The Pastor’s Pointed Finger
© Guyspencer 2014
The Pastor’s Pointed Finger
There was a sudden pause in the sermon, and then Pastor Chronister pointed his finger directly at us. We looked back in horror! Every head in the congregation swiveled, following the Pastor’s finger to find the object of his concern. Us! He sealed our fate by calling our fathers by name and advising them to “attend to their children”. Sitting bolt upright in our pews, eyes and mouths wide open, we probably resembled the proverbial “deer in the headlights”.
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If you knew me you probably wouldn’t guess, but I was raised in a small fundamentalist church. The church building seemed huge at the time, but I now realize that it was small by most standards. The building’s layout was very typical. You enter the front of the church, walk through a wide hallway, and arrive in the rear of the church’s main sanctuary, which probably seated no more than 250 people. The rear of the sanctuary was bifurcated by that hallway. To the left of the hallway was the nursery. It had a large picture window, which attenuated nursery noises while allowing mothers to watch the service as they tended their children. To the right was a small overflow seating area that contained perhaps five rows of pews. That is where Nancy Sue and I sat.
It had been the Wednesday night service, not nearly as formal as the Sunday morning service but equally boring. Perhaps that informality is why my parents had given me permission to sit by myself in the back of the sanctuary. It was a small freedom that was new to me. I had just turned thirteen.
Probably they would have thought twice about giving me that permission had they known that Nancy Sue had also gained similar permission from her parents.
I had literally grown up with Nancy Sue. In those days, it was considered very “uncool” of a boy to hang out with girls. But Nancy Sue had always been considered a tomboy, so that somehow make her OK. When given the opportunity, we would usually find something to do together. We even liked to wrestle! Sitting together that evening, we weren’t guilty of anything so blatant as wrestling. More likely, we had disappeared down between the pews so we could whisper together unobserved. It was probably exactly that disappearance that had irritated and concerned Pastor Chronister as he droned through his sermon.
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Grim faced, our fathers stood and made their ways to the central aisle, and then walked purposely towards us. The congregation’s heads tracked them as they came, taking in every second of this little drama.
Unfortunately, my father was first in line. I don’t remember him saying a word. He certainly never asked for my side of the story. The Pastor had interrupted the sermon on account of us, therefore we were guilty, guilty as sin! And “sin” was an important concept in this little fundamentalist church.
He simply took me by the hand and led me from the sanctuary. Behind us, Nancy Sue’s father did the same to her. In the entry hallway, father made a right hand turn, taking us into the nursery. Nancy Sue got lucky. Since I was a boy and she was a girl, we could hardly be spanked together. So her father took her downstairs to a Sunday school room. Her correction would be far more private than mine.
In the nursery we encountered Sister Burtis. She was standing in the window bouncing her newest child in her arms.
“Sister Burtis,” my father said politely, “Guy and I have some unpleasant and noisy business to attend to. Would that bother your little girl?”
“Not a bit,” she answered, “As you know, this young lady has three brothers. She’s only a few months old, but she has heard many spankings. Would you prefer that we leave?”
“Goodness no!” Father exclaimed as he arranged a chair and sat down, “You might even be able to give me some pointers.”
“Father still hadn’t discussed this incident with me, nor would he. The mere fact that the Pastor had found it necessary to interrupt his sermon on my account was prima facie proof to him (and indeed, to the entire congregation) that I deserved to be spanked.
I didn’t dare object when he fumbled at my belt, button, and zipper. He untied my shoes, made me kick them off, and then whisked down my pants and underpants together. At that age my penis sported a scraggly mustache of pubic hair. I really had no idea of the importance of the physical changes I had been noticing, but I knew that I was terribly embarrassed! Having Sister Burtis as a witness magnified my embarrassment exponentially. Looking back, I doubt if she even cared to notice my exposure. After all, the lady had three sons!
As I stood there, exposed from my waist to below my knees, I could easily hear Pastor Chronister because the nursery featured a PA speaker in the ceiling. He had continued on with his sermon as if nothing had happened. Unfortunately, I could also see him through that picture window, which meant that he could see me and would see my spanking! As he talked, he stared straight into my eyes. For a moment I forgot my father, it was as if the Pastor was talking straight to me!
Father took my shoulders to firmly guide me to his right thigh. Then with a slight pull, he laid me across his lap. My pants-encumbered feet were up in the air; my hands steadied me against the tile floor.
The soundproofing in that nursery was primitive at best. That picture window was only one layer, and the entrance door normally stayed ajar. Naturally, I vowed to take my punishment silently, but I totally gave up on that resolution mere seconds into my spanking.
I wasn’t really ready for my spanking to start, but my bottom exploded into impossible pain anyhow. In no time, I was squalling, squealing, and begging at the top of my voice. I also was kicking as much as my tethered-together legs would allow. As my spanking seemed to continue forever, I heard the Pastor doggedly continue speaking, even though the sounds of my spanking were clearly audible throughout the sanctuary. I still don’t understand how, but even though I was being noisily spanked, I could still every sound that came over that damn speaker!
The worse moment came just as my spanking was finally winding down. The Pastor finally paused in his delivery so that the congregation could savor the final sounds of my correction. Then he spoke, “What you are hearing dear congregation, are the sounds of good Christian parenting!” The congregation tittered in appreciation of his little joke.
Did I mention that Pastor Chronister was very pro-spanking? It was a frequent subject in his sermons.
Father allowed me to my feet. But he did it perhaps a bit too quickly because I was still bawling and clearly not yet in charge of my body. I tried to dance, but that was a mistake because my pants were still down around my ankles. So I tripped backwards. Sister Burtis, who had just laid her baby in the crib, caught me just in time to save me from falling on my livid ass. I’m glad she caught me, because my bottom didn’t need any more bruises just then. To my mortification, she held me as she expertly pulled up my pants and fastened them for me.
She beamed at my father, “You don’t need any spanking advice from me Brother Spencer. You spank just fine!”
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Still teary-eyed and sniffling, I was made to march up the central aisle and to sit between my parents until the service was over. Standing was out of the question, but the hard pew inspired new tears. Moments later, Nancy Sue and her father also returned. I could only see her out of the corner of my eye, but I saw tears.
Fortunately, the service soon ended. Naturally I didn’t want to face anyone after that debacle. As soon as I could manage it, I slipped out a side entrance and waited at the car for my parents to emerge from the church. Predictably, they scolded me all the way home. My sister smirked behind their backs and silently rubbed her fingers together in the “shame” gesture.
My sister told me later that everybody had heard my spanking, and that everybody was giving each other significant glances while it was happening. This was no surprise to me. I wasn’t the first kid to have been spanked in that nursery, so I knew what it sounded like.
She also told me that she could barely hear Nancy Sue’s spanking happen downstairs, because the sermon mostly drowned it out. She said it sounded like she got it on her bare bottom. Knowing Nancy Sue’s father, that came as no surprise.
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Something momentous happened that night, but it would be decades before I would understand.
As I lay in my bed and contemplated my disastrous evening. I found myself thinking differently about Nancy Sue than ever before. I didn’t totally understand it, but my feelings for her now suddenly went far beyond wrestling and playing catch with her. (Although wrestling had its compensations) I felt bad about getting her into trouble, but I also found myself picturing her over her father’s lap. In particular, I pictured her with her cotton panties hanging on the backs of her knees, and I pictured her sounds and movements as her bare bottom absorbed those spanks.
I pictured myself tenderly comforting her and kissing away her tears after her spanking.
I lay on my back. I scrunched my bottom to wake up millions of slumbering spanked nerve endings. The result was something between a sting and a low burn. My bottom, Nancy Sue’s bottom, and thoughts of our humiliation and exposure churned around in my head. I followed an almost irresistible impulse to do something a bit scary and secretly shameful. My right hand snaked under the sheet and easily found its stiff target.
My breathing became hard. I kicked and thrashed, alternately imagining that I was being spanked again, and imagining Nancy Sue’s spanking. Soon the sheets were tangled, and I was sweaty.
As I lay in the afterglow, two huge concepts clicked together in my head to remain forever seamlessly connected, sex and spanking.
Do I really need to say it?
That night I had become a spanko.
© Guyspencer 2014
posted by guy at 8:46 PM
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