Even watching him felt like being a voyeur. At the risk of offending God and all his angels, I could be convinced I was spying on a priest preparing for Mass, not a wicked boy scheming for evil. His tools on his workbench like water and wine and chalice oil and polish on the right, whetstones and strops on the left, knives in the center. With his back to me, candles flickering off metal, he began a low monotone. Not Latin, not from our Bill, with his leer and his arrogance and his unholy appetites.
He motioned me to sit on an oaken stool at his side, his acolyte. I shivered at the sins I was committing, venial and mortal, just by being here, but I could not leave. Temptation was too great and I was not resisting his sacrilegious ritual.
He oiled his knives, stropped his cleavers, honed his daggers and boning knives and picks. All the while, his voice, his low, insidious voice, swirled around me like incense. He turned to me and I was ensnared, as always, by his blue, blue eyes seeing straight into my blackening soul. I tried to look away but turned into a stalwart pillar, sure as Lot's wife. He smiled and winked, turned back and kissed his knife. Touching a finger to the blade, he made a bright red drop of blood bloom and rubbed it on my lips.
"I absolve you from responsibility, little monk, and will cleanse from you the sins of your weak flesh.
Pushing his tools aside, he picked me up to lay me on his table. I am no small lad, but our Bill had the strength to achieve what he wanted, what I wanted, too, in the depths of my soul. He took up his low, murmuring chant again and selected his tools. Surely as Saint Sebastian was bound to that tree with arrows, he pinned me to his table, first with daggers through my trousers at my ankles, then at my knees, then my arms. He worked quickly but with great skill; not a drop of blood did he draw forth from my flesh.
Legs together, arms outstretched, jacket and trousers pierced in a dozen places. He peeled open my shirt, then swung his long, long legs onto the table with the grace of a cat and straddled my hips. Grinning in his impious way, he leaned forward to kiss my forehead, my belly, then each nipple in turn, neatly avoiding my crucifix.
Heat from the depths of hell rose in my body and I struggled to turn away from sin. Ah, the mind is willing, but the flesh -- my flesh -- is so very weak. I want this, want it more than peace of mind, more than grace, more than salvation. Bill watched, grinning, waiting for me to renounce my faith. I am lost, for I covet this, no longer lying to myself that I am here to save the soul of this poor Protestant boy. I am here motu propiro, by my own accord as the church says, to give him my own.
Smiling once more and winking, he unbuttoned my trouser flap. He bowed his head and took me into his mouth. Another voyeur, watching both of us now, might be forgiven for thinking I was attempting to get away. That my writhing and gasping were signs of resistance, but not so. I prayed for Bill to go faster, harder, deeper, longer, interspersing pleas with occasions of taking the Lord's name in vain.
I thrust up as high as the knives allowed into the fiery depths of his mouth. He stopped, holding me tight, making me attend his words. I waited there in limbo.
"This is your body, which you have given up for me." Again, that profane grin. "I know your secrets, Priest, that you lie to yourself about your desire, that you think you cannot be responsible for your actions when I take away your free will. You hide nothing from me. Your denial of me will cause your downfall in the end."
He bowed his head again, long black hair hiding his face, and took me fully. I arched up hard off the table, feeling the spiraling approach of sin. He knew and welcomed it, his hands and tongue and lips urging me on. Nothing could be this good and still be holy. I resigned myself to hell and oh, how I panted and moaned and lamented on my way there. Finally, my essence came shooting forth in great, hot pulses upon his tongue, bringing blessed relief.
Raising his head, looking for all the world like a fallen angel, our Bill smiled at me with affection and satisfaction. I would do this for no other man than you, little monk.
I watched him rise up over me to unbuttoning his own trousers. Bringing forth his member, he took as much care with himself as he did with his knives, reverently stroking up and down, polishing the head with his thumb. All the time, he stared at me, breathing hard and struggling to keep his eyes open as his long, lanky body hunched forward.
Oh, Priest, he gasped, this is for you. And he anointed my body with himself, his pure white cum spreading over my chest. He rubbed it into my skin, making our sin disappear.
I closed my eyes in disgrace as he released me from his workbench, thus ending our ritual for the night.
Go forth and sin no more, his laughter followed me down the hallway.
I stumbled home in shame, vowing as always to resist, repent and return no more.
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