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Part 1: I can tell it now [names have been changed]
I was always timid. Don’t know why. Just never the rough-and-tumble sort. And I was a homosexual before I even knew what the word meant.
I liked cocks even before I knew they could do more than piss, clear back when the only word I knew was “peepees.” The Mormon church, of course, taught me that I was on a down-escalator to hell as if the sin of “man with man” was an offense to god worse than murder. Being “queer” was unthinkable, unspeakable, impossible for a sane person.
The guilt came hot and heavy. I lived with it to high school graduation, but by then being a damned soul was too much to bear. I agreed to be “called” to become a missionary, hoping somehow to find a cure for the “evil perversion.” Maybe a good soaking in a stew of Mormon theology would cure me of my evil nature.
Little did I know.
Assigned to go to a Spanish-speaking country, I went first to the so-called Language Training Mission at BYU, a facility using a building once a women’s dormitory. There I did well enough–the physical bullying of high school was over–and I had a knack for languages.
The technique, after a day spent in language classes, was to recite the day’s lessons to young native speakers, BYU students from Spanish-speaking countries (called escuchantes: listeners). They were hired to listen to the missionaries and help them with pronunciation, intonation, etc. As I got better at Spanish, I finished many of my recitations early and spent the rest of the time practicing Spanish chitchat.
On one unforgettable occasion, in a flirting tone I asked the escuchante if she had a boyfriend.
“Sí.”
Oh? Another student from your country?
“No, es americano.”
How charming. “Another BYU student?”
“No, es más que estudiante.”
More than a student? Oh, how nice, one of the teachers in the Language Training Mission?
No, and as it turned out, after a series of answers moving her “boyfriend” up the ranks (and the term gradually moving from amigo [friend] to amante [lover]), the process of elimination left one astonishing conclusion. I gulped. “Your lover is . . . the mission president??”
“Sí.”
Unbelievable! Unthinkable!
Not a month earlier I heard President Pronov, a tall, distinguished-looking business mogul, mourn the death of his wife in an emotional speech. Fighting to control himself, he muttered, “Sometimes we cannot understand the Lord’s plan…” But while his wife lay dying of cancer in a hospital bed, he was boinking a young Latina!
I couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be true. But why would she lie? What did she have to gain?
I found that revelation turned me on so bad, I broke a resolution and found myself in a restroom stall, jacking off to the seething mental image of the mission president rutting on the young woman. So I’m not the only Mormon ruled by his balls!
The next time I recited to her, I took a bold step: I asked her to let me watch them the next time he made love to her. Smiling shyly–and proudly–she agreed.
That very evening as the escuchante sessions came to a close, I moved quietly through the halls of the Language Training Mission to the door of the mission president’s office. It was not locked–she had left it ajar for me. I pushed it open quietly.
The president’s office was a step into an old, dignified world. Dark wood framed the windows and ran mid-height around the walls. Heavy, carved mahogany chairs grouped around the huge desk. A ceiling-high bookcase behind the desk held big, leather-bound heirloom volumes. The whole atmosphere of the place was dark, intellectual, and powerful.
The young escuchante lay naked on the president’s desk, her legs uplifted and held apart in the hands of a man a good 40 years older. President Pronov stood at the edge of the desk, skewering her, and she lifted her head, staring down at their joining, her face a mask of grim, panting lust. I’d never seen a woman in such a helpless position. Her pushed-back knees almost touched the desk surface. But she wanted it–her own hands gripped his arms, helping him to splay her.
I once caught my parents fucking. I heard sounds and pushed their bedroom door open for a peek. Dad’s hips humped against Mom as she lay under him, but because the blankets covered them, I couldn’t see any skin. Nonetheless, from the outlines, I could tell Mom’s legs weren’t raised, and Dad wasn’t on his knees, let alone standing.
Compared to the escuchante’s position and the mission president’s mount, my parents’ fucking was poetic and romantic. President Pronov fucked in an erotic, dominant, conquering way, his bitch doubled up in what had to be an uncomfortable donut. But I heard no complaints. In fact, she gasped encouragements: “Ay, por Dios! Deeper, mi amante, fuck me!”
It was also the first time I ever saw the mission president without his trademark dark blue suit and conservative tie. Or pants. And as a fan of rus escort the plug more than the socket, I was awed: President Pronov had a cock of biblical proportions. My mouth open in astonishment (and an overwhelming, dizzying rush of lust), I figured the mission president’s cock at a good 10 inches. And thick. Scary thick. Thicker than his wrist!
The escuchante groaned as he reamed her out to his caliber, gradually dropping her head back, eyes rolled up in her head. His hands kneaded her breasts, pinching her nipples into hard, brown bullets, and I could hear his grunts: “Yeah, baby, nice titties . . . you’re still tighter than any of ’em–gonna pump you a big load . . .”
Tighter than any of them? Plural?
I moved aside for a better look. Damn! He wore no rubber. Barebacking her. The mission president’s sperm was free-range and cage-free. But again, that was man’s role on the earth: to bring down spirits from heaven to take human bodies. And damn, was he ever taking her body!
Opening her eyes again to look up at her lover, the young escuchante noticed me from the corner of her eye. She looked over at me and smiled. Following her glance, the mission president looked back at me. Oh, shit.
“Come on in, Elder.” His voice was husky with lust.
I moved closer, my heart pounding. I’d never been so close to such an incredible scene–and nothing could have prepared me for what I heard next: “Take off your clothes, Elder, and join us.” Dumbfounded, I got naked as the older man’s body, still fit and firm, resumed its thrusting into the moaning escuchante.
As I pulled off my Mormon garments, finally naked, the president got his gun, thrusting all 10 inches up the screaming escuchante, driving her into yet another orgasm, and he froze, his legs trembling, cumming up the hot woman’s cunt. The smell of sex was heavy in the air as he bent over to lie on her, sweating and breathing hard.
Finally I heard him growl, “Come around here where I can see you, Elder.” I moved to the side of the desk, looking down on them. “Nice cock, Brother.” I blushed, proud I had inherited the family pipe organ. I had seen my father in the bathroom a few times. Big. Thick. Long enough to swing back and forth as he moved. Mine was the teenaged version, but I often got admiring glances in the locker rooms.
“What’s your name, Elder?”
“Brett Numenor.”
“Move a little closer, Elder Numenor.” I stepped closer, standing beside him as he rose up from his panting conquest. “Good cock for your age, Elder. Let me see that thing.” He reached out, grasped my hard cock, and he amazed me again: the noble mission president, role model for all young missionaries, his softening cock slithering back out of the hot pink, slobbering pussy, turned his naked body to me, dropped to one knee, and sucked my cock!
I went weak in the knees! I was still in awe of the mission president. For one thing, he was the most powerful man in my life.
And for the first time in my life, a Church authority knew the real me and didn’t damn me to hell. Indeed, stripped naked with my cock in his mouth, I had nothing left to hide–and on my part, there was nothing about the mission president I didn’t know, from the look of his big cock, wet and slimy from the cunt-juices of his worshipful young bitch, to his wrinkled, winking asshole ringed with hair. While he sucked, I gazed down at his slimy 10-incher as it recovered from the recent ejaculation, his big foreskin folding back over the head like a hangar door slowly closing.
And that obscene sight pushed me over the edge.
Never dreamed my first orgasm with a partner would be from a mission president’s blowjob. My tongue welded to the roof of my mouth, my eyes clenched shut in ecstasy, and I was a lunatic meteor shooting into the sky, out of my mind from the thundering orgasm.
His lips formed a bowl around my exploding cock, and I filled it with surge after surge of boiling, slimy cream. Man, did he ever get to me! I stumbled, quivering, when I pulled back.
The mission president coughed slightly. “Good helping of milt, Brother. Good, healthy balls.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand–then looked down at it and licked the back of his hand.
“Caray,” murmured the escuchante, “that is so hot.” Fingering between her legs, her snatch drooled a smear onto the desk. I figured she got another orgasm watching us.
My cock sagged to grateful, fulfilled Standby, but President Pronov’s organ again stood tall and strong like a surveyor’s transit. I soon learned what it had surveyed.
“Now your turn, Elder Numenor.” With that, he pushed me back against the wall. Oh, shit, I’m not sure about this! The horny man pulled my legs apart, reached down under my balls and swiped my ass-crack with a handful of Vaseline from a nearby jar. Then he lubed his cock, again a 10-inch iron stake. “Put your arms around my shoulders, Elder. Hug me.”
It was an order. yenimahalle escort I moved close, reached over his shoulders, and held on. I thought for a moment he was going to kiss me, but he said, “Okay, Elder, now jump up and put your legs around my waist.”
What?? He wants to hold my weight? Damn, this old man is in good shape! At his orders, I hopped into the air, wrapping my legs around his hips, and he gripped my buttocks, supporting me. He lifted me even higher.
Then he let me slip lower down his body–and the mission president’s big cock targeted my virgin asshole. I was helpless. My own weight impaled me on the Sword of the Lord, and as he loosened his grip on my cheeks, his cock burned a white-hot hole through my sinful ass, pulling my outraged sphincter apart like cornholing myself on a fire hydrant.
The pain was terrible! I couldn’t escape. My legs went weak, no longer gripping his hips, sticking out straight, trembling, quivering with the pain. But the old man’s hands palmed my butt, and he pressed my back against the wall, keeping me in harm’s way. I was locked in place, and I understood the true meaning of “I was fucked.”
My rectum on fire, I screamed. He clapped his open mouth over mine, swallowing my screams in a kiss! His tongue ravaged my mouth, taming me, controlling me, and the only remaining sound was grunts as he lunged against me, bouncing me up in the air like a puppet.
Fuck, it hurt! I was a statue of agony. My toes curled, and my hands scrabbled helplessly at the skin of his back. For a moment I wondered if the mission president was teaching me an object lesson–If You Sin, You Will Be Punished. But in a weird way, I was so horny, so sexually excited by all I had seen, the very idea that I was being fucked by the mission president somehow overcame thoughts of pain.
About the time I began to hear squishing, greasy sounds from down below, the old man’s thrusts came easier, and the pain began to fade away. The huge penis spreading my asshole into–I never thought about it before. A manhole cover in the street goes over a man-hole. President Pronov had spread my rectum into a man-hole! But the pain had diffused somehow, blending into a pleasant sensation. I blinked. Son of a bitch, I like it!
He broke the kiss, pulled his head back, and looked into my eyes. His voice was husky and aroused. “Could’ve stopped me, boy. But you didn’t.” He bent his face down to mine and licked my cheek with a broad, drooling swipe. “You crave this. You were born to it.”
The presidential banner rammed into me especially deep, and he held me in his arms like a weightlifter, looking into my eyes, a proud Alfa male. “See, Elder?” he grunted like an animal, “Your cock–hard–virile–from serving–my authority!” Ohmigod, he’s right! My throbbing prick rubbed against his hairy belly, so erect and throbbing, it hurt!
I had a strange confusion–embarrassment and shame that I let a man fuck me but also a weird pride: the mission president was fucking me.
“You watch, boy–your type wants–be bred!” He was breathing hard. “When–feel my jism–your guts–you cum–grateful–beg me!”
Again, I didn’t know whether to feel ashamed or proud. By then I truly enjoyed the sensual feeling of his big cock stretching me, sliding in and out, but I didn’t feel myself about to climax. I could’ve reached down to jack myself off, but somehow that seemed disrespectful. I was there for his pleasure, after all.
He continued his assault on my asshole for few more minutes then let out an earthy growl, sinking full in. “You’re mine, Elder!” and he took me. Bred me. Impregnated me.
A moan came from deep in my chest, and my head jerked back as I felt his spurts. Hot, spreading surges deep inside me.
I submitted to him totally. I had no control of my body–it responded only to his cock, the most important thing in the world to me. God, no wonder I always loved cocks! I was coming to this moment! I was born to this!
My toes curled again, but in ecstasy, not pain, and President Pronov was right: his lusty sperm breeding me, swimming into my guts, brought on a Hosts of Heaven orgasm, even more overwhelming than his blowjob. As he prophesied, without even touching myself, my cock exploded in surges of boiling jism that spluttered and surged between our sweating bellies, spurting from the sides to dribbled down on my hip-gripping legs!
I went out of my mind with pleasure, my eyes shut in bliss, almost choking in the overwhelming atmosphere of sex billowing up from below. I heard myself thanking him, begging him to fuck me. In humility and gratitude, I gripped my asshole around his cock, anything to heighten his pleasure.
I reached my tongue out to lick the drops of sweat from his face. The salty taste, the aroma of semen and balls, the chattering of my hypersensitive asshole grinding over the bumpy texture of his cockshaft, and the sounds of his animal grunts kept me in the longest orgasm of my life.
As the great orgasm finally began to fade, I clung to him more powerfully. I wanted that giant cock in my ass for time and all eternity. All pain was gone. I loved the feel of his huge invader. He had stretched me into a worthy vessel, his property, and I wanted to serve him.
When he finally released me and lowered me to the floor, lines of cloudy white cum ran out of my ass and down my legs. “Hold that in, Elder! If you can’t bear my baby, at least take my authority into your body.” I clenched my asshole tight. Yeah. I wanted to absorb anything I could of him.
For as much as my secret dreams were of nailing a high school fullback or sticking it into one of my muscular buddies when I caught him in a wrestling hold, I figured I would ultimately follow “normal life”–my first fuck would be with a Mormon girl. I never dreamed my first fuck would be with a man–and that I would be the one to be bred.
The session was over. We had reached the limit of President Pronov’s endurance. As we sat putting on our clothes again, he looked at me. “One of the marks of an adult,” he said solemnly, “is discretion.” And thus I understood the Mormon version of Omertá, the Mafia tradition of silence.
Other than that I was no longer a virgin, nothing more “unusual” happened at the Language Training Mission. I was not invited to return engagements in the president’s office, I did not draw the horny escuchante’s number in my recitations again. I realized I had not acquired any sort of “relationship” or “entitlement.” It was merely a spiritual epiphany. I had been his man-hole for the evening.
I left for my “mission field” a couple of weeks later, but my sexual education was not over.
I was the only one scheduled to go to South America in that particular cycle, so one of the president’s personal assistants, Elder Neros, drove me to the airport in one of the mission cars. Black Chevrolet. BYU fleet plates. The flight beyond the equator would take 10 hours, so my flight left at 9:00 p.m., the better to pass the long hours in sleep. We left for the airport at dusk, giving us plenty of time.
Elder Neros was a hale young man. A year old than I, he had been a high school football star, had a football scholarship. We talked about this and that as we drove, but gradually I sensed the chat turning to the subject of sex. He asked me if I had a girlfriend waiting for me. I told him no. I asked if he had one. He did.
“You miss the making out?”
“That’s not all I miss.”
My pulse sped up. In a moment of abandon, I muttered, “You a virgin?” I couldn’t resist adding, “I’m not.”
Elder Neros looked over at me grimly. Then he swerved off the freeway onto an off-ramp leading to a roadside rest stop. “I’ve got to take a leak.” I didn’t, so I remained in the car when he got out, but he came around to my window. “Come on in with me. This is an interesting place.”
Situated in a nicely landscaped picnic area and park, the rest stop featured a long brick building with a men’s room at one end and a women’s at the other. Inside the men’s room, nice, clean, alternating desert-orange and white tiles, were the typical urinarios: a row of six porcelain receptacles jutting out from the wall. Unlike older, full-length fixtures that went from chest height to the floor or even the newer, shorter, waist-high versions, those urinals were almost full-size toilet bowls without seats, sticking out a good 2½ feet or more from the wall.
Even the most shy of men could not hide his endowment from the curious. Unless they actually straddled the porcelain, users of the urinals had to stand back enough that what they were packing was easily visible from the other stations with the slightest of sidelong looks.
Once inside with Elder Neros, I felt a sympathetic need to pee, and after I caught a glimpse of his male credentials, I developed other urges. So did he, apparently, because as both of us shook off the last drops, we looked each other in the eyes, and I learned the real power of nonverbal communication.
As one, we reached for each other’s cock, and as if we were in a synchronized team, we starting stroking each other in the same rhythm. But we were not alone. Two of the stall doors opened, and two adult men stepped out. Ohmigod!
Then I really gaped! One of the men was Bishop Morgan, the very man who had interviewed me for my mission! I didn’t know the man beside him, who turned to the bishop: “Looks like they’re not customers for our glory holes. Let’s see if the young missionaries have any tracts to show us.”
My bishop looked me in the eyes. “Let’s see if Elder Numenor will show us something other than tracts,” and he looked down at our hands, still locked around each other’s fright-softened cockshaft. Both the men were powerful–Bishop Morgan ran a construction company–and they rather easily hustled us out of the rest room into the darkness of the park outside.
There under a large tree they pulled our suits and ties–and pants–from us (I didn’t struggle much), and soon I found my jaws spreading to encompass the heavyweight dong of the bishop. As I sucked his cock, I swear I tasted olive oil–Has he been using the anointing oil as a lube?
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