I keep my voice steady because I’m good at that. I’m very good on stage. No matter what happens, I never fail to keep my body in stasis. So it’s alarming to feel sweat pop out along my forehead, on my back. A dull ache settles at the base of my throat, as if an invisible blade is being pressed there.
No one will ever know, I tell myself. I can keep it so no one finds out.
I excuse myself and move toward the men’s room.* * *Vance
Hey, hey!
I prop my feet up on the railing and lean back in my deck chair, cheesin’ like a fool.
He saw it. Took him four damn hours, but he finally watched the video I posted to my Instagram stories. I watch it again, checking out my back and chest—on display because I pulled my shirt off for the video. Looking pretty good, if I do say so. I’ve been hitting the gym more, motivated by him. In the vid, I’m painting the base layer of the ocean where his yacht will float, but he can’t see that yet. What he mostly sees is my flexed bicep as I move the brush.
Whacha think about it, preacher man?
My cheeks hurt from the stupid smile I can’t get rid of as I click to his page. Nothing new. The last post was a shot of construction on his church’s sprawling campus. That was three days ago. I click to the page of pictures other people tagged him in. Just one new shot of him looking A-list good behind a podium.
Since he started watching my stories out of the blue a couple weeks ago—and I started stalking him back—he’s been to Portland, Dallas, St. Louis, Atlanta, Charlotte, and Colorado Springs as part of a tour to promote his new book, which released in July. For a few nights, people posted multiple pictures from each event, making it possible for me to follow along.
Good ole Pastor Luke. He’s got a blue-check mark and 16 million followers.
I scroll to an older image on his page, situated two rows below the construction one. It’s a shot of him making a wide-eyed face on a radio show. He looks loose and happy. Relaxed. Like he’s in his element, I guess. I scroll to another picture I’ve mentally bookmarked—this one of him shirtless, covered in pie, sitting in that little chair above a dunk tank.
My dick stiffens at the sight of his nipple ringed by goopy pie topping. I zoom in on his pants—they’re black athletic pants—and I swear I can see his bulge. I press a palm over my own.
Fuck me.
I shift in my deck chair, navigate to someone else’s page, but I’m back at his page literally a minute later. I scroll through dozens of pictures of my preacher guy standing behind podiums, getting onto and off jets, and shaking hands with politicians. I stop at another image I know well—one of him in trunks and a tank top in front of the Dead Sea. Again, I zoom in, smirking at my own unfounded belief that I can see the outline of his dick alongside a crease in his swimsuit.
I prop my ankle on my knee and rub myself through the denim of my dark jeans. I meld my hand around my cock until it’s throbbing. Every time I shift my hips, my dick’s head rubs the cotton of my boxer-briefs until I’m panting.
Then I walk inside on weak legs, get out a new canvas, and, with my sweaty hand, I start to paint. I remember every contour of his body. Even when I’ve wanted to forget, I haven’t been able to. Since he started showing up on my Instagram story viewers log, I’ve been hardcore perving on him, beating off to memories of his cock in my mouth, wondering if I’ll be tossed into the fiery pits for sending dick pics to a pastor…
In addition to being one of the most important spiritual leaders of our times, Luke is also a rich boy. Would he appreciate a dick pic? Maybe. Probably. But I’ve got something better: a dick painting—of his lock, thick cock and big balls.
That’s where I start, and I don’t skimp on the details. I work up from there, fleshing out his body-builder abs and pecs and shoulders. What business does a preacher man have being so fucking cut?
I record the canvas on a video and start another quick work—this one of his face as he sucks me off. I close his eyes and paint his cheekbones high. Then I do his thick throat, making sure to get his Adam’s apple in there. That’s it… I smirk. He looks like he’s choking on it. I paint my fingers, clutching his golden locks.
I take a video of this one, too, and cup my balls and stroke my cock.