Blessed Be the Merciful

by Rafael Henry

Chapter 3

The Reverend Peter [by co-incidence] Simpson always prayed in his church early each morning. He prayed for his family, for himself, and for the peace of the world… least. Sometimes he prayed for much more. This morning he had noticed that the CCTV system that had generously been provided for his church by the Friends of Rural Churches Trust, had registered changes. The system had been triggered by movement detected in the building the night before. Switching on the surveillance system monitor, he sees the compelling evidence of his son's behaviour with another boy.

He replays the tape several times just to be sure. Although the images are very faintly blurred, there's no doubt as to identity. What they are doing leaves the Reverend Simpson in no doubt. He had no clue, hitherto, that Jamie might be 'that way inclined'. Alternatively, pubescent boys often 'make do' with a younger boy as a convenient substitute for a pretty girl. There are no such things in boys' schools, pretty girls, but there are plenty of nubile and hairless boys [and pretty] who will suffice at a pinch, a few of whom will be all too willing to please them in exchange for their attention and the odd privilege.

Peter runs the tape for the fifth time, stopping it at a certain point. The other boy, the flaxen haired beauty, has turned his body just enough to be seen for what he is, or rather, for how he is.

Thou Shalt not Judge, or to put it another way, they that have no guilt? Peter switches off the machine and settles back into the worn partly upholstered office chair, resolved to contemplate the past for a few moments. Had he not sinned as Jamie has sinned? He knew he had.

Jamie had inherited his father's good looks. As an early teen, Peter had attracted the attention of an older boy who had encouraged his interest in the Classics and to a degree, religious thinking. When the boy gently introduced the subject of sex, Peter had seemed interested. Gradually taking matters forward, the notion of physical intimacy had dawned upon him. He had sat in the boy's lap one morning, very early, before breakfast in his study. He watched as the boy pulled at the cord that held up his pyjama bottoms. As the garment falls to one side, he sees his sex revealed, pale, smooth as silk, and hairless. He watches as the boy fondles him. He watches as his sex grows larger. He feels the bump under his bottom and begins to wriggle and feel the pleasure rising inside him. He watches as the tiny watery fountain comes and wets his thighs. He turns his head and lets the boy kiss his cheek. Weeks later, he opens the letter addressed to him, and reads it. It's written in dark blue ink on pale blue note paper. It's a love letter from the boy. He puts the letter carefully back in the envelope, same colour, and lies down on his bed. With his cheek pressing into the pillow, his eyes wide open, he thinks of what might be, and what has been.

Some years later at Theological College in Oxford, intimate small tea parties are arranged, ostensibly for private discussion. The don invites others that he thinks are intellectually like-minded. There's a 'weeding out' process as some are no longer invited, and then it all begins. Partners are chosen, and from time to time, swapped. The sex is complete, full and almost daily. One or two are experimental participants, another probably bi-sexual, and the others are more than happy to be gay. Peter is not sure which camp he belongs to. After all, he knows that one day he may need a wife, and perhaps a child even?

When Sally came along, they got on well, enjoyed the same books, and travelled here and there. Her parents were delighted, and she was happy to proceed to the altar, not knowing the whole truth about Peter. Conveniently for him, neither believed in sex before marriage. He too was happy to proceed, keeping the truth to himself, something that pricked his conscience and made him pray for forgiveness. In bed he would think of men and boys on the rare occasions when he made love to her, rather than with her. When his sex slipped into hers, it wasn't a woman's soft and slippery vagina he was fucking, but a boy's anus, glistening with his own saliva, held open for him, an open door to enter and take his pleasure.

Peter turns on the monitor once more. He studies the images for a few seconds, the flaxen haired beauty, the distended little white shorts, the two mouths coming together, and closes his eyes.

It was just after Jamie had been born, just to make it worse. The course was residential, and after dinner the first night, the Bishop's Chaplain had invited him to his room for a nightcap. At dinner Peter had noticed the handsome young man opposite him, and the handsome young man had caught the glances he was getting across the table. It was simply a case of 'your place or mine'. It really didn't matter. At Saint Judes House, it was going on all the time. The bed in Peter's room was not slept in that weekend…..well, not by him. Not that the housemaid noticed or cared when she came in to turn down the bed. It was perfectly normal for Saint Judes House. When Peter arrived back at the Vicarage, Sally knew. She always knew when he had 'slipped one in.' Peter always looked fresh and energized, claiming that it was the course that had inspired him. She just hoped that the young man in question wasn't that bit too young. Of course that attractive little local boy in the church choir, a member more for his looks than ability, would be completely safe, at least from him.

Music has always been an important part of Peter's life. He had been proficient at the piano, good even, but well short of any thoughts of making it his profession. He had sung as boy, and loved it as they all do. There were freedoms in the work they did, that were sometimes dangerous, but always exhilarating. Turning aside from the CCTV monitor, Peter reaches for the button that starts the portable CD player. He plays something every morning after prayers. He looks at the number in the tiny screen……..fifteen. It's the last track. It's a reminder of his New College days and his failed attempt to join the chapel choir. He did however, get on the production crew for the recording of the choir's, arguably, finest recording they have ever made. The sound begins, and the tears form, as they always do, when the boy's solo begins in his very favourite piece…….Laudate Dominum. Peter remembers his face, reflective and beautiful as he goes about his task, taking us to a part of heaven made by Mozart, in this case, for any and all of us who love their sound.

Unsurprisingly, Peter [the boy] wanted to be played with in the bath tub, as much as Jamie wanted to play with him. Very quickly, relaxed in the generous volume of very warm water that almost covered them, they were both aroused as much as they ever had been in their short sexual lives. Peter would have come within a minute, probably less than, still with the recent memory of the visit to the church in his mind. But he had to be content with some heavy fondling around and about all the nice places. At one point he turns himself over to lie on Jamie, neatly arranging Jamie's penis between his upper thighs, suggesting to Jamie that he indeed was interested in a form of sex with him that went a good deal further than anything either boy had experienced so far. As a consequence, Jamie lifts Peter onto him in a way that confirms to Peter, that an act so filthy and exciting, might actually be attempted. With his hands on the edge of the bath tub, Peter wriggles himself into position…….

'Like this?'


Peter's gesture prompts a short discussion concerning the viability of such an act of gross mis-conduct for two boys to indulge in.

Jamie has hold of Peter's hips as he allows Peter to gently settle himself down. He's there, but not really there. The boys realize that it's not that simple.

Jamie has noticed a dispenser of moisturizing lotion placed just behind the large brass taps on the wooden shelf. Moving Peter to one side, he reaches for it.

'What's that Jamie?'

'It's stuff you put on your skin if it's dry. It might work.' Peter is on his knees now, astride Jamie. Gently. Jamie applies the thick white creamy liquid using the tips of his fingers, and as the initial penetration occurs, just his middle finger.

He feels the ring of muscle tighten on him as he slips further into Peter's descending body. With his hands still on the edges of the bath, Peter lowers himself a little further……and then a little more……and more, until he finally rests on his young lover. It seems that nothing, at this moment, is impossible.

There are footsteps, quite loud ones in the bare flagstone covered corridor that leads from the kitchen to the bathroom. Then there's a tap on the door, and the raised voice from Sally…….

'I'll leave two dressing gowns on the door handle boys. Use the big towel hanging on the hook. Your hot chocolate is almost ready. Don't be long. Peter, all your things are in the wash tub. If you need anything, Jamie will find it for you. I'll be in the drawing room if you want me. Make sure you come and say goodnight please.'

Sally had arranged Peter's clothes, such as they were, on the chromium plated rail that ran along the front edge of the Aga cooker, clearly designed for such a purpose. The cooker was kept 'alive' all the year round as the principal means of heating water for bathing and washing of clothes. She, a nurturer at heart, had enjoyed the process too…….looking after another child's welfare……..seeing that he was clean. The Aga had done it's job promptly, and she had fetched the iron from the cupboard and laid out Peter's things at the end of the ironing board. She pressed the white tee shirt first, and then the little white shorts and when she picked up Peter's little underpants, and thought she should iron those little things too. With her thumbs in the waistband, she stretches them sideways as she always does with such items as a kind of efficiency test, and wondered if what Jamie wore might now be considered out of fashion for boys. She had always drawn the line at colours, and anything that in her opinion was too brief and would sexualize her son. She had 'kept an eye' on her son's development until it was obvious that puberty was imminent. For there comes a time when a mother should not be seeing, and when a boy does not want to be seen naked and possibly in some stage of arousal, by his mother. Later, she had asked her husband to assure her that 'everything is alright with Jamie, down there', and he had lied when he told her that he had talked to his son and he had assured him that everything was indeed 'alright down there'. Then, inevitably with careless pubescent boys, there was other evidence left under the pillow or somewhere in his bed, that Jamie's sexual functions were being tested twice daily and working just fine. She even found one of his socks in there, and thought how difficult and confusing it must be for boys as they painfully discover themselves.

But her husband was curiously secretive when it came to his own body fluids. They had decided upon latex prophylactics, but she was never allowed to be responsible for disposal after use, in case she noticed, which she certainly would have, that after use it contained nothing. He would slip the greasy object off his deflated penis as soon as he'd 'finished', which wasn't too long after it he'd begun, with a ridiculously faked orgasm from him, and of course nothing for her. On occasions he would ask her to play with him, usually anally which she quite enjoyed because it gave her a feeling of domination over the creep, while he masturbated. He usually managed a result, but always held a tissue against the head of his penis to catch the resulting semen, or hide the fact that there was little or none any more. She knew more about its scent than its actual substance, texture and colour. When she had found Jamie's detritus, she always put it to her nose, and recognized that very particular odour. When she handled the objects she found under the bed or pillow, often still very fresh, her thoughts were a mixture of faint disgust and pride in her boy. She thought it ironic that her son didn't mind if the world knew, and could take a bath in the stuff if they liked, but her husband pretended that it didn't exist. Perhaps it no longer did. With Jamie it certainly did exist, and as far as she could tell from the amount of tissue needed to soak it all up, in quantities. Sally was a virgin when they married, and proud of that fact, but now she wishes that she's done what most of her friends had done, and had a good time before any thoughts of a permanent commitment. Now she wanted to feel it between her fingers, taste it even, and see it come and splash onto her fair skin. She looked at men, often very young men, boys even, and lusted. Once she even followed a boy she had noticed before, this time in closely fitting shorts. She could even make out the cut of his underwear through them and felt a wriggle in her abdomen at the sight. When the boy stopped to cross the lane, she stopped too, and the boy smiled at here, and she smiled back. She knew what she wanted to do when she got home a few minutes later, and nipped up to the bedroom for a few minutes, and then as guilt rose large in her mind, she knelt beside the bed to pray for absolution, knowing that those thoughts would soon return.

Talk about this story on our forum

Authors deserve your feedback. It's the only payment they get. If you go to the top of the page you will find the author's name. Click that and you can email the author easily.* Please take a few moments, if you liked the story, to say so.

[For those who use webmail, or whose regular email client opens when they want to use webmail instead: Please right click the author's name. A menu will open in which you can copy the email address (it goes directly to your clipboard without having the courtesy of mentioning that to you) to paste into your webmail system (Hotmail, Gmail, Yahoo etc). Each browser is subtly different, each Webmail system is different, or we'd give fuller instructions here. We trust you to know how to use your own system. Note: If the email address pastes or arrives with %40 in the middle, replace that weird set of characters with an @ sign.]

* Some browsers may require a right click instead