Fridays at Battery Park Books

The priest didn't go flaccid. He may have taken something to keep in hard, because he did remain hard, and when he'd caught his breath from the initial fuck, he pulled Trent up from the mat—the man was unusually strong for his age—and carried Trent over to the adjacent altar, the priests gaping cassock billowing around his hard, spare frame. The marble surface of the altar was clear, no doubt cleared by Skileri earlier in the day precisely to accommodate this sacrifice of Trent's body to the sin of sex.

He laid the young man stretched out on his belly on the altar, his left arm dangling over the side of the altar. Skileri deftly mounted the altar, put an arm under Trent's belly to lift the young man's buttocks slightly to accommodate the slide of the cock, and then mounted Trent's ass, thrust deep inside him, and fucked him again. Groaning softly, Trent maintained the stance of presentation of his ass to the priest's cock, and not just endured but reveled in the magic of the deep, rhythmic thrusts inside his soft core. The priest's flared black cassock covered them both as the monsignor leaned over Trent and kissed and nibbled the base of his skull while he moved his long, long cock deep and Trent rhythmically rocked his pelvis up to meet the deep thrusts of the priest. If anyone had been watching, it would look like a large, black bird of prey was fluttering and undulating on the surface of the altar.

They wouldn't have been far off in the interpretation of what Monsignor Skileri was tearing out of the young man.

It was almost a mystical experience for Trent. Henceforth he would not shy away from having a white poker chip land in front of him during a Friday Group gathering at the Battery Park Book Exchange.

* * * *

The next Tuesday, instead of going home from work, Trent took the bus into the downtown area and went to the Battery Park Book Exchange. He knew that Art Hilliard, the assistant manager there, worked the dayshift on Tuesday's. Art was at the bar in the entry foyer when Trent brushed the snow off his coat and shoes and entered the book store. There was snow on the ground from previous days and a light snow was adding to that. Darkness had already fallen for the day.

"Trent," Art exclaimed when he saw the young man entered the store. "Is it Friday already?"

"I was hoping you were coming off work and would go down to Pack Square Park with me," Trent said. "I understand that the Christmas tree and decorations in the park are spectacular and it's something I haven't seen yet in Asheville at Christmas time."

"Is that all you've come for?" Art asked.

"No, it's not. Can you come with me?"

"There's no doubt that I can come with you," Art said, with a grin plastered across his face.

They emerged from the store arm in arm and Trent paused on the sidewalk.

"You're trembling," Art said.

"It's the cold. I'll adjust," Trent answered.

It wasn't the cold, though, that had made Trent tremble. A truck was pulled up in front of the store. It was Gus's truck. Trent could see that Gus was in the truck. Surprisingly, when Gus saw that Trent was with another man, Art, he pulled away from the curb and drove off. Trent let his breath out. "Which way to the park?"

"This way. There are vendors there. Perhaps we could get hot dogs and eat them under the falling snow," Art said, as they started off walking.

"Whatever you want," Trent said.

"Then maybe to O.Henry's for a drink and to mingle and dance a bit."

"Whatever you want."

"And maybe afterward—"

"Whatever you want."

"It's the young cock you crave, isn't it?" Art asked, with a grin.

"Yes. Anything you want."

Trent didn't have to think about Gus crashing into his apartment that night, because he spent the night in Art's bed, under Art. And it turned out that Gus didn't appear subsequently either. Gus was being tracked down for skimming bottles of liquor he was supposed to deliver to clubs, including the Battery Park Book Exchange, the managers of which were on the outlook for him, and he had left Asheville by Wednesday morning, never to return again. Trent's sex life became a little less bizarre as a result, unless one considers being fucked by a long-cocked retired priest on a church altar bizarre.