Autofellatio (Part One)

"Dearly beloved. . . ." The minister's words echoed through the church and bounced across the tile floor where I huddled. My knees were clenched together, my heels pressed close to my ass. I hugged my legs, and rested my chin on my knees. At that age of thirteen I already had what seemed like a crazy amount of blond hair beginning to grow from my legs; it tickled my chest and face as I sat there, naked from head to foot and shivering in the chill, in the sacristy.

He had one of those old-fashioned, stentorian preacher's voices, did that old man. He was a good man, a true and upstanding Southern gentleman, gentle and kind and quick with a smile. But his face could dour at the pulpit, his jaw square like a blunt weapon, his eyes the color of cold steel. He never spoke, when he was in the echoing white chamber that was our Presbyterian sanctuary. He declaimed. "I now pronounce you. . . ." he said, letting the words ring out and trail off in the perfect acoustics. "And then, of course, the recessional." I heard the appreciative murmuring of a pair of voices.

It wasn't a real wedding. It wasn't even a rehearsal, in the traditional sense of the word. The minister of the protestant church in which I'd grown up was meeting with a potential bride and groom to show them how many people they might expect to seat, how long the walk down the aisle, how beautifully he enunciated.

And I sat there, nude and alone in that sacristy among the metal trays that held the tiny shot glasses for communion grape juice, and boxes of white candles for the services, and the banners made of felt and glue from other church seasons, wondering how long I might have to be there, and if I dared sneak down the back stairs that led to the Sunday school rooms, and whether I'd have to flee from the emergency exit wrapped in a blue-and-gold felt creation emblazoned with craft chickadees and the words He Made Their Tiny Wings.

I'd done a dumb thing, even for a thirteen-year-old. Every Wednesday, my church sponsored an afternoon of activities for the youth in the congregation. Crafts. Choir. Dinner. Prayer of a low-key, Godspell-inflected sort. For some reason that particular semester, I wasn't participating in the choir. My mom might have been in one of her frequent feuds with the choir master, or I might have had some kind of extracurricular conflict on Sunday mornings. All I really remember is that for that winter and spring, while the rest of my peers trooped dutifully down into the basement beneath the sanctuary for choir rehearsal, I had time on my hands.

Usually I helped out in the kitchens getting dinner ready in the other church building, during that long ninety-minute stretch. The arrangement gave me something to do, and kept my mom's stern eye on me. That night, though, with all the little kids safely in the education building and my peers entombed deep in the church's bowels in the choir room, I'd decided to strip down in the church sanctuary and run around nude. Just for the blasphemous thrill of it.

I'd shucked my sweater and shirt and jeans and tucked them beneath one of the pews, and placed my shoes and tube socks on top, out of sight. In the gray dusk of the shuttered sanctuary, I then proceeded to run around with the chilly air raising gooseflesh on my young skin. I stood at pulpit with my hands on the side, like the minister, and waggled my dick at an imaginary audience. I sat on the altar—tentatively at first, as if my naked ass was really going to offend the Lord, and then with confidence enough to lie across it as if I were either the offering or the communion feast.

Once the thrill of being nude in an unexpected place had worn off, and I'd forgotten that I was still without clothing, I heard the minister and the bride and groom enter. I'd been exploring the rooms behind the altar area, just to see what was back there, when the lights had gone on and I'd heard the voices. It was then, separated from my clothing by a single door and good forty feet, that I realized exactly how dumb I'd been.

The minister and the couple didn't seem as if they were going to be coming back to the sacristy, though if they had, I was prepared to scamper down the stairs and into the basement. Too close for comfort with the choir still rehearsing down the hallway, but a better option than discovery. In the meantime, though, I huddled on the clammy tiles for warmth, and hoped they'd go away.

They didn't, not for a very long time. Whatever business they had at the altar end of the church took only a few minutes, but then they settled into one of the last pews near the exit and proceeded to have a very long, and very serious talk. I couldn't hear whatever the heck they were saying, but it didn't sound like they were going anywhere anytime soon.

So for some reason—I can't really claim my logic here was faultless—I decided to do what any thirteen-year-old boy does when he's naked and alone and bored. I jacked off. And for some reason, I decided to do it a little differently that time.

I remember that session very, very clearly. The back stairs to the basement level dead-ended near the sacristy wall. And for whatever reason, I decided to jerk off upside-down. Because I could, I guess. I did a shoulder-stand of sorts; my legs and hips leaned against the wall, with all my weight concentrated onto my neck and shoulders below. From there it seemed quite natural to let my legs dangle back, over my head, so that my dick was pointed down toward my face. This was before the age of easily-accessible porn, of course, so I'd never seen anyone in this exact position before. It seemed pretty exotic to me. I liked the visual stimulus of seeing my cock head so close to my face; I got a good view of how red and stiff it was as I jacked.

I've always pumped out a lot of precum, ever since I started playing with myself. Watching beads of the stuff form from my slit and then slowly drip out absorbed me. At first I thought to avoid the dripping ooze, but then it occured to me to hold out my tongue and catch it as it fell.

From there, it seemed logical to shoot in my mouth. Again. I don't know how I made that leap. But there it was.

It never took me long to work up a load in those days. I thought about some of the dicks I'd sucked that week, and soon I was panting and working up a good buzz. My head was a little weightless and dizzy from all the blood rushing down. By the time I came, moments later, I was panting and shaking. The conviction that I was doing something naughty and shocking and maybe even vaguely sacrilegious made my orgasm all the better. When the cum came, it splattered my face and hair but mostly landed in my mouth. I gulped it down, aware that I'd found a new way to get myself off.

Then, when the coast was clear and I'd wiped the remains of my sperm onto a paper towel I'd found near the sink, I crept back out, retrieved my clothing, and sauntered into the kitchens in the education building with an expression of pure innocence.

My mind was working overtime at that point, though. My dick had been so close to my mouth, when I'd been jacking myself back there. Would it be possible—? No, surely not. I'd never known of anyone to do such a thing before, jaded little whore I was at that age. Surely no one was physically capable of sucking himself. It didn't seem right. It was almost too good to be true.

That's why I decided, at the very next opportunity, to give it a try.