Hello Kittens, did you know I love two things; horror and smut. Since it’s the holy month of Pride (cue the rainbows and the EDM) and I realized I’ve never shared any of the smuttier stuff I’ve written, so I’ve decided to deliver unto you a short (it’s not the size that counts) story, to brighten your blessed day. Kinda goes without saying but this very NSFW. We are talking really dirty here, filthy, sexy, humorous. You’re gonna love it….if you’re into that kind of thing – if not, I’d click away…
The Good Pastor
It’d been two weeks on the road; cheap motel rooms which reeked of stale smoke, the lingering energy of other people’s poor life choices, and questionable comforters. A diet of greasy diner food or dollar drive-thru menu, with nights of solitary drinking, which I never minded if we’re being honest. And despite many hours of solid efforts, I’d still not found one able body to share my bed for a whole night.
Simple assignment: use my free-lanced talented eye to deliver a series of captivating photos of rural churches, with an emphasis on those lost to time or taken by nature. Well-paying gig, enough to cover rent, knock out a bill or two, and the per diem kept drinks flowing, only downside was the queer bar deficiency; for every fifteen hetero watering holes I waded through, lay one queer bar. And I’d only visited ten thus far. Not that I can’t maneuver within the straight world easily; a talent honed since childhood. I’m so thankful for the skills all my trauma has left me with. I can sit at the bar, drink my beer or whiskey, and by the end of my night sniff out the closeted patrons. There’s always a guy up for a handy-J in the parking lot, even though he’ll be awkward and quiet the whole time, not allowing himself to enjoy it. There’s always the curious one who claims to be up for mutual oral, but after getting his conveniently has to leave. And the rarest one, the alleged straight identifying dude, who surprises you by saying he wants to bottom.
Sure, they enjoy their time, but as soon as the big O’s are achieved, it’s all no-homo and they’re out the door with a cartoon dust trail behind them. And I question why are they always so in a hurry to go back to being hetero? Straight men, despite their ardent cries, don’t mind laying with another dude if the conditions are right. But truthfully, from my end, it’s a rather dull experience. They never lean into the moment, tight-lipped, too afraid of who knows what and listen, I’ve given enough unreciprocated blowjobs for two lifetimes. While they help make the nights pass, there comes a time when another kindred soul who understands the language is desperately needed.
A tip at a diner led me to a sleepy hamlet in Georgia, a very sleepy hamlet. I won’t say po-dunk, cause as I found there was a true rural charm to the place. The first church I found was perfection, but the sun had dipped too much to catch the building in the perfect golden glow I’d envisioned. Photographing the beautiful structure would have to wait until the morning rays kissed her angles with perfect glowing symmetry. No shooting meant time to find the next stop for the night. Remaining in my truck outside the simple church, I found my attention snatched from taking notes to the gorgeous, shirtless man using the last of the sun’s light to finish clearing brush on the property.
I hoped he was the church’s handyman, and not the priest, or preacher, or whichever holy figure spewed the gospel out here because my lustful thoughts were gaining momentum, and I didn’t want to feel more shame than had already been instilled in me. Even if the odds favored me and he was queer; he still might not even fancy me. I liked to believe I was everyone’s type, but I’ve also met me, so.
Tall enough not to be immediately dismissed, and still blessed with a full head of dark hair at thirty-five, I wasn’t too shabby. I kept my thick beard groomed to a point that bordered on OCD. A few guys complimented my so-called piercing eyes, but all I ever saw were two tired bitches looking back at me, so their compliments fell on deaf, and also, tired ears. Time, as Dolly Parton so elegantly once put it, was marching across my face. Thankfully the lines it left behind weren’t that bad yet.
As I was caught in the mirror embracing my own narcissistic moment, I hadn’t noticed the handsome man was at my window until he gently tapped against it, startling me. “How are ya ?” He asked with one of those oh-so-delicious sounding southern accents as soon I’d lowered the window. “Something I can help ya with?” There was no annoyance in his tone as if I shouldn’t be there, but more a genuine concern if he could assist me.
I handed him my card which backed up my name and that I was a photographer. “Yeah…sorry for lingering. I’d love to get some shots of this church. Do you know who I could talk to about okaying that for tomorrow morning? Early tomorrow, before sunrise. I don’t want to be any trouble though.” I hoped he didn’t notice my focus wasn’t on his reply but on the sun-kissed beads of sweat traveling from his neck tween his darkly furry pecs, and further down the hairy trail along his stomach. I consider myself a rational person, but it took all the restraint I had to not give in, lean out the window, and take my tongue on a trip through the thick, dark curls of his woolly pelt.
“Well, I’m the Pastor, pleasure to meet you, Andrew.”
“Oh Andy, please. The ‘drew’ makes me sound way more put together than I actually am.” He laughed at the joke I said out of habit, and not going to lie, I swooned. Humor often got my foot in the door. “It’s a gorgeous church, really caught my eye.” There was no exaggeration, there was that filter of aging beauty on the weathered finish, the splintered wood, the broken eaves. The girl needed repairs, but I could tell she’d been a diva in her day.
“Needs work,” The Pastor looked back at the building and smiled which said the place was both his burden and his love. “As always we remain grateful for what we have.”
I’d have been grateful if I could have stared at anything other than the small lines around his eyes and the gentle curves of full provocative lips. It’s always my first impulse to kiss. Kissing isn’t a normal menu item when your sex life is mainly scooping up drunk heteros. I spouted off my incoming desires to the Universe, asking Goddesses to intervene and help steer me to find the right mixture of cute gestures and words which would manifest him closer to my bed. There was an open and warm aura about him. The casual way he moved his hands as he talked. His arms were well defined, overly muscular, but pale as was his chest. The intense humidity of the day must have driven him to take off a shirt he’d normally keep on for modesty. I truthfully didn’t hear anything he said as he talked more about the church, in my head I was confessing my sins and turning to those arms for comfort as he picked me up and carried me away.
“You’ve been driving long?”
His smooth voice, which I’m sure helped fill those pews on a Sunday with a gaggle of moist matrons and sexually confused youths, brought me back to his deep eyes. “All day,” I whined as I leaned my head back. There was something about the man that made me feel instantly comfortable, probably because that was his job, to calm and heal or whatever it was they did. “I started at five and caught this Presbyterian beauty in the sunrise. The light hit her steeple so sweetly I swear she was singing.” It was beautiful. “Then I hit the road, came across another two in the afternoon. They were okay, but nothing like the Pres. I was in a diner where someone mentioned Lowndes county might have some nice hidden away churches, so I ventured out. I shouldn’t take up any more of your time pastor, I need to find a hotel.”
The good pastor braced his arm on the hood of my car showing off his armpit and the hair sticking up in damp untamed peaks. I struggled to focus on his words, but all I heard was a drum beat in my ears as I fought the urge to bury my face in it, press my nose against his skin and inhale a lungful of his heavy unmistakably masculine odor. Delicious.
“Well, a decent motel is about thirty-five miles away.” That damn sexy voice snatched me away from my fantasy. “We do have a small local motel, but truthfully I’d avoid it.” He mouthed the words ‘bed bugs.’
“Ah fuck,” I exclaimed, before quickly covering my mouth and apologizing. He laughed my offensive language away.
“If you’re serious about coming back out so early in the morning, you’re welcome to my spare room. I live in the house behind the church.” Pointing past the church, I followed his finger to another sleepy, rundown structure. “I was done out here anyway, and about to whip up a light dinner, wouldn’t mind some company.”
Well, slap my erection till I cry, the Goddesses heard me after all.
“I’m starving, which was going to be my next question. And if you don’t mind a stranger crashing at your place, I’m down.” I had to control my excitement. My filthy mind already envisioned him crawling into my bed that night…or killing me in the shower, either way—hot.
“No one who comes to God’s house is a stranger.” His smile stretched across his face, and I’d never heard anyone speak with so much sincerity. I didn’t cringe, as I would normally, instead I nodded and thanked him. I thought the religious cheeriness would kill my libido, but it did nothing to dissuade the lust churning in my heart and loins. I’d been uncomfortably at half-mast and unable to adjust myself until after he told me where to park and went to gather up his things.
The good pastor set a simple table: sandwiches, some chips, and surprisingly, a beer. He’d put on a shirt as soon as we got to the house, which annoying—because I liked the view, but maybe he’d noticed my stares. I tried really hard, but when a dude is that hot, whatcha gonna do? He hadn’t showered before putting the shirt on, and that thought was getting some heavy attention in my mind. His sweaty chest stuck to his navy t-shirt all through dinner. Had it been intentional? Was he aware of how sexy that was, or was I just being pervy and trying to instill porn scenarios once again into real life? Or, and most likely, he’d simply not wanted to shower with a leering stranger lurking about his home?
“You’ve got a list of churches you’re marking off?” He asked as I hovered near the counter opposite him, not wanting to crowd him in the tiny but neat kitchen.
“Nah, I got this gig and bounced. Needed to get away. I was in the truck and on the road in less than a half-hour. Mapped out a quiet route of backroads and figured I’d bump into churches along the way. Leave it up to the Universe kind of thing. They’re like people, they all have charm but you’re not going to take a picture of every single one you come across.” He nodded his head as he followed along, and I wondered, in my best Sarah-Jessica Parker voice; had all that time listening to God made him a more attractive, attentive person? As I drank the beer, I watched his thick fingers flex and bend as he carefully layered meat and cheese.
“Yes.” I didn’t have to lie. His church was picturesque, especially in its diminished state. I love broken things; they photograph with more depth and resonance than some flashy new building. “First one in this county I found too, wasn’t even looking. I was searching for a hotel.”
“Well God knows how to lead us to where we need to be.”
I agreed, but hoped for less God-talk, as I did not want to be asked about my Spiritual views while enjoying his hospitality. I helped myself to another beer as he finished the meal and set our plates on the table. We ate without talking much, both of us hungry and focused on our food. Even his chewing noises, which on other people would drive me insane in such close proximity, didn’t bother me. There was a vibe about him that was calming, serene, even. He never pressed for any of my personal details, where someone would normally inquire about a wife or kids, he asked about photography, my education, and life on the road.
By the time we both simultaneously pushed our empty plates forward and sighed with filled-stomach content, he’d generously let me drink five of his beers. The conversation came easily, with no lulls or awkward silences. We moved from the kitchen to the living room, where I stretched out on the couch, happy to do so for the first time in hours. He put on some vintage Elvis, and I couldn’t resist staring at his slender body as he moved around his living room, imaging the fur carpeting it. His ripped, stained jeans clung to his perfectly round ass like a child refusing to leave their parent.
“Thank you for dinner. I appreciate the hospitality.” The light yet filling meal and the booze conspired in loosening me up. I needed to watch myself, as I’d become fixated on repaying his kindness with some of my own—if he’d let me. If the mixture and the conditions were right; if he were lonely enough, open enough, there’d be a chance of a yes. I could as easily sleep in the guestroom and jerk off thinking about him as I could blow him, but the signals in my brain told me to take my shot. I didn’t know enough about the good pastor though, friend or foe? If he learned I was queer, would he kick me out? We hadn’t delved into any personal questions over dinner, so the topic of sexuality hadn’t come up.
“I’ve enjoyed the company, most nights I’m alone.” He admitted slumping into the chair across from me. I couldn’t determine what to do, all through dinner I’d bit my tongue because I couldn’t be sure if he was checking me out or not. I felt like more than once, his eyes lingered on me a little longer than normal. Eyes that contained the familiar glint of craving within them. But that could just be my wishful drinking, so I needed to tread carefully. He looked at me when he spoke, very directly, but warmly, and never feeling invasive. The more time I spent with him the more I envisioned him on the pulpit, spewing out a sermon, or whatever it is they’re yapping about. When he talked about the church, he did so with such a mix of enthusiasm and passion which made him more attractive frankly. I constantly reminded myself to show some restraint. A twenty-something once said I had ‘no chill’—little fucker may have been right, but it still hurt. But I needed to be chill if I was even going to broach the topic.
Are you lonesome tonight?
Do you miss me tonight?
Closing his eyes, the good pastor’s head swayed along with Elvis’s dulcet vocals. “Are you lonely on the road, Andy?” I loved hearing him say my name covered in his accent, it’d never sounded so sexy. He leaned back in the chair, pushing his legs forward and apart in a beautifully picturesque display of a manspreading. The denim swaddled his thighs and every part of me wanted to slide between them, ease his cock out, and show him the depths of my religion.
“I’m lonely at home.” I admitted, “never seems to bother me on the road. I find myself more open to connection while out working. Maybe it’s because I’m in creative mode. And there’s always a kind stranger traveling the road as well. What about you, Pastor, seems like things can get pretty lonely out here?”
He agreed, and his smile dampened. I feared I’d struck a sore spot and if I’d made any progress with the good pastor, I was at risk of losing it. It’s a delicate dance you see, and if I wanted to broach the subject, the steps had to be danced correctly. “It can be,” he said solemnly, “but I have my congregation, and my obligations to the church keep me busy.”
“Can’t take the congregation to bed with you, Boo,” I said as jokingly as possible, and was relieved when his face lit up and he chuckled. “I apologize, I really don’t know anything about your religion. Are you even allowed to have a, uh…friend?”
“Southern Baptist. And yes, there’s an expectation for a Pastor to have a wife and family and lead by example within their community. But I’ve not gotten around to any of that yet. Time may have passed anyway. My truest relationship remains with God.”
“Handsome single pastor like yourself? I figured ladies would be flocking to your door every night with overcooked casseroles in crystal dishes and post-it notes telling you how to reheat it that include their phone number, you know, just in case.” I joked but I couldn’t help but wonder at that moment how rough do men of God fuck? Would he take his wife and bend her over the kitchen table? Would he be soft and passionate? Would he choke me if I asked?
The song reached Elvis’s spoken word and there was a sadness in his eyes, had my comment upset him? “When I first arrived, there was a certain amount of enthusiasm in the community, but my focus was elsewhere. And now, not so much.” He ended his sentence sharply, clearly, a deeper backstory was there, but he would not be going into it. “God gives us all that we need.”
“I need a body in my bed.” He chuckled, but I feigned an apology anyway. “I shouldn’t talk like that, not in your house.”
“You can speak freely in my home. There are no judgments to be laid out here. I figured you led an adventurous and free lifestyle. Be yourself, please.”
I let my eyes linger on his, and there was no denying the spark flickering between us. “That is certainly one way of putting it. I enjoy some company, always have. And I tend to adore strangers.” When he sat up, I did as well, but casually as if ready to dive into the discussion, but mainly to hide the erection pressing through my jeans. “You ever notice how a stranger can be kinder to our soul than someone we’ve known our whole life? They listen without bias, they’re unburdened with the knowledge of our baggage and they get a truly unveiled look at us. And because of that, it’s easier to tell them things we’d never tell the people around us. Easier for them to fulfill needs we can’t get filled elsewhere. Needs we’re too scared to ask for. Needs we don’t believe we are worthy of having met.
“Small towns are suffocating, aren’t they? Filled with nosy people who talk and talk, and everybody’s everything is some busybody’s hot gossip, and they can’t wait to spread what they’ve learned. It’s no different in the city; there your circles are bigger by association, everyone you know, knows five other people, who know five other people, and once you’re in those circles they never stop talking either. A rumor spreads. Someone’s intimate moments become fodder for comments and jokes. I like strangers because they don’t linger long enough to talk.” I felt him silently agreeing. I finished the three sips of beer left and set the bottle on the side table. No more was needed. I leaned forward, never taking my eyes off his. I wet my lips. “Do you need a kind stranger in your life right now, Pastor? Someone, to bear your soul to? Someone…open and willing?”
The record skipped to the end. The bouncing needle matched my pounding heart. The good pastor still smelled of sweat and earth, but his stony silence worried me. I knew on some level he agreed, but he didn’t confirm or deny it. Standing up, he didn’t immediately move away, instead, lingering in front of me as his crotch matched my eye line and no part of me believed it was a coincidence. He could tell me to get out, to fuck off with my dirty faggotry, but he didn’t.
Nor did he retract when I reached out, slowly, with no sudden rushed movements, calm and easy, heteros can be jumpy. I pinched the waistband of his jeans pulling him in toward me. There was no resistance, though I wasn’t sure how much to expect. I brought him closer, his musk invaded my nose, and I took it in greedily. My fingers ran along with the denim until I reached the button and popped the metal circle free from its binding and a small, satisfied whimper escaped the good pastor’s full lips. I slid my tongue forward licking the crotch of his jeans, rubbing against his thickening member pressing through.
His hand gently landed on the top of my head, his fingers flexing ready to grasp me harder and force me down when the time came. I worked the zipper effortlessly, no fumbling, no cutesy jokes, the vinyl record’s crackling hiss provided the only soundtrack to the room as I dropped his jeans to the knees. Tight white underwear—crisp and clean—except for the widening spot of precum spreading from the outline of his splendid but obscured erection. I brought my lips to the fabric and gently coaxed out more of the bittery-sweetness through the soft cotton. The head of his cock pulsed, and I obliged, wrapping my lips around it through the underwear. His moan, so hoarse and desperate for relief, made me swoon. I’d never been this close to a man of God before.
I teased his cock through the tight white underwear, licking my way down the shaft. I felt the shudder moving through his legs. My hands slid around taking a hand of his modest but round ass. I gripped the band of his FTLs with my teeth and carefully worked them down until his cock slapped softly against my lips. I licked the length, pulled on his testicles, and worked my tongue at the base, taking it all the way up to the tip.
The musky tinge within his pubes greeted my nose as I took him down my throat until I gagged. They love to hear a gag. I pulled myself away from his dick, and a beautiful long string of spit followed when I did. Undoing my jeans, I freed myself, stroking as I stroked him. The Pastor stripped off his shirt and my hands raced to feel the thick pelt I’d been thinking about all evening and got lost within the deliciously furry landscape.
I stood up, my hands still on his chest. I leaned in and clamped my mouth over his, our tongues found each other. He pulled off my shirt. I kicked off my jeans. We drew closer, feeling each other’s body; his lean with barely an ounce of extra fat. I was thicker, life on the road, but his hands didn’t care, they took in my flesh with the feverish hunger of a man long deprived. Grabbing at my chest, my arms, squeezing, relishing. His lips traveled away from mine and onto my neck, his tongue leading him to my chest.
Holding both of our cocks in my one hand, I rubbed them against each other with every tug. I was unsure of the Pastor’s age, but his excitement never softened. Rarely had I met a dude who remained like granite the entire time. This holy man was giving himself to me and a flash flood of thoughts washed over me at once; all the positions I wanted, the sensations I wanted him to feel. There were possibilities and opportunities abound with the good pastor and I didn’t want him to miss any of them. His hands skated over my skin like a blind man reading braille, growing more excited with each completed letter.
His fingers tweaked my nipples, pulling on them and tweaked his in return. I tried to drop back to my knees, but he stopped me. Roughly pulling me up, turning me around, kissing my neck, licking down between my shoulder blades along my spine until reaching my backside. His left hand massaged my erection as his tongue slid forward. I cried out as he circled, flicking his tongue and pressing against my sweet spot as if ready to enter. He rubbed the precum escaping over the head and in a smooth maneuver backed away, spun me around, and swallowed my erection.
His lips smoothly caressed against the head. The good pastor knew how to worship, taking all of my dick to the base on his first go. He remained there for a few moments to savor my ample offering: memorizing the taste, taking in the smell, the feeling of it against his tongue. Releasing my cock, he took my balls gently into his mouth. I went to stroke myself, but he removed my hand, placing it on his own head before he returned to sucking.
I forced myself down his throat and loved hearing him gag. I caught a glimpse of the tears rolling down his cheek and the sight fired me up. I slid into being dominant, demanding he suck me—swallow me to the root. But I didn’t really need to say anything, he tackled this job with vigor and passion.
I needed more than his mouth. I ushered him up off his knees, much to his resistance, and kissed him again, tasting the copious amount of precum lingering on his lips like the glaze atop a donut. I turned around, grabbing the back of the couch as I arched my backside up. I wasn’t sure what he wanted, or how far he was willing to go, but I had a good feeling everything was on the menu. I glanced over my shoulder, smirking as I waved my ass across his erection.
He grabbed me at the waist and ran his hands down to my calves. I thought about how those same hands would later hold the bible and wave in the air as he gave his sermon. The same hands which would shake hands with his congregation were now spreading me open, as he spit onto his fingers. I pushed back forcing more of him into me than I was ready for, but I didn’t care. The pain melted into pleasure. I needed to feel the full extent of the good pastor’s untapped sexual aggression, which oozed off and out of him. He grasped my shoulders straightening me up, running his hands over my chest, balling his fist, and pounding on my pecs as he thrust. He felt heavenly designed for me; his girth and length filled me perfectly. The tip of his erection pressed against my prostate and with every thrust, convulsions ricocheted through me. I’d tried to quiet myself, muffle the noises of sin in his house, God’s sublet, but for the good pastor, I couldn’t help but cry out and beg for more, to which he obliged.
He’d found a tempo, working with the motion of my hips as I ground back into him, he slid out, massaging the head of his cock against my hole, teasing me before diving deeply back in. I’d not expected such a tender and thoughtful top, straight dudes usually gave out callous hammering thrusts; sloppy and unfocused, joyful only to be inside—but not respecting—the temple, merely pummeling it until their climax. Not the good pastor, however, he’d laid with a man before, of that, I was certain. He was far too familiar with language; the ebbs and flows of another man’s body. He understood how to top, even stroking me as he continued, and never once lost the deliriously satisfying rhythm.
He pulled out, clinging to me as his lips found mine and his hands did more than grope my body, they memorized it. This would possibly be his only morsel of food until maybe forever, and he was going to recall it as vividly as possible, for as long as he could. He spun us around and assumed the position I’d just been in. There was a thin layer of fur across the good pastor’s cheeks, dark and inviting. I dropped to my knees and stared, my hands massaging his rear as I spread him and buried my face without hesitation, allowing my tongue to take a tour of his tender area. Under my fingers, I felt the goosebumps prickle up all over his skin. I came up for air and thank the Goddesses he tasted delicious. His vocal stammering proved he’d enjoyed my talents as well.
I moved the good pastor onto his back. I wanted to see his face when I slid in. It’s an ego boost to see that flicker of pain dissolve into ecstasy as I pushed in further, feeling as if somehow, I’d been designed perfectly for him as well. Kismet? Synchronicities? Who can say?
His eyes rolled back as I grabbed his ankles and increased my thrust. His moans could have shaken the walls. I eased up until his dark eyes met mine and he pleaded for it harder. I stroked as I slammed into him. His balls tightened up. His fur-covered muscles tensed. I could see his climax nearing and I wanted to be buried deep within him when it occurred. I felt a deep-rooted obligation to give the good pastor the best orgasm I could provide. Focused on his quivering lips, I matched motions, and when I saw his penis throb, slammed his jackpot until he erupted.
Like a geyser, his joy shot upwards and out. I rolled my tongue forward, past my lips, and snagged a bit of his holiness before it splattered back down on his body, riddled through his dark hair. His body shuddered. He gripped my penis as I went to pull out, forcing me to remain where I was as his shaky hands grabbed at me and corrected my course. With his body still humming, his grip tight on my waist, my arm shot out and grabbed him behind the neck, forcing him up to meet me so I could taste his lips as I unleashed my gratitude within him.
We remained motionless. Me, still firm and inside; him, lost within his own bliss. Our heavy breaths added to the ongoing vinyl hiss. I felt myself still spurting, letting off more, and every time I thought I’d finished an orgasmic aftershock tickled me, and another blast came. Tingles down both my legs and up my spine. I wanted more, I wanted to keep fucking. I wanted to feel his climax within me.
I ran my hands over the Pastor’s chest as I collapsed on the couch next to him. “Always…trust the kindness of strangers,” he said with a Sunday Sermon tone to his voice, smiling brightly with his eyes still closed, his arm up and hand reaching out to find any part of me to touch, not ready to concede the moment.
In truth, neither was I. The vibrations of the holy orgasm jet skied through my body, and at that moment, I was beyond grateful the good pastor had been so kind as to open his home to me for the whole night.
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