Confessions

"I think you need to come see me. Say this Tuesday, at three, in the rectory."

"I don't know. There really isn't . . ."

But an impatient Margaret Parsons was pressing him from in back for her turn to complain to Vicar Michael about the choice of altar flowers, so Jamie just nodded and moved on.

"Yes, I rather thought it was something like that," Vicar Michael said on Tuesday as they sat in his study. He had brought the tea in himself, saying that the housekeeper was in Exeter that day. "So, we're all alone, and whatever you have to unburden yourself of will only be known by us and God," he said as he poured the tea.

"It's just that it's what I left Cornwall for. And this seemed to be a good idea for settling down."

"It's not always best to deny one's nature, James, nor to run away from it."

"I don't know. That's not the advice I'd expected . . . what? Ohhh."

Jamie had stood and moved to the desk, to put his empty cup back on the tea tray. Vicar Michael had come up behind him, close. He'd pushed the tray to the side and moved a hand around Jamie's waist, to his belly, where he brushed the tail of Jamie's shirt up and laid a palm on Jamie's lower belly.

Jamie relaxed in the vicar's embrace. He might have sunk to the floor, if Michael had not been embracing him and holding him up.

"I know what you need. I can give you relief and a penance," Michael whispered breathily in Jamie's ear. "You are to kneel before me now, unzip my trousers, and suck my shaft. Can you do that? Do you want to do that, James? I have the hard body you need."

"Yes," Jamie whispered as he turned and sank to his knees in front of the beefy vicar.

He had known already. He had known when he was half way through confessing to the vicar, unburdening himself of his sin and of being captive to his base needs and desires. There had been a fire in the vicar's eyes, a way he had of licking his lips while Jamie spoke, his failure to condemn or counsel against anything, the obvious hard cock Jamie could see fighting to be freed from the vicar's trousers. The hard cock that Jamie would be freeing and moving his lips over.

There also was the feeling that the vicar had already heard his story—that he knew the full extent of the sins Jamie would confess.

As soon as Jamie had realized the vicar's desire, he also realized that it was what he wanted—that he'd had his eye on the vicar ever since he had surrendered to Thomas Owencraft and realized that the desire and the surrender had started all over again—that he hadn't escaped it by fleeing Cornwall. And as he realized that he wanted the vicar's cock churning inside him, his confessional became more detailed, more sordid in the specifics he related.

He was gratified—and relieved—to see that it had an effect on the vicar. He even made the move to pull his shirttail out of his waistband himself, to move his hand underneath, and to palm his own belly as he talked. It wasn't the same as another man doing it, but it was something. He was breathing heavier as his confessional came close to an end. The vicar was panting lightly too. And he was hard, noticeably hard.

"Now, I want you to bend over the desk and look out the window and watch the world go by while I take you on a tour of heaven. Do you want to go to heaven with me, James?"

"Yes, fuck me, please."

Michael raised Jamie to his feet, turned him and pushed gently between his shoulder blades as Jamie leaned forward over the desk, planting his fists in the leather of the desktop.

"I don't think . . . should we really . . ." he stammered, as if he were having second thoughts, but any objection he had was dashed when the vicar palmed his lower belly as he unbuckled Jamie's belt with the other hand and pushed Jamie's trousers and briefs down to the floor. The hand then went up to cup Jamie's chin and pull the back of Jamie's curly blond head into the hollow of his shoulder.

Jamie winced, widened his stance, and voluntarily rolled his pelvis up to the cock as he felt its bulb push into his entrance and then he lowered his head, set his arms, and began to pant and groan as the vicar moved his hands to grip Jamie's hips to hold him steady as he mined the young man's ass.

He watched the village butcher pedal slowly by on his bicycle and then noticed that, within a minute, the butcher pedaled back across the window from the other direction, his face turned toward the vicarage.

Two days later, as Jamie, shirtless, was using a hand scythe to cut four-foot tall stalks of grain in one of his small fields, the one farthest away from the cottage and barn, the butcher pedaled up on his bicycle.

As he got off the bike and Jamie watched him do so, the butcher said, in a low, hoarse voice, "I hear you take cock—and that you take it nice and easy, with nary an objection, if you are handled right."

He fucked Jamie doggy style in the middle of the field in an area where their thrashing bodies had mashed down the stalks of grain and you would have to be almost upon them to see them. As soon as the butcher had palmed Jamie's lower belly, the young man had gone complete docile, had widened the stance of his legs and had pleaded in a small voice for the man to be good to him—and to hurry to be inside him and to do his business—and then be gone. The butcher was eight thick, pounding inches good to him, and as long as the butcher kept his hand on Jamie's belly, the young man knelt there on all fours, docile and rock steady, appearing almost resigned and disinterested, while taking the rough ass pounding like a covered bitch in heat.

Jamie on all fours, briefs and jeans pulled down to around his knees, the thickset, solidly built butcher covering him from above and breathing heavily, fully clothed except for his hard shaft jutting out of his fly. Pounding, pounding.

It didn't matter to Jamie what cock was churning inside him, what man was covering him. It was all good for Jamie. Just like the way it had become in Cornwall. Men hearing about him from other men. Standing in line for it. Sometimes six or seven men in succession. Small English villages were the same across the country. He'd been a fool to think he could escape—more a fool for not accepting that he wanted it.

Afterward, Jamie lay on his back in the trampled stalks of grain, his face slathered with the butcher's cum, the butcher crouched beside him, three fingers of one hand crammed up Jamie's passage and pulsating, the palm of the other hand on Jamie's belly, as Jamie looked up into the man's eyes and stroked himself to an ejaculation.

"I'll be back, and you'll take me when I do," the butcher growled after Jamie had arced his cum up onto his belly.

"Yes," Jamie answered, not fighting it, not resenting it even. Knowing that it was a simple truth. If he remained here on this farm between Little Stoke and Higher Stoke, the butcher would be back. And others would come to. Just like in Cornwall.

The butcher obviously had known that the way to control Jamie was with the palm of a hand on his lower belly. And there had been only one other man with the technique of working Jamie's prostate with his fingers while watching him finish himself.

The next Tuesday at three, with the vicar's housekeeper in Exeter again, Jamie was on his back, lying cross-wise on a double bed in a guest room in the vicarage. Vicar Michael was crouched between his spread thighs at one side of the bed, cocking his ass. Thomas Owencraft was hunched over Jamie on the other side of the bed, where Jamie's head was thrown back over the side and Thomas, a hand resting gently on Jamie's lower belly, was slow-pumping his cock deep down Jamie's throat.

Friday night, the two took Jamie to a private men's pub in the suburbs of Exeter, where the two older men sat next to each other, at a table, drinking beer and watching a succession of men crouch between Jamie's raised and spread legs, his back on the top of a pool table, gang bang fucking him. The vicar and the lord of the manor discussed a ranking of the men moving between Jamie's legs, as other men gripped his ankles on their side, stretching his legs up and out, waiting their turn.

The two graded them on how firm and bulbous their buttocks were and how nicely the muscles expanded and contracted as they thrust at Jamie's ass.

Jamie said nothing on the way back to Little Stoke. There didn't seem to be anything to say—not even when the two men decided to share him again when they got back to the vicarage before taking him home, telling Mary that the small farmers meeting they all had attended at the vicarage had run very late.

* * * *

Thomas Owencraft waved the vicar over to his table in the Little Stoke pub as the man of God entered the bar.

As Vicar Michael settled at the table, he said, "So you've heard?"

"Of course. Nothing moves faster in Little Stoke than gossip about other people. Left in the middle of the night, I've heard."

"So I've heard as well. Couldn't take the responsibility of raising a family, I guess. Especially one that wasn't his own," Michael said.

"Just as well," Thomas said, with a sigh. "I confess that I was beginning to tire of him anyway. No fight in that young man. So docile, submissive. Not much of a challenge."

"I confess that, as well. And confession is good for the soul—but perhaps not all that wise in a small village like Little Stoke, as our young friend found out." The vicar's statement was accompanied by a small laugh. "Still . . ."

"Yes, he was, wasn't he?"

"Very. So what are we going to do for . . . what are you looking at?" The vicar turned his head to follow Owencraft's gaze. "Ah, the small Pakistani at the bar? Dark, willowy, pretty."

"Didn't we see him in the club near Exeter?"

"I have picked up vibes about him in various confessionals. I believe he's a carpenter over in Higher Stokes. And yes, I believe he's easy. I would think he has quite a lot to confess, and who better to take his confession than . . ."

But Thomas was already gesturing to the young Pakistani man at the bar, who now saw him, smiled, and started working his way to the table of the village vicar and he local lord of the manor.