The Church Husband (Patreon)

Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.

I’ve known Lena since sophomore year. She is the kind of best friend who still sends verses and memes in the same thread and shows up with soup when you’re sick. I’m the gay friend but she never tried to convert me, thank God! When she married Cole I stood there in a borrowed jacket and watched her cry happy in a dress her church paid for.

Cole was the quiet piece. Big. Manly working hands. Nice enough at cookouts and gone by nine. Lena called him a blessing. She also told me, two wines in on her porch, that sex was a duty she didn’t feel called to yet. Kids later. Hands in her lap until then. The women’s group talked about purity like it was a diet. Cole sat through it. I watched his jaw.

They lived twelve minutes from me.

Friday she left for the church women’s retreat. Three days. Cot in the mountains. Isolation with Jesus. Matching T-shirts. She hugged me at the curb and said Cole would drop the extra key in case the dog walker flaked.

He came at 9:40.

Work shirt still on. Rain in his hair. Wedding band. 

Cole looked like a poster man for the American Husband. Mid-thirties. Short dark hair combed like Sunday and already fighting the fade at the temples. Stubble that never went full beard because Lena would have something to say. Strong jaw. That almost-smile that photographed well on the chapel steps and died in my kitchen. He was thicker than the suit photos — chest and arms from lifting engines, not a gym membership, a little burly through the shoulders, still trim enough that the wedding jacket pulled when he raised his arms. White shirt open one button when nobody from the ward was looking. Hands too big and too stained for the ring they put on him. He smelled like soap he put on for service and oil he couldn’t scrub out of the knuckles. The kind of Mormon husband who stood in the back with the other men, said amen on time, drove his wife to retreats, and went home with a crooked load he wasn’t allowed to put in her.

He put the key on my counter and didn’t go back to the door. The apartment felt too small for his shoulders. I offered a beer because that’s what you offer a man standing in your kitchen like he’s deciding something. I normally have beers for my male guests even though I don’t drink them.

“No,” he said.

He looked at my mouth. Looked at the hallway. Looked at my mouth again.

“She told you,” he said.

“Told me what.”

“That she doesn’t. The church thing. The waiting.” His voice was flat. Not a speech. A fact he’d been driving around with. “I’m not here to talk about my wife.”

“Then why are you still in my kitchen?” I teased him.

He breathed out through his nose.

“You know why. You’re the guy friend, the cocksucker. Justin already commented on that.”

Justin is another married guy from our town that I regularly serve.

I did. I had known since the porch. Since the way his jeans sat when he reached for the grill. Since Lena joked that I had a little crush and it was sweet because I was safe.

I wasn’t safe.

“I should go,” he said. Then he didn’t. He looked at my mouth the way he looked at a job he already knew he was going to take.

“Then go.”

“Don’t get cute.” His voice stayed low. Shop voice. “You think I don’t know what this is. Lena talks. He’s harmless. He’s got a little thing for you. I’ve sat through that joke at my own table.” He hooked a thumb in his belt and didn’t undo it yet. “I’m not confused. I’m bored of going home hard and listening to a prayer about patience.”

“So stay.”

“I stay, you don’t turn it into a moment. You don’t get soft. You don’t ask me how I feel.” He stepped in just enough that I had to tip my chin. “You want it, you get on the floor and you do what she won’t. That’s the deal. I don’t owe you a speech and I don’t owe the church an explanation.”

“I didn’t ask for one.”

“Good.” A short, ugly almost-smile. “You talk too much for a guy on his knees. Quiet down and open your mouth. If I don’t like it I leave. If I do, you swallow and I go back to my car. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

He popped the belt himself, arrogant with it, like my kitchen was just another bay and I was already on the clock.

I went to my knees on the tile because that’s where we were and because if I took him to the couch it would turn into a conversation. He watched me opening his zipper. One deep breath when the zipper came down. That was all.

He was already heavy behind the cotton. I hooked the waistband. His cock dropped out thick and wrong in the best way — a hard list to the left, a hook you felt in the first inch, head sitting off-center like it had grown that way on purpose. Veined. Fat at the base. The kind of dick a church girl would call too much and mean it.

I wrapped my hand around the bend. He twitched.

I put my mouth on him.

“Fuck Yeah,” he said.

No speech after that.

I worked the curve with my fist and took the head. Salt. Heat. Sweat on his skin. My jaw had to open stupid for the thickness and the hook still punched the cheek, then the soft place at the back. I went down until I gagged, came off, spit hanging, went back. He set one hand on the counter edge. The other found the back of my head. Not kind. Not cruel. Just there, so I wouldn’t drift.

When I took him farther the bend hit my throat at an angle that made my eyes water immediately. He felt it. He didn’t pull out. He held me one second longer than comfortable and let me drip on his boot and put me back on the head.

“Stay.”

I stayed.

He started moving. Short. Deep. Using my mouth the way a man uses something he’s been promised and never given. The crooked shaft dragged the same raw line over and over. Sloppy fast. Spit on the tile. Belt buckle tapping my jaw. I breathed when he let me. I didn’t when he didn’t.

He got a rhythm going and the kitchen filled with the wet sound and the fridge hum. I looked up once. His eyes weren’t on me. They were on the window. On nothing. Then they dropped and he watched his own cock hook into my face and his mouth went tight.

“Throat.”

I opened. He took it. Both hands now, my hair in his fists, hips giving me the weight he’d been carrying since the wedding. Facefuck, no warmup, no you okay. The curve made it messier than a straight one. I coughed and he eased half an inch and filled it again. My hands stayed on his thighs like he’d put them there without speaking.

Time went stupid. My jaw ached. My knees ached. He was thicker than when I started, the head swollen in that off-center way, leaking on my tongue every time I came up for air. I sucked the head and stroked the bend and he hissed once through his teeth.

“Don’t bite.”

I didn’t.

He fucked my face harder after that. Not long sentences. Just breath and the occasional curse he swallowed. The hand on my head became a handle. He held me on the hook until my throat kicked, let me drip, shoved back in. I was sloppy to the wrist. The tile was a messy problem. He didn’t care.

His stomach jumped. The rhythm broke into ugly short punches. Fingers tight.

“Hold. I’m gonna cum, take it.”

I held. He buried the bend in my throat and came with a sound he tried to kill against the inside of his mouth. Heavy. A lot of cum pulsing in my throat. Pulse after pulse with no room to do anything but swallow. He kept me there through all of it, hips ticking, thighs shaking against my ears, until he was empty and still twitching on my tongue.

He pulled out slow. A string broke on my lip. I sat back on my heels breathing like I’d run. His cock hung there wet, crooked, obscene, still half up like it hadn’t gotten the message.

Cole zipped. Picked up nothing. Looked at me on his wife’s friend’s floor.

“Shop. Tomorrow after six. Don’t come to the house.”

“That’s fine.” I replied panting.

He left the key on the counter where he’d set it. Door. Stairs. Car.

I stayed on the tile until my mouth felt like my mouth again. Rinsed. Spat. Rinsed again. The apartment still smelled like him. Oil. Rain. Sweat.

Lena texted at 10:06.

Did Cole drop the key? He’s been in a mood all week. Pray for us. Love you.

I locked the door.

I didn’t pray. The only thing I do on my knees is sucking straight guys’ cocks.

I thought about the hook in my throat and the next Sunday. He hadn’t said thank you, hadn’t said sorry, hadn’t said her name once my mouth was on him.

She would come home with a tote bag full of religious merch and a verse from the bible.

Tomorrow he would put that bent thing back in my face in a place that smelled like tires.

I was going to let him.