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I’ll Tell You My Sins So You Can Sharpen Your Knife

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Clayton Sharpe, despite not being much for praying, finds himself both on his knees and in deep contemplation. He's played this game before; patience one of the few heavenly virtues he's got left. He swallows, spittle running down the sides of his mouth, down his chin. Above him, seated at the desk Sharpe's kneeling under, Matthew makes a soft noise. He gently shifts his hips, his half-hard cock pushing along Clayton's tongue, bitter precum spreading across it.

Clayton groans with the effort of keeping his mouth just open, of swallowing and breathing without moving his head from between the good reverend's legs. A hand comes down on the back of his head, carding through his hair before slowly closing, dull nails scratching his scalp. Matthew's voice carries to him, spoken more to the air, "The rules of your being here was you had to be quiet while I finish my missives, Mr. Sharpe."

Clayton says nothing, only shifting slightly to take the direct pressure off his knees and to paw at his groin to ease his cramped erection. He breathes deeply through his nose, thick, curly hair tickling at it and filling him with the heady musk of Reverend Matthew Mason.

“Good," Matthew says, relaxing his grip in Clayton's hair. The scratching of pen on paper resumes, occasionally broken by a soft gasp when Clayton swallows or leans forward. By the time Matthew sets his pen aside with a light clatter, he's fully hard and Clayton is pulling short, panting breaths through his nose to accomodate his size. Matthew's grip tightens in Clayton's hair and he finds himself pulled forward, the reverend's cock slipping down his throat, balls pushed against his chin and lips, forcing his nose into the thatch of dark, sweaty hair just beneath Matthew's untucked shirt. Clayton suppresses a gag, partially successful in the endeavor; not quite retching, but definitely near choking around the cock tickling his tonsils. He puts his hands on Matthew's thighs, fingers digging into the thick muscles as he stamps down on the initial panic, preserving the air in his lungs, flexing the muscles in his throat. He lets his hands go flat rather than give those thighs the swift pair of pats that will make the reverend let him go. A few seconds go by before Mattew speaks up, "Very good. I think that's long enough.”

Matthew digs his heels into the wooden floor to scrape his chair out from the desk, his dick slipping free from Clayton's mouth. He splutters, coughing and holding his throat, taking a deep pull of air into his starved lungs. The white spots start fading from his vision, hot tears still pricking at the corners of his eyes. His shoulders shaking, he’s panting like a dog, tongue out, legs spread and body canted forward, held up more by his arm braced against the floor than anything. His breath hitches twice before he coughs loudly, snorting and pursing his lips.

“Ahem.” Clayton looks up, Matthew standing over him with a clean kerchief in his hand. His dick is still hard and glistening with spit from the open fly of his pants. “Spit on my floor and you’re licking it up, Sharpe.”

Clayton rolls his eyes, snatching the kerchief to hock into it. He stands shakily, shaking his head curtly when Matthew’s glare starts to soften, smiling to himself when the reverend retracts his half-offered hand. He'd thought the choir boy here'd be too soft for this kind of thing. Matthew takes him by the shoulder, hands bunched in his shirts, and guides him in a rough waltz backward toward his large bed. It's one of the few indulgences the good reverend's allowed himself, and only at great insistence. As Clayton stumbles, Matthew barks, "Got a month before the birth of Christ and it's a Friday night, Sharpe. You been fasting like you're supposed to?"

"Yes, Father," he says, putting a hand on Matthew's arm to steady himself, his heels catching on the slightly raised floor boards.

“And you've washed yourself proper?”

“Yes, Father. Drew a bath just before I came.”

"Did I ask if you bathed, or did I ask if you washed yourself proper?" Matthew stands a good four inches taller than Clayton, but with the boots, his posture, and the sheer authority he exudes, it feels closer to four feet.

"I washed proper," Clayton mumbles, falling to his ass on the mattress when the backs of his knees hit the frame.

“Good," Matthew says, and leans down to lick across his lips, less a kiss than a sampling of Clayton's mouth. He rears back, eyebrows pinched in anger. "I thought you said you'd been fasting?”

“I been fasting, Father," Clayton says, voice cracking from the soreness in his throat. Matthew's demeanor shifts, and Clayton recognizes his mistake before he gets the chance to ask his safeword, clearing his throat and saying in a voice that doesn't sound on the verge of tears, "I've been fasting.”

Matthew gives it a second longer, accepts that Clayton's not going to opt out, then his brow knits and he leans in until their foreheads are nearly touching, "If you been fasting, why's your mouth taste like cockmeat?"


Clayton's grip on Matthew's arm tightens, his free hand coming up to grab his shoulder to stabilize himself as he starts falling back onto the bed only for Matthew to swat it away, leaving him straining his abs to stay mostly upright. He holds his rejected hand over his knee, flexing his fingers against the discomfort of Matthew putting him just off balance. "I'm sorry, Father."

“Sorry for what, Mr. Sharpe?" Matthew asks, putting one finger against his sternum and pressing in, barely enough to feel it through his shirt, but Clayton thinks Matthew must feel his heart hammering against his ribs. Their faces are close enough that they're sharing air. The hand in Clayton's shirt clenches, strong as anything despite Clayton's deathgrip above the wrist. "You can find absolution only through confession.”

Clayton grunts, belly already sore from holding his posture, muscles aching. He feels Matthew apply more pressure on his chest, "I'm sorry for being a cocksucker."
“God don't care about that," Matthew snaps, pressing harder. "What's your sin, Sharpe?”

"Being a cocksucker on a Friday," Clayton gasps, palm slipping on Matthew's sleeve, squeezing all five fingerprints into his knee.

“You can suck all the cock you want on a Friday, most’ve the year, Sharpe. What's your sin?”

Clayton keens. "Sucking your cock on a Friday durin' Lent," he groans. Matthew relents the prodding and releases Clayton's shirt, causing him to fall back onto the bed with a soft, "Oof."

Taking a seat to Clayton's left, Matthew rubs his palm over Clayton's bruised sternum absently while he recovers his breath and lets his aching belly relax. "So you know your sin, then," Matthew says after a moment. "You've been to the sermons, Mr. Sharpe. What's the next step?"

Clayton moans when he tries to sit up at first, his abs protesting. "P-penance."

“You don't know your Latin, do you, Mr. Sharpe?”

“No, Father.”

“Then assigning you Ave Marias just won't do, will they? You'll just go off sinning again, won't you?”

“Yes, Father," Clayton says, pulling himself, finally, back into a sitting position. His eyes immediately fall back onto the now soft cock poking through Matthew's fly. "Absolutely, Father.”

“Well, Sharpe," Matthew says, left hand catching his jaw in a tight grasp, his speed unnerving. He forces Clayton to meet his eyes, "I think there's better penance you can pay, hm? Really make the lesson stick.”

“What's that, then, Reverend?" Clayton asks, looking firmly at the bow of Matthew's lips. "Double the number and have me call 'em Hail Mary's instead?”

“You're getting mouthy in the house of the Lord's humble servant," Matthew says, thumbing over Clayton's bottom lip. "No prayers. Stand up and take off your belt.”

“Just my belt?”

Matthew's mouth twitches, probably amusement, maybe annoyance. They're getting off script. "I'm gonna make you hand it to me if you don't get up and take it off right this minute, Mr. Sharpe."

"Of course, Father," Clayton says, debating the merits of telling him that it's not a threat when Matthew was the one to veto strapping this time. He lets it go and sets to fiddling with the chunky metal buckle as he gets to his feet. It takes some doing, feeding the leather strap back through the buckle's teeth, popping the latch, and unthreading it through the loops on his pants. He breathes a sigh of relief at the freedom, his belly protruding just a bit from under his shirt. His frequent trips to visit Mr. Jack Daniels at the Gem Saloon haven't done his waistline any favors over the years. He rolls the belt into a tight coil and sets it on the bed, by Matthew's hand. Just in case his soft no, not-tonight works its way over the hill into yes territory as the night goes on.

Matthew gives him a wry look as sets the belt aside, putting it on the floor and nudging it under the bed with his foot. "Pants down, underwear up, across my lap," he orders.

“Yessir,” Clayton says, smirking now that he gets to show off.

Matthew’s eye widen, his brows climbing higher as Clayton shucks his pants, sliding them slowly down his thighs to showcase the strapped underwear, just a little cloth pouch to hold his straining cock with a thick band round the waist and two thin strips under the cup to frame his buttocks. “What in God’s good graces are you wearing, Sharpe?”

“Ain’t ever seen a jockey before, Reverend?” Clayton asks. He struts over to Matthew, splaying across his lap, feeling the twitch of the reverend’s cock against his stomach. “People wear ‘em to ride, y’see.”

Matthew frowns, and Clayton knows he’s really pushing the dynamic they’d agreed on for this scene, but Lord does he look forward to seeing Matthew correct their course and take the reigns back. “You don’t seem repentant yet, Mr. Sharpe. In fact, I’d say you’re looking rather shameless,” he says, and Clayton feels his gloved hand cup his ass, giving him a squeeze.

“Forgive me, Father.”

“I can only forgive you when you’re truly sorry,” Matthew says sternly. Without warning, Clayton feels the sting of Matthew’s first swat against his ass—the pain exquisite in its sharpness, making him flinch down, grinding against Matthew’s thigh. A second and third, both as high and sharp as the first, follow against the same burning spot. Clayton yelps, legs jerking up in surprise. “Did I say you could seek pleasure in this, Mr. Sharpe?”

“No, Father!”

“Then keep your hips still!” A fourth strike emphasizes the command. Matthew soothes the sting, stroking over the skin with a gentle palm. His left hand braces Clayton by the far shoulder, holding him in place. “I was going to say ten for allowing meat last your lips during the commemoration of the Lord’s own fasting in those deserts, but you’ve convinced me that forty’ll do. One for each day He spent suffering the temptations of Satan without giving in to them. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

Clayton nods, hands clasped together against the bedding over his head.

Matthew breathes through his teeth in annoyance, “I said, that’s fair, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Father,” Clayton says. “Forty.”

“You’re going to count them out for me, aren’t you? I shouldn’t have to do the work for you.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good. Now make sure you’re countin’ clear so I don’t lose track, hm?” He doesn’t wait for a response, bringing his hand down hard on Clayton’s ass, just above the thigh.

“Five!” Clayton calls.

The hand on his ass squeezes roughly, prying the cheek apart. “Did I say you could count the practice hits, Mr. Sharpe? Start again!”

“One!” he howls at the crack of the reverend’s hand, his hands clenching tight together, ankles crossed to keep himself still. “Two! Three!”

“Ain’t nobody taught you to thank someone for helping you? This is to help absolve your mortal soul!” His hand comes down again, square in the middle.

“Four! Thank you, sir!”


Clayton clenches his jaw tight, eyes watering as his ass burns under the strikes. They come down irregularly, some sharp, some more blunt, some gentle. He can feel his cock leaking against the clothed thigh underneath him, his balls drawing up with each hit before relaxing. His throat is raw from yelling, either the number, the thanks, or just plain pain. “Tw-enty! Ah! Thank you!”

“I didn’t catch that one, Mr. Sharpe. Was that twenty, or twenty-one?” Matthew asks, pausing to brush his thumb over the undoubtedly scarlet handprints along his ass.


“You’re not lying to me to get another hit in, are you?”

“No, Father,” Clayton says, voice watery despite himself. “That was twenty.”

Matthew hooks his left arm under Clayton’s neck, pulling him up to arch his back, Clayton’s chin in the crook of his elbow. He whispers in his ear, “I intend to finish out the second half of your punishment, Mr. Sharpe, but the Lord is merciful and so am I. Do you need to come back next Friday to serve it out?”

Clayton pulls in a shuddering breath through, snorting against the snot and tears trying to run down his nose. “No, Father, I’ll do my penance.”

“Father, Son, or Holy Spirit, Mr. Sharpe?”

Clayton blinks to clear his eyes and head both. His ass is screaming at him, as is the angle of his spine. “I want to feel the Spirit, Father,” he decides. Were he a decade younger and a mite more brave, he might have chosen to embrace the Father, but twenty would have given him pause even then.

Matthew lets him back down, allowing him to sprawl across his lap. The slaps that come down are all wrist, a quick pinch of contact from gloved fingertips against his skin. True to his word, Matthew is forgiving when Clayton starts rutting against his thigh, even allowing him to moan in pleasure between slaps.

“Forty! Thank you!”

“Very good, Sharpe. You’ve confessed to your sin,” Matthew says, absently, gently touching the flaming redness of Clayton’s ass, ghosting his fingers over the marks. “Climb onto the bed proper, now, belly down. Wait there for me. Do not go touching yourself, you hear?”

“Yes, Father,” Matthew mutters, still sniffling a bit. He’s achingly hard and each throb from his abused ass only makes it worse. He’s soaked through his jock, he’s be surprised if he hasn’t made a mess of the reverend’s pants as well. He’s helped off Matthew’s lap, clambering a few shaky steps on his hands and knees then falling more than laying down against the covers. His whole body is thrumming, ears still ringing from the slaps, a tingling slowly beginning to replace the angry burn along his rear. Matthew is puttering around the room, Clayton hears a splash and some muttering. The haze that marks a truly excellent session is fully settled on Clayton’s mind, letting him ignore even the pointed need to get himself off. He yelps in surprise at the sudden cool wetness that hits his bottom.

“Sh, just a washcloth, take the heat out of it,” Matthew murmurs, gingerly swiping the wet cloth over his ass, letting it leach away the remnants of pain. Another wet bundle falls into his hands, “For your face. Figure I’d take care of the parts you can’t reach as good.”

Clayton presses it over his eyes, the pinches the bridge of his nose with it, letting it permeate his skull, cooling the headache before it can creep out. He blows his nose into it loudly, twice, and looks over at Matthew, who takes it between his thumb and forefinger and deposits it on the nightstand, then replaces it with a cup of water. It’s the sweetest of nectars to his parched throat, and he forces himself to drink it slowly. A good thing, too, since he almost chokes on it when he feels something way too thick to be water touching his buttock. “What’n the Hell?”

“Mind your language,” Matthew says, spreading the oily film over Clayton’s ass. “Petroleum jelly, courtesy Ms. Miriam. It’s supposed to make you heal better.”

“Feels like I’m sittin’ in bacon grease,” Clayton grouses.

“You just keep your mouth shut ‘less you’re drinkin’ your water, Mr. Sharpe.”

“Or what?”

Clayton’s not sure what possessed him to ask that, but it sure wasn’t the Holy Spirit, and the heat of the glare Matthew gives him almost makes him regret it. His voice is frightfully tight when he asks, “You finished with your water?”

“Yeah,” Clayton says, handing the glass back.

“Good,” Matthew says, with none of the purring inflection he’s had before. He takes the glass curtly and sets it next to the two cloths on the nightstand. He hooks his right thumb under his left glove and peels it off, carefully pulling each finger straight. “Open your mouth.”

“What for?”

“Are you asking me to stop, Mr. Sharpe?”

“No, Father.”

“Then open. Your mouth.”

Clayton hesitantly opens wide, biting down when Matthew shoves the glove in, nipping the reverend’s fingers. He lets out a muffled, “‘Ey!”

Matthew slaps him lightly across the face, a flick of the wrist, “I said open.”

Dutifully, Clayton unclenches his jaw, relaxing his tongue as Matthew pushes the glove fully into his mouth, the taste of oiled leather and rabbit fur filling his mouth. He closes his mouth again when Matthew taps his chin.

“You keep that there ‘less you’re having trouble breathing. You want me to stop, you clap your hands twice. Clap once if you understand me.”

Clayton claps, swallowing hard. He’s thankful for the water now more than ever. His erection has yet to falter. With his mouth now fully occupied, Matthew returns to his ministrations, smearing the jelly over Clayton’s ass, soothing the irritated skin. It’s nice, though he’s going to have it caught in his ass hairs for who knows how long, no matter how much soap he uses. He rolls his hips against the bedspread, giving himself some relief against the rough material. He’s gonna chafe his dick and nipples both with how shamelessly he’s rutting, but he’s never shied away from a little pain before.

Matthew’s fingers dip between his cheeks, slick and warm. A light swipe over his hole, then another. His ungloved hand pushes up Clayton’s back, under his shirt. His broad palm smoothes out the tension up his spine as he dips the tip of his index finger just inside, meeting no resistance with the smooth gliding motion. Clayton spreads his legs, canting his hips upward as Matthew works his finger in. There’s a slight burn, just enough to let him track the intrusion into his body. All the way to the knuckle it goes, Matthew’s thumb pressing against his perineum as he rests his finger inside, neither poking nor wiggling. “That feel good, Mr. Sharpe?”

Clayton claps once, moaning around the glove. His groan goes embarrassingly shrill when Matthew slides his finger out and pumps it back in, curling in toward Clayton’s belly on the way out, slowly. Dragging the slick, tight walls around the very root of his cock, sending an electric thrum through his body. The insistent, methodical thrusting and pulling dulls from occasional jolts of pleasure to a steady hum that has Clayton writhing against the sheets for friction. He can feel the hard nubs of his nipples catching against the rough cotton of his shirt, and he wants desperately to pinch and roll them, but putting his hands down has always been against the rules with this particular game. It’d take time to get his hands free from under his shirt to clap twice, and this time there’s no bell between his teeth he could just spit free to signal to stop. He roars his frustration into the glove gag, screwing his eyes closed and burying his forehead into the covers. Matthew shoves his finger all the way in and pushes hard, jerking his hand. Clayton moans, thrusting back against it, obscenities that would certainly incur a swift punishment blocked by leather and fur.

“I want you to come like this, Mr. Sharpe,” Matthew says, taking his bare hand from Clayton’s back. The finger inside him slides out and is joined by a second, squeezed together to make a smooth fit while Matthew fumbles about with his other hand. He feels the cloth pouch tugged aside, his dick flopping out from its soaked confines and bouncing twice. His balls are tight to his body. Something cold touches his cock, making Clayton thrust his ass upward and away, sheathing the fingers deeper inside himself. “Can’t have you mussing up my good covers,” Matthew says, wrapping the damp cloth around his dick.

It’s warming rapidly, but still too cold compared to the fire-iron that is his aching cock. He softens a bit while Matthew pries him open with two fingers, seemingly making a game of getting him hard again by seeking out that swollen nub just above the back end of his cock. Drool spills out around the glove, collecting at the corners of his mouth and Clayton could not give less of a fuck-damn about it or how he’ll have a split-grin for days if he doesn’t wipe it off soon.

“Can you feel that?” Matthew asks, three fingers in, all of them just flexing inside him, pushing and rolling his prostate through the clenching, muscular walls of his ass. Clayton just heaves a keening sigh, knuckles gone white from clasping his hands together so tight. Matthew pushes his hand inward, pinky bent at the knuckle and digging into the tender skin of his hole; pushing so hard the muscles of his arm quake and make his fingers vibrate, “I asked you a question, Sharpe!”

Clayton pants through his nose, mustering the brain power to unclasp his hands and clap, weakly, once.

“Good,” Matthew purrs. “I don’t want to have to wait to hear that again. Understand?”

Another weak clap.

Matthew starts lightly jerking his cock off with the cloth as he thrusts in and out with his fingers, and this time he’s finished with his slow, playful maneuvers. He’s getting fingered so hard Clayton swears he’s being fucked, just rocking with the motions. At some point, Matthew’s moved to four fingers, twisted together and pistoning into his hole as that warm cloth twists around his cock with each expert twirl of Matthew’s wrist. Each upward tug has his balls bouncing against Matthew’s fist, almost hurting, building up an ache that feels very much like pleasure. “Come for me, Clayton. Come on, now!”

Clayton’s howling around the glove, every muscle in his body winding up like thread on a loom building, twisting, tightening toward the finish. Matthew’s no longer stroking his cock, instead putting the cloth on the bed and pinching loosely around the head of it, running his fingers in harsh circles on the frenulum; making Clayton’s toes curl and the soles of his feet burn. He damn near swallows the glove when he comes, three ropey shots that peter off into twitching, weak pulses as Matthew eases his fingers free.

Clayton pulls the glove out of his mouth to breathe in the aftermath. Chest like a bellows, he strips his shirt off, overheated. He rolls over, ass still clenching and cock over sensitive in the cool air. “That was a blessed sight, Clayton,” Matthew says, peeling off his slick, glistening glove with his bare hand, then setting to working his cock hard and fast, it still sticking out from his fly.

“Hey, none’a that,” Clayton barks, grabbing his hand. It’s always the getting to an orgasm that leaves him all weak and desperate. He’s unique among the men he knows in that he’s got a good ten minutes of an adrenaline rush once he’s busted a load out. If he’s quick about it, he might even manage a second. He shoves Matthew’s hand away, clambering over him to straddle his waist.

“Clayton, wait, I don’t want to h-“ he protests, cutting off with a low, shuddering moan and a roll of his eyes when Clayton barks a laugh and sits down hard on his cock. “Oh my Lord preserve me from stubborn men.”

“Preserving’s not the plan here, Reverend,” Clayton laughs, breath staggered as even with the thorough plowing of Matthew’s fingers, they don’t match the length of his endowment enough to keep it from being an experience in endurance. “Now are you gonna fuck me proper or are you just gonna lie there like Christ on the cross.”

“Clayton Sharpe!” Matthew seethes, bucking up as hard as Clayton had hoped he might. “You best be coming to confession for that one when Friday actually rolls around!”

“Confession requires I be sorry about it,” Clayton gasps, bouncing in Matthew’s lap, guiding the reverend’s hands to his chest to splay through the forest of hair, squeeze his not-insignificant bosom. “You gonna make me sorry?”

“You won’t be riding horses for a week, Mr. Sharpe,” Matthew growls, thrusting upward to match Clayton’s pace. “You’re gonna-ah.”

“Does it really get you so close?” Clayton asks, flinching at each smack of his raw ass against Matthew’s hips. “Bossing me around, playing the part of the dirty Reverend punishing the filthy sinner?”

Matthew tucks his head into the crook of Clayton’s neck, squeezing his arms around him in a hug. Dull nails dig into his back, leaving long, shallow divots in his skin as Matthew comes inside him, the hot spray of his come pumping into his guts, his cock twitching as he spends himself. They sit like that a long few minutes, Matthew going soft in him, Clayton still sporting a valiant attempt at an erection. Eventually they slide apart and Matthew wipes himself off, cleaning out Clayton’s hole as he lays spread eagle on the bed, finally tuckered out. It takes two trips to the water basin with the wash clothes before Matthew’s satisfied with his work, though Clayton would have been content waiting until tomorrow to clean up. They already had that argument months ago, though, and if Matthew’s content doing all the work, who’s Clayton to complain.

The water on his skin has him shivering something awful by the time Matthew gets back to the bed, now fully nude as well. Clayton slides under the covers, “So was this a good one?”

“I had fun,” Matthew says, putting out the oil lights and getting under the covers using just the light of the moon filtering through the shutters. “Doing that one again is firmly on your discretion, Clayton. I’m not the one riding a horse after getting his hide tanned like that.”

Clayton’s ass twinges at the though of so much as walking before noon tomorrow. “Yeah, I suppose.”

“We can talk about it tomorrow, Clayton,” Matthew says, head on his chest, playing with the hair. “Goodnight.”

“Gnight, Reverend.”