Page 10 of The Reaper

“Massachusetts license plate.”

“Piece of cake. What is it?”

“2GR 712.”

“Cool. I’ll send it to El Jefe in the next thirty minutes,” Zero said. “Is that fast enough?” I didn’t know anyone who could hack into Boston PD’s system that quickly.

“Actually, can you send it to me directly?” I held my breath, hoping she’d run this under the radar.

“I don’t know, Reap. You’re not doing anything shady, are you?” she asked, hesitation in her voice.

“No. It’s personal,” I answered.

“It always is. It always is.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yup. I’ll text you.”

“Thanks. Gotta go.” The elevator opened to my floor. I hadn’t made it to my unit when my phone buzzed with a text.

Zero: Plate’s clean.

Me: K. Thanks.

I didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.

I took my clothing off one piece at a time on my way to my bedroom until I was naked. With the adrenaline from this afternoon and the image of Father Saint James, I was all worked up. Silky pre-cum leaked from the head of my pulsating dick. There was no ignoring my painfully erect cock, and if I didn’t come then, I would explode. I retrieved the priest’s shirt and inhaled while cupping my hard-on, building a sense of rhythm. I made my way to the bed and sat on the edge. The urgent need to find release was overpowering. I brought the soft fabric to my face once more, closing my eyes and imagining him on his knees in front of me. I could smell him on me. He was nowhere and everywhere at once and I couldn’t get enough.

I spit in my palm and mixed the saliva with pre-cum, sliding my fist over my swollen cock. My legs parted instinctively as I fantasized he was between them, licking my shaft. I cupped my balls, brushing across them as if it was his tongue.

This wouldn’t take long; the pleasure built with every stroke. I wondered how good of a cocksucker he would be when I fed him every hard inch of what was in my hand. I stroked my cock harder and squeezed my sack at the same time. I loved receiving head, and wanted Father Saint James to bury his face in my crotch while I held his head against me, forcing him to accommodate every thrust.

The idea of him on his knees blowing me was the exact image I focused on as I continued to tug on the slick cock in my hand. The tension grew, my mind fixated on him struggling to take all of me into his skilled mouth. I rubbed harder, my dick sliding across his imaginary lips. He was in my control; I owned him. Two of my sexual favorites. My breath hitched as the sensation of my impending release overcame my desire for a protracted jerk session. This would not be a drawn-out event. I deeply inhaled his scent from the shirt, holding my breath, my fantasy expanding in my brain, stroke after gratifying stroke.

In my dreams, I reached for the back of his head and forced him on me just as I shot my hot load into his waiting mouth. I tensed as the orgasm spilled from me and into the emptiness of the room.

He’d been here, hadn’t he? The mind could play tricks, especially when overtaken by pure and unadulterated lust. I’d been fooled by the piece of clothing in my hand, the fabric that had loaded my senses until I could hold off no more.

I collapsed on the bed, heaving, enjoying the post-orgasm bliss courtesy of my priest. I hadn’t come that hard since … I didn’t fucking know, but I loved every second of it. I wondered if you could blackout from coming so hard?

My phone buzzed and I stood to grab it from my nightstand. A text from an unknown number appeared on the screen: Pier 67 at sundown. Without responding, I tossed my phone on the bed and headed to the bathroom.

The steam fogged the glass sliding door of the shower and the warm water cascading down my body resuscitated my dick. I lathered my hand with soap and stroked, Father Saint James in my head once again. Unlike the first round minutes ago, now I took my time, slowly dragging my palm from the base to the tip of my soapy cock. I never denied having a high sex drive. I liked it a lot, so I sought it out when the need to get off rattled my brain. And even though I’d just orgasmed minutes before, I was always ready if the mood struck. Simply soaping my balls and rubbing a finger over the taint just behind them had me at full mast again, images of the priest still haunting my desires.

This time I’d try to take my time, let my vivid imagination conjure up another hot scene of me dominating the man in my psyche. He’d been disturbing me, causing my cock to ache in pain—I wanted to use him so badly. I slid my hand down my shaft and squeezed the head of my dick, rubbing it intensely until the sensation was too much. The soap acted as the perfect lubrication to my self-assault. What dirty deed did I want the man of God to do to me this time?

The mirage in the shower mist turned away from me and placed his hands on the foggy glass. Water cascaded over him as he spread his legs, the spray gathering on his back and falling toward his ass crack. I watched as the water disappeared into the place I wanted to stick my cock. I stroked faster and kept my eyes closed, watching his ass tease me. He thrust his ass backward, begging me to fill him. The urges exploded in my mind yet again, as though I hadn’t come only minutes ago.

I rode the dream state further, even though Father Saint James had his hooks in me—something I never allowed—but right now he was all about milking the next load out of me. His smooth and athletic ass begged for me to enter him right there in the shower. My soapy hands squeezed my balls painfully in an attempt to push the need away from my thoughts. I had a man to fuck and he was bending over alluringly in the misty enclosure. My pace quickened.

I built up lather on my cock and kept my focus solely on the forbidden fruit of Father Saint James. I swore he actually turned around and glanced from my eyes to his asshole. “Fuck me,” his ghost mouthed. My cock flexed in anticipation.

Just the idea of filling his ass with my tool became too exciting for me to last. It was already too late. My shaft stiffened as I felt my load shooting out of me. I’d tried hard to work this one out nice and slow but failed again—because of him.

I’d even left his shirt on the bed, yet it hadn’t mattered. He was everywhere. He’d become everything I thought of when the urges arrived. How long would it be before I could no longer accept the visualization and had to possess the real Father Saint James?

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