Date: Wed, 10 Jun 1998 06:01:25 -0400 (EDT)
From: discovery@technologist.com
Subject: Mission from God (t/t, n/c - well, sorta)

Mission from God (t/t, reluc - well, sorta)
=========================================

by Chris Palmer


Disclaimer and notes.

This story contains sex, and some violence, between two late-teenage 
boys.  As such, if this is not to your taste, you find such material 
offensive or it is unlawful for you to read under the laws to which 
you are subject, don't.   Press the delete key now.

The story also explores my fascination with Mormon missionaries.  
We've all seen them: crisply dressed young men walking around in 
pairs.  If this seems like a turn off to you, then again, read no 
further.

It is not my intent to cause offence to anyone who is a member or 
sympathetic to members of the Latter Day Saint (Mormon) church.  By 
now you must have a pretty good idea what is going to happen in the 
story, so if you read on don't say I didn't warn you.

To the best of my knowledge and belief, the background details of the 
LDS church are accurate.  The rules under which missionaries live are 
all real rules, although the numbers are not intended to be accurate.  
In particular, the teaching about using violent action to fend off 
any homosexual advance is still quoted in current church literature 
given to young men.

The two main characters in the story are not based on any real 
person, living or dead.  Any resemblance to real people is co-
incidental and unintentional.

Comments are welcome to discovery@technologist.com.  In particular 
I'd like to hear from anyone who would like me to continue the story, 
and any ideas for the direction you'd like it to take.  Flames will 
be ignored.

This story is copyright by Chris Palmer, 1998.  It may be reproduced 
in its entirety but not in part, so long as the original author is 
credited and no payment is requested for its use.

Mission from God
================

By Chris Palmer


Introduction

The trouble with economy class, thought Ryan, was that the person who 
designed the seats clearly wasn't 6 feet 2 inches tall.

Time was that Ryan would have muttered a curse and forgotten about 
it, but that belonged to his past.  For a little over a year ago, the 
beefy nineteen year old had accepted a challenge that had changed his 
life entirely.

Like most of the boys - heck, most of the people and probably a 
majority of the domestic pets - in his hometown of Kanab, Utah, Ryan 
was a Mormon.  And for young men, that meant that as close as 
possible to age 19 as health and finances allowed, he was expected to 
don the dark suit and spend two years pounding the streets as a 
missionary.

Ryan had had no intention of going along.  But continuous pressure 
from his anxious parents, his youth counsellors and the more 
conformist of his friends had led to him attending a talk given by 
the local Mission president.  "Whatever your doubts, go!" he 
thundered.  "There is NOTHING - no doubt, no problem no circumstance 
- that should stand in your way.  It is your DUTY, and you will be 
BLESSED!"

Impressive stuff.  And so later that week, Ryan had decided that, 
after all, he would go.  And now, a year later, he had spent three 
weeks at the Missionary Training Center being trained in what to say 
and how to behave, and now he was on a plane heading for Dublin at 
the start of his two year mission to convert the people of Ireland to 
the True Faith.

Ryan again tried to get comfortable in his seat.  Like many Utahns, 
he displayed the signs of Nordic ancestry.  He was tall and well-
muscled, his hair blond to the point of whiteness.  His eyes, over 
high cheekbones, were a deep ultramarine with a look in them which 
spoke of an innocence rare in most nineteen-year olds today.  As 
instructed in the Mission handbook, he was wearing white shirt, tie 
and black trousers.  His suit jacket was thrown over the next seat.  
He didn't really expect to be wearing anything very different for the 
next two years.

The innocence was not deceptive.  Although Ryan had been a pretty big 
shot around school - quarterback on the football team and Class 
President in his senior year - he had never really joined in with the 
activities of some of his less "good" friends.  So Ryan's sexual 
experience was limited to a period of masturbation that had started 
at age 14 when he had spent a weekend on camp sharing a tent with 
Jimmy Sorenson, who seemed to do little else, and ended last year 
when he had decided to commit himself to his mission.

It is - just - possible for a teenage boy to stop masturbating 
voluntarily, but at some cost to his peace of mind.  Not having that 
avenue of relief, Ryan found himself getting erections virtually all 
the time; wet dreams nearly every night, and at the end of the day 
his underwear would be sticky with leaked pre-cum.  Still, sometimes 
he needed to jack so badly, he could taste the desire.  But now he 
was up to 283 days without a wank, and counting.

We'll get back to the subject of Ryan's underwear later.

Incidentally, nothing more than masturbation had ever even crossed 
Ryan's mind.  That was evil!  He'd even been told that should 
"abominable activities" be threatened, he would be expected to take 
any action, even violence, in order to "keep himself pure."  Not that 
Ryan was like that, of course.  Well, there was that time he'd seen 
Brad Thomson in the shower and sprung a boner, but those things 
happened, didn't they?

Ryan gave up the attempt to find a comfortable position to doze, and 
sat up.  Reasoning that he might as well put the time to good use, he 
pulled out his miniature version of the Book of Mormon (paragraph 2 
of the Missionary Handbook had told him that he should have it with 
him at all times).  He started to read.

Within minutes, he was asleep.


Cead Mille Failte

"Flip, will you look at that?" exclaimed Bill Mackie, jamming his 
foot onto the brake of the old Ford Fiesta.  "More ruddy sheep!"  It 
was true.  The narrow Irish lane in front of them was blocked by a 
flock of the stupid animals.  The shepherd waved amiably at the car, 
but made no special move to clear their way.  Hurry is not something 
that is well understood in the south-west of Ireland.

Ryan had been in Ireland for five days now.  He had been partnered 
with Bill Mackie - sorry, Elder Mackie, who had been working in the 
mission for about 18 months.  The Mission President had told him that 
Elder Mackie was "one of my most experienced people.  I know that I'm 
putting you in a really safe pair of hands there."

After five days, Ryan - sorry, Elder Jonsson, to give him his proper 
title - was not so sure.  His idea of a senior missionary was someone 
who was a spiritual example: someone who would work all day long and 
pray in any spare moments.  He expected someone who knew the 
scriptures backwards.  In short, something like a cross between St 
Paul and Martin Luther King.

But in all the time they had spent together, Ryan could not remember 
Bill - Elder Mackie, he corrected himself - ever once opening a book 
of scripture.  It would have been difficult anyway, as his only copy 
was wedged under the short leg of the table in their damp one-room 
flat in a Cork backstreet.  They had taught no-one, and their days 
seemed to be spent going from one far-flung cottage to another 
visiting the (few) friendly Mormon families in the predominantly 
Catholic area.  All very sociable.  Ryan rather enjoyed visiting with 
the families, in fact: they all had sons and daughters, often not 
much younger than the two Elders.  And Ryan had to admit: his 
companion did seem to attract hero-worship that bordered on adulation 
from the young men of the area.

He looked across at his companion, now trying to mop the condensation 
off the inside of the windscreen and peering out through the Irish 
rain to see if the road was clear of ovine obstruction yet.  Elder 
Mackie was a complete contrast to Ryan himself.  He was about 5ft 7 
tall, wiry but with shoulders so square they looked as though he had 
dressed without bothering to remove the coathanger. He had a slim, 
triangular face topped with tight black curls.  His eyes were an 
almost flinty grey.  His nose had been broken in a rugby game when he 
was thirteen, but rather than marring his looks, it added a toughness 
to him that doubtless helped make him a hero to the young boys of the 
area.

The main impression that everyone got of Elder Mackie was one of 
vitality.  If he was sitting down, you expected him to jump up and 
start running around the room.  Even now, strapped into the driver's 
seat of their small car, he was constantly moving around, peering 
forward, looking behind, muttering and cursing under his breath at 
the unexpected and intolerable delay.

Apart from anything else, Mackie was a native Irishman, and Ryan 
still hadn't quite worked the Irish out yet.  Almost everything they 
said seemed to have a double meaning.  Ryan was starting to suspect 
that a lot of the double meanings were poking fun at the big American  
- meaning Ryan - and as yet he had not quite decided how to react.  
As a result, he mostly said nothing, a trait which he thought 
irritated Mackie, who rarely if ever stopped talking.

At last the sheep cleared from the road and Elder Mackie floored the 
accelerator.  In the pitifully underpowered car that was all the 
Mission would give them this produced more sound than real speed, but 
they were underway at last.  The shepherd waved an apology at the two 
boys, and Elder Mackie called back "Thank you", muttering something 
afterwards that sounded like "you fecking gobshite".  They were on 
their way back to Cork and their flat.

Cork has never been by-passed, so every morning and afternoon it 
grinds to a halt as everyone tries to get across the one main bridge 
across the River Lee.  Ryan and his companion were just unlucky 
enough to hit the afternoon rush hour, and so it was another forty 
minutes before they reached the terraced street where their basement 
flat was.  They parked the car and locked it.

It was Ryan's turn to get dinner that evening, and he fell back upon 
the staple of single men everywhere: spaghetti bolognaise.  In this 
case, made by taking a tin of tomatoes and some minced beef that 
hadn't actually turned green at the back of the fridge.  Whilst he 
was busy in the "kitchen" - actually two gas rings in a corner of the 
room - his companion was getting changed out of his street clothes.

Ryan, who was still very new, thought that his companion's habit of 
just slobbing out in their flat was sloppy.  He, Ryan, always kept 
his shirt on until he went to bed.  But Elder Mackie seemed to think 
nothing of stripping down to his underwear as soon as they got in, 
and staying that way for the rest of the evening.

Now underwear, for Mormons, is a big deal.  Some religions expect 
their priests to wear a dog-collar; some expect saffron robes, some 
expect their members to wear a turban.  Mormons are more discreet.  
They wear special underwear.  It is white.  The top bit, for men at 
any rate, is effectively a white T-shirt; the bottom half is a close 
fitting white thing that extends to just above the knees.  To avoid 
inadvertent exposure, the penile area is doubled over which means 
that when the member (no pun intended) wants to take a leak, the 
willie has to be threaded out through a sort of cotton Z-bend.  All 
too frequently, Ryan had found, the fiddling required would lead to 
partial or total erection which combined with the aforementioned 
contortions rendered urination in a downwards direction totally 
impossible.

The intention of the designers of these garments was to protect the 
wearer from (amongst other things) sexual temptation.  And it has to 
be said that compared, say, to a leather thong they were not exactly 
arousing.  But there were compensations.  The fact that the crotch 
was doubled cloth meant that they provided quite a bit of support for 
the package within.  Unlike briefs there was no elastication on the 
legs, so a swollen organ could push downwards where, thanks to the 
general cut of the cloth it would be clearly outlined.  Unlike 
boxers, which are often so baggy as to obscure their contents, 
someone seeking a young Mormon in his official garments would always 
have a pretty good idea as to the general size of that particular 
young man's sexual equipment.  If he cared to look, that is.

And that was what Bill Mackie was wearing.  Stripped to his garments, 
Ryan noticed, his companion had a tight, rounded ass that looked 
almost out of place on his otherwise lean body.  The pressure of his 
ass backwards meant that there wasn't all that much cloth left to go 
around the front, and, Ryan couldn't help noticing, this put the 
other young man's front bulge into sharp relief.  It looked as though 
there was quite a bit in there.  As he watched it, Ryan could see the 
movement inside as Elder Mackie walked around the room...

Ryan broke off his train of thought in surprised disgust.  What was 
he doing, looking at another missionary's private parts like that?  
Even if the guy did seem to be flaunting them, it wasn't right!   
Ryan could feel a red flush starting up his neck.  He concentrated on 
stirring the spaghetti.

Spag Bog doesn't take long, so the two young Elders were soon sitting 
down to plates piled high with food.  It does have a snag: if you are 
hungry, and trying to eat it quickly, it splashes.  Elder Mackie in 
particular didn't seem to be making any effort to stop juices 
dripping on his shirt and shorts.  Even Ryan's white shirt had 
tomato-red stains on it by the time his plate was clean.

Elder Mackie looked at himself in apparent disgust.  "Fetch, look at 
me!  I look like my kid sister when she doesn't wear her bib!"  With 
that, he stripped off his undershirt, leaving himself naked to the 
waist.

This was the first time that Ryan had seen his companion even half 
naked: previously, although Mackie had changed in front of Ryan - 
there wasn't anywhere else anyway, unless you went upstairs to the 
shared bathroom - Ryan had always piously averted his eyes.  But this 
time there wasn't much option.

Despite himself, Ryan was impressed.  Bill Mackie's body was a marvel 
of definition.  Although he wasn't anything like as big as Ryan 
himself, the other boy was tautly muscled: his belly was ridged and 
there was no spare flesh anywhere.  His chest was a perfect double 
curve of muscle: each mound was topped with a large pink-brown 
nipple, and the cleft between them dusted with a coating of black 
hair which only served to accentuate the lines of the model 
pectorals.

When he turned around, the back view was almost as interesting.  From 
the back, Ryan was struck by the way his companion's outline was an 
almost perfect triangle.  His wide shoulders tapered down to a 
narrow, trained waist.  The line of his spinal column was clearly 
visible amongst the supporting muscles, running directly down from 
the close-cropped hair of his neck to where his shorts still obscured 
the sight of his...

Again, Ryan had to jerk himself off that train of thought.  What was 
the matter with him today?  That was twice he'd caught himself 
staring at Bill - Elder Mackie, he reminded himself sternly - and 
thinking thoughts that were definitely not anywhere in the Missionary 
Manual.

Fortunately, the other boy seemed not to have noticed.  He was 
looking at Ryan, but his expression was one of disgust.

"And you're a mess too," he stated abruptly.  "Look at your shirt.  I 
think you'd better change it right now."

This posed a bit of a problem for Ryan.  He only had three shirts 
with him, and the other two were just as dirty.  He was, quite 
frankly, a bit surprised at Elder Mackie's sudden vehemence:  up 
until now, he could have sworn that his senior companion wouldn't 
have noticed, or cared, if Ryan had gone out wearing a dress.  But 
Ryan was the junior companion, and it is a rule (no 6) that junior 
missionaries are supposed to obey their seniors in all things.  He 
explained his problem with the lack of a clean shirt to Mackie.

"Then take it off anyway" commanded the other boy.  "You can wash it 
later."  Ryan shrugged, but complied.

Unfortunately this still didn't satisfy his mentor.  "Some of that 
stuff's soaked through, Elder," was Mackie's comment.  "It's 
disrespectful to wear dirty garments like that: you'd better take 
those off too."  Ryan thought this most odd, but he was the junior, 
so again he complied.  Mackie had, after all, just cited rule 22(b) 
about dirty garments, so probably he was right, after all.

Now that the two boys were similarly dressed, Elder Mackie seemed to 
lose interest and suggested that they should clear up the dishes 
straightaway so they wouldn't stink up the room.  Together, they 
carried the dishes over to the sink which served all purposes: 
dishes, clothes and bodies when they couldn't be bothered to make the 
trip to the bathroom.

Bill washed, and Ryan, after a quick hunt around for a towel that 
wasn't already beyond toleration, dried.  It didn't take long.

Last of all, Bill reached for the saucepan.  Lifting it over, his 
fingers seemed to slip, and the heavy pan splashed into the sink, 
sending water in all directions, including over Ryan and himself.  
The water was hot, but not painful.

"Fuck!"

Ryan was so astounded he forgot the fact that he was now drenched 
from the waist down.  Missionaries never, ever, swore like that.  
Instead, they made up mock-swearwords to relieve tension.   Amazing 
that hearing one word like that can have such shock-value.   So 
unused was he to hearing such language that for a moment he quite 
failed to notice that his senior companion had quickly stripped off 
his remaining clothing and was now standing in front of Ryan, totally 
naked, except for his wristwatch.

Ryan, involuntarily, looked down.  He fought to raise his gaze, but 
gave up the struggle.

What had looked like an interesting package when covered was even 
more enticing when fully revealed.  A thin line of hair ran down the 
centre of Bill's chest to his navel, broadening out into a perfect 
bushy triangle that widened as it descended.  The two lower points of 
the triangle only served to focus attention on what lay below.

Senior Missionary Elder William Mackie was blessed in more ways than 
one.  His balls hung heavy and low, swinging in a long sac covered in 
black fur.  His balls were huge.  No matter how he stood, they could 
be seen clearly through the skin of his scrotum.

Clearly, that is, if it were not for the stallion-like penis that 
nearly obscured them.  Dropping maybe six inches from its hairy root, 
the monster dangled obscenely.  The whole shaft was thick - maybe 
five or six inches in circumference - but the head was broader still: 
the whole looked like a weighted club.  Like most Europeans, Elder 
Mackie was uncircumcised.  Ryan, being from America and a 
conservative area at that had never in his life seen a foreskin-
equipped penis.  To him, it merely made the monstrous swelling at the 
end even more exotic and unknown.

Ryan came to with a start.  Had his companion noticed his rapt gaze?  
His next words seemed to suggest otherwise.

"Jeez, that hurt.  Do you think I've done any damage?"

"What?  Oh, I dunno."  Ryan was having a hard time thinking.

"Well, if you don't know, have a look!  It feels like I've burnt my 
dick half off!"

The water hadn't felt that hot to Ryan.  In fact his own middle 
section was now cold and clammy where the water had spilled on him 
too.

"What do you mean?"

Elder Mackie sounded impatient.  "Would you please have a close look 
at my friggin' penis is what I mean!  I think I might have burnt it, 
and you can get closer to it than I can!"

Ryan had the crazy thought that if his companion wanted to, he could 
probably poke himself in the eye with his monster chopper.  But, 
obediently, he squatted down next to where his companion was standing 
and looked at his cock and balls.

"Er, it looks, um, OK to me."

"Just a sec -- have a look underneath, wouldya?"

His senior made no move to make this possible, and so Ryan hesitantly 
extended his hand until his hand brushed against the dangling organ.  
Gingerly, as if he expected it to bite, he held it between finger and 
thumb and moved it to one side.

"Well, it is a bit red, maybe."  Now why on earth had he said that?  
As far as Ryan could tell, and this was the closest he had ever been 
to any penis, his own included, it looked perfectly fine.  But Elder 
Mackie didn't seem to take offence.  If anything, he sounded 
relieved.

"Better put some burn cream on it then.  Get it out of my pack, 
wouldya?"

Ryan tore himself away from the hypnotic organ and scurried to get 
the cream.  He offered it to Mackie, who made no move to take it.

"Rub it on."

"WHAT?"

"Go on, rub it on.  You're not going to start disobeying me now, are 
you?"

"NN--No--oo.  I'm not going to do that.  That's sick.  You're a 
pervert.  No way am I touching your" he hesitated before saying the 
forbidden word "fucking dick!  You want to rub it, you do it 
yourself!!"

Mackie's voice took on a mocking tone.  "Oh, yankee doodle's scared -- I 
reckon you're the queerboy really -- you're scared you're gonna get 
horny lookin at my prick!  Or maybe it's cos you've got such a puny 
one that if you get a hardon you're afraid no-one will notice!"

Ryan made for the door, temporarily forgetting his semi-clothed 
state.  Anything to get away from this taunting, cruel voice - a 
voice that, truth be known, was expressing some of his deepest fears.

Before he could get his hand on the doorknob, he felt himself stopped 
by a hand grabbing the waistband of his undershorts.  He tried to 
pull away, but instead the fabric ripped and fell away from Ryan 
leaving him fully naked.  Ryan tripped and fell to his knees.

The American teen saw red.  He'd been scared, insulted and now 
assaulted.  Feeling nothing but rage and anger, he came up swinging.  
All of his 210 pounds of bone and muscle was behind his fist as he 
drove it into his tormentor's face.

Mackie's head snapped backwards with the force of the blow.  But Bill 
Mackie was a survivor of the backstreets of Dublin and had been in a 
few fights himself.  Smaller and faster than the other boy, the Irish 
lad still fancied his chances.  He lowered his head, and charged 
Ryan, impacting right on target in the solar plexus.

Ryan was taken by surprise.  In fights before, one blow from his 
meaty fist had always been enough to at least slow the other guy 
down, but here was this shrimp of a Paddy coming straight back for 
more.  Gasping for breath, he backed away.  The two boys watched each 
other warily.

"Come on, Mummy's boy!" Bill continued to taunt.  "You're not in your 
little desert hole fuckin' lizards now -- this is the real world.  Come 
on, you fuckin' coward, if you've got the balls.  Come and get me, 
you gobshite!"

Ryan was wild.  There was no thought in his head other than to 
silence the other boy's smart mouth, to smash him, crush him, show 
him that he couldn't push Ryan about like that.  He lunged towards 
Bill, no longer looking to punch or to box, but intent on gripping, 
on wrestling, on domination.

Bill tried to sidestep the furious American, but this time Ryan was 
too fast for him.  He lashed out a hand and grabbed the smaller boy's 
right wrist, bending it painfully up his back.  With the other hand, 
he grabbed Bill's hair and pulled his head back until it was almost 
touching his shoulders behind.

With all his wiry athleticism, Bill Mackie struggled, but when it 
came to brute strength he was no match for the pride of the Kanab 
High Football squad.  He kicked backwards, but to no avail.  He tried 
to lash backwards with his free hand, but somehow couldn't connect.  
Ryan lifted him until his toes were barely touching the ground and 
his weight was taken, painfully, on his arm and hair in Ryan's vice-
like grip.

The explosion of violence between them had had a strange effect on 
Ryan.  Although he had been scared, as the adrenaline took control, 
the excitement grew.  He had always gotten a buzz from wrestling and 
the rucks and mauls of football, but nothing to compare with the 
turn-on from successfully physically dominating his tormentor.  He 
felt alive, invigorated.  He wanted to show the Irish lad, finally, 
who was boss.

And nature had provided the perfect way.  For rising from Ryan's bush 
of pubic hair was a weapon used by men throughout the ages to impose, 
to take and to claim.

Ryan's dick wasn't as impressive as Bill's when soft, but was more 
than adequate when excited.  On a less husky youth it would have been 
very impressive: on someone of Ryan's build it looked perfectly 
proportioned.  Seven and a half inches it reared from its root: over 
half a foot of velvet-covered steel rod.  Its only deviation was a 
gentle curve backwards towards Ryan's belly.  His circumcision had 
left a ridge of skin just below the helmet, which looked like a giant 
oversized cherry on the end of the stick.

Call him a queer, huh, Ryan thought.  I'll show him.  Not letting up 
his grip for a moment, he forced the now quiet boy over to the table 
and bent him over, forcing his face down to the polished wood.  
Brutally, he kicked the boy's legs apart.  He let go of Bill's hair, 
but increased his pressure on the boy's wrist in the small of his 
back, pinning him to the table.

In that position, Bill's asshole was at the perfect height for Ryan 
to enter.  Bill had obviously worked out what Ryan had in mind 
because he started to babble.

"Oh, jeez, mate, not that!  We were only having a bit of fun -- listen, 
I'm sorry about the things I said, I was only trying to get you to 
loosen up a bit.  Please, don't do that -- I've never had anything like 
this before.  God, don't, please Ryan--" and he tailed off into muffled 
sobs.

All this pleading was only helping to stoke Ryan's fires further.  He 
wanted to hear the other boy plead, to recognise that he was in 
Ryan's power, that he was now Ryan's to do with as he wanted.  Well, 
there was going to be no mercy.  He'd never done this before but he 
knew that he had to line up his cockhead with Bill's hole and push...

Nothing happened.  Repeatedly, Ryan stabbed and struck at the hole, 
but couldn't penetrate.  Then, whether because his action had started 
to smear the precum leaking from his piss-slit over Bill's ass, or 
whether the sweat running down Bill's back had finally reached his 
hole, or whether Ryan just managed enough force on his last thrust, 
his battering dick drove its way into Bill's asshole.  The whole of 
Ryan's cockhead popped inside, leaving the rest of his shaft poking 
out, like a link between their two bodies.

Bill screamed in agony.  It was as though the violation of his guts 
set them on fire.  His whole body fought to expel the intruder, but 
he was powerless in the face of Ryan's muscular onslaught.

Ryan thrust again.  This time, the band of his circumcision made it 
past the portal, causing it to stretch still wider.  This time, 
Bill's scream of pain was more muffled, as though he was finding it 
hard to breathe.

Now it was just a matter of time.  His face set in a grimace of 
concentration, Ryan jabbed again -- and again -- and again.  In three more 
pushes, his pubes were flat against Bill's ass-cheeks and his chopper 
was fully inside Bill.

Instinct drove the American teen now.  He'd taken everything that the 
smaller boy had to offer, but he was damned if he was going to stop 
now.  First, he tried jabbing in and out in short, powerful thrusts, 
then as his confidence grew, his fuck-action got longer and longer 
until he was pulling out to the head before thrusting and claiming 
Bill's ass for his own again.

Ryan had never felt anything like this before.  The only release he 
had had in the past had been when he wrapped his big paw around his 
tool and pummelled it into giving him an orgasm.  Now though he was 
feeling the warm slickness of another boy's ass enveloping his 
boyhood and it was beautiful.

As he fucked, Ryan's expression changed.  At the start, his face had 
shown only hard anger and fierceness.  Now, as his prick experienced 
the strongest stimulation ever, his face showed first wonder, then a 
desperate longing.

All the time, Ryan's fuckstroke continued to power into the abused 
hole.  All the force that his legs and hips could muster went into 
his attack; almost as much into his retreat each time.  Was it his 
imagination, or was it becoming easier, though?

Bill, who had been silent since his initial shouts of agony, now 
started to moan slightly.  More than that, instead of the frozen 
stillness he had shown, he was now starting to stir slightly under 
Ryan.

No, Ryan wasn't imagining it.  The muscled young body beneath him was 
definitely starting to move in time with his own rhythm.  The ass 
which at first had tried its hardest to repel Ryan's battering ram 
now seemed to relax to the invasion, almost to welcome it each time 
it returned.

If Ryan thought he had been aroused before, now he rose to new 
heights.  His fucking lost its tight, brittle quality as he started 
almost to dance in and out of Bill.  And Bill, in turn, matched 
Ryan's action, perfectly in phase, meeting each of the bigger boys 
thrusts with a movement of his own that brought them tight together 
before they moved apart once more.

Ryan's head swam.  Nothing he had ever experienced before had 
prepared him for this ecstacy.  No longer an abuser, his penis became 
a giver: pushing in where it was welcomed, anxious to give pleasure 
both to its owner and its partner.

Inside Ryan's ball-sack, tension began to grow.  His testicles, 
already pulled tight against his body, out of danger from the 
enthusiastic action, began to tense still further.  Ryan's gift, and 
the last sign of his mastery over his sweating companion, couldn't 
long be delayed.

At the last moment, it seemed to Ryan as though he lost his sense of 
self.  So attuned had the two missionaries become to each other that 
they moved as one boy, one human animal intent on the pursuit of 
shattering release.  No boy masturbating alone ever reached that 
unconscious point where desire met satisfaction that Ryan and Bill 
shared in those last moments.

Ryan's dick swelled and hardened and Ryan pushed for the last time.  
As he reached the end of his stroke, the world ended.

From his gaping piss-slit, a wave of hot boycream gushed into Bill's 
waiting hole.  Inside, it was as though a dam had broken, allowing 
both the physical release of his juice, but also the mental release 
of his tension, his anger, and his love.

Obeying some obscure instinct, Ryan pulled all the way out of the ass 
that he had made his own, just in time for the second wave of his 
orgasm to send another burst of juice spattering over Bill's brawny 
back.  Unconsciously, Ryan's hand gripped his fuckpole and wanked.

The third wave that this extra stimulation produced was the biggest 
of all, and it staggered Ryan.  Unable to see or to control his 
movements, he collapsed forward onto the prone body of his companion, 
his breath heaving.  Bill's body too was shuddering in the 
characteristic signs of orgasm, and their combined action served to 
smear Ryan's cum between them like glue bonding them together.  
Ryan's dick lay cradled in Bill's ass as it finally softened.

The two young Elders stayed there for an unmeasured time.  Ryan felt 
that he could stay there forever, draped over the beautiful physical 
animal that he had started out to claim in violence and ended not 
merely claiming, but sharing a symphony of pleasure.  The warmth of 
the young Irish stud was something he never wanted to lose.  He 
nuzzled the smaller boy's cheek with his.  His mind wandered for a 
while, but finally he was called back to reality by a sound from 
beneath him.  At first, he thought that Bill was crying - perhaps the 
pain had returned?  Eventually, he realised that Bill was chuckling.  
The big American got up, enjoying the sensation as his cooling cum 
separated between his chest and belly and Bill's back.

"Jeez, that was a good one!" The Irish boy was definitely laughing 
now.

Ryan wasn't up to much conversation yet.  "Huh?"

"You mean you didn't guess?"

"Guess what?"  Incredulous realisation began to dawn.  "You mean you 
wanted this to happen?"

"Sure I did.  I couldn't hardly come up to you and say 'Hi, I'm Elder 
Mackie, would you like to shaft my ass', now, could I?  But I hoped I 
could provoke you into a bit of fooling around, that was all.  Maybe 
a bit of the old mutual appreciation society, you know?

"But when you started beating up on me I was really scared.  I 
thought you were goin' to kill me!  You've got one devil of a punch."  
He rubbed his jaw, wincing slightly.  "But then you got me across the 
table, and I thought to myself, Bill, you're going to get the fucking 
of your life.  And bejesus, wasn't I right?"

His tone was thoughtful as he continued.  "Shit, when I saw you a few 
days ago I nearly creamed myself on the spot. I thought you'd be up 
for a bit of hand action - at least, I hoped so.  But I never had you 
tagged as someone who'd shag me like a friggin' stallion!"

Ryan, still confused, could only repeat "you wanted this to happen 
between us?"

"Sure I did.  And no, you're not the first.  I first got shagged at 
my twelfth birthday party, and I haven't stopped since.  But you, wow, 
you're something special."

Something in Ryan's expression when Bill talked of his experience 
struck the Irish lad.  "You've never done anything like this before, 
have you?"  Ryan just shook his head.  Bill dragged his companion 
over to the bed, pushed him to sit down, and then sat down beside him 
and put his arm around the bigger youth.

"Listen.  Sometimes things like this happen when we least expect 
them.  You needed what happened just now.  Didn't you feel it, right 
at the end?  Didn't it feel right?  Like we were meant to be doing it 
together?"  Ryan nodded.  "I felt it too.  And now, I don't want to 
lose you.  Ryan, jesus, I don't know how to say this -- I was hoping for 
a bit of a game with you, but now--" he swallowed a lump that seemed 
to have grown in his throat "I love you, Ryan.  I really love you."

This was too much for Ryan.  He'd been on a roller-coaster of emotion 
- fear, anger, rage, triumph and now this.  His lip trembled, and 
then he began to bawl.  His companion, now his lover, held the big 
athlete in his arms, his own eyes moist.  Then, as Ryan's sobbing 
slowed and stopped, he turned his face to his companions, and for the 
first time their lips met in a kiss that promised it would not be the 
last.  The two boys sank back onto the bed, held in each others arms, 
where they stayed the rest of the night.