A Mutual Friend

by Layla Wolfe

  “Well,” said Moog, “as long as it takes to get to the Mexican border, sometimes.”

  The main office door opened just then. We’d stolen a bell from one of the other office doors to be better aware of anyone coming and going.

  Flannery and Lily were back from their search for Barclay. Jaw slung low, Flannery pulled up a stool to better gape at the head. But Lily barely regarded it, like yesterday’s pizza box. I wondered if this was one of the many differences between MCs like the Zealots, and Aryan gangs like the Death Squadders. The Zealots had seen so much more. The Squadders would always be doomed to lose in a battle with the Zealots. They had never learned to bring a bone saw to an accidental fist fight.

  “No one’s seen that desquiciado cabrón down by the wharf,” said Lily, using one of my many colorful terms for Barclay. “And of course, we rode around by the bridge and some of the streets where he’s been doing his business lately. Nothing. So we went by the PD to see Guido. The only weird activity lately is a baby, well a toddler really, found dead in a dumpster near a church, an Our Lady of the Lake.”

  “What denomination is that?” King asked.

  Lily shrugged. “Fuck if I know. Those bilagáana churches are all the same to me. Except,” she added, “Father Noel Moloney’s on the rez.”

  I handed Twinkletoes his camera and stood. “It’s Catholic. King, you coming?”

  As King stood too, Flannery finally tore his eyes from the head. “You going to that church? I’m coming with.” He looked at Lily. “Finally, a place to put Crusty’s ashes that’s on consecrated ground after all he’s been through.”

  Lily’s look was definitely tender. In all the time I’d known the transgender teen, I’d mostly seen her regard Flannery with tenderness. As far as I was concerned, he was just a giant, hulking goon. But for some reason, the two fit together.

  “Was Crusty Catholic?” asked King.

  “No,” said Flannery. “He was nothing, like the rest of us. But I’m sure he’d appreciate the décor.”

  “I’ll come too,” said Lily. “After all, it was the Zealots who put a bullet through Crusty first.”

  Twinkletoes and the doctor agreed to stay with the head—and, presumably, Beelzebub—and the four of us took off on two Harleys. At a stoplight, I shouted back toward King.

  “Turk offered us his houseboat to stay in, once we dispose of Barclay Samples’ properly.”

  King waited way too long to respond, and the light turned green.

  Dios mío. King didn’t even want to share a space with me, much less love me.

  I knew what I had to do. I had to display submissiveness. I had to be the victim at the Happy Hour, secretly craving his vicious humping. If we were both going to be switches, both happy in each role, I had to be the sub. I had to let him take his domineering wishes out on me.

  I had to play a role.

  I was excellent at that.

  S

  I

  was taken aback by all these sudden questions.

  First, the possibility the Zealots might hire me on as a truck driver threw me for a curve. What would I drive, drugs between here and the border? Well, it wasn’t like I hadn’t done that before.

  But now, as I wrapped my arms around Anton’s waist, he asked me about moving onto Turk’s houseboat with him. What the actual fuck? Once we finished the Barclay job, what would we have in common? Anton would be out on demonic possession jobs, and I’d be hauling black tar between here and Nogales. Did even Turk and Lock think we were a couple? Because we were far from that.

  Anton had repeated his act of domination when he tied me up in the desert. Don’t get me wrong—it was by far the most erotic experience of my life. I hadn’t known I could come that much. I mean, just buckets and buckets of jizz. I’d tried to repeat the act myself, while alone in the Happy Hour shower, and it was nothing close, not even when I fantasized about Anton fucking me with that realistic dildo. No. I needed the real thing.

  But did I want to be a sub the rest of my life? The last time I’d tried dominating him—in that same shower—he’d given me the psychic slap by reminding me we weren’t lovers. And . . . had I told him I love him in the desert? What the fuck was that all about? Good thing no one had brought it up since.

  There wasn’t a single vehicle in the Our Lady parking lot. In the middle of the paved area was a little park with a life-size statue of the Virgin Mary. She stood atop a globe wound by a snake to show she protected the world from evil. Flannery thought about leaving his cardboard box of Crusty there, so he and Lily discussed that for awhile. Lily noted the neck of the Virgin looked as though someone had hacked at it with an axe.

  “Let’s go check out the dumpster where they found the child,” said Anton, businesslike.

  Of course there were no clues to be gleaned from a nearly-empty dumpster. The cops had probably taken most of the garbage for potential evidence along with the body.

  I said, “Could it have been one of those situations where a teenager drops the unwanted kid off? I know they’re supposed to do it at a fire station or cop station or whatever, but a church would be just as good.”

  Anton said, “The kid was 22 months old. He’d be walking and kicking and screaming—“

  “Unless he was dead already.”

  Anton nodded. “Unless he was dead already. Let’s go inside, see if we can find the priest.”

  We went through the vestibule leading to the nave. A couple worshipers kneeled in pews, but other than that, the place was quiet as a tomb. When the modern stained glass backing a morbid Jesus on a cross lit up Anton’s face, I could see it. The wonder in his eyes, the holy appreciation, the fire to follow something higher than himself. Though he only wore the usual jeans and George Thorogood T-shirt, something in his spirit just became illuminated as he stuck his fingers in his back pockets and strolled, admiring the architecture.

  The glass set into the apse above the altar was almost Craftsman in its simplicity, with lightning bolts of basic color as though Frank Lloyd Wright himself had designed it. Although the nave itself was new and bland, Anton strolled with appreciation through the redwood pews. For the first time, I could picture him wearing a dog collar and cassock, reciting a liturgy in his gorgeous flowing Catalan voice. Aware it was sacrilegious, I couldn’t prevent my dick from stiffening when he held his hands out in the shape of globes.

  “I miss this,” he pronounced, a divine glow imbuing his face.

  I nudged him with my elbow. “You need to get back into it in some way. Not as a priest obviously, but in some way. You love to help others.”

  I had caused the glow to evaporate from his face. Crushed, he looked at the floor. “I’ve got assignments lined up all over the country.”

  That shocked me. Hadn’t he said he was thinking of staying in Rough and Ready, with the club?

  I didn’t remain hurt for long, though. I used my own pain in a constructive way. I took charge. Hands on hips, I turned to face Anton. “Listen, you love the church. They might not allow gay priests”—a couple of worshipers turned to look at me blank-faced—“but you can help in other ways. Counseling, like you did in New York.”

  Anton looked at me, a babe in the woods. He really did seem younger, more pliable, open to suggestion. “I suppose I could do that, if I have any free time.”

  I clapped him on the shoulder, then squeezed. Honestly, I wanted to kiss him. “You bet your ass. Now let’s go find the priest in charge here.”

  With a renewed sense of purpose, we strode up the nave and through the crossing. Without a word, like game show contestants we chose a door.

  We were in luck. It was the sacristy. This was where the pastor should be, polishing his crosses or changing his vestments or whatever priests did—it had been so long since I’d attended services. As it was a fairly new church, built in the 60s I imagined, there were no gorgeous wooden cabinets or hallowed paintings of lambs lining the walls. Just a simple, straightforward place to keep records, cups, and ba
sins.

  “Hello?” asked Anton, a bit hesitantly.

  I had no such shyness. I barged right on in, strolling through the room, picking up vessels, studying jars of holy oils. If Beelzebub followed us here, he could wreak holy havoc. I shoved the idea out of my mind. “No one. Maybe he’s at the police station?”

  “Could be,” agreed Anton. “He might be able to identify the kid. Poor guy.”

  Inhaling deeply, I took the bull by the horns. I put down the oil bottle and approached Anton, snaking my hand round the back of his neck. He gazed at me with the same open, accepting look. Would he be willing to pay penance for something? Anything?

  For not having responded when I told him I love him? For claiming we weren’t lovers when we so obviously were? For accepting jobs across the US when we needed to be together the most?

  Just thinking of these things made me squeeze his neck, maybe a little viciously. “Anton. Will you listen to me? Will you obey me?”

  A shadow came over his eyes. Of course, he had no idea what I was talking about. A surge of encouragement coursed through me when he cocked his head and said, “Of course.”

  I stepped away from him and pointed. “Get down on the floor. On your back.”

  With a mischievous grin, he did so, hands behind his head. I quickly toed off my boots and whipped down my own jeans and underwear, standing proudly with my dick at full mast. Straddling him, I wanted him to admire me. He’d often said I had a jacked, plump dick. I wanted him to admire me submissively from a fresh angle.

  He did. He grinned like a schoolboy and squirmed his hips against the carpet. “I like the view.”

  Drawing my threadbare T-shirt up to shoulder level, I kneeled. I took a bottle of oil from a table and drizzled a small pool into my palm, hoping to hell it was olive oil with no balsamic. I oiled my ballsac, dipping and thrusting my hips, stretching the full sac toward his mouth. He licked his lips and his eyes were moist, emboldening me even more.

  “Suck my balls,” I commanded, lowering myself even farther.

  I was taken by surprise by the surge of his enthusiasm. His hands flew up to grip my hips and his open mouth clamped down on my testicles. As he hungrily munched and tongued my full balls, I stroked oil onto my dong, but the sensation was so intense I soon stopped. I settled for squeezing my glans, mainly thumbing the channel underneath to keep from coming.

  The echoing sounds of slurping in the holy room had me jizzing a few drops of precum. My mushroom head pulsed with each tongue lapping from my beautiful Spaniard. He’d take one ball fully into his mouth, laving it and gnawing it, worrying it like a dog with a bone. After thrilling me to the core, he’d inhale the other ball and lap away, even moaning around it, the vibrations throbbing straight through to my prolactin-drenched brain.

  That must’ve set something off in a deep, dark recess. Maybe it was jealousy that he’d obviously done this exact thing before. I was no novelty, and he’d just as enthusiastically tongued other ballsacs before. But I started to thrust my hips, one hand around the back of his neck for stability. I found myself lunging so far, so athletically, that my asshole was over his wet mouth, and that was the most exciting of all. That he didn’t seem to mind drove me absolutely over the edge. He even lapped away at my swollen pucker, and that was too much for me.

  I squirted several drops of jizz and heard myself growling, “You like that, don’t you, my boy? You like sucking on another man’s balls. You love it when I sit on your face. You just love rimming my hole.”

  I’d seen it in magazines but had never dreamed I’d be squatting over another man’s face, his tongue tasting my hole. Seeing the photos of a ripped, inked man squatting on another younger man’s face, dominating him, maybe even forcing him to do something he didn’t want to, that was a thrill almost beyond comprehension for me. It never took long, looking at those photos, to grab my own wang and jack off. But now I didn’t dare, because I had so much more in store for this delicious, submissive priest.

  “Oh, yeah,” I growled, pleased. “You do that so good. How long have you been doing that to other men? You’re an expert at it. That’s right. Lick my asshole, slave. You’re my little boy, aren’t you? You do what your daddy says. Your father says lick my asshole.”

  Once again, though, Anton took me by storm. Not only did he energetically lick my asshole, he squirmed his tongue inside me, causing my orgasm to surge halfway up my boner. Oh God, no. This wouldn’t be allowed. I couldn’t let him have the upper hand, have control over me. If I came all over the good priest’s carpet, Anton would have once again won. He was displaying control over me, and I couldn’t allow that.

  “That’s it, boy!” I shouted, and collapsed to one side of him, panting hoarsely. He raised himself on his elbows, grinning to beat the band, an impish, naughty boy caught with his father’s magazines. Only these magazines showed two men together. And this boy liked that even more. He wiped his mouth on his forearm and I just wanted to smack that grin off his face.

  So I did.

  I smacked his face with my open hand.

  “What’re you laughing at, boy? I’ll teach you to fucking laugh. Get over here!”

  Anton put a hand to his shocked face. I had finally, truly surprised him. Maybe his beloved Noel had never done that. Freshly brazen, I roughly undid his belt buckle, whipping the belt from its loops. I pulled off his shoes and yanked down his jeans while rolling him facedown onto my lap. He protested only slightly, a few little “heys” here and there.

  “Look at this boner,” I sneered. “That turned you on, sucking on your dad’s ass?” This was a great opportunity for me to drizzle some oil on that round, muscular butt. Oh, I loved rubbing my hand in a circular pattern over those mounds, occasionally dipping a finger into his crack. I coarsely knocked his knees farther apart so his hairy pucker was displayed, and I oiled that too. But only briefly, so as to tease. “This boy’s dick sure is hard after sucking on my balls. That turn you on, boy?”

  Anton propped himself on his forearms, already panting. “Yes, father. It turned me on very much.” Then he had to go and get uppity by adding, “Who wouldn’t be turned on? You’ve got gigantic balls, a tasty ass.”

  I slapped that bottom. The crack of my palm against his oily skin was satisfying, and I did it again. Smack! Already it left a red mark, and I wanted more. Smack! Smack! Smack!

  “Who asked your opinion, boy? You’re a dirty, uppity boy and I’m going to smack you down to size.”

  He winced with every smack, and his head hung low. “Yes, Sir.”

  “That’s better!” But I didn’t want to stop smacking him, so I didn’t. When his bouncy bottom was thoroughly reddened, I shoved one of his knees aside even farther and alternately slapped and stroked his asshole. Then I remembered that his asshole had been used many times by my predecessor, and without thinking, I slapped his cock that stuck out stiffly in the air. I smacked his ballsac, hanging full like an aroused horse. In between smacks I’d squeeze the cock, the balls, to inflict a wide range of pain and pleasure on him.

  “You like this, too, don’t you? You act uppity just to get men to spank you, don’t you?”

  “Sometimes,” Anton gritted out between clenched teeth, and I could see I was really getting to him. If I slapped his meat just right, it would bounce up against my naked hard-on. Pouring another palm full of oil, I pulled on both our dongs at the same time—had to use both hands, of course.

  “Look at your nice red ass,” I snarled. “You like being dominated by men, don’t you?”

  “Oh Dios, yes,” he panted.

  That he liked it made me stop. Roughly tumbling him to the carpet, still face down, I wedged my oily boner into his ass crack and humped, just like I had at the club. This had been my fantasy ever since then, to get the good father into the same position, and now I had him.

  In a sacristy.

  I jammed my hand between his pelvis and the carpet and wrapped my hand around his meat. I growled behind his ear, “This is wha
t I wanted to do at the Happy Hour. Grab your cock and make you squirt. Fuck you up your juicy ass. I’d love to take you in front of the whole club just to prove I can.”

  His response was a deep, guttural groan. “Oh God, daddy. Do it. Fuck me. I’ve been so, so bad. You have to punish me.”

  So it was the ol’ daddy game, was it? Funny that just as I mentioned I was a closet exhibitionist, I could’ve swore I heard the door open behind us. No one had locked it, maybe hoping for something like this to happen. If it was the parish priest, he’d probably just watch. If it was a parishioner, well maybe they’d learn something. Either way, it turned me on higher, if such a thing was possible.

  I was done with squishing my erection into his buoyant crack. On one thrust I pulled back farther, and I was in.

  His hole was slick and hot. Anton uttered a choked moan, his head thrown back in a yoga position. I splayed my legs like a frog, the better to hump him. I gyrated my hips to give every centimeter of his hole a stroke. “There,” I purred, giving his bud a flurry of short, horny thrusts. “You like being fucked, don’t you? You like it when your daddy takes you like this, when you’re his toy?”

  “Dios, si,” he nearly sobbed.

  Wrapping an arm around his abdomen, I pulled him to his knees. The better to fuck him with my short, thick jabs. Also, I was dying to jack his dick. I’d greased it, and it was a plump, long pole in my grip. “You like your daddy’s dong up your ass.” I was nearly unconscious with lust, wringing his hard testicles with my other hand. Was I thrusting deep enough to massage his gland? I needed to go deeper.

  “Oh, yeah,” I snarled, nipping at his earlobe. “You love being fucked. Sometimes I think you act like a brat just to be punished. Your balls are hard as a rock in my hand. Your dick is about ready to squirt any—“

  I sucked in air as my orgasm took me by storm. I realized later I must’ve been squishing his ballsac in my fist. My senses shut down, and all inner sensation was centered in my groin. Wave after wave of clenching, shuddering ecstasy washed over me as I blew my load deep inside Anton. Fact, I didn’t realize until later Anton was doing the same thing. Once the tide of rapture began to ebb and I could breathe again, I saw that Anton had splashed a table covered with an altar cloth. His tasty jizz literally dripped from the edges of the lace. His asshole clenched around me as I jammed my glans up against his sensitive prostate, massaging it with short little jabs.