Warning: This is a fetish story featuring the male characters vomiting. You have been warned.

William Bradley was in no fit state to be turning up for work today. He had the king of all hangovers. Mindful that he’d be letting down a lot of loyal people if he were to take the morning off, he’d struggled and got up, made himself a strong black coffee and taken another aspirin.

Last night had been wild, and yet again he’d drunk far too much. He didn’t remember getting home. Some kind soul must’ve given him a lift or phoned a taxi. Either way, he remembered collapsing in the hallway and somehow dragging himself to the lounge, where he’d fallen asleep on the couch.

William dressed into his formal work clothes and made himself some toast and a scrambled egg. He didn’t want to eat anything – the sight of the yellow lumpiness of the egg was sufficient to increase his nausea, but going to work on an empty stomach was unwise. He forced it down and headed out.

The good thing about having to work on Sunday mornings was that there was barely any traffic on the road. His reactions were blunted in his sickly, alcohol-bashed state and shouldn’t have been behind the wheel at all. He parked up in a side street. Maybe a little walk in the crisp, frosty air would help him feel better?

William took a short cut through a churchyard. It was a windless morning, and everywhere was shrouded in mist. He could hear the sound of the church bells. Today was Epiphany – the church’s morning service would be celebrating the visit of the Magi to the Christ Child. He pondered the meaning of the word “epiphany” – an illuminating realisation or discovery, often resulting in a personal feeling of elation, awe, or wonder.

As William’s stomach began to churn and protest, he came to the illuminating realisation that he couldn’t carry on with these heavy drinking sessions. At the same time, his bladder suddenly informed him that it was painfully full.

“Damn,” he muttered. That bloody coffee! He’d relieved himself just before leaving the house, but was now bursting to go again.

Feeling sicker than ever and faint, he lumbered along, seeking a convenient spot to piss – and the side of the church building suddenly loomed out of the mist. There was no-one else around and he simply couldn’t have held it in if he’d tried.

William quickly unzipped the fly of his trousers, pulled out his cock and began to piss heavily against the brickwork. A puddle soon formed, and he moaned in relief but also in pain. An awful sensation was building in his gut.

“Fuck, I think I’m going to chuck up,” he groaned, his mouth filling with saliva and a rapid sweat breaking out on his forehead. His strong stream of piss finally dwindled, but at the same time, his stomach twisted and clenched.


He felt like he was being disembowelled.


William heaved and he doubled over. From his mouth came forth a huge torrent of pale oatmeal-like sludge, which splattered on the floor as he vomited in loud and spectacular fashion. There was that damned scrambled egg again…what was left of it, along with that Chinese from last night.

“Oh shit…urrrghhh!”

He was silenced as a belch rose up from his sloshing stomach, and he leaned Maltepe Escort over to puke again. Another colossal spew of thick, lumpy splatter cascaded down the side of the church.

William could hear voices, and prayed that this would end soon, lest someone discovered him in such a state, and by a church of all places.

He retched, belched and vomited a third time; a smaller amount of brownish slop on the existing pile, before finishing off with several dry heaves.

It was over, thank God. He’d rid his poorly innards of their festering contents.

William fumbled for a tissue and wiped his mouth. Slowly, the shakes, the cramps and the weakness began to subside and he felt so much better. He took a deep breath, zipped up his trousers and stood up straight.

“Ah there you are, Vicar! Good morning!”

William jumped and turned round. Ethel Beresford, peevish elderly spinster and regular attendee at church, was standing behind him.

“Uh, yes. Good morning, Miss Beresford. I’ll be in shortly.”

“Oh I say, how utterly disgusting!” The old woman gasped, noticing the copious steaming puddle of piss and vomit by his feet. “Well really, what a disgrace! I don’t know what this town is coming to. Drunken yobs doing that right by the side of the church! They should bring back the birch!”

“I agree completely,” William replied, and he followed her into the church in order to conduct the morning service.

A few weeks later…

A nervous excitement washed over Sarah as she entered the church. It had become a place of refuge for the introverted twenty year old, though religion had never interested her. In the final years of her grandfather’s life, she’d started accompanying the old man to the Sunday Eucharist. It brought comfort to him, and now he was gone, weirdly, she felt the same comfort. Although there was another reason for her devotion.

Every Sunday service was the same. He’d be there, as he always was.

The organist.

Aged about 40, he looked old enough to be her dad, but that didn’t matter to her. Not a particularly good-looking man, he was slim, pale as a ghost, with watery-blue eyes. To Sarah, he was gorgeous. She was an unconventional zoomer. His name was Graham – that was all she’d managed to find out about him, on the sole occasion a few weeks ago when she’d plucked up the courage to walk up to the organ after the service, and speak to him.

Sarah had introduced herself and attempted a compliment – he was an excellent organist. He’d glanced at her, smiled, said his name and thanked her for her comments, and turned away without even asking her name. She’d noted that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Not that that meant anything in this day and age. He could still have a partner, maybe be cohabiting with someone. Sarah had no idea if he was gay or straight. Though he was barely aware of her existence, she continued to lust after him from afar. He seemed an unsociable man – he never came into the church hall after the service had finished.

Maybe this Sunday would be different?

Today was Candlemas, marking the date when Mary and Joseph brought the baby Jesus to be presented to God in the temple. It was also halfway between winter and spring, as the vicar had noted, Anadolu Yakası Escort in a poem he read out to the congregation.

If Candlemas Day be fair and bright

Winter will have another fight.

If Candlemas Day brings cloud and rain,

Winter won’t come again.

The service drew to a close, and after Reverend Bradley had read out some final notices, the congregation began filing out, ready to head over to the church hall for tea and coffee.

Sarah remained behind as usual, trying not to make it look obvious that she was hanging around.

“Fuck shyness. Fuck anxiety,” she said over and over in her head. She felt like a stalker.

Reverend Bradley gathered up some hymn books and noticed the young woman pretending to look at the notice board. He smiled to himself and walked over to the organ.

“Your admirer is here again, Graham,” he whispered to the organist as he placed the hymn books on a table.

“Eh?” Graham replied, not looking up. He grimaced and rubbed his abdomen, trying to ignore the queasiness that had been plaguing him all morning. Those damned prawn sandwiches he’d eaten. Only a few hours past the sell by date. He thought he’d be okay, but as he’d once read somewhere, one should never cut corners when it comes to eating shellfish…

“That young woman, Sarah. Always comes here by herself. She used to come with her grandad. I think she has a fancy for you.”

“Uhh.” He looked completely uninterested.

“Are you alright, Graham? You don’t seem yourself.”

“Bit of an upset stomach, I’m sure it’ll wear off. I’ll just stay and practice on the organ for a bit. Choir practice this evening, you know, ready for the midweek service.”

Reverend Bradley nodded. “Hmm, well if you’re sure. I’d go home and rest up if I were you.”

The vicar headed down the aisle. Seeing the organist in visible pain with his stomach brought back bad memories a few weeks ago, when he’d suffered a dreadful hangover, which resulted in him puking up violently. It was by God’s good grace that old Ethel Beresford hadn’t appeared earlier, or she’d have been horrified at the sight of the parish vicar vomiting down the side of the church.

Ever since that fateful Epiphany morning, Reverend Bradley had cut down on his drinking.

Sarah was still looking at the noticeboard.

“Morning Sarah, good to see you here again,” Reverend Bradley said, and she spun round in shock.

“Oh. Good morning, Reverend.”

The vicar slapped his forehead. “I’m always forgetting things. You couldn’t do me a favour could you? I have to hurry to the church hall. Could you give this music book to the organist for me?” He virtually shoved the book in her hand.

“S-sure. No problem.”

“Thanks!” he hurried out of the church and gave a wry smile.

Graham was by now enslaved by severe nausea, and had abandoned any attempt at playing music. The terrible sickness held him in its thrall; his gut churning and surging like a storm-ravaged sea.

The vicar had been right. He needed to go home, but felt unable to move off the organ stool. All strength seemed to have drained from his body, and he had a terrible feeling that he would shortly be parting with the contents of his stomach.

“Shit, İstanbul Escort no. Not that. I don’t want to puke!” He muttered to himself. Graham hated anything concerning vomit. This phobia had been with him ever since childhood, when, as a young boy, he’d witnessed an episode of Casualty. The puking, even though it was fake, had been sufficient to leave him with a lingering trauma. The nearest toilets were in the church hall, and right now, he wasn’t sure if he could get there in time. He gagged and felt his gorge rise, but he gritted his teeth and refused to throw up. He was soaked in sweat.

Another wave of nausea hit. He retched, but his gut wasn’t quite ready to eject its festering load just yet.

Sarah timidly approached the organ. “Umm, the vicar asked me to give you this,” she muttered, turning red.

He glanced weakly at her. “Sarah…I…d-don’t feel so good.”

She dropped the book. “What’s wrong? Can I get you anything?”

Graham felt pressure rising in his gut, and let out a groan. A flood of sour bile filled his mouth. The organist fought the urge to puke, body stalling and tensing but there was no fighting it this time.

“Ummfff,” he belched, and vomited right down the front of his white surplice.

“Oh God, Graham!”

Instead of turning away, Sarah sprang into action and grabbed the small waste bin by the side of the organ, but before she could give it to him, Graham retched and was violently sick. An enormous load of pale brown puke cascaded onto the the organ’s manuals.

“Here, use this!” She placed the bin in his lap and sat next to him on the organ stool. Without hesitation, she slipped her arm over his shoulders. “It’ll be alright Graham. It’ll be over soon. Get it all up!”

He managed to utter a brief thanks to her before he began heaving more violently than ever. Vomit spewed forth from his mouth; a thick unending stream that splattered into the bin.

As stressed as he was right now, Sarah’s comforting hand massaging his back, immediately stopped him from tipping over into a full blown panic. He was going to get through this, and afterwards, he’d feel so much better.

“It’s all right, Graham, just let it out,” Sarah said, her voice soft and reassuring.

The organist coughed and retched once more, a trickle of bile splashing into the bin. He took a deep breath.

“Better?” Sarah asked. “Are you done?”

“Yes. It’s over, thank God. I’m never eating prawn sandwiches ever again.”

She took the bin from him and placed it on the floor. “I’ll take care of that. I’ll take the plastic liner out and get rid of it.”

Graham looked mortified. “Shit, look what I did to the organ! All over the damned keys. If the vicar sees this…oh and on my bloody vestments too,” he exclaimed, noticing his puke-coated surplice.

“Warm water, disposable wipes. The organ can be cleaned up in no time, Graham,” Sarah said. “I’ll help you.”

“I’m not letting you clean that filth up,” he said, grimacing at the sight of the vomit. He fumbled around for a tissue and wiped his mouth. “You’ve already done so much for me. Ugh, what must you think of me? In the church of all places.”

“You couldn’t help being sick,” Sarah replied. “And I’ll show you what I think of you.”

He was about to say something, but she silenced him with a kiss on the lips.

The organist’s eyes widened and a blush flooded his pale face. For a moment, Sarah was afraid he’d push her away, but a few seconds later, he returned the favour, and pulled her closer.

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