Pastor Peter Packer's Pecker

Peter Sproul Packer was a Puritan. As that term usually implied, he was a Calvinist of searing faith nurtured in terror of sin, in awe of man's predestination at birth to be saved or damned, and in mortal dread of the size of his penis.

Peter Packer was a pastor, too, his flock in northern Connecticut fashioning themselves of "the Reformed Faith." And the pastor, for much of his young life, until one fateful All Hallow's Eve, prayed to be "reformed" in a most unusual sense. A strapping young man, early in life destined to be taller than most mortals, and with a lean, muscular build and rugged, handsome face, he also observed to his mounting horror that his parts were a snare and temptation from Satan.

Not surprisingly, for the era, no one had need to see Peter's nakedness since his mother had bathed him Saturday nights in the cast-iron tub in front of the fire. He had noticed nothing then, of course, but by 18 years, locked in the bathroom, standing nude before the mirror, he saw rising from the robust swelling of his big testicles a full seven inches of thick flesh topped by a jumbo raspberry-red head.

He knew that this was trouble, for, even as he stared at it, it gave a throb of pleasure—and grew. For all their piety, the young men of his town would flock to the far end of the local pond, well-concealed from town by the good oak woods, and strip naked to rush yelling and laughing into the water. Peter went only once. He did so innocently, without self-consciousness; after all, he never had seen another naked man. But, in very short order, he was frantically dressing, his face bright red, his breath short with panic, ramming the stubborn flesh down into his trousers.

Not only had he seen a dozen other boys, all at once, quite naked, with their penises jauntily flapping as they ran. But, unaware of the danger, he had become fascinated by their nudity—indeed, quite excited. His own penis almost before he knew it was more than half-erect, extended eight or more inches from its thick bed of jet-black hair. Fortunately, it was an era when a certain restraint prevailed among young men; there was much staring, some poking of one another with elbows, giggling. But none dared refer, then or later-except in secret whispers-to what he had seen.

Stumbling along the rocky rut of the woodland trail away from the pond, tears beginning to well up in his eyes, his face burning with mortification, his stiff dick insisted upon chafing against his pants most fiendishly as he ran, shooting jolts of excitement into his belly and down his legs. He clawed at the lump, as he ran, seeking to reduce the wicked friction of temptation. It only got worse. The more he chafed, the stiffer he got. He felt the exquisitely sensitive meat of his glans penis, thrusting out of his foreskin, rasping ecstatically against the rough cloth.

He stopped in the nick of time. Glancing back, then all around, he bounded into the woods beside the trail and pushed on till he was out of sight. Instantly, he dropped the satanic garments to the earth. The monster stood up there, almost against his belly, the back of the glans brushing his stomach above his navel. It was fiercely red and hideously throbbing, its blue veins thick, its length a smooth arc of muscle. He longed to touch it, but he dared not do so by his mortal soul.

Instead, he wrenched a black branch from a nearby birch, a tough stick 18-inches long, with many radiating twigs, each tipped with tough black buds. Tentatively, he slashed at the offending member. To his horror, at the first blows, the big red rod quivered deliciously, threatening some explosion of ecstasy that would pitch him over the rim of Hell. But as he lashed more fiercely, again and again, driving down the beast, a blessed pain took over. More feverish, merciless blows, and almost blackish welts striped the pale meat. And then flecks of blood. He did not stop till agony had replaced pleasure. By the final slash, his meat hung limp, where it belonged, and smarted almost unbearably. Peter was breathing hard, head hung, gazing dully at his victory.

We shall fast-forward, here, for the revelations of the soul come but slowly and it finds its way to faith by countless steps into the unknown. The day in the woods had much to do with Peter Packer's entering the college at New Haven determined to pursue the ministry. Until that time, and then during college itself, it goes without saying, he exposed himself to no one. Indeed, he managed, insofar as possible, never to touch the still-growing, still-lengthening instrument and keep it out of even his own sight. Girls, then young women, were out of the question.

To this, though, we are forced to add that there were occasions when he tumbled ignominiously from grace, pitching head over heels into the open arms and long-clawed fingers of the Tempter. Lying abed of a summer evening, the upper rooms of the house still sweltering, he would throw off the sheets. And then, helplessly, lift up his nightgown. Untouched, merely stroked by his fantasies, the thing would swell by inches, agonizingly, to its full length, stretching its head past his navel, an arching bridge of rigid, throbbing temptation.

He refused to touch it, but quite on its own it quivered and even jerked with a life of its own. And then, Peter had a choice. He could lie for literally hours, his mind wholly engulfed in images sent by Satan, unsleeping, while the hot, pulsing dick yielded a few agonizing drips on his fevered skin. Or, driven beyond endurance, he would seize a leather riding crop he had obtained for the purpose, and lash himself again and again. He had learned much about taming the monster. Now, his blows fell first on the outlandishly large scrotum and its walnut-sized testicles. A few swishing blows in that place caused agony to drive away ecstasy. He did not stop. Scarcely able to keep from screaming aloud, he landed slap after slap on the big balls until his legs and hips twisted wildly to escape his own hand. And pain, unlike pleasure, permitted sleep.

Sent down from New Haven with highest honors, newly vested in the ministry, Pastor Peter easily found near the still-wild frontier of the state a flock who embraced him eagerly. He won, from older parishioners, praise and encouragement for his stern denunciations of the flesh. His sermons were quoted by parents to their sons and daughters, who acknowledged the severe goodness of Pastor Packer, but were harrowed, in imagination, by his vivid sermons on the theme of temptation of this world, pleasure, flesh, lust, the body—and by his equally vivid evocation of the reception that awaited them in Hell, where, it seemed, the spirit could experience tormenting pain every bit as acute as the body's pleasure—and for all eternity.

The young, mostly Dutch girls in the parish attended church quite willingly (although in fact they had no choice) and wore their Sunday best: their bodices full to bursting with ripe, healthy breasts, their hips broad, flaring from small waists, their legs strong and straight from women's endless work. They attended willingly because Pastor Peter had become tall, remarkably handsome, and broad-shouldered from hours of work with axe and saw—work intended to leave him exhausted by the time the ordeal of sleep arrived.

Now, lying abed, in his own handsome room, his own vestry cottage, little had changed. Except that his fantasies had become specific, thanks to the women and girls of his flock, who paid visits to the pastor's residence, sitting opposite him with pretty faces smiling, earnest blue eyes holding his gaze, blushing at times with pleasure or shame at his words.

By night, they came to him, incubi, envoys of the Devil, half-naked in his fantasies, all smiles and wiles. They came with big bare breasts and healthy red titties, with their loins bare but for the flourishing hair the covered their sex. They came into his very room, reaching toward his naked body with fresh, strong hands-and even with full pecking lips. As Peter learned more and more about the ways of God, predestination, salvation, and the certainty of God's wrath, he lost hope. He had been elected at birth for sin and Hell. Inescapably, wherever he might go, the full, ripe fruit of the tree of temptation hung and swung between his legs. Standing before his flock on Sunday mornings, he blessed the pulpit that concealed his body as his eyes strayed to gaze down on Mistress Virginia, Mistress Sally, Mistress Irene—or, at times, Goodwife Fletcher, with her handsome, beaming face, cascades of blond hair, and obscenely prominent breasts.

It was at this time, faintly, at first, a mere hinted odor on the wind, there came from Salem and Boston rumors of encroaching threats to pious New England. In towns north of Boston, an ancient evil, long-known in Europe—and certainly in the birthplace of Calvinism, Geneva—erupted with sudden ferocity. Hands and souls had been recruited to Satan's work and Satan's powers. It could not be denied: things not of this world were seen.

An eminent divine from New Haven traveled north to visit Peter. Not all had been told in the rumors, he said. Women, now, had been dragged before upright, god-fearing men in Salem, stripped naked despite their screams and pleas and cries, and there...

Peter listened, rapt, horrified, fascinated. Yes, naked they had stood before their judges and their bodies searched everywhere, nothing left to modesty. And things were seen, stigmata of the Devil. Unsightly great moles, scars, even nipples seeming discolored or bent by no natural force. The ordeals of interrogation had begun, the naked bodies piled high with stones until the women cried out. There had been confessions.

Had Pastor Peter anything to report? He did not think so, but the well-informed divine insisted. The signs were not obvious. A mysteriously sick animal or child. A woman absent from home at night. Women who whispered together, who disappeared into the woods with easy excuses such as berry picking. Still, Peter did not volunteer any testimony.

But the following Sunday, at the pulpit, reciting by-now well-known passages of his sermon, he scrutinized his attentive flock. Did not Mistress Ellen gaze up at him with more than natural intensity, her blue eyes widened almost hypnotically? Why did she stare so? And her lips. He had not noticed before, but her lips—so full and perfectly formed and alluringly pink—were parted. As he watched, the tip of her tongue peeked slowly between her teeth and touched the lips, wetting them. And yes, most certainly, when he turned to her, she seemed always to take a great deep breath, so that her bosom rose and swelled like some separate living thing. And he felt, here, in his own church, on the sabbath, a cruel jab of lust that shot the length of his penis. What could this be but a spell?

From that day, his eyes opened to the nature of his plight—and his danger. Long had he felt the work of the Devil in his own body, been tormented by it, fought it by day and by night. But now, he saw the wiles of the Devil, how He Worked, and His tools. Why had he not seen the hand of this Tormentor in all its guises?

Immediately, he joined the battle. Perhaps it was not too late. Perhaps he was not beyond grace. Now, he spoke pointedly, urgently, even angrily from the pulpit. He did not yet name any individuals; but he told his congregation of the great struggle underway in Salem and Boston. He spoke of women, girls, the witches now exposed, confessed, and sternly punished with death. And he spoke, too, to the parents of specific girls among his flock, spoke warnings, urgently, of the Devil's power. It did not take long for the town, like others before it, to come to talk of nothing but the ways of the witches.

Pastor Peter thought himself, now, winning mastery over his fate. The night visitations became less frequent, less vivid. The women who sat before him on Sundays smiled less, did not meet his glance, prayed more loudly. Perhaps, in the end, Peter's soul could be saved.

Then, returning home late in the day, after his sermons and meetings and pastoral visits, dusk already over the town, he stopped, aghast, before the door of his own house. Written across the wide white panels, in careful script, black, the letters boldly big, were the words: "Summon not the lustful strumpets of Satan."

He cried aloud and staggered back, raising his forearm as though to ward off a blow. He started to read, in awed tones, aloud, "Summon not..." but abruptly whirled about to see if anyone were watching, anyone had seen. It would be a terrible omen on any evening, but this was All Hallow's Eve, when the dead and undead, restless spirits, and lost souls roamed the night seeking the revenge of wrongs—a last chance to do so before they passed on to eternity.

With the low cry, his terror focused on the warning itself, the words on his door, he rushed inside for rags and a brush. But returning, just moments later, fiercely prepared to attack the warning, he again cried out, but now quite nearly with a howl of terror.

The words were gone. Vanished from the door, its white pure, again. He did not doubt that he had seen them any more than he doubted the reports from Salem. They had been there, now they were gone. And only magic, black magic, the uncanny ways of Satan, could explain it.

And then he heard it. It came from a distance, from behind the church, now dark, came from the burial ground. And it was a voice that called, "Come, Pastor Packer! Come quickly! I need you, Peter!"

It was a young woman's voice, sweet but laden with pleading intensity, a cry of fearful need. Even before it ended, before he had thought for even a moment, he began to run. It was his nature to answer such a summons. And, although full of superstition, he was courageous, too—all the more so to act in spite of his fear.

He hurried up the front walk of the church, then onto the grass to go around the side. He saw, fleetingly, that a full moon now lighted the deep purple sky, a moon sailing through the darkness trailing a wisp of white cloud. Now, he could see the burial yard, but it was all dark shapes and darker shadows. He saw nothing move, no human form.

"Where are you?" he cried.

It came from the woods behind the cemetery. "Please! Hurry! Hurry to me! I am getting farther from you!"

Peter ran between the rough tombstones, just slow enough to avoid colliding with one. He called, "What is happening to you?" He had reached the woods and started down the dark path into it.

"Don't let me go, Pastor! Come for me! Come as quickly as you can!"

"I'm coming," called Peter. The path was wide and straight. Although he could see little except the occasional moonlit patches ahead, he kept running. As he did, he called. The answering voice did not seem either closer or farther away, but its cries were heavy with passion, almost sobs, and he heard faintly a woman's sighs.

"Stop!" he cried, at last. "Stop! I will come no further!" It was dawning on him, and rapidly, that he was far into the woods, with no houses ahead—nothing but a wilderness that began at the edge of the town and seemed trackless in its vastness.

Then, he cried out in terror. In the darkness, hands had seized him. Not a single pair of hands, but many hands, clutching his arms, his shirt collar, even his legs—and hands, he felt in panic, had closed over his most intimate parts, squeezing them almost in a vise. Then, his mind suddenly went as black as the woods.

The room was bright, brighter than any Peter ever had seen, except perhaps the great hall at the New Haven college on Christmas night. It was a combination of a large, bright fire on the massive hearth, and of dozens—many dozens—of blazing candles.

Perhaps, in fact, this was brightness not of this world, but Heaven. For before him he saw, as his eyes opened, three women dressed in black robes that completely covered them and trailed white trains behind them along the floor. On their heads were the long, pointed hats of wizards, but hats midnight black, pulled down firmly over their flowing golden hair. Peter knew them. As his mind rose out of a deep daze, a trance, he recognized Mistress Cynthia, Mistress Geraldine, and Mistress Gloria.

Awareness came but slowly, as though through a lifting mist. Then, abruptly, he snapped fully awake and gave an piercing scream. It was pure terror. What was this place? What had happened? He had been in the dark woods! Hands had seized him...!

He cried out, now, a cry at once panicked, demanding, pleading...

"Who are you? Who..."

"You don't know us?" came a sweet voice. "Did you not summon the women of Satan, the witches?"

"You are...!"

"Mistress Cynthia. You told my parents, when you visited last Sunday, that women such as I may be seized by uncontrollable lust. Did you not?"

By now, to complete his terror, Pastor Peter realized he was naked above the waist and bound, lashed to a great wooden 'X' that stood in the center of the room. His wrists were stretched and tied to the upper struts of the 'X,' his ankles to the lower struts. The width of the 'X' spread his legs the upmost; when he struggled, a sharp pain shot through his loins, strained apart to the maximum. Behind the small of his back he seemed to feel a pillow pressed between him and the cross, pushing his loins outward, obscenely. And that, suddenly, put him in mind of what was between his legs, what hung there, always had hung there, all his life, unseen by any...

"Release me!" he shouted. "Be damned, witches! Release me or go to the stake and burn there and for all eternity. Release me! Now! In the name of God! I command you."

They were all lovely, faces smooth with youthful health, abundant blond hair braided down their backs, eyes wide and in the light seeming to throw off sparks, lips full but—horrifyingly—painted now bright red, lips parted in passion. And all were smiling. In fact, they were giggling. And as he barked out his imperious commands, their giggles increased.

Cynthia came toward him, now, slowly, and stopped only inches before him. Her gaze never left his. Still, he ranted on, but without hope; they seemed to hear nothing he said.

Then, she reached with two slim hands from the ample black sleeves of her and took seized his belt.

A current of electricity might have burned through his private parts. It was inconceivable, utterly. Never, in his adult life, had anyone seen his sex, his ghastly secret, his shame. It could NOT HAPPEN! Immediately, he began to weep, the boy again with his terrors and humiliation. In a moment, he was pleading like a baby. Barely coherent, begging her in the name of God...

"I will die!" he cried, "I will die if I am naked! I will die!"

Cynthia smiled. "Oh, you will not, Pastor Peter. Really, you won't. I recall the first time I was stripped naked in public..."

He stared at her uncomprehending. She said, "Oh, yes."

"Please..." was all he could whine. "Please..."

The slim hands had opened the belt, unbuttoned the trousers, pulled them apart. They fell of their own weight to the pastor's knees. Now, only his underwear remained. He looked down. He might have been concealing a small rabbit in his pants, so large was the bulge. Cynthia, too, had noticed it. She turned to the others. "Come look at this! I think Pastor Peter is going to surprise us!"

The three now stood staring at Pastor Peter's long-protected secret. He wept, "Please! Please! You will kill me!"

Cynthia turned. "Oh, heavens! Geraldine, do you want to show Pastor Peter that one does not die when stripped naked?"

"Of course," said Geraldine with low courtesy, smiling into Peter's eyes, her face alight with a gorgeous smile that made her teeth glitter in the light. She quickly pulled open the knot in her robe's belt, letting it hang, and, as her robe slowly spread, she seized the sides and with a single shrug heaved it off over her shoulders. She was naked but for the peaked hat.