Give Me that New Religion

So, these must be young priests of this new religion, I thought. What was notable was that their cassocks weren't all black or white--they were of the whole rainbows of colors. It looked like those young men were entering the monastery through a door at the side but I presume it was the front door for me. That door was a huge two-paneled, heavy wood doorway the width of a two-car garage. There was a smaller door cut in it, though. As I took my suitcase out of the rental car and walked toward the gate, I saw that there was a sign over the larger door. It said "AmorHominis," Latin for ManLove. From Fitzpatrick's notes, I knew that this was both the name and central function of this new offshoot church. Taking a deep breath, I raised my fist to knock on the door, but it opened on its own.

A young, blond, good-looking priest in a powder-blue cassock, to match his blue eyes, opened the door to me. "Mr. Dockery?" he asked, and when I nodded that that was me, he ushered me inside. He, like the other priests, or monks, or whatever, I encountered there spoke as little as was needed at the time. He motioned for me to follow him. He obviously knew who I was and who I'd come to see. He did take my suitcase from me and set it aside, near the door, saying, "You will find this in your room when you need it."

As plain and austere as the monolithic monastery building was on the outside, on the inside it was richly decorated and Asian in feeling. At the center was an open courtyard. Three stories of cloistered colonnades ran down each side of the courtyard to a more substantial, taller building at the other end. Rooms led off the covered passages at the side. On the front wall, where I had entered, the first story was a covered passageway. A blank wall went up two more stories. There were winding staircase at the two front corners--as there were at the two far corners--leading up to the battlements lining the three walls of the enclosure behind me and to either side. There were landings on each floor. In front of me, at the end that hung over the side of the mountain, was what obviously was the main building, with the chapel at the top.

The architectural style was ornate traditional Chinese décor, in wood, painted vermillion, white, and green. I suddenly was in an eighteenth-century Chinese temple. The central courtyard was floored in sand, and tubs were set around the periphery holding sweeping Japanese maple trees and other Oriental plantings. The center of the courtyard obviously was for exercise and ceremony, though. When I was being led around the side, under the colonnade, I observed young monks, in loincloths or less, paired off and wrestling Roman-Greco style--or in some Asian form of that, for all I knew. All of the young men were handsome, all were fit, and the ones I could observe naked, all were in erection. I had little doubt where these exercises would lead to in one of the rooms--or cells, or whatever they called them here--on the second and third tiers of the passage ways on either side of the compound. Fitzpatrick's notes had clearly told me that this sect believed in free love, gay style. That was to be the focus of the magazine article I was to research.

It was evident as we passed that the rooms on the first floor were for work or study. The rooms were commodious, some twenty feet in depth and as much wide.

The goal of my walk behind the young, blond, blue-eyed monk I learned was named Brother Ignatius was the central building at the other end, and, more precisely to a lower level in the tower. We entered on a level that, beyond the foyer, appeared to be one large lounge, maybe forty feet wide, with closed-off rooms to the sides, and fifty feet deep. Staircase at each side of the foyer led both down and up. Seeing me looking up the staircase at the end we approached, Brother Ignatius provided an explanation for what lay above us.

"The next floor up is the refectory--our communal dining all, flanked by the kitchens, he said, and above that, at the top, is the chapel. But we're going down."

And that's where he led me, down into stone-walled, concrete floored depths, the next level looking like it was a gymnasium with support facilities off to the side. The next level below that was where we stopped. Guiding me through doors, Brother Ignatius led me into what was an elaborate Roman baths, but decorated in Asian style and with traditional-scene Chinese murals on the walls. When I had an opportunity to look at the murals closely, the art depicted men cavorting with and having sex with other men in ancient Chinese settings.

At first, all I saw in the cavernous baths area, dominated by a pool in the middle, the water of which was reflecting in swirls on the room's ceiling, were two young monks, one in a yellow cassock and the other in lime green, moving around the chamber with towels over their arms. The one in yellow, an Asian, saw us at the door, and Brother Ignatius turned me over to him, saying that he was Brother Michael. As he was escorting me over to where a couple of wrought iron chairs sat, three-quarters facing each other, with a matching table between them supporting a bottle of wine in an ice bucket and a couple of wine glasses, the monk in yellow went to the side of the pool and that's the first I knew that someone else was in the baths.

The man, naked, rose up from the pool at a shallow spot--and rose and rose and rose. He was nearly seven feet tall. He was slender of body, but tightly muscled, and he was Asian, completely bald, but with bushy dark eyebrows above dark eyes that were piercing, reaching out and possessing me fully as he gazed at me from where he rose in the pool. Even without saying anything, I knew this was Father Francis, or Fushin Lu, or whatever he called himself in his new religion. And I also knew that he was in complete command of all around us. I gave a little shudder as I felt his presence swirl about me and envelope me.

His sense of command and an aura of the sensual extended down, from his hard pecs across his flat belly and into his slight, black-haired bush, in the majesty of the man's genitals. His cock in repose between his slender, but tightly muscled thighs was a good foot long. The man was monstrously hung. His balls were meaty and hung low as well. The man was a bull.

He moved slowly, unconscious of his nudity, from the pool, the monk in yellow meeting him at the lip of the pool and putting a towel around his shoulders, beginning a process of patting the man down. Father Francis stood there, stretching his lightly muscled arms wide, showing a wingspan that complemented his height, and continued gazing at me with a half-smile on his face as the monk dried him off. Then the man glided--I can't say walked, because he moved as if he were floating on a cloud--over to where I still stood, at the grouping of the two chairs separated by a small table. The man made no effort whatsoever to cover or hide his prodigious sex as he moved. He gestured for me to sit in one of the chairs.

"Mr. Dockery, I presume? Dillon? A journalist from the gay men's magazine come to reveal my movement to the world? The man who I hope will be pulling my autobiography out of me as well. Please sit. I hope you had a pleasant journey to us. Wine, or should I have something else brought? It may be too early in the day and our interview to indulge in drugs. Later perhaps."

"Wine is fine," I said, stammering, put on edge by both his command and his sensuality, which he made no effort to cover, as I sat in the designated seat and slipped the writing tablet out of the case I had carried into the room. I didn't know what he meant about an autobiography, but I decided to leave that for now. "And, yes, I'm Dillon Dockery from Gay Men Nation."

When we were settled and it was obvious that he was going to wait me out for a beginning--and that he was just going to sit there, naked, monstrously hung, and without a shred of self-consciousness about how he was receiving me, I found something to say to get started--because I had to.

"This is quite a facility you've built here," I said.

"One has to start somewhere," he asked, pouring the wine for us now that I had broken away from his probing gaze and had said something. "I have been fortunate to have had no trouble gathering adherents. All of them very beautiful young men. I presume you have noticed that."

"Yes, I couldn't help it," I answered.

"None more beautiful than you are, Dillon. You know, your Mr. Fitzpatrick had to provide photos of you before I would agree to this article. He told me you were a submissive."

So much to any idea my relationship with Gordon wasn't known to Fitzpatrick.

"And I only agreed then," he continued, "because I also have need for help on my autobiography and I received copies of the articles you have written. All quite competent. You are beautiful enough to be a monk here, you know. I see you swathed in gold. Your hair color is quite striking, and it's gratifying to know it is your natural color."

This was too heady for me. I was being completely forced off my pins. He spoke so forthrightly and openly. This man had been in the hierarchy of the Catholic Church? I didn't know what to grasp at. He'd seen my photos? What was that about being a natural blond--but, of course, I was.

"My photos?"

"Yes, you have a beautiful body."

"My naked photos?" The only one who had photos of me naked was Gordon Jameson. But, shit. Of course. Fitzpatrick must have been snooping in Gordon's telephone.

"Yes. I understand you are gay. I assumed so before I was informed of it. You work for a gay men's magazine so you must be. Mr. Fitzpatrick assured me you were. You are, aren't you? You are a casual submissive? We only allow men who go with men to stay at the monastery. For this magazine article interview, you could stay down in one of the nearby towns, but if we are to work on an autobiography, you will have to be here for quite some time and will have to be comfortable staying at the monastery. And, of course, I will have to cover you. You couldn't understand the essence of me if I wasn't inside you. Even for the magazine interview I think I will have to bed you."

Shit, this is moving fast. I looked at his foot-long cock, swinging between his thighs, reaching for the floor as we sat there, sipping wine and acting like this was all natural. But it wasn't really swinging free now. He was getting hard--and, if anything, longer. He was occasionally touching himself, giving it a stroke. What he was saying--the image and prospect of it--was arousing him. I couldn't say it wasn't turning me one too. I had to cool this down.

"Yes, I'm gay," I said.

"And you will engage in casual sex?"

"Yes." I attempted to move the conversation back to the substance of the interview. "I'm not religious, though, so I don't basically understand how your movement fits in as a religion--and a Christian one. I understand you insist that you are a Christian sect and that it's this insistence that has the Catholic Church so apoplectic about your movement."

"Of course, we're Christian. We're closer to Christ than either the Catholic or Orthodox churches are. You aren't naïve enough to not realize the sexuality of Christ and his band of men, I hope. The Protestant churches, of course, are completely off the beam."

"Maybe we should begin with the name of your movement," I said, becoming marginally more comfortable with this arrangement now that I could get to the meat of the article. The thought of meat, however, made me look again at the naked man's crotch. He definitely was in erection now and was holding it in one of his hands. His hands were slender, the finger long, sensuous. He had two rings on each hand, one on his right thumb, with a large jewel in it. Jade? For the first time I saw that there was a jade bead, of considerable size, pierced into the bulb of his cock as well. I shuddered at the thought of how that would feel inside me. Did they bareback here or use condoms? Would that make a difference in how a bead that size felt inside? My eyes moved up to his. He was looking at me and smiling. It was as if he could read my thoughts.

Holding his prodigious erection pointed at me, he said, "My partners do enjoy this." He was, of course, referring to the bead.

I took a deep breath and continued, fighting for control. "As I came in your entry door, I saw the name of your movement over the door--AmorHominis; ManLove. You use the term 'amour,' rather than the Christian usage, 'agapi'--which is more in the vein of charity--love of God for man and of man for God, as I understand it. You didn't even use 'philia'--brotherly love."

Father Francis laughed. "You've already been doing your homework, haven't you?"

He was doing more than cupping his cock now. He was stroking it and working the slit in it with the pinky of his hand. This was very disconcerting. I know I was noticeably affected by it--squirming a bit in my chair and I'd gone full hard. He was giving me benign and slightly amused looks, like he knew exactly the effect he was having on me.

"You have hit it directly," he said. "The work I have intentionally used is 'amour.' Sexual love. That's the essence of our movement. The Bible was written in a time and by men in which men having sex with other men could not be directly referred to. But it's there, in the Bible, the purity of the Jesus movement. Jesus's apostles were all men. Those claiming to follow Christ have been trying to bring women into the movement in recent centuries, but it's not there, in the Bible, even in the guarded way the story could be given then. Jesus's band was one of men. Jesus's beloved, even in the book, was a man--a younger man, John. The essence of following Christ is in giving yourself to Jesus, physically, totally--or, in the absence of Jesus until he comes--to his representatives on Earth. I am one such. Paul, the one who made the church, based on the teachings of Christ, understood this. And this was because Paul himself covered men. That too is alluded to in the Bible. The pure movement of Christ is one of 'amour'--a sexual giving and taking between men of the fellowship. Each man in this monastery gives and takes from others--all here have taken me inside them, regardless of how they couple with other men, or they wouldn't be here."

"That's a lot to absorb and think about," I said, knowing my voice felt tight. "Perhaps, for the moment, I should--"

"Do you wish to come into the pool with me now, or are you tired from your journey and need to be taken to your room to refresh yourself and rest until dinner."

"In the pool?"

"Yes. Have you ever been fucked by a man in a pool, the flow and buoyancy of the water around you aiding in your two bodies working together to achieve something beautiful?"

"I think a rest, yes," I said. "But didn't you say I would have to live down in the town during the interview unless I was working on your autobiography."

"Now that I have met you, I am sure I wish you to be here with us in the monastery--and I am equally sure you will be working on my autobiography."

All righty then, I thought. But he was more sure of this than I was.

He signaled to the monk in the lime green cassock, the one who I'd been told was named Michael. "Later, then. We will see you at dinner. I can give you an hour and a half twice a day of my time and attention--until the article is finished and we can see about moving into the autobiography. That should give us about an hour for the work in each session. During the autobiography phase, of course, we will have to be more intense. You will have to be in my bed--although others will be there too. Brother Michael, would you please show Dillon to the guest room we have prepared for him."

And that was that. Father Francis had stood, turned, and walked toward where the monk in yellow was patiently standing in the background as Brother Michael came forward to guide me to the guest room.

I was so discombobulated that I left my case beside the chair and had to be guided back to the baths when we were half way to the third tier, where the guest rooms were. When Brother Michael and I entered the baths, the yellow cassock of the young monk who had remained there with Father Francis, was off and puddled on the floor. The monk himself, naked, was standing but bent over, grasping his ankles. Father Francis was draped over the young priest's body, the palm of one hand on the young man's belly and the other one wrapped around the monk's cock. Francis was slow fucking the young monk with a foot of hard cock that was taking him fully in long slides. The monk had a grimace on his face, but his expression was one of ecstasy as well. I supposed in his religion this was a high honor to be chosen to take Father Francis's shaft.

Father Francis turned his gaze to me, quite clearly conveying that "this could have been you--in the pool." I shuddered and turned away, realizing that it would be me sometime, somehow, before the next morning.

Brother Michael retrieved my case for me and guided me back out of the baths, giving no indication that anything unusual was happening in the chamber at all.

I had to suppose that it wasn't, in fact, anything unusual to be happening in this monastery. I shuddered again at the thought of what Miles Fitzpatrick had gotten me into here, but I was embarrassed that I had gone hard and was still hard when we got to the guest room, which was quite large, very well appointed, and came with an en suite bathroom.

I obviously wasn't hiding that I was aroused, because, after showing me the amenities of the room, which, because it was on the third level, had two windows with very nice views of the surrounding mountain scape, Brother Michael pulled his cassock over his head, sat at the foot of the bed, and spread and raised his legs, offering himself to me.

I thanked him, tried to let him know that he certainly was a desirable young man, but told him it had been a very long ride from New York and I really did need to bathe and rest before dinner.

He took the rejection in stride, accepting that it only was because I was tired. I couldn't say I wouldn't avail him or someone else--quite certainly Father Francis--of a coupling later. But this time, at least, it appeared that both Michael and I were of the same persuasion. If he had offered to fuck me, I can't say I would have declined. As it was, when I got into the shower, I had to take care of myself while recalling my introduction to the charismatic and mesmerizing Father Francis.

* * * *

He had me fully in his embrace, Father Francis three-quarters on his back on his luxuriously appointed bed in his commodious quarters across the courtyard from my guest quarters on the third level. Where my side of the monastery complex had windows overlooking the surrounding mountainous Vermont countryside, though, Father Francis's bedroom had a covered balcony running the full length of his bedroom, sitting room, office, and mammoth bathroom layout. No expense had been spared in outfitting the richness of his quarters, hardly what one would have thought for the leader of a monastic order--but Father Francis was in no way the usual leader of a monastic order.

I was stretched out over his body, torso to the side, but my legs over his midsection, my pelvis raised from the leverage of my bent legs, feet flat on the mattress of either side of his thighs. He was holding my back into his chest with one arm slung over my chest, the hand reaching down to grasp and stroke my cock. His other hand was under me, his long, slender fingers rubbing my ball sac and the underside of my engorged cock as his thumb penetrated me, the gemstone of his thumb ring rubbing the rim of my hole.

He was holding me immobile other than the gentle rocking of my buttocks on his thumb and stroking of my cock up into his other hand. He would hold me there, edging me, taking his time until I ejaculated, and then he would fuck me with his long, long cock, with the jade bead in the bulb. We had been here several times before in the two weeks since I'd arrived and we'd kept to the routine of two interview sessions a day, morning and evening, for the Gay Men Nation article, with some fifty minutes for work and forty minutes for fuck. I had succumbed to him the first evening I had arrived at the monastery, being quickly overcome by his charisma, sensuality, and command. I had been completely defenseless to him. The last three nights, he had taken me into his bed and taken me to exhaustion in myriad sexual positions of the Orient that I'd never even imagined were possible.