[Suddenly everyone's an author. Now it's Joseph's turn to add a bit more flesh to the bones of this chronicle. I guess we can assume he gives a truthful account. He may be an ex-priest these days, but one hopes he still values honesty.]

It took me several months to get over my experience with Martin Solomon, the therapist who offered me a place to live after I left the priesthood; the therapist who then lured me into bed.

At first, my anger was directed almost entirely against Martin. I raged inwardly about his lack of professionalism, his opportunism and his disloyalty toward his partner, Andrew.

I even raged outwardly by reporting Martin's behaviour to his manager. And I felt thoroughly vindicated when he was sacked from the counselling centre.

But you don't spend years in seminaries and the Catholic priesthood without gaining insights into human behaviour, especially your own.

I'm sure every priest struggles with chastity. It is, after all, an unnatural state for any species.

Masturbation and wet dreams are easily dealt with via the Confessional and doing penance. Even one's sexual orientation is no barrier as long as one doesn't yield to temptation.

When I look back at the day Martin came to my bedroom, I realise now that I let myself down. I succumbed to temptation. I was the one who was better trained and more practised in denial.

Poor Martin had never really dealt with denial in his entire life. He was a total sybarite; a man who could never pass up a sexual opportunity; a man who lived from one sensation to the next.

Even today, as an ex-clergyman, I still avoid cursing and blasphemy wherever possible, but - in writing this account - I will use words that I rarely say aloud. There seems little point in euphemisms if I am to accurately describe what happened.

The truth is I let Martin fuck me that day because I wanted to.

Most of you will remember when, where and with whom you lost your virginity; the first time you penetrated another human being; or the first time you yourself were penetrated.

I guess it's fair to assume you were relatively young at the time - probably in your late teens or early twenties. I'd be willing to bet you no longer remember every glorious moment of that first time; and, given the impetuosity of youth, I'd also bet that you didn't last all that long the first time.

I'd be stretching the truth if I said my first time wasn't just as quick-fire as a teenager's, but I was thirty-six at the time. I'd dreamed of this for many years and so I savoured every moment. Even as I write this, I can vividly recall every detail and every sensation.

When Martin sat astride me and lowered himself onto my oozing and fully-primed dick, it was like entering a whole new world of warmth and welcome and sensation. He sank down slowly, enveloping me in the soft and yielding flesh of his ass.

My glans felt as though it was being caressed by a thousand tiny fingers. And my shaft felt as though it was being massaged by countless ripples. It was akin to peristalsis.

There was a glorious inevitability to it. Blasphemous as it may sound, it was like ascending into some glorious and sensual heaven.

I felt a rush that began at some point behind my scrotum; there was a feeling in and around my glans that was part pleasure and part pain. It was impossible to stop or reverse the current flowing through my loins.

One last squeeze of his chute-walls and it happened. I felt myself burst within him. I not only felt my cum explode inside Martin's ass, I imagined it visually too; I envisaged jets of my creamy cum flooding deep inside him.

It was right up there with fireworks on the Fourth of July, Halley's Comet and some mystical revelation. I knew I'd found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I knew I would forever more be a devotee of sex with other men.

I was a homecoming hero. Only the brass band was missing.

We fucked again - several times - on that one night we slept together in the bed Martin usually shared with Andrew.

I was no longer a passive participant. I fucked Martin vigorously and celebrated each time another torrent of my juices spurted inside him. I was close to being insatiable. I wished it could have lasted forever.

But then - when we paused for breakfast - my conscience returned; guilt overwhelmed me; and I blamed Martin for everything that had occurred.

I conveniently overlooked my own complicity. I moved way beyond gratitude for the most thrilling moments of my life. I moved to base ingratitude and flung accusations at him instead.

I was just as guilty of infidelity as Martin was. Andrew was not my lover, but I was a willing partner in Martin's betrayal.

I should confess here that I had developed a crush on Andrew from the moment I met him. He was a very handsome young man and his personality was open and engaging. Unlike Martin, he did not go on and on about my dilemma; my conflicted sexuality.

Andrew simply treated me as a welcome house guest and friend. Rather than lecture or question me, he took me golfing and to the gym.

Showering at the gym only increased my admiration of Martin's partner. To see Andrew's smooth, toned body naked was to gaze upon a work of art.

I was naturally struck by how enormous his dick was - even when completely flaccid - and his balls were simply amazing; they were huge and - perhaps assisted by hot shower-water - they hung extremely low.

And yet there was nothing freakish about this. It wasn't as though his genitals were all one could focus on. They were just a very admirable part of an entirely perfect whole.

So, when Martin betrayed Andrew by seducing me, I betrayed Andrew too.

I paid no heed to the friendship he had so willingly offered me. I helped to shatter his trust and optimism and I also soiled my own image of him.

The Andrew I had observed at the gym - naked, unashamed, confident and breathtakingly handsome - the beauty I had worshipped from a distance; that image was now clouded by guilt.

I felt as though I had contributed to the wanton destruction of a human work of art.

But I was given a chance to redeem myself.

When Martin dropped me off in the city, leaving me to strike out alone, I reaped the benefit of a huge stroke of luck.

I slept at a shelter that night; a shelter little different from most. I slept in row of uncomfortable stretcher beds and the atmosphere was filled with the usual odours of stale sweat, cheap booze and defeat.

There was a priest who visited the shelter the next morning. He already knew of my dilemma with the Church - perhaps I was routinely held up as a bad example to all novices - but he spoke with me in a totally unjudgmental manner and I was encouraged to speak openly.

As a result, I learned for the first time about another ex-priest who ran a half-way house for those of us seeking to transition back into the community.

I was fortunate enough to gain admission to his establishment and to receive exactly the sort of support, understanding and training I needed in order to stay afloat in sea of guilt and confusion.

After just a few weeks, I felt equipped to strike out for shore again; I had come to terms with my sexuality and I was determined to try once more to be part of the real world.

The first item on my "to do" list was to pay a visit to Martin.

I wanted to apologise for causing him trouble at work. I wanted to tell him I felt just as responsible as he was for what passed between us.

And - above all - I wanted to assure myself that he and Andrew were still happily together; that twenty-four hours of madness hadn't ruined their relationship for all time.

I caught two buses and then walked quite a distance to reach Martin's cottage. It looked much the same from a distance but, as I drew closer to the front gate, I noticed how poorly tended the garden looked. The grass was high and going to seed, weeds grew abundantly and his much-loved shrubs were overgrown and in need of pruning.

I had to knock loudly several times before Martin came to the door. I heard shuffling footsteps and mumblings and then the door was abruptly flung open.

I was shocked by his appearance. His hair was unkempt and his face unshaven. His clothes were grubby and his eyes were bleary and bloodshot. He smelled like a brewery.

'Oh, it's you' he said. 'What do you want this time? Sympathy? Too bad, I've run out.'

'No, Martin. I just wanted to see if you are OK.'

He snickered at that, but motioned for me to come in.

'As you can see' he proclaimed, 'my palace has become a hovel.'

We entered his lounge room. He swept away a few empty bottles and sent take-out food containers crashing to the floor in order to clear a chair for me to sit in.

The place stank of stale cigarette smoke and beer.

'Is Andrew home?' I asked.

'Andrew?' he snorted. 'Dear little Andrew doesn't live here anymore. He's set up house with a pretty little boy he met outside a school playground.'

'Well, I'm sorry to hear you two are no longer together. And I know I am partly to blame for that. Is there no way you and he can start over again.'

'No way at all' he replied. And then he yawned. 'He was always a little too conservative for my tastes. I've moved on. I'm doing my own thing.'

'Martin - you can't be happy living like this.'

'Yes I am. And I'll have you know Joseph that I am now a god. Worshipped and adored by thousands. They stand in line to fuck me. They fight over me.'

'And do you feel loved?' I asked.

That seemed to arrest the flow of his thoughts. He sat silently for a while. He bowed his head. His shoulders began to convulse and I realised that he was crying.

He lifted his face and I saw a man in torment; someone racked with grief.

'I'm lost, Joe. I'm lost. I'm in hell. I want to be dead but I keep waking up each day and I'm still here.'

I was thinking furiously, wondering what I could do or say to help him.

'Anyway' he said. 'I'm being a poor host. Let's have a drink. Let's drink a toast to hell.'

'I'd rather a coffee' I replied. 'And I think you could do with one too.'

I went off to the kitchen, leaving Martin staring into space as though he could see doom on the horizon.

The kitchen was in a dreadful state. Dirty dishes, an overflowing trash can, spilt food and drink everywhere.

The refrigerator contained lots of beer, a few limp green vegetables and a carton of milk that had gone sour.

I returned to the lounge carrying two mugs of strong black coffee.

'No cream, I'm afraid. I think we need to stock up with some groceries.'

'We?' he said. 'We? There is no we, Joseph. Only me. And I'm not very hungry these days.'

'I'm not leaving you here alone, Martin. Call the cops if you like, because only a forced eviction will get me out of here. I'm staying right here until you rejoin the human race again.'

And that's what I did.

I let Martin drink himself into unconsciousness that afternoon, and then I used his car and the contents of his wallet in order to re-stock his pantry and his refrigerator.

That night, I went through almost every room in the house - clearing, sweeping, vacuuming, and scrubbing - until it shone like a new pin. I ignored Martin's bedroom, of course. I let him sleep on.

The next morning, it was clear that Martin had no recollection of my arrival. I heard his toilet flush and then he staggered into the kitchen, perhaps attracted by the smell of toast, eggs and coffee.

I managed to talk him out of having a beer, promising he could have one after he'd eaten.

It took about two weeks for me to talk Martin down from whatever lonely tower he'd been using as a retreat. He grew healthier with each passing day and - as I refused to allow any booze in the house - he grew more clear-headed too.

It was obviously painful for him to face reality - hiding in a beer glass is easier - but we eventually reached a stage where rational conversation and even forward planning became possible.

Of course, Andrew hadn't really abducted a little boy from a schoolyard. I heard how he'd met a young guy named Matthew and that the two of them were living at Andrew's parents' house in town.

I gathered their relationship was - to quote Martin - "the real thing". And I also gathered that Martin was far from being one of their circle of friends.

Eventually, Martin and I reached a point where he wanted to know why I'd come to see him and why I'd stayed on. He may have rejoined the human race but Martin was still highly suspicious of other people's motivations.

'So - what's the deal?' he asked me one evening after dinner.

'I've been climbing out of a pit, too.' I said. 'I got lucky after I left here last time. I got help - even though I hadn't asked for it - and I'm making a fresh start.

I couldn't do that without first being sure that you and Andrew were OK.

And, once you answered the door to me, I knew I had to help you whether you wanted it or not.'

'Well, I'm better now' said Martin. 'Much better. And I thank you for that.

But I'm still a promiscuous old queen; a complete cunt.

I'm still planning to whore my way through life and I'm still planning to drink shitloads of booze in the process.'

'Because you hate yourself?'

'Yep. I despise myself. Self-destruction is the only attractive option. Once you've gone, I'll just go back to seeking oblivion.'

'So maybe I should delay my departure indefinitely' I joked. 'You'll have a guardian for life.'

Martin didn't smile. He wrinkled his brow and appeared lost in thought. Finally, he spoke.

'I'm sorry about that day we quarrelled; sorry I called you a miserable hairy guy' he said.

'With a tiny dick' I added.

'Did I say that too?'

I nodded.

'Well, there you go. Further proof that I'm a complete bastard.

Joseph, your dick's about the same size as mine. Plus you're lucky - it's uncut.'

'So size and foreskin are real turn-ons for you?'

'Yeah, but especially foreskin. Andrew spoiled me a bit because he has a humungous cock and he's uncut too.'

'Could you endure settling for just half of that?' I asked.

'Not sure what you mean.'

'I was wondering if you'd care to share your bed with a guy who has plenty of foreskin but only an average-sized dick.'

'You bet. I've gone without for weeks. I've been worrying that my arsehole might heal over.'

So we went to bed with a smile on our faces. And this time there was no trickery involved. We were both more than willing participants and there was no disloyalty to Andrew. He was gone and - this time - Martin and I were all that mattered.

Dedicated bottoms like Martin are God's gift to a novice. They make it easier to gain confidence.

Having man-on-man sex was something I'd had time to think about and I now knew how much I craved it. And I now knew it can't be all about me; that it's equally about pleasing your partner.

So I sucked dick for the first time. I also slurped on Martin's ball-sac and massaged his balls with my tongue. I kissed him just as freely as he kissed me. As best I could, I took my time over everything.

I will never be a great lover; I move from erection to ejaculation far too quickly. A lifetime of furtive masturbation may have contributed to this. Driven by the fear of being discovered by the priests at boarding school or at the seminary, I guess I turned jerking off quickly into an art-form.

Martin can be acerbic, prickly, sarcastic and downright mean at times, but he is also capable of exerting enormous charm. And - in bed with me - he also demonstrated a surprisingly high level of patience.

I blew a load several times that night.

The first time was when Martin and I were in a sixty-nine position. I loved the feel of a hard cock in my mouth. It was a living thing, pulsing and oozing pre-cum that tasted sweet on my tongue and palate.

At the same time, I could feel Martin's teeth teasing gently at my foreskin and his tongue probing at the eye of my dick. But, when he moved to take me into his mouth entirely, I was instantly lost.

There was scarcely time for me to warn him. I felt an exquisite throbbing; a rush that could not be held back; and then I gushed forth, spewing cum in what seemed an endless flow.

'I'm sorry' I said. 'It's been a long time. I just couldn't last any longer.'

Martin laughed. It was really more of a gurgle because my cock was still dribbling in his mouth. He released his hold on me and lifted his head.

'I'd forgotten how fast you blow. We'd hardly even begun.'

He moved up the bed and kissed me deeply. I was excited to encounter the taste and smell of my own jizz on his tongue. We lay quietly for a few minutes. I continued to stroke his dick and fondle his balls. He reached down to do the same to me.

'Fuck me dead' he exclaimed. 'I'd also forgotten how fast you recover. Tell you what; don't worry about how quickly you shoot your load. I figure you'll last longer the third time round.'

And he was right.

The second time around, I blew after just a few minutes of fucking him doggy-style. I could feel him working on his own dick as my cum shot inside him. Soon afterwards, I felt an incredibly tight clenching of his arse as his own load spurted out of him and onto the bed-sheets. His asshole squeezed so tightly that I thought my cock and I were about to part company.

We collapsed downwards to lie alongside each other, with my dick still inside him. I went to speak but Martin told me to hush. He told me to think of nothing except my cock and its surroundings.

He asked me to imagine I was dipping into a warm, velvety tunnel filled with creamy warm cum. I did as he suggested. At the same time, he began a series of gentle contractions within his ass.

And then he began a very slow movement of his hips, allowing my semi-erect cock to glide a little further in and out each time. Before long, I was completely hard again and bucking in and out of him like a metronome.

My head was full of thoughts about the pool of jizz around my dick; a pool I was intent on adding to.

This time, when he judged I was close to blowing, Martin told me to hold still deep within him. I did as he asked. All movement ceased. The twitching and spasms of his ass-chute also halted.

I marvelled at his ability to keep so still. It was as if we were both listening intently in order to discern a distant sound, but - instead of a sound - we were both attuned to the ticking in my loins; both waiting for an insistent mechanism to cease its activity.

Eventually, the moment passed, and I was able to resume movement without danger of erupting. I found this both amazing and highly erotic. After a lifetime of rushing from erection to ejaculation, I was discovering the joyous art of what Martin called "edging".

I lost count of how many times we stopped. I only know that each successive pause put me half-way between agony and ecstasy; I was desperate to shoot my load but I was also acutely aware of how fantastic it would be if I could delay the inevitable as long as possible.

At last there came a time when Martin's movement against me told me it was OK to finally give way.

One or two rapid and deep thrusts and I was shooting inside him once again. I was jerking his dick at the same time and it was doubly exciting to feel him blowing simultaneously.

I was happy to stay inside Martin forever, but he announced that it was time for a rest.

'You might be insatiable' he said, 'but I need a rest before I can cum again. My ass needs a rest too.'

'Oh, so I'm not so tiny that you don't even feel me inside you?' I joked.

'Joseph, baby, I felt every inch of you and I can feel like a gallon of cum inside me too. Forget anything I said when I was pissed off at you that time. You're a marvellous fucking machine.'

Our bodies separated and we kissed softly. I felt Martin's hand at my cock again, playing with my foreskin, gently sliding it back and forth.

'I adore foreskins' he declared.

'So I gather. What if you're with a guy who's cut? Is that any less enjoyable? I can't see how you'd feel any difference.'

'Well, obviously there's no difference while he's inside me. It's the foreplay that's different.

I just love playing with foreskin - nibbling at it, moving it, probing it with my tongue, watching it move backwards as a giant knob emerges.'

'A question' I said. 'You mentioned earlier that you were mourning the loss of Andrew and his humungous uncut cock. Is that all you mourn?

Is that the only part of him you miss? I thought he was a very nice-looking guy with a good personality too. He seemed a very sweet person to me.'

'He was ... is a sweet person' Martin replied. 'And yes, I loved almost everything about him. But I'm not built for monogamy, Joe.

I like some occasional variety. No feelings involved - just raw sex.

With Andrew I made love. What I missed was the occasional fling where some anonymous guy fucked me and then just moved on. What I missed was the opportunity to feel and feast upon other lovely foreskins.

My drive to meet and be fucked by a variety of uncut dicks easily outweighs my desire for permanent companionship.'

'I think I understand' I said. 'That's what drives you onward. You have a burning need to be fucked by every dick that takes your fancy. Anything else takes second place.'

'Yep. That's pretty much the way it is. Even though I had a wonderful partner in Andrew, I still grew restless about all the other dicks I was missing out on.

I'm all for sex with commitment, but it has to be tempered by occasional meaningless flings. I don't go to gay hang-outs looking for love. I go there for raw uncomplicated sex.'

'Did you ever try to explain this to Andrew?' I asked.

'Nope. No point. Andrew comes from a long line of conservative and highly moral people. No way could he contemplate an open relationship of any kind.

I knew that from the start, but I hoped he'd be enough to stop me from yearning for anything more.'

'Maybe you're underestimating him' I suggested. 'And underestimating his family too. After all, how conservative can they be if he and his lover are living under Mom and Dad's roof?'

Martin sighed and then pulled me into an embrace.

'Enough talk' he said. 'Let's fuck.'

'Again? So soon?'

His hand moved to my dick. Within seconds I was hard again.

'Yes' he said.

We fucked twice more before sleep took over. Martin taught me how to fuck him while he lay on his back with his legs on my shoulders. I loved that position. I could watch his face and he could watch mine. Our eyes could signal when it was time to pause and time to drive to the finish.

Martin had turned the bedside lamps on for our final two couplings of the night, and, when it was all over, he got me to study his asshole as it clenched and forced globs of my cum to trickle out of him.

It probably sounds gross - and I have no gift for erotic writing - but I cannot begin to explain how wonderful it felt to see my own juices emerge from the place I'd buried them.

A day or so later and - I must confess - a few fuck-filled nights later, Martin announced he had a proposition for me to consider.

'You need a job, right?'

I nodded.

'How would you feel about moving in with me? You could think of yourself as my carer if you like. Not a love thing; not a relationship. More a friendship with benefits. What do you think?'

'It has a lot of appeal' I replied. 'Let me think about it. I'd still need to find a job. I'm not about to sponge off anyone.'

'Well, think of it as a job offer then. I'd pay you. Not for sex - that will have to be free - but for keeping an eye on me, helping out around the house, putting up with me on bad days and having fun with me on my good days.'

'I'm a dreadful cook, Martin. I can clean and garden and shop for groceries, but my culinary skills are extremely basic.'

'Fuck the cooking' he exclaimed. 'I'm a great cook. I love to cook.'

There was a pause. My mind was racing through all the pros and cons.

'What do you think?' he asked again.

'I think yes' I said, smiling. 'But I have two provisos.'

'Name them.'

'Firstly, I want you to tell me nicely when you've had enough of me. No remarks about my hairy back and no unkind remarks about my dick.'

'OK' he said. 'Agreed. And the second proviso?'

'I want you to arrange a meeting with Andrew so you two can bury the hatchet. He's a nice guy. It's always a good idea to have friends you can trust and rely upon.'

Martin was not keen to agree to this.

He was certain that Andrew hated him. He didn't want to lose face by making the first move to re-establish contact. He didn't think Andrew would agree to meet behind his new lover's back.

'Who said anything about doing things behind someone's back?' I asked. 'Insist that you want to catch up with his new guy too.

If you like I could also be there. Maybe we could invite them over for dinner or for morning tea or even a picnic at the beach.'

'I still think it will lead to trouble' Martin grumbled.

'But you'll do it?'

'OK' he said grudgingly. 'But I know it will all end in tears eventually.'

He was right. But there would be some sensational good times before any teardrops fell.


Andrew Tait

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