His name was Beef O’Keefe and he was famous not for his generous heart but for his generous cock. Pictures of his iron hard and vein-twined tumescence sold strip club tickets by the bushel and made porn sites’ servers smoke. His agent loved him for this. So did the men and women who bought his videos and the men and women who came to the clubs where he performed. Yet for all this love, Beef was lonely.
He wasn’t the sort of man you might pass in the supermarket and think, “That man should be in porn.” He was muscular, sure, but not burly. He had the build of a swimmer rather than a wrestler. His eyes were the slightest bit myopic. It gave him a vulnerable look. He was usually cast as a bottom, despite the bulldozer between his legs. There’s a gif that continually makes the rounds. He’s riding another man (Buck Dylan, though you can’t see his face). He’s pushing down hard and taking him deep. His heavy slab of dick meat is helicoptering and shooting cum and painting a spiral of semen through the air. This was his signature move: coming with another man’s cock in his ass. No hands needed. When the angle was right, off he would go.
Beef liked men well enough but in truth he preferred women. Women liked him plenty too. He didn’t lack attention. The men who approached him often knew who he was and they had special requests inspired by having seen him already with a cock or two in his ass. If he was feeling horny enough he’d go along. The women who approached him rarely knew who he was. When one of them did, though, boy was he in for it. Some of these women had toys that dwarfed any real cock and they were determined to use them on him.
But what was Beef really looking for? Certainly not a love life where his role was to re-enact his films for a procession of adoring fans. He’d had enough men plow his ass open and spill their cum over his face, enough women pile drive him with ridiculous strap-ons. He was looking for a change. He sat down one morning and he made a list: 1. Gentle 2. Patient 3. I’m in charge He set up a profile far from his usual crowd, over on soul-connections.us among the sincere and the innocent. He put up a few wholesome selfies after agonizingly comparing them to some of his more well-known shots on the internet. He even considered photoshopping them to make them look less like himself but decided that it was unlikely he’d be recognized. And a couple of weeks later, after numerous flirtations that led to discussions of favorite books and food and music (instead of partners and positions!), and that sometimes touched on matters of faith and family, he had a date with a sweet young lady named Daphne. In one picture that he particularly liked, she was petting a horse at some kind of fair. Her hair was in red ringlets and her blue eyes matched her blue blouse uncannily. At her neck was a small gold cross.
They met for dinner at a nice Spanish restaurant that he found on Yelp. He stayed far away from the neighborhoods he frequented in his professional and personal life. He stuck to one glass of wine to match the one she ordered with a hesitating shyness that he found endearing. Over a shared paella, he asked her all kinds of questions. Where did she grow up? Why had she moved to L.A.? Did she miss her parents?
She asked him all kinds of questions too. He lied. He said he was a freelance lighting engineer in Hollywood. He’d helped out enough on the set that he figured he could sound credible on the subject but blessedly she didn’t feign interest and the conversation moved elsewhere.
She blushed prettily. It was the wine, he figured, because he was working carefully to avoid saying anything too suggestive. He didn’t want her to think that sex was the only thing on his mind, though he did find her irresistibly cute. He found himself wondering if her kewpie doll lips would fit around his cock but he forced the thought away. She was a nice girl. He needed to keep this sort of thinking at bay and treat her with respect.
When they were walking to his car afterward, a man passing them on the sidewalk said, “Hey, Beef!” Daphne gave him a puzzled look. Beef ignored the man and shrugged at her. She didn’t bring it up and he hoped she would forget the incident.
They went on a second date the following weekend. They had a quick early dinner, then saw a play together. She suggested a drink afterward. She got a little tipsy. She said to him, “This is our second date. Tonight, you’re supposed to get a kiss.”
“Is that the official rule?” he asked. It had been a long time since he’d been with someone he hadn’t fucked on the first night, sometimes before even learning their name.
She nodded and touched him, briefly, on the knee. “You really are a choirboy, aren’t you?”
For a second he thought she’d said “queer boy” but then realized that in the loud bar he’d misheard her. He laughed nervously.
He thought maybe she’d had a little more to drink than she meant to. She probably didn’t drink that often. On the walk back to his car as they were walking past a church, she stopped him and took his hand. “I really like you,” she said. There was a pause. Her blue eyes looked at him, sparkling and dewy. He leaned close and gave her a chaste kiss. She pressed herself against him. She took his upper lip gently in her mouth. With anyone else he would have taken it as an invitation to do a whole lot more. And maybe she meant it that way. Of course she must have sexual desires. What was he to do, assume she was waiting for marriage? But he held himself back. She held his gaze after they broke their kiss. Then she smiled at him and glanced at the church and said, “Nothing I’ll need to confess tonight, then.” She patted his cheek.
He went home alone that night and lay in bed fretting that she would think he found her unattractive, or that in his hesitance to risk offending her, he’d given the impression that he was frigid.
On their third date he kissed her with intention. He asked her back to his place. She seemed breathless and full of excitement. He lit candles. “It’s been a long time for me,” he said. It wasn’t really a lie. It had been a long time since he’d moved so slowly with someone. He undressed her with reverence. He kissed her lovely pale skin, her pert breasts. He made gentle, respectful love to her. Was she perhaps a little disappointed by that? If you have to ask, then you already know the answer.
As they lay in bed afterward, Daphne seemed to come to a decision. She took a deep breath and said, “People are always shy when they first meet, aren’t they?”
“Do you ever wonder what more there is to someone, that they aren’t showing you?” She touched his face. “Do you ever think you should just skip all that being coy? Cut right to the part that’s going to scare someone off?”
“Do you scare people off a lot?” he asked, smiling.
She smiled, took another deep breath, and said, “Will you come to the church with me?”
“I mean right now.”
“Why right now?”
“I need to confess.”
He held her. “Daphne, we haven’t done a thing wrong.”
“I know we haven’t.”
“This is the most natural thing in the world.”
“I know. But there’s something I’d like from you.”
He began to wonder what he’d gotten himself into. He wasn’t a religious man. But he liked Daphne and, determined to give her the benefit of the doubt, he went along with it. They got up and got dressed. He drove. She directed him along dark quiet streets. There were no other cars in the lot and when they went into the chapel it seemed unoccupied. Candles burned and filled the space with warm light and slowly throbbing shadows. Daphne took his hand, smiled at him, and led him toward the confessional booths. He became anxious. He wasn’t catholic and he had no interest in confessing in any case. Then she opened the door to the priest’s booth and gestured for him to step inside. His anxiousness increased but he went along.
She stepped into the booth next to his. He found the little door and slid it open. He’d never been in a confessional before but he’d seen it in movies enough times.
“Bless me father for I have sinned,” she whispered. “It’s been three weeks since my last confession.”
Beef cleared his throat. “Go on,” he said.
She said, “I committed a sin of self-pleasure.”
He thought to himself that that was no sin and wondered whether she was being serious. But he was no priest, so something else was going on. Really, he was being a bit slow. This was the man who had been nominated for several awards for his performance in Choirboy Cum Communion 3, so he should have known better.
Then she said, “I did it with a cross. I couldn’t help myself. I knew it was wrong. But I put lube all over it and I sat down on it. I felt guilty and it hurt a little, but I just couldn’t help myself.”
There was a pause. Beef didn’t know what to say, but he sensed that she was waiting for him to say something, so he said, “Is that all?” He wasn’t even sure what he meant by it. Was he minimizing the severity of her sin, or was he prompting her to tell him more.
She did the latter. “I also committed an act of fornication.”
Well he knew that. It had only been an hour ago.
“And while it was happening, I was having blasphemous thoughts. I imagined that he was a priest. I imagined that what he was doing to me was my penance. I had confessed my sins, and he told me I would be forgiven once I made him come. I was told to say my Hail Maries and Our Fathers while he fucked me. So I was saying those words in my head and feeling his huge cock stretching me open. He told me that when I was done, I could take communion. And this is the most shameful part, father.”
By now, Beef was thoroughly startled. Also, his briefs were filling up with cock.
“I wanted him to finish in my mouth, father. The only thing that prevented me was that I was too shy to ask for it.”
Neither of them spoke. Through the wooden screen her could hear her breath, quick and trembling.
“Is that all?” he asked again.
“I’m also committing a sin of desecration at this very moment,” she said. “I have my panties around my knees and I’m stroking my pussy. It’s sopping wet, father. I’m fingering myself. I might make myself come right here in the confessional.”
He unzipped his jeans. He had to make space for his erection.
“It’s ok,” he told her. “It will all be forgiven. Just say five hail Marys and three Our Fathers.” Then he added, “And one more thing.”
He tugged down the front of his briefs and presented his cock through the confessional port. For a moment nothing happened. Had he misread her and done something offensive? Then he felt her warm breath on his skin. He felt her tongue paint a circle around the head, trace a wet line down the underside, and return. She took the head in her hot mouth. Soon she was greedily sucking, and not quietly either. When they’d had sex, she hadn’t gone down on him. He’d assumed she was innocent, shy, maybe a little ashamed of her sexuality. But he was so very wrong. Her mouth was slurping up and down the length of him with a voracious eagerness rarely seen outside of porn. She was making a valiant effort to get him down her throat. She was managing to swallow about half of it, a significant achievement, and trying for more. He pressed his hips forward. Her spittle dribbled down to his balls. She slurped like a shop vac in a bowl of jello.
After a few minutes, she paused for breath. He was throbbing. “Oh my goodness, father,” she whispered. “A cock like this is just wasted on a priest.” Now she was stroking him with both hands, and pressing her lips to the head of his cock, and mumbling breathy obscenities. “If you could give communion with this instead of those wafers, you’d have a packed church every Sunday. The women would fill the pews. They’d drop their panties in the donation box on the way in. During your sermon, they’d kneel at the ends of the pews with their skirts up, and spread their cheeks for you, and you could walk up the aisle and give each waiting cunt a few deep, hard strokes with this big gorgeous dick. At the end they’d all come down to the altar and kneel for communion. And you’d stroke it over their waiting mouths. They’d all be on their knees with their tongues out. And you’d have that cum built up for an hour, over the course of your sermon, and you’d be all slick and sticky from all their cunts, and you’d jack it and jack it until you were spraying your hot cum all over their mouths and their faces. And those church women, they wouldn’t waste a drop of it. They’d be licking it off one another’s faces and their Sunday blouses and bending down to lick it up off the floorboards.”
It was too much for him. He went over the edge and stood on his tiptoes and his groin clenched and he was coming. Her mouth wasn’t on him. Her hands were stroking the cum out of him and she was gasping and telling him how lovely it was. “Thank you, father,” she said. Then he heard her step out of the booth. She opened his booth and smiled at him with her cum-plastered face. “You’ve washed my sins from me.” She stepped inside with him, closed the door behind her, and kissed his mouth ferociously.
After that, things were different between them.
He tied her hands behind her back and dripped votive candle wax on her nipples while choking her with his cock.
He made her masturbate for hours while he read to her from Deuteronomy.
He made her go to confession with a plug in her ass and no panties on. When she got back to his house, he made her tell him about how she’d rubbed herself while confessing her sins to the priest.
They snuck up into the choir loft and he stretched her out on the floor and lifted her skirt up and went down on her during a Saturday morning sermon. He rolled up a songbook and put it in her mouth for her to bite down on.
And each time they had sex, when he was ready to come, it became his habit to make her kneel and open her mouth and as he took the final long strokes up and down his big prick with his fist, he’d say “Body of Christ,” she’d answer, “Amen”, and he would lay his cum across her tongue.
This kind of thing had been growing more frequent and more reckless for a couple of months when one day, while he was reading a book in bed, she cuffed his wrists to the posts. It was a big sturdy masculine bed made of dark-stained oak. It was a bed you could tie a strong man to and trust they would stay tied, as well he knew. One moment she was playfully kissing him. The next, she was buckling his wrists in leather.
“Oh is that how it’s going to be?” he asked.
But she looked stern.
“You have a demon in you,” she said.
His cock was already hard from her soft kisses. “You’re going to have a demon in you,” he teased.
But she shook her head. “Not today.”
She got out of the bed and left the room.
When she came back in she was dressed like a priest. She had on a priest’s collar and frock, though not a full length frock. Its hem only reached to her upper thighs and she wore thigh high stockings with black garters below. The top of the frock was open a few buttons and a lace bra crossed through her décolletage. A large, heavy rosary hung from her neck. Its beads were made of polished black walnut and were oversized and smooth. Her lips were painted lustrous red.
He groaned appreciatively.
She paid him no mind. She picked up his Apple TV remote, pointed it at the LCD on the wall, and a movie began to play. There he was on the screen, being spit roasted between Leroy Strong and Jasper Powers. His heart started to slam in his chest.
“Daphne,” he said. “Let me explain.”
But she shook her head. Then she gagged him with a belt.
“When I first met you, I thought you were a nice, respectable guy,” she said. “Then you seduced me. I fell under your spell. You made me perform unspeakable acts. So, so many unspeakable acts.”
She knelt by the bedside and prayed silently to herself, long eyelashes cast down, lips moving, counting the beads of the rosary through her fingers. She remained this way for several minutes, while on the screen Leroy and Jasper’s cocks, in nearly perfect synchronization, flung wads of cum onto his upturned face.
The next scene began. She had edited them together. He groaned when he saw himself in the altar boy costume. This one was far filthier than the first. She got up off her knees. He mumbled anxiously around the belt.
“Oh, I’ve seen them all, Beef. Many times.”
He blushed at her use of his stage name.
“I’ve dildoed myself sore to them, actually. But I’m not angry with you. It’s not your fault. It’s the demon you have in you. And I’m going to exorcise it.”
She unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down to his ankles. Of course he cooperated. She left his briefs on, his giant cock straining the white fabric. He flexed it for her but she paid it no mind. She reached under the bed and produced a bundle of black silk rope. She wrapped his left thigh and his upper calf, binding them so that he couldn’t extend his leg. She repeated the binding on his right leg. She’d never shown him this skill but she obviously knew what she was doing. She wrapped the rope around the headboard post and hoisted his legs up and outward. His ass lifted slightly from the mattress.
She knelt on the bed. For the first time he noticed something dangling beneath her miniskirt-frock. She unbuttoned from the top down, revealing her sheer bra, her perky breasts, her flat pale belly, and finally her enormous black dick. It was a strap-on dildo and it was larger and thicker than his own considerable gear.
He mumbled around the belt.
She took a pair of scissors from the night stand drawer, pinched the seat of his briefs, and snipped away a hole. She squirted lube all over two fingers, ran them around his asshole, and pushed them inside.
“You like being sodomized. I’ve assembled the evidence. Look at yourself.”
On the screen, he was bending over and lifting aside a loose pair of soccer shorts to reveal his shaved asshole and his heavy, slick balls. Two burly footballers were stroking themselves hard and leering at down at him.
“You’re a shameless slut,” she told him.
He nodded because it was true.