Son of a Preacher

Son of a Preacher

The sun has just set. With my light luggage, I stand at the door of the house I grew up in, the house I swore never to return to, the house I will not remain in for long, just 3 days, just long enough to mourn someone I do not feel like mourning. I left home at 18, went to a different city far away, to remake myself and erase every trace of my religious upbringing. I did not run away; I simply stopped calling home after a year. I am an only son, and I knew what my absence would feel like to my traditional parents, especially my mother, and I wanted them, her, to feel it. I am 21 now, and I had not spoken to them in two years, until the short message from my father telling me my mother has passed away.

I ring the doorbell. I try to, but I cannot remember the last thing I said to my mother, or the last thing she said to me. It doesn't matter. I know it was nothing kind; probably her lecturing me about my sinful ways, disguised as love, reminding me that I am the son of a preacher, or telling me that God was capable of forgiving even a sodomite, if only I accepted that I had been sinful.

The door opens to a busy gloom. Family, friends, and many members of the congregation, all in dark clothing. I missed the burial service, an aunt tells me. I meant to, I think, but I say, "I'm so sorry, I couldn't get an earlier ticket."

Handshakes, hugs, and kind words. I almost believed for a second the love my mother had for me was unconditional.

My father appears. The pastor of the parish. It's almost funny how he, the pastor, never lectured me on the sin that was my homosexuality, but it was my mother who could not shut up about it. After I came out to them, he had only asked me questions, perhaps an attempt to better understand it. He was not okay with it, of course, but he loved me more than his love for sanctimony. I feel bad for him.

He had me when he was just 23, and he is 44 now. Apart from the bible, he also lives by the adage that your body is the temple of the holy spirit. People always mistake him for someone 10 years younger than he actually was. In the three years I was gone, I seemed to have forgotten how much I used to want a body like his, and, on some nights, perhaps after a fight with my mother, how much I wanted his body, without clothes, next to mine, or even better, on top of me. His grief somehow makes him even more appealing, makes him look younger. I take a deep breath and I try to focus on his sadness.

His eyes are red. With trembling lips he says, "I'm glad you can make it, Josh."

"I'm sorry about mother," I tell him. I feel a pang of guilt for having left. Have I punished him too much just because I hate my mother?

He pulls me in for a hug. His body quivers as he cries on my shoulder.

I hold his firm body tighter to me, one hand over his shoulder, the other around his waist. I am reminded of the great care he takes of his body. I feel a surge of warmth. I don't remember him ever hugging me after I came out to him when I was 15. I like the felling of his body against mine, but I try not to focus on it.

* * *

It is close to midnight when everyone has left, and my father and I are sitting in the low light of the living room, talking. We do not talk about my mother or anything to do with the funeral; he asks me what I have been up to, if I have been happy, when I am planning to leave again. He doesn't ask me why I don't call. He doesn't ask me why I never came home. He doesn't try to use my absence against me.

After some time, he moves from the chair and sits next to me on the couch. He is about to say something serious, perhaps something emotional, but my mind is on his leg touching mine. And when he places a hand on my knee, my heart skipped a beat. He does not know how differently I am perceiving his innocent hand, and I feel a pinch of guilt.

"Josh, I know you have a life to go back to," he says, "and I understand your memory of this place is not the happiest, but if you can stay for longer than you plan to, I'll be very glad."

The father I knew had never been one for openness, shoring up his emotions, a proper stoic. What has my three years of absence done to him? What is my mother's death doing to him? He seem as if there is something deeply bothering him that has nothing to do with my absence or my mother's death. I am tempted to eagerly agree to stay for as long as he needs me, but I know that temptation is coming from the feeling of his warm hand on my restless knee. What do I have to gain from my staying, except sexual frustration? I hesitate to answer him.

He removes his hand suddenly and says, "But I understand if you choose to go."

"Dad," I say as I inch a little closer, our legs pressed together tighter, and I reach out for his knee, but I stop and place it on mine, my fingertips just brushing against his cotton trousers. "I know something has been bothering you. What is it?"

He does not look up. Instead, he bows down lower, rests his elbow on his knee and rubs his eyes with his fingers. He tries to say something, but the words are caught in his throat and all that comes out is a cough.

"Dad, you know you can talk to me." Against my better judgement, I raise my trembling hand and place it on his forearm, rubbing his skin with my thumb a little. I feel the ripple of his muscles as he continues massaging his eyes and my heart skips another beat.

"I think . . ."

"It's okay." I give his toned muscles a little reassuring squeeze.

"I think I'm losing my faith, son," he blurts out and looks at me. "I've been losing my faith for a long time."

What can you even say when a pastor, as well-respected pastor, tells you he is losing his faith? I am at a loss for words, but my mind is busy. What has brought this on? Is it my fault? Did something happen? But most of all, selfishly, I think, What does this mean for me?

"Do you know why?" I ask him.

He shook his head slowly, clenching his teeth, the muscles on his jaw rippling under the skin. "I've always felt like something was missing in my life, something important. I think this was bound to happen sooner or later."

"Everything will be alright," I tell him.

He tries to hold it back, but his emotions betray him and a tear roll down his cheek which he quickly rubs away, removing his arm from my hand.

"I promise you," I add.

More tears come and he hides his face from me.

I extend my arms gladly (half-guiltily) and wrap him within it. He embraces me back and he weeps. I slide one hand up and down the length of his back, his toned muscles and his silky shirt allowing my hand to wander smoothly. With my other hand I hold the back of his head, my fingers spread and softly moving through his thick and sleek slightly-curly hair. I take a deep breath. The cedary smell of his fading cologne, tinged with a bit of sweat sends an electric through me, reminiscent of my first days of puberty when I first learnt the sweetness of the scent of boys. Despite myself, a tear escapes my eye.

I hold him tighter to me, and I say, "I'll stay for as long as you need."

Hearing this, he holds me tighter.

The moment lasts for a while. I do not let my caressing up. Then, his hands also begin to move up and down my back, from the nape of my neck down to the base of my spine. As they keep on moving, they explore wider and wider, reaching all the way round my sides to my nipples. That familiar engulfing warmth comes back, stronger this time, and it converges on my groin, provoking an involuntary stir.

I notice his weeping his stopped, and is replaced by deep breaths. And I notice I am breathing has deeply, as feverishly as him.

My mind is busy thinking, wishing, hoping, and telling myself this is not really what I want it to be. How can it be? My own father? The pastor?

But my body has a mind of its own.

Before I can weigh the dangers of it, my hand lets go of his head, pulls back halfway and then places itself on his chest.

I hear my father's breathing pause for a brief moment before it resumes with the same fever. I can feel the rapid heartbeat despite my trembling hand, and the reverberation of the thumps make my mind one with my body again.

I rub his pectorals over his shirt. I can feel the fibres of his muscles move as he continue to move his hands all over my back.

One of my fingers slip in between his buttons and I feel the slickness of his skin covered by a film of sweat.

My father draws in a sharp breath, and he swallowed loudly.

I know exactly what that means and I feel a burst of delight in my groin.

But this is a delicate moment, ready to crumble in an instant if a wrong move is made at the wrong time. Although I want to, although my blood is screaming for it now, my bulge pressing against my restricting underwear and trousers, I cannot afford to rush this. I will have to suffer the pain of anticipation for the fruit it will bear in the end. This is what all my adolescence, all my sleepless nights spent longing for what I cannot have has been leading up to. I will not fuck this up.

As I continue to caress his chest, moving my fingers in and out of the gap and brushing against his finite bare skin, I move my other hand rubbing his back lower and lower until I touch the waistband of his trousers. And some painful seconds later, I pinch the lower part of his tucked shirt on his back and I pull it gently out in increments, until it is free. And without losing my pace, I slip my hand under the shirt and rub the bare steamy skin of his back, my arm moving up slowly toward the nape of his neck, and pulling the rest of his shirt out of his trousers in the process.

I move my other hand from his chest and enter the front of his shirt.

His bare chest is firm against my sweaty palm and his quick heartbeats send jolts through my body. My breathing staggers for a moment, and I swallow hard, almost breaking the delicacy of the moment.

"Josh," my father says, breathless. His hands have stopped moving.

My heart skips a beat. Please, not now. Not when we've come this far, I plead in my head, but I only whisper, "Dad."

He says nothing in response, but the movements of his hands still do not resume.

I slow down a little, but I do not stop. This is it, I tell myself.

I move my lips to his ear, I whisper, "I love you," and I brush my lips lightly across his cheek, until they meet his own.

I press into those lips I had wanted to taste and bite and suck on on so many hormone-filled nights in my teens. They are pressed close, and he is motionless, but only for a moment longer.

His lips part with a sigh, and the warmth of his mouth welcomes me.

His hands resume their sultry movements on my back before he trades them for my front, copying my motions.

We kiss deeper. Our tongues moving in and out of each other's mouths, playing with each other. The sloppy sounds we are making not worth a bother. It in fact adds to the heat of our passionate circumstance. He is not a very good kisser - his mouth is open too wide, he sucks on my tongue a little too hard, he does not venture to teasingly bite my lips - but my love for him grows as high as my lust for him.

I run my hand that was on his chest down all the way to his navel before I change course and caress his thigh, squeezing it.

He responds my opening his legs wider.

I place my hand on the inside of his thigh as I move my hand back up, and I go all the way round the curve of his crotch, bringing my hand to his other thigh, giving him a taste, testing the waters. When he gives me no indication of wanting to abandon our adventure, I run my hand back the other way, and this time I stop on his crotch.

My hand rests lightly at first, caressing his groin, but I increase the pressure with each movement until I can clearly feel the definition of his hard dick that I have fantasised about so many times before.

He draws in a feverish breath and presses his lips hard against my face, before his hand clumsily roves down to my groin and gracelessly fumbles with my hard dick over my trousers.

I smile. This was clearly his first time with another man. I lust for him even more.

I rise a little from my seat and I slowly move forward, gently pushing him back. He does not resist, and he reclines until he is lying down on the couch with his head resting on the armrest. I am on top of him.

It feels like an out of body experience. I have dreamt about this moment many times, never thinking it would ever come true. And now here we are.

Using both my hands, I unbuckle his belt without ever losing his lips. I undo the button, unzip, and I spread the flaps open to give myself better access. With one hand, I trace the definition of his throbbing dick from the base to the tip over his underwear, applying pressure and releasing, squishing it, exciting the blood flowing within. He feels like a 6" or a 6 1/2" which is more or less the same as me. With my other hand, I undo his shirt buttons, moving from the bottom to the top.

I keep my body raised, my right leg doing most of the work of keeping me up as I lean low over him so his hands can move freely on me. He unfastens my belt and my button, unzips, and reaches into my underwear eagerly and nervously. The warmth of his hand sends another wave of electric through my body and I feel the tickle of my precum oozing out.

Just as soon as I finish unbuttoning his shirt, I move away from his lips, and my tongue rove past his sharp chin, down his neck, kissing and sucking and biting gently, and I reach his hardened nipples. I pause there for a moment, taking my time, teasing him.

His heavy sighs, verging close to moans, with his firm yet gentle hand on my dick makes me even harder, and my dick pulse almost painfully.

I leave his nipples, and I scoot down farther.

My dick leaves his hand, but something better is coming.

I kiss his skin past his navel, and with my tongue I trace the dark line that points down to my prize.

I take a deep breath with my nose buried in the dark pubic hair before I take my father's dick into my eager mouth.

He groans and clutches tufts of my hair.

The taste of his salty precum makes me ooze more of mine as I slowly bob my head up and down, sucking gently with short interludes.

I hasten my movement and I increase the pressure of my suctions as my hands massage his balls and my fingers run up and down his ass crack.

His breathing hasten, becoming arrhythmic, punctuated by groans and moans. The grip of his fingers tighten in my hair as he thrusts his hips up in tandem to my head movement.

His dick enlarges even more inside my mouth and he grows even harder. He is definitely bigger than me now.

And he is getting very close, I can tell.

I don't want him to cum yet. If he does, then who knows if in the clarity that comes next, he will realise again that he is my father and I, his son. I don't want that to happen just yet. I want to get my money's worth. Who knows if this moment will come again?

I ease up my blow job as I remove my trousers and my underwear. And when I'm free of them, I release his dick and it falls to his stomach with a slap.

I remove his trousers and underwear as he helpfully lifts his ass up from the couch. He is keeping his eyes closed, but he offers no resistance. He's putting himself completely in my hands, I think.

I go up to his ear and whisper, "I'll be back."

From my bag still in the kitchen, I take the bottle of lube which I did not dare to even imagine using on my father when I was putting it in as I was packing in the morning.

I returned quickly to the couch.

My father is sitting up in the centre, his legs stretching out before him. His head is leaning back and his arms are spread on the backrest. He has removed his shirt completely. And his dick, leaning a little to the left, is definitely closer to 7" than the 6" mine was the last time I measured it. It pulsating twitches are barely imperceptible in the low yellow light of the single lamp in the corner of the living room.

Another moment of lucidity penetrates me - I almost cannot believe that this is not a dream, that I am about to be penetrated by my pastor father.

Giddy with lustful anticipation, I climb onto the couch and over him, spreading my legs on either side of him, my thighs resting on his, and my butt and my balls hanging free in between.

He opens his eyes and smiles at me. In that moment, I want to believe this is not a one-time thing. I smile back at him to hide my fear, and I lean in and taste his sweet mouth again to remove my fear from my mind.

I slather a dollop of the lube on his dick, stroking it up and down as he runs his hands up and down my thighs.

I quirt an equal amount of the lube on my hand and I bring it to my ass, smearing it in a small circle around the rim before I insert one lubed finger, and then another into my hole. As I prime my asshole for my father with one hand, with the other I keep on stroking him. His eyes are closed again, but his hands move all over my body, everywhere they can reach. He is focused on the pleasure of the moment.

My asshole is familiar with this routine. I have done this many times. It does not take long before I am ready.

I scoot up closer to my father, my knees digging into the gap between the cushions of the backrest and the seat. He grabs my dick and strokes it with both hands as I raise myself a little and my asshole, leaking lube, hovers over his dick.

I lower myself slowly, guiding the shiny inflated mushroom-head of his throbbing dick to my ass crack, rubbing it back and forth a little, and then slowly pushing past the rim.

He has paused stroking me as he breaths in and out with erotic anticipation.

I feel my father's dick slowly slide into my asshole, a millimetre at a time. When the whole of his head is in, the soft skin over his hard thrumming rod moves and folds toward the base of his dick as my tight asshole resists the penetration, but the resistance is only half-hearted.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and I relax.

My father's dick slides into my asshole without any further resistance and is soon buried all the way to the base inside me.

"Oh, Josh," he lets out a long sigh.

I keep his dick buried in me as I gyrate slowly round and round, letting my ass and my insides get used to the feeling of my father's dick.

But my father is eager.

He reaches out for me, hooks me with his arm behind my shoulder and pulls me to him. Our sweaty chests meet with a smack, and he begins pumping, slowly at first, but growing more rapid with each pump. He pulls me down as he thrusts up, and I raise myself as he sinks back to thrust again. The back of my thighs meet the top of his with that familiar slap of erotic rhythm, and our chest and torsos rub against each other increasing the heat to an all-time high. He does not try to stifle his grunts, grunting each time he thrusts. I moan. The back of my pulsating dick rubs against his naval. I quickly pour more lube into my hand and rub my dick and his torso with it and I arch my back to press myself in tighter. Hearing him grunting from the pleasure I am giving him, smelling his sweet sweaty scent, seeing the ecstatic look on his face as he enjoys my asshole, and feeling the smooth warm friction of his dick sliding in and out of my rectum, with his tip pressing against my prostate, I am already close to climax.

I lean in and wrap my arms around his neck and position my lips to his ears.

I moan. He thrusts harder, his grunts growing louder. I moan even louder.

"Oh, Dad, I love you," I breathe into his ear. "Harder, Dad, harder. I think I'm cumming. Fuck me, Dad. Fuck, I love you so much. I'm cumming, Dad. Fuck, I'm cumming."