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Introduction:

To be forgiven

I was in boarding school, and things were different back then. I think they still have corporal punishment in some states, like Texas, but in most places it's been phased out. But we were good Catholics, or we were supposed to be, and if you spared the rod, you'd spoil the child. Hell, that was what my parents put me there for in the first place. My father couldn't stand to say no, and my mother couldn't say anything but, and they decided, between them, that someone else should raise their daughter.

So the nuns and the priests attempted to curb my voracious appetites for four years. They failed miserably. By the time I was a senior, my birthday just passed in a haze of alcohol and sex—the drinking age hadn't yet been changed from eighteen—I'd been disciplined more times than I could count, suspended from classes, and nearly expelled, twice. I was always scraping by, just barely, but it was enough for me.

Father Hamilton had the task of disciplining me for my latest transgressions. The nuns had pretty much given up and handed me over to the priests, which was fine, as far as I was concerned. The priests were more direct. They liked to use the paddle—a thick piece of wood that Father Lowery, who taught physics, had drilled several holes through for less air resistance—and while it stung, it was over pretty quick. And the good thing about Father Hamilton was that he hated to give sermons. It was always straight to the punishment.

"Over the desk, Amy."

I knew the drill. I bent over his wide desk and lifted my skirt—they weren't supposed to touch us except with objects—exposing the seat of my white cotton panties. It was a typical school uniform, navy skirt, white blouse, white knee socks, Mary Janes. We looked like drones running up and down the halls on our way to class.

"For every blow, you must say an act of contrition."

"Yes, Father."

I waited, my heart hammering in my chest. I wasn't afraid of it anymore, but there was a sick sort of anticipated dread anyway in the moments before.

SMACK!

I winced, beginning:

"Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because I fear the loss of heaven and the pains of hell..."

The second SMACK! came long before I could finish, and I began again with a gasp, "Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for..."

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

"Father!" I whimpered, my whole ass on fire with pain. It hadn't been like this before. "Please!"

"That's right," he murmured. "Beg."

SMACK!

"Oh!" I buried my face in my arms, trying to hide from the pain. "Oh please, I'm sorry, please..."

"You've been in my office fourteen times this year, Amy." SMACK! "And you've said an act of contrition for each blow." SMACK! "And yet you're still running around like the whore of Babylon aren't you?"

I would have screamed when he grabbed my hair, pulling my head back as he growled this last, but my voice was gone. I thought the Father had gone crazy.

"What will it take to get through to you, girl?" He shook my head, back and forth, and I looked at him with wild eyes. His whole body pressed me against the desk, the weight of him incredible, and I gasped for breath. "This thing is useless with you!"

He threw the paddle and it clattered on the marble floor. "Your sins are of the flesh. Perhaps you need a lesson in that."

He let me go and I collapsed on the desk, feeling tears stinging my eyes, rolling down my cheeks, although I fought them.

"Perhaps..." His voice had turned thoughtful, and I chanced a puzzled glance back over my shoulder just in time to see his hand coming down toward my ass.

SMACK! The solid sound of flesh on flesh filled the room, and he did it again. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! I cried out, trying to wiggle away, but he grabbed my hips, pulling my panties down to my knees, and kept going, a steady rhythm, over and over. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

"Please Father!" I sobbed. I'd forgotten all about hiding my pain, my fear—and I was afraid now. He was crazed, mad, and I didn't have any idea what he might do. "Please, I'm sorry! I've sinned, I've sinned, I'm sorry... sorry for having... offended... Thee... owwwww!"

His hands spread my legs wide, pressing my thighs open and my eyes widened in panic and a dawning horror. "Sins of the flesh," he muttered, and I felt his body pressing, his robes lifting, parting like a black sea, and the heat of his crotch against the stinging, reddened globes of my ass.

"Father, please!" He grabbed my hair again, and I sobbed when he shoved his cock into me, the final humiliation.

"You need a good lesson," he grunted, thrusting deep. I whimpered, unable to believe this was happening, that a priest had just impaled me across his desk and was now beginning to fuck me. I'd been fucked before—I loved it—but this? This was a horror, an abomination, a...

"A good...hard... lesson!" Each word was punctuated by a thrust, and his hands found his way underneath me to grab my breasts through my blouse, shoving it aside and tearing off a button to reach under my bra and squeeze my flesh.

"The paddle doesn't work." He gasped when he felt my nipples hardening. "Maybe you need a lesson from the holy staff!"

"Oh god," I moaned as he pounded me harder, his fingers squeezing both of my nipples, sending hot shocks down to my pussy. I was wet—God help me, I was wet, and his cock was pumping fast, his thighs spreading mine wide, driving me toward the deepest sin I'd ever known.

He'd gone crazy, and I was going crazy right along with him. My cunt was on fire, my nipples burned, and I knew we were both going to hell, but I didn't care. Father Hamilton groaned when I squeezed my pussy around his cock, arching, fucking him back.

"You're a bad girl!" He smacked my ass, hard, and I jumped, the sensation vibrating through me. "Bad!" SMACK! "Bad!" SMACK!

"Fuck!" I cried, spreading wider, wanting more. "Yes!"

"Ahhhhhhhh, God, forgive us all!" He groaned, grinding his hips into mine, and I trembled beneath, feeling my climax coming and unable to stop it. I was beaten, broken, humiliated, and completely at his mercy as I writhed in my own pleasure on the desk while he fucked me senseless. I didn't have time to think or breathe or speak when he grabbed me again by the hair and shoved me down to my knees on the floor.

"You will be penitent!" He insisted, shoving his cock deep into my throat with a low groan. I gagged, but I took it, hearing him whisper, "I am your bread and wine," just before throwing his head back and letting go. My mouth flooded with cum and I choked, swallowing, tears streaming down my face as I took it all, every last bit, looking up wide-eyes at this priest, this man I didn't know anymore, wearing black robes and a white collar.

He moved away from me then, leaving me gasping on my dirty knees, mascara streaked down my cheeks, blouse torn open, pussy dripping. His robes fell back into place and he leaned against the desk, breathing hard, composing himself.

Finally, he waved his hand toward the door, not looking at me. "Go."

I stood on shaky legs, wobbling toward the door, when I heard him say, "You will return tomorrow for further punishment. We aren't done yet."

No. No we weren't done, I discovered. Not by a long shot. Father Hamilton's punishment went on and on, until I thought I would die from the pleasure and the pain, and my only fear was that it might end. But it didn't. Thank you God, it didn't.

He continued to punish me, not sparing the rod, every single day for the rest of the year.

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