Art of the Priest

He seeded me while fucking me like a dog, and he seeded me in the missionary position, and he seeded me with him on his back and me stretched out on my back on top of him and he trapping my arms over my head in a full Nelson hold and thrusting brutally up inside me. He took me to the depths of hell and, brutal and cruel as it was, I fully understood the enticement of the total taking that hell offered. We flailed our way to a first rush of release and seeding.

He was hard again almost immediately and resumed the onslaught, fucking me interminably to an exhausted sleep.

When I woke to the bells summoning the monks to the morning mass and the first rays of the sun invading the cell, Otto was gone, and I was nearly gone as well—but smiling and humming to myself. Still, I was unable to drag myself to mass and was bowlegged when I managed to drag myself to breakfast with Monsignor Scarlotti. The priest said nothing to me about the night before, but he looked a little sad.

I broke my cardinal rule—recognizing that he had made the effort the previous night. As we were sitting side by side at the table, I let my hand rest on his thigh, and when he turned and gave me a radiant smile, I moved it to his crotch. I thought the man was going to cry, but he maintained his imperial demeanor. When I made to move my hand away, though, he put his hand over mine and held me there. He only did so for a moment, but it was enough to shatter the ice between us. We both now knew we would fuck.

We did so after breakfast, in Scarlotti's room, which was far better appointed than mine was. He proved to be an expert lover, preparing me well, worshipping my body to a point of completely unarming me and begging him to put his long, hard cock inside me. When he did, taking me on my side in a spoons position, we moved with each other like longtime lovers. In less than an hour, he had taken me through four exotic and fully satisfying positions, manipulating my body like a pro and holding off on his ejaculation until he had coaxed mine out of me. In contrast to the brutal battle, conquering, surrender, and ravishment of sex with Otto, Roman and I worked together like one well-oiled sophisticated machine, giving and receiving pleasure, moving in consort like dancers—Roman leading me through intricate steps of every-heightening pleasure and me completely open to him, totally at his mercy and lead, sensitive to the touch of his elegant fingers, long, lean body, and his long, caressing experienced cock.

Surprisingly, Scarlotti proved to be as much an artist in the fuck as Otto was, contrasting Otto's specialty of providing an intense but compulsive hell with a refined working of my body to the slow buildup to and fireworks of an explosive heavenly orgasm—repeated orgasms, one more satisfying than the previous one.

When he left me to dress for the meeting that morning with Otto, I clutched at his body, begging for him to take me to heaven again, and he merely smiled and told me that it was just the beginning for us. We need not approach it like each time was the last.

* * * *

"The bad news is that these are not genuine Bosches, Bruegels, or Fra Angelicos," Brother Kepler said at the morning meeting in his sumptuous office. He stood behind his desk looking smug and satisfied with himself, but he made no reference to having ravished me the night before. Neither did he look like he'd spent all of the night that he wasn't fucking me in researching the paintings. I bet that he knew they weren't genuine as soon as they'd been unwrapped.

"Well, then," Monsignor Scarlotti said, with only minor disappointment. He hadn't had his hopes up. But he had been happy having had the mission outside the Vatican. I hoped he was happy that he'd brought me along for the opportunity for both of us that we fully satisfied each other sexually. I know I was happy we had come—and that we had come for each other.

That didn't mean that I didn't enjoy being worked over so roughly and completely by Brother Kepler.

"But there's good news," Otto continued. "These may not be the work personally of the artists themselves, which means they aren't worth the high millions of euros, but they all are from the immediate school of those artists. All are contemporary to Bosch, Bruegel, and Fra Angelico works of art and are by notable artists in their own right." He then named the artists and pointed out to the monsignor and me on the paintings the markings that led to this judgment. "They still are worth in the high hundreds of thousands and low millions—each."

"Thank you, you've been very helpful," Monsignor Scarlotti said, "and the monastery has been very hospitable."

I looked at him at this point and suddenly realized what he had done the previous night when my door was locked to him. He was looking over at the young, blond monk from the previous day, who was wrapping up the paintings and blushing, with downcast eyes. But his eyes weren't totally downcast. I caught him looking up into Scarlotti's eyes and I couldn't miss the flash of intimacy that went between them. I don't think Brother Kepler missed it either. What he didn't catch, though, was the stab of jealousy that sliced through me. I'd only lain with Scarlotti once and I already was so smitten with him that I resented any interest he showed to another. This was despite my right to have been angry with him, as he had admitted that morning that he had brought me because bringing me and leaving me alone with Kepler had been one of the conditions Kepler had set for assessing the paintings. Scarlotti had known all along that Kepler would fuck me.

Clearing his throat, Otto proposed, "It's a long drive back down into Flüelen and then on to the airport. I suggest you stay until after lunch."

Scarlotti hesitated. Kepler added, "Perhaps Brother Müeller can help you with these paintings and then show you around our own little art gallery here before the meal. Your assistant can remain here with me."

The monsignor nodded, gave a little smile that seemed to be more for Brother Müeller than either Kepler or me, and the two swept out of the room, Scarlotti placing his hand on the small of the young monk's back.

Otto fucked me on top of the desk, me leaning over it, clutching the far edge of the desktop to hold myself steady as, my cassock gathered up above my bare buttocks and Otto's hands squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing my throat, the bull of a man mercilessly and relentlessly pounded my ass in a assault that began brutally in a dry fuck without proper preparation and continued in a "take no prisoners" overpowering.

The fuck was good for me, but not quite up to what he'd done the night before because I couldn't get out of my mind the jealousy of what Monsignor Scarlotti was doing with Brother Müeller in those moments.

Had Scarlotti been dissatisfied with me that morning? Having at last coupled with me, would he not want to do so again?

This was answered that afternoon as soon as we started the long drive back down to the shore of Lake Lucerne from the cliff-top Ettal Monastery. When the driver started to back up and turn around in the forecourt in front the drawbridge, Scarlotti pushed the wrapped painting aside, now worth merely hundreds of thousands of euros rather than hundreds of millions, leaned over and closed the curtains over the glass partition separating us from the driver's compartment, and then put an arm around my shoulders, drawing me to him. He took my mouth with his in a sweet, lingering, increasingly hungry kiss.

As we kissed his free hand was busy unbuttoning my cassock at my crotch, extracting my cock, and stroking it. In turn, I unbuttoned his cassock at the crotch, and, coming out of the kiss, gave a deep sigh of contentment and leaned over, taking him deep into my throat.

One thing I did know, though. Scarlotti was an expert at this. I had thought that, when I'd finally sheathed his cock, I would control him. There was no question now, though, that he was too expert in this for me—he would control me. He would use me for his pleasure but would not deny himself from using other young men as well, and he would give me to other men as it served his ambition, as he had given me to Otto. And I knew that to be under his sway, I would be happy for him to do so.