Big-dick Bottom Pt. 10

Author's note: This series contains (occasional) descriptions of rough and forced sex, some of which crosses the boundaries of consent. If this is not up your alley, please click elsewhere! All sexual contact described occurs between adults aged eighteen years and older.

Part 10.

"Come in, Paul. It's nice to see you."

Reverend Bjornsson held open the door it as I walked past him in to a large, light-filled office on the lower floor of the church. Up close, I realized just how big he was. A huge bear of a man, probably 6'4 or 6'5, and built like a tank. Walking past him, I felt like a child called to the principal's office.

He shut the door and ushered me to sit. He walked around his desk and settled himself in a large, high-backed leather chair and folded his hands in front of him on a dull green blotter pockmarcked with indentations and splotches of spilled ink. His dress shirt, a shade of lavender just shy of flamboyant, was unbuttoned at his neck, revealing a wide V of thick, blondish chest hair. His sandy beard was graying slightly and long enough to have a slight curl, and his golden coloring set off his bright, gray-blue eyes, which he'd fixed on me with an expectant smile.

Jesus, I thought, suddenly flashing to the dreams that I used to have about this guy--the great, burly preacher--and the things he'd used to do to me in those dreams... I tried to cast the thoughts out of my head, given how dangerously close I was to a raging hard-on.

"So, Paul. Your parents tell me you're off to college in a few weeks. Congratulations, son, that's a big step," Reverend Bjornsson said.

"Thanks," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Tell me, what are you looking forward to?" he said.

I swallowed and rubbed my wrist. This morning, I had reapplied my mom's foundation to cover my black eye--fading, now--and the bruises on the rest of my body, but I hadn't done as flawless a job as Stacy. I hoped that Reverend Bjornsson's seemingly intense scrutiny of me wouldn't reveal anything.

"Um..." I said, "...well, I guess I'm looking forward to being in a new place, meeting new people, learning new things?"

Reverend Bjornssohn pursed his lips and nodded, thoughtfully. After a moment, he said, "And what about your spiritual development?"

"My spiritual development?" I said.

"Yes, Paul. How will you nurture the love that God has placed in you? The tireless, loving investment he's made in you as you've grown from a child into such a fine young man?"

Oh boy. I realized, now, what this "talk" was going to be like. I felt a shade go down in my brain. It had been many years since I'd felt any shred of "God's love" in my heart.

"Well," I said, "I guess I haven't thought much... about that."

"I think that's why your parents are concerned, Paul. They're are concerned that you have been neglecting your spiritual side."

"They told you that?" I said. As religious as I knew my parents were, they were pretty buttoned up about it, as they were about everything. It just didn't seem likely that they would ever say something like that. At least not out loud.

Reverend Bjornsson shifted back in his seat. His shirt strained against his massive chest and my eyes tracked across his torso, involuntarily. The buttons down the middle of this shirt looked like they were struggling to contain him, and I envisioned them coming undone, the erupting of his hairy chest from the fabric...

"Well, not in so many words, son," he said, smiling. "But I know that they--that all of us--are concerned haven't been nurturing the parts of yourself that God loves."

I wrinkled my brow and looked down at the floor. My bare knees were poking out of a new-ish pair of khaki shorts. I tried to keep from fidgeting.

"Let's take a step back, son," he said. I watched him put his hands behind his head. His large upper arms bulged under the fabric of his tight shirt, and I saw faint traces of sweat darkening his armpits. "Your parents tell me you've taken a job this summer. Tell me about it."

I shrugged and shifted uncomfortably in my chair. "I deliver pizzas," I said, "for Pizza Hut."

"You've been working an awful lot, I hear," he said.

"Yeah, I guess," I said.

"And you have been spending a lot of time with your co-workers, after-hours?"

I nodded.

"Drinking alcohol and smoking tobacco, Paul?"

I looked back down at my shoes.

"Paul?"

"Yes sir, sometimes," I said.

In here, under his direct attention--the big, intimidating pastor--it felt dangerous to lie.

"Smoking marijuana?" Reverend Bjornsson said.

I looked at him and shook my head, then dropped my gaze.

"Hmm," he said. He took a breath and then exhaled, slowly.

"What about fornication?" Reverend Bjornsson asked.

"Excuse me?" I said, looking up at him abruptly.

"Fornication..." he repeated. He lowered his hands back to the desk and cocked his head to the side, still watching me with a friendly expression on his face. "... have you lain with any of your new friends, had any sexual encounters with women, Paul?"

"N-no," I stammered, feeling my face flush hot.

Reverend Bjornsson nodded, thoughtfully.

"What about men, Paul. Have you lain with men?" he said, dropping his voice low.

"Sir?" I said.

Reverend Bjornssohn wet his lips with his tongue and nodded at me, gravely. I was sweating, now--I felt my shirt start to soak through where my back was touching the chair.

"Let me tell you a few things, son," the pastor said, his face becoming serious. "Carnal urges are... well, they're an unfortunate burden of being a man. We men have a propensity to want things... crave things, that are, well, unnatural. We have desires that are... destructive to ourselves and destructive to God's love. Part of growing up is learning how to control those urges, put them in their proper place."

My face was burning red. I wanted nothing more than to get up and run out of here but I was rooted into my seat.

"You need to bury them, Paul, bury your urges. Here's what you do. You find a place, a box within yourself, into which you put your darkess. You keep it locked it away. Locked away from everybody--your family, your friends, and away from the wife and children that I know you will want to have, someday, Paul. The family that I know you ultimately will have, when you're older. Now, your urges may be inevitable, and constant, but if you keep them locked away, God will see your effort. He will feel your commitment, and he will know that you're worthy. Worthy of his love, of his grace. Do you understand what I'm saying, Paul?"

As he was speaking, he slipped into his pastor voice, the deep, resonant baritone that I'd heard since I was a child. The assured, confident cadence that he projected out onto the congregation from his billowing black robe every Sunday.

I nodded at him, not meeting his eye. I was burning with shame, but there was also a part of me that was burning with indignation. Who was he to lecture me on the box? Like I didn't already know.

Reverend Bjornsson inhaled a great breath and smiled. "Good," he said, brightly. "Now, I want you to know that when you make your way through the world, you're going to be tempted. Satan is always out there, waiting for you, waiting for your guard to fall--waiting for you to be weak, Paul. He'll try and he'll try, he'll send temptation across your path, and at your lowest moments..."

He stopped speaking, took a breath and wet his lips again, swallowed. He shifted his bulk in his chair.

"... in your lowest moments, Paul, sometimes, you won't be able to resist temptation. But don't despair. If you slip up, all you have to do is turn your face back to God, and put one foot in front of the other, son. God will always be there, if you move toward him."

"OK," I said.

Oh my God. How long is this going to go on?

"Remember, son. Your parents love you. Jesus loves you. I love you. And God loves you," he said.

There was a sense of finality in his voice. For a second I thought that he might say, "Amen."

Reverend Bjornsson stood up. Immediately my eyes went to his crotch, which was bulging out from his dark brown pants. Holy shit. If that bulge meant what I thought it did, it meant that every part of this man was big. I felt blood surge to my own dick as he walked from behind his desk and put his hand on my shoulder.

"You know, Paul, I've really missed having you in the alter server program," he said.

I'd been an alter boy for two ill-fated weeks in fifth grade, and I'd hated every second of it. The scratchy robe, the slow, measured pace that we'd had to adopt when walking around the sanctuary. On my second Sunday, I'd tripped on my robe and fallen while holding a lighted candle lighter. I'd almost set the choir director on fire. After that, to my parents' chagrin, I refused to participate.

I laughed nervously as Reverend Bjornssohn stood over me, squeezing my shoulder. His massive crotch was inches from my face. I gulped and looked up at him. He gazed down at me and he seemed to lean even closer. His crotch brushed my shoulder. Maybe I imagined it, but I thought I could feel the rigid hardness of an erection through his pants.

"Well, then," he said, patting my shoulder and moving away to open the door, "I'm glad we had this little chat, Paul. Good luck to you, son."

I stood up. I tugged at the hem of my shorts to adjust myself and then moved past him out the door. My parents, who had been sitting on an old wooden pew repurposed as a bench in the hallway, stood up.

"A fine boy you have here," Reverend Bjornsson said to my parents as we exited his office. "I'm confident that he will keep a good head on his shoulders, going forward."

My mom looked visibly relieved and my dad strode over to shake the pastor's hand.

"Thank you, Reverend," my dad said.

"Any time, John, any time. Paul, take care. Go with God, son," Reverend Bjornsson said. He patted the small of my back and I felt his fingertips trail over the top of my butt as he moved his hand away.

"Yes, sir," I said.

~

On our way home, my parents asked me if I wanted to stop at Dairy Queen.

"But it's nine thirty in the morning," I said.

"What? The Paulie I know would never say no to a Blizzard," my mom said, looking around to where I was sitting in the back seat. She reached around and put her hand on my knee, gave it a squeeze.

"Sure, why not?" I said, smiling meekly back at her.

I saw her and my dad exchange another look. They had been doing it all morning. I wondered if this was a guilt-laden, "cajole our gay son into a semblance of heterosexuality" ice cream.

There was a peppy, busty blonde working at the Dairy Queen drive-through window. My dad made a bunch of horrible jokes and my mom swatted his arm as I tried to disappear into the upholstery of the back seat. When my dad handed me my Blizzard, he wiggled his eyebrows at me and jerked his head back at the girl.

"Aren't you going to say hello to the young lady, Paul?" he said, overly loud.

The blonde and I exchanged a feeble, mutually disdainful look. I nodded my head at her and spooned ice cream into my mouth.

~

When we turned onto our street, my mom let out a loud gasp. I felt my heart slide down into my stomach when I saw--our neighbors' house, swarmed with cops. There were about a dozen cop cars, their lights swirling red and blue, some of them in the neighbors' driveway, and more in the street. There were uniformed officers everywhere.

"Oh my goodness gracious," my mom said, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.

"What in tarnation is going on?" my dad said, slowing the car to a crawl as we approached the throng of police.

A cop walked up to our car holding his hand out for us to stop. Through the open window he said to my dad, "Turn around sir."

"We live here," my dad said, pointing at our house.

The cop frowned and then reluctantly waved us along. As we rolled by the neighbors' driveway I saw a familiar sihouette standing on the gravel. As if on cue, he turned and I saw his face--Kevin Johansson. His eyes flicked over our car and he saw me through the glass of the rear window. His eyes flashed with recognition and anger. I turned away, my heart racing.

"What do you suppose happened?" my mom said.

"Who knows, they must have done something bad," my dad said.

When we pulled into the driveway, both my parents got out and stood next to the car, watching the activity of the cops next door. I took my cup of rapidly softening ice cream into the house and stood for a moment in the kitchen, shaking. Then I dumped the ice cream into the sink. I felt like I was about puke. Through the kitchen window I saw that there was another swarm of cops in the neighbors' backyard--a throng of them surrounding the shed. Through the open door of the shed I saw the flashbulb of a camera going off.

I turned and ran upstairs, flooded with a mixture of adrenaline and nausea. I went into my sisters' old bedroom. From the window there, I watched cops going in and out of the neighbors' house. My legs and arms were shaking. I tried to quell my anxiety and moved away from the window, telling myself that I needed to get dressed for work. But I found I couldn't pull myself away.

After a few minutes at the window, I let out a quiet gasp. I watched as the cops led neighbor daddy, shirtless, with his hands cuffed behind his back, out the front door and down the driveway to a cop car. A minute later, the ginger was led out, also cuffed. Two officers had to escort him--the ginger was kicking and bucking and yelling obscenities. They stuffed him into a different car and even when they shut the door, I could hear him screaming from inside.

Then, with a sickening sinking feeling, I watched a cop bring out son #1, also in handcuffs. His head hung low. His chin, dark with stubble, nearly touched his chest as he walked. The cop put him into a third car and after another minute all three cars drove off. I let the curtain fall back. My heart was racing. I just barely made it to the bathroom before disgorging the milky contents of my stomach into the toilet.

~

I got to work around eleven. Amanda was there, training a new guy, Ryan, who I'd never met before. I ran into Jeff, one of the other drivers I rarely overlapped with, by the hotbag rack.

"Hey, I heard about Stacy and Ben," Jeff said.

"Yeah... crazy," I said, feeling my stomach start to turn again.

"And the cops picked you guys up, too? Fuck, dude!"

Shit.

I should have expected that word of our trip to the station would spread fast. I just hope it wouldn't get back to my parents somehow.

"Yeah."

"What, do they think you guys had something to do with it?"

I shrugged, trying to project nonchalance. "They just wanted to know where we were, I guess, since he beat Stacy up the night before."

"Man, what a piece of shit, that guy," Jeff said. "That fucker got what he deserved, in my book. I don't care how much she pisses you off, you never put hands on a girl, bro."

"Yeah..." I said, a little disturbed by the sentiment behind Jeff's words.

"Anyway, I'm glad you're here, Paulie," Jeff said, tossing a hotbag back into the empty pile. "I gotta go pick up my kid from daycare. She's sick again. You good?"

"Yeah," I said.

Jeff left. Amanda came over and handed me a long list of addresses.

"Is Mario here?" I asked.

"Not yet," she said. "He's with Stacy this morning, making sure she's OK, or something."

"You you know if Stacy is coming in later?" I asked.

"As far as I know," Amanda said, "unless she's too 'shaken up'." She made air quotes around the words, and rolled her eyes.

I figured Amanda was just annoyed that Mario wasn't around. I took the list and glanced at it, trying to calculate my best route.

"Cool, see you soon," I said.

~

I hauled three heavy hotbags out to my truck. My head was still spinning from what was going on. Before I'd left for work, I'd walked through the kitchen, where my parents had been talking in hushed tones about the neighbors.

My dad had grabbed my arm as I made for the door. "Paul, do you have any idea what's going on next door?"

"No," I said, pulling my arm away from him.

"You haven't been... hanging around with him again, that neighbor kid, have you?" my dad said. I knew he meant the ginger, after our run-in back in June.

"No," I said.

My dad looked at me, suspiciously.

"No, dad," I repated.

"Those boys are no good," my mom said. "Rhonda thinks they may be dealing drugs." She whispered the word.

"Paul, you swear you're not mixed up in any of that?" my dad said, frowning at me.

"No, dad! Jeez!"

My parents stood, looking at me, consternation on both their faces.

"I gotta go to work," I said. "I'm gonna be late."

My dad crossed his arms. "I want to remind you to take what Reverend Bjornsson had to say this morning to heart, Paul," my dad said. "And I want you to find that church, first thing, when you get to school. There was that helpful chaplain we met when we visited, remember? Oh, what was his name?"

"David," my mother said, nodding vigorously, "David Deacon."

"Yes, that's it. David Deacon. A fitting name, if you ask me," my dad said, "I want you to talk to David Deacon right away and he can help you..."

"OK, OK, dad," I said, cutting him off. "I really gotta go."

My mom reached to grab my hand. She squeezed it and looked at me with a pained expression in her eyes. "Oh, Paulie," she said.

~

My thoughts swirled as I drove out to my first delivery. I thought back to my bizzare and uncomfortable conversation with Reverend Bjornsson before all the neighbor stuff had happened. In spite of my sky-high anxiety, I felt myself getting turned on by the thought of him. His big, burly body straining against his tight-fitting shirt, the pronounced bulge in his pants when he'd gotten up to see me out. I thought about the bigccock he must be carrying around in those pants--what he would look like, naked.

My erection sprang to life and snaked across my thigh. I thought about unzipping the Reverend's pants, pulling out his cock, and straddling his hips while he ran his broad hands over my body. I thought about how his golden skin would tinge red with exertion as he pumped his cock into me, how I would hold on as I rode him by grabbing a fistful of his dense, blond chest hair. How his body would feel as he orgasmed under me, filling me with his cum.

I let the thoughts wash over me--in spite of myself--I let myself have them. It was a welcome distraction from the terrible image that was burned into my mind. The indelible sight of son #1, his head hung low, being escorted to the cop car.

~

It was about two PM and several delivery runs later when I pulled back into the parking lot and saw Mario's car.

"P!" Mario shouted, when he saw me come in.

I felt a flutter in my stomach, seeing him. He waved me over to where he was standing with Stacy and Amanda at the manager's kiosk. Stacy looked tired, and when she saw me, she didn't smile.

"What's up?" I said.

"You really don't have to be here," Amanda said, ignoring me and looking at Stacy.

Stacy narrowed her eyes at Amanda. "Like I said..." Stacy said, drawing out her words for emphasis, "I want to work. I need to work. It helps me keep from freaking out."

Mario and I glanced at each other. We both new that danger was near when Stacy's voice took on this particular tone. Amanda, however, seemed oblivious.

"All I'm sayin' is," Amanda said, smacking her gum, "if my boyfriend died... I'd be upset. I wouldn't want to be workin' all night."

Stacy folded her arms. "First of all, he wasn't my boyfriend," she said. "And second, if any guy was stupid enough to be your boyfriend, Amanda, I'm sure he'd welcome the sweet embrace of death."