Father Bonair
For this entry, as with the previous, I've simply changed names. I debated doing even that, given that at most a few thousand people would recognize it, but it's just easier this way. That said, Bonair's actual name and nickname are even funnier in this context, but I managed to keep it close. :-) I realize people might ask -- how can you remember events in such detail from so long ago, when you can't even remember where you put your car keys yesterday -- which is legit -- but what happened then is indelibly etched -- probably through a unique combination of fear, shame, curiosity and pleasure.
Father Oswald Bonair, or as he was more commonly referred to, "Father Boner" was one of a kind -- after him, they broke the mold. He was from a wealthy family in New Orleans -- huge guy -- 6'4" with Wilt Chamberlain-sized hands -- loud and outgoing with a tendency to pick k**s up by the scruffs of their necks to get their attention. I first ran into him when he started taking over the early school confession sessions.
Thursdays were confession days and each class, from youngest to oldest was marched into the chapel to confess our sins and repent with a string of Hail Marys and Our Fathers. I noticed you could hear some of the guys from outside the booths, so I tended to keep my voice low, even though each week was just another variation of, "I was mean to my brother and sister twice, and I disobeyed my parents once and I said bad words." Both priests and boys were suitably bored, but went through the weekly motions.
Bonair took more of a Mike Wallace tack to the proceedings, which really shook me. I wasn't expecting, "That's all good to know son, but you're getting older now -- are you having any impure thoughts?" I blurted out a shaky, emphatic, "No Father, No!" but that shook me. I'd already had several "training" sessions with Coach Adams, and as I walked back to class, I started taking a "legalistic" assessment of "impure" and whether what I'd done would actually fall under that rubric. I resolved to take a "don't ask, don't tell" approach and rely on the "anonymity" of the confessional -- I never stopped to think that the teachers could recognize us by voice, just as easily as we could them. Ooops.
The following week, after my rote recital, Father Bonair again asked about impure thoughts, and this time, I replied, "I'm not sure what that means, Father. Is it bad to think about touching another man's penis?" There was a long pause. I could hear a chair scr****g towards the grate between our two "rooms," and the response was low and firm and spoken with genuine concern: "George have you touched another man's penis?" I should have been shocked that he addressed me by name, but all that was lost in the panic surrounding an authority figure who had clearly figured out what I had been up to. "Yes, Father." "Has a man touched your penis, son?" he quickly replied. "Yes, Father -- he puts it in his mouth." Understand that at this point, I was at Defcon 1 -- not only was I going to hell, but now that the priest knew, my parents would find out, and this was going to be a meeting with the rubber hose.
At this point, I was expecting him to start screaming at me, but all I could hear was deep breathing and a rustle of fabric. After a minute or two of sheer terror on my part, the heavy breathing and fabric resolved into something along the lines of, "George, you need spiritual guidance. You need to attend Mass in the mornings" and he assigned me the usual HMs and OFs. To say that I was relieved was the understatement of the century.
Father Boner said Mass every morning before school and he tried to drive those of us who arrived early into attending by accusing us of being "heathens." :-) Given that he was a priest, he sometimes got a good turnout, but usually there were only a couple boys. The morning following my confession, while doing his school-wide sweep, Bonair went directly to me in the library and demanded that I go with him. I dutifully followed, and was the only attendee.
As we stood in front of the altar, he put his arm around me, and asked if I was still having impure contacts with other men? I replied, "No Father", and with that, his right hand slipped off my shoulder; slid down and cradled my butt. "That's good George -- we will pray for your forgiveness." We stayed that way throughout the service, and for the next week or two I allowed him that access. Since things had been falling off with Coach Adams, I didn't mind the attention. I began to unbutton my school uniform pants on the way to the chapel, and then loosen my belt a couple notches to give him easier access. As he intoned the service, his huge right hand would drop down and drive through my pants and underwear, which felt very warm and comforting. (He took to putting a step stool next to him so I would be closer in height -- oddly, I never questioned that -- it just seemed natural). Then a finger would start pushing insistently into my hole, with a distinct "pop" when he got the first knuckle in. I came in my underwear a couple times, as he massaged my hole with his huge finger going in and out. Meanwhile, back at the Confessional, I reported nothing. As with Adams though -- I wouldn't let him go any further, and even went so far as to swat at his hand -- I didn't care if he got angry!
Most of the teachers wore a mix of either cassock or black shirt+pants, but Bonair only wore the cassock. He had a huge wooden rosary that he kept in his right pocket and otherwise a large collection of items from missals to handkerchiefs to snacks. He would pull a chocolate chip cookie out of the left and feed it to me slowly, telling me to open my mouth wide open -- I'd grab his hand with both of mine while he guided it into my mouth, and this became part of our routine. I would start reaching into the cassock's huge pockets to figure out what kind of treat he had brought me that day, once we reached the chapel.
One morning, after Mass, he asked me if I'd ever heard of Pralines, a type of cookie. I hadn't and he proceeded to explain why they were so wonderful. He said he would be going to New Orleans over Thanksgiving and would bring me back a box. The day after we returned from the Thanksgiving break, he grabbed me for morning service, but when we got to the chapel, he pushed me into an unused storage room at the back, and shut the door. There was some kind of mat on the floor and he lit a couple candles for light -- the room had no electricity. He had a package of Pralines on a chair and pulled one out -- they were as wonderful as advertised -- I still like them. We were to meet in the same place after school and I could have all I wanted.
That afternoon, there was a bottle of sacramental wine in the room, and poured us both glasses -- mine half full (this was low ABV stuff anyway). I was quite surprised when he took the package of cookies, and the glasses and laid down on the mat on the floor. He motioned me to follow and I was sitting next to his right pocket. He told me there was a present in the pocket and that I should go search for it, which I promptly did (who doesn't like presents?) I reached in and pulled out the rosary, with its huge wooden cross; reached in again and didn't find anything. He told me to keep trying and the second or third time I put my hand in, it went through and I felt his naked, hairy thigh. He had cut the lining of his pocket! I was so fixated on the gift, it didn't really register and I kept moving my hand forward only to quickly find the largest cock I've ever seen or felt in my life. It was standing straight up -- his cassock was tented and I could barely get my hand around it -- my position on my side next to his hips was awkward, and I put my head on his stomach to steady myself. As I moved my hand up to explore this tree trunk I'd discovered, it was different from the cocks I was used to -- he was uncut (totally new to me) -- and my hand gravitated to the top where it was easier to slide up and down. Fr. Boner didn't say a word, apart from a few low groans. The inside of his cassock was wet, as was his cock -- I'm guessing that he'd cum instantly when I found his "present." :-) I asked him to unbutton the cassock so I could get easier access, but we heard someone outside and he panicked. Before we left the room, he put both hands on my shoulders and assured me that I was going to hell if a word of this got out. I'd never seen him look that angry.
Two days later, he told me to meet him at the chapel after school, and we went back into the room. I took my pants off without him asking, we sipped a little wine, and I again went searching for presents -- he was as hard as last time, though not wet. He seemed much more relaxed and undid the three buttons down the front of his crotch. I was just stunned to look at it -- must have been a solid 8-9", with his foreskin still covering much of his dark purple head. I pulled my right hand out of his pocket; started stroking and pulling down the skin so I could see his cock head. He was nothing but moans and short breaths. After a few minutes of this, he told me to turn around and he pulled me onto his torso -- he was so tall, my butt didn't even reach his face, but he certainly had a good view. :-) I kept rubbing with my right and then reached around with my left to explore his balls. Huge ball sack and I split between massaging them, and using both hands on his cock (with plenty of room to spare). This was followed by a breathy request to "put your mouth on it." "No, I don't like that," I responded (his uncut cock was a bit funky). I felt his right hand on my butt, and suddenly felt his index finger slide into my pucker -- but it didn't stop at the tip, he shoved it all the way in, saying insistently as he did so, "I told you to put your mouth on it, b-y."
OMG that hurt -- both my hands stopped and reached back to my ass to pull my cheeks apart in a vain attempt to relieve the pain. My mouth dropped down to his balls. He pulled his finger almost all the way out, and then began a rhythm of pushing in when speaking and pulling out when pausing. "I told you boy," push, release, "put your mouth on it," push, release, "or I'll use my bigger finger," push, release. "Your choice b-y," push. At this point, I was wriggling quite energetically to get loose from that huge thing in my ass -- my face was banging against his cock -- but he just would not let loose of my pale butt. I started to cry a bit, but then came the game-changer: as I gyrated around his finger, I felt the strangest feeling and then an amazing surge of release as I came on his chest and began to rub against it with my thin little dick. (Fortunately for Bonair, I was jacking off at least 5 times a day, so there were only a few spots to cover up later). "Ok, ok, pull your finger out," I brattily whispered at him, and when he'd done so, I was in the process of raising my head up, when he noticed that I'd spooged on his black cassock. "Damn," he muttered and pushed me around so that I was between his legs, with my face up against his cock. I was maybe 110 pounds at this point, so he didn't expend a lot of effort. :-)
With all of this, I decided to just go for it. My ass was still stinging (yeah, all that stuff you read up here about, "Oh, it just hurts for a minute, and then everything is better!" is 100% BS -- I was sore (I didn't crap right for a week afterwards, either) and he wanted what he wanted. I grabbed his shaft by the middle; pulled down the skin, and wrapped my mouth around his huge cock head. He watched me intently, my lips stretched as wide as they could be around that girthy cock, and my large brown eyes looking back at him. Pump, suck, pump…in a matter of a couple minutes he came, filling my mouth -- I swallowed as quickly as I could as he moaned and put his hands around my head. "Oh my god," he moaned, which I thought was fitting.
Given that I knew what he was after, our subsequent sessions went right to: my mouth; his cock; my hands; quick cum. He gave me an altar boy's surplice, which I liked b/c it was transparent, and I would take off my school uniform and wear that for our clandestine romps. He sucked my l'il pecker a few times, but it was pretty clear that our "play time" had to do with getting him off and not me. Looking back on this, I'm struck by my willingness to go along with it all -- didn't I know it was wrong? Difficult question. 50 years ago, priests were the moral arbiters for all good Catholics -- and God's law always trumped man's feeble laws -- if Father Bonair wanted me to do something, then it was my duty to do so. I didn't even question it -- for me, it was normal. That led to some problems b/c I'd follow him for mass; jump into the changing room at the rear; strip off my uniform and put on the surplice like it was the most normal thing in the world -- he actually yelled at me for the first time when I did that. Very confusing.
We kept this up for a few months, a couple times a week. Occasionally during study hall, he'd pull me into a stall in the bathrooms; unbutton his cock and face fuck me. Not my favorite, but he always came quickly. I realize now that he must have been edging in between our meetings -- I had a real problem with his blasts getting half on the surplice or my uniform shirt in the stall. His head would SWELL right before he came -- never seen anything quite like it. As the months went on, he seemed to lose interest -- I discovered later that my getting older had quite a bit to do with that -- he had at least one or two new recruits every school year. I didn't mind so much -- I had moved on to my classmates. Still, as you can tell, he is someone I will never ever forget.
Father Oswald Bonair, or as he was more commonly referred to, "Father Boner" was one of a kind -- after him, they broke the mold. He was from a wealthy family in New Orleans -- huge guy -- 6'4" with Wilt Chamberlain-sized hands -- loud and outgoing with a tendency to pick k**s up by the scruffs of their necks to get their attention. I first ran into him when he started taking over the early school confession sessions.
Thursdays were confession days and each class, from youngest to oldest was marched into the chapel to confess our sins and repent with a string of Hail Marys and Our Fathers. I noticed you could hear some of the guys from outside the booths, so I tended to keep my voice low, even though each week was just another variation of, "I was mean to my brother and sister twice, and I disobeyed my parents once and I said bad words." Both priests and boys were suitably bored, but went through the weekly motions.
Bonair took more of a Mike Wallace tack to the proceedings, which really shook me. I wasn't expecting, "That's all good to know son, but you're getting older now -- are you having any impure thoughts?" I blurted out a shaky, emphatic, "No Father, No!" but that shook me. I'd already had several "training" sessions with Coach Adams, and as I walked back to class, I started taking a "legalistic" assessment of "impure" and whether what I'd done would actually fall under that rubric. I resolved to take a "don't ask, don't tell" approach and rely on the "anonymity" of the confessional -- I never stopped to think that the teachers could recognize us by voice, just as easily as we could them. Ooops.
The following week, after my rote recital, Father Bonair again asked about impure thoughts, and this time, I replied, "I'm not sure what that means, Father. Is it bad to think about touching another man's penis?" There was a long pause. I could hear a chair scr****g towards the grate between our two "rooms," and the response was low and firm and spoken with genuine concern: "George have you touched another man's penis?" I should have been shocked that he addressed me by name, but all that was lost in the panic surrounding an authority figure who had clearly figured out what I had been up to. "Yes, Father." "Has a man touched your penis, son?" he quickly replied. "Yes, Father -- he puts it in his mouth." Understand that at this point, I was at Defcon 1 -- not only was I going to hell, but now that the priest knew, my parents would find out, and this was going to be a meeting with the rubber hose.
At this point, I was expecting him to start screaming at me, but all I could hear was deep breathing and a rustle of fabric. After a minute or two of sheer terror on my part, the heavy breathing and fabric resolved into something along the lines of, "George, you need spiritual guidance. You need to attend Mass in the mornings" and he assigned me the usual HMs and OFs. To say that I was relieved was the understatement of the century.
Father Boner said Mass every morning before school and he tried to drive those of us who arrived early into attending by accusing us of being "heathens." :-) Given that he was a priest, he sometimes got a good turnout, but usually there were only a couple boys. The morning following my confession, while doing his school-wide sweep, Bonair went directly to me in the library and demanded that I go with him. I dutifully followed, and was the only attendee.
As we stood in front of the altar, he put his arm around me, and asked if I was still having impure contacts with other men? I replied, "No Father", and with that, his right hand slipped off my shoulder; slid down and cradled my butt. "That's good George -- we will pray for your forgiveness." We stayed that way throughout the service, and for the next week or two I allowed him that access. Since things had been falling off with Coach Adams, I didn't mind the attention. I began to unbutton my school uniform pants on the way to the chapel, and then loosen my belt a couple notches to give him easier access. As he intoned the service, his huge right hand would drop down and drive through my pants and underwear, which felt very warm and comforting. (He took to putting a step stool next to him so I would be closer in height -- oddly, I never questioned that -- it just seemed natural). Then a finger would start pushing insistently into my hole, with a distinct "pop" when he got the first knuckle in. I came in my underwear a couple times, as he massaged my hole with his huge finger going in and out. Meanwhile, back at the Confessional, I reported nothing. As with Adams though -- I wouldn't let him go any further, and even went so far as to swat at his hand -- I didn't care if he got angry!
Most of the teachers wore a mix of either cassock or black shirt+pants, but Bonair only wore the cassock. He had a huge wooden rosary that he kept in his right pocket and otherwise a large collection of items from missals to handkerchiefs to snacks. He would pull a chocolate chip cookie out of the left and feed it to me slowly, telling me to open my mouth wide open -- I'd grab his hand with both of mine while he guided it into my mouth, and this became part of our routine. I would start reaching into the cassock's huge pockets to figure out what kind of treat he had brought me that day, once we reached the chapel.
One morning, after Mass, he asked me if I'd ever heard of Pralines, a type of cookie. I hadn't and he proceeded to explain why they were so wonderful. He said he would be going to New Orleans over Thanksgiving and would bring me back a box. The day after we returned from the Thanksgiving break, he grabbed me for morning service, but when we got to the chapel, he pushed me into an unused storage room at the back, and shut the door. There was some kind of mat on the floor and he lit a couple candles for light -- the room had no electricity. He had a package of Pralines on a chair and pulled one out -- they were as wonderful as advertised -- I still like them. We were to meet in the same place after school and I could have all I wanted.
That afternoon, there was a bottle of sacramental wine in the room, and poured us both glasses -- mine half full (this was low ABV stuff anyway). I was quite surprised when he took the package of cookies, and the glasses and laid down on the mat on the floor. He motioned me to follow and I was sitting next to his right pocket. He told me there was a present in the pocket and that I should go search for it, which I promptly did (who doesn't like presents?) I reached in and pulled out the rosary, with its huge wooden cross; reached in again and didn't find anything. He told me to keep trying and the second or third time I put my hand in, it went through and I felt his naked, hairy thigh. He had cut the lining of his pocket! I was so fixated on the gift, it didn't really register and I kept moving my hand forward only to quickly find the largest cock I've ever seen or felt in my life. It was standing straight up -- his cassock was tented and I could barely get my hand around it -- my position on my side next to his hips was awkward, and I put my head on his stomach to steady myself. As I moved my hand up to explore this tree trunk I'd discovered, it was different from the cocks I was used to -- he was uncut (totally new to me) -- and my hand gravitated to the top where it was easier to slide up and down. Fr. Boner didn't say a word, apart from a few low groans. The inside of his cassock was wet, as was his cock -- I'm guessing that he'd cum instantly when I found his "present." :-) I asked him to unbutton the cassock so I could get easier access, but we heard someone outside and he panicked. Before we left the room, he put both hands on my shoulders and assured me that I was going to hell if a word of this got out. I'd never seen him look that angry.
Two days later, he told me to meet him at the chapel after school, and we went back into the room. I took my pants off without him asking, we sipped a little wine, and I again went searching for presents -- he was as hard as last time, though not wet. He seemed much more relaxed and undid the three buttons down the front of his crotch. I was just stunned to look at it -- must have been a solid 8-9", with his foreskin still covering much of his dark purple head. I pulled my right hand out of his pocket; started stroking and pulling down the skin so I could see his cock head. He was nothing but moans and short breaths. After a few minutes of this, he told me to turn around and he pulled me onto his torso -- he was so tall, my butt didn't even reach his face, but he certainly had a good view. :-) I kept rubbing with my right and then reached around with my left to explore his balls. Huge ball sack and I split between massaging them, and using both hands on his cock (with plenty of room to spare). This was followed by a breathy request to "put your mouth on it." "No, I don't like that," I responded (his uncut cock was a bit funky). I felt his right hand on my butt, and suddenly felt his index finger slide into my pucker -- but it didn't stop at the tip, he shoved it all the way in, saying insistently as he did so, "I told you to put your mouth on it, b-y."
OMG that hurt -- both my hands stopped and reached back to my ass to pull my cheeks apart in a vain attempt to relieve the pain. My mouth dropped down to his balls. He pulled his finger almost all the way out, and then began a rhythm of pushing in when speaking and pulling out when pausing. "I told you boy," push, release, "put your mouth on it," push, release, "or I'll use my bigger finger," push, release. "Your choice b-y," push. At this point, I was wriggling quite energetically to get loose from that huge thing in my ass -- my face was banging against his cock -- but he just would not let loose of my pale butt. I started to cry a bit, but then came the game-changer: as I gyrated around his finger, I felt the strangest feeling and then an amazing surge of release as I came on his chest and began to rub against it with my thin little dick. (Fortunately for Bonair, I was jacking off at least 5 times a day, so there were only a few spots to cover up later). "Ok, ok, pull your finger out," I brattily whispered at him, and when he'd done so, I was in the process of raising my head up, when he noticed that I'd spooged on his black cassock. "Damn," he muttered and pushed me around so that I was between his legs, with my face up against his cock. I was maybe 110 pounds at this point, so he didn't expend a lot of effort. :-)
With all of this, I decided to just go for it. My ass was still stinging (yeah, all that stuff you read up here about, "Oh, it just hurts for a minute, and then everything is better!" is 100% BS -- I was sore (I didn't crap right for a week afterwards, either) and he wanted what he wanted. I grabbed his shaft by the middle; pulled down the skin, and wrapped my mouth around his huge cock head. He watched me intently, my lips stretched as wide as they could be around that girthy cock, and my large brown eyes looking back at him. Pump, suck, pump…in a matter of a couple minutes he came, filling my mouth -- I swallowed as quickly as I could as he moaned and put his hands around my head. "Oh my god," he moaned, which I thought was fitting.
Given that I knew what he was after, our subsequent sessions went right to: my mouth; his cock; my hands; quick cum. He gave me an altar boy's surplice, which I liked b/c it was transparent, and I would take off my school uniform and wear that for our clandestine romps. He sucked my l'il pecker a few times, but it was pretty clear that our "play time" had to do with getting him off and not me. Looking back on this, I'm struck by my willingness to go along with it all -- didn't I know it was wrong? Difficult question. 50 years ago, priests were the moral arbiters for all good Catholics -- and God's law always trumped man's feeble laws -- if Father Bonair wanted me to do something, then it was my duty to do so. I didn't even question it -- for me, it was normal. That led to some problems b/c I'd follow him for mass; jump into the changing room at the rear; strip off my uniform and put on the surplice like it was the most normal thing in the world -- he actually yelled at me for the first time when I did that. Very confusing.
We kept this up for a few months, a couple times a week. Occasionally during study hall, he'd pull me into a stall in the bathrooms; unbutton his cock and face fuck me. Not my favorite, but he always came quickly. I realize now that he must have been edging in between our meetings -- I had a real problem with his blasts getting half on the surplice or my uniform shirt in the stall. His head would SWELL right before he came -- never seen anything quite like it. As the months went on, he seemed to lose interest -- I discovered later that my getting older had quite a bit to do with that -- he had at least one or two new recruits every school year. I didn't mind so much -- I had moved on to my classmates. Still, as you can tell, he is someone I will never ever forget.
1 año atrás
