Fridays at Battery Park Books

When Trent approached the university library entrance to leave for the evening the following Tuesday, he saw Gus’s truck parked in the lot and drew back. There was another exit available to him at the loading dock on the other side of the building. He left by that way and took a roundabout route home. When he got there, he locked the door behind him, pulled the blinds, didn’t turn on any lights, and sat there, in the dark, waiting.

When the pounding on the door started, he tried to ignore it. But his body betrayed him. His memory went to the times Gus had fucked him and how rough he’d been and the heights of arousal and satisfaction he’d taken Trent to. He started to tremble and to go hard. With faulting steps, he moved to the door and opened it.

A fist lashed out and caught him in the cheek, making him stagger back and sink to the living room carpet. Gus followed his fist into the room, slammed the door behind him, and jumped on top of Trent’s body. Trent had gone down on his back. Gus backhanded Trent across the face one way and then the other and Trent lay there, quietly, whimpering as Gus ripped Trent’s dress shirt open and stripped his trousers and briefs off his legs. Trent spread and bent his legs and pushed his pelvis up to give Gus a good angle to thrust inside him.

But Gus didn’t penetrate him with his cock immediately, He crouched on top of Trent, holding the smaller man in thrall, while he entered him with, first, one finger and then another and a another, up to his knuckles, and began to move his hand. Whimpering, Trent moved with him, concentrating on the pleasure and pain of the finger fuck, trembling with fear and anticipation of it becoming a fist fuck, finding, to his consternation, that he wanted to know if he could take a fist and whether the pleasure of it would overcome the pain of it. Gus held his face close to Trent’s, watching the reaction in Trent’s eyes and expression to what Gus was doing—what more he could do. But then, with a laugh, he withdrew his hand, and Trent came in a gush of cum. Gus rolled over on top of Trent’s body, thrust his cock inside the passage, dug down into Trent’s core, and started punishing him with the metal of the thick PA ring in his cockhead, fucking him on the floor in the darkened living room.

Trent moved his arms around Gus’s chest, grasping the muscular black man’s shoulder blades and put his pelvis in motion, entering the combined rhythm of the deep, rough fuck and murmuring, “Yes, yes, yes.” The murmuring was cut off, though, as Gus grasped Trent’s throat between his beefy hands and started the choking breath play.

He fucked on and on. Trent arched his head, staring at the unseen ceiling overhead, gasping for breath as he was permitted, and . . . strangely, but surely . . . reveling in the total-taking fuck.

When Gus was gone, Trent lay there, thinking about what his life had become since he moved to Asheville. He hadn’t been this wanton before then. This whole Friday Group thing—and Gus on top of that—was pulling him down into a hell, a hell lined with pleasure. He liked the attention. He liked having a man’s cock churning inside him. Hell, he loved having two men’s cocks churning inside him. He had been in ninth heaven with the attention the three men had given him in the Grove Park Inn suite the previous Friday—the worship of his body, the taking of everything from him. And how the novelist had pulled him into his life—and probably was including him in his current novel. And Gus—the danger of him. The blackness of him, not just in skin tone but also in the hell he pulled Trent into and beat him into a vulnerability and openness, and took, took, took from him.

Where was the edge of what he would take—of how much degradation and pain he would endure for the pleasure he was getting?

What was wrong with him? Was Asheville and its pleasures, temptations, sins, and demands someplace he should not be?

With a groan, he rose from the carpet and stepped over to the door to close it. Gus had left it ajar and snow had drifted in. He dragged himself into the bathroom, turned on the light, and started to inspect the bruise on his cheek where Gus had hit him. He could see the red marks of Gus’s fingers on this throat, but he knew from experience that they would be gone by the day after next. It was winter, the Christmas season. He could wear a turtleneck sweater and no one would be the wiser. The bruise on his cheek would deepen in color. He would have to become an expert in applying makeup.

It only was when he had that thought that he realized he’d let Gus do this again—and again. He wouldn’t have the false courage of trying to hide from him behind the door with the lights off ever again. He’d let Gus use him up totally if that’s where Gus was headed with him—although there was added arousal and sexual satisfaction in angering Gus a bit so that he’d be more brutal and demanding. Being power fucked on the floor in a darkened room was kind of hot—even the worry that Gus was going to sink his fist in him and fuck him with it had made him hard and throbbing and panting and had contributed to a glorious release.

* * * *

Are you serious, Trent thought the next Friday night when the white poker chip plunked down in front of him at the Friday Group’s table on the third level of the Battery Park Book Exchange. A priest wanted to fuck him?

Many of the eight at the table were regulars he met one of the previous two times he’d come to the meeting. The only new member—regular but new to him—was a handsome young man, Rick Weaver, who had been introduced as a semiprofessional actor at the Asheville Community Theater by night and a guide at Biltmore, the biggest draw in Asheville, by day. The 8,000-acre Biltmore estate, including the largest private residence to have been built in the United States, had been the home of Vanderbilts and now was a major shrine to the opulent early nineteen hundreds that was open to the public. It was particularly popular now, in the Christmas season, as many of its 250 rooms were decked out in seasonal decorations and could be toured. Julian had been after Trent to get one of the Friday Group members to take him there, noting, rather cattily that Trent should remember that he was introduced into the Friday Group to get a free Christmas season tour of the city not just to see how quickly he could collect cockings from all of the regular group members. Heretofore Trent had pointed out that a tour of the Biltmore wasn’t cheap.

And now Trent had his chance to see the Biltmore. Not with the newly arrived member, though. He obviously was candy, like Trent was, and in high demand. Trent got the impression that Weaver didn’t come to the Friday Group all that much but that he was sex on a stick and in high demand when he did. Nearly all of the available poker chips that evening were sitting in front of him—except the white one from Monsignor Emeritus Antoni Skileri, the old but distinguished-looking and ramrod-straight priest. The white one had been dropped in front of Trent.

Julian had already left with the music hall director, Daniel Park, before Rick Weaver had arrived. All those left with poker chips except for the priest were wooing Weaver, though, which left Skileri free of competition to sit beside Trent and touch the young man intimately in a way people let expressive Italians get away with while he talked about the history of the nearby Basilica of Saint Lawrence. This Catholic church was where, Julian had informed Trent, the monsignor was in hiding from decades of having topped young priests and led them into sin.

Weaver hadn’t come empty handed. He’d brought two free passes to the Biltmore Christmas house tour that evening at 9:30. When he offered them to the group, only the priest and Trent had shown interest. The interest of everyone else there was to take Weaver somewhere and fuck him.

There was no competition for the tickets then, and, almost salivating, the monsignor had developed a plan of he and Trent going together, having dinner at the Stables Café next to the house before taking the tour. After the estate tour, Monsignor Antoni could show Trent around the Basilica of Saint Lawrence he’d been describing to the young as something of Asheville that had to be seen at Christmas time. Then he’d drive Trent home. He had access to a church car. Trent was a little panicked by the thought of a highly placed Catholic priest fucking him in his mean one-bedroom apartment, but maybe it wouldn’t come to that. Trent was a little squeamish about being fucked by an old priest to begin with.

Thus, it was easily settled. Trent would do as Julian said was a reason to hook up with the Friday Group—he’d see Asheville at Christmas time at someone else’s expense and if it turned out he was laid in the process that was open as well.

Trent realized he was becoming seriously overactive in getting laid and he wasn’t sure he wanted a priest on top of and inside him, but the monsignor was still a handsome man, in shape for his age, and Julian more than once said Skileri had a cock that should be experienced at least once—that none of those young priests he’d laid over several decades had complained.

So, that’s what Trent and the monsignor did. They left the Friday Group early for the members to fight over Rick Weaver’s tail and Monsignor Antoni drove Trent up to the extensive Biltmore estate, where they ate a fancy dinner in a restaurant that had been created in what had been a huge horse and carriage stable in the late nineteenth century and that was attached to an even more huge French Tudor palace that took the pair an hour and a half to oh and ah through the mere 10 percent of its rooms that were on Christmas display.

When they had done that, they motored back down the mountain and into Asheville and to the Basilica of Saint Lawrence, which Trent also had to admit was very impressive. The church decorated itself for Christmas almost as elaborately as Biltmore had.

The monsignor had given Trent an expensive meal at the Stable Café and accompanied the young man on a tour of the Biltmore, an Asheville must see, especially at Christmas, which Trent would have been hard pressed to manage on his own, since he didn’t have a car. So, Trent thought it only polite to let the old priest show him the inside of his church at night. It was closed to the public at night, of course, but the priest emeritus had the run of it. As far as could be determined Skileri’s only duties to the church now were to remain hidden to the media. Trent had to admit when Monsignor Antoni turned on all of the lights and the young man saw the multiple gigantic and lighted and decorated Christmas trees and wreathing that he was floored by the beauty of the place.

Fifteen minutes later he was floored and being fucked by the monsignor on a padded mat hidden in a space between a decorated Christmas tree and a wall beside the altar in a side chapel. Julian had been right. The monsignor had probably the longest cock of all of the Friday Group members and he knew how to use it, to reach high up into the passage of a young man and hold the submissive in panting thrall to it as the bulb kissed and caressed every surface of the young man’s inner core.

The monsignor had deftly gotten Trent naked and opened his own cassock down the front and brushed it open to reveal and wiry, hard, well-muscled body and a godawful long erection. The cock wasn’t thick, but that only added to the image of it as a snake that could—and did—caress and bite at its head. They knelt on the mat, the monsignor behind Trent, one of his arms wrapped around Trent’s belly, holding the young man close into him and the hand of the other cupping Trent’s chin and arching the young man’s head back into the hollow of Monsignor Antoni’s shoulder. Trent jerked and cried out in a plaintive pain-pleasure echo through the vastness of the church proper while Skileri thrust up deep inside his passage, moving farther up with each thrust until he had arrived deep in the young man’s soft core. There he worked his magic with his caressing bulb, while Trent panted and sighed—and came and then came again until they rested—the priest’s cock still deeply sheathed and Trent slumped forward onto his chest, his arms flung out in sacrificial supplication, while Skileri, still ramrod straight in his kneeling position, massaged the muscles of the young man’s back.

The priest didn’t go flaccid. He may have taken something to keep in hard, because he did remain hard, and when he’d caught his breath from the initial fuck, he pulled Trent up from the mat—the man was unusually strong for his age—and carried Trent over to the adjacent altar, the priests gaping cassock billowing around his hard, spare frame. The marble surface of the altar was clear, no doubt cleared by Skileri earlier in the day precisely to accommodate this sacrifice of Trent’s body to the sin of sex.

He laid the young man stretched out on his belly on the altar, his left arm dangling over the side of the altar. Skileri deftly mounted the altar, put an arm under Trent’s belly to lift the young man’s buttocks slightly to accommodate the slide of the cock, and then mounted Trent’s ass, thrust deep inside him, and fucked him again. Groaning softly, Trent maintained the stance of presentation of his ass to the priest’s cock, and not just endured but reveled in the magic of the deep, rhythmic thrusts inside his soft core. The priest’s flared black cassock covered them both as the monsignor leaned over Trent and kissed and nibbled the base of his skull while he moved his long, long cock deep and Trent rhythmically rocked his pelvis up to meet the deep thrusts of the priest. If anyone had been watching, it would look like a large, black bird of prey was fluttering and undulating on the surface of the altar.

They wouldn’t have been far off in the interpretation of what Monsignor Skileri was tearing out of the young man.

It was almost a mystical experience for Trent. Henceforth he would not shy away from having a white poker chip land in front of him during a Friday Group gathering at the Battery Park Book Exchange.

* * * *

The next Tuesday, instead of going home from work, Trent took the bus into the downtown area and went to the Battery Park Book Exchange. He knew that Art Hilliard, the assistant manager there, worked the dayshift on Tuesday’s. Art was at the bar in the entry foyer when Trent brushed the snow off his coat and shoes and entered the book store. There was snow on the ground from previous days and a light snow was adding to that. Darkness had already fallen for the day.

“Trent,” Art exclaimed when he saw the young man entered the store. “Is it Friday already?”

“I was hoping you were coming off work and would go down to Pack Square Park with me,” Trent said. “I understand that the Christmas tree and decorations in the park are spectacular and it’s something I haven’t seen yet in Asheville at Christmas time.”

“Is that all you’ve come for?” Art asked.

“No, it’s not. Can you come with me?”

“There’s no doubt that I can come with you,” Art said, with a grin plastered across his face.

They emerged from the store arm in arm and Trent paused on the sidewalk.

“You’re trembling,” Art said.

“It’s the cold. I’ll adjust,” Trent answered.

It wasn’t the cold, though, that had made Trent tremble. A truck was pulled up in front of the store. It was Gus’s truck. Trent could see that Gus was in the truck. Surprisingly, when Gus saw that Trent was with another man, Art, he pulled away from the curb and drove off. Trent let his breath out. “Which way to the park?”

“This way. There are vendors there. Perhaps we could get hot dogs and eat them under the falling snow,” Art said, as they started off walking.

“Whatever you want,” Trent said.

“Then maybe to O.Henry’s for a drink and to mingle and dance a bit.”

“Whatever you want.”

“And maybe afterward—”

“Whatever you want.”

“It’s the young cock you crave, isn’t it?” Art asked, with a grin.

“Yes. Anything you want.”

Trent didn’t have to think about Gus crashing into his apartment that night, because he spent the night in Art’s bed, under Art. And it turned out that Gus didn’t appear subsequently either. Gus was being tracked down for skimming bottles of liquor he was supposed to deliver to clubs, including the Battery Park Book Exchange, the managers of which were on the outlook for him, and he had left Asheville by Wednesday morning, never to return again. Trent’s sex life became a little less bizarre as a result, unless one considers being fucked by a long-cocked retired priest on a church altar bizarre.

-FINI-