Page 2 of Slay the Gay Away, Daddy

“Humulah,” Miles chants. “Humulah-humulah-ashuntye.”

I’ll be honest, I don’t know what the hell those words mean, but they’re words he’s repeated for as long as I’ve known him, back when I was five and he was sixteen. Those words have been the source of my ejaculation since the day I learned I could make my penis spit. Every orgasm I’ve ever had is down to Miles. I’ve stroked myself to completion picturing his plump ass more times than I can remember. I’ve jacked off to the sermons he streams on the church’s website thousands of times.

These days, I don’t have to picture him. All I have to do is stare down at his sleeping face every night and pray he doesn’t wake up.

Miles calls for the congregation to circle around us and lay hands on me. Palms caress the back of my head. My shoulder. The center of my back. Then, as the church family’s voices rise to a roar, and people speak in tongues like their words make all the sense in the world, Miles leans forward and touches his forehead to mine, letting it rest there.

“My lost little lamb,” he whispers, his voice filled with affection. “I’m so proud of you, son.”

Heat spreads through my cheeks. “I could tell you were hoping I would answer the altar call. I just want to make you proud, Pastor Brooks.” His eyes go a little misty, and it’s a sight I’ll never grow tired of. If there’s one thing I do enjoy about this church, it’s that it allows Miles to live and love loudly, never shying away from showing his appreciation for the small things or hiding his tears. There isn’t a shred of toxic masculinity in his body. I’ve seen him openly weep in front of the congregation on several occasions, worrying over the state of the world.

“I’m so sorry you’re struggling, Darren,” he whispers, his authoritative tone fading, leaving behind my lifelong friend. This is the version of Miles I love. The one with a big, beautiful heart that beats for every soul he meets. Behind us, the piano plays a soft song of worship, and the group’s chanting seems to be lulling the congregation into a tearful frenzy. People cry out their love for the Lord, but my eyes never leave Miles’, and his don’t move from mine. “I’m so sorry.” His arms envelope me in a hug, holding me closer to his chest. I can smell his usual scent of Tide laundry detergent and Axe body spray. “I’m going to fix you. I swear it. However long it takes, we’re going to battle this demon to the death.” He pulls away and cups my cheek, and I’m no longer staring at my favorite version of Miles. Now, I’m staring at Father Daddy, hallowed be his sexy smirk. “Tell me, son—do you want me to lead you to salvation?”

What I want is for him to lead me to his holy cock, but that’s a battle for another day.

“Yes, sir,” I breathe. “Convert me, Father.”

The church continues praying for me until I finally relent, closing my eyes and making up stupid words that will sound like the Lord speaking through me.

“I-wanna-fuck-my-pastor,” I mumble, slurring the words together, my tone spiking and dipping at random syllables as I repeat the chant. Lifting my arms, I feign surrender to a God I don’t really believe in. “I-wanna-fuck-him-faster, I-wanna-fuck-my-pastor.”

It’s been my go-to chant since Miles ascended the evangelical throne. He’s listened to it for years, but he’s never really heard me. He’s never noticed the words or witnessed just how much I mean them. My cock stiffens beneath the fabric of my slacks, and I curse myself, because the last thing I need is for him to notice the way his voice has had a stiffening effect on my cock.

Someone’s shin is pressed against my butt, and each time they shift their weight, it sends my cock thrusting against the fabric of my pants. It must be Satan himself, because their leg keeps moving, pushing me closer to an edge I didn’t even realize I was heading toward. My underwear is drenched in pre-cum, and the longer I stare at Father Daddy, the wetter they get.

“Come,” Miles says, and my eyes bulge. Surely, he doesn’t know what’s happening below my equator. “Come to me and lay your burdens down,” he finishes. Relief spreads through me but it doesn’t last long, because the motherfucker behind me keeps knocking me forward with their knee. My eyes are locked on Miles and I watch him lick his lips. That’s all it takes. The simple sight of his tongue sends me headfirst into the most intense orgasm of my life. “My lovely little lamb.”

“Amen!” I cry out. “Oh, God, yes. Amen, Miles.”

As if we’re all in this boat together, the congregation’s voices reach a crescendo, then, like a spiritual orgasm, their cries and words of praise slowly fade, the piano still tinkering softly in the background.

Miles’ hands are on my shoulders, his knuckles gently massaging my knots of stress. “I’m so proud of you,” he tells me. “For choosing to leave behind your burdens. I know how hard that must be.”

He doesn’t, actually. Miles Brooks may be having a late-life bisexual awakening—whether he remembers it in the morning or not—but he doesn’t know what it’s like to always feel different, even as a child. To be shamed and laughed at on the playground for something you don’t even understand yourself, yet. I tell myself it doesn’t matter anymore. That this is all some colossal joke that can’t be taken seriously, because I get to cuddle up next to him in bed each night, but if I’m being completely honest with myself, the words leave little wounds on my soul each time they’re spoken—especially coming from him.I’m thankful, though. Thankful Miles never had to listen to his parents scream and holler about loving the sinner while ignoring their own sins. Most of all, I’m thankful Miles never had a Pastor Miles Brooks of his own. Someone so deadset on saving his soul, they’d be willing to rip apart the fabric of who someone is to achieve it. “I have you, Darren. I have you, and I’m not going to stop until you’re cured.” He tousles my hair. “Go tell your parents I’m going to drop you off when we’re done.” He pats my arm before standing and offering a hand for support.

chapter two

As Miles heads to the lobby to see his parishioners off, I make a quick detour by the restroom, because my underwear is drenched in cum and it’s making my cock cold. I rush throughthe process, trying not to fall and snap my neck on the toilet as I fumble out of my slacks, then as I remove my underwear. Once they’re off, I fold the hot pink briefs and slide them in my pocket, creating a large bulge on my hip. There’s no way Miles won’t notice it, so once I make it to his office, I quickly toss them on top of a bookshelf in the corner.

Father Daddy’s faith-based romance novels are lined up perfectly, eye level with me. I think he does that on purpose, hoping to draw the eye of anyone bored out of their fucking mind in his office. As much as I tease him, I really admire him for pouring his heart onto the page. I’ve bought every book he’s ever written, and I’ve pretended each character was him and me. He’s told me his current work in progress is going to be dedicated to me. Considering every other book has also been dedicated to me, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it still surprised me anyway.

He shills his books as often as he can, and it usually ends up with an embarrassed Miles Brooks tucking his tail between his legs and stepping back into the shadows. Last month, to celebrate the release of his latest book—The God’s Honest Ruth, a glorified fanfic about Ruth from the Bible—he scheduled a four-hour book signing slot in the church’s community center-slash-oversized shed out back. He invited the whole church and posted about it on social media, sharing the news with everyone in a twenty-mile radius. When no one showed up, I held his hand under the table, his little book babies stacked beautifully around us, and I hummed his favorite hymn. Mallory didn’t show, and I think that hurt him more than anything. I’ll never forgive her for it.

I pull out my phone and bring up the church’s security camera feed through the app. Father Daddy is still saying goodbye to the last of his flock in the lobby. As he listens to Sister Fletcher ramble on about God-knows-what, I place a call to my boss,knowing I’ve easily got five minutes before Miles is able to break away from the conversation.

“Matthews,” Agent Meadows says. “Remind me why I’m paying you when you’re never here?”

I walk around Miles’ desk and open his top drawer, snooping around. He’s got a half-eaten Milky Way and an unfolded paper clip I’ve seen him use as a toothpick on multiple occasions. I touch my tongue to the end of the paperclip, wanting to leave a little bit of me on it so it might one day make it inside his mouth. I’m aware of how depraved the act is before I do it, but it doesn’t stop me from doing it anyway.

“Because I’ve got a cute ass and a dazzling personality,” I remind him. “And because I’m a master at gathering intel.”

“Well, cute ass or not, you have to make more of an effort. I know you do a lot of field work for me, but I need someone here a couple of hours a day.”

“I like to sleep in,” I say dismissively. “If you don’t want me to do my job in a manner that’s been proven to get results, I can start coming into the office, but I work better without all that pressure. Do you want me to get dirt for you, or do you want me to sit behind a desk and look cute. I can’t do both, Meadows.”

He sighs. “You’re right. It’s just . . . it gets a little lonely here sometimes. I’m usually the only person in the building aside from Pet, and I keep him gagged most of the day.”

As I root through Miles’ desk, I stumble across a few precisely folded prayer cloths in one of the drawers. He generally prays over them before kissing the cloth and taking it to sick churchgoers who are unable to attend due to illness. I’ve gone with him a few times, and he’s always super adorable, bringing little gift baskets of fruits and pastries. To the untrained eye, Miles might seem like a moral compass of sorts, anointed by God to bring about an age of peace. I’m not untrained though. I’ve been studying him all my life. The fake smiles he gives, whichalmost seem genuine. The way his pulse beats quicker each time he gets a standing ovation. He deserves all the ovations, though, so I don’t fault him for enjoying the spotlight.

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