Closer to Heaven
by Ashton
Father Michaels stepped from the warmth of the rectory into the crisp morning air. Invigorated by the cold, he stood for a moment on the cement steps, glancing around at the snow covered tree limbs. It was early, only 7:30 a.m., there was still plenty of time to prepare for 8:30 mass. Enough time to dawdle and appreciate the beautiful picture nature had painted overnight. For surely, the church grounds appeared as lovely as any holiday greeting card Father Michaels had ever seen. The trees and shrubbery were covered in a fresh layer of snow, which made them seem to glimmer against the gray sky. The timing of the snowfall was perfect, right on schedule with the Thanksgiving holiday. The thought filled the young priest with added festivity.
This would be Father Michaels' first holiday season as pastor of St. Patrick's Church, he'd only been ordained a short while back, and had waited anxiously for his first assignment. In early Spring, he was given the opportunity he had been longing for. The young priest arrived at the parish full of ambition, vowing that he'd serve the Church and the community at large, in every way he could. In preparation for winter, Father Michaels had worked diligently at stocking the food pantry, making it one of his priorities to help secure food and shelter for the many homeless that roamed the city. The church had already begun collecting funds and toy donations for the underprivileged children as well, hoping to make it possible for all of them to find presents beneath their Christmas trees this year. It was an exciting time for the young priest, the satisfaction he felt was reassurance that he had made the right decision in joining the priesthood. Still, there were fleeting moments where he doubted his calling, times in which he feared that he was hiding behind the Church like a coward. Yet there seemed no other choice for him. Everything he'd ever been taught as a Catholic screamed that this was the only answer. Father Michaels could never act on his urges, no matter how mercilessly they taunted him. They were unnatural and against God. At least dedicating one's life to God, and the service of his people, was noble. It put him in the position to make a difference in the lives of others.
Father Michaels smiled to himself contentedly and started down the narrow pathway that led from the rectory to the side entrance of the Church. His black shoes sinking into snow as he walked, the icy coldness seeping inside and numbing his toes. For a second, he was sorry that he hadn't thrown his boots on. However, the trek between the buildings was a short one, it had hardly seemed worthwhile.
As he entered the darkened Church, the first thing that struck him, as it always did, was the heady scent of incense that clung to the air. He'd always found the smell comforting, even back when he was a young boy attending parochial school. There was something about it that made him feel secure, as if he were closer to God.
The young priest shrugged off his heavy wool coat, and tossed it over a pew, raking his slender fingers through his short blond waves as he moved to hit the first light switch. When he flipped it on, the alter was bathed in soft, glowing light, making the surrounding stained glass windows seem even more brilliant. He stared up at the alter for a moment, in awe of the old marble and tapestry, the heavy wooden crucifix and lifelike statues. Father Michaels was grateful for the opportunity to be working here, in this old church. Such finery and detail were often left out in the more modern buildings. His bright blue eyes were still wide with admiration as he flipped the second light switch on, illuminating the entire church. The priest spun on his heels and made his way down the center aisle, moving toward the rear of the building to make sure there was an ample supply of weekly bulletins.
Halfway down the aisle, something caught his attention. A slight figure laid, sprawled out on a pew towards the back of the Church. Father Michaels paused with surprise, then very tentatively approached. It appeared that a woman, wearing a mangy fur coat, had found her way inside the Church overnight. She was laying on her side, her long dark hair veiling her face, hiding it from Father Michaels' view. He stepped closer, until he was standing at the very end of the pew, staring down at her tousled mane. The scent of stale liquor radiating from the woman almost made him gag. The priest assumed that the woman must be one of the many homeless that wandered aimlessly through the city. Filled with sudden compassion, he inched his way into the pew and sat beside her.
"Hello? Hello...ma'am?" Father Michaels whispered, not wanting to startle the woman awake. When there was no response, he nudged her shoulder lightly. Still nothing. Curious now, the priest reached out to brush back the strands of straight brown hair that had fallen in front of her. He smoothed the tresses back with his fingers and peered at the sleeping face. His breath caught in his chest as he found himself gazing down, not into the face of a woman, but that of a young man. A man with a face that could rival an angel's. Father Michaels traced over the young man's features with keen eyes, noting his sickly pallor, his gaunt face and generous mouth. The man's features were distinctive, delicate, and beautiful enough to steal his breath away, yet he didn't look quite well. The priest rested his palm on the young man's high forehead, feeling for a temperature. The dark lashes that curled against the man's cheekbones barely fluttered at the touch of the priest's hand. "Hey kid...come on...time to wake up."
The young man stirred slightly, his brow creasing as he mumbled in his sleep, "No. No, Daddy...don't please...don't touch..." Father Michaels froze for a moment, paralyzed by what the muttered words might mean. He shook the thought from his mind, scolding himself for jumping to hasty conclusions. Without further hesitation, he maneuvered the young man into a sitting position, shaking him gently.
"Wha-? Stop. Lemme alone," the young man grumbled drowsily, allowing his body to go limp against Father Michaels's side. His head lolled backwards, then flopped down onto the priest's shoulder. The feel of his hot breath tickled Father Michaels' neck, causing him to shift uncomfortably on the wooden bench.
"Come on now, you need to pull yourself together. People will be arriving soon for mass," the priest made an attempt to keep his voice steady as the young man nuzzled at his skin, his cushiony lips moving languidly against him. When the man draped a matted, fur covered arm over his chest, Father Michaels cleared his throat apprehensively, all too aware of his own rapid heartbeat beneath the other man's warm, sweaty palm.
In all his thirty-two years, Father Michaels had never allowed himself this type of intimacy with another man. Now, the sudden closeness was almost more than he could bear. A strong sense of shame flooded the priest, as a rush of heat shot through his stomach to his cock, making him twinge inside his loose fitting black trousers. He felt as though he were taking advantage of the young man, using him while he was still incoherent to fulfill some sick craving within. Father Michaels grabbed the young man by the wrist and gently extricated his arm from around his chest. "Hey. I'm going to help you stand up now, all right?"
"Mmmm...." the younger man sighed and without further warning, opened his mouth against the priest's neck, his moist tongue flicking out to lick and taste the smooth flesh, as his bony hand slid down between Father Michaels' legs. The priest gasped and parted his lips to protest, but found himself unable to move as the other man rubbed his stiff organ through the insubstantial pant fabric. The rough friction felt good, like nothing he'd quite experienced before. And although he willed it not to, Father Michaels' body responded as if it had a mind of its own, his hips lifting slightly off the wooden bench to crush his swollen length harder against the younger man's hand, "ohhh...yessss...Father...forgive me....for I have sinned."
The priest was brought crashing back to reality by the sound of the younger man's muffled giggles. Immediately, Father Michaels shoved the man away and leapt to his feet, almost falling out of the pew in the process. The snickering behind him gave way to what sounded almost like a cackling.
Trying to contain his humiliation and anger, the priest spun around to face the young man, looking him in the eye for the first time, "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to leave."
The young man just tilted his head to the side and regarded him with an icy stare, a sneer on his long angular face, "What's the matter Father? Don't trust yourself? Where's your faith."
"I'm...s-sorry. Look, I realize there's no excuse for my behavior, I should have stopped you sooner. But I wasn't expecting....," the priest shook his head in disbelief, "look, you've obviously been drinking. Let me call you a cab, I'll pay for your fare."
The young man threw his head back and laughed again, flipping his straggly hair over his shoulder as gripped hold of the pew and pulled himself to his feet, "You weren't expecting me to grab your dick, you mean?" He paused to wet his full pink lips, "Come on Father, you know you want it... I could suck you so good. Let me do it? I'll make you see God."
"Stop it! Right now!" Father Michaels was stunned by the vehemence of his own outburst, so upset by the young man's vile words that his body shook, "You're in a CHURCH, have some respect."
The young man stood before Father Michaels, swaying slightly as he narrowed his glacial blue eyes, "so what? We were in a church a few minutes ago, when I had my hand on your big, HARD cock. Didn't seem to matter then..."
Father Michaels stood speechless before him, watching as the ratty fur coat slid down off one of the young man's shoulders, revealing a tight black tank shirt that barely covered his sparse torso. He was scrawny, most likely malnourished like so many other winos. The priest knew he should pity this raggedy young thing before him, show him a bit of sympathy instead of anger. Yet he could feel his blood pressure soar. Patience. He needed to have more patience, "look, can we...stop this? Tell me what I can do for you? Food? Clothing? A ride somewhere? Let me help you."
"My name is Jordan. What's your name, Father?"
"William...Father William Michaels," he combed his unruly hair with his fingers out of nervous habit and sighed.
"William. Hmm. Yeah, I like that. That's a good name," Jordan locked eyes with the bemused priest and smiled coyly, "I like your face too, even though you look like a little boy who just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar."
A slight grin tugged at the corner of Jordan's lush mouth as he reached up to cup the side of Father Michaels face with his hand, daring to run a gold polished thumbnail over the priest's curvy lips. Father Michaels remained silent, his stomach knotting beneath the young man's piercing blue eyes and the finger grazing his mouth. He felt torn. Half of him ached to give in, to open his mouth and take Jordan's finger inside...while the other half wanted to lash out and hit the young man for inspiring such lust.
"All right Father, I'll leave you to your mass now," Jordan pretended to pout, making his thick mouth all the more tantalizing, as he let his smallish hand fall from the priest's cheek, "but I'll be back. I promise."
Jordan turned away and began a cocky swagger down the center aisle, his narrow hips swishing hypnotically in their tight denim casing. Filled with guilt, yet unable to resist, Father Michaels watched the young man's ass until he disappeared beyond the heavy wooden doors.
***********************************
For the rest of the day, Father Michaels tried to remain occupied, desperate to keep his mind off Jordan. He rushed through each of his responsibilities, brimming with nervous energy as he held mass, listened to confessions, and later paid a visit to an elderly parishoner who'd taken ill. It wasn't until much later, when he was alone with his thoughts, preparing for bed, that he broke.
His bedroom at the rectory was small and scantily furnished, with only a twin bed and small dresser enclosed within the four cracked plaster walls. As soon as Father Michaels was in his room, he tugged the stiff collar from around his neck and laid it on top of the dresser, fingering it thoughtfully for a moment before glancing up at his reflection in the mirror. He looked especially tired this evening, dark circles made crescents beneath his large blue eyes. In a daze, he reached his fingertips to his lips, recalling Jordan's touch. The young man had told him that he liked his face. Had another man ever paid him such a compliment? He didn't believe so.
Everything that had transpired on that morning still seemed surreal to the priest. He tried convincing himself that Jordan had set him up solely for amusement, that he had behaved in the manner he did because he was intoxicated, and because taunting a priest seemed a particularly wicked thing to do.
Father Michaels sighed heavily, and began to undress, wishing he'd been better at fending off the temptation. But he had liked it. All of it. The hot mouth sucking at his skin, the rough stroke of the young man's hand over his chest...against his crotch. It had felt good, and he hadn't wanted it to stop. His dick had been rock hard before Jordan had even touched it. Knowing this made him feel like a disgrace, to both God and the Church.
The priest ripped at his blankets with mild irritation and slid into bed, still distraught. Still wanting the young man to finish what he'd started. Self doubt nagged at him. Maybe he'd made a mistake after all. What if he wasn't cut out for this lifestyle? He laid on his back and closed his eyes, trying to force down his terrible yearning and rest, but all he could see were Jordan's pale blue-gray eyes. His ample lips, lips that felt like silk against his neck. When the young man had offered to suck his cock, he'd almost been able to feel those fat lips dragging over his dick. His thoughts drifted dangerously, until finally the priest imagined himself fucking the younger man's mouth, digging his fingers into his long hair, forcing him all the way down on his length. He pictured it so vividly in his mind, that it caused his organ to twitch to life again. Feeling tortured by now, Father Michaels groaned, his hand slowly inching its way down over his tense abdomen, slipping beneath the waist of his pajama bottoms. He wrapped his fingers hesitantly around his thickened shaft and began to stroke. Lightly at first. The tips of his fingers massaging just beneath the spongy head. Tightening his grip, he began pumping harder, squeezing the warm drool from his slit and then slicking it down over his painfully engorged member with his fingers. Images of Jordan blurring together. Feline eyes. Wide, hot mouth. The wiggle in his ass as he'd walked away...
"Ohgod...yes...ahh....ahhh...yesss..." The young priest's cock throbbed in the firm grip of his hand as he cried out hoarsely, blinded by the orgasm that wracked his lean body - streams of cum spurting from the tip of his dick, splattering against his sweaty abdomen, and catching on his sparse blond stomach hairs. The torment in his body finally released, Father Michaels rolled onto his side and buried his face against his pillow with shame.
***********************************
In the days that followed, the young priest became increasingly restless. Whenever he was out in public or in a crowd, he found himself glancing around in search of Jordan, while at the same time, living in fear that he would run into him again. It was a contradiction of emotions that left him both frustrated and irritable. Not a day passed, that he didn't question his decision to join the priesthood. Yet instead of abandoning his tattered faith, he clung to it despairingly, like a drowning man. At night, when he seemed most tempted to stray from the righteous path, he prayed all the harder and did heavy penance for his impure thoughts.
By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, most of the jubilation he'd expected to feel over the onset of the holiday season had already diminished. Father Michaels felt too battered and weary to work up even the smallest bit of excitement. When he stood up at the podium in Church on Thanksgiving morning, he imagined the entire congregation could look into his face and see what a fraud he was.
The mass dragged on, until finally it was time to administer the Eucharist. Father Michaels stepped down from the alter with the other designated Eucharist minister, ready to pass out the blessed wafers that he'd just declared the body of Christ. One by one, the parishioners filed into the aisle and stepped forward to receive their bread and wine.
That's when he saw Jordan, creeping up the aisle to accept Communion. A panic rose inside Father Michael as he stared at the young man approaching, struggling to keep his voice steady each time he handed out another wafer. Jordan looked slightly less peaked than he had during their first encounter, and his hair appeared less grimy. And although he still wore the same ratty, waist length fur, the tight black jeans he wore were clean. Closer and closer he inched. Then finally, he stood before the priest, slender hands folded in front of him angelically, his gaunt face tilted down toward the floor as he peered through the long dark hair framing his face. His blue-gray eyes bore into Father Michaels', glinting mischievously, the glint of a smirk on his lips.
"Body of Christ," Father Michaels offered the bread almost reluctantly, holding it out to Jordan between his thumb and index finger, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Amen," he replied in a voice that was sweet and soft, making it almost impossible for the priest to believe it was the same mouth that had spat such profanity at him a mere week ago.
Jordan parted his lips wide and extended his tongue in a lewd manner, waiting for the Eucharist. But as Father Michaels reached to place the small white wafer into his mouth, the young man clamped his lips down around the two digits holding the bread. Catching the priest's gaze and holding it with intent, Jordan sucked lightly at the fingers trapped in his mouth, then dragged his lips down over them. He grinned crookedly as they slipped from his fevered mouth, and he began chewing the wafer with an accomplished statement on his face.
The remainder of mass was a blur. Father Michaels hurried through the closing prayers, hoping for a moment to collect his wits between the mass and Thanksgiving dinner at the Community Center, where he would be volunteering. He was having difficulty shaking Jordan's image from his mind. How the younger man had looked sucking on his fingers in that few seconds, how his fingers felt enclosed in Jordan's mouth. These thoughts were enough to keep him in a state of arousal for the rest of the service.
As soon as the last person had exited the Church, and the final candle was extinguished, the priest rushed off to the narrow room behind the alter, which served as a changing room for the alter boys and himself. The room appeared suffocating, although it quartered nothing more than a series of garment hooks, a wardrobe, and an antique looking sofa. Feeling skittish, he closed the door behind him and began tugging the flowing white robe off over his head, nearly tangling himself in the loose material when he heard the door creak slowly open. Father Michaels knew who it was before he even had the opportunity to glance toward the threshold.
"Hello, Father," the young man purred seductively, reaching with one pale, thin hand to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. The priest could feel the heat rise to his cheeks as he hung his robe on a wall hook and tried to tidy his mussed locks with his fingers.
"Umm. Hello...Jordan. Is there something I can help you with?" Father Michaels busied himself by straightening up the alter boy gowns in the wardrobe, avoiding eye contact with the younger man.
"Well, for starters you can look at me when I'm talking to you," Jordan snipped, his voice mildly irritated as he slid the mangled fur down off his scrawny shoulders, proudly revealing the white lace blouse he wore beneath. The lace of the shirt so delicate and flimsy, his skin could be seen through the fine mesh. "Please, Father? Look at me? I bought this just for you."
Reluctantly, Father Michaels raised his cerulean eyes and let them rest on the waif before him. The young man smiled winningly and glanced down to admire himself, running his hands over his spare chest. The priest blanched, his face blushing a brigher shade of red, "Jordan...why? Why do you insist on tormenting me?" He leaned back against the wardrobe, feeling as if the wind had suddenly been knocked out of him.
Jordan shrugged in response and stepped closer, staring boldly at the priest as his fingers fumbled with the buttons of his blouse, "I don't know really. I guess...I saw you once, at a department store a few weeks back. You were doing one of those charity toy drives. I watched you for awhile that day, but you never noticed me... I wanted you to notice me, Father. I can't stop thinking about you." The young man ripped his unbuttoned blouse from the waist of his black denims, his smooth chest exposed as he reached his hand out to stroke the priest's face.
"While I'm very flattered, you do realize that I've taken a vow of celibacy?" Father Michaels stammered, knowing there was no conviction in his words. The mere touch of the young man's hand against his cheek sent his heart fluttering and the adrenaline rushing though his body.
"Then go to confession tomorrow. Just...touch me. Yeah...now doesn't that feel good, Father?" Jordan drew the priest's palm against his bare chest and guided it over his skin "I'll do whatever you want. Anything." The young man's voice was a breathy whisper against Father Michaels' face as he leaned in to kiss the man's quivering lips.
The priest stifled a groan, lost to the demanding thrust of the wet tongue filling his mouth, the generous lips sucking at his own. A jolt of electricity rippling through his body, stiffening his cock, as the kiss grew more desperate. Father Michaels' hands roamed over Jordan's chest of their own accord, fingers digging into the creamy white flesh, seeking out the other man's nipples. When he'd found the small erect peaks, he twisted them between his fingers, a low whine catching deep in his throat as he pinched down hard on both.
Jordan jerked his head back and yelped in a high-pitched tone, "Ahhhhh.....fuck...that hurts," his breath came in ragged gasps, "but don't stop, please don't stop. I want to feel it..."
The young man's hand slunk over the priest's chest and stomach, moving downward until it was nestled against the other man's crotch, his slim fingers fondling Father Michaels' balls, pressing and rolling them gently before sliding upward towards the zipper, "Jordan...no...don't..." The priest drew back slightly, shaking his head in protest, his chest heaving as he gazed down at Jordan. This was wrong, he knew it was wrong and yet resisting seemed far too difficult, his need too great. A blinding fury washed over Father Micheals, his blood pressure rising with anger at Jordan for tempting him, at God for making what he most wanted, near impossible to have.
"Oh God...your dick is already leaking," the younger man moaned with mild suprise, his glazed blue eyes trailing upward from the wet stain at the crotch of the priest's black trousers to Father Michaels' face, "you wanna fuck me, Father? I'll let you shove your cock in my ass, it'll be so good...so tight...the closest thing you'll ever find to heaven."
"Knock it OFF!" The priest bellowed, clasping Jordan by his forearms and forcing him backwards. Though Father Michaels hadn't meant to push him back hard, the younger man stumbled and fell to the floor, his legs twisting beneath him as he landed in a heap on the worn oriental rug.
Not easily daunted, Jordan glowered at the priest, narrowing his glacial eyes, "fuck you...you holy hypocrite...faggot priest!"
Filled with rage, Father Michaels lunged at Jordan, tangling his strong fingers in the younger man's hair, forcing him with relative ease, to roll over onto his belly. He crushed the side of Jordan's face against the floor, pinning him by his hair as he commanded, "take your pants down. Take them down NOW."
Hastily, the younger man's hand snaked between his body and the thin carpet to unfasten his jeans, "you like it rough, eh...priest?"
"Shut up and get them down," Father Michaels' body trembled, a dull ache throbbing in his cock as he watched Jordan attempt to wriggle the tight denim down over his skinny thighs. When the strenuous task was done, the priest reached out with his free hand and trailed his fingers over the smooth, pale ass on display, listening to the younger man pant with excitement. Biting down hard on his lip, Father Michaels traced a finger lightly along the crack of Jordan' ass, making the younger man squirm against the floor as he worked the digit between his crease of sweaty skin - until finally, the priest's finger was rubbing against the warm hidden pucker, spearing its way inside, "Jesus...ohhh....God...."
Father Michaels nearly choked on his words as his finger began to glide slowly through the clenched ring of muscles into the hot, moist encasing of Jordan's ass. He pressed far inside, feeling the younger man squeeze his muscles around his finger as he rocked against the floor, grunting, "Yes...yes...deep and hard...come on...fuck me..."
The priest stabbed in more ruthlessly, adding a second finger, watching without coherent thought as Jordan whimpered and took them both eagerly, grinding his cock against the rug as he rode the fingers that impaled him. Father Michaels was distinctly aware of his own cock, dripping and aching between his legs, and knew that any amount of friction would set him off. If he just rubbed himself a few times even... He wondered, would the sin be less, if he came in his pants without taking the boy? Was fingering the younger man's ass to be considered as deviant an act as literal 'sex'? His mind reeled, what the HELL was he doing? He wanted to stop. Really...he did.
Yet it felt too good to be inside the other man this way. He liked watching Jordan and making him cry out. He was torn. Couldn't think straight with his cock this hard.
"Fuck. Father...you're going to make me cum. Shit, not like this...FUCK ME. Gimme your cock NOW...please..."
Father Michaels froze, the younger man's words snapping him out of the trance-like state he'd been functioning in. Suddenly more disgusted with himself than he'd ever been, he released Jordan's hair and pulled his fingers out of their fevered entrapment, a sob catching in his throat, "I can't...oh God...Jordan...I'm sorry...so sorry..." The priest fell back on his haunches, and covered his face with his hands, listening to the other man's groans of frustration.
"What the...? Father, please, you can't stop now, not without finishing..."
Jordan rolled over onto his back, his thick cock laying against his belly as he shot the priest a helpless glance. Father Micheals lowered his hands from his face and peered over at him, undone by the sight of the younger man, flushed and sweaty, strands of wild hair sticking to his face as he reached to fist his dick, "watch me then, you bastard...you fucking asshole...if you can't follow through with what you've started."
Speechless, the priest watched as Jordan lifted his bony hips off the floor and thrust into his steadily pumping hand, his lacy white blouse wide open, revealing his smooth, boyish chest, his small rose-colored nipples, and the tensing of his stomach with each slight movement, "Stop it. Please stop...don't do this to me..."
Jordan's face softened and he extended his arm to the priest, beckoning him near, "come here...lay down beside me..." There was a pleading quality in his tone that made him seem especially young as he whispered, "you can just watch...if you want...or...or...maybe...wrap your hand around mine and help..."
Father Michaels wet his lips nervously, "Jordan...I..I...want to...may God forgive me because...I WANT to. But I c-can't...." The priest climbed to his feet and held the wall for support, his knees almost too weak to hold his weight.
"Ohhhhh...fuckin' Jesus, urghhh," Jordan released his dick, letting it slap against his bare stomach as he grumbled with defeat.
Giving the younger man one last, lingering glance, Father Micheals crept carefully out the door, leaving the disgruntled young man to sneer at him from behind.
The priest hurried through the empty Church, heading for the safety of the rectory, his stomach churning dangerously with each echoing footfall. The Church no longer seemed like the sanctuary that it once had, not with this devilishly tempting young man stalking the premises...constantly reminding him of just what and who he was. The priest wondered, as he trudged through the snow-covered path between the two buildings, if the Church had ever truly been the refuge he'd imagined, or if perhaps it'd all been some clever trick of his mind. A vain attempt of his psyche to create a place...a touchstone...that would offer him the solace he so craved. The realization that this could very well be true, made Father Michaels all the more nauseous. If that were the case, then his entire life was built upon a lie.
As soon as the priest stumbled over the threshold into the adjacent building, he made a beeline for the lavatory at the end of the hall and locked himself inside. A film of sweat coating his skin, he dropped to his knees on the cold gray tiles, his fingers gripping the porcelain commode, as his gut lurched, forcing the contents of his stomach to spill out into the toilet water directly beneath his face. When there was nothing left inside him to be emptied, Father Michaels collaspsed against the wall, panting and exhausted, knowing that he'd never make it to the Community Center for Thanksgiving Dinner.