Page 4 of Slay the Gay Away, Daddy

“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 thatcomes 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 hisneck 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 bea 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 toare 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.

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