Mission from God (t/t, reluc - well, sorta) =========================================
by Chris Palmer
Disclaimer and notes.
This story contains sex, and some violence, between two late-teenage boys. As such, if this is not to your taste, you find such material offensive or it is unlawful for you to read under the laws to which you are subject, don't. Press the delete key now.
The story also explores my fascination with Mormon missionaries. We've all seen them: crisply dressed young men walking around in pairs. If this seems like a turn off to you, then again, read no further.
It is not my intent to cause offence to anyone who is a member or sympathetic to members of the Latter Day Saint (Mormon) church. By now you must have a pretty good idea what is going to happen in the story, so if you read on don't say I didn't warn you.
To the best of my knowledge and belief, the background details of the LDS church are accurate. The rules under which missionaries live are all real rules, although the numbers are not intended to be accurate. In particular, the teaching about using violent action to fend off any homosexual advance is still quoted in current church literature given to young men.
The two main characters in the story are not based on any real person, living or dead. Any resemblance to real people is co- incidental and unintentional.
Comments are welcome to discovery@technologist.com. In particular I'd like to hear from anyone who would like me to continue the story, and any ideas for the direction you'd like it to take. Flames will be ignored.
This story is copyright by Chris Palmer, 1998. It may be reproduced in its entirety but not in part, so long as the original author is credited and no payment is requested for its use.
Mission from God ================
By Chris Palmer
Introduction
The trouble with economy class, thought Ryan, was that the person who designed the seats clearly wasn't 6 feet 2 inches tall.
Time was that Ryan would have muttered a curse and forgotten about it, but that belonged to his past. For a little over a year ago, the beefy nineteen year old had accepted a challenge that had changed his life entirely.
Like most of the boys - heck, most of the people and probably a majority of the domestic pets - in his hometown of Kanab, Utah, Ryan was a Mormon. And for young men, that meant that as close as possible to age 19 as health and finances allowed, he was expected to don the dark suit and spend two years pounding the streets as a missionary.
Ryan had had no intention of going along. But continuous pressure from his anxious parents, his youth counsellors and the more conformist of his friends had led to him attending a talk given by the local Mission president. "Whatever your doubts, go!" he thundered. "There is NOTHING - no doubt, no problem no circumstance - that should stand in your way. It is your DUTY, and you will be BLESSED!"
Impressive stuff. And so later that week, Ryan had decided that, after all, he would go. And now, a year later, he had spent three weeks at the Missionary Training Center being trained in what to say and how to behave, and now he was on a plane heading for Dublin at the start of his two year mission to convert the people of Ireland to the True Faith.
Ryan again tried to get comfortable in his seat. Like many Utahns, he displayed the signs of Nordic ancestry. He was tall and well- muscled, his hair blond to the point of whiteness. His eyes, over high cheekbones, were a deep ultramarine with a look in them which spoke of an innocence rare in most nineteen-year olds today. As instructed in the Mission handbook, he was wearing white shirt, tie and black trousers. His suit jacket was thrown over the next seat. He didn't really expect to be wearing anything very different for the next two years.
The innocence was not deceptive. Although Ryan had been a pretty big shot around school - quarterback on the football team and Class President in his senior year - he had never really joined in with the activities of some of his less "good" friends. So Ryan's sexual experience was limited to a period of masturbation that had started at age 14 when he had spent a weekend on camp sharing a tent with Jimmy Sorenson, who seemed to do little else, and ended last year when he had decided to commit himself to his mission.
It is - just - possible for a teenage boy to stop masturbating voluntarily, but at some cost to his peace of mind. Not having that avenue of relief, Ryan found himself getting erections virtually all the time; wet dreams nearly every night, and at the end of the day his underwear would be sticky with leaked pre-cum. Still, sometimes he needed to jack so badly, he could taste the desire. But now he was up to 283 days without a wank, and counting.
We'll get back to the subject of Ryan's underwear later.
Incidentally, nothing more than masturbation had ever even crossed Ryan's mind. That was evil! He'd even been told that should "abominable activities" be threatened, he would be expected to take any action, even violence, in order to "keep himself pure." Not that Ryan was like that, of course. Well, there was that time he'd seen Brad Thomson in the shower and sprung a boner, but those things happened, didn't they?
Ryan gave up the attempt to find a comfortable position to doze, and sat up. Reasoning that he might as well put the time to good use, he pulled out his miniature version of the Book of Mormon (paragraph 2 of the Missionary Handbook had told him that he should have it with him at all times). He started to read.
Within minutes, he was asleep.
Cead Mille Failte
"Flip, will you look at that?" exclaimed Bill Mackie, jamming his foot onto the brake of the old Ford Fiesta. "More ruddy sheep!" It was true. The narrow Irish lane in front of them was blocked by a flock of the stupid animals. The shepherd waved amiably at the car, but made no special move to clear their way. Hurry is not something that is well understood in the south-west of Ireland.
Ryan had been in Ireland for five days now. He had been partnered with Bill Mackie - sorry, Elder Mackie, who had been working in the mission for about 18 months. The Mission President had told him that Elder Mackie was "one of my most experienced people. I know that I'm putting you in a really safe pair of hands there."
After five days, Ryan - sorry, Elder Jonsson, to give him his proper title - was not so sure. His idea of a senior missionary was someone who was a spiritual example: someone who would work all day long and pray in any spare moments. He expected someone who knew the scriptures backwards. In short, something like a cross between St Paul and Martin Luther King.
But in all the time they had spent together, Ryan could not remember Bill - Elder Mackie, he corrected himself - ever once opening a book of scripture. It would have been difficult anyway, as his only copy was wedged under the short leg of the table in their damp one-room flat in a Cork backstreet. They had taught no-one, and their days seemed to be spent going from one far-flung cottage to another visiting the (few) friendly Mormon families in the predominantly Catholic area. All very sociable. Ryan rather enjoyed visiting with the families, in fact: they all had sons and daughters, often not much younger than the two Elders. And Ryan had to admit: his companion did seem to attract hero-worship that bordered on adulation from the young men of the area.
He looked across at his companion, now trying to mop the condensation off the inside of the windscreen and peering out through the Irish rain to see if the road was clear of ovine obstruction yet. Elder Mackie was a complete contrast to Ryan himself. He was about 5ft 7 tall, wiry but with shoulders so square they looked as though he had dressed without bothering to remove the coathanger. He had a slim, triangular face topped with tight black curls. His eyes were an almost flinty grey. His nose had been broken in a rugby game when he was thirteen, but rather than marring his looks, it added a toughness to him that doubtless helped make him a hero to the young boys of the area.
The main impression that everyone got of Elder Mackie was one of vitality. If he was sitting down, you expected him to jump up and start running around the room. Even now, strapped into the driver's seat of their small car, he was constantly moving around, peering forward, looking behind, muttering and cursing under his breath at the unexpected and intolerable delay.
Apart from anything else, Mackie was a native Irishman, and Ryan still hadn't quite worked the Irish out yet. Almost everything they said seemed to have a double meaning. Ryan was starting to suspect that a lot of the double meanings were poking fun at the big American - meaning Ryan - and as yet he had not quite decided how to react. As a result, he mostly said nothing, a trait which he thought irritated Mackie, who rarely if ever stopped talking.
At last the sheep cleared from the road and Elder Mackie floored the accelerator. In the pitifully underpowered car that was all the Mission would give them this produced more sound than real speed, but they were underway at last. The shepherd waved an apology at the two boys, and Elder Mackie called back "Thank you", muttering something afterwards that sounded like "you fecking gobshite". They were on their way back to Cork and their flat.
Cork has never been by-passed, so every morning and afternoon it grinds to a halt as everyone tries to get across the one main bridge across the River Lee. Ryan and his companion were just unlucky enough to hit the afternoon rush hour, and so it was another forty minutes before they reached the terraced street where their basement flat was. They parked the car and locked it.
It was Ryan's turn to get dinner that evening, and he fell back upon the staple of single men everywhere: spaghetti bolognaise. In this case, made by taking a tin of tomatoes and some minced beef that hadn't actually turned green at the back of the fridge. Whilst he was busy in the "kitchen" - actually two gas rings in a corner of the room - his companion was getting changed out of his street clothes.
Ryan, who was still very new, thought that his companion's habit of just slobbing out in their flat was sloppy. He, Ryan, always kept his shirt on until he went to bed. But Elder Mackie seemed to think nothing of stripping down to his underwear as soon as they got in, and staying that way for the rest of the evening.
Now underwear, for Mormons, is a big deal. Some religions expect their priests to wear a dog-collar; some expect saffron robes, some expect their members to wear a turban. Mormons are more discreet. They wear special underwear. It is white. The top bit, for men at any rate, is effectively a white T-shirt; the bottom half is a close fitting white thing that extends to just above the knees. To avoid inadvertent exposure, the penile area is doubled over which means that when the member (no pun intended) wants to take a leak, the willie has to be threaded out through a sort of cotton Z-bend. All too frequently, Ryan had found, the fiddling required would lead to partial or total erection which combined with the aforementioned contortions rendered urination in a downwards direction totally impossible.
The intention of the designers of these garments was to protect the wearer from (amongst other things) sexual temptation. And it has to be said that compared, say, to a leather thong they were not exactly arousing. But there were compensations. The fact that the crotch was doubled cloth meant that they provided quite a bit of support for the package within. Unlike briefs there was no elastication on the legs, so a swollen organ could push downwards where, thanks to the general cut of the cloth it would be clearly outlined. Unlike boxers, which are often so baggy as to obscure their contents, someone seeking a young Mormon in his official garments would always have a pretty good idea as to the general size of that particular young man's sexual equipment. If he cared to look, that is.
And that was what Bill Mackie was wearing. Stripped to his garments, Ryan noticed, his companion had a tight, rounded ass that looked almost out of place on his otherwise lean body. The pressure of his ass backwards meant that there wasn't all that much cloth left to go around the front, and, Ryan couldn't help noticing, this put the other young man's front bulge into sharp relief. It looked as though there was quite a bit in there. As he watched it, Ryan could see the movement inside as Elder Mackie walked around the room...
Ryan broke off his train of thought in surprised disgust. What was he doing, looking at another missionary's private parts like that? Even if the guy did seem to be flaunting them, it wasn't right! Ryan could feel a red flush starting up his neck. He concentrated on stirring the spaghetti.
Spag Bog doesn't take long, so the two young Elders were soon sitting down to plates piled high with food. It does have a snag: if you are hungry, and trying to eat it quickly, it splashes. Elder Mackie in particular didn't seem to be making any effort to stop juices dripping on his shirt and shorts. Even Ryan's white shirt had tomato-red stains on it by the time his plate was clean.
Elder Mackie looked at himself in apparent disgust. "Fetch, look at me! I look like my kid sister when she doesn't wear her bib!" With that, he stripped off his undershirt, leaving himself naked to the waist.
This was the first time that Ryan had seen his companion even half naked: previously, although Mackie had changed in front of Ryan - there wasn't anywhere else anyway, unless you went upstairs to the shared bathroom - Ryan had always piously averted his eyes. But this time there wasn't much option.
Despite himself, Ryan was impressed. Bill Mackie's body was a marvel of definition. Although he wasn't anything like as big as Ryan himself, the other boy was tautly muscled: his belly was ridged and there was no spare flesh anywhere. His chest was a perfect double curve of muscle: each mound was topped with a large pink-brown nipple, and the cleft between them dusted with a coating of black hair which only served to accentuate the lines of the model pectorals.
When he turned around, the back view was almost as interesting. From the back, Ryan was struck by the way his companion's outline was an almost perfect triangle. His wide shoulders tapered down to a narrow, trained waist. The line of his spinal column was clearly visible amongst the supporting muscles, running directly down from the close-cropped hair of his neck to where his shorts still obscured the sight of his...
Again, Ryan had to jerk himself off that train of thought. What was the matter with him today? That was twice he'd caught himself staring at Bill - Elder Mackie, he reminded himself sternly - and thinking thoughts that were definitely not anywhere in the Missionary Manual.
Fortunately, the other boy seemed not to have noticed. He was looking at Ryan, but his expression was one of disgust.
"And you're a mess too," he stated abruptly. "Look at your shirt. I think you'd better change it right now."
This posed a bit of a problem for Ryan. He only had three shirts with him, and the other two were just as dirty. He was, quite frankly, a bit surprised at Elder Mackie's sudden vehemence: up until now, he could have sworn that his senior companion wouldn't have noticed, or cared, if Ryan had gone out wearing a dress. But Ryan was the junior companion, and it is a rule (no 6) that junior missionaries are supposed to obey their seniors in all things. He explained his problem with the lack of a clean shirt to Mackie.
"Then take it off anyway" commanded the other boy. "You can wash it later." Ryan shrugged, but complied.
Unfortunately this still didn't satisfy his mentor. "Some of that stuff's soaked through, Elder," was Mackie's comment. "It's disrespectful to wear dirty garments like that: you'd better take those off too." Ryan thought this most odd, but he was the junior, so again he complied. Mackie had, after all, just cited rule 22(b) about dirty garments, so probably he was right, after all.
Now that the two boys were similarly dressed, Elder Mackie seemed to lose interest and suggested that they should clear up the dishes straightaway so they wouldn't stink up the room. Together, they carried the dishes over to the sink which served all purposes: dishes, clothes and bodies when they couldn't be bothered to make the trip to the bathroom.
Bill washed, and Ryan, after a quick hunt around for a towel that wasn't already beyond toleration, dried. It didn't take long.
Last of all, Bill reached for the saucepan. Lifting it over, his fingers seemed to slip, and the heavy pan splashed into the sink, sending water in all directions, including over Ryan and himself. The water was hot, but not painful.
"Fuck!"
Ryan was so astounded he forgot the fact that he was now drenched from the waist down. Missionaries never, ever, swore like that. Instead, they made up mock-swearwords to relieve tension. Amazing that hearing one word like that can have such shock-value. So unused was he to hearing such language that for a moment he quite failed to notice that his senior companion had quickly stripped off his remaining clothing and was now standing in front of Ryan, totally naked, except for his wristwatch.
Ryan, involuntarily, looked down. He fought to raise his gaze, but gave up the struggle.
What had looked like an interesting package when covered was even more enticing when fully revealed. A thin line of hair ran down the centre of Bill's chest to his navel, broadening out into a perfect bushy triangle that widened as it descended. The two lower points of the triangle only served to focus attention on what lay below.
Senior Missionary Elder William Mackie was blessed in more ways than one. His balls hung heavy and low, swinging in a long sac covered in black fur. His balls were huge. No matter how he stood, they could be seen clearly through the skin of his scrotum.
Clearly, that is, if it were not for the stallion-like penis that nearly obscured them. Dropping maybe six inches from its hairy root, the monster dangled obscenely. The whole shaft was thick - maybe five or six inches in circumference - but the head was broader still: the whole looked like a weighted club. Like most Europeans, Elder Mackie was uncircumcised. Ryan, being from America and a conservative area at that had never in his life seen a foreskin- equipped penis. To him, it merely made the monstrous swelling at the end even more exotic and unknown.
Ryan came to with a start. Had his companion noticed his rapt gaze? His next words seemed to suggest otherwise.
"Jeez, that hurt. Do you think I've done any damage?"
"What? Oh, I dunno." Ryan was having a hard time thinking.
"Well, if you don't know, have a look! It feels like I've burnt my dick half off!"
The water hadn't felt that hot to Ryan. In fact his own middle section was now cold and clammy where the water had spilled on him too.
"What do you mean?"
Elder Mackie sounded impatient. "Would you please have a close look at my friggin' penis is what I mean! I think I might have burnt it, and you can get closer to it than I can!"
Ryan had the crazy thought that if his companion wanted to, he could probably poke himself in the eye with his monster chopper. But, obediently, he squatted down next to where his companion was standing and looked at his cock and balls.
"Er, it looks, um, OK to me."
"Just a sec -- have a look underneath, wouldya?"
His senior made no move to make this possible, and so Ryan hesitantly extended his hand until his hand brushed against the dangling organ. Gingerly, as if he expected it to bite, he held it between finger and thumb and moved it to one side.
"Well, it is a bit red, maybe." Now why on earth had he said that? As far as Ryan could tell, and this was the closest he had ever been to any penis, his own included, it looked perfectly fine. But Elder Mackie didn't seem to take offence. If anything, he sounded relieved.
"Better put some burn cream on it then. Get it out of my pack, wouldya?"
Ryan tore himself away from the hypnotic organ and scurried to get the cream. He offered it to Mackie, who made no move to take it.
"Rub it on."
"WHAT?"
"Go on, rub it on. You're not going to start disobeying me now, are you?"
"NN--No--oo. I'm not going to do that. That's sick. You're a pervert. No way am I touching your" he hesitated before saying the forbidden word "fucking dick! You want to rub it, you do it yourself!!"
Mackie's voice took on a mocking tone. "Oh, yankee doodle's scared -- I reckon you're the queerboy really -- you're scared you're gonna get horny lookin at my prick! Or maybe it's cos you've got such a puny one that if you get a hardon you're afraid no-one will notice!"
Ryan made for the door, temporarily forgetting his semi-clothed state. Anything to get away from this taunting, cruel voice - a voice that, truth be known, was expressing some of his deepest fears.
Before he could get his hand on the doorknob, he felt himself stopped by a hand grabbing the waistband of his undershorts. He tried to pull away, but instead the fabric ripped and fell away from Ryan leaving him fully naked. Ryan tripped and fell to his knees.
The American teen saw red. He'd been scared, insulted and now assaulted. Feeling nothing but rage and anger, he came up swinging. All of his 210 pounds of bone and muscle was behind his fist as he drove it into his tormentor's face.
Mackie's head snapped backwards with the force of the blow. But Bill Mackie was a survivor of the backstreets of Dublin and had been in a few fights himself. Smaller and faster than the other boy, the Irish lad still fancied his chances. He lowered his head, and charged Ryan, impacting right on target in the solar plexus.
Ryan was taken by surprise. In fights before, one blow from his meaty fist had always been enough to at least slow the other guy down, but here was this shrimp of a Paddy coming straight back for more. Gasping for breath, he backed away. The two boys watched each other warily.
"Come on, Mummy's boy!" Bill continued to taunt. "You're not in your little desert hole fuckin' lizards now -- this is the real world. Come on, you fuckin' coward, if you've got the balls. Come and get me, you gobshite!"
Ryan was wild. There was no thought in his head other than to silence the other boy's smart mouth, to smash him, crush him, show him that he couldn't push Ryan about like that. He lunged towards Bill, no longer looking to punch or to box, but intent on gripping, on wrestling, on domination.
Bill tried to sidestep the furious American, but this time Ryan was too fast for him. He lashed out a hand and grabbed the smaller boy's right wrist, bending it painfully up his back. With the other hand, he grabbed Bill's hair and pulled his head back until it was almost touching his shoulders behind.
With all his wiry athleticism, Bill Mackie struggled, but when it came to brute strength he was no match for the pride of the Kanab High Football squad. He kicked backwards, but to no avail. He tried to lash backwards with his free hand, but somehow couldn't connect. Ryan lifted him until his toes were barely touching the ground and his weight was taken, painfully, on his arm and hair in Ryan's vice- like grip.
The explosion of violence between them had had a strange effect on Ryan. Although he had been scared, as the adrenaline took control, the excitement grew. He had always gotten a buzz from wrestling and the rucks and mauls of football, but nothing to compare with the turn-on from successfully physically dominating his tormentor. He felt alive, invigorated. He wanted to show the Irish lad, finally, who was boss.
And nature had provided the perfect way. For rising from Ryan's bush of pubic hair was a weapon used by men throughout the ages to impose, to take and to claim.
Ryan's dick wasn't as impressive as Bill's when soft, but was more than adequate when excited. On a less husky youth it would have been very impressive: on someone of Ryan's build it looked perfectly proportioned. Seven and a half inches it reared from its root: over half a foot of velvet-covered steel rod. Its only deviation was a gentle curve backwards towards Ryan's belly. His circumcision had left a ridge of skin just below the helmet, which looked like a giant oversized cherry on the end of the stick.
Call him a queer, huh, Ryan thought. I'll show him. Not letting up his grip for a moment, he forced the now quiet boy over to the table and bent him over, forcing his face down to the polished wood. Brutally, he kicked the boy's legs apart. He let go of Bill's hair, but increased his pressure on the boy's wrist in the small of his back, pinning him to the table.
In that position, Bill's asshole was at the perfect height for Ryan to enter. Bill had obviously worked out what Ryan had in mind because he started to babble.
"Oh, jeez, mate, not that! We were only having a bit of fun -- listen, I'm sorry about the things I said, I was only trying to get you to loosen up a bit. Please, don't do that -- I've never had anything like this before. God, don't, please Ryan--" and he tailed off into muffled sobs.
All this pleading was only helping to stoke Ryan's fires further. He wanted to hear the other boy plead, to recognise that he was in Ryan's power, that he was now Ryan's to do with as he wanted. Well, there was going to be no mercy. He'd never done this before but he knew that he had to line up his cockhead with Bill's hole and push...
Nothing happened. Repeatedly, Ryan stabbed and struck at the hole, but couldn't penetrate. Then, whether because his action had started to smear the precum leaking from his piss-slit over Bill's ass, or whether the sweat running down Bill's back had finally reached his hole, or whether Ryan just managed enough force on his last thrust, his battering dick drove its way into Bill's asshole. The whole of Ryan's cockhead popped inside, leaving the rest of his shaft poking out, like a link between their two bodies.
Bill screamed in agony. It was as though the violation of his guts set them on fire. His whole body fought to expel the intruder, but he was powerless in the face of Ryan's muscular onslaught.
Ryan thrust again. This time, the band of his circumcision made it past the portal, causing it to stretch still wider. This time, Bill's scream of pain was more muffled, as though he was finding it hard to breathe.
Now it was just a matter of time. His face set in a grimace of concentration, Ryan jabbed again -- and again -- and again. In three more pushes, his pubes were flat against Bill's ass-cheeks and his chopper was fully inside Bill.
Instinct drove the American teen now. He'd taken everything that the smaller boy had to offer, but he was damned if he was going to stop now. First, he tried jabbing in and out in short, powerful thrusts, then as his confidence grew, his fuck-action got longer and longer until he was pulling out to the head before thrusting and claiming Bill's ass for his own again.
Ryan had never felt anything like this before. The only release he had had in the past had been when he wrapped his big paw around his tool and pummelled it into giving him an orgasm. Now though he was feeling the warm slickness of another boy's ass enveloping his boyhood and it was beautiful.
As he fucked, Ryan's expression changed. At the start, his face had shown only hard anger and fierceness. Now, as his prick experienced the strongest stimulation ever, his face showed first wonder, then a desperate longing.
All the time, Ryan's fuckstroke continued to power into the abused hole. All the force that his legs and hips could muster went into his attack; almost as much into his retreat each time. Was it his imagination, or was it becoming easier, though?
Bill, who had been silent since his initial shouts of agony, now started to moan slightly. More than that, instead of the frozen stillness he had shown, he was now starting to stir slightly under Ryan.
No, Ryan wasn't imagining it. The muscled young body beneath him was definitely starting to move in time with his own rhythm. The ass which at first had tried its hardest to repel Ryan's battering ram now seemed to relax to the invasion, almost to welcome it each time it returned.
If Ryan thought he had been aroused before, now he rose to new heights. His fucking lost its tight, brittle quality as he started almost to dance in and out of Bill. And Bill, in turn, matched Ryan's action, perfectly in phase, meeting each of the bigger boys thrusts with a movement of his own that brought them tight together before they moved apart once more.
Ryan's head swam. Nothing he had ever experienced before had prepared him for this ecstacy. No longer an abuser, his penis became a giver: pushing in where it was welcomed, anxious to give pleasure both to its owner and its partner.
Inside Ryan's ball-sack, tension began to grow. His testicles, already pulled tight against his body, out of danger from the enthusiastic action, began to tense still further. Ryan's gift, and the last sign of his mastery over his sweating companion, couldn't long be delayed.
At the last moment, it seemed to Ryan as though he lost his sense of self. So attuned had the two missionaries become to each other that they moved as one boy, one human animal intent on the pursuit of shattering release. No boy masturbating alone ever reached that unconscious point where desire met satisfaction that Ryan and Bill shared in those last moments.
Ryan's dick swelled and hardened and Ryan pushed for the last time. As he reached the end of his stroke, the world ended.
From his gaping piss-slit, a wave of hot boycream gushed into Bill's waiting hole. Inside, it was as though a dam had broken, allowing both the physical release of his juice, but also the mental release of his tension, his anger, and his love.
Obeying some obscure instinct, Ryan pulled all the way out of the ass that he had made his own, just in time for the second wave of his orgasm to send another burst of juice spattering over Bill's brawny back. Unconsciously, Ryan's hand gripped his fuckpole and wanked.
The third wave that this extra stimulation produced was the biggest of all, and it staggered Ryan. Unable to see or to control his movements, he collapsed forward onto the prone body of his companion, his breath heaving. Bill's body too was shuddering in the characteristic signs of orgasm, and their combined action served to smear Ryan's cum between them like glue bonding them together. Ryan's dick lay cradled in Bill's ass as it finally softened.
The two young Elders stayed there for an unmeasured time. Ryan felt that he could stay there forever, draped over the beautiful physical animal that he had started out to claim in violence and ended not merely claiming, but sharing a symphony of pleasure. The warmth of the young Irish stud was something he never wanted to lose. He nuzzled the smaller boy's cheek with his. His mind wandered for a while, but finally he was called back to reality by a sound from beneath him. At first, he thought that Bill was crying - perhaps the pain had returned? Eventually, he realised that Bill was chuckling. The big American got up, enjoying the sensation as his cooling cum separated between his chest and belly and Bill's back.
"Jeez, that was a good one!" The Irish boy was definitely laughing now.
Ryan wasn't up to much conversation yet. "Huh?"
"You mean you didn't guess?"
"Guess what?" Incredulous realisation began to dawn. "You mean you wanted this to happen?"
"Sure I did. I couldn't hardly come up to you and say 'Hi, I'm Elder Mackie, would you like to shaft my ass', now, could I? But I hoped I could provoke you into a bit of fooling around, that was all. Maybe a bit of the old mutual appreciation society, you know?
"But when you started beating up on me I was really scared. I thought you were goin' to kill me! You've got one devil of a punch." He rubbed his jaw, wincing slightly. "But then you got me across the table, and I thought to myself, Bill, you're going to get the fucking of your life. And bejesus, wasn't I right?"
His tone was thoughtful as he continued. "Shit, when I saw you a few days ago I nearly creamed myself on the spot. I thought you'd be up for a bit of hand action - at least, I hoped so. But I never had you tagged as someone who'd shag me like a friggin' stallion!"
Ryan, still confused, could only repeat "you wanted this to happen between us?"
"Sure I did. And no, you're not the first. I first got shagged at my twelfth birthday party, and I haven't stopped since. But you, wow, you're something special."
Something in Ryan's expression when Bill talked of his experience struck the Irish lad. "You've never done anything like this before, have you?" Ryan just shook his head. Bill dragged his companion over to the bed, pushed him to sit down, and then sat down beside him and put his arm around the bigger youth.
"Listen. Sometimes things like this happen when we least expect them. You needed what happened just now. Didn't you feel it, right at the end? Didn't it feel right? Like we were meant to be doing it together?" Ryan nodded. "I felt it too. And now, I don't want to lose you. Ryan, jesus, I don't know how to say this -- I was hoping for a bit of a game with you, but now--" he swallowed a lump that seemed to have grown in his throat "I love you, Ryan. I really love you."
This was too much for Ryan. He'd been on a roller-coaster of emotion - fear, anger, rage, triumph and now this. His lip trembled, and then he began to bawl. His companion, now his lover, held the big athlete in his arms, his own eyes moist. Then, as Ryan's sobbing slowed and stopped, he turned his face to his companions, and for the first time their lips met in a kiss that promised it would not be the last. The two boys sank back onto the bed, held in each others arms, where they stayed the rest of the night.