"Good morning, lover boy," Paul said as he wrapped his arms around me, as I stood having a cigarette on the patio.
My cigarette glowed red in the pre-dawn darkness while my bare feet stuck to the dew-covered patio tiles. My nightshirt was sticking to my back with sweat despite the chill, and I loved it when Paul embraced me. "Lover boy, hey?"
“Well, yes, it's true, and you are my love,” Paul declared as his fingers felt cold against my skin as they slid beneath the hem of my nightshirt, tracing upward along my thighs before curling possessively around my balls.
I exhaled smoke through my nose, watching it disperse into the early morning air. "Gosh, your hands are freezing, Paul."
Paul chuckled as he suggested, "You can always warm them up with your warm water, Steve, if you fancy, and it will deal with that morning wood."
"It's a bit early, isn't it, Paul? It's not even 6.15am yet."
"Not really, and you know I love it when you do it."
I could tell that Paul was grinning as his fingers tightened just enough to make me inhale sharply. The cigarette trembled between my fingers as he leaned in, his breath warm against my ear. "Besides," he murmured, "you always say no at first, but I know you love it too."
My pulse quickened under his touch. The scent of nicotine mingled with the damp earthiness of morning, but beneath it all was that familiar musk, sweat and skin and something unmistakably Paul. He was right, of course. Something was thrilling about the way he craved it, how his body trembled when I gave in, and how his breath hitched just before the warmth spilt over him.
His fingers anchored me firmly, keeping my hips still as I exhaled slowly. The first trickle was tentative, hesitant, almost shy, but then Paul made a noise low in his throat, a sound halfway between encouragement and greed, and suddenly my bladder obeyed. Hot liquid splashed up against my stomach, dripping down in rivulets toward his knuckles. He exhaled sharply against my neck, his grip tightening just enough to keep me angled right where he wanted the flow to go.
"Fuck, that's good," he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. I could feel his cock pressed hard against the small of my back, insistent and eager. The mess spread between us, sticky and intimate, the sharp tang of urine cutting through the morning air. My knees wobbled slightly, not from shame but from the sheer intensity of the way he controlled it, controlled me, his fingers working in slow circles at the base of my shaft.
The fabric of my nightshirt became even more wet as he directed the flow like a hosepipe, the warm water cascading down my shaft onto his fingers. As the flow increased, he played with his fingers, allowing the flow to eventually run down my stomach, only to land on my feet, splashing his own at the same time.
The smell was arousing, as my senses heightened with desire. When I finally finished, Paul ran his fingers up my sternum, lapping at the wetness clinging to my skin. His tongue was hot against me, tasting, claiming. "See?" he said, voice smug. "Told you you'd love it."
And damn him, he wasn’t wrong. The patio tiles were still cool underfoot, the dawn light creeping slowly and pink over the horizon, but all I could focus on was the way his breath felt against my neck, and the way his teeth grazed my collarbone right after.
I turned around and kissed him, my fingers grabbing his erection under his nightshirt. "My my," I said, my mouth curling against his, "what have we got here?"
His laugh was sensual and breathless, as I dropped to my knees, pushing my head under the cotton fabric of his own nightshirt, taking his cock in my mouth. The taste of him was familiar, salt and musk and skin, and I groaned low in my throat as he rocked his hips forward. Paul pushed my nightshirt over my shoulders, letting it drop until there I was, bare-assed, knees pressed into the dew-slick tiles, with my nightshirt pooled around my calves while his fingers twisted tight into my hair.
He wasn’t gentle. Not that I wanted him to be. His grip was insistent, guiding me deeper, faster, until my throat strained around him. I could feel the way his thighs trembled, the way his breathing fractured into sharp, punched-out gasps every time I hollowed my cheeks. Above me, the sky was lightening, the first real streaks of gold cutting through the indigo, and I thought, absurdly, of how the neighbours might see us, how the steam rose faintly off my skin, how Paul’s fingers were playing in my hair.
Then he cursed, low and filthy, and I knew he was close. His hips stuttered, his cock twitching against my tongue, and I could taste the sharpness of him, the way his breath hitched right before he came.
He didn’t warn me, he didn’t need to; he just held me there, throbbing as he spilt his man juice down my throat. When I pulled back, gasping, his fingers loosened, sliding down to cup my jaw. His thumb swiped at the mess on my lower lip, and he grinned, all teeth and smug satisfaction. "Told you," he murmured again, voice wrecked.
Frustratingly, I was still hard, achingly so, kneeling there with the morning air cooling the sweat on my back. Paul’s gaze dropped, lingering, and his grin turned wicked. "Now," he said, "what are we going to do about that?" as he removed from his nightshirt pocket a tube of KY Jelly.
I stood up, and without warning, I lifted him off his feet and laid him on his back on the patio table. "You naughty man, you,” I said as I smeared the lubricant onto my urine-coated cock.
The patio table was cold beneath him, but his skin was fever-hot under my palms as I pushed him. His legs hit the edge with a soft thud, knees bending automatically, thighs falling open. The lube made a wet sound as I coated myself, mixing with the remnants of my release still clinging to my cock, and Paul shivered when I dragged the head of my cock through the mess slicking his inner thighs. "Fuck," he hissed, fingers scrabbling against the wrought iron table edge as I pressed in slow, so fucking slow, letting him feel every inch stretch him open.
The smell was thick in the air, musky, salty, the humid tang of sweat and lube, and I groaned, rolling my hips forward until our bodies locked flush. His muscles clenched around me like a vice, tight and perfect, and I had to pause for a second, my forehead dropping to his chest just to breathe. Paul’s fingers tangled in my hair, tugging, urging me up so he could kiss me. "Move," he growled against my lips, legs hooking around my waist, heels digging into my buttock cheeks.
So I did, move, the rhythm slow at first, deliberate, every thrust deep enough to pull a gasp from his throat, but as the sky bled from pink to gold, I fucked him harder, faster, until the table creaked beneath us. He arched up, meeting each push, his cock trapped between our stomachs, smearing wetness across his skin. The air smelled like sex and morning dew, and I could hear birds starting to sing somewhere in the distance, but all I cared about was the way Paul’s breath stuttered, the way his nails scored lines down my back. "Oh God," he panted, voice wrecked, and I wasn’t much better, my hips stuttering as the pressure coiled low in my gut.
The way his muscles clamped down around me was enough to tip me over the edge seconds later, my hips jerking erratically as I buried myself inside him one last time. My vision whited out, my grip bruising on his hips, and when I came back to myself, Paul was laughing softly beneath me, sweat-damp and sated, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my shoulders. "Morning," he murmured. "Nothing like starting the day with a bang."
I pulled out of him, both of us wincing at the sticky mess left on the table, but neither of us moved to clean it up just yet. The rising sun cast honeyed light across his chest, highlighting the scratches I'd left earlier, the bite mark just above his collarbone. His cock lay spent against his thigh, still glistening, and I couldn’t resist dragging my thumb through the mess, making him shiver. "You're filthy," I said, voice rough.
Paul grinned, stretching lazily beneath me, unashamed. "And whose fault is that?" he asked as his fingers trailed down my stomach, sticky with sweat and other things, before I caught his wrist and hauled him upright. He yelped as I tossed him over my shoulder, his toes brushing my stomach as his body bent over my shoulder, his laughter vibrating against my spine. My palm cracked smartly against his bottom, once, twice, and he gasped, from the sting of my hand on his bottom, but I could feel the way his thighs tensed, the way his fingers dug into my shoulder blades, that he was enjoying it. "Bastard," he muttered, breathless and giggling like a child. “You’re such a brute at this time of day, spanking your wife, poor and defenceless.”
"Poor and defenceless? Really? What we need now is a shower, young man and then....breakfast," I declared as I stepped out of my nightshirt, leaving it where it lay as I walked naked to the back door carrying the man I love, smacking his bottom in perfect time to each step I took.
The bathroom smelled of steam and citrus as hot water sluiced over our tangled limbs, washing away the sweat and stickiness of dawn’s mischief. Paul pressed his forehead against my shoulder, fingers tracing idle patterns down my spine as soap slid between us. His touch was softer now, tender, the sharp edges of desire smoothed into something languid and sweet. I could feel his heartbeat against my ribs, steady and warm, and for a moment, I just stood there, letting the water chase the suds down our bodies, breathing him in.
Turning off the shower, he reached for the towel, shaking it open with a snap before draping it over my shoulders. His hands lingered as he dried me, fingertips brushing the hollow of my collarbone, the curve of my hip, like he was memorising the shape of me. "You’re staring," I murmured, catching his wrist when he lingered too long at the dip of my lower back. He grinned, unrepentant, and dragged the towel down my thighs with deliberate slowness.
"Can’t help it," he said, pressing a kiss to my damp shoulder. "You’re ridiculously pretty when you’re all pink from the shower."
I snorted, flicking water at him with the edge of my towel. "Pretty? Really?"
Paul caught my wrist before I could retaliate again, his grin sharpening as he leaned in close. "Mm. Pretty and wet." His teeth grazed my earlobe, sending a shiver down my spine despite the steam still clinging to my skin. "Come on. Coffee won’t make itself."
The kitchen tiles were cool underfoot, the morning light streaming through the window above the sink and catching the dust motes dancing in the air. It smelled of old coffee grounds and the lingering sweetness of yesterday’s burnt toast. This was home, though, and this was our life.
Paul hip-checked me away from the counter when I reached for the beans. "Nu-uh. You make coffee like a caveman. I’ll do it," as his smirk was infuriatingly personal as he nudged me out of the way. "You sit down, I'll do it," he said.
I flopped onto a kitchen chair, the Church Times slipping across the table toward me with his help. “Read that and be quiet.”
The headline screamed about moral decay in modern society, and I snorted, flipping to the letters page. Someone from Sussex was furious about yoga classes being held in parish halls. The irony wasn’t lost on me, naked and half-hard, watching Paul grind coffee beans with his bare arse catching the sunlight.
Breakfast was finished, and as normal, Paul had prepared my clothes for the day. "You're putting me in black again, aren't you?" I said, chuckling as he returned with a neatly pressed cassock draped over one arm. The fabric smelled of lavender and starch, a lingering reminder of his mother’s obsessive influence.
"Of course I am. Black is your colour, as you know," he declared as his fingers brushed my collarbone. "Now, stand up and let me get you dressed; otherwise, you’ll be late."
I stood up, used to the ministrations of Paul, who insisted on dressing me every day and over time, I had got used to his needs, and I actually enjoyed the process now.
First, he slipped my white classic briefs up, tucking in my, his owned, manhood. Then my socks, vest, and finally my black cassock and dog collar. Yes, the uniform of a parish vicar and one of the advantages of being a vicar, the commute to work was 60 seconds as I left the Vicarage and walked to the church.
The congregation had grown since I had taken over 10 years earlier, and now the pews were almost full every Sunday. Likewise, various programmes and outreach workshops had changed things within the parish, and now, village and parish support was rock solid. On a personal level, the parishioners had accepted Paul warmly into the community after our marriage in the church by the Bishop. To Paul's credit, he had made huge inroads in his role as my partner or should I say, my wife, and many people gravitated towards him for non-ecclesiastical opinions and support, so he found himself, like me, busy every day.
I was enjoying normality in my office when Richard Shaw knocked on the door just as I was finishing a sermon on forgiveness for Sunday. I was intrigued. Richard was a tall lad, broad-shouldered from working on his father's farm since leaving school at 16. But the confident swagger I'd grown accustomed to seeing was absent today. His usual easy smile was replaced by a tight-lipped frown, and his hands, calloused and strong, twisted nervously in front of him as he stepped inside.
"Good morning, Richard, how are you?" I asked, taking note he wasn't his normal self.
"Morning, Father," he muttered, shifting his weight between his boots. The scent of fresh earth and hay clung to his clothes, mingling with the faint metallic tang of sweat having come straight from the fields, I assumed.
I folded my sermon notes carefully, watching his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. Sunlight through the stained-glass window painted shifting blues and reds across his clenched fists. "Sit down, lad," I said, nudging the chair opposite with my foot. "Unless you'd rather confess standing up?"
Richard's laugh was brittle as he sank onto the chair, knees splayed wide like he didn't know what to do with his height. "Not.... not that kind of confession, Father, although I do have a confession of sorts."
"Fair enough," I responded. "So, what did you wish to discuss?"
Richard exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing against his knees before gripping the fabric of his work trousers. "Father, I…." He hesitated, his gaze darting to the crucifix on the wall behind me before settling back on his own boots. "Why do I have the urge to be given a bare bottom spanking from a man, as I am a man?" The words tumbled out in a rush, his cheeks flushing a deep red that clashed violently with his sunburnt neck.
"Well," I said, keeping my voice steady, "that's certainly... specific."
Richard's shoulders hunched further, his fingers digging into his thighs. The confession hung between us like a struck bell still vibrating raw and impossible to ignore.
"My dad....spanked me," Richard started as his voice cracked, rough as splintered wood. "From when I was knee-high to a grasshopper till I left school. Always said it was to make a man of me."
"I get that knowing your father," I responded as I watched him rub absently at a faded scar on his knuckle, a childhood injury, maybe, I wondered, waiting for Richard to continue.
"But after...” he continued, “I'd lie there on my bed with my arse still stinging and feeling..." pausing while he swallowed hard, eyes flicking up to mine for half a heartbeat before darting away again. "Happy and focused. And then I met my boyfriend, hoping he would continue the......."
The confession trailed off, but the implication lingered in the dusty office air between us. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, marking the stretch of silence as Richard's fingers worried at a loose thread on his trousers.
"I'm assuming, Richard, that your boyfriend does spank you as you desire. Tell me, is the spanking a sexual thing or something else?" I asked, tapping my fingers slowly on the desk, the oak creaked faintly under my touch.
Richard's throat worked silently before he rasped, "Both, Father, with Jamie. Discipline first, then..." His fist clenched so tight the knuckles popped. "Christ, I don't know. Afterwards, it's like my head clears for a minute and then..." He gestured vaguely toward his groin, face scarlet. "Mostly, I need a spanking for other reasons and not to satisfy my sexual desires."
“Richard, please avoid taking the Lord God’s name in vain, especially in his house,” I demanded.
“Sorry, Father,” Richard acknowledged.
The admission hung between us, thick as incense smoke. Sunlight caught the dust motes swirling above Richard's bowed head, his broad shoulders tense under his plaid shirt. I leaned back in my creaking chair, steepling my fingers. "And your boyfriend...?"
"Jamie says he's fine with it, but..." pausing for a moment as his boot scuffed against the floorboards. "He holds back. Like he's afraid to really..."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "Hurt me. He just doesn't understand that I need it to hurt and that I don't need regular spankings, but when they do happen, they must provide me with what I need, and currently, Jamie’s efforts don’t."
I studied the way his thumb kept pressing into the palm of his other hand, the self-soothing motion contradicting his towering frame. The village clock chimed eleven, and somewhere beyond the vestry window, a dog began barking.
"You're afraid Jamie thinks it's a weird kink," I said quietly, "And he doesn't understand how important it is for you."
Richard's jaw clenched. A muscle jumped beneath his stubble. "Yeah."
The way he said it, it wasn't about absolution. This was about a young man who'd spent years shouldering a hunger he couldn't name. "Richard, I appreciate your honesty and trust in talking to me. How can I help, though?" I asked, trying to assure him, I was here for him like all my parishioners.
Richard exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing against his knees before gripping the fabric of his work trousers. He hesitated, his gaze flicking to the crucifix on the wall behind me before settling back on his own boots. "Father, I.... I don't know if it's wrong to want this, but do you know anyone I could approach for irregular spankings to help me focus and deal with my desires? I also think it will really help with my relationship with Jamie."
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the desk. The wood was cool beneath my sleeves. "Tell me, Richard, when Jamie spanks you now, what’s missing? What do you wish he’d do differently?"
"Obviously, not hold back and then afterwards, I need him to comfort and cuddle me and understand, it's an important part of my psychology. He just won't do it. It's always a playful thing for him before we have.... You know."
"I see," I said, tapping my finger against the desk. Richard's knee bounced restlessly, his work boots scuffing the floor. The scent of hay and engine oil clung stubbornly to his clothes as he’d clearly come straight from mending tractors.
"So, let me get this straight," I said. "You want Jamie to spank you, but he won't let go and do it as you desire. So, you want me to find someone who will spank you. Have I missed anything?"
Richard swallowed, his broad shoulders hunching slightly. "Yes, Father and no, Father."
"Would it help if I spoke with Jamie?" I asked. "Perhaps I can find some information on the internet to explain it to him."
Richard shook his head violently, his calloused hands gripping the edge of my desk. "No, Father. He'd die of shame if he knew I'd talked about this. Besides... I think I need someone else. Someone who knows how to do it properly. Who won't hold back and understands the need, and I thought maybe...."
"Maybe? Maybe who? Richard. Come out with it."
Richard hesitated before responding. "Maybe you. I know you spank Paul, and I know it's also part of your relationship with him."
The words landed like a dropped hymnbook in a silent church. Richard's hands trembled against the desk, his knuckles white. Outside, the blackbird had stopped singing. I could hear the faint squeak of a garden gate being opened, the distant rumble of a tractor and other mundane village sounds that suddenly felt galaxies away. The sunlight through the stained glass painted Richard's cheek in fractured reds, like bloodied stained tears.
"I see," I said carefully, folding my sermon notes with deliberate slowness. The paper crackled louder than it should have. "And what exactly makes you think that?"
"I saw you and Paul together during the summer last year, in the woods when I was... poaching pheasants on old man Tucker's estate," Richard confessed. "I saw you spank him as I would expect and then...I watched you have sex afterwards, after you cuddled him."
Richard swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, and I could see the sweat beading along his hairline despite the coolness of the office. His confession dragged the memory back, the damp heat of the forest floor, Paul bent over a fallen log with his trousers around his knees, the crisp sound of my paddle connecting with his bare skin echoing between the oaks. I also remembered it was a special moment that created a new bond of trust and love between us.
"You watched us?" My voice was lower than I intended, rough-edged. Richard flinched, his fingers digging into his thighs hard enough to whiten the denim. The shame in his face was raw, unguarded, nothing like the brash young man who usually helped with the church fete or the harvest festival.
"I did and..... to be honest, I loved it and wished it was me," Richard stated as I sat there, wondering if I was going to have a heart attack. "Father, I didn't mean to spy," he continued, his voice cracking. "But I couldn't look away. The way Paul.... how he took it, how you handled him afterwards, Christ, I've never wanted anything so badly in my life."
"Stop taking the Lord's name in vain, young man," I demanded, and then I had an idea. Maybe I could help, I thought. Maybe I could stretch ecclesiastical care to fit his needs. "Have you told anyone about that incident and how you feel. I really need to know because it might affect my eventual response."
Richard shook his head violently, his boot scuffing against the floorboards. "No, Father. Not a soul apart from a close confidant. Not even Jamie knows how much I want a solution to my problem. If you want, I will even swear on the Bible."
The silence stretched between us, thick with the scent of old paper and Richard's nervous sweat. "I believe you, Richard, so that won't be necessary. I also have a solution to your problem, I think. Who’s your confidant out of interest?"
Richard's shoulders tensed, his breath hitching audibly. "Father, I can’t tell you, but they can be trusted."
I sighed, rubbing my thumb along the edge of the desk where the varnish had worn thin from years of anxious parishioners doing the same.
"It appears that you are so desperate that I have no choice but to help you, so I will do as you request," I said finally, watching Richard's breath catch, "provided you attend confession with me at least once a month. I will then provide what you require, depending upon your confession. That will be your absolution."
The words tasted heavier than I expected, like swallowing communion wine too fast. "This will be between you and me only. No one else, do you hear me? No one. This you will swear on the Bible, and I also expect you to attend Sunday Mass regularly from this Sunday."
Richard's knees hit the edge of my desk with a thud before I'd finished speaking, his broad hands gripping his chair like it was the last solid thing in a tilting world. "Yes, Father," he whispered, his voice raw with something deeper than gratitude.
I pulled the worn leather Bible from my desk drawer, the one reserved for weddings and last rites and placed it in his trembling hands. The gold-edged pages caught the morning light as Richard swallowed hard, his fingers tracing the embossed cross on the cover. "Swear on this," I said quietly, watching the sweat bead along his hairline. "No confessions to anyone but me. No drunken boasts in the pub. No pillow talk with Jamie."
His hand tightened around the book. "I swear, Father." The words came out choked, his broad shoulders hunched as if awaiting a blow.
I watched Richard swear on the Bible, his sincerity very clear as he said, “I swear by Almighty God that our arrangement remains strictly between us.”
"Good, man,” I declared, content with his action. “Now, come with me, and I shall hear your confession."
The confessional booth smelled of beeswax and old hymnals, the wood polished smooth by generations of penitents kneeling where Richard now crouched, his breathing ragged in the close darkness. Through the lattice, I watched shadows play across his stubbled jaw as he confessed for the first time in his life. Once he finished, I had one thing to say.
"Almighty God have mercy upon you, pardon and deliver you from all your sins, confirm and strengthen you in all goodness, and keep you in eternal life; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."
Richard stepped out of the confessional as I murmured a private prayer, his boots scuffing against the stone floor like a nervous colt. The crypt stairs beckoned, narrow, worn smooth by centuries of mourners' footsteps, smelling of damp mortar and candle wax gone cold. I lit the hurricane lamp on the newel post; its flickering light painted Richard's Adam's apple in sweaty gold as he swallowed hard, the anticipation building with each step he made.
The private chapel's flagstones breathed out centuries of chill. Shadows leapt grotesquely across the arched ceiling when I raised the lamp, and against the far wall stood the bench, previously used by a priest during a moment of private prayer and self-flagellation. Richard froze mid-step, his work-hardened fingers flexing at his sides.
"Are you sure about this, Richard, because it will hurt?" I demanded.
Richard exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers already working at his belt buckle, the leather hissing through the loops, as he slipped the leather from his trousers. "Yes, Father."
"Richard, in the old times, a priest would remove his shirt for private prayer and self-flagellation, but since this isn't that type of private act, I assume you wish to be spanked naked?"
"Yes, Father," he responded as his belt buckle hit the stone floor with a metallic clatter as he pushed his jeans downwards towards his knees. Richard hesitated only a second before kicking his boots off and pulling his socks from his feet.
He was now able to kick his trousers off and, hooking his thumbs into the hem of his t-shirt, he slipped it over his head, discarding it in a similar fashion to that of his other clothes. He now stood in just his boxer briefs, an erection visible behind the cotton fabric.
I looked at him, with a sense of desire, attraction and something else. "In future, Richard, you will wear a white vest and white briefs like Jockey Y-Fronts or similar brands. This is going to be a personal journey of spiritual discovery when purity and absolution from sin will be signified by what you wear, especially when in my company. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Father," he responded to my condition.
"Good," I declared. "Now, remove your underwear and lie down on the bench, and, on this occasion, I plan to use your belt, but in future sessions, assuming there will be future sessions, I will use a long-handled leather paddle. Are you happy with the belt today? And do you accept 12 strokes for penance?"
Richard's breath hitched as he nodded his consent, his fingers trembling just slightly as they hooked into the waistband of his boxer briefs. The cotton slid down his thighs, slowly, then all at once, pooling around his ankles. His cock stood thick against his stomach, already flushed and leaking. His thighs tensed as he turned toward the bench, the lamplight catching the flex of muscle beneath the scattering of golden hair as he lay down on the ancient wood.
Thinking about his body and the physical lines that under other circumstances I would have traced with my fingers, I picked up his belt. It was nice and wide, three inches of supple leather, darkened with years of use.
I removed the buckle and doubled the belt, and then, without ceremony, I drew it back and landed the first strike. The crack echoed off the chapel's stone walls, sharp as a gunshot. Richard's entire body jerked, arched off the bench like he'd been electrocuted, a bitten-off scream tearing from his throat before he slammed back down, gasping. The welt rose instantly, a vivid red stripe across the pale curve of his cheeks, already darkening at the edges.
"Good," I murmured, pacing slowly around him. The second lash came harder, lower, snapping against the crease where thigh met arse. This time, he couldn't suppress the cry, raw and ragged, his fingers scrabbling against the bench's edge, toes curling against the cold flagstones. Sweat beaded along his spine, trickling down the dips between his ribs. The scent of it mixed with the leather's tannin-sting and the dust rising from the ancient wood beneath him.
The third stroke overlapped the first, and Richard's hips bucked involuntarily, his cock bouncing against his stomach. A choked sob escaped him, but he didn't beg, didn't try to rise. His breath came in ragged bursts, his shoulders trembling as the fourth lash landed just below the others, the leather singing through the air. Tears dripped onto the bench now, silent and unashamed. His fingers clawed at the wood, splinters catching under his nails, but he stayed put, waiting, aching, taking what he'd asked for.
By the eighth stroke, his arse was a map of overlapping welts, dark red and hot to the touch. His cries had softened into whimpers, his body slackening with each impact, sinking deeper into the bench's unforgiving surface. Only the hitch of his breath betrayed the pain, that, and the way his cock twitched against his belly, still hard, still wanting. The ninth landed diagonally, a fresh bite of agony drawing a fresh sob from his throat.
The tenth, eleventh, twelfth cracked down in quick succession, methodical, unrelenting. By the last, Richard was limp, his breath hitching in quiet, wet gasps, his forehead pressed to the wood. His fingers uncurled slowly, palms flat against the bench now, like he was praying. The chapel was utterly silent except for our breathing, his ragged, mine steady, and the distant drip of condensation from the crypt's ceiling.
I laid the belt aside, sitting at the end of the bench. The air smelled sharply of sweat and salt and something else, urine. It was then that I noticed a puddle of water on the stone floor, the telltale sign that Richard had lost control during the spanking, as I now traced the welts with my fingertips. Richard shuddered but didn't pull away, his skin flinching at the touch even as he leaned into it.
He didn’t move at first, just breathed, slow and deliberate, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort. Then, with a groan that was half-pain, half-relief, he pushed himself up on shaking arms. His face was wet, eyelashes stuck together in clumps, his mouth swollen where he’d bitten his own lip. Without a word, I reached for him, pulling him into my lap as easily as if he were a boy, not a man grown. He curled into me, his head against my chest, his body trembling as I wrapped my arms around him.
“Shhh,” I murmured, rocking him gently, my fingers carding through his sweat-damp hair. His breath hitched once, twice, then evened out against my cassock. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant creak of the church’s old timbers settling.
His voice, when it came, was rough, scraped raw. “Thank you, Father,” filled with simplicity and notable earnestness.
“You took it well,” I said quietly, noticing a change in his physical presence, a calmness and... acceptance that through a simple act of repentance, he now appeared to be renewed.
Richard nodded, his fingers tracing the edge of the bench where sweat and urine had darkened the wood grain. “Better than I thought I would, Father.” His voice was hoarse but steady, like a man who’d finally exhaled after holding his breath for years. The welts stood out angrily against his skin, but he didn’t flinch when he shifted his weight. Instead, he glanced down at himself, his cock soft now, spent without ever being touched, and then back at me, waiting. The question hung between us, unspoken but pressing.
“As for Jamie, how are you going to explain things?” I asked, leaning back, letting my cassock’s fabric rustle against the bench.
Richard’s laugh was brittle but genuine. “He’ll ask why my arse looks like a fucking raspberry tart, Father.”
“Language,” I chided, though my lips twitched. “What will you tell him?”
Standing, I retrieved his clothes and held them out to him as Richard answered my demanding question. “Jamie doesn’t need to know everything. Some confessions stay between a man and his priest, but I will tell him I found someone who understands my needs, and I suspect he will accept that while feeling relieved he won't have to spank me anymore.”
Richard took the bundle, his fingers brushing mine, deliberately, I thought. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. Then he stepped back, pulling his boxer briefs on with a wince. “Will you…?” He hesitated, tugging his t-shirt over his head. “Do this again?”
The chapel’s shadows seemed to deepen around us. I picked up the belt, running my thumb along its edge where the leather had warmed. “When you need it,” I said finally, handing his belt to him. “Not when you want it.”
He nodded, silent, but his eyes shone with relief and perhaps hunger or at least understanding.
The crypt stairs seemed easier to climb on the way up, Richard's boots scuffing less against the worn stone. Sunlight spilt through the vestry door, as I reminded him. "Don't forget our agreement, confession once a month," I said, handing him a leaflet for next Sunday's mass. My thumb brushed the inside of his wrist, a calculated risk, and his breath hitched. "Also, remember, white vest, white Y-fronts. No excuses. That’s your uniform now as a reminder of our agreement. By the way, the best place to buy them is M&S."
“Noted,” Richard said as I stepped closer.
"Out of interest, what will you tell Jamie about your new clothing habits?" I enquired.
"I think he will like the new look because he wears M&S briefs and has been pestering me for ages to change my underwear wardrobe," Richard declared with a smile. "It might even bring us closer to each other."
“Oh, good. Nice and simple then,” I responded to the news that Jamie wears M&S Y-Fronts.
Outside, a car backfired on the high street. Richard jumped, then laughed at himself, rubbing the back of his neck. His shoulders had lost their hunted tension. He moved differently now, looser, like a man who'd finally set down a burden he didn't know he'd been carrying.
At the church door, he hesitated. "Father…"
I waited.
He swallowed. "Thank you," he said, and then he was gone, striding across the graveyard with that new lightness in his step, his shadow stretching long behind him in the morning sun.
Feeling that I had made a difference, I walked back into my office to find Paul leaning against my desk, arms crossed. His smirk was all teeth. "So," he said, plucking a stray hayseed from my cassock sleeve. "How was young Richard's first confession?"
"How do you know about that?" I demanded.
Paul looked at me and sort of smiled. "In a moment of despair, he asked me for guidance, and I suggested he talk to you; that's all, and I guess, that's exactly what he did."
Paul knew instantly what I had done to help Richard, but I only replied, saying, "Enlightening."
"Great. I'm pleased,” Paul said. “Now, regarding dinner this evening, what do you fancy?" as he kissed me on my cheek.
"Oh, I think you know exactly what I fancy," I murmured, as my fingers trailed down the front of his jeans as he leaned against the desk.
Paul arched an eyebrow but didn't resist as I unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness, the leather sighing through the loops. His breath hitched when I popped the top button, my knuckles brushing the warm jut of his hipbone beneath worn denim. The zipper's rasp seemed obscenely loud in the quiet office, louder still when I slid it down, just enough to slip my hand inside to find his cock pressed hot against my palm through the thin cotton of his underwear, already half-hard.
"You're insatiable today," Paul breathed, his hips shifting minutely into my touch.
"Perhaps I am," I admitted, withdrawing my hand just to watch his lips part in protest. "But I need you to tell me something first," while my fingers hooked into his waistband. "Did you really just happen to send Richard to me?"
Paul's grin turned sharp. He leaned back on his elbows, letting the jeans slide halfway down his thighs of their own accord. "Would you believe me if I said the Holy Spirit moved me?"
I snorted, stepping between his spread knees. The cassock brushed his bare shins as my thumbs traced the elastic of his briefs. "Holy whisky more like. Try again."
"He came to the vestry last month," Paul admitted, his voice dropping as my fingers dipped beneath the waistband. "Asked me about... preferences. Said Jamie wasn't giving him what he needed." His hips lifted helpfully when I tugged the briefs down. "Thought you'd be better at handling it."
"And you didn't think to mention this?" as my hand wrapped around him properly now, his cock jumping in my grip as his briefs fell off the end of his feet.
Paul's laugh dissolved into a groan as I stroked him slowly. "I wanted to see your face when he asked, but I knew that wouldn't be possible, " as his fingers tangled in my clerical collar, and then started undoing the buttons of my cassock. "Was it everything he hoped for?"
I kissed him instead of answering, tasting coffee and smugness as the desk groaned beneath us.
"Oh wow," Paul gasped when I bit his lower lip, his hands fumbling with my cassock buttons.
"Quiet," I ordered. The command landed between us like a dropped hymnal. His cock throbbed in my grip, leaking against my thumb as Paul struggled to undo his shirt buttons.
He arched off the desk when I spat into my palm, the glob landing obscenely between us. My cassock had now parted, the wool scratchy against bare skin as I stroked him faster now, my own erection straining against my white Y-Fronts.
Paul's fingernails dug crescent moons into my shoulders under the fabric, his breath coming in ragged bursts against my cheek.
"Fuck," he whimpered when I thumbed his slit, the blasphemy sweet as communion wine. His head tipped back, exposing the scar above his collarbone, the one he'd gotten falling off the vicarage roof last Easter. I licked a stripe up his throat, tasting salt and the ghost of Richard's confession between us.
The desk creaked dangerously as Paul shoved my cassock open entirely, his fingers fumbling at my Y-Fronts. "Steve?"
"Use your teeth," I growled against his ear. "It's only a tube, you know."
He did, biting the button on the tube until it popped off and rolled beneath the bookshelf. And then he pushed my Y-Fronts down my legs, using his hand to squeeze the lube onto my hard and eager to please cock.
The scent of lavender soap and leather still clung to my fingers as I dragged Paul forward, his bare thighs hitting the desk edge with a muffled thud. His gasp was sharp, swallowed by the press of my mouth against his as I lined myself up, the lube cool between us for just a second before warmth took over. I pushed in slowly, watching his eyelashes flutter, not from pain, but that familiar moment when resistance gives way to wanting. His body remembered this rhythm better than morning prayers.
Paul arched, heels digging into the small of my back as I seated myself fully. His cock lay flushed against his stomach, bouncing slightly with each shallow thrust. "Steve, you're..." he started, then choked off when I pulled nearly all the way out, only to snap back in hard. The desk protested with a creak, the parish ledger sliding precariously close to the edge. Paul's fingers scrabbled at my cassock, twisting the fabric as his hips rolled up to meet me.
The knowledge tightened my grip on Paul's hips, my next thrust deliberately rough. His bitten-off moan was sinful and perfect. I leaned down, catching his earlobe between my teeth. "Quieter," I breathed, revelling in how his body clenched around me in response. His nod was frantic, his lips pressed into a thin line as I set a punishing pace, the desk shuddering beneath us with every movement.
Paul's hand flew to his own mouth, muffling the sounds I was pulling from him. His eyes shone with unshed tears, pleasure and the delicious strain of keeping silent warring in his expression as I remained buried deep inside him, watching the way his throat worked as he fought not to make a sound. The moment stretched, unbearable, until I smiled down at him, cruel and fond, and began again, slower now, deliberate, drawing out every gasp he couldn’t quite suppress.
Then, with a choked cry Paul couldn't contain, he arched beneath me, his cock pulsed, ropes of cum shooting upward to stripe his chest, his throat, his chin. The sight was obscene, perfect, and it undid me completely.
My own climax hit like a hammer blow, pleasure tearing through me so violently my vision whited out at the edges. "Kiss me," I demanded, hoarse, already dragging his mouth to mine before he could catch his breath. His lips tasted of salt and surrender, and he groaned into the kiss, his fingers fisting in my hair to hold me there.
When I finally pulled back, Paul was grinning up at me, utterly wrecked, his chest still heaving. "You bastard," he whispered, wiping lazily at the mess on his stomach with two fingers before sucking them clean with a satisfied hum. The sight sent a fresh jolt of heat through me despite my spent cock still twitching inside him.
Outside, footsteps echoed in the nave. Mrs Henderson had likely come to arrange the flowers for Evensong, and we had forgotten the time.
Paul's eyes widened, his legs tightening around my waist as if to keep me close, our shared idiocy dawning on us both at once. The door was unlocked. The desk groaned again as I shifted, my cassock gaping obscenely open around us. Paul bit his lip, trying not to laugh. "Tell me again how you're the respectable one," he murmured, breath warm against my jaw.
I withdrew slowly, wincing as Paul stretched his legs out with a quiet hiss. My discarded briefs lay halfway across the Persian rug, crumpled and damp. The door handle rattled, Mrs Henderson, testing the lock. My fingers fumbled over the cassock buttons, my cock still half-hard and glistening as I stepped into my shoes and crossed the room in three strides.
"Just a moment, Mrs Henderson!"
My voice came out suspiciously hoarse. Behind me, I heard Paul thud onto the floor from the desk, his stifled curse muffled by what sounded like a hastily grabbed handkerchief. The latch clicked under my fingers. I swung the door open just wide enough to block her view, my smile plastered on like cheap varnish.
The old woman blinked up at me, her arms full of lilies. "Oh! Father Harper, I..."
"Lovely flowers," I interrupted, louder than necessary. A faint rustling came from behind me, Paul pulling up his jeans, probably.
Her gaze flicked past my shoulder. "Is everything alright? I thought I heard..."
"Perfectly fine!" I declared, closing the office door. "Let me help you with those, and we can discuss flowers for Sunday."
Mrs Henderson's wrinkled face softened as I took the lilies from her arms, their pollen dusting my cassock sleeves yellow. She'd been arranging flowers since before I was born; one whiff of my sweat-and-sex scent would send her straight to the bishop. But the old woman only patted my arm and launched into her usual monologue about begonia prices as I steered her toward the nave.
Over her shoulder, through the stained glass's jewelled light, I saw Paul's silhouette dart across the vestry's side door with my briefs dangling from his fist like a pirate's trophy flag, miming, "You forgot these, husband. You know where to find them," before he vanished into the garden, grinning like the devil himself.
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