Gay Erotic Stories

It had been more than a month since our leather-gloved encounter in his van, and I was very ready for another experience with this charming and one could even say sexy man. I thought about him constantly; I believed that he had indeed become an obsession for me.

I had learned that my Priest had attended Harvard College as an undergraduate on a rowing scholarship and that he had been a dedicated athlete, spending essentially all of his free hours at Weld Boathouse on the Charles River. His beefy physique had been developed through four years of competition. Later, he had attended and graduated from Saint John's Seminary, Archdiocese of Boston. That was many years ago. He was now in his mid-sixties with a heavy, big-boned body and all the musculature that went with it. The rowing had developed his massive, tree-trunk thighs and beefy calves!

The area to which I'd been directed led me out of town. I was running late and it was going to be dark when I arrived. I didn't want to miss “face time” with Father! The directions which Father had given me were explicit, and I had no trouble finding the location. Not being familiar with the macroeconomics of Catholicism, I was surprised to be directed to what appeared to be a wealthy abbey way out in the country. It had beautifully forested acreage and many buildings.

I'd been told which building held Father's apartment, and to tell the gatekeeper, or sentry, that Father was expecting me. Doing as I'd been told, I drove to what appeared to be the main structure, parked the car, presented myself at the entrance, and rang the bell next to the plaque marked 'Rt. Rev. Peter O'Shaughnessy'. The sentry (by the way, a beefy cutie!) came to the door and reverently bowed me in, to what was a lovely salle d'attente, in the fin de siècle mode, done up in this new era by expensive and of course closeted Boston Irish Catholic decorators, for a building paid for and provenanced in (Protestant) Congregationalists (the world changes, n'est-ce pas?).

After a bit of a wait, Father came to the door. He was wearing a black short-sleeved cleric shirt with attached Roman (white) collar and black pants. He was as massive as I remembered him to be in the van. His clothing prevented, sad to say, me from viewing and adoring as though displayed as an icon in the cathedral the rest of his hairy and oh so sturdy mass (pun on the icon on the cathedral's high altar reference). His barrel chest fully filled his XL shirt and his beefy, hairy arms were showcased. Speaking of his chest, I now remembered the two nipple rings that lived, dwelt, and had their proud being under that shirt. I'd had my leather-gloved hands on them in his van! He had 'buzz cut” his gray hair to be very short and his salt-and-pepper beard, as well, was trimmed short. That dangerous and intoxicating gleam was in his eye.

“You realize you're late?”, he said in a deep, condescending tone, looking at his watch. “Almost 45 minutes late. I'm an impatient man.”

“Yes Father, there was more traffic than I expected. I'm sorry”, I said.

“Hmm”, was his only reply. I was disconcerted by that.

We then went into his sumptuous office, which flaunted cherry paneling throughout. There was a large desk near a window with closed draperies. Almost everything was cleared from one side of the desk and there was some kind of a large pad on the top. I could see through a partly opened door a well equipped gym, which was probably where he worked out to maintain his well-built mass. Curiously there was a large mirror on the wall near the desk, and at the edge of the pad was what appeared to be a cutthroat straight razor!

I was taken aback by the curious appointments of the office. My priest (I had just recently learned that I should refer to him as “Father”) noticed my quizzical look and said, “You're looking around, and can't understand the purpose of the things you see. One of them is the razor. You felt it in my back pocket the night we met. It's been in my family for years”, he said.

“You're going to experience another facet of my fetish life, in addition to that of tight leather gloves. Some would say, if they learned more about me that I'm a complicated fellow. They'll probably say that if I'm ever brought to trial!” He chuckled, as if there were many things he knew that would cause one to chuckle.

Now I had an even more uncomfortable feeling, because I just remembered that I had heard a noticeable “click” as we moved away from the front door. I now believed he had somehow locked the front door electronically. I was trapped, and not trapped by a man who could be guaranteed to be trustworthy or who would show mercy!

“You are correct. I locked the door where you entered with a small remote, and you're here with me until I unlock it. Try not to be concerned. You'll be taken to new heights of sexual paradise tonight. You'll learn that your limits are much farther down the road to carnal bliss than you could ever have imagined. I'll take you on this journey, most likely to the satisfaction of both of us. But most assuredly, to the satisfaction of myself.”

And I'll be damned if he didn't chuckle again!

Now he came close to me, his beefy presence very daunting and he said “You're going to be stripped, handcuffed with your hands behind your back and you'll have a ball gag in your mouth. I enjoy a man's moaning but I don't like screaming! I have sensitive ears. I'll leave the room for a moment and slip on some appropriate attire. You'll see me in that mirror when I return.” His breathing had increased slightly, and I smelled quality Scotch on his breath.

There was no escape, no resistance and no alternative. I knew he wasn't telling me everything, and that was a concern. What did he mean by “appropriate attire”? And how did the cutthroat straight razor play into his plans?

Just then I realized that no one knew where I was. I'd left no notes or messages of any kind. My gay friends would find my mangled body along a road, with my throat slit from ear to ear!

Dammit! Curb your imagination!

He continued. “Don't worry. I can feel your angst. You won't die tonight. That has no part in any fetish of mine. But no one knows you're here, or anywhere, right? That's not smart, my excellent cocksucker and fine piece of ass. Plan better next time. I don't want to lose you.”

He did all of the work. First he took off my shirt and pants. Then came the handcuffs. They weren't painful but a bit unnerving. He stood close behind me and moved my cuffed hands to his ample crotch. I felt a familiar pulsing through his black silk slacks,,, he was free-balling! Oh Boy, that Beast again, I thought!

Then he took a bit of time fitting me to a ball gag with a leather strap. He wanted it to fit just right, I guess. He bent me across the desk and moved over to the side by the mirror.  The mirror had a hidden panel, which he pressed and opened, displaying an array of floggers, single tailed leather whips, what I thought was a "cat o' nine tails" whip and an assortment of leather-covered and wooden paddles.  Different PA's, restraints, handcuffs, blindfolds and nipple clamps.  There was also a grouping of military style caps. Holy Shit!

He left the panel open as he chuckled again and left the room. 

He was probably gone for only a few minutes but it seemed much longer.

As he had foretold, I saw him in the mirror as he returned. He was wearing the same black short-sleeved clerical shirt, but now he sported tight black leather breeches and black riding boots. The tight breeches accentuated his massively muscled, thickset thighs. He had some kind of a studded black leather dog collar above his collar, and he was wearing tight black leather cop gloves. Oh, that erotic, somewhat familiar gloved look! So damned sexy! I felt my cock begin to harden.

He turned to face the open panel and to select his items of sensual awareness. I was already cuffed and on my stomach. I saw his gloved hands select a flogger, which he replaced and he chose a riding crop. He handled a pair of nipple clamps and replaced them. It was erotic to see him handling these items with tight leather-gloved hands! Father did the same with a large butt plug. Then he did choose a military cap of some sort and placed it on his head. “Zo now, anozer part of your training vill begin. Zie werden lernen how to please Ihr Kommandant. It vill become your zole purpose in life. You vill need to be brought into zubmission. Zo ve vill begin. I hafe zo many toolz and playzings to uze. Ve vill uze more of zem anozher time...or maybe later!”

I was stunned with what I heard as the deep voice of a man who had every look of some disesteemed criminal thug from a backstreet alley speaking English with a German inflection! Then I heard the sound of a riding crop slapping into a leather-gloved palm. And then again, and again. Now tightly gloved hands were slowly lowering my boxers and presenting my bare ass. I felt Father's tight cop-gloved hand on my back. I realized in my confusion I had even forgotten his name! His gym could have been a BDSM dungeon & he, the master!

I felt the riding crop placed across my back (oh, spare me not your rod, Father, since I've been an unsubmissive piece of crap!) as his strong tightly gloved hands grasped my head. He turned my head to the side and entered my ear with a moist tongue. His gloved contact with my head and neck had my own cock pulsing! He nibbled and bit my ear and I was sure he drew blood!

I felt gloved fingers playing with and entering my ass as he powerfully fingered my anus. His leather-encased crotch was against my side and I could feel through the leather the heat of his hard cock. I knew that that would be the source of the blazing heat brought home to me by the endless thrusting of his long and thick (one is given to understand) godhead to the uttermost bottom of my waiting, deserving ass (to which >ass, that is to say< your faithful readers all and sundry send loving, lubricious greetings, including the hope one day to offer head to that godhead >a pun again!<)!!.

The riding crop struck my bare ass! Damn, what a shock! A stinging, burning feeling! And over and over again. The smell of musky sweat and leather as my Father became more sexually aroused. I thought I smelled bear cum again! A gloved hand went under my throat and I was raised up at the neck, as the riding crop continued to punish me. Or train me. That's what it was supposed to be, training. Now I remember. I was aware that I was indeed moaning like a child.

I could see in the mirror that a burly, beefy gloved man with a riding crop was wearing the hat of ein deutscher SS-Kommandant. 250 pounds of muscled power at the ready!

The flogging continued until I was somewhat numb to the pain. Finally it stopped.

“I feel you vill be a good boy, now. Zo my zatisvaction can zoon begin. But you are not clean. I vill need to shave your private parts zo you vill be an acceptable zubject. Put your knees up on ze desk. DO IT NOW!”

This muscled Father lifted me up onto the desk into the position he wanted. He took off the gloves to do the careful work he required. He chose to use no lather to moisten my ass and cock hair as he began to shave me. He grasped my cock with a strong bare hand and I shuddered passionately with his touch. As he began to carefully shave my ass hole area I prayed he knew how to do what he was doing. I couldn't assess his skill, only his determination. He nicked me at least once. As he began to work I protested by body movement but he said in a coarse voice, having temporarily lost the German accent, “Has to be done”.

Now he set the razor down, turned me over on my back and grabbed hold of my cock again. I decided to leave him focused on his work (Ya' think?) and I didn't protest! I was near the edge of the desk so my arms weren't painfully under my back. It took him only a short time, and then he was satisfied with his work.

Then I was literally picked up by this muscular man and turned over onto the desk again. I was on my stomach and my feet were back on the floor. Now he was back standing in front of me, breathing heavily as he opened the tight leather pants and a familiar part of him jumped right out. I fully expected him to resume the German accent but he just let me marvel at his thick, pulsing cock and very low hanging testicles sac.

An imposing sight in full light was presented to me as he massaged his cock, slowly jacked it to its full length and then snapped the leather pants back at his waist with his cock exposed. He stroked his thick member, squeezed his balls to an almost painful level and everything responded accordingly. His cock was ready for a dark, warm place. To see his blood-filled cock bouncing as he began to walk behind me almost stopped my heart. I watched in the mirror as he lubricated his shaft, stroked it over and over again as he massaged it with lube, and then I felt him squirt lube up inside my manpussy. The time he had taken me in the van he wore a condom. This time Father would assault my hole in the sport of barebacking! As he rested his thick man pole against my hole he wiped his hands clean and then began to slowly ease the thin, black leather cop gloves back onto his hands. The dialogue began again.

“Zo now you vill feel ze power of Ihr Kommandant. I vill take you vherever I vant you to go. You are mine.”

I had once heard the term “technical rape”. That was what I experienced. Everything had a purpose. Everything was done to perfection. Not that I didn't experience erotic pleasure and intense pain throughout the act. Father's glans penis was far too large for my ass to accept, but the sphincter did find a way. And with force and enough lube, I guess anything is possible! Der Kommandant certainly had the force available and thanks to the lube it happened. But then there was the thickness of his shaft to accept. Force prevailed. Why did he feel so much bigger this time? Was it because of his SS-Kommandant fetish?

“I vill have my vay vith you, every time. You vill zubmit. I vill not be refuzed!”

I watched in the mirror. My captor had his tight black leather-gloved hands on my shoulders as he slowly and very, very deeply and fully penetrated me on the first thrust. He'd told me the first time he took me (in the van) that it wasn't rape because it was consensual. I focused on this as best I could as I felt myself being almost split in half. Slow, deep strokes of passionate lovemaking (many would call it rape, but I called it a submissive consensualist's dreams finally come true) with each thrust! He would speed up and then slow down, and all the time I was being told by der Kommandant that I needed to do better. Hell, I was just the donee receptacle. He was the donor pile(s) driver >pun intended While der Kommandant was plowing my ass, he described what I hadn't seen in his gym. I didn't remember which voice I heard, but he told me the room was equipped with restraint harnesses and tables, a fuck sling, a hanging rack device and other paraphernalia. I was to learn later that one of Father's favorite activities was to hang a beefy man horizontally spread eagled with nipple clamps, his favorite ball gag and a blindfold and then fuck him raw as he moved him back and forth! Sometimes he'd even wear his heaviest PA when he splayed the man's ass cheeks!

I think my only salvation might have been that there wasn't a clock in the room for me to watch. It seemed that he fucked me continually for an hour. It might have been longer. He was empowered as der SS-Kommandant and his virility seemed without limit. I was truly beginning to feel that way, used and abused when I heard a loud bear roar and knew he could wait no longer. He increased his pace for 8 or 10 or 12 or 20 hard thrusts and then slowed as he stuffed my ass with his bear-borne shaft. He held his full shaft length inside me with his balls against my ass as he filled me with his hot cum. And now more thrusts.

He continued fucking me hard until he started to lose his erection, then der SS-Kommandant disappeared. I don't know where the hat went but a kind and a caring Father returned. He kept his tight cop gloves on and came back around to the front of me. Kindly, he made his dripping bear cock available to my lips and I instinctively licked his warm gift. I remembered the taste of his cum. Salty sweet, but this time I think with a hint of Scotch.

And now came the nurturing Father. He removed the ball gag and the handcuffs and began to soothe my wounds. I was amazed by the transformation. As he sacrificed those leather cop gloves to the soothing salve cream and rubbed it onto the welts on my back and ass he said, “I hope you will be able to reflect on this experience later. I hope it wasn't too bad for you. I do care for you, my friend”.

I lied. I said it hadn't been too bad. I'd see him again because (a) I enjoyed the taste and the smell of his cum; (b) he had quite a nice (erotically exciting) body (well-built and sturdy); (c) his cock, like mine (which this faithful reader would be not undelighted to suck dry!), was long and wide and not unequipped with prominent veins; (d) his smile was captivating; (e) obviously I was infatuated with his fetish for leather gloves; and (f) if we ever got past his sexual appetite, I'm sure he'd be a knowledgeable, an enthusiastic conversationalist.

Now, it would sure as Hell be a long time before I was ready to see my Leather Priest again.

But an obsession remains a difficult thing to control.