Alvin walked up to Father Abelard, still standing on the porch, and, shyly smiling, said, "Well, Father, it looks like it is just going to be the two of us for a few hours. I'll try to keep you entertained. I hope you won't get too bored, with just a simple country boy for company." Abelard tried to maintain his composure, but the prospect of being alone with Alvin for several hours, and the thought of what he hoped would happen during that time, almost caused his careful clerical façade to crack. His face maintained its expression of bland benevolence but his heart was racing and his penis was pulsating inside his cassock. The boy was so enchanting. Alvin's eyes traveled bashfully from Abelard's face to his own bare feet. His mouthwatering toes were tracing patterns in the dirt. He knew the priest found his naked feet attractive, and was drawing attention to them in order to keep his prey aroused. He needn't have bothered. Abelard would have followed him to the ends of the earth. All Alvin cared about was getting him to the woodshed, which he knew he could manage easily enough.
"We are short on kindling and it looks like it could be a cold night. I need to collect some more from the woodshed. You can stay in the house if you like, or you could come with me and (significant pause) keep me company." Abelard could not let the boy out of his sight. And after Jedidiah's detailed description of what sometimes took place in the woodshed, he found the idea of visiting it (with its famous sawhorse and strap) highly appealing. He followed Alvin out to the shed, trying not to betray his state of arousal. Alvin, on the other hand, was as cool as a cucumber. (He thought he detected quite a large cucumber sticking out of the front of the Father's cassock.) He never felt so collected, now that he knew he was within moments of realizing his revenge on his childhood tormentor. He observed Abelard following him, as guileless as a puppy, if not as innocent. The phrase, "Like a lamb to the slaughter" crossed his mind, and made him smile.
Alvin was never so compliant as a child when the priest dragged him to the nearest chair, intending to put the boy over his knee and paddle his bare bottom to blistering blazes. But Alvin had known what was going to happen to him. He knew that in a matter of seconds his bare rear end was going to erupt into sheets of flame as a hard, relentless hand (or brush or strap) attacked it. Abelard did not know what was waiting for him in the shed. The stupid ass. Alvin turned back to the priest and flashed him a radiant smile. He knew that Abelard was walking a step behind him in order to get a better view of his delectable rump, never realizing how often he once held that very rump over his lap, transforming it in seconds from radiant white to a thunderous red, his cruel, skillful hands dancing across each inch of its pale, porcelain surface. But Alvin was never over Abelards lap for a few seconds. He was fortunate if the conflagration in his bum lasted no longer than fifteen, agonizing, bottom-burning minutes. But the tables were turned now, or soon would be. It was not HIS ass, but the priest's, that was going to be the center of attention once the two of them reached the shed.
Alvin opened the door of the shed and the two of them entered. It was so dark inside that it took a couple of minutes for Abelards eyes to adjust. He felt disoriented and a little uncomfortable. Suddenly, the idea of being in this place of punishment was less appealing to him. It brought back bad memories of his own childhood encounters with the strap. But when Abelard was a boy, his father didnt take him to a woodshed, but to the attic of their house, in one of the less reputable sections of the city where he grew up. The attic was at the top of a winding set of dilapidated stairs. His father used to drag him up those stairs for his whippings. He couldnt count the number of times he had taken that terrifying trip. The last strapping he received (at least from his father) occurred when he was eighteen and just weeks before entering the seminary. He could still hear the sound of the attic stairs creeking beneath his bare feet as he struggled with his father, desperate to escape the awful fate that awaited him at the top of the stairs. "No papa! Please! Its not true! I didnt steal that old womans purse! She made it up! She still hates me for poisoning her cat!" His father, a big, gruff Irishman with a terrible temper, didnt speak a word. He just kept dragging his handsome, terrified son up the stairs. Abelards father was drunk most of the time, but nothing seemed to sober him up like the chance to take a few layers of skin off his conniving sons arrogant backside. He seldom did an honest days work, and the most energy the neighbors ever saw him exhibit was when taking off his thick workmans belt to scorch Abelards bare rump. The future priests screams from the attic, and the crack of hard leather across the bare skin of the boys tender nether regions, were familiar sounds in that neighborhood.
Sometimes Abelards father couldnt wait to get him to the attic, and pulled his pants down right in the street, so that the neighbors got to see Abelard howling and capering while the strap landed like a series of gunshots all over his lovely posterior. It was a popular entertainment in that brutish neighborhood of recent immigrants to see Abelards father grab his son around the waist and unbuckle his belt while the boy struggled and pleaded. It was a source of innocent diversion to see him roughly lower his sons tattered trousers, exposing the white skin and the plump rounded surfaces of the beautiful buttocks. And it was sheer delight to see the strap start turning those pale globes a fiery red, as their humiliated owner cavorted and wailed. The pain was so bad he didnt even care that his private parts were flopping around like a decapitated chickens head, much to the amusement of the whores who lived in the house next door, and their clients. "Oh, he does have some nice bits, doesnt he, Evelyn? And it is such a shame that his sweet behind needs to suffer so! But thats what he gets for being such a bad lad! Give him a few more good ones, Ned! That should teach him some manners! And Ned was eager to oblige. The whores shook with laughter, while Abelard traveled up one end of the street and down the other, fighting a losing battle in the war the strap was waging against his pretty ass. But his father was at his side, with one strong fist gripping Abelards left arm, and the other wielding the strap. Time and time again he tripped over his trouser legs and fell onto the cobbled pavement. His scraped knees were torn and bleeding. His father pulled him roughly to his feet and continued strapping his blistering behind. Since Abelard was barefoot most of the time (his father preferring to drink whatever pitiful sums might have been used to purchase shoes for his son), the trousers eventually slipped off his legs, and the whipping ended with Abelard receiving the last terrible kisses of the razor str! ap half naked, as well as half crazy from the pain. There was often a big round of applause as Ned dragged his red-faced, purple-bottomed son up the stairs into their home. The father pushed his son roughly through the door, where Abelards mother was sometimes seen waiting with a new implement of punishment, like a bundle of switches, or a carpet beater. And it was not uncommon for an encore performance of the whole humiliating, butt scalding drama to be heard to begin several minutes later in the upstairs attic. It was not an auspicious beginning for the career of a future Cardinal Archbishop of New York.
All these memories came back to him as Abelards eyes finally started to adjust to the darkness of the woodshed. His heart almost leapt into his mouth when he saw the sawhorse. It looked harmless enough, a simple tool to assist in the sawing of wood, but Abelard knew about its other uses. It frightened and fascinated him. And hanging next to it on a hook was the most formidable looking razor strap he had ever seen. It was longer and thicker than the strap his father had used on him, the one that had been so effective at making him dance and sing for the neighbors. Alvin was moving toward the woodpile and Abelard was able to take a lingering look at his plump but well proportioned bottom. The enormous strap could easily cover both cheeks in a single blow, leaving a red hot, molten mark across both buttocks that would not heal for hours.
Suddenly, Abelard saw Alvin wince. He lifted his foot and turned to him in pain, his beautiful eyes brimming with sudden tears. "Ive got a splinter in my toe." He sat on the woodpile and presented the sole of his bare right foot to Abelard with pleading eyes. "It hurts so bad. Do you think you could get it out for me?" He appeared so guileless, so innocent, so dependent on the love and support of a stronger man. Abelard was on his knees in an instant, holding Alvins foot in his hands as tenderly as if it were the Holy Grail, looking for the splinter. The bare, dirty foot was the most precious thing he had ever held in his hands. The sole was so soft, the toes so succulent and sweet. That foot was one of Gods masterpieces, and Abelard wanted to worship it, to bare his own feet in reverence, like Moses in front of the burning bush. It was like holding five burning bushes at once in the palm of his hand, and Abelard was immediately tempted to turn fire- eater. The splinter was lodged in the big toe. Abelard looked up into Alvins trusting face and warned him that it might sting a bit. Alvin nodded tearfully and Abelard squeezed the splinter till it popped out.
He heard Alvin gasp. It didnt sound to him like a gasp of pain, but of ecstasy at the sensation of his bare foot in the priests strong, masculine hands. Abelard looked up into the boys eyes, his own full of wonder and happiness, and he did not let go of the foot. He placed the big toe in his warm, watering mouth, while Alvin did a passable imitation of Berninis St. Teresa in heat. Abelards mouth went slowly up and down the toe. It was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. He went from toe to toe and finally began licking and nibbling on the entire surface of the naked sole. He was so wrapped up in the miracle of Alvins foot that he did not notice the change that had come over the boys face, the look of grim satisfaction. Abelards punishment had begun, even though he didnt think of it as punishment yet. The sight of his boyhood torturer, on his knees in front of him, hungrily licking the dust off his naked right foot, knowing that soon he would be begging to lick the dirt off his left one as well, delighted Alvin. (Not to mention Alvins awareness that in a short time Abelard would be engaged in begging of an entirely different sort.) Who could have imagined that the mean seminarian, the terror of all the boyish bottoms in the orphanage, would come to this? And it was only the beginning.
Abelard was a very thorough toe licker (his skills as an ass licker, both real and metaphorical, were also legendary), and it took him almost half an hour to finish worshipping Alvins right foot with his tongue. Soon, he put it down, gently and reverently, and proceeded without speaking to the left, which Abelard presented to him with suspicious alacrity. When he was finally finished with that foot, another half an hour later, his hands traveled gradually up Alvins legs, reaching closer and closer to the place where the boys trousers concealed his man-sized manhood. He could see Alvins erect and engorged penis inside his overalls, and he marveled at the size of a member so large on a boy so young. (He kept forgetting that Alvin was actually twenty-five years old.) When his trembling hand was just about to reach its goal, he felt Alvin suddenly take firm hold of his wrist. The boy brought his face close to the priests, but just out of reach of his lips, and with a passion that startled and thrilled Abelard, announced, "I want to _f_u_c_k_ you!" This represented a slight change in plans for Abelard, who was hoping to sodomize Alvin, but he was too intoxicated and besotted to put up much resistance. The idea of that enormous rod taking up residence in his welcoming asshole was almost too much for him. He was starting to get dizzy again. He nodded weakly.
"Get up and take off that dress!" Alvin ordered him. The sudden roughness of the boys tone startled him, but he was completely under Alvins spell and helpless to resist. He got up, removed his cassock, his expensive imported shoes and silk stockings, and in moments was completely naked. (Abelard never wore underwear.) He stood there, waiting for further instructions. Alvin looked the naked priest up and down and despite himself was quite impressed. There was no denying that Abelard was a beautiful man, the most handsome Alvin had ever seen. His chest was broad and muscular. His legs tanned and well toned. There was enough hair scattered across the surface of his chest and legs to give him a heightened sense of masculinity, but without obscuring the marvelous texture of his beautiful skin. There were also slight tufts of hair on the top of each sturdy but well-shaped, virile foot. Abelard was a man made for pleasures of the flesh, and not sublimities of the spirit. Alvin sensed that in an instant. And this remarkable man was at his mercy. Alvin, so accustomed to helplessness, had never felt so powerful. He intended to take full advantage of this new and intoxicating sensation.
He approached Abelard, who was breathing heavily, and whispered in his ear, "I want you to get over that sawhorse." Abelard did not care for this idea at all, but he longer possessed a will of his own. He turned to the sawhorse, took a deep breath, and bent over it, his hands gripping the wooden arms, his bare feet resting comfortably on the dirt floor, and his head projecting over the end of the crossbeam. Alvin noted with some satisfaction that his victim fit the sawhorse perfectly. At the first sight of the priests ass, it was Alvins turn to become light headed. There was only one word for it. Magnificent. The cheeks were broad and firm but at the same time soft and supple. Both buttocks were lightly dusted with fine, dark hair that contrasted perfectly with the brilliant whiteness of the skin. When Abelard bent over the sawhorse, his ass cheeks seemed to part naturally, like a rose in full bloom. Inside the crevice between the cheeks, Alvin detected additional hair, lining and encircling what he knew was Abelards tender, succulent rosebud. For the first time in his life, Alvin experienced real lust. The strapping could wait. Alvin had plans for Abelards delicate rosebud. He still had revenge on his mind, but there were other forms of revenge than butt whipping.
He got down on his knees and began fixing Abelards wrists to the sawhorse with leather straps. At first Abelard appeared oblivious to this new development, so caught up was he in the fantasy of feeling Alvins thick _c_o_c_k_ in his ravenous hole. But just as Alvin was finishing with his left wrist and moving to the right, what was happening hit him and he started to panic. "What are you doing?"
"Dont worry. Jedidiah always straps me to the horse before he _f_u_c_k_s me. He likes it better that way. It makes him feel even more powerful. That is what Im used to and so that is what I want to do to you." ("So the big boob DOES _f_u_c_k_ the boy," Abelard thought to himself. "And he likes it rough. He blisters the boys butt for beating his meat, and then _f_u_c_k_s his ass as a form of absolution. Give me that Old Time Religion.")
Alvin offered his explanation so blandly that it seemed to calm Abelard. But for the first time the priest was beginning to deduce that there was something behind the boys façade of innocence he hadnt suspected. It wasnt like he hadnt been tied up for _s_e_x_ before. It was a game that several senior-ranking clergymen liked to play, the violation of a chaste and helpless victim. He was often forced to pretend he was being raped, moaning and squirming, pleading with his attacker to respect his "virtue," while an aging, drooling, almost hairless archdeacon attempted to insert his needle thin weenie into Abelards capacious rectum. He often pondered the fact that the higher hierarchs preferred _s_e_x_ to be impersonal, with the slightest suggestion of real torture. For whatever reason, and he was not of a reflective nature, these professional purveyors of chastity liked it rough and dirty, and Abelard was happy to oblige. The ecclesiastical ladder was indeed a greasy pole, and the slicker Abelards asshole, the higher he seemed to climb.
Nevertheless, Abelard couldnt help wondering why Alvin needed to make the straps so tight. They were biting into his wrists. After finishing with the wrists, Alvin moved to Abelards ankles, and strapped them to the sawhorse just as tightly. Abelard was nervous and uncomfortable, but it was much too late to protest. He wasnt getting up until Alvin untied him. He was completely at the boys mercy. After restraining the priests ankles, Alvin stood up and began removing his overalls. Abelard could hear him and became breathless with excitement. He started to pant. He could feel his rosebud starting to open and close like a starving mouth, desperate for food. Alvin took his time, knowing that the longer he waited the greater the helpless priests torment. Finally, Abelard could hear Alvin casting his overalls to one side. He was wearing nothing now but his shirt, which extended temptingly over his fully erect _c_o_c_k_. Soon, he started removing that as well, unbuttoning it, but with maddening slowness that threatened to send Abelard over the edge. Finally, out of the corner of his eye Abelard saw the denim shirt land in a pile on top of the overalls. Alvins lithe and slender, but work hardened, muscular body was completely naked.
He took several steps towards Abelard. At that moment, a thought occurred to the priest. "What sort of lubricant are you going to use? Spit? Or is there a tub of lard out here?"
"Lubricant?" Alvin answered. His voice was now cold and Abelard detected for the first time, when it was much too late, a distinct note of cruelty. "Why would I be needing lubricant? I dont need lubricant to _f_u_c_k_ you, Father Abelard."
"What? What do you mean?" Abelard struggled against the straps in a vain attempt to lift himself from the sawhorse. His butthole slammed shut like a vice, but before he even knew what was happening, he felt the pressure of an enormous weight, poised at the tip of his rosebud, and like sudden lightening, violently penetrating the tender flesh. In an instant, Alvin was inside him, every inch of him inside him. Abelard could now hear a voice screaming, and it took him a moment to realize that it was his own.
Alvin withdrew his _c_o_c_k_ from the priests hole, all but the head, and then plunged it in again, while Abelards shrieks became even louder and more piercing. Abelard felt as if he were being disemboweled, as if each time Alvins _c_o_c_k_ withdrew, it were taking with it some portion of his flesh, until finally there would be nothing left of him but an empty shell. He had never experienced such horrific pain before in his life, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was strapped so tightly to the horse that he couldnt even squirm. His fingers pawed the air and his toes writhed, but his butt was pinioned to the horse, helpless to avoid the relentless assault of Alvins merciless _c_o_c_k_. Unmoved, and aroused to even greater violence by his victims howls, his heart rending cries, Alvin _f_u_c_k_ed Abelard remorselessly for several minutes, each second of which could have passed easily for a hundred years. Several times the priest felt as if he were about to escape the pain by passing out, but Alvin wasnt about to let him do that. He sensed when Abelard was on the brink of unconsciousness, and stopped the pistoning motion of his hips long enough for the priest to revive, and then he started _f_u_c_k_ing him again, as savagely as he could. He plunged his wide, voracious dick as deep into Abelard as he could manage, and then twisted his hips, wanting his victims suffering to be profound as possible. The sound of the priests screams was music to his ears. He couldnt get enough of it. He wanted it to go on and on forever. He wanted the sound of the priests screams to drown out the sounds of his own childhood screams, which still haunted his nightmares after all these years. And he hadnt even taken the strap down from its hook yet. These were just the preliminaries to the priests afternoon of torment.
Despite his hatred of the priest, Alvin loved _f_u_c_k_ing him. He had never _f_u_c_k_ed a man before, although he had often sold his own butt for food during the weeks between his escape from the orphanage and his arrival at Jedidiahs doorstep. He knew how much it hurt, even when lard or butter or spit were used to dull the pain and ease the entry of a mans hard shaft into his tender ass. He couldnt imagine what Abelard was feeling, without even the aid of those pitiful anesthetics. And he did not care. He loved it. The sense of total power over another man, which he had never experienced before, made him feel drunk, like the time he broke into Jedidiahs still, a crime for which he received one of the longest and most memorable strappings of his whole life. But this was better than the finest moonshine. This was like love and _s_e_x_ and hate and power and revenge all rolled into one big glorious intoxicating elixir. He never felt so alive before in his entire life. He reveled in the sense of intimate, absolute union between his enormous, omnipotent dick and Abelards superb, godlike, prostrate ass. It was the most beautiful ass he had ever seen, and it was his. It felt like raping a God, like sticking his dick inside a naked Roman statue come suddenly and gloriously to life. He remembered how the boys in the orphanage used to giggle over pictures of those statues in books, and how hard the priests used to spank them for giggling. Each savage thrust of the head of his dick into the deep cavern of Abelards hole was like a painful act of divine worship. "Scream, God, scream! I am worshipping you!" Alvin the Catholic turned Holy Roller was in the grips of the ancient Greek God Dionysus, the God of savage, sadistic love and obscene, bloodthirsty acts of worship.
He hated the beautiful ass at the end of his dripping dick and wanted to rip it apart with his _c_o_c_k_. He hated and adored it at the same time. Cruelty and tenderness had made a perfect marriage in Alvins hate-filled, _s_e_x_-crazed soul. He had once loved Abelard, when he first arrived at the orphanage and seemed so handsome and so sophisticated. He still loved him. He paused for a moment in thought. He still loved him. That unexpected and unwelcome realization stoked the fires of his hatred even further. He heard his voice, like the voice of a third person in the shed, ominous and serene. "You and I are married, Father Abelard. I will never escape you and you will never escape me. This is our wedding night. Now here comes the BRIDE!" And he plunged his dick with all his might deep, deep inside the recesses of the priests now bleeding butthole, as if he wanted to disappear inside him, to escape from himself inside Abelards ass, escape the burning hatred and the unwelcome love, inside the flesh of the man whose scars he still bore, and that he realized he would bear forever. Abelard seemed to gather up all that was left of his strength to let out one last terrible scream, and then collapsed on top of the horse. "Was that an I do," Father?"
For a moment Alvin forgot all about Jedidiah, all about his miserable childhood in the orphanage, all about the reality of the human being at the end of his dick, or his reasons for hating him. And at the same time the whole narrative of Abelards life unraveled in his tortured consciousness. As far as he knew, he had been born strapped to this sawhorse, while an enormous, piston-like penis tore his asshole to shreds. Both men lost all sense of personal identity, or the passing of time. Decades before a German Jew unveiled the theory of relativity to a skeptical world, a Catholic priest, strapped butt naked and screaming to a wooden sawhorse, and an ex-altar boy turned Bible thumping Holy Roller, exposed the twin illusions of time and selfhood. It could have taken ten minutes for Alvin to rape Abelard. It might have lasted ten hours. Neither of them would ever be able to tell. The whole complex world was reduced for Alvin to the sensation of his dick _f_u_c_k_ing the faceless butt in front of him, the sounds of screaming that were now reduced to gut wrenching sobs and strange, inhuman moans, and the awesome sensation of absolute power that enveloped and possessed him. This is how God must feel, Alvin thought, and at that moment he exploded inside Abelards ravaged asshole, streams of invisible white liquid bathing, and in some demonic sense, baptizing the battered and bleeding corridor of the priests rectum. The two men were now united forever in a mystic union of pain and humiliation, and God himself would never be able to pry them apart.
But Alvin didnt withdraw immediately. He wanted to relish his triumph for as long as he could. He knew this moment would never come again, and he hated to see it pass. And despite himself he felt a sudden pang of tenderness. He looked down at the once splendid buttocks in front of him, blood now streaming from the open asshole. He found himself leaning forward and gently kissing it, while Abelard moaned like a dying man. "That was just round one, Father. The warmup. I will give you a few minutes to compose yourself before we get down to the main event." From deep, deep down inside that hidden place where he had retreated to preserve what remained of his sanity, Abelard thought he could hear the sound of the door to the shed slamming, and he was plunged into sudden and total darkness, from which he would never emerge.
To be continued