Sunday mass was never my favorite, but over the years I’d grown to like it– tolerate it.
Even as a young man, something always felt off about it. It wasn’t the church itself or the gospel they preached, but the people who ran it. Mom had a not so obvious crush on Pastor Locke, one that only I seemed to notice. But that’s all it ever was– a crush. A simple, non-threatening crush.
Little did she know that I shared that feeling.
But that was never something I could share aloud– no. That was something I kept for myself. And it wasn’t that he was drop dead gorgeous, or ripped from Vogue magazine. He was handsome, proper; and had a smile that could kill.
Despite all that, I always kept it to myself; kept a lot to myself– especially my interest in boys. As you could imagine, it’s frowned upon. Not just here in church, but also at home. My step-dad, Ford, would make crude remarks consistently– and Mom never stopped him. So as I started to develop those kinds of feelings, as I began noticing what it was about boys that turned me on– I hid it.
Sounds typical right? The typical case of the closeted boy who can’t be himself. Well… that much is true, but typically there’s the breaking point right? Typically there’s the moment where that boy decides he’d had enough, when he decides it’s time to be him.
I never got that moment.
Every Sunday morning the three of us walked into church, Mom and Ford holding hands while I followed idly behind them. I carried my Sunday journal with me, the one that Mom forced me to buy a few years ago. You’d think it would be full, that I’d be ready for another. But truthfully, I never used it the way it was intended.
The journal had some hundred pages, bound by gray leather with a cross engraved on the cover. It was my journal, my book– my secrets. It’s the one thing that Mom and Ford never looked through, the one thing they told me to reference whenever things were tough; whenever things were hard. It was supposed to be my journey with God– encased in writing.
But that’s not at all what it was.
At first, when I was still bussed downstairs with the other kids; I’d use the journal for notes– for doodles. But as of last year, when I became old enough to sit upstairs among the pews and stained glass; those notes and doodles dwindled. Instead I pretended to take those notes during mass too, when in reality– those notes became dreams– fantasies.
And maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea, or the time and place. But at least downstairs we’d play games, we’d talk and have discussions and I’d have a reason to take notes. Up here… in the middle of long drawn out sermons… my mind drifted. I couldn’t help it.
Pastor Locke became Mr White and I became his mistress. Mr White and I loved each other in my journal, we cared for each other in my journal– and he did unspeakable things to me in my journal.
It was all in my head. It was all a fantasy that I’d put to paper. I’d stare up at him in front of his podium, and as he’d preach the good word; I’d write my own good words.
So when we settled into our normal spot and prepared for worship, then tithe; then prayer. I would be thinking about the next chapter in my story, the next dirty little thing Mr White would say to me, the next dirty little thing he’d do to me.
And during mass, while Pastor Locke would talk and talk and talk– I’d stare and long for him and write down my profane notes.
And when everything was said and done, when everyone would thank him for another amazing service; I’d clutch my journal to my heart. But today wasn’t a normal day– today everything changed.
- - -
I could feel a difference in the air this morning; could feel the energy shift when I walked downstairs for breakfast. “Are you ready?” Ford asked me, not looking up from the daily newspaper.
“All ready.” I started, wiping my hands on khakis before sitting at the table to eat. “Can I eat first?” I asked as I bit into a piece of toast.
He only flapped the newspaper shut and eyed me, “We’re leaving in five.” He stated and removed himself from in front of me. I gave a curious look to my Mom who also avoided eye contact, silently finishing her plate and walking her dishes to the sink.
Weird. But okay. Maybe they got into an argument.
So I hurried with the food on my plate, scarfed it down and washed my dish just in time for Ford to announce that we were leaving. I grabbed my journal, checked my freckled face and curly hair in the mirror; and left the house content.
But the drive there was eerily quiet this morning until Mom opened her mouth, “Are you excited for college sweetie?” She asked me, keeping her eyes forward as I sat in the back.
I was. College was my escape, college was my opportunity to be me and get away. I’ve dreamt about it, waited for it. “I am.” I answered her, and the car went silent again.
Not another word was spoken for the rest of the short drive, not a peep until we parked and started seeing regulars in the parking lot of the church. Mom and Ford made small talk with them while I refrained from making too much noise, until eventually we walked inside.
Carrie greeted us as normal, handing us this week's pamphlet and squeezing me on the shoulder with a smile. And for a moment there, Sunday mass went on as normal. That was until it ended, that was until Pastor Locke walked up to me at the end of mass; “Evan.” He said calmly, a squeeze to my shoulder and smile– “Hold back for a minute, will you?”
And despite my heart racing at his touch, despite being so close to his presence; I scanned the room for Mom and Ford.
“Uhm, sure okay.” I smiled back at him, earning those lips of his to curve even more before he turned to other patrons of the church. I spotted Mom nearing the exit doors and ran over to her, “Pastor told me to hold back a minute.” I said as I took her hand, “Can you and Ford wait up?”
And she turned to me, something off putting with her smile; “Sure sweetie.” And she slipped her hand out of mine and walked out of the front doors.
I watched as she rounded the church until she was out of view, wondering what had her so upset. I remember years ago when she and Ford first started dating, it was rocky to say the least. But they made it out, they seemed happy– so what was it?
Either way I found myself in one of the back pews, tapping my fingers along my journal as I waited for people to clear. And eventually, he found me, taking a seat right next to me. “I heard you’ll be off to college soon.” He spoke like silk, towering above me even as he sat down.
I nodded, maintaining eye contact and doing everything in my power to not let my gaze drift over his body. “I am. Just a few more months.” I smiled.
He leaned into the pew, stretching his arms along the back and slightly spreading his legs; “I remember college, good time.” And then it dawned on me– this must be what Mom is so upset about. She must’ve asked Pastor Locke to come talk to me.
I cleared my throat, “It’s only a state away.” I said, hopefully giving some reprieve.
He nodded, then looked across the emptying room of pews before letting his arm drift around my shoulders; “I heard that too.” He almost whispered. “I’m going to be upset when you aren’t in the crowd anymore, I’ll miss you.” He smiled, not just with his mouth but with those deep brown eyes too.
I tried to keep my breathing normal as his arm nestled into me, as he subtly inched closer to me; “I’ll miss church too.” I said, fighting the blush that crept up my cheeks.
His smile didn’t leave as his eyes averted mine and dropped to my lap, “You’re always writing in that thing.” He nodded at my journal, “You pay a lot of attention.” He craned his neck. “Mind if I read it?”
My stomach dropped as I scrambled for an excuse, “Uhm..” my body started sweating, my nerves running rampant; “It’s kind of just for me.” Is all I could think to say.
He nodded, understandingly. “That’s fine.” But his other hand pointed at it, his fingers landing on it in my lap; “Make sure this goes to college with you.” His eyes squinted as he firmly pressed a finger into the leather book, pressing into my groin below it. “Sometimes…” then his full hand pressed into the book as my lips parted, “We forget about what God has done for us when we aren’t praising him.” And his hand slid my journal up my legs, let it rest on my knees as he stared at me.
I had no clue what was happening, “My M– Mom is waiting for me outside.” I stumbled on the words.
But his hand had other plans as it rested on my growing bulge, as I sucked in a breath; as I froze in place under his gaze. He squeezed me and smirked, feeling me grow under his touch. And right when I had enough, right when I figured this couldn’t be real; he snapped out of it.
He stood in front of me, straightened his blazer and looked down to me; “There’s something I’d like to show you Evan.” And he nodded his head for me to follow.
I was still frozen, still trying to understand what the fuck was happening. I swallowed nervously and grabbed my journal, rose to my feet and followed him towards the front stage. The church was mostly empty by now, at least this room was– it was just me and him.
He rounded the podium, looked back at me and smiled; “Come on.” he urged me up the two steps onto stage. I’ve never been up here, and when I turned around to see the empty room of pews; I imagined what it must be like up here to stare out onto a sea of people. But I followed him through a side door tucked off stage, one that led into a dim lit hallway.
“Where are we goi–”
He turned and kneed me right in the gut, knocking the air out of me as I clutched my stomach and dropped my journal. His hands wrapped around my mouth, muffled the cries I began to wail as he kicked the door we walked through closed.
He was taller than me, clearly stronger than me as one arm held me steady and the other muffled my whimpers. “Your parents are worried about you.” He seethed behind me, inched us further into darkness as I thrashed in his hold.
What is he doing? Why are they worried? What the fuck is happening?
I kicked my legs in front of me, pushed off the wall to try and break free but that only strengthened his grip– his very muscular grip.
He slammed my body into the wall, knocked the wind out of me again. “Who’s Mr White?” He seethed, slamming me again into the wall. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t answer. He turned me around and before I could attempt any rescuing of myself, he gripped my throat– picked me off into the air and pinned me to the wall. “Why are you disobeying the Lord?”
My feet were kicking, my hands grabbed his arm to try and free myself, to try and pull away from the grip at my throat. But he winded a balled fist behind him, and hammered it into my jaw– again and again and again.
He let me drop to the floor, desperately trying to catch my breath. At that point I didn’t feel pain, at that moment I was scared for my life. I wanted to scream for help, wanted to cry for mercy– but nothing could form under my broken circumstances.
He opened yet another door, grabbed me by the hair and dragged me through it.
We descended a spiral staircase, one I didn’t know existed. Half way down I managed a croak, a croak that became a scream before he smacked me with all of his force. “Faggots don’t speak.” He spat at me and continued dragging me down the winding staircase.
At the bottom was a foreign dark room, cold and silent but for my whimpers and ragged breathing. And when he flipped a switch, when dim lights started to illuminate the room– my eyes widened in horror.
What is this place?
Before I could protest, he grabbed me in a chokehold; stuffed some kind of fabric in my mouth until my cries and screams were nothing but murmurs to the wind.
I heard duct tape being ripped and torn before it secured whatever was in my mouth. He tripped my legs, let me fall to the cement floor with a thud and placed his dress boot on my chest– keeping me there. At that point I stopped the thrashing, stopped the fighting; I was frozen in fear.
He tilted his head, a sinister look atop his face; “Conversion therapy starts now.” And a wicked grin took to his lips before he drew his other foot back and kicked me between my legs. I writhed in pain, the most unimaginable pain. “We’ve had a few like you, Evan.” He knelt down to me, gripped my hair to bring my teary eyes close to his; “I’ve cured them all.”
I cried for mercy, begged with my eyes as I furiously shook my head. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.
He chuckled above me as he shoved me forward, grabbed my wrists and bound them together with more duct tape– too much duct tape. And I stared at the display in front of me, trembling under his roughness. “Don’t worry, kid.” He hoisted me to my shaky feet and inched me closer and closer to the bars ahead. “This is only temporary.”
Temporary? Don’t worry? What the fuck am I supposed to do in a situation like this? I’ve been abducted, and it sounds like my mother and Ford knew… they knew– and they allowed it.
He opened a barred door in front of me and forced me inside– inside this rusted cage.
He tethered something around my neck, “The Lord demands that men can endure.” He whispered as he rounded my trembling body, “The Lord demands corrections of his prophets.” He landed in front of me, looking down at my tear stained eyes. “The Lord demands change.”
And he stepped out, closed the barred door and locked it.
“Change, Evan.” His eyes observed me whole, “I will change you.”
- - -
He left shortly after, leaving me alone to my whimpering. And of course I tried to escape, of course I did what I could to make noise or free myself– but it was no use. The tether around my neck was taut, any bend in my knees would pull it tight and choke me. I tried lifting a leg and kicking the bars but after several attempts, I lost balance and fell just a few inches– caught by my throat that had me scrambling for footing.
I was trapped. There was nothing I could do.
My mind wandered to my parents– what evil fuckers they were. How could they let this happen to me? Why would they want this for me? Over a journal? I mean– I don’t know how they could’ve read it, I never let it out of my sight. But Pastor Locke… he knew.
I had no clue how long I was strung up for, had no clue how long I’d be trapped here for but the urge to use the bathroom kept creeping up on me. I fought it for as long as I could, pressed my thighs together for as long as I could manage– until eventually.
God, this was humiliating. I cried even more as I soaked my pants, cursing the world as a pool of piss gathered at my shoes.
But then I heard noise, no– footsteps. And soon that door opened again and in walked Pastor Locke. He took meaningful strides over to me, thin-lipped as he walked with hands behind his back. “You soiled yourself.” He shook his head, almost in disappointment; “Pathetic.”
Yet he unlocked the door, opened the cage and stepped in. Was this enough? Was this my punishment? Please, just let me go.
Then he revealed that leather bound journal of mine from behind his back, and tapped it in his hands. “Mr White?” I couldn’t believe he read it. Is that what he’s been doing all this time? “You started with such great notes, Evan.” He circled me, “And then…” He smacked my face with the book, almost knocking me from my stance; “What happened to you?” He seethed, “While I was speaking his good word, while I was praising his good name…” Another smack, “You were– jotting sins in his presence, fantasizing of a pagan world.”
He shook his head, “It was worse than what your stepfather told me.” He glared at me and turned to walk away again– no. Please let me go. “He searched through your laptop, uncovered even more disgrace.” He said. And then he pivoted, a wicked smirk on his lips; “I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
And he threw my journal at my feet, let it soak in my urine as he turned to a table along the wall. He grabbed a towel and a glass vial, poured its contents into the cloth and walked back over to me. “By God's good grace boy, I will change you.”
And he tore the duct tape off my face, ripping at my skin. And as the cloth was pulled from my mouth, I went to scream; wanted to beg again– but he held the soaked towel up to me and pinched my nose.
Suddenly, the world faded.
- - -
My senses started to materialize in my fingertips, in my toes– before a sharp pain shot through my head. I tried blinking, tried to move but couldn’t.
And then everything hit me… everything that happened– it wasn’t a nightmare. My eyes shot open as my breath quickened, where was I?
My wrists and ankles were bound, I was lying flat on my back as I craned my neck to understand. What the fuck is this place? It was dark, unfinished– poles and vents and wires were exposed in the ceiling above me. The walls were the same as the floor– cement. My heart rate doubled in speed, I was strapped to a bed but my mouth was free.
“Help!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, “Help me!” I thrashed in the restraints. “Please! Help me!” I wailed, my chest heaving and shaking as I noticed I was stripped down to just boxers; and they weren’t my own. “Help me, please!” I continued, “Hel–”
A firm hand clasped around my mouth and above me appeared Pastor Locke.
He smirked down to me, “Only God can help you.” He stated, “Scream again– and reap the consequences.” And at this point, I didn’t object to his threats.
So when he released his hand, I sucked in a breath; refrained from screaming once again as he walked around the bed, settling at the foot and staring at me.
“Please.” I begged in a whisper, “Let me go.”
But he only shook his head, “So you can spread sin in the world?”
“I won’t.” I urged, “It was just a phase. I’m not gay. I promise.”
“We’ll see about that.” He crossed his arms, those hefty arms. And at that moment I took a good look at him without the Pastor get-up, without the blazer and suit he always wore. Now, he was dressed in loose fit sweatpants and a t-shirt; clearly packed with more muscle than what I could have imagined. “Now close your eyes.”
But I refused, I shook my head and continued pleading with him until he reached over and punched me in the groin; earning a shockingly pathetic scream from me.
“Close your eyes.” So I whimpered, sucked at my lips and closed them tightly. “Now listen to me carefully.” He cooed, softer in tone than before. “I really liked your stories. Mr White, he’s hot isn’t he?” But I shook my head, refusing whatever trickery this was. “When he bent you over…” His hand caressed my bare thigh, “When he fucked you…” He squeezed, now with both hands dragging down my legs with his burning touch; “When he released his seed into you.”
I wouldn’t let him trick me. I wouldn’t let him convince me that he found this okay– that he found this hot.
“No.” I muttered through clenched teeth, “It’s disgusting.” I lied.
But maybe that wasn’t the right choice, as he gripped my soft length through the boxers; my eyes shooting open. He tugged, a menacing smile on his lips– “Admit you like it.”
I shook my head but he only pulled harder. It fucking hurt. Then he twisted it in his hand and I screamed, “Ah, fuck!” He pulled tighter.
“Admit you like it.” And he pulled even harder, damn near ripping my length from my body.
I shook my head, the pain sending tears back to my eyes; “No!” I screamed, “Please!”
But he landed a swift punch to my balls in his hand, knocking the wind out of me. “Admit.” He punched again, “Admit.” Another punch, I needed it to stop– he didn’t care what I had to say. “Admit.”
“Fine!” I screamed, “I liked it! I liked it!” But he didn’t let go. “It was hot! I like Mr White!”
And finally, he let me free. “Tsk.” He growled above me as I cried endlessly, “I knew you were still a sinful faggot.”
This wasn’t fair. He forced me into saying it, forced me into confession. My balls were tender, my stomach reeled in pain. And even if what I said was true, even if I did think I was a disgrace– that men didn’t turn me on… I don’t think it would have mattered.
“Please.” I groaned, almost inaudible through the tears and snot that ran down my face; “Please have mercy.”
He laughed– actually fucking laughed. “Only God may show mercy.” He growled, “I am only a servant.” He crawled on top of me, not bothering to show any restraint on kneeing me in the thigh or pressing his weight into my chest. “I am here to make you hate it.” And he spit on my face.
He lined his thighs next to my head, pressed his pants into my face and held it there. Did he not know what he was doing was considered a sin too? Did he not know that Mr White was based on him?
He pulled at his waistband, allowing more and more skin to be revealed to my very eyes. “You fantasized about this with Mr White.” He seethed, dropping his pants far enough to reveal his length; soft and thick and uncut. “I get no pleasure from fixing you.” It’s like he had to convince himself of that. “Now open your mouth.”
I shook my head, tightened my lips.
He smacked me, “Open your mouth damn it!” But I defied again, to which he pinched my nose and smothered his hefty balls on my chin.
I shook my head still, tried to writhe his grip off of me but it was no use– eventually my mouth had to open to breathe.
And he shoved his soft dick inside, “Use your teeth and reap the consequences.” He seethed, letting go of my nose and smacking my face widely with each hand; over and over and over until my face burned bright red. But what did he want?
He moaned into my face, pressed his whole pelvis into me– smothering me.
And I felt it, felt him growing inside me. I tried to escape, tried desperately to move my head away but he held it there. “Swallow it faggot.” His length was growing and growing– pushing against the part of my throat that gagged me.
I sputtered, gagged, my chest arching and heaving as he held me there.
“Oh Good Lord.” He moaned… enjoying it. “Relieve this boy of worldly desires.” He inched back, letting the tip of his cock poke the back of my throat; and slammed inside. I gagged again, feeling the bile rise through my being. “Exorcize the sin from him.” He wailed into me.
My stomach was bubbling, my throat was constricting. And before I knew it, he reached a length inside me that forced everything out. It squirted out the sides, dribbled down my chin but that wasn’t enough– he kept going. Relentlessly fucking my throat.
“Forgive him Lord.” he panted through ragged breaths of his own, relishing in the warmth of my throat– at the tightness I provided him. He smashed into my skull, over and over and over. Breaking my throat, burning my throat– pinching my nose so I couldn’t breathe.
My gagging was endless, slime and bile and covered my chin– lubricated his length as he tried to dig further.
I was running out of air, felt my limbs begin to twitch– I was suffocating. I was dying. I was going to die here, with Pastor Locke's cock lodged in my throat.
But as my eyes rolled to the back of my head, as that fuzzy feeling started to engulf me; he pulled out and let go of my pinched nose– allowing me to breathe. “You must endure it, faggot.” He spat at me, smacked me; gave me barely five seconds to catch my breath before he slid his raging cock back in.
And he pounded me for what felt like an hour– an endless, merciless amount of thrusts and gags and torture.
“You still like it, hm?” he grunted, “You still like cock in your mouth, faggot?” But there was no answering him, not with every inch of my throat at his bend and will. “God will teach you this lesson.” He moaned, gripped my throat as he stayed plunged inside– holding me there and choking. “I will teach you this lesson.”
And his head craned back, I felt the twitch in his cock before he unloaded himself down my throat. And he kept me there, struggling to breathe; struggling to swallow him– choking on the cum that sat in the back of my throat.
He finally pulled out. Allowed me to breathe and sputter and take a good look at the view in front of me. Pastor Locke was packing– that much was obvious. His length was clearly over eight inches, veiny and hard and covered in whatever came out of my mouth.
He rubbed it on my face as I steadied my breathing. My throat was burning, ruined by him.
My voice was broken, “Please, let me go.” I pleaded through coughs.
But he only smacked me again, harder than ever before; “Stop talking.” He reached behind the bed and grabbed a gag; secured it in my mouth without much resistance from me and climbed off the bed. “Better.” He smiled, stroking his cock.
I could tell that he was slick with sweat, like that was a workout for him. He rounded the bed and stopped at the foot, smirked wickedly at my body– then kicked me. I squirmed in pain, there was nothing I could do.
“Do you hate it yet?” He asked like I could answer, “Are you still a faggot?” He kicked me again.
But he just ran fingers through his hair, content with the mess he made of me. I’ll tell you one thing I hated… him.
His cock began to deflate as he rubbed at it, shaking his head as he grimaced down at me; “Stupid gay faggots deserve none of the Lord’s compassion.” He spat, “Tomorrow we start again.” And that’s when I realized this was far from over.
Who knows how long I’ll be trapped here. Who knows how long this psycho would assault me for.
But he cracked a smile, “I can’t wait to break you.”
Hasn’t he already?
Love him or hate him. I find Pastor Locke undoubtedly sexy.
