PEDO PRIEST CONFESSION COLLECTION 00

By DannyR  (MMM/bbb, M/t, b/b, oral, anal, incest, ws, extreme pedo, racial epithets)
Copyright 2011.  All rights reserved.


Authors Reminder:  Dont forget that inquiring authors want to know -- what did you think?  So when youre done, put your fingers to a  dried-off, cleaned-up keyboard and start by typing:  dr_harris_81@hotmail.com.

DISCLAIMER:  Some folks apparently have trouble distinguishing between fantasy and reality.  This story is a fantasy.  It didnt happen.  Never will.  And anyone who attempts to do in real life all or any of the things depicted in the story needs to be hanged, then drawn and quartered, and then turned over to the cops for the harshest penalties the law allows. After that, well, hopefully everything Law and Order and the news say is true about child molesters in prison, is really true.  Now that were clear on whats what, and whats not, read on.

SPECIAL NOTE:  The Atlanta Pervert (our good friend TAP) has done it again. Or rather, he did it a while back, and Im just now getting around to sharing.  TAP, you see, has a thing for priests and boys, well, okay, hes got a thing for preachers and boys, too, especially the really righteous family values types.  Hmm. Ive never asked, but I suspect he has a thing for ayatollahs getting themselves some hot tight Arab kid cunt as well.

Anyway, he wrote a story consisting of emails between two pedo priests, which Ive jacked and cum to many times. And recently, that gave me the idea for this group of stories.  Sort of a religious companion to the Tales of a Pair of Pedos. This is the set-up, if you will, for the series. Youll get to make a cummy mess of yourself, your keyboard, your jock, whatever, with TAPs pedo priests in the first confession.  Or who knows, this chapter might delight your cock and pervert mind, too. 


PEDO PRIEST CONFESSION COLLECTION 00


The fucking Americans.

No, not...loud...enough.  THE FUCKING AMERICANS!

Yes. 

And their fucking greedy lawyers. Well, all lawyers are greedy, but in the EU, in Italy, there is generally some degree of control, of circumspection, of respect for fine old institutions and ancient traditions. Such as the Church. And pedophiles. But the avarice of the Americans knows no bounds. Oh, they talk, how do they put it, a good game? They speak of truth, and justice, and accountability and closure for victims, and of something called the American way. And buried deep within the speeches they hide the word reparations.

The truth, of course, is that the American way is about neither truth nor justice. Nor accountability, nor closure. It is all about money.  The closure of cash. The looting of Mother Church.

And now it is, as the fucking Americans say, all over but the screaming. Yelling? 

If we could but kill all the lawyers and make the world far better, what better place to start with than the Americans? Visit the Four Horsemen on them and them alone. But the good Lord has fucked that up, unfortunately, and left it too late. (Bless me, father, for I have sinned and taken the Lords name in vain. I will say a Hail, Mary or three for penance.) Far too late.

An obscure lawyer, from an obscure little town, with one no longer obscure client, a man of fifty, fat, balding, always sweating with armpit stains in his shirts, a gross man with a big belly and big man tits, who has suddenly remembered that when he was young, so very young, so very innocent, the old priest in his parish, if forty or so is actually old, molested him. They have shown pictures, Polaroids or snapshots, of this plaintiff as a boy.  A fat little boy, with boy tits straining the tee shirt, and his boy belly flopping over the waistband of his shorts. A wide face, flat nose, thick lips.

The lawyer has explained what his client told him, with all the delicacy necessary not to offend the politically correct media who reported his words in print, and broadcast his words on television, and over and over on the Net, in circumlocutions that are nearly elegant, what the fucking Americans, whether they would admit it or not in one of their fucking polls, would rather have heard in plain fucking English, in plain fucking detail.

The plain words are:  The old priest fucked the fat boy. He was six the first time the priestly cock pushed past those fat little boy cocksucker lips, having persuaded the boy that holy milk was healthy. And that multiple doses each week, sometimes more than once in a day, were even healthier.

The lawyer explained the plaintiff remembered how the priest had fondled his upper body while molesting him, and how strange that made him feel.  The plain words:  the priest played with the little sluts tits, hurt them, while the boy whimpered and sucked and enjoyed, and the boy was rewarded not only with priestly milk but a dry cum as well. As a writer whose works I enjoy once said, I believe, kid pro fucking quo.

The boy was seven when he was forced to endure penetration in an unnatural position in an unholy location where no one could hear his cries, according to his lawyer.  The plain words:  The boy was crouched on all fours on the altar, late at night when his mother was drunk and thought her precious son was all tucked up on his mattress on the floor of the closet, so mama could turn tricks in the bedroom. The boys fat legs were splayed, his head was resting on his hands, his belly almost touching the altar cloth, his boy cunt shiny with holy extra virgin oil the good priest had recently blessed.  The priest opened his robes, displaying the holy meat the boy had pleasured so often before with his whore mouth, and then he forced the cock all the way into the kid cunt, the boys screams indeed unheard. As were his softer yells the first time or three the priests cock sawed in and out of his hole; as were the whimpers that turned to moans that turned to words, the priest egging him on, teaching him how to please his abuser, until at last the boy was screaming again, louder than before, his little voice echoing as he begged, Father, fuck me! Fuck me hard, father!

The lawyer explained how this particular priest was only one of a ring of perverts, a circle of pedophile priests who shared their awful lusts.  The plain words:  The local bishop liked little boys, and while virgins could be interesting, he had neither the time nor inclination to break them in properly.  The bishop believed in sharing. Shit flowed down hill, sharing flowed up. Rank is good.  He had sampled the fat boys mouth several times, had encouraged the good priest to get into the other end. And it was only a week after the boys cherry had been taken that the boy visited the bishop.

The priest had only managed time alone for two other fucks that week, so the bishop was the boys fourth cunt-fuck.  The child had lost count of the number of times hed drunk holy milk from the source. So the bishop fuck was painful in his still comparatively unused pussy, more so because the bishop was longer, and thicker, and rougher than the parish priest.  It was holy to endure pain the fat boy was told, which was why the bishop had to spank his wide fat butt cheeks and turn them bright red before the blessed penis could be inserted.  The boy sobbed and wailed and thrashed and begged, but his dicklet got stiff and stayed stiff all the way through.

And then the bishop bent the seven year old over the arm of the gleaming leather couch in his office, knelt behind him, spread his warm flesh as wide as possible, and inhaled the scent of unwashed boy, just as hed ordered. His agile tongue licked and slurped. Not well wiped either. A bonus. He picked up the boys undies, dropped on the floor when he made the child strip from the waist down. Looked inside. Smelled inside. Felt his cock leak. The brown and yellow stained undies made an excellent gag as he crumpled them and forced them into the boys mouth.

Not, of course, that the bishop did not like for his boys to yell when they were fucked, but his secretary was just on the other side of the office door. True, his secretarys cock was going to be in the kids cunt when the bishop was finished, but he had work which needed to be done, and did not need the distraction of hearing a seven year old howl as his boss fucked the child.  Seven year olds....six and five year olds, nine ten eleven year olds...tended to do that with spit fucks and hefty meat just rammed in.

The bishop did just that, spat once more on the cunt, dropped spit on his knob and smeared it a little, and then rammed deep, making a mess of his pubes and his very expensive trousers, but then, that was what an armoire with spare clothes was for.  The bishop was a connoisseur of fucked-boy screams, remembering from his own experience at five the razor like pains, the burning of his grandfathers short fat uncut cock being forced past his scrawny ass cheeks and into his tight virgin pussy, while his father held him down. It was weeks before he could walk without a waddle, though that was not just from his first fuck. More like the fact of at least two fucks a day. His father and grandfather believed that spit was sufficient to slime a boy pussy. It was a tradition the bishop was proud to follow. And this was a fine, fine, fourth-fuck howl, for all it was held in by the stained undies gag.

Fucking this fat boy was like the kid had two cunts.  His actual shithole with the tight walls that the bishop enjoyed pushing aside as he pushed deep into boy bowels. But the kids ass cheeks were so fat and doughy, that on the back strokes, when he pulled out so just his knob end was inside the boys pussy lips, the shaft felt like it was still wrapped in hot warm boy cunt. Then when he shoved, the plump flesh flattened out to let him back in. So fucking hot.

He had planned for this encounter to last longer, but the new archbishop had decided he was going to stop by and the little fat boy was already en route. There were only twenty minutes left for fucking in order to have a little time to clean up before the archbishop arrived, but still, he wanted a little something more.  As he pounded the kids cunt, the bishop stretched, and reached into a little pouch hidden at the back of the couch. He brought out a small, squarish brown bottle.

God, he loved poppers.  He inhaled several times, warming to the flush, forced the fat boy to do the same, took another hit. He could only hope that the air freshener would kill the smell, or that if it didnt quite, the archbishop was too straight to recognize it. He began fucking the seven year old boy cunt faster, taking more hits off the poppers, getting the fat slut high as well, and then with a loud grunt of his own, he slammed his meat all the way in and pumped out five loads of seed.  The boy screamed into his gag and writhed in his own fat little whorish cum.

Gasping, the bishop leaned over the impaled boy, got control of his breath, said, Charles!

It wasnt loud, and hed be damned if he was going to lose the warmth of the boys slimy pussy to go use the intercom, but then he didnt need to be loud. His secretary was certain to be on the other side of the door anyway, listening and playing with his own hardon, though alert to any arrivals that might interrupt matters. The lock clicked as the bishops secretary used his key, came in, locked the door behind him.

Eighteen, slender, athletic (state champion runner, second place swimmer), blond, blue-eyed. Just about to graduate from high school. Heading to the same seminary that had trained the bishop so well. Charles had been eagerly cooperating with the bishops use of his body since he was nine, his only regret that they hadnt known each other when he was younger. Much younger.  Charles was a randy, consummate slut who would fit in well at the seminary, since his favorite position was on his back or his belly, or all fours if his top preferred to fuck that way. But if he was going to be a true priest, he had to learn to express his own pedo nature.

Oh, Charles had confessed to some boy on boy sex with a few teammates in the locker room.  The boys room. Under the bleachers. In the back of the bus late at night coming home from an away competition. But hed never had young boy cunt before, and today was supposed to be a good training session.  The bishop mentally shrugged.  Fuck first, train for technique later.  The bishop pulled his still mostly hard meat out of the well-fucked cunt.

Charles looked at the slimy monster. Shiny with cum and spit and ass juices, a little pink mixed in like the kid had bled a bit, a bit of brown, too.  His mouth watered; he licked his lips.  He hadnt liked all that after his first bishop fuck, when hed had to clean the priestly prick with his lips and tongue, but after nine years he fucking loved the smells and tastes. He started to drop to his knees, almost a reflex action with the bishop, but the bishop shook his head.

The bishop walked around the still-bent, almost-done-sobbing, little boy. Sat on the couch. Removed the boys undies from his mouth and told him to get between his legs, bend over, and clean the bishops dick. The boy balked. The bishop responded as he always did. He slapped the recalcitrant little slut hard across the face, then back handed him.

Charlie smiled, but only inside.  That was so fucking hot. He missed being slapped by the bishop, being hurt by him. That was so good. Sometimes hed even been bad to see if he could provoke the man into providing him with pain. The bishop was brilliant, but somehow hed never caught on to what Charlie really wanted, more than anything else. But still, Charlie was confident that somehow, some way, in the seminary or out, hed find what he really needed. For now, he just vicariously enjoyed as he dropped his jeans and briefs. He wished he could lick off that trickle of blood at the corner of the boys mouth. He wished the bishop would hit him, punch him, hurt him, while he had his teen cock in kid cunt.

Hed have to make do with a little boys holes.

The subdued fat boy wasnt at all happy about the smells emanating from the bishops dick, much less the tastes, but he did as he was told and began cleaning all the slimy stuff that had come out of his very own cunt. He also understood that hed better keep his teeth away, no matter how it felt when Charlies nine inches, longer and fatter than the bishop, rammed into his boy bowels.

Charlie was in boy-fuck heaven, his huge meat buried in its first kid cunt, knowing it was hurting the fat boy, but enjoying the fuck out of it. Not in spite of, but because of. Unfortunately, Charlie knew the archbishop was on his way and so the leisurely but still rough fuck hed planned on was gone.  He asked for and received the poppers, used them thoroughly, passed them around, snorted again, and then settled for a rapid, pussy raping rough fuck, making the fat kid cry his plump little seven year old tears down into the bishops snot-slimy pubes.

The bishop managed another cum while Charlie was fucking, and they finished with just enough time to clean themselves up, spray air freshener everywhere, and take the well-fucked little slut out the back way and turn him back over to his parish priest.  Who took him home by way of the Macys restroom, where the priest and a friendly security guard filled both the fat holes again.  The kid cried because of the huge wet cum stain on the back of his shorts, but the molesting pair just told him to shut the fuck up, because it was good advertising.

And indeed it was.  One of his mothers tricks was just leaving when the boy got home, recognized the smells, turned him around, saw the large wet stain, told the slut mother that her slut son had just had an accident and hed help him take care of it. She was in a well-fucked, well-drugged haze so she waved a languid hand and went back to fingering her sloppy pussy. The man took the fat boy into the toilet, shut the door, not that the boys mother would have cared much if she saw, and then he proceeded to help the boy.

He taught the boy what raunchy uncut cock smelled and tasted like when it was fresh out of his mothers used cunt, and being used to skull-fuck his cocksucker lips and throat. The boy struggled as all that meat was forced into his throat, nearly passing out several times before a torrent of very much non-holy milk was spewed down into his belly.

He thought his ordeal was over, but the man needed to piss, and it would have been too much trouble to remove his cock, move the kid off the toilet seat and piss there. So the fat boy learned another lesson he didnt want. Not only was he a cum hole, he was a piss hole, his mouth a urinal. He gulped and choked and gagged, but swallowed every drop since the man had explained in soft, vicious detail what would happen if he did not.

With most men, a good cum in moms talented but not quite tight cunt, followed by a cum in her seven year old sons tight and talented throat, followed by a satisfying release of the piss hed built up over quite a few hours, would have been enough. Not this man.  He peeled off the tee shirt, made the kid get out of his shorts, noticed the start of bruises on his plump tits, and just smiled when he made the kid bend over and hold open his ass cheeks. He grabbed the flab around the non-existent waist, and shoved balls deep into the slimy hole.

Without a gag, the kid was free to scream and wail as his hole was violated yet again that day, as another layer of bruises was added to his titties, as the fuck went on and on and on until the boy voice was hoarse, and he found himself begging to be fucked. The man obliged, not minding what the neighbors might hear since he was confident they had heard all those screams, all those fuck me fuck me fuck me chants coming from this apartment before.  Eventually he bred the little slut, and decided that was enough for the day. Dutifully, the exhausted seven year old cleaned the mans cock, and then slumped over the toilet, farting out cum and slime and shit as the man left.

When the child confessed all this to the good father, the priest was pissed, but only mildly, and that merely because he hadnt had a chance to watch. He rewarded the boy with a spit fuck instead of a holy oil fuck.

The lawyer has never said these words, of course, in public or in private; never explained the intimate details of the boy being used. I rather suspect he does not know them.  The lawyer cannot even explain to my satisfaction, or the satisfaction of anyone, so far as I know, just how all these hardon making memories came to be lost.  Did the fat little boy, fat teen, fat young man, flip a mental switch and the memories were gone?  And then suddenly, miraculously, the switch is flipped again, twenty, thirty, forty years later and he remembers?

Unfortunately, though I mock the mans memories, and his claims of memory loss and resurrection, I *do* know the details.  All of them.  Before I wrote this, I reviewed the words. The priests report. The bishops report. Even Charlies report, so eagerly made at the end of his first year of seminary, when he fucked the little fat boy again, sharing him with the fifty year old priest who was providing Charlie with all the pain he so much desired.

Yes, I did say reports.

As the world may soon know, though I still have hopes that some of the secrecy will be retained.  You see, deep in the bowels...and is that not an appropriate word in this context...of the Vatican lies what was once a single room but has expanded over the centuries to a series of large rooms, excavated in secret as growth was required.  The rooms contain Il Pedofilo Raccolta Confessione.  The Pedophile Confession Collection.

What has never been known, yet almost inevitably will be known unless we can settle this suit without bankruptcy for the Vatican itself, is that for as long as the Churchs records reflect, once we know a priest is certainly a pedophile, if the Church does not already have full knowledge of his activities from other sources, we will require him to confess the intimate details in writing, to be forwarded to Rome for review by the Holy Father himself, to determine what penance should be paid.

That is what they are told; that is what they believe. And when the priest who has submitted a single sheet of paper containing his own minor masturbatory fantasy about an altar boy, never hears from Rome, he wipes his brow, but only occasionally sins no more. 

For those who ask why they are required to report, in exacting detail, the stories of little boy and little girl fucking they hear in the confessional, they are told it is so that the Holy Father may determine how best to help these poor sinners.

I am sure Armand Jean du Plessis, Cardinal-Duc de Richelieu et de Fronsac, never for a moment believed he was reporting to the Pope, in his own distinct and elegant handwriting, the intimate details of how he first seduced and fucked the tiny, two-year-old holes of the boy who would become Louis XIV, so that the Pope could impose a penance upon him.  The Pope was powerful, but not that powerful. Nor would de Richelieu have believed the help-the-sinner explanation. Yet still he reported. The day the King of France sucked the Cardinals cock, and then at de Richelieus bidding, fucked his own baby boy, not quite three. The day the boy sucked his first musketeer prick.  The last report, made only a week before the Cardinals untimely death in December of 1642, detailed a fine orgy with the four year old as centerpiece, attended by King, Cardinal, several musketeers, the Spanish ambassador and the English ambassador (willing to set aside their natural animosity for a chance at such *special* boy pussy).

Nor are those our oldest reports.  A most enjoyable read is from the priest who first molested the young boy who would become Richard the Lionheart. Somewhere around 1165, I believe. If I recall correctly, Henry II first used the boy when he was nine.

I can only guess that the first Pope to make the decision to compel these confessions was unable to find enough children to satisfy his personal lusts, and relied on these for the obvious function.  It wasnt until 1350 that Pope Clement VI created un trio di cardinali fantasma (the three ghost cardinals), and charged them to catalog and preserve the collection, and to find some use for it other than jacking off by the select few in the know.  Each of us is a pedophile, personally appointed by the pope and we serve until death, regardless of changes in the papacy.  We are known to exist, that is, the existence of ghost cardinals is known, and it is generally believed that we are members of the College of Cardinals, but with additional, secret functions, secret powers.  Indeed, we do have both, but to the world we are merely lower level bureaucrats, religious functionaries within the complexities of the Vatican.  As I am a mere monsignor most of the time, consider me to be Clark Kent before the telephone booth is necessary.  And no one knows who we are save His Holiness.

The present pope would prefer to get rid of us and appoint new successors, more willing than we, who are unwilling at all, to destroy some or all of the reports, particularly those which reflect badly on him and his friends.  The mess in Ireland.  The mess in America.  However, unless he could do what was done to the Knights Templar, seize and kill all three of us simultaneously, while making the deaths appear to be accidental, he would win a battle but lose a war devastatingly.  If only one of us escaped the net, the careful use of our rings could wreak havoc.

No, we do not have some ridiculous magical rings like that ridiculous cartoon character and movie.  What do have, each of us, is a ring we never wear.

You see, our first and foremost secret function is preservation of Il Confessione.  Our second is to make good use of that knowledge to enhance the Churchs prestige, wealth and power, since those confessions have from time to time involved the most important men and women of their respective ages. Of course we also use the confessions to pleasure ourselves and those with whom we share the tales, though not the source. And with that responsibility we have power as well.  Each of our rings has a unique sigil. That sigil, pressed into a wax seal, into a document, indicates that the contents of the document are the direct and secret orders of the Pope, to be obeyed immediately and without question

Were we not such upright men, though we are pedophiles all, we could destroy the Church and a vast array of men, women, children, businesses, even countries, by just opening the doors to Il Confessione and letting the world walk through, browsing at will and posting across the Internet immediately after. Or we could issue an order under our seal, for example, to release the truth about why the Church neither prevented nor ameliorated the Holocaust, but in some instances actively assisted it.

Il Pedofilo Raccolta Confessione is not, as the Americans put it, something so mild as a smoking gun.  It is...a smoking cannon?  A smoking hydrogen bomb? A smoking asteroid to wipe out modern society as a literal predecessor did to the dinosaurs?

The fucking American court has ordered the Church to produce every written record, available to the Church at, near or after the time the record was made, in which there is an unequivocal admission by a priest of one or more acts of child molestation, and about which the Church did nothing other than to transfer the guilty priest to another parish. The idiot American lawyers we were forced to use seriously believed that if they could have gone on fighting, and billing the Vatican at an aggregate two thousand dollars an hour or more, they could have won.

Unfortunately for the Church, the judge has a personal vendetta going on with the Holy See, and much more fighting could have led to an order that went back far too many years, into far too many records. We agreed, my fellow ghosts and I, to consent to the disclosure and then cull the records of those we must save, even if it means letting out proof to the world of what the Church knew and when we knew it about some of our fellow pedophiles.

Sometimes, the one must be sacrificed for the good of the many. As long, of course, as none of us is part of that one.

It pleases us, however, that the Americans will not be pleased with most of the records they may see, since so many of them conflict with their impression, their devout and loudly asserted belief, that little boys dont love to have their boy pussies fucked and their whorish little mouths filled with cocks and cum and piss.

And now, I have spent enough time on this record.  Time to go back into the bowels of the Vatican, where I have a delightful seven year old waiting for me, tied spread eagle to my bed, belly down, his pussy lubed, waiting for my cock in his bowels. I am not sure whether I will use the cane on him before or after the fuck. Either way will delight us both.

I will add my confession to Il Confessione later...but will not make it generally available to the Church at or after the time the record is made. And thus no one will ever see this.


