Perverts 'R' Us

Francis Gets Abused - Part 7

By Francissy ( M/b, pedo, mast, voy, hum )

The school was a Victorian anachronism, the main accommodation block a buttressed fortress like a latter-day Colditz without the benefit of watchtowers, but as imposing and confining nonetheless. Opportunities for the school inmates to escape its embrace were quite limited. There was 'library leave' at four o'clock on Friday afternoons, when the boys and girls were allowed to visit the village, in groups of three and four, ostensibly to take advantage of the small, public library. Some of the children, especially the more studious, may well have done so. But for the majority it was a chance to hang about the village's only coffee bar (which was strictly out of bounds), or effect some shoplifting from the harassed local shopkeepers (usually for food, sweet or savory, for the boys were always hungry).

For the rest it was a time for mischief and cigarette smoking. Wednesday and Saturday afternoons were dedicated to field sports (football, cricket, and hockey). If the playing fields were frozen or waterlogged, then the boys were sent out of the gates on cross-country runs, another opportunity for mischief. The only other weekly event that allowed the boys and girls beyond the school boundaries was the dreaded compulsory visit to church every Sunday or membership of the church choir.

Every Sunday, come rain or shine, snow or blizzard, in sickness and in health, the boys and girls were led in separate crocodiles to St. Anselms. The school formed the bulk of the congregation, the boys seated on the left side of the nave and the girls on the right. The villagers filled the center pews. This tedious worship was the most crushing, boring part of their week, and enough to put any prospective Christian off religion for life.

For the vicar, the Reverend Eric Day, the children's presence was a necessary evil and a captive audience for his lackluster sermons. They filled his church to capacity each Sunday and without them, he would have had no choir. Suitable local boys were far too few, and anyway were not permitted to fraternize with the boys from 'the school'. While most of the boys considered membership of the choir to be for sissies, there were certain advantages.

Every Wednesday evening, after dinner, choir practice was held at the church and so the choristers were released from school for an hour or so. Also, on Sunday mornings, the choirboys made their own way to the church ahead of the rest of the pupils, and returned unescorted after the service was over and the rest had departed.

Francis had considered joining the choir, but had elected instead to join the school scout troop. After his experience with the scouts, and particularly with the scout leader, the master GVG, Francis once again considered joining the church choir. When Paul, one of his friends and a choirboy, had to leave their ranks because his voice was breaking, Francis decided to apply for a place in Paul's stead. The Reverend Eric Day was in his forties, a dedicated bachelor and a cynical Christian. A scandal in a previous parish meant that he was sidetracked into this backwater parish where he languished in isolation, disillusioned and self-pitying, let down by God, the Church, the Police, and society at large.

The vicarage was a comfortable house situated a couple of hundred yards from the church, on the other side of the ancient graveyard. And here he stewed, alone apart from his officious housekeeper, a rotund woman named Nora Stott, who kept the vicarage clean, prepared meals at midday and eventide for the vicar, and oversaw Eric Day's straight and narrow path of righteousness.

In order to join the choir, a boy had to have a set of functioning vocal cords and a suitable air of piety. He also had to attend the choir practice on Wednesday evening and demonstrate his ability to hit the right notes while the vicar struck the appropriate keys on the piano. The boy was also required to share the piano stool with the vicar so that the boy's and the vicar's thighs came into contact, or to stand alongside the seated vicar so close that the boy could feel the vicar's hot breath on his bare thigh. As Francis was the only applicant for the vacancy, he was enrolled immediately as a treble in the choir. The reverend Eric Day was delighted and said as much.

Eric was delighted in more ways than one. Mixing with the other choir boys twice each week, he overheard much of the school gossip; he knew the Masters' nicknames, knew who the saints were and who the sinners were, who the bullies were and who the faggots were. He knew that Francis was called 'Franny' and 'Francissy'. The vicar had regarded Francis and liked to think of the as being 'well-upholstered', the boy filled his short grey uniform pants to the full. Francis was an average treble, Eric Day would have referred him castrato!

And so the vicar led the new recruit into the vestry to equip the boy with a chorister's raiment. Francis had a penchant for uniforms, it was one of the reasons he had been attracted to the scouts, and he felt the same arousal at the medieval uniform of the choir. Eric Day picked out a black cassock and Francis drew it down over his head. The material was rough and prickly and he was reminded of the hair shirts that penitents and martyrs favored. Over the top of the black cassock came the surplice, which by comparison was soft and beautifully white. Finally came the ruff, the frilly white starched collar. In a scratched old mirror that hung on the back of the vestry door, Francis regarded his reflected image - he looked angelic. That evening the vicar and Francis went their separate ways, and each with a song in their heart. But they were singing quite different tunes.

The choir was eighteen strong. A couple of the senior boys sang bass and another three sang tenor, the other boys were all altos and trebles. On Sunday Francis made his way to the church with the other choristers, and what a pleasant change it was, a breath of fresh air. No prefect pushing you and bullying you into line, no marching like toy soldiers, no trips and no kicks. In the vestry there was the usual banter and messing around as they changed. They took off their uniform jackets and struggled into the cassocks and surplices, resembling a cloud of disturbed bats. For Francis it felt special processing down the aisle following the golden cross held aloft. After the service, the choirboys dallied in the vestry, giving the rest of the school plenty of time to disappear back to their prison, two by two. Then the choirboys made their own way back, some popping into the hedge-row for a well deserved cigarette.

But Francis tarried a while longer, reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the church and spent some minutes tidying up the hymn and prayer books that the congregation had left scattered among the pews, and gathered up the hassocks. The reverend Eric Day walked through the church and thanked Francis and bade the boy a reluctant goodbye. The vicar crossed the graveyard to the vicarage, where Nora Stott, beady-eyed and inquisitive, had laid out the table and awaited the vicar's return and with a Sunday roast simmering in the oven. But the vicar's appetite was dulled, he could think only of the delicious cherub alone in his church.

It was Spring, the weather was warm and the trees were in blossom. Francis had been in the choir a whole month. Sunday service was over and Francis was alone in the vestry as usual. He had tidied up the disorder left by the churchgoers and was enjoying the privacy, the isolation, the feeling of freedom. He went to the small oak door that hid the staircase that led to the bell tower. St. Anselms had a square tower at the top of which was the belfry, which in turn was surmounted by a small spire. A crooked weather vane and a lightning conductor were atop the spire.

The tower was strictly out of bounds, which made it all the more attractive to Francis. He opened and stepped through the doorway, and began climbing up the worn, stone spiral staircase. At the top he emerged into the belfry. The great bell was hung between massive wood beams and accompanied by two smaller bells on either side and a walkway ran around the chamber. Overhead, the hollow steeple ascended into darkness. Immediately to Francis left was another door; this one was even more decrepit than the one downstairs, its hinges were rusty and cobwebs draped its frame. Francis stretched out his hand and turned the iron handle and pushed. Nothing happened, it must be locked, and Francis heart sank. But he tried once more, and this time pushed against the door with his shoulder. The door creaked and it groaned and it swung reluctantly open.

Francis rejoiced. The warm afternoon sunlight enveloped him and he stepped out into God's glorious sunshine. A stone walkway ran around the square tower and was enclosed by a parapet that came up to the height of Francis' neck. He couldn't see directly down, but looking ahead had a wonderful view of the surrounding countryside. The walkway was littered with dead leaves, and as he followed the path around he came across the remains of a poor, desiccated sparrow. When he peered over the wall, he could see a mile away the red brick and dark slate rooftops of the school, huddled in a crowd of treetops like a lurking monster. In the opposite direction, he could see Harrow on the Hill, and directly ahead the steel of the railway lines that ran to the capital.

Francis felt exhilarated. He realized that with only his head visible above the parapet, that there was little chance of anyone espying him. With a rare feeling of liberation and daring, Francis felt the need to be free of his clothes, and he quickly tore off his school tie and unbuttoned his shirt. He let them fall to the floor, and equally quickly stripped off his grey shorts and white cotton underpants. A slight breeze ruffled his privates. He walked around the tower again, quite naked but for his shoes and socks and he exulted in the sensation.

As he arrived back at the place where his discarded clothes lay, he fingered his little penis and it readily responded, stiffening to a yearning three inches and pointing up at him like a pencil. He stepped up against the parapet and gently rubbed the delicate tip of his penis against the rough stonework. He felt a shiver run down his spine. Francis knew he couldn't stay much longer, the school bell would soon be ringing for lunch and he would have to run all the way back. He looked down at his pink erection, its head with its Cyclops eye looking back up at him, urgently wanting and waiting.

With finger and thumb he pinched hold of its slender stem and began working the skin up and down. It didn't take long for his moment to arrive and he arched his spine and spewed out his meager sperm. His milk formed little puddles between his parted feet. He sighed, bent down and picked up his shirt, and wiped his sticky willie on the shirt tail.

Francis felt no guilt at what may be conceived as defiling a house built to the greater glory of God, but felt only a rare sense of satisfaction. He quickly dressed and retreated the way he had come, careful to close the doors behind him. He shut the church door firmly closed behind him and ran all the way back to the school, where he arrived breathless and in time for a meal of thin, sliced beef served with lumpy mashed potato and swimming in a gravy congealed beneath a glistening film of grease.

On Wednesday night after choir practice, Francis left with the other choir boys but deliberately left his school cap behind. Minutes down the road and Francis declared his forgotten cap and ran back to the St.Anselms with the other boys' hoots of derision ringing in his ear. The loss of any article of school uniform was worthy of a detention at least and a beating at best.

Francis slowed as he neared the bulk of the church building, in time to see the figure in the gathering gloom of the reverend Day retreating to the vicarage and the charms of Nora Stott and his evening meal. Francis slipped into the church. It was ghostly dark and he kept his eyes averted to avoid the sight of the crucified figure of Christ that looked down with sightless eyes from the screen over the altar.

Francis crept into the vestry. In minutes he was upon the belfry and out onto the tower walk. If anything the view was even more attractive than it had been last Sunday; now the surrounding countryside was aglow with lights and the twinkle of evening stars. Francis lost no time in stripping naked and dancing around like a ballet girl. His little erection bounced in time with the sway of his hips and he leaned against the cooling brick of the parapet and gyrated against its rough caress.

Intoxicated with the feeling of rapture, Francis urinated as he pranced around, not caring that the warm wet stream of pee splashed his thighs and feet. His hardness remained and drooled. Francis looked up at the canopy of the night sky and felt as though he were the only being in the universe, and massaged his willie and hard testicles. He groaned out aloud, no-one to overhear him and he achieved his climax and let it go against the parapet. Francis was back in the school with sticky underpants before he remembered that he had forgotten to retrieve his school cap!

This lovely state of affairs persisted for Francis for several weeks until one fateful Sunday in early August. Familiarity breeds contempt, and so it was with Francis. On this Sunday, after Eric Day had departed the church as usual, Francis threw his cassock and surplice to the vestry floor in his haste, and sped up the spiral staircase to the belfry.

But the reverend Eric Day had not proceeded to the vicarage as normal; he had duties to perform in the graveyard which required him to return to the church and confirm details of burial plots with church records. The vicar found Francis's garments strewn upon the vestry floor only seconds after the boy had dropped them. As the vicar bent to pick them up, he realized that the staircase door was open and then he heard noises from above. He stopped in his tracks and listened at the door; there was definitely somebody up there. As Francis threw off his clothes in the belfry, he had no idea that the reverend Eric Day was creeping up after him.

The reverend Eric Day was forty-two years old, and he looked it. In fact, he had always looked forty-two, ever since he was twenty-two. He wasn't exactly ugly, but he had a coarseness about him that gave the impression of ugliness. His head sat upon his shoulders at an odd angle and his wiry hair, prematurely graying at the temples, resembled nothing more than a scouring brush. A sallow complexion and an oversized Adam's apple completed a less than appetizing picture, and did nothing to make him attractive to the female of the species.

His taking vows was not due to any particular religious fervor, the church for him was not a vocation; he simply drifted into the clergy following a homosexual affair with a vicar that he had met on a holiday at Skegness. Unable to find a woman to satisfy his needs, Eric Day had sought relief in the arms and in the bed of the vicar.

One night, after consuming a large bottle of white wine together in the darkness of their love-nest, the vicar had produced a 16mm cine projector and two large reels of film. With the machine set up and projecting onto the bare bedroom wall, the flickering black and white film settled down to scenes that thrilled the inexperienced Eric Day. He witnessed naked young boys and girls cavorting with older men, but it was the boys that entranced Eric. Their smiling faces as they committed the most lewd perversions with the salivating adults thrilled the future reverend. And Eric would never forget the vicar's words that he whispered to Eric before taking Eric's rampant penis into his mouth; "The nice thing about little girls is that you can turn them over onto their stomachs and pretend that they are little boys."

Eric was a diligent student and subsequently was ordained into the Anglican church, but his passion for pornography and his fantasies of young boys lived on in his heart and would perhaps have remained only unfulfilled dreams but for that fateful day five years ago. The reverend Eric Day was passing through Euston station on his way home from a seminar. The station concourse was crowded and bustling with passengers, all of them hurrying to or from somewhere; all except for a teenage boy who was loitering midway between a burger bar and the gent's toilets.

On a sudden impulse, Eric approached the boy and asked him if he was hungry. He took the boy into the burger bar and bought the lad a meal and a Coke. The boy's smiling face reminded Eric of the images that he had seen that night on the bedroom wall. He asked the boy if he had somewhere to spend the night. When the boy said 'No', Eric insisted that the boy should spend the night under the vicar's roof. As they left the burger bar, Eric asked the boy if he needed to use the toilet and the boy nodded yes. They went together down the steps to the underground toilets. Alongside each other at the urinal, Eric pulled out his thick penis and looked down at the boy. The teenager pulled out his own soft penis, and, without urinating, allowed Eric a nice, long look at it.

That night Eric fulfilled most of his pent-up desires, and barely hesitated when the boy screamed as Eric buggered the boy's tight anus. Several days later, the boy was arrested by the railway police at Euston station, and during his interview with the police, revealed Eric's identity and address. The vicar was arrested and cautioned before being released on bail, but the case never came to court. The bishop of the diocese dismissed Eric from his parish and banished the vicar to sleepy St.Anselms, where he languished to this day. The village had few children for the vicar to minister to or molest, except of course for the boys from the school, but they were boarders under the school's own supervision and contact was minimal.

As the reverend Day silently ascended the spiral staircase, his thoughts were confused. He had no doubt that it was Francis up ahead of him, but was the boy alone? What was he up to? Perhaps the boy was a secret smoker, but the vicar doubted it. He gathered his cassock up about him, lest its rustling alerted the interloper.

Francis impatiently pulled off his school uniform and dropped it in a heap at his feet, then pushed open the old door and emerged nude into the beautiful midday sunshine. He went to the wall to peer over it and survey the panorama, and then began his slow walk around the tower. As he walked, he ran his hands down over his narrow chest, and tweaked his tiny nipples. Of course, some of the boys at school had chest like Charles Atlas, with muscular pectorals and large brown nipples like elongated penny coins.

His hands continued down over his flat stomach to his genitals. Most of the other boys in class had hairy beards down there but Francis felt his pubic area and his own soft, furry down that barely showed in the sunlight; the other boys called it 'bum fluff'. His slender penis quivered at his own touch. He walked on, and put his hands behind him and probed the soft flesh of his bottom. Though he couldn't see it, Francis knew that it was a full, soft pillow that others desired. His thighs were smooth and well-rounded but still immature, better than some girl's he had been told. He enjoyed feeling himself and toyed again with his little prick, which was now quite upstanding.

At the top of his climb, Eric saw the pile of the boy's clothes, lying in the shaft of sunlight that streamed in through the half-opened door. A movement beyond the door caused the vicar to stop still as he was sure what he had seen was the flash of bare flesh. With no time to think or formulate a plan of action, Eric quickly gathered up the discarded uniform and held it under his arm. He slowly emerged out onto the balcony.

The sight that greeted his eyes was both wonderful and shocking. There, with his back to the vicar, stood a completely naked Francis with exception of the boy's grey socks and black shoes. The boy's skin was pale and unblemished, his back tapered to a delightfully slim waist and then flared to form generous hips and a full, creamy set of buttocks. The sight sent the blood coursing through Eric's veins and to his pronging penis. He was looking at the back of a girl, but this girl was a boy and this boy was definitely masturbating himself.

"Francis," Eric Day cried out, "how dare you?"

Francis young heart nearly stopped beating with fright, and the boy spun around to find he was facing an apparently irate vicar. Francis saw that the vicar was holding his clothes and the boys hands flew down to cover his privates.

"Hands by your side!" Eric shouted in his most authoritative tone. Francis, blushing crimson from his face to his neck and with his penis equally inflamed, stood to attention and dropped his hands to his sides. The reverend Eric Day was reminded of Michelangelo's 'David', but the difference here was in the penises, the one soft, and this one stiff.

"What is the meaning of this?" Eric asked, but from Francis there was no answer.

"Get down those stairs immediately!" Eric ordered, and stepped aside to allow the naked, humiliated boy to pass by. Eric made no effort to offer Francis his uniform back. Trembling with fear, Francis brushed past the vicar, anxious that his drooling willie might touch and contaminate the vicars clothes, and began his way down the spiral staircase. The vicar quickly followed him, slamming closed the little door and anxious not to lose sight of the retreating nude figure. As he hurried after Francis, the vicar marveled at the sight of the boy's soft bottom, its cheeks clenching and wobbling as the boy picked his way down the steps. The vicar's heart was beating as loud and hard as the boy's was. Together they entered the vestry and the reverend Eric Day ordered the boy to stand still and to attention in the center of the room.

The vicar recognized a golden opportunity when it sat up in his face but his overriding consideration now was his own safety. The events of five years ago had left their scars on him and he was determined not make the same mistakes again. Still holding onto Francis's clothes, the vicar left the vestry and crossed the nave to the main doors, which he securely bolted. He made sure the two smaller side doors were also secure and then he allowed himself a pause to regain his composure and steady his breathing. Beneath his trousers, the reverend Eric Day was sporting his biggest erection for years. Moving more slowly now, Eric retraced his steps to the vestry. Of all the boys that the vicar could have had in such a position, Francis was the one he would have chosen above all others, and here the wretched boy was, nude, penitent and stood obediently to attention.

Francis remained rooted to the spot in the centre of the vestry, and he was in equal mental turmoil. He knew it was a waste of time to try and justify or excuse his lewd behavior. He had been caught red-handed, just as he had all those years ago when he had climbed a garden wall to steal apples, and now, as then, he was rendered helpless and naked. Francis looked down at his willie, which was still wavering semi-stiff, and he quickly removed a fine gossamer thread of drool from its rude tip. Francis dare not imagine what kind of punishment he may have to suffer, or what exposure and ridicule may follow.

As Eric came back into the vestry, it was all he could do not to rub his hands together in glee, but he adopted a stern demeanor.

"Francis, I cannot begin to tell you how disappointed I am at your outrageous behavior. Of all the boys in the choir, I trusted and admired you the most, and you have betrayed that trust. Not only have you abused my trust, I find you abusing your own body. What have you to say for yourself?"

"I'm sorry sir" muttered the miserable youth, who hung his young head in shame.

"You have desecrated God's house in the most blasphemous manner Francis, what were you thinking of?"

"I don't know" sobbed the sorry boy, whose willie had shrunk at the mention of God and blasphemy. Eric dumped the boy's clothes on to the vestry table and pulled out a straight-backed wooden chair for him to sit on. He set it down in front of his naked victim; not too close, you understand, not quite within arm's reach, but close enough to be able to examine the wrinkled foreskin and the boy's scrotum.

"I demand some answers Francis, and I demand the truth" said the vicar." If you compound your sins by lying to me as well then you will leave me no option but to report you to higher authorities and face the consequences. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir" Francis answered in a barely audible whisper.

"How long has this been going on?" asked the reverend Day.

"Since I joined the choir" Francis confessed.

"You mean that every Sunday for the last six weeks you have been polluting yourself naked on the tower?" cried the vicar.

"Yes sir" admitted the boy, "and Wednesday nights too".

"Wednesdays as well!" spluttered the shocked but delighted pedophile. "You mean after choir practice?"

"Yes sir" was the whispered reply.

"Francis, it is not just your deviant behavior that has offended me, but don't you realize that the tower is out of bounds for a reason? Suppose you had tripped on the stair and fallen and broken a leg? You could have been seriously injured, or even killed!"

There was a prolonged and strained silence.

"Francis", continued the lascivious vicar. "You could have easily practiced your vile stimulations here in the vestry, why did you feel the need to climb the tower and strip yourself naked?"

"I don't know sir" answered the boy, I just went up there to see what it was like and it made me feel so good inside to be so high up, and at school you can never be naked or do it to yourself without everybody watching and I just took my shirt off and then my thingy got stiff so I took my shorts off and then it just came over me and I did it, and I'm sorry and I'll never do it again". It came out in a long confession without a pause for breath and then the boy fell silent, awaiting the vicar's wrath.

The vicar sat back and considered for a moment. The boy's willie had shrunk to a small sausage, nestled on the soft cushion of his little scrotum, though the willie was still showing a sticky tip that pried out from the gathered foreskin.

"Francis" the vicar lectured, "it is unfortunately quite normal for prepubescent boys to experience these sordid urges, and sometimes it is easier to give in to those urges rather than to take a cold shower. But I fear that in your case you have a morbid condition that makes you go to extremes to gratify your urges. You do it in the nude, you do it on high and on church property, and you do it far too often for it to be healthy. However, it is obvious to me that you were in need of gratification and very near to completion when I caught you. I see that your member has recoiled but will still need relief. Am I correct?"

"Yes sir" Francis replied, still not sure what the vicar was implying but deciding to agree with everything his captor said.

"Now Francis" said the vicar, "take hold of your precious little balls". Francis hesitated but then bought his right hand from his side and gingerly felt for his small orbs.

"Now fondle them and tell me what you find" the reverend continued.

Francis fondled his balls. "Are they not swollen and hard?" asked the vicar. Francis supposed they were and said so.

"Exactly as I thought!" said the vicar, "your balls are now full of your sinful milk and if they remain un-discharged, the milk will curdle and your testes will bruise and ache. I am not a cruel man and while you are a disgusting pervert, I feel I must allow you to finish what you have so rudely started".

Francis raised his eyes to meet the stare of the vicar. Was the vicar asking Francis to wank off in front of him?

"Come on boy, I shall not tell you again. Continue your self-abuse".

Francis looked down and tenderly took hold of his willie. The wilted penis rose willingly to the occasion as Francis began to draw the foreskin back and forth. Too ashamed to look down at what he was doing, and too ashamed to look the vicar in the eye, Francis averted his gaze to a point somewhere in the middle distance, somewhere over the vicar's right shoulder. The vicar longed to reach out to tickle the underside of those swinging balls, to caress the glistening head of the glans, but he resisted the temptation and had to content himself with the role of voyeur. The vicar saw that Francis's attention was somewhere else and that he was staring into space.

"Francis! Pay attention and concentrate on what you are doing" the vicar insisted.

Francis cast his eyes down and they both watched intently at the movement of Francis's fingers on his willie.

"If you don't hurry up, not only will you fail to express your milk, but you will miss the lunchtime roll call at school". Francis thrust his hips forward and began pulling on his foreskin in earnest, wanking it as hard as he could and doing it as fast as he could. Then, accompanied by a slight murmur, a weak stream of the boy's 'sinful milk' spurted out and onto the floor between them. How the vicar wanted to catch that pitiful stream of boy-juice onto his tongue, but instead could only watch as it was wasted onto the floor in drips and blobs.

"Now run to the lavatory and get some toilet paper and clean up your nasty mess" the vicar said, and watched the boy's every move as Francis ran to the toilet and returned with a wad of toilet paper. The nude boy knelt down in front of the seated vicar, and humbly wiped up his mess.

"Now I want you to get dressed Francis and go straight back to your school. You will not speak to anybody about what has happened here, and I will consider what best to be done about you over the next couple of days. We will speak again after choir practice on Wednesday evening. Do you understand?" As Francis scrambled back into his uniform he said 'yes', and then as an afterthought, the reverend Day added "And you will not milk yourself either!"

Eric Day watched the fleeing figure of the boy as the he closed the church doors behind him, then set off through the graveyard to the vicarage. Nora Stott was not pleased at the vicar's late arrival for his dinner; but she needn't have been concerned - the vicar had quite lost his appetite, at least his appetite for roast lamb, his greed was for quite a different meat, for young choirboy's flesh.

After Wednesday night's choir practice, the reverend Day made a point of asking Francis to stay behind and help him to tidy up. Once the other choristers had departed, the vicar locked the church doors and escorted Francis to the vestry. He seated himself again on the chair and had the boy stand before him.

"Now Francis" he began, "I assume that you have told no one of your desecration of this church? And have you refrained from self-pollution?"

Francis nodded assent to both questions.

"Good. I have decided on a course of action. Reporting you to the school would only result in your receiving a severe thrashing, and suffering further humiliation from your peers, so if you are prepared to throw yourself at my mercy, then I will deal with you personally."

"Please don't report me to the Headmaster" the boy pleaded, "please, can I be at your mercy?"

"Very well" said the vicar, breathing a sigh of relief and satisfaction, "out of concern for you and out of the goodness of my own heart, I will try and help you to overcome your perversion; but in order to do so we must both understand the full nature of your perversion. Unfortunately the time available to us on Sundays and Wednesdays is hardly sufficient, but it will have to do for now. So you have been abusing yourself on a regular basis at least twice a week for the last six or seven weeks, and so your young body will have developed a pattern of need. If we limit or curtail these needs it could damage your organs and lead to complications. Now strip yourself naked and present yourself to me."

Francis struggled to understand the vicar's meaning as he shed his clothes. As he removed his underpants he wondered what it meant to 'present' himself. Francis stood naked and trembling for further orders.

"Present yourself to me, boy! Come and stand before me!"

The boy approached the seated reverend and stood as close as he could and to attention.

"Now let me see you play with your naughty little balls and tell me whether they are full." Francis used both hands to locate and display the bulges of his testes.

"Are they full and ready for draining?" the randy vicar asked. "I think so, sir" the boy replied uncertainly.

"Excellent. It is important that these sessions are properly supervised and that we treat them as remedial exercises, as purely physical functions; and not as an excuse for you to indulge your wicked lust. Now start doing it."

Francis let go of his balls and began masturbating. "Remember to pull the skin all the way back until it hurts" the vicar instructed him. The vicar was relishing his role, making every moment as humiliating as he could for the lovely, naughty boy. The vicar's own distended organ was leaking its fluids into his trousers.

"Now I need to know" interrupted the vicar, "what is it that you think about when you are pulling on yourself?"

Francis briefly stopped his wanking but the vicar made him continue. Francis didn't know what to say. He could hardly confess that when he played with himself that he conjured up visions of the strong upper thighs of dominant women, thighs clad in fishnet stockings and suspender belts; nor could he admit to dreaming of being tied to the stake and feeling the arrows of St. Sebastian piercing his naked body and skewering his stiff penis to his stomach; much less to dreaming of being put on display in a perverts' zoo, and having normal families visit to view and ridicule him. But before he could formulate an answer, the very reminder of those fantasies came to his rescue and his willie jerked and spat out its ineffectual climax.

These secret sex sessions continued for another two weeks until one Wednesday night the vicar decided to vary the routine. "Francis" he said, once the boy was again presenting himself naked to the man, "when I first apprehended you, you were up on the tower and you said how good you felt up there. I have decided therefore to let you go up there tonight to do your exercises; but only because it may help us to understand your obscene behavior, and because this time it will be safe because you will be under my supervision."

The vicar allowed the nude Francis to go up first, but only so the vicar could follow and watch the lovely sight of the boy's bottom. Once on the walkway the vicar closed the door, plunging them both into semi-darkness. The cold night air raised goose pimples on the boy's tender flesh, and in the pale light of the moon he appeared as an earthly ghost, his torso like alabaster, or so the vicar thought. The boy was a wicked cherub with an erection that pointed to the stars. The vicar himself stepped back into the darkness of the wall, his black cassock making him almost invisible. The cassock had slits on either side, but they weren't pockets, they were there so that the wearer could access his garments beneath. The vicar thrust his hand into the slit and grasped his engorged organ. The vicar ordered the boy to start his masturbation. Francis did as he was told while in the shadows the vicar matched the boy, stroke for stroke. Unable to see the vicar or what the man was doing, Francis felt as if he were alone and unrestrained again. He pinched his willie hard between finger and thumb and strained on tip-toe to see the nightlights of the countryside. Blocking all thoughts of the reverend Eric Day from his mind, Francis spread his feet wide and arched his back, tugging on his willie to make it longer.

"Francis" hissed the vicar, "I hope you are not giving in to your vile thoughts. These exercises are to benefit your health, not for your gratification. You may keep your legs wide-spread but you must face me!"

"Yes sir" and Francis obeyed and turned to face the illusive figure. How the vicar loved the way that little boy's ball sac hung and swung between those girly thighs! As Francis's strokes became more rapid, so did the vicar's, and by clever manipulation and self-control, the vicar managed to shoot his manly load at the same moment as Francis released his own, immature emission.

"There will be no need to clean up your mess tonight" the vicar said, "one of the advantages of milking you up here instead of down in the vestry." Together they descended the staircase, and in spite of the vicar's discomfort at having his sperm fouling his clothes beneath the cassock, still fed his greedy eyes on the boy's nude rear.

Nora Stott was not a happy woman, in fact, she was irritated. Nora was fifty-seven with a fat, florid face and frizzy, ginger hair. She wore a pair of round rimless glasses that accentuated her circular features: round blobby nose, round mean mouth. The size of her chest was hidden behind a habitual cardigan, but there was no disguising her fat arse. Her stubby legs were usually encased in brown, knee-high boots. Nora had lived in the village all her life, and rarely strayed beyond its boundaries. She did once go to Watford, but didn't like it. Nora had been unhappily married for eleven years to Archibald, whose business card declared him to be a 'Sales Executive', but Archibald was actually an agent for a stationery company, selling paper and envelopes to a shrinking client list.

On their wedding night, Nora had assumed the missionary position and laid herself out like a corpse on the marital bed in her full-length nightie. Archibald, worse for wear for several pints of cider, had thrown himself upon the naïve Nora, torn apart her nightie and penetrated her like a bull in a china shop. Nora had started screaming when he began gnawing on her pristine nipples like a hungry bear. The performance was never repeated.

One Sunday Nora returned from singing the praises of the Lord at St. Anselms to find that Archibald had gone. He had taken with him his clothes in his cardboard Demob suitcase, the Morris Minor 1000 two-door saloon, and busty barmaid called Brenda Allsop, who dispensed more than just beer to her favorites. Nora appointed herself the caretaker of St. Anselms, polishing the woodwork and the brass, arranging the flowers, and helping the aged Reverend Moxon, whether he needed her help or not.

When Moxon passed away peacefully in his sleep, his place was taken by Eric Day. Nora lost no time in worming her way into the vicarage, and became Eric's self-appointed moral and spiritual guardian. Nora was suspicious of unmarried clergy and Eric found he had to lead a scrupulous existence. Nora tended to his laundry, both his clothes and his bed sheets, so he dare not leave any tell-tale stains. She also prepared the vicar's lunches and dinners, leaving cold salads under a cloth or cooked meals in the oven on a low light, before plodding her way back to her terraced in Uxbridge Road. Even the vicar's mail was not sacred; Nora would scour it for any 'plain brown envelopes' that may contain smutty magazines, which Nora was convinced would contain pictures of brutish males feeding on ripe nipples. And now Nora was irritated - the vicar was returning ever later from the church, and always on Sundays and Wednesdays. And Nora's irritation was turning to suspicion.

Following his success at getting the boy naked up on the roof, and his own delicious but clandestine climax, the vicar's mind turned to other ways of spicing up the boy's treatment. The vicar was still determined not to make physical contact with his victim, or to do anything that could be construed as assault in a court of law. But if he couldn't do the things he wanted to the naughty, dirty young boy, why not get the boy to 'volunteer' to do things to himself? On Sunday, after the service, the weather had turned violent and much to the vicar's disappointment, rain began to beat down in biblical fashion. He would have to confine their activities indoors.

Francis took off his cassock and surplice, and then stripped off the rest of his clothes. At the vicar's request, he also removed his shoes and socks. It was the first time that Francis had been absolutely naked at the hands of his tormentor, and the boy felt it was significant in some way, but he couldn't define why. Francis too would have preferred to do his milking up on the tower but now the lashing rain was accompanied by the flash of lightning and the crackle of thunder. The vicar was still putting away his hymnal and sermon, so Francis went and stood naked before the empty chair and came to attention. He wondered whether he should tease his little, pencil-like penis to stiffness while he waited but decided no to. Then the vicar turned his attention to the boy.

"Today Francis, we are going to have to stay indoors, but I think we will leave the vestry and enter the body of the church. We don't want your lewd nakedness on show before the altar, so please put your cassock back on." Francis gratefully pulled the cassock over his slender body. The garment itched and scratched him all over. The vicar opened the vestry door and led the barefoot choirboy into the church and down the aisle. They stopped at the steps that led up to the altar. Directly above them, intricately carved in wood, a crucified Christ wept on his cross. A flash of lightning illuminated the stain glass window over the altar. Francis shivered in trepidation. The whole scene was somehow sexy and forbidden, and his glans peeped out from its protective foreskin, and caressed the rough material of the cassock.

"To demonstrate your remorse" the vicar intoned, "you must prostrate yourself before the altar and beg forgiveness for your sins." Francis hesitated, unsure of himself.

"Francis" said the vicar, "first you must gather up your cassock and hold it around you so that you are naked from the waist down. The Lord must see your sin to be able to forgive it." Francis did as he was told and used both hands to lift up the bulky garment.

"Now turn and face the altar, spread your legs wide, and lay face-down before the Almighty." Francis lowered himself onto his stomach and spread his feet as wide as he could. The marble mosaic was cold against his stomach and hard against his erect willie and tender balls.

Standing above and behind the prostrate boy, the vicar delved into his own garments and released his potent prick and gloried at the sight that lay before him. "Kiss the ground before you Francis, and lower your eyes in shame". Francis closed his eyes and kissed the floor with his rose-bud lips. The reverend Day wanted to part those lovely, exposed bottom cheeks and explore the boy's virgin hole, and he silently cursed the unjust society that forbade him from practicing his pedophilia.

"Now Francis," commanded the vicar, "cast off your clothes and reveal yourself to Him in all your degradation!" Francis got to his feet and quickly pulled off the cassock and stood trembling before his maker, his bare buttocks inviting a spanking, and his willie now weeping while all around the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed.

"On your knees." Francis meekly obeyed and sank to his knees. The vicar stepped forward and placed a silver dish before the kneeling boy. "Now make your offering" the vicar said. Francis recognized the silver plate as the collection dish that was passed along the pews of the villagers in the congregation. It was never passed along the rows of schoolboys; it would have come back empty. Francis took hold of his willie and began wanking himself with a special zeal, wanting to please the Almighty and appease the vicar. Standing slightly to the boy's side, the vicar ensured that he could watch the boy wanking, while the boy was unable to see the vicar doing the same.

"Make sure that you catch all of your wicked seed in the plate, or you will be sorry."

Outside in the driving rain, her head covered with an oilskin hat and clutching an umbrella that had turned inside-out, Nora Stott tried in vain to get into the church, but the door was locked against her. She rattled at the handle and banged on the door, but her noise was drowned out by the roar of the wind and the continuous thunderclaps. She fled back to Uxbridge Road, thwarted but not defeated.

Francis was nearing his little boy's climax, and he knelt forward and pointed his willie down at the silver plate, anxious not to spill any drops. As he started to ejaculate, he supported his weight on his left hand, lowered his body, and with his right hand, directed his spew of cum onto the dish. The vicar observed with pleasure that the little queer-boy had produced quite a good load of milk, it landed in swirls and globs on the dish and the vicar saw how Francis squeezed the tip of his pathetic prick to extract every last drop.

Francis sat back on his heels and looked to the vicar for Eric Day's approval.

The vicar had allowed his cassock to fall back into place, hiding his own monstrous erection. "Francis, there is one penance remaining to fully atone for your sins. Can you imagine what it is?" Francis looked from the vicar to the dish of drool in front of him. "No sir" he whimpered timidly.

"Have you ever tasted how foul your bodily milk is?" the vicar asked.

"No sir," Francis replied. Francis had tasted and swallowed the milk of many of the boys, and knew well how the taste varied, from the acrid to the palatable. But he had never had to sample his own.

"Do it now Francis! Kneel down with your naughty bottom in the air and your face in the plate. Sup up your own milk, until the plate is clean."

Francis hesitated, reluctant to obey, and looked in post-climax disgust at the puddle before him. He decided to shut his eyes, close his mind, and do it quickly. He thrust out his tongue, and like a cat he lapped up the cooling cum. When he had finished his ghastly soup, he turned his face toward the vicar, who observed the smears of cum that clung to the boy's cheeks and nose and lips. "Open wide, Francis" said the vicar, "and let me see."

Francis obeyed and opened his mouth wide, to prove he had swallowed it all down, like a good boy.

The Reverend Eric Day now lived for each Wednesday and Sunday. He could not concentrate on his parochial duties nor compose meaningful sermons, and each night relived those glorious moments with Francis. He planned future scenarios while twisting and turning between his bed sheets, and was forced to pay nocturnal visits to the bathroom, where he masturbated his weary penis. For his part, Francis accepted his lot at the hands of the vicar, it was better than the pinching and punching and pulling and poking and twisting that he had to endure at the hands of his fellow pupils.

The vicar was going to touch and handle Francis. It was bowing to the inevitable. For Eric, it had become a question not of "if" but of "when". How could he resist any longer? The vicar justified his intent to molest the boy quite easily; it was there for the taking, the boy had a reputation as a 'nancy'. He was a faggot, a prick-teasing slut. The cardinal sin would not be the assault, but the folly of getting caught.

After the service on Sunday the vicar was impatient to be rid of his congregation, and ushered the villagers and the school children out of the church with indecent haste. By the time the last of them had departed and the vicar had secured the doors, Francis was already in the nude and submissively awaiting the clergyman. The weather had settled down but the wind was still strong enough to blow the tree branches against the stained glass windows. But the vicar had no intention of ascending the tower today anyway, today he wanted the queer boy in the vestry, today there was going to be a "laying on of hands." The vicar pulled out the chair and sat down on it in front of Francis and Francis inched closer to the vicar, until their knees were touching. Francis's little willie was asleep today, nestled on the delicate scrotal sac.

"Turn around, boy" the vicar said, and Francis did as he was told and turned his back on the reverend gentleman. "Now spread your feet wide apart Francis, as wide as you can."

Francis was reminded of an exercise that they had to perform in the gymnasium, standing with legs apart and bending to touch your toes. But the vicar had a different exercise in mind. The vicar was speaking and moving slowly, as if in a daze, he wanted to prolong every second, to savor every delicious moment. "Now start doing it Francis and let me know when you have reached your stiff condition."

"Yes sir," replied Francis, and he started wanking. Behind the wanking boy, the vicar admired Francis's bottom cheeks and very gently he reached out and his fingertips caressed the boy's bottom. Francis flinched at the man's touch, not out of fear but in surprise. The touch was pleasant and made him shiver, and he wanked on with renewed vigor. There was a complete silence save for their heavy breathing and the vicar used both hands to part the boy's buttocks and he stared at the tight, virgin anus, hairless and pink. The vicar yearned to place his mouth there, to probe it with his rasping tongue, but all in good time. He let the cheeks go.

"My willie is stiff now," Francis said. The vicar extended his right hand and Francis felt the hand pass between his outspread thighs and tickle his balls. Francis looked down beyond his flat stomach and saw the vicar's fingers close around his balls. Then slowly but surely, the vicar tightened his grip on them and began to tug them backwards. Francis had to stop his wanking as his balls were pulled backwards, and with them went his stretched penis, which was now pointing downwards. Francis squealed and was forced to bend forward from the waist in a vain effort to relieve the discomfort. The vicar extended his fingers to enclose the penis as well as the balls in his grasp, and now he had the boy's budding 'manhood' totally in his power.

"Perhaps if you come to associate pain with your disgusting urges, you may curb your animal instincts," opined the reverend Day. "Yes sir" agreed Francis, and the vicar gave the boy's private parts a cruel squeeze. Francis cried out in pain. The vicar released the boy and ordered him to continue with milking himself. The vicar was emboldened and in a state of heightened sexual tension; he must restrain himself, lest he overstep the mark, or, even worse, suffer a premature ejaculation!

From the window of the vicarage, Nora Stott had watched as the objectionable rabble of school children had departed the church, and in her pudgy hand she clutched the spare key to the church door, her grip on it as tight as the grip that the vicar was about to exert on Francis's genitals. She waited as long as her patience allowed, and after fifteen minutes, slipped out of the vicarage and set off through the graveyard, picking her way amongst the tottering headstones and scattered floral tributes. She stopped before the tall, arched church doors, then turned the iron handle and pushed. The door was locked. She slid the key into the blackened keyhole and quietly unlocked the door.

Nora hesitated, and then stepped into the church's gloomy interior. She made a tour of the church on quiet feet and found the place deserted, and then she heard muffled voices coming from the direction of the vestry. Nora crept up to the closed vestry door and pressed her ear to it. There were two voices, one the deeper tones of the reverend Eric Day, the other the lighter treble of a boy. But these voices were not engaged in conversation, there were just commands, short responses and long silences. Nora's heart thumped a tattoo behind the flesh of her pendulous breasts and she strained harder to hear through the door. Then all doubts were dispelled, her suspicions all confirmed, her righteous indignation vindicated, when she heard the vicar's voice say "bend over again" and heard a barely audible "yes sir" from the boy.

Francis, with his legs still widespread, willingly bent forward again, now wanting the vicar to touch his bottom, anxious for his cheeks to be parted. The vicar duly obliged and spread Francis's bottom cheeks to reveal the boy's darling anus. The vicar extended his thumb to caress that secret anal button and just as he pressed at the opening, the vestry door flew open and Nora Stott barged in, full of spite and indignation.

The police arrived and the vicar was arrested, charged and subsequently imprisoned. Francis was delivered back into the care of the school, where news of his activities with the reverend Eric Day was soon common knowledge. Francis was interviewed by a kindly female police officer and a report was made to the local social services. Two weeks later, a social worker from Harrow council arrived at the school and Francis was excused class to be interviewed in the privacy of the headmaster's study.

The social worker was a twenty-three year old man with a recently gained third rate degree from a second-rate university. He also had a penchant for young boys. His interview was more of an interrogation and his questions were aimed at the intimate details of Francis's abuse at the hands of the vicar, and less to do with the boy's spiritual or mental well-being.

The man, who introduced himself as Derek, sported an unfortunate galaxy of spots on his sallow face, and nicotine stains that marked the length of his nail-bitten fingers. When Derek suggested that the vicar had surely buggered the boy and Francis denied it, the social worker suggested that a physical examination would establish the truth. Derek could not believe his luck when the hapless boy unbuttoned his shorts and dropped them and his underpants without question and allowed Derek to finger and fondle his private parts. For the social worker, it had been a red-letter day; for Francis it had just been another day.

Unbeknown to Francis, further humiliation and finally, penetration, were soon to follow.

Readers' reactions would be very much appreciated. Contact Francissy at supersunray@sapo.pt