Page 2

chapter two

As Miles heads to the lobby to see his parishioners off, I make a quick detour by the restroom, because my underwear is drenched in cum and it’s making my cock cold. I rush through the process, trying not to fall and snap my neck on the toilet as I fumble out of my slacks, then as I remove my underwear. Once they’re off, I fold the hot pink briefs and slide them in my pocket, creating a large bulge on my hip. There’s no way Miles won’t notice it, so once I make it to his office, I quickly toss them on top of a bookshelf in the corner.

Father Daddy’s faith-based romance novels are lined up perfectly, eye level with me. I think he does that on purpose, hoping to draw the eye of anyone bored out of their fucking mind in his office. As much as I tease him, I really admire him for pouring his heart onto the page. I’ve bought every book he’s ever written, and I’ve pretended each character was him and me. He’s told me his current work in progress is going to be dedicated to me. Considering every other book has also been dedicated to me, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it still surprised me anyway.

He shills his books as often as he can, and it usually ends up with an embarrassed Miles Brooks tucking his tail between his legs and stepping back into the shadows. Last month, to celebrate the release of his latest book—The God’s Honest Ruth, a glorified fanfic about Ruth from the Bible—he scheduled a four-hour book signing slot in the church’s community center-slash-oversized shed out back. He invited the whole church and posted about it on social media, sharing the news with everyone in a twenty-mile radius. When no one showed up, I held his hand under the table, his little book babies stacked beautifully around us, and I hummed his favorite hymn. Mallory didn’t show, and I think that hurt him more than anything. I’ll never forgive her for it.

I pull out my phone and bring up the church’s security camera feed through the app. Father Daddy is still saying goodbye to the last of his flock in the lobby. As he listens to Sister Fletcher ramble on about God-knows-what, I place a call to my boss, knowing I’ve easily got five minutes before Miles is able to break away from the conversation.

“Matthews,” Agent Meadows says. “Remind me why I’m paying you when you’re never here?”

I walk around Miles’ desk and open his top drawer, snooping around. He’s got a half-eaten Milky Way and an unfolded paper clip I’ve seen him use as a toothpick on multiple occasions. I touch my tongue to the end of the paperclip, wanting to leave a little bit of me on it so it might one day make it inside his mouth. I’m aware of how depraved the act is before I do it, but it doesn’t stop me from doing it anyway.

“Because I’ve got a cute ass and a dazzling personality,” I remind him. “And because I’m a master at gathering intel.”

“Well, cute ass or not, you have to make more of an effort. I know you do a lot of field work for me, but I need someone here a couple of hours a day.”

“I like to sleep in,” I say dismissively. “If you don’t want me to do my job in a manner that’s been proven to get results, I can start coming into the office, but I work better without all that pressure. Do you want me to get dirt for you, or do you want me to sit behind a desk and look cute. I can’t do both, Meadows.”

He sighs. “You’re right. It’s just . . . it gets a little lonely here sometimes. I’m usually the only person in the building aside from Pet, and I keep him gagged most of the day.”

As I root through Miles’ desk, I stumble across a few precisely folded prayer cloths in one of the drawers. He generally prays over them before kissing the cloth and taking it to sick churchgoers who are unable to attend due to illness. I’ve gone with him a few times, and he’s always super adorable, bringing little gift baskets of fruits and pastries. To the untrained eye, Miles might seem like a moral compass of sorts, anointed by God to bring about an age of peace. I’m not untrained though. I’ve been studying him all my life. The fake smiles he gives, which almost seem genuine. The way his pulse beats quicker each time he gets a standing ovation. He deserves all the ovations, though, so I don’t fault him for enjoying the spotlight.

Though his heart is in the right place, Father Daddy’s good behavior isn’t always for charitable reasons. The man I love is a bit of a narcissist, you see. Okay, maybe narcissist is a strong word, but he does tend to live for the showmanship. He records most of his good deeds—well, I’m usually the one recording them, always at his insistence—and places them on our church’s YouTube channel. Honestly, I’m not sure if he aspires for notoriety because he wants to be famous, or if he’s just trying to finally feel loved. God knows his parents never gave him any.

“Do you want me to talk to him?” Meadows asks, and a wave of dread hits me.

“Absolutely not. I’ll handle Miles. I don’t even like that you joined the congregation to begin with. I want him as far from this as humanly possible.”

“I’m just saying, I don’t mind—”

I growl. Actually growl, because I don’t want Meadows anywhere near Miles. I don’t want anyone near him. What I want is to lock us away in his bedroom—the same way I do every night—and hide him from the rest of the world forever. We can just nest up there together, never leaving again. Obviously we would need a mini-fridge, but I can just buy one of those online and have it delivered.

“Stay away from him,” I repeat. “I’m not kidding. I know you’re probably only teasing, but I don’t care.”

Meadows snorts a laugh. “If you’re worried I’m going to fuck your boyfriend, you can relax. I’m happily straight.”

I roll my eyes. “You literally let Pet blow you in the boardroom the other day.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a boss, and it was a boss move. Lesson number one in the hitman game: Never cross a man who is willing to ejaculate during business negotiations. It’s a lesson I learned from my dad when he was in charge.”

I gag. “You watched your father ejaculate into someone’s mouth?”

“Of course not. Fucking hell, Matthews, I’m not a total deviant. No, that’s just one of the many pearls of wisdom he passed along to me.”

“You should have left that pearl in the oyster. Fuck, Meadows.”

“My point being, no one crosses me. They know better. Which is why I’m going to need you to take that accusatory tone out of your voice. I’m not trying to fuck your imaginary boyfriend or ruin whatever the hell it is you’re trying to do with him. I’m trying to make sure our target is handled. That’s what we’re being paid to do.”

Truthfully, I still don’t fully understand why anyone would pay six figures to end the life of one of our congregants, but a target is a target, and I honestly have no issue with any of their lives being taken, because they’re all bullies. Is bullying queer people a crime punishable by death? No, but maybe it should be—and for one lucky member of Tallulah Apostolic Chapel, it will be.

“You’re still not going to tell me who the target is?”

“Nope,” he answers. “You’re not on this assignment. It’s too close to home.”

“But you promise it’s not Miles, right? Because I have to warn you . . .” I swallow, trying to build up my courage. “I’m not a fighter, Meadows, but if you touch him, I’ll kill you or die trying.”

Meadows snorts a laugh. “Trust me, it’s not your precious pastor.”

“And it’s not my mom?”

“Not your mother either, sunshine.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s not like she’s my favorite person in the world, but she’s a product of her environment, and I don’t want her dead. My father, on the other hand . . .

“You can kill my dad if you have to. I don’t mind.”

“No, I don’t imagine you would. The man is fucking scum. He always makes it a point to sit beside me at church.” Meadows exhales heavily. “He blabbers out hate speech for half the sermon, then spends the other half sucking the orange man’s metaphorical cock. Well, in his case, it’s probably a cocklet, but still.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having a small penis,” I tell him, feeling my cheeks burn, because I’m not exactly packing a rolling pin down there, but Meadows doesn’t need to know that. “But you’re right about President Flump. Dad never shuts up about him.”

“When Broussard and I built the agency, I’m the one who asked for our underground labyrinth. I wanted to be as far away from these republican—no uppercase R, because they don’t deserve it—hillbillies as I could get. Now, I’m forced to sit in a room with the radical right four nights a week. I’m not happy, Darren.”

“No one forced you to take this mysterious contract, and no one forced you to join our church family. Honestly, I still don’t understand what the fuss is about. You’re a hitman for God’s sake. There’s no need for all this planning and plotting. Just put a bullet through their skull and call it a day.”

“If I did, there would be no book.”

“What book?”

“This book,” he says, as if that somehow makes sense. “I do enjoy the cloak and dagger of it though. It makes me feel like I’m living in a Bond film.”

“Does that make me Pussy Galore?”

“I’m surprised you even know who Pussy Galore is.”

“I don’t,” I clarify. “I just think it’s a fabulous name.” Continuing my search, I rifle through desk drawers, snooping through Miles’ private items, enjoying the adrenaline rush that comes with being naughty. “I want to do something special for Miles, eventually. He’s got his heart set on this stupid conversion therapy talk show idea. Do you think there’s a way we can make that happen?”

“You want me to land your boyfriend a talk show promoting conversion therapy?”

“I’ll have him talked off his ex-gay ledge by then. I just want him to have something special. Something that’s his.”

“I can make his church sermons go viral, if you want. The agency could probably pull some strings to get him on Cux News.”

“Bite your tongue. I’m not having him hobnobbing with that drunken donut Judge Jenny Prick. Absolutely not.”

“Well, if you change your mind, the offer stands. If you want to keep it low-key, I can talk to my buddy over at KARQ. It’s just public access television, but it’s something.”

“Good,” I agree. “Yeah, we can work with that.”

“Did you come earlier?” he asks me out of the blue.

“Huh?”

“When you were praying at the altar. I was nudging your back, trying to see if I could get you off.”

“That was you? For God’s sake, Meadows, I came in my underwear in front of the whole congregation.” I close the desk drawer and plop down on Miles’ desk chair. “Don’t ever make me ejaculate again.” Bored of the conversation, I end the call and temporarily block his contact. If he’s mad, he can threaten to fire or kill me some other time. Daddy takes priority. I pull up the camera feed on my phone and curse, because Miles is only a few feet from his office. I rush across the room, not wanting him to see me behind his desk, lunging like a lunatic.

I’m sitting on the sofa in his office when he enters, his hand at his neck, already loosening his tie. He pulls the blue tie from his neck and places it on his desk before looking up and smiling at me.

“I’m proud of you,” he tells me, moving to where I’m sitting and plopping down on the sofa, leaving one empty cushion between us. “The way you sounded when the Lord spoke through you . . . Darren, I don’t know if I’ve ever heard a sweeter sound in all my life.” He leans back, his entire bulge on full display thanks to the tight gray slacks he’s wearing. It takes everything to keep my hands folded in place over my lap, because his bulge demands to be praised. To be pleasured. To be fucking owned. “So, tell me everything. Have you been doing your homework?”

I nod, but I keep my face mournful. “I tried again last night, but it didn’t work. I feel like such a failure, Pastor Brooks.”

He places his hand on mine and squeezes. “You know when we’re in here, it’s just Miles. You don’t have to be so formal.” His eyes are practically pleading with mine. I’m the only person he acts this way around. Needy. Clingy. Desperate for my friendship. I won’t lie; it gets me hard. “Have you thought about my offer? About taking the job as church secretary? Just think, I could keep my eyes on you at all times. Make sure you’re sticking to the straight and narrow.” His grip hardens, and there’s an almost feral look on his face. It’s a look I know well. “God came to me last night. He told me that you need to take the job, Darren. Who are you to question His wants?” His throat makes a growly possessive sound. “Take the job, son. It’s ordained by Jehovah.”

I quirk a smile. There’s my lovely little narcissist. I know for a fact that he’s lying, because there isn’t a thing that happens in the privacy of his bedroom that I’m not privy to. Now isn’t the time to address the unnoticed elephant in the room, though. I’m saving the revelation for later, tucking it in my back pocket and saving it for a rainy day. Once the rain is done, there’s going to be a rainbow, and if I have to drag my motherfucking pastor over it kicking and screaming, I will.

“I already have a job,” I remind him.

He rolls his eyes. “Stocking grocery store shelves isn’t a higher calling. Is that what you want? To simply exist in mediocrity? Darren, once we get you back on the right side of the rainbow, just think of the good you’ll do. Hundreds of thousands of followers, all listening to your testimony. On the church’s website. On my personal YouTube channel. You’ll be a star, and I’ll be the man who cured you.”

Full disclosure: I’m well aware he’s using me to launch himself into a career in televangelism; I simply don’t care. He’s trying to convert me, but I’m trying to convert him, too, so who am I to judge?

“As fun as your dream of worldwide superstardom is, I like my job. I don’t want to leave it.”

His eyes narrow, and I can tell he wants to force me into submission, but he’s resisting the urge, and that’s what counts. “Well, when you get tired of wasting your life, you know where I am.” He stands and turns around, giving me an unobstructed view of his ass in those tight gray slacks. They cling to his cheeks like a second skin, just begging to be ripped off so I can pry them apart and shove my tongue inside his virgin hole.

“Do we really have to do this?” I ask as he reaches for the projector screen’s cord, tugging until it clicks in place. He grabs a remote off his desk and aims it at the small overhead projector.

“You know we do, Darren. It’s the only way we’re ever going to vanquish this demon inside you. The spirit of homosexuality is a particularly stubborn foe. I’ve cured addicts and gluttons alike, but I’ve never been able to guide a homosexual back onto his intended path. That ends with you, son.” He smiles warmly at me, and I notice a hint of unearned pride in the corners of his eyes. “Straight is great,” he adds with a decided nod.

“Straight is great,” I repeat, inwardly cringing at his stupid new catchphrase. He coined it a couple of weeks ago, and I made the idiotic decision to chuckle when I heard it, so I guess it gives him carte blanche to use it. “I’m going to be your crowning glory.” I love the way he looks so enamored by the chance at worldwide infamy. “You’re gonna cure us all, Father.” I lick my lips. My cock is already swelling beneath my slacks, and when he notices, he blushes before quickly turning around. He grabs a tablecloth he must have swiped from the community center next door and ties it around my neck like a barber preparing to cut my hair. The only thing Miles is cutting is the last of my dwindling shame, because the longer his skin is touching mine, tying the tablecloth, the harder my cock aches for him.

“Are you ready, little man?”

“Yes, sir.” I swallow, nodding slowly. This is my favorite part of our one-on-one conversion therapy sessions. Just Father Daddy, me, and strategically draped tablecloth, hiding my cock from view. Sliding my hands beneath the tablecloth, I unbutton my slacks and push them down. I’m going commando after hiding my cummy briefs earlier, and it’s something that Miles notices as soon as he looks at my pants bunched around my ankles.

“I’ve told you not to do that,” he points out, darting his eyes down at my jeans. “You’ll make your pants smell like testicle sweat and regret.” I resist the urge to tell him my balls and ass are sweaty right now, and he’s more than welcome to slide his head beneath this tablecloth to see for himself, but I bite my tongue. “I spent hours on today’s artistic depiction, son. I spent all that time on this artwork, just for you. Are you ready to see today’s source of release?”

My stomach flutters from his affectionate tone, but inwardly, I’m trying to stifle an oncoming cackle. Father Daddy fancies himself the next Van Gogh, minus the missing ear. Unfortunately, the images he doodles for me to masturbate to are hardly drawings at all. As soon as tonight’s masturbation material pops up, I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from snickering.

He’s projecting an image of a crudely drawn woman onto the screen ahead of us. The woman is lovely enough, I guess. I mean, considering it’s just a stick figure with two large circles with dots in the middle for breasts, and a curly patch of hair between her legs, I don’t imagine it could really look much worse.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” he asks, though I don’t think he’s really asking as much as observing. “I call her Samantha.” His eyes lock with mine. “Samantha needs you, son. Her fertile womb is aching to be filled.”

Alright, so, we’re going to need to work on his misogyny. I don’t think he believes a woman’s only duty is to have her belly stuffed with a baby like this is some Build-A-Baby Conversion Workshop, but his wording leaves me feeling icky.

“Are you ready, my son?” he asks in a raspy tone that makes my cock twitch. I give Miles a nod before wrapping my hand around my shaft and stroke it slowly. “Good boy. That’s my good boy. Go on, Darren. I want you to look at her large, voluptuous bosom. Doesn’t it seem right? Doesn’t it look natural? It’s the way God intended. Once you overcome this demon, you’re going to live a happy, productive life, right at Samantha’s side.”

“Like you do with your wife?” I ask, stroking faster. I know for a fact their relationship is already coming to a fizzling stop, but I also know if I can keep him talking, I’ll get to shoot my load while I look into his eyes, listening to his beautiful voice.

“Exactly,” he agrees, but there’s not much conviction to it.

“Tell me about it,” I whisper, stroking faster. “What does it feel like?” I let out a high-pitched moan, unable to stop myself. “Please? What does it feel like, sir?” I want to know what it feels like for him. For his mammoth cock to barrel into an entrance, burying his release deep inside. I’ve felt it once, but that was before. Before he told me about his pills, breaking my heart in the process.

His eyes bulge, but he quickly recovers, leaning back on the sofa and turning to look me in the eyes. “Do you really want to know?”

“Please?” I whisper. My cock is leaking pre-cum like a faulty tap, and the more I stroke, the louder the sound of wet friction plays out around us. Miles’ eyes are locked on mine, watching me obsessively.

“It’s like entering the promised land,” he admits. “It’s like a warm wet hug.” Oh, God. He’s talking about fucking Mallory. Why the hell did I ask him that? Jesus. Abort! “When you finally feel it for yourself, it’s like all the love songs you’ve heard growing up suddenly make sense. It’s a feeling of completion you won’t find anywhere else. I want you to have that. I want you to have the world.” The faster I stroke, the more intense his gaze becomes. “You’re my shining star, Darren. That’s it. You’re doing so well, buddy. You can do this.”

I bite my lip, nodding rapidly, trying to stifle a moan. “Miles,” I whimper, my grip almost unbearable. “I’m close.”

“Good boy,” he praises. “Alright, you know what to do. Close your eyes. Picture her. Picture your future wife. The way she’s spread out on the bed, waiting for you to do your husbandly duty. She wants you to fill her womb, Darren.” His voice is raspier than before, taking on a tone I know all too well, but rarely hear when he isn’t drugged. “Give it to her. Breed her. Plant the seed and watch it grow.”

As usual, while I promise I’m picturing a woman’s vagina—not that there’s anything wrong with vaginas, obviously. They don’t repulse me or anything, they’re just not for me—what I’m really picturing is his cock. The way it curves to the left. How his foreskin covers the head, making it look like his cockhead is playing peek-a-boo. The way his pre-cum oozes out onto my tongue, providing me with little pops of protein, like a pre-workout boost.

“Gonna come,” I admit, closing my eyes. “Gonna be your good straight boy. I’m gonna come so hard for you, Father.”

His fingers feather through my hair as he pulls me closer, touching my forehead to his. “Don’t come for me, little lamb. Come for the Lord. Don’t be fruitful, just multiply. Her womb is empty, son. Fill it up.”

“I’m coming,” I whine, shooting jet after jet of semen onto the tablecloth that’s shielding me away from him. Two loads in less than an hour might seem like a lot to some, but for Miles, I could cum like an unending tropical storm. Just drizzle out my load until Father Daddy’s drenched.

His smile widens when he pulls away, turning around so I can clean myself off. “I’m proud of you, Darren. I’m so proud of you, son.”

Just as I always do, I caress my cock through the cloth, collecting all the sticky remnants of my ejaculate into a nice little wad of fabric for Miles to take home and wash. Once I’m squeaky clean again, I fold the drenched tablecloth and set it on his desk, taking a seat in his office chair. “You’re sure you don’t mind giving me a ride home?”

“You live across the street from me. It’s not like I’m driving ninety miles out the way.”

“You still would,” I tease. “Even if I lived in Louisiana or Arkansas, you’d drive me home every night if I asked you to.”

He winks at me, picking up a stack of papers from his desk and carrying them to his filing cabinet, giving me another view of his plump ass. “Are you ready, bud? We can stop and grab something to eat on the way.”

I follow him to his truck, and he pretends not to notice me staring at his ass each time he looks over his shoulder.

On the ride home, I sit in the middle seat of his truck, pressed right against him, the way I’ve always done. Neither of us acknowledge the sexual tension in the air. I don’t say a word as he rests his hand on my thigh, nor does he object when I place my hand on top and give a squeeze.

After dinner, when he pulls into my driveway rather than making me walk across the street from his house, he stares at me with a pensive look, lost in thought.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I think we should begin documenting your journey. I want to start filming our sessions and uploading them. That way, once we finally kick this demon, we’ll have built a following.” He cups my cheek—more affectionately than a straight man would, that’s for sure—and grins at me. “My lost little lamb, finally coming home. My big, bright star.” He leans in and kisses my forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

I nod. He’ll be seeing me a lot sooner than that, but it isn’t time to give up the game. Father Daddy may attempt to convert me in his office every few days, but if this were a race to the rainbow, the things we do together at night prove I’ve already won the game.

“Straight is great,” I say with a smirk.

“Straight is great,” he agrees.

We’ll see about that.