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Sindone, by The Nasty Parrot (M/M, oral, anal, mystery)
I held my breath as the guard walked past. Over the last couple of weeks I had been living on my wits. When the door creaked shut, I let it out. It was time for me to move.
With as much courage as I could muster, I poked my head out from under the laundry basket lid. I looked around, but there was not much to see. The sole light in the room came from under the cell door across the hallway. The light flickered as movement emerged from inside.
Gingerly, I removed myself from the basket and proceeded to the doorway. I punched in the six-digit code that had been provided to me and heard the click. I sucked in my breath and entered into the room.
"Father Pio?" I said softly, covering my gaze briefly. Despite the softness of the light in the room, my hours spent in the laundry basket left me blinded as I looked into the room.
"Yes," creaked a voice from the floor. I looked down and saw the elderly priest sitting on the floor. His collar frayed and his body a contortion. Although only in his late fifties, he looked decades older. How he ended up in this situation was something I was here to discover.
"My name is Mike Torino," I explained, my voice still barely above a whisper, "I'm a reporter with the National Reporter. I've come here to ask you about the Sindone project."
The priest's eyes bulged out and he let out a gasp. "Sindone," he growled, his voice a mixture of fear and amazement, "la sacra Sindone."
Over the next half hour, I asked the old man as many questions as I could, making as many notes as I could, but it was hard. He had a story to tell, but wouldn't reveal it. He was too damn scared. The time I was able to spend alone in the room with him was drawing near, but I finally coaxed him off the floor, assisting him as I moved his small frail body moved to a small writing table.
Father Pio demanded my pen and, with it, he wrote down a phone number. It was somewhere in Washingt5on, D.C., I could tell by the area code.
"Tell him. . . tell him, you have money and want to meet him," said the priest, who began to cough incessantly.
Finally recovering, he said "once you meet him, you will understand."
I picked up the phone and dialed. The comfort of the hotel was a departure from the dank cell I had left. As I heard the ringing on the other side, I visually checked all the equipment atop the desk. The sophisticated scrambler and routing device was lit up, the recording equipment in good order. . . I suddenly heard the other side pick up.
"Hello," came the soft voice from the other side.
"Um, hello," I grunted out. "I'd like to meet you. I have money."
"What time?" asked the sweet voice. I was having trouble figuring out if I was talking to a man or a woman.
"Uh, is now possible?"
"Sure," the voice responded, "where are you?"
Reluctantly, I gave the address of the hotel room. All my equipment was blinking green. If there was a tap, not even the CIA equipment could find it. But, still, this was dangerous.
I heard the knock on the door and arose from my chair. From behind the door, I peered through the keyhole. There was only one person out there. Or at least it only seemed to be one person. Holding my breath, I opened the door slowly.
On the other side of the door was a frail young man. Brown haired, he bore a thin face, longish hair and the wisps of hair in a poorly cultivated goatee. I could tell that he didn't have to shave all that often. Late teens perhaps. His dress was Bohemian, a throwback to the sixties hippies, it seemed.
"Hi, I'm Aaron," said the boy, his voice as delicate and effeminate as the rest of his body. With the skill of a pro, he walked into the room and plopped himself down on the bed.
"This has to be quick," he explained, "my boyfriend and I are going out dancing."
I nodded. "I understand."
"Could you put the money on the night stand over there," he said as he started removing his clothing. I did as he asked and walked back over to him. By this time the youth was nude, a patch of barely visible pubic hair under his arms and around his groin was the only confirmation I had that he was actually an adult.
The teen grabbed my belt and began removing my trousers. I trembled, never having been in this predicament before. I watched Aaron's eyes as he uncovered my cock and balls from their covering.
"Oh, they're huge!" he practically squealed, as he took my still softened shaft into his mouth.
From there, it was a torrent of sexual activity as the youth serviced me and allowed me to penetrate his anus. I released into the youth as I pounded his frail body, his voice moaning pleasure as I raped his ass.
My seed spent, I relaxed atop the youth until my cock, sufficiently softened, plopped out of the boy's well worn hole. After only a few seconds, Aaron shimmied out frm underneath me.
The boy took the money from the night stand and dressed quickly.
"Ta-ta," he said at the door as he blew me a kiss. I fell back on the bed and covered my eyes.
I mustered up enough strength to pull myself out of bed. Still nude, I went over to my lap top, opened it and began going through my notes.
The first part of my story was already completed and saved, the background part. I describe how Father Pio, a respected physician working directly for the Vatican had been assigned to the Archdiocese of Turin in 1978 as one of the first acts of the newly enthroned Pope John Paul II. There he and a team he assembled was charged with investigating what the Italians called "Il Sindone" -- The Shroud.
A little too ahead of his time, Father Pio's team managed to isolate a single fossilized white blood cell from the debris. The chromosomal material was removed and then cultivated, a young woman's womb was carefully chosen and the experiment began.
I started to write the next part and the snappy headline hit me: The Second Coming. . . Out?
END