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If Otto knew how busy the confessionals will be during the Midsummer festival, he would’ve reconsidered. It was his fault, too. Where he was from, Midsummer was a time to make merry, to drink, to meet—and bed—new people; the time when, for a brief moment, the judging eye of society closed.
Here, it was the complete opposite.
Damn him for wanting to live somewhere where being a shoemaker was actually profitable.
“Which punishment salve do you want to use?” asked the clergyman manning the desk that guarded the way to the confessionals—the same clergyman who assured Otto that the Midsummer festival was the best day to fulfill his yearly duty.
“I’m afraid I’m quite sinful, my good priest,” a man answered, prompting Otto to raise his upper torso from the bench and turn around as much as the rough hemp ropes around his hips would allow.
The man stood before the shelves which housed the blasted salves, seeming undecided despite his earlier declaration. He was wide and stocky like most Northern men, with pale ginger hair meticulously groomed and plaited into two even braids. He started his perusal on the middle shelf—go lower, damn you—reverently touching the runes on each wooden tag with a fingertip, his other hand slowly rubbing at his crotch.
“It would please the Gods more if you aim higher,” said the damned priest.
The man obliged and considered the jars painted in brighter colors, one shelf up.
The priest cleared his throat.
The Northerner stepped uncertainly from foot to foot, but then—damn him—reached towards the very top.
Otto tensed, then cringed when pain shot through his burning ass.
It wasn’t even noon yet, and it already felt like someone stuck an entire bucket of iron needles into his hole, then stuffed him full of red coals, just to tamp it all down with a tree trunk. He was bound to the confessing bench since sundown, and he was supposed to last till sunset—on the longest day of the year.
Gods, was he stupid.
He heard the priest praise the man, “Good choice for a repentful sinner.” Then steps.
A wide, calloused hand landed on Otto’s buttock and rubbed. Another joined it, spreading him open.
Otto groaned, then gritted his teeth. Wet salt burned behind his eyelids.
Seriously. What was he thinking. There were so many days in a year. So, so many. Why hadn’t he chosen one during winter? Sure, sundown-sunset rule was no longer observed once autumn peaked, and snowed-in people had nothing better to do, but at least he would’ve only needed to deal with the locals; why not spring, when at least the farmers were busy, or...
Any other day, really.
Because anything would be better than this.
A deceptively slick finger slid inside him, the thrice-damned salve first pleasantly cool then flaring to life, and a sudden inhale dug its sharp claws into Otto’s lungs, then refused to leave; hot moisture rolled down his nose and dripped onto a wet patch on the bench, the dry wood drinking it greedily.
Gods. That priest who signed him up for his annual service tricked him so good.
“I have looked at my best friend’s oldest son with lust,” said the man behind him and thrust his finger up Otto’s sore, sore insides. “And”—one more finger—"at his wife."
There were tiny grains of—something unimaginably horrible—mixed in the salve, which those thick, calloused fingers forced Otto to appreciate. The muscles in his buttocks spasmed, waist flexing—rope burning against skin—to avoid the unavoidable.
“You are...” Otto started, but bit his lip.
He wasn’t supposed to say the phrase until the bastard was in.
Hurry the fuck up!
The man removed his digits—Otto tensed with anticipation-anxiety-dread—then pushed them back in.
Armed—fucking weaponized—with another portion of the cursed substance.
A slick—terrible, terrible, terrible!—and very generous portion.
Otto dropped his forehead on the wood and panted. His knees shook.
The man added a third finger and rubbed vigorously, twisting his wrist left and right.
Instead of snapping at him as he very much wanted—needed—to, Otto gritted his teeth and focused on not tensing.
According to the doctrine, right now he was but a tool in the hands of the Gods, merely an object They had chosen to use to nullify all the pious petitioners’ sins, his suffering unfortunate but necessary to fulfill Their will. Entering him will grant forgiveness to those brave enough to seek it—forgiveness paid for in pain.
But, while the temple’s visitors who sought penance were—at least in theory—quite brave, it seemed most of them were also prone to stalling, so, instead of them, it was Otto’s ass which paid that price double.
“The brothel near the docks,” the man continued, “I went there on—”
“Ahem.” The priest again. “The Gods’ servant can’t absolve you unless you properly repent.”
“Of course. Ah. Yes.”
Clothes rustled. The crowd murmured in the background. A hairy, muscular Northerner tied to the confessing bench to Otto’s right grunted unhappily, the one using him already silent for some time and entirely focused on plowing the massive man’s burning hole in his relentless pursuit of ever elusive release—the salves prevented the men from wilting but didn’t exactly encourage—and the loud, quickening “slap, slap, slap” of flesh on flesh almost distracted Otto.
Almost.
Somehow, he swallowed his pathetic whine when a thick, long cock pushed inside him. His thighs and knees didn’t shake, they nearly vibrated when the man gave him a few shallow, experimental thrusts, and he was grateful again for the rope holding him in place—if it wasn’t there, he would’ve squirmed and danced on that cock in a manner completely unbefitting a respectable man of his station. He had taken men before—they were far more lenient about it in the South—but never so many, so quickly one after another, and with lubrication so cruel he would’ve a thousand times preferred them dry.
The cock inside him backed out, then thrust in—deep.
Otto yelped as if punched.
It seemed the man was done playing, and he, like most of them, decided that the sooner he cums, the sooner this will be over—for him, at least; he settled into a rapid, punishing pace, panting and grunting under his breath, his harsh grip buried in the soft flesh above Otto’s hip bones, between the ropes.
Fingers white, Otto clutched the bench’s smooth edge, polished by hundreds upon hundreds of sweaty hands before him, and tried to focus on taking shallow, even breaths timed between the torturous thrusts, but the fire boiling inside him was impossible to ignore. Soon, despite the pain, his own cock rose, and he started whining—a barely there sound bubbling low in his throat. The smell of old pine wood wet with his tears and sweat tickled the back of his nose; soon, the salve inside him will heat enough to overpower it; already, it’s sharp, herbal scent, thick and dark like freshly turned soil, was making him dizzy.
“… with lust,” came from behind.
Ah, right.
“You are forgivennn…” Otto whined at the bottom of an especially deep shove, almost adding “fuck”.
“I’ve desired his wife,” continued the man.
“You are forgiven.” Damn, was the bastard thick.
As if the salve wasn’t too much already.
“I’ve had her once, when he was away at sea.”
“You are... forgiven.”
Usually, Otto didn’t mind big. There was this barkeeper when Otto was still a poor apprentice, who sometimes let him settle the bill with no money involved; he was almost as big as Otto’s fist, and after every such payment, Otto spent at least a week limping and cringing whenever his overstretched, overused, sore bottom had to settle on anything harder than a pillow—yet he still returned to that pub every other fortnight.
No, if big had been the only challenge, he would be taking it like a champ.
“I took a man, in that brothel by the docks.”
Why do all these damn Northerners had to have so much power in their hips? Was it all that rowing?
“A pretty fellow, short dark hair, slim back.”
Aww! Too deep, fuck, too deep!
Thrust.
“Like you.”
Otto muttered out the ceremonial phrase, then curled his arms around his head and bit his lip.
Dark pressure swirled low in his belly, a counterpoint to the pain stretching its scarlet wings in the furnace between his buttocks. None of this felt good per se, yet his cock didn’t care; he tried to will it soft, but it was stubborn.
“Had him many times.” Panting, then a whisper. “You’re much tighter than a whore.”
Otto’s hole clenched—on live fire—and he shuddered, the ceremonial words getting stuck in his throat.
Like hell he could forgive him for that!
Still, the man waited—fucking, fucking, fucking—until Otto hissed through gritted teeth, “You’re forgiven.” Then, he slowed down, raking through Otto in an agonizing drag, the sudden lack of force causing Otto’s muscles to tense.
“You’re so tight and slick it almost doesn’t hurt,” he whispered.
Otto sobbed.
Louder, the man said, “I’ve cheated at dice”—thrust—"once." He found a steady, burning rhythm, his cock a searing block of iron fresh from the smith’s forge.
What the fuck did the priests put in these salves?!
“You are... you are... you are fo-forgiven.”
“Last winter, when I sold those furs...”
The assault between his thighs continued, but Otto stopped listening. He mumbled his phrase in the pauses between words—between thrusts—and prayed for the man to cum to the same cruel Gods who wished him bent over the confessing bench. This was his biggest cock yet, and definitely the most brutal, his first salve form the topmost shelf, and he hoped fervently for it to get less... less, coming forward—even when he knew that, once the damn salve was in and rubbed into him, no one and nothing was going to take it out; that every other man who took his penance in Otto’s smarting hole will only add to the burn; that the deep ache inside him will mount and mount, cock after cock, while his own release...
The painful rhythm inside him stuttered.
“Keep taking your punishment, good sir,” said a familiar voice.
“What..?” asked the man fucking Otto.
“Keep at it, good sir, keep at it,” the priest—it was that lying priest—encouraged him from somewhere on the left. “Nothing to do with you.”
Otto went rigid.
No.
A thin cane tapped the top of Otto’s stubborn, stubborn cock.
“It’s just that the Gods expect better from Their servant.”
The taps weren’t hard, just fast. They traveled from the base of Otto’s cock down to the tip, relighting the path already drawn there twice today. Otto willed himself to soften but the man behind him chose that moment to not only regain his speed and his enthusiasm from the beginning of this wretched fuck—maybe he wanted to impress the priest—he also accidentally shifted his stance, thus angle, and suddenly, Otto was getting it where it hurt the most.
If only it was just pain.
He squirmed, trying to adjust his hips, but the rope held. The priest started another pass, hitting harder this time, and Otto knew that soon he’ll start on the underside—which was the absolute worst—but he also knew he wasn’t going soft any time soon. The terrible, oppressive heat inside him gained another dimension, one he, in his current circumstances, could very much do without. He didn’t dare curse in the clergyman's presence, not even under his breath, but a string of the filthiest profanities exploded inside his head. He couldn’t cum like this, he couldn’t! Not when he was supposed to be serving others, humble and obedient and dismissive of his own desires, the act of allowing penetration already sinful on its own in the eyes of these northern barbarians. Taking pleasure from it—and in the Gods’ very own temple, too—was strictly forbidden, a taboo.
Come on, hurry the fuck up!
The priest was getting more brutal, his aim precise, just under Otto’s tip.
Otto sobbed, face wet from both sweat and tears, his mouth full of spit, a metallic taste inside it from his bitten lip. He clenched his fists and blinked fast as his tears fell freely, hiccupping between forceful thrusts, but his cock refused to give up.
“Sin dwells deep in this one,” the priest commented, a strange, almost cheerful quality to his voice. He stepped closer to Otto’s head, changed the angle, and struck fast at Otto’s nut.
That did it.
“Ah!”
Otto’s hole clenched hard, pain zipping up his spine, chased by the brilliant white flame of an unexpected orgasm. The stranger’s cock spurted sticky, burning cum up his pulsing hole in concert with his own, in a strange union of pain and pleasure, of penance and absolution, agony and bliss.
The Northerner yanked his huge—still hard—dick out as soon as he was done, hissing. It’ll be torture for him until the oversensitivity passed, and then his cock will burn for an hour or two, or maybe even till tomorrow, with how strong that salve was, but then all will be well, his groin exactly as it was before and all sins forgotten, both his body and soul again a blank slate.
Otto, though.
Otto’s fate was going to be quite different.
Through the ringing in his ears, he heard the priest tsk. “You defiled. The house. Of. The Gods.” He accented every word with a cane strike to Otto’s nuts, punching pained yelps out of him. Then he walked behind Otto and started caning his buttocks and hole.
Otto bit his fist not to scream, but he couldn’t help but reflexively kick out his feet—his thighs were bound open to the sides of the bench so it didn’t do much—while his upper torso curved and shook, lean muscles rippling under the skin on his chest and back; his waist and belly were so tight they ached.
The cruel priest lashed crimson lines of agony across his ass. “This is unacceptable,” he chided. “You’re a sinner. A true sinner. You must learn.” He switched to vertical strikes again, right on his hole, right where it hurt, and Otto howled. “You must learn how to serve properly, learn obedience and piety, learn proper respect. A foreigner like you.” He stopped, and Otto almost thanked him, all sobbing and panting and dizzy, tremors wrecking through his skin, his ass and groin ablaze, and his cock—his thrice-damned, unholy cock—already... hardening again...?
No.
No, no, no!
The priest’s hands returned, the cold, slick feeling on them familiar and terrifying. “Oh, you will learn.” He not only pushed the salve inside Otto but also lathered his buttocks with it, then his balls, then his cock. He pushed his thumb at Otto’s tip, rolled it around his slit, spreading the burn, pushing it in.
All the fight left Otto. He just shook and panted into the bench, loose and mind swirling.
Cock still hard.
“No matter how long it takes, you’ll learn.” More of the slick. Hotter, hotter, hotter. “You’ll serve tomorrow, and the day after, and then the day after that, until your body does its duty without impertinence. By the Gods’ will, I’ll bind your groin if I must, and lash you after every man you serve, but you’ll learn your place, learn how to be used.” He stuck four hot fingers up Otto’s hole and twisted. Leaned to Otto’s ear, and whispered, “You want to serve, don’t you?”
“I...”
Another twist. “Don’t you?”
“I do!”
“Good.” The priest stood up. “You’ll serve two more before you get water. Six before your meal.”
Flushed all over, Otto hummed an affirmative.
“Focus on your duty instead of on your greedy body, and I may not cane you again until then.”
Otto hid his face and nodded into his arms.
Fat chance, that.
The priest left for his post.
Eyes closed, Otto waited to be filled again, and soon another cock was pumping a scream into him—a scream he wasn’t allowed to release.
Gods, have mercy!
Gods.
He was so hard...