Blood Sacraments

by Todd Gregory

  Suddenly, the cemetery gate opened and a fist assaulted his door.

  A trembling voice shouted, loud and hysterical, calling his name.

  “Dónal! Dónal!”

  Brother Dónal recognized it not. Quickly, he covered his manuscript, fearing it might be a Norman invader seeking to pillage his sanctuary, or worse, another cleric who wouldn’t approve of his obscene illustrations. In his manuscript, Dónal had generously populated the borders with stout Celtic characters instead of the Saints. The hairy male figures danced amidst the Gaelic letters with erect phalluses and red buttocks. If the beacons of the Church saw his lewd artistry, they’d strip him of his habit and cast him into the dungeon with the unconverted knaves, rapists and rogues who would gladly defile a renegade monk through the night!

  Dónal pondered this torture and he rather fancied it, so he opened the door wide.

  “Brother Dónal, help me!”

  Young Fionn, a village farmer, glowed in the moonlight like a Celtic deity. His long hair draped his forehead and his luminous eyes gazed at Dónal with a pleading expression. Brother Dónal stood back, alarmed at the sudden appearance of the youth. Many farmers visited the monk during the day, bearing crops for his meal or performing small repairs outside the oratory. But never had one appeared this late, at the very hour the sun fell down.

  “What purpose brings you here, my son?”

  In the youth’s frightened face, Brother Dónal perceived a millennium of rural Irishmen, rugged and homely but loyal to their country. For ten generations, Fionn’s clan had struggled to protect the West Coast of Ireland from hostile invaders, and many had died for the cause. Tonight, in the footsteps of Fionn, their steadfast spirits marched towards the present to seek Brother Dónal and warn him of the impending attack.

  “Do you have word of the Normans?” Dónal asked in a pressing breath. His eyes glanced at Fionn’s bulging pockets, which concealed some rural elements: a squash and two potatoes, modest sustenance for the monk’s dinner. “What do you hide in your trousers, boy?”

  “Brother Dónal, I’ve sinned!”

  The farm youth opened his palms and bowed his head. A whimper escaped his lips. Under quick inspection, Dónal saw the stains upon Fionn’s hands. It wasn’t blood or dirt or splintered wood from a farmer’s tool; instead, thick streaks of robust semen lined his hands, slowly drying. The fluid stuck to his palms and bore the impression of a virile erection. Fionn dripped more beads of cum from his fingertips and they speckled the black stones at his feet, mocking the house of prayer. Shame covered Fionn’s face and he turned from the Brother.

  Dónal shook his head. He prayed silently for salvation while eyeing the farm boy’s sweaty buttocks. They were moist and firm, partially exposed from the recent charge up the hill. Dónal knew what had occurred as clearly as if he had witnessed it himself. The impending night had frightened poor Fionn. A multitude of temptations had visited him in the field. Serpents, sinners, and probably a Succubus! The dark enticements menaced the boy with charms and kisses until he was forced to obey their sorcery. Unveiling his manhood above the virgin soil, they rushed through his body and boiled the semen in his loins to such a steamy ingredient that it fired from his member in creamy heaps.

  “Come in here!” Dónal ordered, glancing into the night. “Let’s clean that up.”

  This wasn’t the first time young Fionn had fallen from grace. The traps set by the pagan spirits often found him a willing prey. On many a stormy midnight, Fionn’s farm in the lowlands was besieged by the souls of unburied chieftains, warriors, and blood-spirits. They elicited mischief in the sheep, uprooted vegetables in the garden, and whispered libidinous thoughts into young ears. Weekly Fionn sought the sanctuary, bearing filthy hands or clutching an incorrigibly erect penis; and Brother Dónal would summon original ways to forgive Fionn’s sins, like a sponge bath around his loins or a towel dipped in goat’s milk and applied tightly to the offensive member.

  He forgave Fionn, for in his heart Dónal knew that the boy was as innocent as the earth upon which he labored. It was the other villagers, those unrepentant Elders, who were at fault. Every winter, the Elders performed heretical ceremonies intended to conjure the ancient spirits and expurgate Ireland of barbarians. The superstitious sacraments by the old-timers only roused the Celtic spirits to wander the desolate lowlands, hungry for a sacrifice. And when invaders were in want and the spirits grew bored, they persuaded chaste youths like Fionn that his manseed was theirs, by ancestral law, and demanded proof of his filial loyalty. As sunlight beat upon his face and warmed his round flanks, they induced him to litter the broken ground with his Irish cum. Fionn obeyed, masturbating upon the stones day and night until he was weary and withered. He ignored Brother Dónal’s warning about sensual temptation and once more spoiled the earth with the seeds of his race.

  Dónal bolted the door and sat the young man on his stool. He kneeled into Fionn’s lap, shaking his head solemnly, and scrubbed the coarse hands with an unused rag. Farmer cum dries thick, so it was very hard to peel off. But the monk assumed his duty with humility, rubbing each finger, curling them to the palm and massaging the knuckles. Fionn’s hands grew bright red like the figures in Dónal’s manuscript. And his cheeks blushed like polished apples when Dónal found more cum starching his cuff.

  “When will you learn to distinguish cum from communion?” Dónal asked.

  “I don’t know, Brother,” Fionn confessed. “But when it starts growing, I need to pick it up like a plough and work it until it breaks!”

  Rolling up a sleeve, Dónal eyed Fionn’s forearm. Blond hairs covered his limb and sprouted from his armpit. Dónal frowned and kept his thoughts private. Irish youths rarely inherit such soft, light fur. Fionn was clearly a bastard child, his mother the victim of a Nordic raid twenty years prior. There were many such bastards farming the land, begotten by aroused Norsemen who traveled as troubadours in disguise or pretended to be lost in this infertile land while they secretly scouted villages in anticipation of attack. They played their tin whistles in the ear and bosom of any farmer’s wife and planted their oppressive seed too deep to uproot. Dónal could hear Fionn’s mother cry out and her clit twitch as the fake troubadour startled her with the size of his jangling flute!

  “Brother Dónal!” Fionn cried. “It’s growing again!”

  Fionn exhibited no self-control. He let his woollen trousers drop to his boots and spread his thighs. Between them, his swollen cock rose from a flurry of blond hairs and dominated his waist like a flesh-pink altar.

  “Put that away, Satan!”

  “I can’t! It’s too late!”

  By the size of the member, Dónal understood at once what afflicted Fionn. A field fiend! The malevolent spirit of a peasant or vagabond who had died by the impaling kick of a donkey or ass! It had locked itself inside Fionn’s body, probably when the boy was pissing or squatting too low to the earth. It possessed him through that rear orifice and encouraged wild, animal cravings in his gut. Fionn’s manhood grew engorged, filling with all the unruly lusts of the fallen spirit. His wide thighs extended farther, supporting a boner that loomed in the air, claiming the center of the oratory and mocking the sacred vessels that Dónal so highly revered.

  Fionn clutched his cock.

  His face grew red.

  He began jerking wildly.

  “Let go of that abomination!” Dónal warned.

  Fionn clasped his hands behind his back, wrenching and squirming on the edge of the stool. The hand job in the field was not enough. Fionn’s cock perched on his lap like a billowy gargoyle and demanded deliverance of its own device, in a sanctified hole that secretly desired damnation. The sacred oratory was inimical to the phallus as it slithered about Fionn’s lap, seething with cursed juices, and sensing the penitent Brother.

  “Insula sacra!” Brother Dónal gasped.

  The possessed penis hissed.

  “Fiendish spectre abiding in this boy, I cast you out!”

  The
sneering serpent fluttered its golden scales burning irreverently in the candlelight. When it saw Dónal, it shrieked. Its pink head pierced the atmosphere. It began blandishing scorching ejaculations at the Brother, contaminating his robe.

  Dónal hid behind his hood as he was assaulted with cum. He reached for a weapon, his manuscript pen or book of prayers. But these instruments had not prepared him for the lewd testament. How do you observe prayer with a provoked peter?

  Rocking upon his knees and chanting a verse, Dónal recalled his novitiate days at the Monastery, where he was routinely chastened for being too radical a monk. He once solicited the Abbot for extracurricular favors, such as inviting celebrity clergymen to the cloister or hosting Gaelic saga readings in the cellar. His attempted worldliness may have perturbed his Order, but they never conceived he would one day hear the confessions of a man’s loins or presumed he would endure such a carnal covenant. There were no passages in The Book of Kells instructing a shepherd on taming this sort of sheep. Perhaps in the Egyptian Book of the Dead?

  At once, the repressed energies in the oratory convulsed. The diabolical dick sought a virgin to impregnate. With each fiery discharge, Fionn’s seed perverted the century of prayer that protected the oratory. Following the path of a thousand martyrs, Dónal stood alone; no sermon could shield him. Dodging the dick-eye but covered in cum, Dónal’s own unspeakable cravings awoke from the prison of his vows.

  Not long ago, in Dublin, he had seen the cock of a cleric slip out of hiding in broad daylight to fuck a whore in the alley beside the chapel. Dónal had witnessed the accursed assault firsthand and secretly desired it for himself. He wished he had been that insatiable harlot, wearing her cheap amulets and receiving the cleric’s charity in his own gaping asshole. The forbidden vision haunted him, preying upon his days, until he begged the Bishop to be sent away, far away, to the barren cliffs of the West Coast where he could purify his soul from all temptation.

  Now, lifting his hood, he was arrested by spiritual agony. The sight of Fionn’s muscular appendage invited him. He witnessed drops of semen capture in Fionn’s navel, daring the holy man to taste and drink it with his dry lips. Dónal would be damned if he cocksucked the youth and received this unsaved pollution! But the beautiful bastard boy had interrupted his prayers with courageous fervency. Did he know the Normans were advancing? Had the villagers spread the news? Perhaps this was a test before the Norman conquest? A message must be sent to Dublin!

  “Cleanse me, Brother!” Fionn moaned, thrashing his legs about the stool.

  The hot semen boiling in his testicles bubbled for release. Fionn pulled his balls apart with a helpless hand. He glanced at the Brother and jiggled his nuts. His gesture delayed the frenzy of cum from escaping too soon before it could be blessed.

  With sudden bedevilment, Dónal dove unto Fionn’s thick crotch, rejecting the chastity of his Order for the nutrients of Today. He swallowed the pleasures of the male flesh as they exploded in full bloom before him. The naked contour of the young man’s thighs met his hands as he plunged his mouth atop the swollen genitals. He sucked the two bastard balls between his lips and showered each cum-sealed chalice with delicate kisses, biting the nuts in order to rupture the seed. Then he worshiped with gross display the altar of manhood, which stood as full and luminous as the concupiscent characters in his manuscript pages. Irish cock! Farmer cock! The holy vessel of man! Dónal surprised his heathen lover as he unashamedly growled for joy.

  Then Dónal froze, his lips lathered, staring at Fionn. He must not continue. He must not risk damnation. Atop the roughened ballsac, glistening with Dónal’s blessing, stood the shrine of Succubus, the Devil’s own scythe, an unrepentant dick coveting its first blow job! After years of denial, the vessel of all mortal foil towered before him, Fionn’s hard penis, bouncing to be blown. Fionn moaned as Dónal dove deeper to chew each aching testicle, frightened to finish the ultimate task. With coarse palms, Fionn buried the Brother’s face into his golden pubes in order for the monk to savour the sticky sweat of his plough.

  And Dónal fell in that moment. He fell farther than the parchment on which he blasphemed. He swallowed Fionn’s penis and worshipped its length as dearly as he made love to his relics on many a lonely night. He squeezed it in his hand; he jerked it from base to head; he smeared his lips with the yielded pre-cum. Fionn’s barbaric club responded, beating Dónal’s face and purging a preliminary load across his brow. The dick-eye glowered menacingly and sought complete entrance into Dónal’s throat.

  Hastily, Dónal cocksucked his young parishioner before the gods could intervene. The candlelight scarcely observed the deed, keeping the despicable dinner hidden. Dónal’s jaw locked around the pulsing prick and blew it repeatedly. So long and ripe! So pink and fleshy! This bastard’s flute was clearly the instrument of devilry, sent to earth to condemn Dónal. And the cum-lust Dónal was experiencing, the heightened obedience to his new master, seduced him utterly. He immersed himself in his bodily reward, ignoring the odious noises exhaling from his lover’s chest.

  Young Fionn gripped the stool and humped Dónal’s lips. The innocence of his arrival had degenerated. He began to speak cruelly, face-fucking the man while spitting insults at the monk. An ancient Celtic dialect, known only to field fiends and exhumed spirits, echoed through the oratory as Fionn blasted a tirade of obscenities, exorcising the confessional of its sacred precepts.

  “You depraved swine!” Fionn called. “You monastic snake! My father says you are an emasculated goat, prostituting your beliefs on the farthest coasts of Ireland because you are unfit to breed! Don’t you remember that your father was a man? He ravished that whore you call mother so she could produce a coin-earning son, not a salacious saint! He should have tossed his only child on a spike rather than see him grow up to be the male-sucking pig you are now, ally only to a farmer’s anus!”

  “No, it’s not true!” Dónal cried, as he sucked harder.

  “You are a poisonous potato! You lie in the earth with the worms, baking in this unclean oratory. By the glow of your candles you abide, blistering with all your spoils, when I should grease that candle and shove it up your butt!”

  Dónal suffered greatly then. Not by Fionn’s sentiments, which he could barely hear at this point, but by the massive hard-on pounding vehemently in his throat. The youth was severely aroused, past his previous anxiety, and dominating the monk’s mouth with a succession of charging thrusts. Each cum-fueled stab impaled Dónal until he could no longer breathe.

  “Suck it like a Succubus!”

  Fionn’s prick did not adhere to the natural principles of a healthy youth. It curled and uncurled, now pink, now red, thrashing repeatedly between Dónal’s lips, which were dry from years of exaltation. Then it untangled into a fork and Fionn cock-fed the parched mounds as if he were gorging the baker’s daughter, fattening the monk with his bodily beliefs, his uncivilized faiths, and lording over tongue and throat with a prick that fumed of all the appetites of an overcharged farmer.

  “Your mouth gasps for meat!” Fionn growled, laying his hands on Dónal’s head. He urged Dónal to deep-throat the immoral feast. “Since you suffer, let me confess my sins in your backside. Let me canonize you on the ground in the filth where you belong.”

  The moaning monk gulped the loosened seed that escaped Fionn’s prick. He begged Fionn to wait, strangling each testicle to unload its miracles. Fionn pushed him down upon the stony earth, where Dónal writhed in mute agony, his teeth gnashing at the vacancy in his mouth. He had hoped for all of Fionn’s fuck-fluid, to hear another string of abuses while finally digesting the delights of rural male cum. But Fionn stood over him, spanking and jerking his tremendous plough.

  “You let me in, you horrible hypocrite!” Fionn barked. He kicked the thick layers of Dónal’s robe. “Servant of St. Succubus! Brother of St. Snake! You’ve shown me your fangs. Now take off the shroud that conceals your impotent loin and let me reform your pinching hole!”

  “No!”
Dónal shrieked, untying his robe.

  Dónal struggled beneath Fionn’s trampling boots, quickly removing his long-flowing habit to reveal a lean body, white as a ghost and celebrating its decadent vigil with a hard-on pointed directly at Fionn.

  The boy scowled, fitting a boot on Dónal’s crotch.

  “Turn around! This time you won’t leave your anointments in the forest where you spy on our poor! You’ll spill it upon your own foul bed!”

  Fionn stroked his stake and stepped out of his boots as Dónal prostrated himself face-down on the damp earth. Dónal knew he was assuming an unholy position between men, yet he did not dispute it nor intervene to oppose it. Like a groveling dog, he waited for his master to lie on top of him. He spread his ass cheeks with his fingers and widened his hole with a long, dark fingernail.

  Fionn crawled on top of the monk and drove his weapon between their hips. He rode the space between them for a while, warming Dónal’s tight virgin void. Then he impaled the Brother violently, straight into his opening.

  Dónal squealed wretchedly. His face burrowed into the stony ground. Their bodies became one as the barbaric farmer hammered his cock into the monk’s butt. Dónal squirmed under the desperate plunges. His rear resisted at first, vaulting upwards into the air, then surrendered as Fionn persevered, mercilessly submerging his pagan organ into the bowels of the clergyman.

  Terrestrial howls accompanied their grind; voices from the sea smashed against the bleak cliffs outside the oratory. The Celtic fiend possessing Fionn despised the authority of the Cloth and preferred the bright flow of blood. This primitive soul was the antecedent to the enlightened demons that centuries later would walk the streets of Dublin. It invaded the monk through Fionn, riding the holy man aggressively, hearing his cries of lost chastity before drawing his blood.