Date: Wed, 12 Apr 2017 16:18:04 -0400 From: Orson Cadell Subject: Bless Me Father Bless Me Father This SHORT one-off story and its characters are fiction. It is a personal fantasy that I wrote for another reader. If any character resembles you or someone you know, I WANT DETAILS, you lucky fucker, preferably with photos! It is, of course, copyrighted by the author with all rights reserved and very, very negotiable. Also, keep the cum coming -- Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html! I'm an old guy (>30). I know what it was like when you had to BUY porn. Five miles uphill both ways in the snow just to GET to the XXX store. You whippersnapper don't know how good you've got it. This involves an explicit sexual daydream of a young man whose fantasy involves an adult male priest. If that is illegal for who/where you may be right now, fuck off and get thee to a monastery (where you might just find scenes similar to some below). ***** I cannot stop thinking about Father Cayley. It is Saturday and I am cleaning the parts of the church that the Altar Society never really touches, including the altar itself. Today -- well, every Saturday -- is especially torturous. I start each Saturday by confessing my sins through the wood screen, shaking and quaking at what I can never say -- that the impure thoughts driving my sinful acts of lust are all about one, single, massive, red-haired bear of man named Father Cayley. And he's sitting on the other side of the screen. I have been achingly hard since I woke this morning. For reasons that only make sense inside my own head, I feel it's even more wrong to pump out a load on the very day that I am seeking absolution. That frustration coupled with the nearness of my red giant -- oh, God, I *smelled* him through the screen! A deep, wondrous musk that nearly made me sperm my jeans as I knelt there -- has me keening with need. My hands literally shake as I chip away the dried wax from the candle holders, oh so much like cum. His cum. Dripping down the hard, golden shaft of the candlestick. White, thick, rich. Dripping over the flared ridge and down, down, down to the base. "Charles," the deep, Irish-tinged voice shocks me to my core. "You seem troubled, son." I sense the heat and presence of Father Cayley walk up behind me. I cannot turn to look at him, cannot bear him to see the burning guilt, the desperate need, the shaft of leaking flesh tenting my pants, all hidden as long as I stay facing the pews and dare not look back. I feel the heat of his body. "By the saints, son, your trembling. Are you unwell, my child? Do you have a fever?" His heavy paw, the one I dream of in every sin, strokes across the back of my neck. I shudder and let out an inaudible (I hope) moan of pleasure and need. "No. If anything, you're chilled to the bone. Come sit down, son. You're quaking." I am not cold; I am frozen in place. The only warmth in my world is his hand and, now, the warmth of his breath in my ear. "Charles, are you in trouble, my son? You are one of my lambs, one of God's flock. Part of my ministry is to see you healthy and happy in the Lord. Talk to me, child. What has you in this state." I still cannot move, but I sob once, stifling it. Every cell of my body quivers with need; the need of release, the need of his forbidden touch, the need of so, so much more than absolution from this incredible dream of a man. His scent, stronger and more immediate than in the confessional wraps around me, ensnaring my senses and enflaming the raging lust within me. His breath is now in my other ear and I cannot contain my moan. "Ah, I see. You are upset. You are on edge. And on a Saturday. I have often seen you tense and trembling on a Saturday." The voice that can shake the rafter in a powerful sermon is a deep, sensual, rumble that syncopates with my own shivers. "Was, perhaps, your Confession... incomplete? Was your absolution... too narrow, leaving you in fear and doubt and guilt?" I nod imperceptibly. The purring voice now warms the other ear again. "Guilt like that is a terrible thing, Charles. It can eat away at you. I cannot have that in one of my precious lambs. I know, son, I know how hard it can be," I squeak as I feel his huge, fur-backed knuckles brush the front of my pants, "how hard *you* are right now, Charles." With a deftness that can only come from decades of experience, Father Cayley has my belt open, pants unbuttoned and unzipped, my lower limbs locked by the fallen clothing binding my ankles before my next breath leaves me as a shuddering, desperate sigh. Not that I need binding. There is no power in the universe, perhaps not even God himself, who could move me from this spot. "Such tension is the Devil's work, my child. You need to make a true confession. Receive true absolution." I quiver again as his thick fingers barely graze my shaft. "You confessed to impure thoughts. Were they... about men instead of women?" I sob and nod. "A specific man?" I nod again, humiliated and leaking tears and dogwater in steady streams. "Is that specific man... and man of God, son?" I cry out as his fingers touch my now-exposed cockhead, just pushed forth from the skin. For the first time since my Confession, I find my voice, "Yes!" Father Cayley strokes me from base to tip and I whimper and bite my lip. "Is that man of god... me, my little lamb?" That voice umble-rumbles through my soul, my mind and most urgently my nuts. "YES! God! Yes, Father, YES!" His paw wraps around me now, my iron rod beating with the rhythm of my heart. I was to die, to scream to exult, to explode. "And the sins you confessed? When you let those impure thoughts drive impure actions? When you abuse yourself and allow sin to own your soul until you scream in pleasure and release. Were those thoughts about... me as well?" "YES! Oh, please forgive me, Father, but GOD YES!!" His rumbling voice purrs in my ear, elongating and caressing the single syllable, "Good." It takes perhaps five more strokes before I find out what some elusive Sunday School terms really mean. Rapture. Benediction. Sacrament. "The Holy Spirit did descent upon them." "He was assumed bodily into Heaven." I scream as I explode in release. Father Cayley's deep voice penetrates my very soul. "In the name of the Lord, I absolve thee, Charles." Rope after rope after rope flies out of me, splattering the pages of the Bible used in Mass, open to today's first reading, Leviticus. I shake, weep, exult. As my senses slowly come back I look down as my seed soaks into the thin paper. Leviticus 20:13. "If a man also lie with a man as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination..." Abomination. Absolution. I shudder as my 'Abs' stop clenching in release, regain my breath and wipe away my tears. I turn to thank Father Cayley, to throw myself at his feet in praise and thanks and devotion, to abase myself in the vain hope that he will grant me this boon again (and again and again and again)... but no one is there. The door to the vestry remains closed and locked, the air is still and dust motes float undisturbed in the shaft of sunlight through the Rose Window. Regardless, God's true and holy absolution washes through me. For the first time since I was 12, I find myself at actual peace. As mentioned, this is a one-off, not the start of a series. It's short because, really, how long would YOU have lasted at his age? ***** If you want to get mail notifying you of new postings, e-mail me at orson.cadell@gmail.com Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay... Karl & Greg: 21 chapters .../incest/karl-and-greg/ Canvas Hell: 18 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/ Beaux Thibodaux: 10 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/ The Heathens: 13 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/ Off the Magic Carpet: 5 chapters .../military/off-the-magic-carpet/ Lake Desolation: 4 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/