Friday, November 9, 2012


Chuck Willman is a self-taught writer with poems and essays published widely. He loves hiking naked in the desert, painting, and hanging with his dog. Chuck lives in Las Vegas with his partner of 24 years.




Two vodka martinis from the bar nearby made me hear the calling to my

own Gethsemane that night, a blood-red splashed, black back room—

half a block from the bar—willing to be crucified; ready to meet Him. I wore


thorns scribbled in black ink across my smooth chest: POZ – USE – PLEASE,

and a stained, come-crusted, piss-damp jockstrap wafting its sweet and sour

scent behind as I walked, making my procession to the only place I knew 


Disciples were waiting for that ritual we all hungered for. Once there, calm

and sure in my judgment, a large, nude hirsute body (Pilate?) slowly stepped

forward out of the shadows, leading me to the black wooden St. Andrew’s


cross in the corner, a spread-eagled wallflower standing upright, alone, as if

waiting for the right partner to dance with. Face the wall, the behemoth growled

into my ear. Sensing I was a virgin at this, he forced me around and secured my


thin wrists and ankles tightly onto the crossed wood with thick, prickly rope

that burned my fresh tender flesh, digging into my skinny arms and legs like

barbed wire or nails, my willowy body twitching in excited anticipation and


pain. His enormous hand hovered over my spine—sending chills through every

nerve, my stiffening cock scraping against its damp restraint—before sliding his

paw down to caress the white cheeks of my ass. THWACK!—came a sudden blow.


I yelped, startled, my ass on fire and stretched body quivering. He palmed my

tightened butt before surprising me with another—THWACK! I screamed louder

this time, the pain shooting through my entire body. Massaging me roughly, he


grunted a firm order into my ear, No sounds. No sounds—THWACK! THWACK!—

a ruthless slap to each tight cheek again. But I bit my lip, silent, head spinning from

the blissful ache. He removed the black leather riding crop from the wall, making 


me stare at its thick flat end first before pressing it against me, then sliding it up and

down my ribcage, flicking it softly once in the middle of my back. I squirmed, but the

rope cut into my wrists as my hair was grabbed while a bottle of poppers was stuck


under my nose—a Molotov cocktail exploding in my brain—my next desperate breath

making my eyes roll back, and any desire to fight cease. The leather landed sharply

again in the same place, the thrash now a blend of excruciating pain and wicked joy.


Seconds passed. Then several hands rubbed and pinched my bare skin, kissing the rising

pink welts and worshipping me by stroking and pinching my trembling torso as I hugged

the cross. My cock ached, longing to be freed from its cage while the flogging continued.


All twelve Disciples passed the crop. Thirty-nine lashes across my back and ass caused an

odd, numbing sting as my skin split open, forming raised, purple gashes and small dashes

of blood resembling the assiduous lines of stitches in homemade quilts, or tiny carats of


delicately carved, sparkling rubies. It was almost unbearable, but far more exhilarating.

New, my front was spared. Instead, four Disciples untied my limbs, releasing me from

the cross to drag me to their black leather altar, swinging by chains from rafters. My jock


was ripped from my legs as my wrists and ankles were once again nailed in place, this

time with leather straps that were even tighter, though I barely felt their burn as my jock

was soaked in poppers and placed over my face. Breathing in this intoxicating potion


made the smoldering welts on my back against the wide leather straps of the dangling,

merciless table feel more intense and pleasurable. Carcass-hung, I was the offering; they

lapped my entire body with their wet tongues like wolves softening the hide of a kill.


Faceless, growling men began their feeding; fingers burrowed deep into my ass, prying

it open and mouths eating my insides clean, slobber hanging, claiming place settings for

this Last Supper. Eyes wild-wide, my prayers to be devoured were answered when fat


cocks and nimble hands took turns ramming and exploring, stretching my starving hole.

My Disciples brutally sliced into my writhing torso at both ends until my mind ascended

above my body, watching as they stabbed what was stone for far too long. My mouth was


held open by thick fingers, becoming their spittoon and bottomless chalice, raping my

inverted throat, sliding cocks deep down, slicking them up, saliva-soaked, rigid, ready,

gagging me until I spit up their rancid wine. Then one by one they lined up to bathe my


gut—a ravaged, stained collection plate—feeding me what spilled out: my own blood and

the rich honey churned with the greasy seed of all who had denigrated my temple. Cocks

and fingers were crammed into my mouth, and I choked down exactly what I had come for,


then was baptized again, fucked clean with their sour fluids—hosed off, soothed by their

warmth. Fountains of piss rinsed my mouth for more skull-fucking, semen and saliva leak-

ing from my lips—force-fed this, too. Then (Judas?) unhooked my weary, aching limbs,


and my own throbbing cock was finally attended, erupting all over myself, leaving me spent

and shaking. Tears ran down my slimy face as every single gash, prick, and thorn had been                                                             transcendent, delivering me to Heaven.



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