REVEREND FATHER CHRIS

On this Sunday, during morning mass, it was time for announcements. And the attention of the church was drawn to the presence of a new priest in our midst. He was a Nigerian reverend who had just returned from the United States, who was now part of our church. As an altar boy that I was, I had already noticed him earlier, at the start of service, although then, I thought he was just a visiting priest.

Father Chris looked to be in his early thirties, was of average-height, medium build with chocolatey-light skin. He had a calm reserve about him and had that freshness about his looks that one usually associates with people who have lived a large portion of their lives abroad. Our eyes locked briefly as he was introduced to the church, and I felt a slight zing of attraction for him. I had no idea if my eyes had communicated anything to him, but I quickly looked away from him. Even though I was eighteen going on nineteen, I didn’t know much about the games boys play.

Over time, it began to become clear that Father Chris had an interest in me, as I would occasionally catch him looking my way whenever we were in the same area. It became more so when he beckoned on me at the close of service on the third Sunday of his attachment with our church and asked to know my name. He asked a few more personal questions, about my family and education, and then admonished me to not be a stranger.

My fellow altar boys began noticing his eventual closeness to me and started acting toward me in manners that made their envy obvious. Everyone wanted to be friends with Father Chris, and he had chosen me.

Usually, Reverend Fathers in our parish hardly related closely with seminarians let alone altar boys, and we had no business being in the residence of the priests unless specially requested for. So you can imagine how privileged I felt when Father Chris started inviting me to his place for some company and chitchat. Then he began taking me out, where he would buy me burgers or pizza or ice cream. He also started gifting me stuff every now and then, and even got a phone to replace the old one I had.

He came to my house and my parents were so excited to have him. Their welcome was very effusive on both times that he visited. He would talk to them about how wonderful they must be as parents to have raised such a brilliant son like me. He was so kind and warm with his praise of me and his interest seemingly innocent and avuncular, that my parents didn’t think anything odd about why he favoured me so. Besides, we all know how Catholics revere their priests and church leaders.

I may not have known much about the games boys play, but I had enough self awareness to suspect that Father Chris’s interest in me was neither innocent nor avuncular. This man wanted something sexual, I hoped, because I had started falling for him. He was charming and attractive, and I was a teenager who didn’t have much worldly experience.

Usually, I was always home alone because my parents ran separate businesses and always returned home late at night – and this doesn’t include when one or both of them traveled over matters regarding their businesses, something that was common for them. I was also the last of six children, which meant that my older siblings were all already out of the house, some married and others in school. Most nights, especially when my parents travel, the only person that would come home was my father’s sales boy and apprentice, who stayed with us.

So when Father Chris called me over to his house that day, there was nobody to demand where I was going to or to stop me from setting off to something that would contribute to all the ways my life was changing as a teenager.

I was soon in his modestly-furnished sitting room, seated on a couch opposite him. We had talked for a bit, and I could see that look in his eyes. It was a look I’d seen in his eyes several times before whenever he looked at me. It was especially stark that afternoon. It was a look I hoped was what I thought it was: longing.

Even before he stood up and then asked me to get up and come over to where him, my heart had already started a faster beating as I breathlessly wondered if today was going to be the day. So when he asked, I wasted no time in making my way over to him, covering the small space between us in an instant.

And then, I was standing face to face to this perfect man, so close I could feel his breath on my face. It was quickened, which told me that he was as affected by my nearness to him as I was by him. Our groins touched and I could swear, I felt his crotch poke mine. I was a little unsteady, feeling this mix of anticipation and fear, but in seconds, all that was drowned as his hands came up and held my head, his eyes boring into mine, before he planted the softest kiss ever on my lips. I felt a jolt, one which immediately turned into a feverish rush, as with his tongue, he started exploring my lips and the corners of my mouth. My own tongue voluntarily gave way to feel and reciprocate the gestures of his expert kissing.

In no time, we had taken off our clothes, with me still in his arms as he tongued his way around my neck, ears, the sides of my stomach, and then settled on my nipples with an attentiveness that sent electric sensations through my body, causing my knees to buckle, and my legs almost gave way if he wasn’t holding me steady in his strong arms. And then, he led me and my heavily pre-cumming cock into his bedroom.

He made me lie down on my back, my legs raised and wide apart before settling in between my thighs with his tongue centered on my belly button and then he slowly slurped his way over the sensitive parts of my lower abdomen and along the V-shaped lines down my groin where my thighs extended from. He intentionally stayed away from my throbbing dick with its heavy precum, instead choosing to trace his tongue ever-so lightly over my heavy balls and slowly downward to my pink largely-unexplored glory hole. He stopped there and began feasting hungrily on my hole, chewing and licking, spitting on and slurping all over it. Up, down, up, down, and in circular motions, as I panted and gasped and moaned with the pleasure of it all. Then he left my hole, replacing his tongue with a finger, one that dug into the hole while he returned to suck on my balls. I was shaking. I was trembling. I had a sensory overload of pleasure. Father Chris was over here showing me a piece of heaven. I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience.

When he finally brought his hand up to take hold of my rigid cock, his thumb reaching up to start smearing the precum all over the swollen head of my dick, I choked out such a loud moan, he immediately covered my mouth with his other hand. He carried on smearing my precum all over my dick; there was so much of it, it almost seemed like it was the actual cum. In fact, he began transferring some of that precum to his own asshole, and began finger-fucking himself with it. I was mystified by this, but it soon became clear to me that he was simply lubricating his hole with my cum when he got up and began to lower himself on top of my dick.

Father Chris must have been a pro, because there was hardly any pause in his journey to settle his asshole on top of my dick. And then, with such surprising ease, he started riding my dick with some abandon. He rode my dick like a seasoned bottom. Up, down, up, down, clockwise and anti clockwise on an inexperienced seven incher. I moaned and fought back cries as I simply lay there, completely under the mercy of the pleasure of Father Chris’s skill. Soon, he began whimpering, soft cries as he bounced faster stop me. His pace increased and I felt his rectum tighten on my member. The feeling drove me wild and I started projecting my hips, moving rhythmically to match his rides. I knew he was close to cumming, and at this point, I decided to take over. I turned him over into a missionary (no pun intended) position and began pounding him. His legs encircled my sides and tightened, his toes curling as I continued doing what I hoped was a good job of pummeling him. The clamping of his rectum became consistent and constant, and he was panting as he worked his dick faster with his hand.

Then he tensed microseconds before he started shooting jets of nut out all over his chest. Something about the harshness of his groan and the intensity of that moment tipped me over the edge and I started groaning as I shot my own cum into his warm inside. Shot and shot, as my dick pumped and my body spasmed from the force of my ejaculation.

“Yes, baby. Get me pregnant, baby…” he kept saying as he ground his hole against my penis, until the last shot of my nut came off and I collapsed on his broad, cum-smeared chest. His hands held me so close as he kept telling me how much he loved me.

Some minutes passed before we left the bed and went to wash off. However, instead of basking in the afterglow of our coitus, I felt myself feeling forlorn. I couldn’t bring myself to look upon his face.

You have just fucked your Reverend Father, my mind kept accusing me.

I didn’t waste time after putting my clothes before saying I wanted to leave. He was either too spent or he’d noticed my sudden withdrawal; either way, he didn’t see me off like he usually did. We barely said any word to each other before I hightailed it out of his residence.

For the longest time afterward, I felt guilty over what we did – over what I did, which was to fuck my Reverend Father. Because of my guilt, I began doing everything I could to avoid Father Chris.

I wouldn’t have to keep this up for long, because he was soon transferred to another parish. Three years later, I heard he had returned to the United States of America.

Written by Tariq