If his congregation knew that the Reverend Fred Phelps wore frilly red panties to all his sermons, they'd probably stone him. But kind of liked the idea of being stoned. It seemed somehow… exciting. And as he preached hellfire and damnation to his flock, the thought of demon's whips lashing his back, the fires of Hell licking at his skin, made his cock so hard it threatened to tear right through the panties.
Fred looked over his flock and imagined them naked. Not because it helped him relax about public speaking, just because he liked imagining people naked. At least the women. Oh yes, Fred might have been a little kinky, but he was as straight as a steel girder! Hell, he only wore the panties because it made him feel that much closer to women.
He stared at one sweet little member of God's Elect in the front row as he continued to rant and rave. Boy, the things he'd like to do to her… Actually, now that he thought about it, he couldn't think of a single thing he'd like to do to her. Hold her hand occasionally while they went shopping for clothes, maybe. Or put his arm around her while they watched a Chippendales show.
"Them damned liberals up in Washington want to let those accursed 'gays' marry! This is an abomination before the Lord! Do you know what them homosexuals do to each other? I'm sorry to say this in front of the children, but the world needs to hear the truth: they put their male parts in each other's rear ends!
"How are we supposed to condone this? How can we tolerate this disgusting act? This act of caressing each other's hellbound, muscular asses, spreading on a little lube, then slowly easing one finger into this forbidden area! This awful, degrading pressing of the head of the male part against the sensitive, tantalized opening, and sudden shock of pleasure and pain as it slips inside! This hard, sweaty, pumping buildup to a delicious, powerful orgasm!
"Um…" Fred shuffled his notes for a moment, suddenly sweaty himself. "And, uh, yeah, that's bad. We're against that. Yeah. Well, uh, this week's announcements. We're vandalizing a newly out gay high school student's house on Wednesday night, picketing an abortion clinic Friday, and burning a cross on the lawn of a synagogue Saturday morning. The Ladies' Chapter is holding a Lesbians Eat Babies potluck afterwards, so let's all whip up some of that great homestyle cuisine and make this a real good one, alright?"
After the sermon, the crowd started to clear out of the church. But one man remained in his seat. He was short and oddly youthful-looking, with a scrubby beard and a soft oval face, although he was clearly well into his forties. The man smiled faintly as Fred approached him.
"Did you have something you wanted to discuss with me, my son?" Fred asked. "I haven't seen you in my church before. Are you in need of spiritual guidance?"
"No, but I think you are. I know, Fred. I know about this." The man pulled down the waist of Fred's trousers a few inches, revealing the lacy edge of the panties.
Fred gasped. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
"My name is Raimi. Sam Raimi. Director of such cult classics as Evil Dead, Army of Darkness, Darkman, and Spiderman, known for my daring high-speed camera moves, odd angles, and deliciously warped sense of humor. And now that it's just the two of us in here, I think you should know that I'm a Jew and a fag, and I not only know what you are, I know what you want."
"You don't know anything about me! Begone, foul thing! You don't know what I want." But Fred was starting to feel more curious than angry, and his voice was uncertain. He looked up and realized Sam was right about one thing; not only had the last of the congregation left the building, they'd shut the door behind them. There was no one in the church but him and Sam. And God, of course.
Sam stood up suddenly and grabbed Fred's tie, pulling their faces close together. "No, I do know what you want. You want one of those fucking fag Jews you hate to kiss you and spank you and fuck you." Fred tried to answer, but Sam stopped him with a finger on his lips. "Don't say no if it isn't true. Thou shalt not bear false witness."
Fred quavered for a moment, then broke down, hugging Sam and pressing his face into Sam's chest as small tears fell from his eyes. "It is true! It is true, and God will damn me for it. Please Sam, help me. I don't want to go to Hell."
"Buddy, we're all going to Hell in the end. What matters is what we do before we get there." And with that, Sam took Fred's face in his hands and kissed him hard, forcing his tongue into the Reverend's mouth. Fred resisted for a moment, then melted into the kiss, clutching Sam's back and kissing him with a passion.
Fred thought they would keep kissing forever, but Sam pulled away after a short while and suddenly produced a switchblade knife. He flicked it out and pressed it up against Fred's throat, but was very careful not to break his skin or hurt him. "Okay, Rev, we're gonna play. But we're also gonna play by my rules. Walk out from between the pews. We're going to walk down the aisle together, how do you like that?"
Fred couldn't do anything but obey, stepping out into the aisle, taking Sam's arm in his, and literally walking down the aisle with another man. One who irritatingly whistled a bridal march the whole time. And yet all he could think of was how warm Sam's arm was, and how firm his grip was, and how nice it had been to feel Sam's stubble on his chin when they kissed.
Sam made Fred step up to the altar. At the last moment Fred realized what Sam's intention was, but it was too late. Sam pushed down on his back, and forced him to bend over the altar. "I've still got the knife. Stay like that until I tell you you can get up."
Being forced into this position, at knifepoint, on the altar no less, was terrifying. And humiliating. And yet… Fred could pretend that he didn't like it, but the warm hardness in his panties couldn't. He was getting off on being dominated like this, and he knew it. As soon as he realized that, something inside him relaxed. Suddenly, he didn't feel like a prisoner any more. He felt like a…
"A princess, huh? A little princess, that's what you are, all bent over with that stupid grin on your face just waiting to get fucked. Well, let me tell you something, princess, what I got for you ain't no pea."
Suddenly, Sam whipped the knife right in front of Fred's face, missing him by millimeters. Fred closed his eyes, and felt the flat edge of the knife on his skin. It traced a cold steel line up his cheek, and down his neck. Then it dug in a little, and Fred heard and felt the rip as Sam slit his shirt, tie, and jacket up the back. A quick and tantalizing trace down the small of back, and his pants were cut through. Sam didn't let Fred up, but pushed the torn sides of Fred's clothing out of the way, so Fred's whole back was exposed to the cool air of the church.
And then… nothing. Fred stayed there, quivering, not sure what to expect for far too long. Every moment it seemed like Sam would seize him, and yet he was left in suspense. He imagined Sam staring at him, looking over his whole body, touching himself as he planned new violations for him. Or perhaps he had gone to get some vile instrument of pleasure, one of the debauched "toys" Fred had preached against on so many occasions. Or perhaps he'd… left? Unable to take the suspense any longer, Fred stood up and started to turn around.
Instantly, he felt Sam's strong hands on his back forcing him to lie back down on the altar.
"Did I say you could stand up? Did I?"
Fred said nothing, hugging the table and wishing his cock wasn't so insistently erect. It made it harder to think.
"That's a question, buddy. I expect an answer," Sam said. "Did I say you could stand up?"
"Well, no, but…"
Sam didn't let Fred finish his sentence. "That's right, I didn't. You were naughty. And you know what happens to naughty boys?"
Fred could feel his whole body quivering, and he tried to tell himself it was fear and not anticipation. But he knew very well what it was. Fear wasn't delicious like this, and fear didn't make his skin grow tingly and eager for pleasure. "They get punished?"
"No! They get nothing! Punishment's far too good for you. You can just stay bent there until you apologize and beg for punishment."
"I'm sorry," Fred said quietly. "Please punish me."
"You lying bitch, you're not sorry at all," Sam said.
"No, I am. I really and truly am sorry for being naughty. I was bad, and it was wrong. Please, punish me already!"
Sam lightly swatted Fred's behind with his hand, but it was just a tease, nothing more. "Oh, maybe you're sorry. But answer me this, what are you sorry for?"
"For standing up when I wasn't allowed to."
Suddenly, Fred felt something cold and wet drip on his ass. And then a finger, spreading it around, rubbing all over his asshole, and then in, oh God, not in, not when it made his spine arch and his breathing become fast and shallow with excitement.
"You've got a lot more to be sorry for than that, mister. I tell you what, for each thing you tell me you're sorry for, I'll give you one more finger."
"But I don't want more fingers. Give me a chance to get used to this one first." Fred squirmed a little. He couldn't deny it to himself, he would love having a man's hand in his ass. But it was still a frightening thought. How would it fit?
"Don't play games with me, buddy. I'm not here to let you get used to anything. I want my apologies, and if I don't have them, I might just get bored and start playing with my knife. I might do things you wouldn't like."
Fred swallowed his pride. "I'm sorry for proposing a monument commemorating the day Matthew Shepard 'entered hell.'"
"And why are you sorry?" Sam's finger started working faster and deeper, and it was hard for Fred to concentrate.
"Well, I'm not really…"
The finger froze. "Than why should I bother with you? You think this is some game? For everything you apologize for, I want you to give me the book and verse of the Bible you violated. Don't tell me you don't know the verse, I know you do."
Suddenly, Fred began to feel real, true remorse and sorrow. But only because the finger wasn't moving anymore. But if Sam wanted Bible verses, he'd get Bible verses. If anyone could quote the Bible from memory, it was Fred. "Matthew 5:4. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted."
"That's more like it, buddy." Sam started pumping his hand in and out of Fred's ass, and added a second finger. "What else are you sorry for?"
Fred moaned weakly. Just two fingers seemed to fill him up completely; giving him amazing pleasure and making his cock stiff as a rod; he couldn't imagine how there could possibly be room for any more. "I'm sorry for distributing signs saying AIDS is the cure for fags. Luke 10:9. Heal the sick who are there and tell them 'The kingdom of God is near.'"
"Now that's what I want to hear," Sam said, and eased a third finger into Fred's ass. This time it was beyond filling, it was painful. Fred squealed and tried to relax, but Sam's hand kept pumping and the pain was inescapable. And then, when it seemed like he couldn't tolerate it any longer, it turned to pleasure, pure pleasure at having so much inside him. A few drops of precome dripped out of the head of his cock onto the cloth covering of the altar.
"And I'm sorry for attacking women going into abortion clinics. Luke 6:31. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."
The next finger wasn't eased in; it was jabbed, quick and forceful. The pressure became unbearable, and Fred realized he was on the very edge of orgasm. But every time it seemed like he was almost there, Sam would slow down, and the orgasm evaded him. The next apology was more moaned than spoken, he was so far gone into pleasure. "And I'm sorry for preaching that Jews are the Antichrist. Dueteronomy 7:6. For you Israel are a people holy to the Lord your God. The Lord your God has chosen you out of all the people of the Earth to be his people, his treasured possession."
And with that, Sam slipped his whole fist into Fred's ass. Fred moaned uncontrollably, over and over again, as Sam pumped his ass, bringing unimaginable pleasure. It was painful, but the pleasure was so much more, the pleasure that was finally, finally bringing him the long-denied orgasm. Fred could hold back no longer, and he screamed as his cock spurted hot sticky come all over the altar. But as he lay panting, satisfied, Sam didn't pull his fist out.
"Yeah, you like that, I know. But what else are you sorry for?"
It took Fred several seconds before he could speak. "What do you mean, what else? That was four things!"
"I've got two hands…"
DISCLAIMER: I apologize to Sam Raimi. He's a great guy, a great director,
and didn't deserve this. He's married with three kids, and while his sexual
orientation is his own business, there's no reason to believe he's gay.
However, he is Jewish. Also, he's 5'11", so I also apologize for describing
him as "short." But he always looks really scrawny in photos. Maybe that's
just because all the photos I've seen are of him with Bruce Campbell, who's
a big hulking huge guy.