Fr. Christian

“Stand there boy and wait. You need to be taught a painful lesson. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Keith stood in the passageway and watched miserably as Fr. Christian slowly lumbered up the stairs; one fat buttock after another wobbling towards the top landing.

He could make a run for it. There was time. The front door was only feet away. He could be through it, down the driveway and on the main road within seconds.

He could, but it didn’t even occur him to do such a thing. Whatever happened to him now was his own fault. There was nobody else to blame.

Keith’s mother had put him in the care of the church a few months previously. She had told Fr. Christian that he was out of control. He had been drinking, smoking weed and stealing money from her purse. There seemed no end to his misdeeds. She was powerless to punish him. She standing not much more than five feet tall and he towering above her at six feet.

Fr. Christian, as his name suggested, thought himself to be a charitable man. Besides, he believed it was his duty to help. How else could the young man be saved without the intervention of the church and lots of prayer?

It remained to be seen whether Keith was a pious person. Fr. Christian and fellow worshipers prayed and prayed, but still the wretched boy drank and inhaled.

“Prayer is not working,” Fr. Christian told whoever would care to listen. “Now, we must try mortification of the flesh.”

While Keith stood awaiting the return of Fr. Christian he heard excited whispers from within the lounge room. He was yet to discover that three of the leading lights of the local Church were there to assist the Father. All were men. This was no job for a lady.

A door opened and closed upstairs. Fr. Christian was in the special room he liked to call his study. Keith had never seen inside; it was always kept locked. A moment or two passed and the Father emerged and he lumbered down the stairs. His fat jowls wobbled and he moved unsteadily. His enormous stomach flopped over the waistband of his trousers. The exertion of walking up and down the stairs brought him out in a sweat.

Keith noticed little of this. All he saw was the rod Fr. Christian had in his hand. He held it daintily by its curved handle, allowing it to hang perpendicularly against his leg. Even from a distance Keith could see the rattan school cane was awesome. It was nearly four feet long and as thick as a man’s finger.

He took a step backwards as Fr. Christian’s mound of fat squelched onto the lower landing.

“Nearly ready boy,” the Father wheezed. “Nearly ready.”

Fr. Christian tucked the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major might with a swagger stick. He peered at the boy through half closed eyes. His eyelids were thick and heavy and he always appeared to be squinting. “Follow me lad. Follow me,” he rasped.

Keith allowed the Father to lead the way. He was in no hurry. He would make no complaint if what was to happen next were delayed. Fr. Christian entered the lounge room, then realising his eighteen-year-old charge was not following, he peered over his shoulder and barked as if calling a dog, “Come boy; come!”

Reluctantly, Keith entered. It was a large room, over-filled with very old furniture that was aged and worn, rather than antique and elegant. Scratched dark wood was the dominant furnishing. A huge couch over stuffed with horsehair dominated the room. Seated on it were Mr Grainger and Mr Murphy; two stalwarts of the Church. Seated nearby at the dining room table was Mr Lawrence. All three men stared intently at Keith as he hopped from one foot to another, unsure where he was supposed to stand.

He hardly knew the men who had come to witness, and who knew, partake in his humiliation. One he did know. Mr Murphy was very engaged with church youth club. His mother had insisted Keith attend. He hated it. It was full of devout kids prattling on about Jesus. Who wanted to hang out with them?

One answer to that was Mr Murphy; he wanted to be with the kids. He had no children of his own. He had no wife either. He was easily in his fifties, Keith reckoned. You did not need much imagination to see what he was up to, he thought. It was hate at first sight. Murphy’s habit of pushing his tongue in and out through his lips as he spoke, churned Keith’s guts. It was like talking to a lizard.

Murphy grinned at Keith as he walked through the door; his tongue slipping in and out as if he were observing the boy and waiting to pounce.

“Gentlemen,” Fr. Christian spoke loudly, as if he were addressing a congregation in church. “May I have the couch please?” He made it sound like a request, but all in the room knew it was an instruction. Mr Grainger and Mr Lawrence immediately stood and hovered, unsure where they should position themselves for what was to come.

“Keith,” Fr. Christian tried to sound kindly, but he was unsuccessful. He was not naturally a generous person. “You know why you are here. We have spoken often enough about your behaviour.”

Mr Murphy’s lips slithered and slipped. Keith averted his eyes. He despised the vile man. Why had he come?

“I warned you of the consequences. You continue to smoke cannabis, even though you know it is illegal,” Fr. Christian had a sermon prepared. “You know I could report you to the police. Would you like me to do that?”

Keith suppressed a sneer. The police? They wouldn’t do a thing. Possession for personal use; they probably wouldn’t even bother to give him a caution. They couldn’t care less.

“No Father,” Keith whimpered. He supposed the portly priest was expecting a response.

“No, so thank God Almighty I am going to be lenient with you,” Fr. Christian intoned as he swiped the formidable cane through the air. Keith flinched when he felt wind rushing against his cheek. It was a terrific weapon.

Fr. Christian’s eyebrows knotted and he scowled. “This is what you must do,” he swished the rod once more. “You must remove all your clothes and place yourself across the back of that couch.” He tapped its back in case he had not made himself clear.

Keith’s knees buckled. Blood coursed through his body. He nearly fell to the dingy carpet. He felt his face glow. Tears were already welling behind his eyes.

“B …” he found he was literally speechless. No words of protest would form. He turned his body slightly, but before he could move Mr Grainger positioned himself in the doorway. There was no escape.

Keith stood rooted. Terrified.

“Quickly boy. Undress. We are busy men. We don’t have all day.” Fr. Christian flexed the cane between his hands. He was anxious to get on with it. Keith could not move. Undress? Be naked, in front of these horrible old men?

“Should we assist?” Mr Murphy’s tongue worked a hundred to the dozen. His own blood pressure seemed dangerously high. He moved a step towards the petrified teenager.

“Gerrofff!” Keith pushed and connected squarely with Mr Murphy’s shoulder. “Leave me alone.”

Mr Murphy was stronger than he looked. “Come on you fellows,” he said, gripping Keith by the hair. The other two men were quick on their feet. Soon they had the teenager’s yellow tee-shirt over his head and off. Then Mr Grainger held his shoulders while the other two took him by the legs, raised them off the floor and tugged his jeans down. In moments they were over his trainers and on the floor.

“No, no, no!” Keith wailed. He kicked out, but he was over-powered. Next his white Boxer shorts were on top of his jeans. He was left in only his trainers and socks. Mr Grainger kept his grip of the teenager’s shoulders.

“Come on, you,” he snarled as he dragged Keith close to the couch. Then assisted by a very willing Mr Murphy, he had the lad face-down over the couch.

“Get round the other side,” Mr Grainger instructed. “Hold his shoulders down.” Mr Lawrence, who was hardly less porky than the priest leant his considerable bulk into the boy’s back.

Keith coughed and spluttered. The horsehair couch was old and dusty. He gulped for air and instead took in a lungful of grime. Mr Lawrence wheezed. He wouldn’t be able to hold the boy much longer. Mr Grainger took Keith’s left arm and Mr Lawrence his right. He was pinned down. Helpless. He was going nowhere. Not until his tormentors were finished with him.

“I should take his legs,” Mr Murphy lisped. Then to Fr. Christian’s obvious surprise, the man sat at Keith’s feet with his back to the couch and then wrapped his arms around the boy’s calves. From this vantage point when Mr Murphy looked up he had a wonderful view of the teenager’s cock and ballsack. When he craned his neck he could also see into the crack and hole.

Keith bellowed and he hollered. He screamed all the swear words under the sun. It made no difference. The house was in the church grounds, surrounded by a grave yard. Nobody would hear his bawling. There was to be no rescue.

Three men now held him down. He was completely naked. His head and shoulders were low; his legs were clamped together and his bottom was perched over the apex of the couch’s back. It was perfectly positioned to receive lashes from Fr. Christian’s cane.

The priest wasn’t quite ready. He bowed his head, closed his eyes and mumbled a prayer. Nobody else could hear his words. They didn’t know if he prayed for Keith to be forgiven or to be given strength for the task in hand.

Eventually, he was ready. He didn’t swish the cane for effect; he didn’t tap, tap, tap away to get his aim. With no ceremony at all he rose the cane as high as he could and brought it smashing down across the centre of the teenager’s bum. There was a resounding crack as rattan connected with flesh. A second later it was followed by a shrieking wail from Keith. His entire body shook as he fought to escape his restraints. He lifted his head. His face was scarlet. Tears rolled down his cheeks like a river going downhill.

The priest watched with deep satisfaction as a deep red mark instantly appeared across Keith’s white flesh. He rose the cane and slashed it down, an inch or so lower than the first. Keith repeated his bawling and his shaking. He squealed and rocked and writhed violently. Another deep cut formed.

used-drawing-cane-hold-1g

The sickening pain quickly overwhelmed his senses. He forgot everything. Who he was; why he was there. The fact that he was naked and held down by three old men. All he knew was agony filtering through thousands of nerve endings across his sensitive buttocks.

The priest wasted no time and gave Keith another cut, this one slightly lower, just above the thighs. They came like clockwork — a steady descent of vicious stings, all concentrated onto the same general area of his bottom. There were nine in all.

And then, suddenly, it was over. Keith felt a gush of relief. At once he was aware of many physical sensations. He was panting heavily and drenched with sweat. He was exhausted. He could hardly believe it; he had survived. His buttocks were screaming, but he wasn’t dead.

The three men simultaneously released him. He rolled off the couch and not stopping to pick up his clothes, he rushed naked from the room and after taking the stairs two at a time he bundled himself into his bedroom and threw himself down on the bed.

He sobbed into the pillow and sucked great gulps of air. Slowly, very slowly, he regained some control. His heartrate slowed and his breathing became calmer. He rubbed and kneaded his scalded flesh.

Downstairs, the priest shared whisky with the three men. “A job well done,” Mr Grainger congratulated all present.

“Yes indeed.”

“Indubitably.”

Only Mr Murphy remained silent. He shuffled away from his companions and stood behind the couch that had been the scene of Keith’s torture. He hoped they would not notice the raging erection pressing against the flies of his trousers.

Other stories you might like

Untidy bathroom

The man across the hall

The pub visit

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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