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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Booksie Classic
An elderly priest becomes sexually excited himself when he challenges a youth's morality

Submitted: July 06, 2009

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Submitted: July 06, 2009





If he was a priest he’d long forgotten his vows and disregarded the promises he’d made in his green years, of devotion to God and love for life. His years had turned, through yellows and oranges, to muddy brown and his heart was filled with bitterness.

He had, over the years, discovered that mortality is prey to sin and had pursued a course of purging it. The rod, he thought, was the correct instrument for berating those who were overwhelmed by the need for evil, and he always carried one with him. Bamboo, it was, long enough to “whish” as he thrashed it through the air yet short enough to be hidden beneath his long black robes.

He was doing his deity’s will. Flesh, he knew, is conceived through the most sinful of all acts and it hurt the depth of his mind when he thought of it.

He had seen the summer-frocked girls giggling their way to debauched pseudo-happiness. He had even contrived to see up their miniscule skirts at the flash of white undergarments that spoke more than words could speak when it came to a proper appreciation of true evil.

And he had seen the lost but bragging, boastful lads with ill-concealed erections whistling at the flimsy females, all testosterone and desire and hot sweat and broad grins. He had seen them and berated them with his rod. They had mostly danced out of his way, though one or two had caught his anger and had painful weals to prove it. He’d wanted to hit out at the girls, too, but something held him back, something told him that his brawn over their slight prettiness was unequal.

The truth was something he hid even from himself. “A priest,” he thought as he struggled along, going down a myriad byways in search of the journey he knew he must make one day, “a priest, though with the form of a man is something so far beyond mortal beings that he can’t go about thrashing girls, though I’d like to! That I would! I’d like to count the bruises on their besmirched flesh, cut the skin that binds them with my holy rod - that’s what I’d like to do, but somehow can’t.”

He forgot to mention to himself that he also possessed a rod in his undergarments, one that that reacted most readily to thoughts of sins of the flesh. Something prevented him from acknowledging its apparently independent existence, but it did exist. It was a token of the thin grey umbilicus that bound his saintly self to the mass of humanity, the cross he had to bear when he saw the white flash of uncontrolled knickers up tiny skirts, the acknowledgement that God was in His Heaven and all was well with the Universe. Whenever his personal rod twitched as he walked past the girls he could truly admit his relationship with his Almighty and get that superior feeling that made thrashing the boys that little bit easier. He had even started to believe that was why there were girls in the world, diversions for his own secret flesh and delicate little flowers in themselves, despite their unforgivable evil.

But the boys were different beasts. He could beat them, or try to, and frequently did.

Then he met Maxwell.

Maxwell was a horny lump of testosterone, loose-limbed and a shallow grin on legs. And he was popular with the short-skirted girls, bless them. They called after him with their teasing voices, encouraging him to sin, and he grinned the invitations off with a wave of his hands and another wave in his pants. The priest knew that, though he couldn’t see it, but he knew all right and was appalled. It was the very fullness of evil, the wholeness of sin, and needed to be dealt with.

“Hey you, sinner!” he barked at Maxwell, and Maxwell smirked back at him, smirked like only devils smirk, was a creature of insolence to one as cerebral and elevated as him! The Priest felt anger rising inside him, and called it righteous. He felt the need to punish like a red mist encircling his vision, and called it godliness. He started pulling his rod from his cloak, not the excited rod in his undergarments but the bamboo rod he kept for its holy purpose, and walked up to Maxwell.

“I know of you, you old fool,” said Maxwell, and his blond hair bounced on his head like the very embodiment of insolence. His whole being was a challenge, but it was the Priest who had the rod, and he grasped one end firmly in his right hand, ready to bring it fully out and damn the evil youth with it, giving him weal after weal until he begged for mercy.

In truth, it was the Priest who had another rod, and the secondary beast, the hidden one almost writhing in his sweaty undergarments as excitement surged through every causeway of his body at the thought of the thrashing he was about to administer, chose that moment to spring free of its hessian harness and leap into the world. Quivering in front of the great Priest, and he ignorant of its release, it pointed at Maxwell.

Of course, Maxwell saw and his eyes lit up.

“What have we here?” he purred. “Does the Priest want me? Is that why he waves at me with his human part? Oh, for goodness, if only the girls could see this! How they would laugh at the fun of it, how they would roll in the sands by the sea with all that belly laughter!”

“Are you actually laughing at me?” barked the Priest, still ignorant of the rigid exposure from his own person that was causing so much mirth. “I will take my rod to you, young man, that I will, and I’ll wipe that smirk off your face, that’s what I’ll do!”

“Oooh, the pain! I can almost feel it already!” laughed Maxwell. “Come here, girls,” he called to some tiny-skirted trollops who chose that moment to approach round a corner. “Come and see the good Priest’s rod! For he intends to beat me with it, and such a beating would scare the saints to death!”

By then the Priest had completely dislodged his bamboo rod from the hidden regions of his robes, and he waved it at the insolent boy. Both of his rods swung towards him, and the girls giggled like sirens might as they caught sight of the Priest and what would have been his embarrassment had he known about it. But  he was still foolishly ignorant.

“See the willy!” shrieked one of them.

“See the helmeted buffoon!” squealed another.

“See the one-eyed snake!” howled a third.

Puzzled, the Priest looked down, momentarily, and saw the willy, saw the helmeted buffoon, saw the one-eyed snake, and saw his own sin, his own disgrace.

His troubled heart, smitten by truth and reality and with a fair measure of embarrassment added, chose that moment to stop its toil and he fell to the ground at that very instant, and his spirit, like spirits sometimes might, drifted from him. Like a cloud of nothing it soared into the skies until it came to the Heaven he’d believed in for so long that it might have been forever.

And there, in the biggest backwater of the Universe, it reformed and stood before the dead man’s god, and bowed.

And his second rod, the cause of all his disarray, was still there, pointing like an unwavering one-eyed snake at the brightest deity in the panoply of deities.

Which his why, mere moments later, the spirit of the good Priest found himself being ushered by a sumptuous winged harpist to the first of a long row of steps that led down and down and down towards what looked, from the distance, very like a fiery furnace.

© Peter Rogerson 16.06.09

© Copyright 2018 Peter Rogerson. All rights reserved.

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