by C. M. Knox
The priest ran his hand across the side of Justin's face. He wanted very much to close the gap between them, to enfold the youth in his arms and press lips together, to show him the other side.
But not yet. This brutal, twisted thing that was growing between them was too young, yet. He needed to own Justin, had to make him surrender utterly, had to win this battle between them before a gentler connection would ever be possible.
His hand moved down Justin's body, tracing the increasingly familiar lines of bone and muscle on the youth's lean frame, eased back up. His thumb brushed against Justin's lower lip, and the young man's mouth opened obediently, a whole new kind of uncertainty and fear showing behind his eyes.
Soon, he promised himself. But not yet. Not yet.
“Go forth, and sin no more,” Father Burke murmured, and turned away from the naked youth.
Justin gathered his clothes and slinked off through the darkened halls of the Academy, and although it took a superhuman effort, Father Burke didn't turn to watch him go.
Born Again
Three more days.
Justin turned the copy of his Aunt Josephine's will around in his hands, his fingers rifling absently through the few pages in the short document. It was a simple enough bequeathment – three more days, and then he'd never have to worry about money again. Three more days until he graduated St. Kilda's Academy, meeting her one fiddly little requirement, and he could start his life as a newly-minted millionaire, fresh out of high school.
Why didn't you just give it to me on my 18th birthday? Justin wondered, but the thought had no teeth. The truth was, if she had, he'd have flounced right out of St. Kilda's when he came of age almost a year ago. He never would have had all those months as the Academy's resident troublemaker, never would have discovered the weird twisted pleasure of needling the teaching staff. Never would have discovered the much darker pleasure Father Burke had introduced him to, when Justin had finally goaded the headmaster too far.
He set the will down on the desk in his tiny dorm room and glanced into the mirror, tracing the faint line of a bruise along his stomach where the Father's desk had dug into it last night, during their nightly counseling sessions. Burke had tried out dozens of positions and techniques, exploring the effectiveness of various forms of punishment, handling Justin with an increasingly expert guiding hand... but there were still nights when he succumbed to rawer forms. Nights when Justin came back from the priest's office breathless and exhausted, aching that sweet ache that only Father Burke could inflict on him.
Three more days, and Father Burke wouldn't be able to punish him anymore. The all-too-brief weeks of discipline and training still hadn't managed to totally break his rebellious spirit, and soon he'd be out on his own, without Father Burke to make him obey. Three more days, and the priest would have no more authority over him.
Justin sighed. It wasn't nearly enough time.
Father Burke checked the schedule booklet on his desk. Justin's juvenile scrawl covered the pages, as neatly as Justin's writing ever got. Burke had made him try again four times before the young man had managed to produce a legible copy.
He scanned the day's page meditatively, mentally running through Justin's classes. In the past few weeks, he'd become quite adept at predicting the student's little bouts of insouciance. Justin was amazingly inventive, always finding new ways to shock the staff of St. Kilda's – but there was something predictable about his choice of targets, too. And Burke couldn't help but wonder if the youth was trying to get caught.
His finger paused just under the word Gym, over a blank slot representing Justin's free period. Trouble for sure. Justin's gym class had ended five minutes ago; if Burke ran all the way there, he might be able to head off whatever mischief the young man was plotting while he had both free time and access to the recreational equipment.
Burke was not going to run. Let the young man get into something really compromising, first. Preventative efforts were wasted on Justin – in their weeks of counseling, only direct response had yielded any progress at all. Justin needed to transgress. And Burke needed to punish him. That was how it worked.
And though it pained him to admit it, the thought of that sweet routine ending was terrible.
Burke assembled a little kit, taking his time, packing each item neatly into a shoulder bag. His hand closed over the handle of the paddle, and he sighed at the memories the contact pulled forth in his mind. Three more days, and that paddle might never land on Justin's troublesome, beautiful, wicked body, ever again.
He made his way across the campus towards the gym, rolling his hands over the proud crook of an ornamental cane and ignoring the growing excitement in his stomach. Three days. He'd have to really make them count.
Justin was not one to disappoint. Father Burke turned over possibilities in his mind – what new way would the youth have found to defile the school? He'd already been caught pleasuring himself in a breathtaking variety of places on campus, from the library to Burke's own private office. What was next? The swimming pool?
The gym building was empty when he arrived. With the entire ninth grade out on their annual end-of-term camping trip, the usual schedule had been disrupted, and the building would likely sit idle for the rest of the day. But Burke took his time checking anyway, putting up CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE signs in the front window and arming the door locks for exit-only.
Justin wasn't in the pool, as Burke supposed he'd already known. He wasn't in the weight room or the indoor basketball court, either.
Enough stalling, Father Burke admonished himself. He changed directions, angled in on the locker room.
Justin wasn't one to disappoint.
When Father Burke opened the second airlock-style door and stepped into the locker room, the youth was already in full view. He'd made no effort whatsoever to conceal himself in any of the corners or nooks in the complex layout of the room – no, that definitely wasn't Justin's style.
Justin was still wearing most of his gear, but even with the helmet and shoulder pads on and Justin's back to the door, Burke could recognize the bare shape of Justin's lower back where the torso padding ended and the lithe curve of his ass. Spandex football pants clung tight to his body as he tried to hook the fly on the edge of the long bench in the middle of the room, grinding against it, lacrosse-gloved hands gripping the sides.
The youth wasn't actually on either of those teams, but Burke was past caring how Justin had got his hands on the various bits of varsity gear. He watched the youth's thighs flex as he pushed against the bench again in a slow rolling motion, his ass tensing and relaxing. The only sound in the room was Justin's muted breath, heavy with adolescent lust.
He had to know Burke was there – that someone was there. The door to the locker room was quiet, but it wasn't silent. But Justin didn't turn around, he just kept humping the bench in that mesmerizing, tantalizing rhythm.
Obviously, this could not continue. Burke took a step forward, hesitated. Part of him wanted nothing more than to watch this, to see Justin's young body tense and quiver until the youth couldn't stand the pressure anymore, to see him reach down and fumble with the fly of those football pants until he could free himself from the confines of fabric and cup, could stroke himself with gloved fingers until he was moaning and spraying his hot white spunk all over the little mound of St. Kilda's sportswear.
The rest of Burke, though, knew exactly what this was. Justin was sinning, and breaking rules, and behaving in ways wholly incompatible with the upstanding young man the priest was doing his utmost to mold this delinquent into. The rest of Burke wanted to punish him.
Father Burke strode forward, all hesitance gone. His hand slapped home, into that delicate place where the football pants' inseams met, his fingers drumming against the hard shape of a protective cup. His thumb ground into Justin's taint through the spandex, slid precipitously up to press a promise through the fabric into the familiar heat of the youth's hole.
“Again, Justin?�
� Burke murmured. “We're going to have to control that lust of yours.”
The student tensed under him, his ass clenching and unclenching excitingly under Burke's hand, but Justin didn't try to pull away. He knew better than that. “Father... Father Burke,” he stammered. “I wasn't expecting... you...”
“Someone was going to catch you, Justin. You know that. Someone always catches you.” Burke's fingers probed the edge of the cup, fingered the seam of the jockstrap that held it in place under the football pants. “I figured we'd save Coach Reynard the embarrassment.”
There was the barest hint of self-satisfaction in Justin's tone. “You know me so well, Father,” he said. “How did you know I'd be... here?”
“What matters is that I caught you before you could do any real harm,” the headmaster replied. “Although it certainly appears you were well into the process when I arrived.”
“Oh yes,” Justin purred, turning into a playful taunt. “I've been so bad. I need to be punished.”
Burke shook his head and gripped, pushing his thumb painfully into Justin's taint until the youth gasped and wriggled. “Don't mock justice, Justin,” he berated. “Punishment is for your own good.”
“Yes... Father Burke,” Justin gritted. His helmet made a hollow sound against the bench as he pushed back, his hips raising, trying to escape the pressure. Burke's hand just moved with it, but the motion soon had Justin perching awkwardly on tiptoes, his legs straining to lift that pert little ass higher even as Justin's faceplate ground against the bench.
Burke fought down a rising tide of lust at the sight of his student, bent almost in half. The youth was beyond modesty, and the feel of that tight young body tensing and gasping below him...
“I think you need some cleansing, Justin,” Father Burke said mildly, twisting his thumb viciously into the delicate flesh. His fingers tapped a decisive rhythm against the athletic cup as he reached down over Justin's body and grabbed the grid of wire over the helmet's faceplate and hauled the youth upright.
Justin twisted, unable to escape either hand, as Burke forced his body back until Justin's back was arching into an outward curve, facing up towards the ceiling even as his tried to keep his ass in place, trying not to force Burke's thumb harder into him.
Burke kept him in that awkward pose as he frogmarched Justin into the big group showers. The headmaster pushed him roughly forward and Justin stumbled to the damp floor, the plastic grips sliding wetly under his bare feet.
“Turn it on,” Burke ordered.
Justin looked up at him through the helmet, and the priest felt a tremor of excitement. It took a lot to catch Justin off-guard – the youth seemed to relish punishment, always trying to goad him into losing his cool. Surprising Justin, making that beatific uncertain expression blossom across his smooth young face, forcing him to acknowledge just who was actually in control here... those were the moments Burke lived for.
“The shower, Justin. Turn it on.”
Justin looked doubtfully at the shower, looked back at Burke. The priest turned the cane around in his hand. “I won't ask you again.”
Justin's gloved hand settled reluctantly on the tap. “I'm still wearing all this gear...” he started.
Burke cut him off with a slap of the cane into his palm. “I guess you should have thought of that before you dirtied it,” he said, mildly. “Now it seems to me it needs cleaning as much as you do.”
There wasn't really anything Justin could say to that. The shower came on with a stutter, warm water shooting down across the floor. Justin turned to face it, reached an arm out to test the temperature on the exposed skin over the lacrosse gloves.
That was when Burke lost patience. He planted the foot of the cane right in the small of Justin's back and pushed him stumblingly forward into the spray. Water coursed down over the helmet, soaking through the shoulder pads in seconds and sluicing across the bare skin of Justin's lower back to leave dark trails in the dampening white spandex. Justin curled over, looking strangely vulnerable even under the layers of heavy protective gear, as though the water was an onslaught.
The spandex, now soaking wet, clung even tighter to his lean frame, the white fading almost to see-through. Justin wasn't wearing real underwear beneath them, and Burke couldn't help but admire the fine little stripes of white the jock strap made against his upper thighs through the increasingly transparent cloth, a stark counterpoint to the darker cleft above where Justin's muscular cheeks met.
Burke probed the area with the tip of the cane, adjusting the fabric so it sat smoother against Justin's skin. “Turn around,” he ordered, and Justin came, shuffling under the spout until his helmeted face was gazing embarrassed down at Burke's shoes.
The view from this side was even better. Justin's abdomen glistened wetly under the bulky edge of the torso guard, and somehow the bulky padding just seemed to make the parts of the youth that were visible even more enticing, a promise of more to come. His football pants were laced up but untied, and the twin strings nicely framed the unmistakable bulge of a large cup, containing whatever physical response the youth was having to this new humiliation. It seemed oddly appropriate to Burke, seeing Justin's libidinous urges restrained like that.
He could feel his own body responding to the sight, but he ignored the hardness growing within him and renewed his grip on the cane, congratulating himself on his forethought in bringing it along. He wouldn't need to get wet in order to teach the delinquent this lesson.
Burke's cane snaked out, handle first, and snagged the wires in Justin's faceplate, hauling him down roughly to his knees. Water poured across the youth's back, coursing over the plates of molded plastic and finding the last few dry patches on his thighs, the knit of the jockstrap dimpling out against the wet spandex where it strained over the cup... and was that Burke's imagination, or was it twitching already?
He guided Justin's head around with tugs on the cane, pulling the youth's face under the shower. Justin blinked water out of his eyelashes when Burke let him pull out of the stream, shuddering with excitement as the cane traced down across his bare abdomen, poked in between the barely-closed flaps of the football pants' fly. The untied laces moved like living things as the wet cloth molded around the invader, sliding through the rivet holes.
“Off,” Burke ordered, and this time Justin didn't need to be prompted again. He batted ineffectually at the laces with the thick plastic of the lacrosse gloves, unable to grip them, but the fabric pulled apart anyway, flapping open to give Burke a peek at the wet cotton beneath.
He hooked the fly with the handle of the cane and tugged impatiently at the pants, making Justin wriggle hurriedly to get the clinging wet uniform off before it tore through. The pants slicked down his legs with sloppy inexact rolls, got trapped around his knees. Justin was rolling under the stream from the shower struggling with them, his bare ass flexing as he contorted on the floor, the plastic panels of his shoulder guards making slapping noises every time they clunked up against the grip panels on the floor.
Burke stopped him with an outstretched hand when Justin flipped onto his back to try and wrestle the wet spandex off his legs. The priest's hand squeezed the bunched-up cloth between Justin's ankles, flexed Justin's legs around in a slow circle, steering to get a long look at the jockstrap, then rolling them around to admire the flexing shape of his bare ass.
He eased the wet cloth over Justin's ankles bit by bit, as gently as a if he were handling the wings of a butterfly, his hands tracing the lines of bone and vein through Justin's feet as he pulled the football pants free and left the youth half-naked and soaking on the floor in the pool of water.
Burke didn't release the youth's legs immediately. He gripped Justin's ankles and pulled them apart, splaying him open, looking down at the youth in football padding below him, turning thoughts over in his head.
He let go of one leg, pulled the cane out from under his elbow. He stroked the curved handle meditatively, feeling the smooth polish on the wood.
The cane stroked down the shape of Justin's pinned leg, handle down. Burke eased the smooth wood handle under the bottom of the jockstrap, rolled it across the protruding smooth shape of Justin's taint. The youth was groaning, his fingers flexing against the torso guard.
Burke slid it inside, hooking the cup, the wood pressing down against Justin's sensitive balls. The student shuddered involuntarily, but didn't pull away, and now there was an underlying little edge of trust to the uncertain cant of his eyes. Those balls were his weak spot, one of the few places that Burke could torture that Justin could not tauntingly endure. Reserved.
He rubbed them gently with the cane, a reminder. I own you.
Then he withdrew the cane, ignoring the little pulses of Justin's growing cock as it strained against the plastic cage of the cup. The boy was being good, for now, taking his punishment as gracefully as possible.
Time to change that.
“So then, Justin,” Father Burke said, conversationally, as he slicked shampoo from the dispenser across the curve of the handle. “Did you have anything to confess?”
The youth looked at him guardedly. “Like what, Father?” he asked. His leg was still up in the air where Burke had left it, but the priest didn't miss the slight readjustment to the jock strap Justin had made as soon as he turned his back for a moment. That thing must be getting tight. Good.
Burke turned the cane over expertly in his hand and brought the handle back up to its rightful place, hovering just over the youth's taint. He teased it down the thick ridge, following the lines of Justin's body down towards his favorite part of Justin. That exposed, taut little place that belonged only to Burke.