The rain had been relentless for the past hour, cold needles driving into Jake's battered face as he limped through the empty streets. His split lip still bled when he pressed his tongue against it, tasting copper. His left eye had swollen nearly shut, purple and blue blooming across his cheekbone. The memory of his father's fist still echoed in his skull, along with the words that had cut deeper than any blow.
"You're a faggot? Then get the fuck out. You're no son of mine."
So Jake had walked. And walked. Through the suburban sprawl, past houses with warm amber windows where families sat together, past closed shops and empty parking lots. He'd walked until his feet ached and burned, his sodden socks like sandpaper scraping his skin. The rain soaked through his thin jacket, plastering his hair to his forehead, running in rivulets down his neck, washing the tears from his eyes. He walked nowhere because he had nowhere to go, only stopping occasionally to gasp and sob.
He'd looked up from one of those moments, blinking through the water sluicing into his eyes, and saw St. Michael's, its steeple cutting into the black sky. A single light gleamed in the vestibule. A refuge. A place where even someone like him might find shelter for the night.
He stumbled that way and tried the heavy oak door, expecting it to be locked. But it wasn't, so he pulled it slowly open and stepped through. He pulled it closed just as slowly, to avoid any creaks or a thump when it shut. He didn't want anyone to know he was here. To talk to anyone. He just wanted to sit, wring out his socks and...and just sit. For a while.
Inside, the church was dark except for the flickering red sanctuary lamp near the altar. The smell of incense and old wood and wax enveloped him, warm and comforting. Jake moved carefully down the center aisle, his sneakers squeaking on the worn flagstones. He stopped, slipped them off, then padded on in wet socks, the only sound of his passage the slight squish of water between his toes. He slipped into a shadowed pew near the back, tucking himself into the corner where the darkness was thickest. Then he just sat there, shivering, hugging himself, trying to slow his racing heart. The silence was profound, broken only by the drumming of rain against the stained-glass windows. He closed his good eye, just for a moment, letting the quiet seep into his bones.
Click.
A heavy bolt sliding into place. The sound echoed through the nave like a gunshot. Jake's eyes snapped open. He must have dozed off. He saw Father Dan standing at the main entrance, his pudgy hand still resting on the lock, his round face illuminated by the faint light. The priest wore a black cassock that strained across his belly. He stood there for a long moment, scanning the darkness, and Jake pressed himself deeper into the shadows, holding his breath. Please don't see me, he thought. I can't face you. I can't face anyone.
But Father Dan just turned and walked toward the sacristy door, his soft footsteps padding across the stone floor. He disappeared through it, and the door swung shut behind him. Silence again, but somehow different now. A sense of anticipation charged the dark, silent air, as though something was about to happen. Jake considered slipping out, but that would just take him back out into the cold, rainy night. And he was so tired, his legs like lead, and the bitter darkness outside promised nothing but more pain. So he stayed.
The sacristy door opened again. Father Dan emerged first, still in his cassock, his feet bare. Behind him came Deacon Matthews, the middle-aged man who always seemed to smell of whiskey at morning mass. He too was barefoot, his black robe hanging loose on his gaunt frame. Then came Mr. Grayson, the quiet man in his thirties who read scripture with such solemnity every Sunday, his voice smooth as poured honey. Barefoot. Cassocked.
And behind them, last, came Simon.
Jake blinked in surprise. Simon. From school. His age, eighteen. The kid who ate alone at lunch, who wore clothes that never quite fit, who flinched when anyone spoke to him, who had acne speckled across his face. The weird kid, everyone called him. Queer bait. Freak. Jake had never bullied him, or anyone else for that matter, and he'd sure as hell never called him 'queer bait'. How could he? But he'd never defended him either. He'd just watched Simon shuffle through the halls like a ghost, trudging through the insults and abuse like someone pushing into a strong wind.
But...Simon was naked. Like totally, bare-assed nude, his scrawny, pale body exposed in the dim light. His ribs showed, his shoulders hunched forward, his hands clasped in front of him like he was trying to cover himself. More acne smeared itself across his shoulders. Jake, though, only had eyes for Simon's penis, in full view, fully erect, jutting out from a thatch of curly pubes, from his skinny frame, the tip glistening.
Jake's stomach clenched. He should look away. He should close his eyes. He should do something. But he didn't. He just watched, transfixed. He had to remind himself to breathe.
The three older men arranged themselves around the altar. Father Dan stood at the center, his hands raised. The other two flanked him, their faces slack, eyes half-lidded. Simon stood before them, trembling.
"Baphomet," Father Dan intoned, his voice resonating through the empty church. "Lucifuge Rofocale. Astaroth. We call you to this place. We call you to this vessel."
The other two joined in, their voices weaving together in a guttural chant that Jake couldn't follow, words that scraped against his ears like broken glass. The sound seemed to make the air thicker, heavier, pressing down on him from all sides. As they chanted, the three men shrugged off their cassocks. The black fabric pooled around their bare feet, and Jake saw they were all naked. Father Dan's body was soft and round, his belly hanging over a thicket of graying pubic hair, his uncut cock fat, half-hard and glistening with wetness among the folds of his foreskin at the tip. Deacon Matthews was gaunt, almost skeletal, his ribs visible, his cock thin and long and ending in a fat, purple knob like a mushroom. Mr. Grayson was built like a laborer, broad-shouldered and thick, his erection already straining upward.
They circled Simon, their hands reaching out to touch him. Mr. Grayson's fingers found Simon's nipples, pinching them, rolling them until Simon gasped. The deacon dropped to his knees, bent down and took one of Simon's feet in his hands, lifting it to his mouth. Jake gaped as the older man's tongue slid between Simon's toes, lapping at the skin, sucking each digit one by one. Simon shuddered, gasped and squirmed.
Father Dan stepped forward, the chalice in his hands. He held it before Simon, then lowered it, positioning it between his own thighs. Jake heard the sound before he understood it, a hissing, splashing noise as urine streamed into the silver cup, foaming and yellow. Father Dan's face was serene, his eyes closed, as he emptied his bladder into the sacred vessel.
"The blood of filth," he chanted, lifting the chalice. "The wine of corruption. Drink, and be filled."
He lifted the chalice to Simon's lips. Simon hesitated, his eyes wide, his whole body shaking. But then Mr. Grayson's hand fisted in his hair, yanking his head back, and Father Dan tipped the cup. Simon gagged as the warm urine flooded his mouth, some of it spilling down his chin. But Jake heard him gulping, swallowing. He kept swallowing until the chalice was empty.
Father Dan smiled, then reached for the ciborium, the gold vessel that held the consecrated hosts. He took one of the wafers between his fingers, thin and white. But instead of elevating it, instead of praying over it, he turned around and bent over, pulling aside a fat, hairy cheek with one hand. Jake could see his asshole, pink and puckered, surrounded by dark hair. Father Dan held the wafer against his anus with his other hand, then grunted with effort. Still holding the wafer in place, he took a breath and strained again. His face reddened. His muscles clenched. He shuddered. Then a wet, tearing sound, pffrrrrt, echoed through the silent church. The wafer came out of his hairy crack smeared with brown, glistening with filth.
He turned back to Simon, holding the soiled host between thumb and forefinger. "The body of corruption," he intoned. "Take this, and eat."
Simon whimpered at the sludge-smeared wafter, then slowly opened his mouth. Father Dan placed the desecrated host on Simon's tongue. The boy, eyes wide and white, closed his mouth, chewed, wincing as he did, then swallowed. A moment passed, then Simon's eyes rolled back in his head. His body convulsed, his back arching, his mouth open in a silent scream. And then he was coming, spurting thick ropes of white seed that splattered across the altar, dripping down the embroidered cloth, pooling on the stone floor. He kept coming, wave after wave, until his legs gave out. He would have fallen into a gasping heap if Mr. Grayson hadn't caught him from behind.
"Clean it," Father Dan commanded, pointing at the altar. Simon, still panting, dropped to his hands and knees, his face hovering over the puddle of his own semen. His tongue extended, lapping at the stone, slurping the sticky fluid into his mouth. The men, all of them now fully erect, watched as he swallowed, then licked again, and again, until the floor and the altar were clean.
The deacon stepped forward, his long cock bobbing. "The altar receives the offering," he chanted, and grabbed Simon's hips, lifting him and positioning him over the altar's edge. He bent Simon forward, then pushed his cock into the boy's ass without preamble. Jake heard the wet sound of penetration, saw Simon's body jerk, heard the strangled cry that escaped his lips.
The deacon fucked him with mechanical precision, his hips slapping against Simon's bare ass, his hands gripping Simon's waist hard enough to leave bruises. A damp, fleshy smack-slap-smack echoed through the church. "Lucifuge," he grunted with each thrust. "Lucifuge. I honor you. Lucifuge. I adore you." The old deacon finally spasmed, groaned, his thrusts turning arhythmic as he orgasmed. He pulled out with a wet pop and sprayed his seed across Simon's back, painting his pale skin with strings of white.
Mr. Grayson was next. He mounted Simon from behind, his thick cock stretching Simon's hole. Jake could see Simon's mouth flung open in a silent scream, his hands clawing at the altar cloth. Mr. Grayson fucked him harder, faster, grunting like an animal, calling out to Asmodeus and Beelzebub as he drove into the boy's body. He came with a long, low growl. When he pulled out, thick, gooey slime oozed from Simon's gaping asshole and dripped to the floor between his feet.
Father Dan stepped forward. He took his time, positioning Simon on his back across the altar, spreading his legs wide, exposing him. Jake could Simon's hole clearly, red and gaping, gleaming and dripping with the other men's seed. Father Dan leaned over him, his soft belly pressing against Simon's, and slid inside with a groan of satisfaction.
"Baphomet," he whispered. "Receive this offering. This sacrifice. This vessel of corruption."
He fucked Simon slowly, deliberately, each thrust a prayer, each withdrawal a hymn. Simon's bare feet swayed in time, his toes clenching, splaying apart, clenching again. Father Dan's hand wrapped around Simon's limp cock, stroking it back to hardness, coaxing another orgasm from the whimpering, gasping boy. Simon finally came again, a thin, watery emission, barely more than a dribble, and Father Dan followed moments later, his body shuddering, his face contorted in ecstasy as he emptied himself into Simon's ravaged hole.
Then it was over. The men dressed in silence, pulling their cassocks back over their nakedness. Father Dan collected the chalice, the ciborium, the soiled altar cloth. Deacon Matthews wiped Simon's body with a rag, roughly, efficiently. Mr. Grayson then helped Simon limp through the sacristy door, the boy's eyes glazed and looking at nothing. Yellowish slime slicked the boy's thighs and ass crack.
The lights went out. The sacristy door closed. Footsteps faded.
Silence.
Jake just sat in the darkness, his heart hammering against his ribs, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He realized, with a distant, dissociated horror, that his own cock was rock hard, straining against his jeans. A wet spot, warm and slick and not just rainwater spread in his underwear. Precum. He'd leaked without even noticing.
He couldn't move. He couldn't think. He could only stare at the altar where he'd just witnessed obscenity, the most heinous blasphemy, and try to process what he had seen.
The rain continued to fall outside, drumming against the stained glass, washing the world outside clean.
(More to come in Chapter Two...)
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