Now, lifting his hood, he was arrested by spiritual agony. The sight of Fionn’s muscular appendage invited him. He witnessed drops of semen capture in Fionn’s navel, daring the holy man to taste and drink it with his dry lips. Dónal would be damned if he cocksucked the youth and received this unsaved pollution! But the beautiful bastard boy had interrupted his prayers with courageous fervency. Did he know the Normans were advancing? Had the villagers spread the news? Perhaps this was a test before the Norman conquest? A message must be sent to Dublin!
“Cleanse me, Brother!” Fionn moaned, thrashing his legs about the stool.
The hot semen boiling in his testicles bubbled for release. Fionn pulled his balls apart with a helpless hand. He glanced at the Brother and jiggled his nuts. His gesture delayed the frenzy of cum from escaping too soon before it could be blessed.
With sudden bedevilment, Dónal dove unto Fionn’s thick crotch, rejecting the chastity of his Order for the nutrients of Today. He swallowed the pleasures of the male flesh as they exploded in full bloom before him. The naked contour of the young man’s thighs met his hands as he plunged his mouth atop the swollen genitals. He sucked the two bastard balls between his lips and showered each cum-sealed chalice with delicate kisses, biting the nuts in order to rupture the seed. Then he worshiped with gross display the altar of manhood, which stood as full and luminous as the concupiscent characters in his manuscript pages. Irish cock! Farmer cock! The holy vessel of man! Dónal surprised his heathen lover as he unashamedly growled for joy.
Then Dónal froze, his lips lathered, staring at Fionn. He must not continue. He must not risk damnation. Atop the roughened ballsac, glistening with Dónal’s blessing, stood the shrine of Succubus, the Devil’s own scythe, an unrepentant dick coveting its first blow job! After years of denial, the vessel of all mortal foil towered before him, Fionn’s hard penis, bouncing to be blown. Fionn moaned as Dónal dove deeper to chew each aching testicle, frightened to finish the ultimate task. With coarse palms, Fionn buried the Brother’s face into his golden pubes in order for the monk to savour the sticky sweat of his plough.
And Dónal fell in that moment. He fell farther than the parchment on which he blasphemed. He swallowed Fionn’s penis and worshipped its length as dearly as he made love to his relics on many a lonely night. He squeezed it in his hand; he jerked it from base to head; he smeared his lips with the yielded pre-cum. Fionn’s barbaric club responded, beating Dónal’s face and purging a preliminary load across his brow. The dick-eye glowered menacingly and sought complete entrance into Dónal’s throat.
Hastily, Dónal cocksucked his young parishioner before the gods could intervene. The candlelight scarcely observed the deed, keeping the despicable dinner hidden. Dónal’s jaw locked around the pulsing prick and blew it repeatedly. So long and ripe! So pink and fleshy! This bastard’s flute was clearly the instrument of devilry, sent to earth to condemn Dónal. And the cum-lust Dónal was experiencing, the heightened obedience to his new master, seduced him utterly. He immersed himself in his bodily reward, ignoring the odious noises exhaling from his lover’s chest.
Young Fionn gripped the stool and humped Dónal’s lips. The innocence of his arrival had degenerated. He began to speak cruelly, face-fucking the man while spitting insults at the monk. An ancient Celtic dialect, known only to field fiends and exhumed spirits, echoed through the oratory as Fionn blasted a tirade of obscenities, exorcising the confessional of its sacred precepts.
“You depraved swine!” Fionn called. “You monastic snake! My father says you are an emasculated goat, prostituting your beliefs on the farthest coasts of Ireland because you are unfit to breed! Don’t you remember that your father was a man? He ravished that whore you call mother so she could produce a coin-earning son, not a salacious saint! He should have tossed his only child on a spike rather than see him grow up to be the male-sucking pig you are now, ally only to a farmer’s anus!”
“No, it’s not true!” Dónal cried, as he sucked harder.
“You are a poisonous potato! You lie in the earth with the worms, baking in this unclean oratory. By the glow of your candles you abide, blistering with all your spoils, when I should grease that candle and shove it up your butt!”
Dónal suffered greatly then. Not by Fionn’s sentiments, which he could barely hear at this point, but by the massive hard-on pounding vehemently in his throat. The youth was severely aroused, past his previous anxiety, and dominating the monk’s mouth with a succession of charging thrusts. Each cum-fueled stab impaled Dónal until he could no longer breathe.
“Suck it like a Succubus!”
Fionn’s prick did not adhere to the natural principles of a healthy youth. It curled and uncurled, now pink, now red, thrashing repeatedly between Dónal’s lips, which were dry from years of exaltation. Then it untangled into a fork and Fionn cock-fed the parched mounds as if he were gorging the baker’s daughter, fattening the monk with his bodily beliefs, his uncivilized faiths, and lording over tongue and throat with a prick that fumed of all the appetites of an overcharged farmer.
“Your mouth gasps for meat!” Fionn growled, laying his hands on Dónal’s head. He urged Dónal to deep-throat the immoral feast. “Since you suffer, let me confess my sins in your backside. Let me canonize you on the ground in the filth where you belong.”
The moaning monk gulped the loosened seed that escaped Fionn’s prick. He begged Fionn to wait, strangling each testicle to unload its miracles. Fionn pushed him down upon the stony earth, where Dónal writhed in mute agony, his teeth gnashing at the vacancy in his mouth. He had hoped for all of Fionn’s fuck-fluid, to hear another string of abuses while finally digesting the delights of rural male cum. But Fionn stood over him, spanking and jerking his tremendous plough.
“You let me in, you horrible hypocrite!” Fionn barked. He kicked the thick layers of Dónal’s robe. “Servant of St. Succubus! Brother of St. Snake! You’ve shown me your fangs. Now take off the shroud that conceals your impotent loin and let me reform your pinching hole!”
“No!” Dónal shrieked, untying his robe.
Dónal struggled beneath Fionn’s trampling boots, quickly removing his long-flowing habit to reveal a lean body, white as a ghost and celebrating its decadent vigil with a hard-on pointed directly at Fionn.
The boy scowled, fitting a boot on Dónal’s crotch.
“Turn around! This time you won’t leave your anointments in the forest where you spy on our poor! You’ll spill it upon your own foul bed!”
Fionn stroked his stake and stepped out of his boots as Dónal prostrated himself face-down on the damp earth. Dónal knew he was assuming an unholy position between men, yet he did not dispute it nor intervene to oppose it. Like a groveling dog, he waited for his master to lie on top of him. He spread his ass cheeks with his fingers and widened his hole with a long, dark fingernail.
Fionn crawled on top of the monk and drove his weapon between their hips. He rode the space between them for a while, warming Dónal’s tight virgin void. Then he impaled the Brother violently, straight into his opening.
Dónal squealed wretchedly. His face burrowed into the stony ground. Their bodies became one as the barbaric farmer hammered his cock into the monk’s butt. Dónal squirmed under the desperate plunges. His rear resisted at first, vaulting upwards into the air, then surrendered as Fionn persevered, mercilessly submerging his pagan organ into the bowels of the clergyman.
Terrestrial howls accompanied their grind; voices from the sea smashed against the bleak cliffs outside the oratory. The Celtic fiend possessing Fionn despised the authority of the Cloth and preferred the bright flow of blood. This primitive soul was the antecedent to the enlightened demons that centuries later would walk the streets of Dublin. It invaded the monk through Fionn, riding the holy man aggressively, hearing his cries of lost chastity before drawing his blood.
As the insatiable screw raged on, Dónal lay defeated in a pile of clerical cum, his own production. Casting menacing curses into his ear, Fionn broke the sacred seal and poured his peasant load into the ecclesiastical orifice. Fionn bit Dónal’s ear and snapped his jaws wildly while successive loads descended into Dónal’s asshole, soiling the future saint for all eternity. No din of metal was heard, no hoarse shout of Norman invasion. Only the profound murmur from between the monk’s legs as two spirits collided and Fionn came.
Then, while their bodies struggled in rapture, Fionn’s teeth bit the monk on the nape of his neck and tore an opening. Dark blood of the spine emerged and Fionn licked it. They became blood brothers then, Young Fionn and Brother Dónal. An eternal door had been opened to the Celtic gods; henceforth, their spirits were welcome to enter and exit as they pleased, occupying Dónal and assuming his body to fulfill their appetites. Fionn had one, a marked opening beneath his right ear. The baker’s daughter had sucked his neck one night after he fucked her on the cliff. She had bestowed the Celtic charm onto him; and now Fionn bestowed one upon the monk.
Satisfied and strong, Fionn threw his clothes on, a glint of triumph on his brow. The oratory door banged in the wind as Fionn escaped to the lowlands. The youth had liberated the oratory of its prayerful properties; and through the swinging door, the dead chieftains from the cemetery entered under the guise of a salty breeze and paraded about the oratory, laughing at the monk. They would never again be barred from this soil and found dark corners to wait and watch.
After an hour or more of tears and shame, the monk lifted his head from the loose ground. He weighed his soul in his stained hands and found it wholly corrupted. He had been fooled. The innocence of a young farmer had seduced him and he had surrendered to a Celtic blood-spirit. Or to put it more simply, he made love to a horny youth.
Dónal sat up, wrecked. His only real weapon lay between his legs like a rinsed rag. He looked around his monastic stronghold, the oratory walls, the domed ceiling, the shelves of manuscripts, and the candle extinguished by his own renegade breath, and everything disgusted him. They were the trappings of honorable employment and nothing more. Worse, he was bleeding, no longer from his spirit, now from his neck.
“Where are the Normans?” he cried. “Why haven’t they invaded?”
They might have protected him from the assault. Or better yet, they might have killed him, hammered a spike through his heart and saved him from the blood feast.
But the Normans were in the East, landing on Banginbun. The West Coast was too isolated for conquest by boat, but not by male ravishing. The barren parcel surrounding the oratory was the only battlefield this night, Dónal’s battlefield, and he had fallen into its abyss. Tonight, he had rejected his pious beliefs in favor of Celtic cum—half-Nordic cum!—and his faith had been consumed. At last, the avenging ancients had sent a deliverer, Fionn the Cocker, and indoctrinated Dónal into their unearthly order.
As he sat on his stool, Dónal had nothing to pray for, nothing at all, except the fleeting hope that Fionn would return the next day and resume the rituals of his ancient tribe. With palms steeped in semen and pagan blood coursing through his prick, Fionn would feign elaborate tears and the monk would yield. Dónal would administer to Fionn like before, wipe the young farmer’s cum-soaked hands, and exclaim his universal love for the handsome youth. He would offer his blood at the sacrificial opening and patiently await another Celtic confession.
“Did you see the finish on that coffin?” Victor scoffed. “Frankly, I’ve had outhouses with better craftsmanship.”
“That’s what you get for letting your attorneys plan everything,” Trevor replied. “If you’d let John do it as he asked—”
“No thank you. John would have had a horse-drawn carriage, a twenty-one gun salute, and a national day of mourning if I’d left it to him.”
The funeral service was at an end, and the two men were tucked away safely in the backseat of the limousine heading out of the city and back toward Victor’s estate in Potomac.
“And you would have complained about that just like you’re complaining over a silly box,” Trevor said. His words were dry and cracked, like wind whipped through the desert. The old man resembled no more than a dried husk, susceptible to the first breeze that blew his way.
By contrast Victor looked like a fresh bloom, fragrant and lovely. “Silly box?” Trevor’s oldest friend asked. “
A silly box,
is that what you call it? Well, I’ll be sure to use the same mortuary when it’s your turn.”
“No thank you,” Trevor grimaced, “that place was a dive. Did you hear the canned music they had piped through the speakers?”
“Mmm-hmm, that’s what I thought,” Victor said triumphantly, patting his friend’s wrinkled hand. Its paper-thin skin barely covered the brittle bones beneath. Trevor noted with embarrassment the liver spots and other signs of age he lugged about like so much excess baggage these days. He cast an envious glance at Victor’s reborn hand. It had been so many years since he’d known the feel of fresh, unscarred skin wrapped tight against muscle and bone he could barely remember how it felt.
“You know,” Victor said as he watched tendons dance their way up his arm, “I think Celeste might have the right idea here.”
“Victor, placing Celeste with the words ‘right idea’ in the same sentence has only ever led to disaster. What ever possessed you to turn that woman in the first place I’ll never know.”