cockhead ripping through Maguire's guts like hot lead. Then he roared back in, slamming against the priest's ass and pushing the cross lashed to the priest's cock against his nuts. He grasped Maguire around the waist and began pumping steadily at his aching hole, each thrust slapping painfully against his bound balls.