Chapter 4 – Chapter 4

I woke to a rocking sensation and staring into Frank's eyes, which were open and watching me. We were in the cramped cabin of his fishing boat, lying stretched out against each other, both naked. He had shown me his fishing boat before and I'd been in this cabin. I'd seen where he slept, and I had dreamed. It was like I was in a dream now—except that I wasn't. I was lying on my back, one of his arms under me and the other laying across my chest. My legs were spread and bent, the soles of my feet flat on the mattress. I could feel his erection laying on my thigh. I was open and feeling the sensation of rippling inside my passage. I had been fucked—I certainly knew the feeling of having been fucked. In fact, my rim, gaping open from the feel of it, was still puckering and releasing. I'd been fucked within the last several minutes. My passage was sore. I hadn't just been fucked; I'd been reamed.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "It was the booze. I never would have taken the liberty otherwise. I know I said I wanted to fuck you, but I said I'd wait for you to say you wanted it. I'm afraid I might not have waited. The booze did it for both of us—erased the inhibitions. I'm sorry. If it's not what you wanted or were ready for, I'll never—?"

"You've fucked me?" I asked, putting a mock edge on my voice.

"Oh, yes, I fucked you. More than once, I'm pretty sure. I'm still hard from the last time. Again I'm—"

"Shhh," I whispered, raising a finger to his lips. "I did tell you last night I wanted it; you just weren't still there when I said it. I'm just sorry I wasn't conscious for it. I wish—"

"You want—?"

"Yes, please," I whispered.

He rolled on top of me, between my open thighs. I arched my back, gave a little cry, and dug my fingernails into his shoulder blades, as he slowly, relentlessly entered me with that big, jet-black cock of his. He been there before—often enough that I had been reamed to accept him. The muscles of my passage walls responded as in joy, clutching at the throbbing cock as it moved deeper inside me, rippling over the steel-hard shaft, pulling it inside me. His lips found mine as he started to stroke me in long, hard, deep, slow, possessing slides. My pelvis went into motion of its own volition and we were going with the lapping of the waves under the boat, joined in the coordinated rhythm of the deep fuck. Fifteen minutes later he came—again—in a peaceful flow deep inside me and a harmonious shared sigh—his a deep baritone, mine a low tenor. I had already given up my seed up his flat belly, moments before.

I drifted off to a light sleep. When I opened my eyes, he was watching me with his eyes again—but from across the cabin, where he was perched on a cabinet, smoking a cigarette, and looking pensive. My eyes went to his crotch, mesmerized again by that big jet-black cock, half hard now, protruding from a thatch of curly black pubic hair and standing out in stark contrast to the milk chocolate tone of the rest of his body. His free hand went down to stroking his cock and I took mine in hand as well. We stroked ourselves hard, me lying there on his bunk and him just a few feet away, crouched on a cabinet. We said nothing, letting our eyes, electric with arousal, say it all.

He turned and flicked his still-smoldering cigarette into a small sink in the cabinet and, with an animalistic grunt, covered the space between us in two strides. He turned me on my belly and whipped an arm around my midsection, bringing me up on my knees, with my chest flat on the mattress, in one swift movement of covering me. I cried out as he thrust hard and deep inside me. His fists went to my wrists over my head, trapping them. He buried his face in the hollow of my neck and I felt his teeth latching onto me, painfully, there. I groaned and moaned and whimpered as, breathing heavily, he took me hard, vigorously, almost cruelly, showing no mercy, giving no quarter.

We fucked like dogs in heat, him pounding my ass, me crying out my need and my want and churning my pelvis against his onslaught, wanting him to take me fully and totally, which he did. I was as wanton as he was, as much in high heat as he was, fucking him as hard as he was fucking me. Both of us animals in full rut. We both ejaculated joyously and prodigiously and he lay on top of me, collapsed to the mattress now, and chewed lightly on my ear lobe and played inside my ear with his tongue.

He was young and virile. It wasn't long—we were still calming our breathing—when he was hard again. He turned us, he on his back on the mattress and me on my back on top of him. He wrapped his arms under my armpits and forced my arms up in a captive full Nelson position. I raised my pelvis, placing my feet on the mattress on either side of his thighs to elevate me and give me leverage, positioned his cock head at my hole, descended on the cock, and raised and lowered my passage on his cock in a smooth, slow slide that eventually resulted in a long sigh from each of us and him releasing his seed inside me again.

Once again I drifted off into an exhausted sleep. When I woke, I was alone in the cabin.

I returned to my little church on the Avenue of Oaks, working on the buildings by myself for two days and holding a mass on Sunday that neither Frank nor Tom attended. Monday morning I drove my cart down to the public docks. Frank's boat was gone.

That afternoon Tom showed up by himself, to work.

"Where's Frank?" I asked.

"He's taken his boat to Savannah," Tom answered. He wasn't looking me in the eye.

"When will he be back?"

"I'm not sure he's coming back," Tom answered. Was there a mild rebuff in the tone of his answer I wondered—or was it just me, worrying that Frank had felt guilty about causing me to forsake my vows, and understanding how important vows were—or should be—to a Catholic priest?

* * * *

I heard a familiar voice coming from the dock as I was sitting in the cabin of Frank's boat, tapping away on the draft of my novel. I rose and moved to the hatch leading up on deck where Frank was, washing down the boat, but I didn't go topside.

"Father Blackwood, you say?" I heard Frank respond to the question Crandel was asking. "No I don't think we have a priest here on the island. Everyone I know on Daufuskie Island is Baptist. Most of us are Gullah and have been here since before the Civil War."

"I've been to Saint Mary's church. That's where the priest was supposed to be. The place is a wreck," Crandel said.

I wanted cry out in objection, "You should have seen it when I first saw it," but I didn't want him to know I was here.

"Do tell," Frank said, his voice a study in innocence. "The unhappy truth is that island is hard on man-made structures," he said. "If there once was a Catholic church here, it's probably long past returning to the soil. I hear tell them Catholics are sticklers about sin, and we sin pretty regular here on Daufuskie. Fact is, visitors tend to get bitten by the sin bug as soon as they step foot on the island. Best not linger here if you don't want to be bit by the sin bug."

Crandel, sounding a bit snippy, said, "A mutual friend of ours asked that I check on him. He hasn't heard from Father Blackwood for some time. He's a bishop and is particularly worried about his friend."

Andy—the Bishop of Charleston—having pangs of guilt and wanting to know why I hadn't answered his letters, I thought. And he sent James Crandel, possibly the only other person who knew about us. Still protecting himself.

"As I said, I wouldn't know about that. Don't know about there being an active priest on the island," Frank answered, his tone friendly and only half interested. "Sorry I couldn't have helped more. Maybe Daufuskie life was found as not being for a Catholic priest. Maybe your friend went somewhere else or changed into someone else. Maybe he doesn't want to be found. But there, that's the 'last call' sound for the ferry. Your last chance to get back to Hilton Head today—unless you want to spend the night on the island."

Fat chance of that, I thought. And then I thanked Frank again for covering for me—for covering me like he did—for believing me when I tracked him down in Savannah and declared that I wanted life with him and the lifestyle of Daufuskie Island and the Gullah more than I wanted or needed the Catholic Church.

I turned and went back to my computer, resuming the writing of my novel draft. It would be somewhat of a clearing of my soul and a revelation of the state of some matters inside the church. I had already decided to title it "The Bishop's Lover."

Frank came into the cabin, his gym shorts hanging low on his slim hips. "You heard?" he asked.

"Yes, I heard," I answered, drawing him over to between me and the computer, facing me.

"Do you have regrets? I can call him back."

"Not a single one other than how long it took me to accept my nature," I said, pushing the shorts down off his hips, pulling him to me, opening my mouth over his jet-black dick, and starting to suck him off.