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The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 01

By: Nigel Debonnaire



The first of three episodes a new series about Fr. Alfred, Vicar of St. Dunstan's. Categorizing these episodes is tough, since there isn't a "Dramedy" category on this site. Suggestions for future episodes are welcome, if you'd like to see more of Fr. Alfred and his flock.

The Quilting Ladies

The tri-weekly run ended with a sprint across the high street to the steps of St. Dunstan's as Charlotte Church sang _Panis Angelicus_ from my iPod. I looked at my watch and was satisfied: a good time and a good workout. The day was bright and wet in the mid-morning, but it was already getting a bit steamy. "At least it's not like Kansas," I said to no one in particular, and entered the door to the church basement.

The basement hallway was cooler, but that would change soon. It reminded me of stale church basements of my youth in Western Kansas near Hays; the clamminess that competed with the summer's swelter and highlighted the winter's frigidity. England was different, and I loved it. Ten years ago I was ordained an Episcopal Priest for the Diocese of Topeka, and five years ago I had the chance to do graduate study at Oxford. Within a year, I'd attained resident status and transferred to the Church of England: an Anglophile's dream. Everything about this country was a dream, and only a couple of missing pieces kept my joy from being complete.

Now, I'm thirty five, and not in bad shape. I'm around 6'1", 185 pounds with dark brown hair and long sensitive fingers. My childhood dentist said I could have been a musician, and I followed that star for a while before taking the dog collar.

St. Dunstan's was a working class, High Church parish, ideal for me. The people weren't quite as eccentric as British sitcoms such as The Vicar of Dibley or Father Ted, but they were honest, direct and good hearted folks who tolerated most quirks in each other and in me. I had been their Vicar for four years, and we'd settled into a comfortable rhythm of life.

The Quilting Ladies were at work in their special room. It was spacious and airy, containing several large wooden forms and rolling chairs to ease the detail work. The quilts went to the elderly and infirm of the parish; the Quilting Ladies were a hoot to hang around with. I pulled a bottle of water from the basement kitchen refrigerator and took it into the Quilting Room with me, looking forward to an amusing interlude.

"Hiya, Vicar. How's it going?"

"Hello, Vic."

"Father Alfred, so good to see you."

"Hi, ladies, what's news?"

There were three at work on a quilt that morning: Mavis Hazelton, a plump, medium height lady whose dark hair was almost completely surrendering to grey: Sheila Button, a tall, thin, handsome woman in her mid-sixties whose blond hair was progressing to silver with dignity; Mary Sterns, a medium height, perfectly proportioned, bottle red head of sixty who looked fifteen years younger. They were dressed in average working clothes: their feet were bare as their shoes rested nearby, Mary and Sheila had on Arsenal t-shirts and jeans; Mavis wore a sleeveless dress that was cool, and exposed a significant amount of her cleavage. These three could keep me in stitches for hours. Mavis was on the far side of the quilt, while Mary and Sheila were near me as I stood beside the work. These women were always around and this was a small parish, so they took care of everything: cleaning the church, cooking for me, counting the collection, dusting the vicarage. We hit it off right away on my arrival and I was inordinately fond of them, but a fondness that could never be expressed directly, or so I thought. Mary began: "Who's in your ears today, Vicar? Rutter, Vaughn Williams, or C. Hubert H. Parry?"

There were few secrets around St. Dunstan's. "A change of pace, Charlotte Church."

"Lovely young lass," Mavis chimed in.

Sheila nodded, "And such a lovely voice. Pity about those pictures they took of her on the beach."

"Pity. And we didn't even see that much of her," Mary commented.

I smirked: "Well, if I thought too much about what she looked like, it would be difficult to run,." The three ladies laughed heartily.

"We were wondering about that earlier this morning, Vicar." Sheila queried. "You're not gay, are you?"

The directness of the question took me aback. "No, I'm not," I stammered. "I thought having Janet here the first couple of years should have answered that question."

Mary shook her head: "You never know, Vic, you never know. The Reverend Stokely, your predecessor, had a wife and two daughters here with him."

"Lovely girls, both grew up to be accountants like their mother," Mavis interjected.

"And yet the talk of the parish was how he played Timothy and Niall off against each other for years while sleeping with both of them," Mary concluded.

Sheila looked wistful. "Timmy looked so lovely as thurifer every week, simply angelic in his cassock and lace surplice. He swung the censer with such grace, and he always used the sweetest incense. Model of devotion on the altar, and supervised the altar boys so well."

"Where did the Reverend Stokely end up again?" asked Mavis.

I jumped in: "He was elevated to suffergan bishop in Northumberland, don't remember exactly which diocese. A friend put in a word; Timothy went with him."

"Ah yes, I remember that Mrs. Stokely was so thrilled at becoming a bishop's wife," Mavis said.

"She had a bigger orgasm that day than when her Steph married a Doctor, she did," Mary observed, to vast amusement of all. "You girls remember the old limerick about Anglican Priests, don't you?

There once was a lad from Devon,
who one night was laid by Seven.
They were Anglican Priests,
lascivious beasts,
for, such is the Kingdom of Heaven."

I took a sip from my water bottle; the girls were in good form today. They took a couple of stitches: the pattern was simple, yet elegant, with vibrant colors. Mary took up the next general area of discussion: "You are getting along all right with Niall, aren't you, Vicar?"

"Yes, sure. He does a fantastic job playing the organ for liturgies, and the choir has never sounded better. We have a good, professional working relationship. As far as I'm concerned, I'd like to keep him as long as he wants to stay, even though we can't afford a Curate because of it."

"Good for you, Vicar," Mary said while bending over her work, "We like him, too, he's a sweet boy. We like you, too, Vicar. You're just like us: down to earth and your heart's in the right place. Lovely services and I could listen to your sermons all day." There was a few more moments of silence before a topic was resumed.

Mavis opened the subject. "It's a shame that nice little Charlotte Church wants to be such a tramp."

"Sheila, your Bert said at the Pub the other day he'd teach her a new high note or two," Mary said.

"My Bert is all talk and no action," Sheila fumed. "The last ten years he's completely lost the pep he used to have, I can tell you. Can hardly see what he'd do with Charlotte Church besides bore her to death."

"So's my Harry," Mavis put in. "He hardly moves from the couch watching football to bed and back. To lazy to go to the Pub anymore, the old fart, hasn't laid a hand on me for fifteen years. And I used to be the most popular girl in town."

"That's because you let every boy in the neighborhood put their hands down your jumper, Mavis Harris Hazelton." Mary sneered. "It was bad enough you had the biggest tits in town and all the boys fantasized about you, but you put out so much we could hardly peel any of the boys out of your queue."

Sheila interrupted. "It's not like your knickers never hit the floor, Mary Winton Sterns. You spent a lot of nights rustling under the shrubbery with your Tommy before you were married. He started giving you children before you were married, didn't he?"

Mary rolled her eyes. "It's not like you were the paragon of virtue, either, Miss Sheila.

Was it twice or three times you visited the football club in their locker room alone?"

The conversation was taking me aback. I'd never heard them talk like this before, and their body language didn't change much as they talked: they kept sewing and moving purposefully without a hint that their contest would lead to a larger confrontation.

Sheila looked into the distance. "It was go grand, they had such beautiful bodies, the footballers. Such teamwork. I couldn't walk right for a week after they were done with me, and my jaw was ever so sore, I hardly ate a bite."

"Clive Shepard was such a hunk in those days, wasn't he?" Mavis broke in. "Such lovely muscles and such a tool. I could have died with him on top of me."

"He didn't always do it on the top, either," Mary added, "I rode him three Friday nights in a row, and found out later he was taking it up the bum from the midfielder from the local club, what was his name?"

"Digger Mathews," Mavis said. "He ended up in jail one night after a raid on the park bathroom, poor lad, and was never seen in this town again." There was a pause of several seconds as the ladies savored their memories.

"I miss the old sexual intercourse. There's many a night I'd jump most about any man, just to feel like a woman again" Sheila mused.

"I miss my Tommy, gone these six years," Mary mused, "We used to spoon naked in bed and his dear prick would rise up right into my vertical smile. . ." 

As they talked, my imagination wandered and I tried to picture them as younger women. They were attractive now, even Mavis in her own odd way, and I drifted in the descriptions of each other's escapades. They were part of the Sexual Revolution of the Sixties, and now I was getting a living history. Mad daydreams crossed my mind, making love to all three of them individually, just as they were. Sheila and Mary had very nice posteriors highlighted by their jeans, and Mavis' breasts were the most gargantuan I'd ever seen. My eyes got lost for a moment in the cleavage, and in my imagination.

"Hey, Vicar. Seems like we've rather had an effect on you, haven't we?"Mavis observed.

My dream dispelled, the voices faded and I found the three ladies staring at my jogging shorts with interest. In the course of my daydream, my leviathan had stirred from its lair and was bulging my drawers dramatically. Mavis licked her lips, Sheila beamed and Mary smirked conspiratorially. "I think we can conclude you're not gay," Sheila said deliberately.

"The dear Vicar must have been in a terrible way since his Janet left him," Mary commiserated. "It's not like he can run down to the boozer on Saturday night and pick up a bird, can he? Even without his dog-collar." Her eyes were fixed rather fondly on my discomfort; she reached out and started stroking the fabric of my shorts, making my distress more acute. " I haven't had any action since my Tommy died, and some nights the old vibrator isn't enough."

Mavis smiled broadly. "You look like those shorts are getting rather tight, Vic. Maybe you'd like to make yourself a little more comfortable, give the old John Thomas a breath of fresh air?"

My face turned and I blushed in shame: my mind raced to figure out a way to get out of the situation, although Mary's hand on my dick would make that difficult.. The girls sighed and Sheila rolled her chair over. "I think that's a lovely idea," Sheila cooed as she started pulling at my waistband. "That looks like a nice package in that package, and I want to unwrap it."

I turned to look at the half open door, and Mary leapt across to close and lock it. "Your secret is safe with us, Father Alfred. We like you and we'll take care of you. It'll be our little secret," she whispered. Giggles confirmed the arrangement

Sheila got my shorts down and pulled my jock down as well. My cock sprang to attention and almost hit her on the forehead upon its liberation. "Oooo, that's a big one." she said, "However could your Janet ever run away from this?"

"She hated England, and didn't care to be a Vicar's wife. She never really wanted to marry the Church from the start." I said in a wavering voice.

Mary came close, and ran her fingertip up and down the shaft a time or two, gazing raptly at the massive meat. She charmed my testicles with her fingernail and my snake danced twice for her, up and down. "I can imagine it must be horrid to be a Vicar's wife," she said. "All those functions to go to, organizing the ladies' guild, taking care of the children, putting up with a husband whose first concern is his parish, all those expectations of being a model wife and mother." The snake did another dance and she gasped with delight. "Yes, I can see where you'd have a difficult time finding companionship, particularly since you're not gay." Mary's free hand roamed up my t-shirt, stroking my taunt stomach and chest, flicking my nipples, and Sheila's did the same.

"How long is it?" Mavis asked.

"Nine and a half inches." Oohs and aahs came in reply.

"How much is that in metric?" she continued.

Mary looked at her in shock. "Are you daft, woman? Who cares? It's a big, beautiful prick and it's being friendly with us. What more do you want to know than that?"

"Your Janet was a fool to run away from this." Sheila said. "You could keep me in a closet in Kathmandu 23 hours a day if you'd give me a Willie like this from time to time. May I touch it, too?" I nodded my head, and her hand touched my pole, tentatively at first, then warmly, stroking it up and down while Mary continued her magic with my balls.

My eyes had gotten locked on Mavis' cleavage, and she noticed. "Would you like to see my tits, Vicar?" she asked. "Thirty years ago they made page three of the Sun." She stood up and unbuttoned her dress from the top down, stepping out of it to reveal a huge bra, a plump naked belly and wide bubble hips contained in a blue acres of panties. "I have to have my bras custom made. There are times I'd like to have reduction surgery, they're so heavy, and Harry never touches them any more. National Health hasn't seen the need, and we've got no money for it" She undid the front clasp, and her melons fell free. My snake danced again, and Sheila stroked harder. The breasts would have been proportionate on a nine foot tall woman; Mavis was a little over five feet. 

She cradled her gargantuan tits, and I was astounded by the size of her nipples. "My God, those are the biggest nipples I've ever seen," I blurted out. " They must be seven inches across." They covered most of the front of her breasts and the points stuck out an inch and a half, and a half inch thick. "I'd play with those all day, Mavis, any day. Your Harry is a fool."

"Sometimes, when I get real lonely, I can do this." She pulled her left nipple up to her face and started licking it, tonguing the easer head and sucking it deep into her mouth. 

Sheila and Mary were both stroking me ardently, but it was growing uncomfortable. "Ladies, thanks for the attention, but things are a bit too dry. You're going to pull him off that way."

"Sorry, Vicar." Sheila said, and inhaled the head of my cock into her mouth, running her tongue around the bottom half of the corona. Her saliva surged from around the corners of her mouth, and she rubbed it into my monster. I started trembling and Mary put her arm behind me to steady me.

"Father, there's an old cot in the corner." Mary said, "Why don't you have a lie down while we take care of you?" I nodded and moved that direction; Sheila maneuvered her chair to keep my cock in her mouth and Mavis came around to stand beside the head of the bed. Mavis pulled off my t-shirt and Mary my shoes and socks, so I ended up laying naked in front of them like a buffet spread.

Mary started licking my right instep, making me shudder, as Sheila continued to slobber and stroke my penis. Mavis held her left nipple above my head. "Would you like a go at my nipple, Vicar?" she said hopefully. "It's been ages since she's gotten treated right." I nodded and she put the big brown bud on my mouth; I licked it and swirled my tongue as far as I could. Mary worked up my leg, and was teasing my testicles with her tongue; Sheila savored my cockhead, taking it out to lick down the shaft while stroking it from time to time. I sucked more of Mavis' nipple in my mouth and touched it ever so slightly with my teeth. "Yes, Father, you can do that all you like. Chew on her a bit more, would you please?" She gasped as I masticated her sensitive bud and trembled herself. I reached over to stroke her other breast, giving that hard nub an occasional tweak..

Soon Sheila tapped Mary on the shoulder, and Mary inhaled my cock in her lovely warm mouth. Mavis moved between my legs, where she alternated on my balls with the teasing tip of her tongue and broad, wide-spread licks that slathered the entire sac at once. I found Sheila's naked right tit next to my mouth, and since her body was long and lean, I reached down with my left hand to rub her clitoris and cunt lips. "Ah Father, we loved you before, but we had no idea you had anything like this in you." Sheila purred. "You're spreading the Lord's love a long way today. How could your Janet run away from you in her right mind?" 

The long absent churning pressure started building in my nuts, and Mary noticed it immediately. "Get ready, he's going to blow his spunk, he's going to blow his spunk," Mary said gleefully, and accelerated her stroking of my dick with her saliva slick hand, looking on expectantly. Mavis cupped and rubbed my balls; Sheila lightly stroked my stomach, lost in her own sensations. My red tower stood proudly toward the ceiling, and the first blast almost reached it. A flood of semen covered my stomach up to my chest and Mary's face, my dick pulsating strongly, blast after blast. Mavis quickly sucked in my dick as the others licked up the sperm from my body. Sheila went crazy in the midst of this, as my hand and tongue brought her to an orgasm.

I panted as I recovered, and so did the ladies. Mavis came close enough to whisper in my ear: "Call me anytime you like, Vic. I'll fuck you, I'll suck you, you can do anything to my body you want, a-ny-thing. Titfucking: your big dick, my big tits. It'd be grand."

Mary patted my thigh, a broad smile smoothing her age lines. "And you don't even have to kiss us goodnight, cuddle with us, or buy us breakfast, Vicar," Mary said, then she gave my still stiff wand a gentle suck. Even though I was thirty five years old, due to my two year abstinence I stayed hard and wouldn't go down. She licked it leisurely for a couple of minutes and said to the others: "Poor Father, it's been such a long dry spell. His poor John Thomas is still ready for action; it won't go down.. How could we stand by and not help the poor man? Would you like to have the first go, Mavis?"

Mavis eagerly came back and took me in her mouth, sucking vigorously. Mary came up to put her nipple in my mouth and her slit within reach of my hand; soon, she was luxuriating at my touch on her genitals and my tongue on her mouth sized breast. Sheila started sucking my toes, driving me wild, then the inner part of my knee. It took a while, but the pressure returned on Mary's watch, and I shot my wad down her throat as I watched the red head work on my rod.

I could hardly believe it. These women were grandmothers several times over, respected women of the community. Mary was such an elegant lady even dressed down, her face slightly weathered, her hair perfect, and now she was topless savoring my semen like prime caviar, her stately lips worshiping my cock. Sheila was a handsome woman as well, in hoop earrings and several ringed fingers, with her bare breasts pressed against my thighs and her artistic hands drawing soft circles on my testicles. Mavis' basketball sized jugs and plate sized nipples were a miracle; this solid British grandmother was sucking her right tit into her mouth in ecstasy as she watched the scene, moaning as she bit the rubbery end.


The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 01



It took a while, but I came back to my senses, my dick tender from the extended care, and the ladies gleefully chatted as they dressed and resumed work on their quilt. "Come by anytime, Father," Mary said with a wink. "We'll be here for you."

I went back to the vicarage, and tried to have an ordinary week. That Sunday was Whitsunday and the liturgy and music were perfect; I felt like I was walking on a cloud during the opening procession and hymn. My sermon got a strong positive reaction for the people; the energy in the church was a palpable. It was odd giving Mary, Sheila and Mavis communion as they knelt at the rail with their families; each winked at me and I felt a tingle as I laid the hosts on their tongues. Evensong was wonderful as well, but draining in the heat of a poor church without air conditioning; it would be the last Evensong there until Fall. Afterward, Mary brought my supper by the vicarage. "How's the lad?" she said.

"Tired, Mary, tired. What's for supper?"

"I've got some bubble and squeak with roast beef; cheddar cheese and ginger biscuits for afters."

"Splendid."

"Vicar, my family have all gone home. Would you like to fuck tonight?" I did a double take; her face was aglow with expectation and hope. "We've got to take good care of you, Vicar. Can't let the pressure build up, like it did before." She'd dolled up tonight with fine makeup, grey silk blouse and black slacks. Her earrings were pearl, and one diamond ring glittered on her right index finger.

I tried to pick up my fork and failed, lost in the causal invitation to intercourse. Smiling broadly, she picked the plate up again. "Maybe I should put this lot in the oven and we'll have the sex first. Do you like fucking doggy style?" After putting the plate in the warm oven, she unbuttoned her blouse and I saw she was wearing nothing underneath it. "You can't serve the Lord well if you're all frustrated and bottled up, Father. It's been ages since I've had a good, hard shagging, so you'll be doing both of us a favor. G'wan with ya." I stood uneasily.

She came over and put her arm around me. My snake was starting to rouse itself and bulge the front of my pants. Rubbing it through my pants, she reached over with her free hand and undid my collar. "Off duty tonight, Father. I'll undress you, suck your cock for a while, then you can bend me over and pound me as hard as you like with the wonderful, huge tool. I'm just swampy looking forward to it. You're such a wonderful Vicar, Father Alfred, everybody loves you, and we want you to stay happy with us. G'wan, G'wan, G'wan, G'wan. It'll be a blessing."

We got to my bedroom and my clothes came off. After putting Elgar on the stereo, she knelt before me and licked my cock to full extension before we got up and I bent her over the bed to thrust her quim from behind. It was the perfect elevation and we pounded like mad rabbits for fifteen minutes before she came, and another five before she came again. Her cunt was so tight and so wet, I thought I'd found Nirvana. She laid me down on the bed, and stroked me until my juices flowed at last, then she licked and sucked up every drop. "You're spunk is so good, Vicar. I love its taste and its feel in my mouth. I'd blow you every day of the week if you wanted me to. Do you want me to blow you every day of the week, Vicar?"

I leaned back on my pillow, savored the Elgar, and remembered that Mary's bubble and squeak were waiting for me in the oven. "I'll let you know, soon. Thanks, Mary," and I kissed her forehead. She beamed at me, and rested with her face in my crotch, trailing lazy circles on my stomach.



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 02



The second of three episodes a new series about Fr. Alfred, Vicar of St. Dunstan's. Categorizing these episodes is tough, since there isn't a "Dramedy" category on this site. Suggestions for future episodes are welcome, if you'd like to see more of Fr. Alfred and his flock.

Next Year in Alice Springs

It was another drippy Wednesday in England. I puttered around the house all day, and a peek into the Quilting Room showed it empty. I'd been dear friends with Mary Sterns, Sheila Button and Mavis Hazelton, all grandmothers in their early sixties, since my arrival at St. Dunstan's four years earlier, but two short weeks ago, something happened that took our relationships another direction. Mary, Sheila and Mavis and I started sharing more with me than the excellent dinners they carried in, and I was amazed at the fresh and frank carnality each expressed in our lovemaking sessions. I was looking at Internet sites about Alice Springs, Australia, where my e-mail pal Rev. Brenda Porter lived There was great natural beauty in that part of the world, but I couldn't understand how Brenda got stuck in a place like that; I would learn more when she arrived that Friday for a special series of services to promote a sister parish relationship.

Mavis let herself in the door. "Cooee, Vicar. Here's your tea: shepherd's pie. Hope you like it." I heard her clatter in the kitchen momentarily, then she came into my study for a big kiss and hug. "How's the lad?"

"Fine, Mavis, fine. You're looking well. How soon are you going up to Scotland?"

"Oh, it's tomorrow, Vic. My Sherrel is about to pop with another lovely grandbaby, and I want to be there. Harry's staying here, of course, says pictures are good enough. I'd admit, most people would find number grandchild number twenty just another statistic, but they're all precious to me."

"I don't doubt it, you have such a big heart, Mavis." Mavis had more than a big heart: she was short and portly with the biggest pair of breasts I'd ever seen.

"How soon is our friend the Reverend Brenda coming to town?"

"She'll be here around noon on Friday."

Brenda Porter was an Anglican priest about my age, thirty five, who was visiting home from her mission to the Arrernte Aborigines based in Alice Springs. How she got there I don't know, but she was coming home for a visit with local friends, and to get people interested in a sister parish relationship with hers.

Shaking her head, she said, "Pity I'll have to miss her; I've always been proud of our little neighborhood girl who went all the way to Aussieland to preach the Gospel. You take good care of her, laddie, who knows what could happen with you two kids alone in this big Vicarage." She looked at me with piercing eyes, then gave me a wink and a pat on the backside.

"We're fellow workers in the vineyard of the Lord. Sex should be the last thing on our minds."

"Like it is for some of your gay boys. Rabbits would have a hard time keeping up with some of your lot; it's a good thing that kind of sex doesn't multiply or the priesthood would have a population boom."

"So I've heard."

"Speaking of big heart, Vicar, I'm going to be gone a long time, and I was wondering if I could share you some of that love right now, among other things?"

"Sure, Mavis. I'd love, too. I've been waiting all day."

I bent down to give her a big deep kiss, which she returned with exceptional passion. We held hands as we mounting the stairs to my rooms; she was carrying a bag for some odd reason. As we got to my bedroom, she put the plastic bag on the bed

"Ah, Vicar, you're such a lovely man. There a few small things I've been wanting to try in the bedroom, and I wondered if you'd be interested." In her bag were several ferocious looking toys, and I shied away from contemplating what some of them would do. "I loved the titfucking the other week, but I got tired holding the old girls together. There's this lovely chain with two clamps on the end that may serve, and I've got this length of rope that should be more than enough even for my big girls. Maybe we could tie them up, lubricate them and I could give my arms a rest while you fuck my tits." 

I looked at her doubtfully. "Have you ever seen or done anything like this before?"

"Oh, yes, Vicar. There's tons of lovely websites out there to teach you how. I've memorized the techniques, and I know just what to do and not." Her face looked anxious.

I gave her a dubious look, for her eagerness radiated in waves. "All right, I guess Mavis, if this is what you really want."

"Yes, Vicar. Make a start with the rope." She took off her clothes: her gargantuan boobs hung down dramatically with their seven inch wide nipples. I brought her to orgasm several times just with playing her huge nipples; they were very sensitive. Mavis was a short, very plump woman with wide hips. Holding up her right breast, she said: "First make a loop in the rope. Put that around the girl, yes, pull it fairly tight. Now around a couple of more times, run it up over my neck. Bring it down around the other girl, three times is nice. A figure eight next, don't worry, Father, we'll set the target area up above the ropes. Oh, that's getting tight, lovely. Around three times around each. Now tie it off up by my left shoulder, that's it." Her massive knockers were starting to stand up, and her huge, thick nipples were poking out a bit. "Now for the lubrication: I'll lick your cock up a treat, but we need something to help us here. Do the baby oil I brought; yes, yes, O Lord that feels so interesting on my tight tits. You have such a soft, lovely touch, Vicar. All right, do the other one. Yes, yes. Now they're nice and slick. Oh, get the digital camera and take a picture, love. No, I'm not worried who will see it. Let me put my hands behind my head. "Now let's get things done up top. The nipples aren't quite hard enough yet, you'll have to help me there. Oh, yes, nice, your tongue on the nipple and your hand on my clitoris will do quite nicely. I'm short of breath already. Put the clamp on it, Owww." She panted for several moments. "That's a pinch, for sure. Oh, oh, oh, now let's work on the other one. Oh, Vicar, you could suck my tits all day if you want to. Put the other clamp on, Oooowwww." Another pause while she regained her composure. "Don't worry about me, Vic, childbirth is much worse than this, and not as much fun. Push the nipples together and adjust the chain. Ow, ow, ow, ow. That seems good, does it look good to you, Vicar? Fine, then stick him in and see how it feels." 

I climbed on top of her stomach and put my cock between the tightly bound tits. It was one of the tightest fits I'd ever known. "Lovely, Mavis, it feels lovely. Is my weight too much against your stomach?"

"No love, you're grand. Let's get the locomotion started." I began pumping in the slick cleavage, and Mavis reached up underneath me to cup and tickle my balls. Her other hand was on my ass cheek, encouraging me to push harder and faster. Her face was beaming, crossed occasionally by winces, as my cock traversed the areolas of her nipples in its thrusting. It took only five minutes before I spewed all over her breasts, some of it hitting her eager, open mouth. I pulled out and she rolled over to clean up my dick with her hungry mouth. 

"Do you want me to release you?" Her tits were starting to turn a faint blue.

"No, love, not yet. Repay the favor and we'll let the girls loose."

"And how do I make you happy in return?"

"Well, I'd suggest you start out with some nice licking and fingering, then after I'm good and damp, get your fist up there every so strong."

"Won't that hurt you?"

"Well, Vicar, I've put some rather large produce up my snatch from time to time, even full length zucchinis, and six lassies came down the other way. Even your lovely big cock wasn't big enough for me. I don't think you'll be too much; I'll let you know." 

I started by licking and sucking her clitoris; with her encouragement I nibbled and she almost spasmed on the spot. Then, my fingers started working up her channel; all four fit easily and it seemed that I would need to use my fist to get a full penetration. "Oh, yes, love, yes, shove that fist right up me. Now I can feel it, oh my! Run your fingernails across my tits." Kneeling to get my balance, I was able with difficulty to do what she asked: she screamed at my first touch on her purpling mountains, which faded into the general groans of delight. Very quickly she seemed to approach her mountaintop; her hands came up to release the clamps right when her orgasm hit her. I was amazed :her scream must have rattled windows down the street. I untied her tits, which fell heavily, and massaged them as they returned to color; she orgasmed again as I rubbed them before she coaxed a hot, wet load down her throat.. The Reverend Brenda Porter's arrival was on time, and she was just as I pictured her. She was medium height big boned woman, neither plump nor skinny, with light brown hair, brown eyes, long, tanned legs and her black cleric shirt billowed out beautifully to display her silver cross and necklace. Laughter came easily to her, and soon we were roaring together like friends of old acquaintance.

After she recovered from jet lag, she went around the parish, talking with different people, visiting the sick, reconnecting with friends. On Saturday evening, we had a High Tea in her honor that the Quilting Ladies prepared with great aplomb. Giving heartfelt presentations that night and during Sunday services, I felt that the sister parish relationship was a sure thing. She rested after the last service, and then wanted to go to the pub she'd known all her life.

It was a raucous Sunday afternoon in the pub on another rainy day. I sat at the bar with Bert Button and Harry Hazelton wearing my dog collar, working my way through my second pint. They were absorbed in the football game on the big screen, Arsenal against Manchester United. Arsenal was doing well, and they cheered every little advantage. The Quilting Ladies were sitting at a table across the bar with. Brenda. By the hilarity crossing the room, I could tell they were having a wonderful time, although Brenda occasionally shot me a quizzical look. Her suntanned face and light brown hair made an interesting contrast to her dog collar.

At the interval, Arsenal was up two-nil, and the men bought me another pint. I started to protest that I reached my limit, but Harry slapped me on the back. "Nonsense, mate. Bert and I owe you big time, and we want to show our appreciation, Vic."

Bert raised his pint in a toast. "Here's to the Vicar, who keeps our wives so busy, that they never have time to spend a home bothering us."

"Here, here," Harry said, and both downed their pints at once.

My knees began to shake because I knew part of what was taking them away from home. The men continued their good spirits and ordered another pint, and I took a big gulp from mine. "Vic, you've done a lot to bring God's peace to my home," Harry said. "When Mavis is around the house a lot, she drives me batty; I never get a chance to rest and watch the telly in peace. I've worked hard all my life, given her six fine daughters, and I deserve to be left alone. The past few weeks have been a godsend, and it's thanks to you keeping her busy with the Lord's work that I'm a happy man."

"Sheila's been nagging me to try the Viagra, or Propecia or Levitra, I can't keep those drugs straight, so we can be like teenagers again. I don't want to be a teenager again, I says, can't you make your own self happy, wink, wink. . ."

"Oh, Mavis got me to take the Viagra once: a nightmare it was. Like trying to ride a bicycle through Chunnel, so big she is down there now. And my cock wouldn't go down after four hours, and we had to go to hospital and let the air out of it."

Bert said. "Aye, tis a sad story, when a wife can't leave her husband in peace, and demand he do such radial things like take the Viagra to satisfy her unnatural lusts. My Sheila has been too much to handle since she retired and the kids moved away. Randy little vixen, couldn't keep her off me. But then she started the quilting and thanks to you, Vicar, she's out of the house all day doing God's work and so tired when she comes home that she passes out before I can wish her a good night." He took a sip of his pint. "So, whatever you've got Sheila, Mavis and their friend Mary doing to keep them happy and out of our hair, Vicar, you keep doing it with our blessing." He and Harry gave me a broad wink and laughed. 

"And I hope they don't wear you out," Harry added, and they laughed uproariously again while slapping me in the back. Suddenly, I wanted a neat whisky.

The Thursday before, Sheila brought over poached salmon and pommes frites for dinner. Her cooking was always the best in the parish. Afterward, we made love rather conventionally, starting with fondling and necking, having sex in changing positions, coming to rafter shaking orgasms. As we lay together, Sheila looked at me rather sadly. "It's a shame you don't have a young woman your own age to screw."

"Well, I rather committed myself to a different life when I took the dog collar."

"Yes, but it's sad that you have to fuck wrinkled old hags like me rather than someone young and beautiful."

"Nonsense, Sheila. You're all a man could hope for in a bed partner. The wrinkles and the silver hair just add voltage; you've kept your body up well and you're as nimble and lithe as a woman a third of your age. The experience and passion you bring couldn't be replicated in a younger woman. I wouldn't trade a woman like you for a teenager any day."

She smiled, and a tear ran down her cheek. "You're sweet, Vicar, and you make me feel like a woman. The Quilting Ladies are blessed to have you with us, and the parish is, too."

Back in the present, some older Choir boys invited me to a game of darts around the corner, and I gladly excused myself to join them The game lasted through the second half of the match, which I followed easily without having to see the telly. At the final whistle, my flock paired off and slipped through the door; Brenda wandered over to catch the last dart game. Mary's grandson Derrick beat me handily, and I turned to my sister in the vineyard: "Ready for the Vicarage, Bren?"

She nodded. "It's been a wonderful afternoon, Alfred, but I'd like to go off the clock."

We walked back to the vicarage through the rain. I offered Brenda my umbrella, but she refused it. "Alice Springs get so little rain, and I miss it. If I could get away with it, I'd strip myself naked and roll in the mud, I miss it so much."

"Well, at least don't do it in broad daylight. Maybe after dark in the park where there aren't any streetlights."

She smiled and punched me in the arm. "Kidding, Alfie, kidding. You're too serious, always have been." We wobbled down the sidewalk together, arm in arm for balance, thanks to the effects of England's finest bitter. Moderately damp, we arrived at the porch, and I fumbled with the key to open the door, getting in eventually. We made our way to my sitting room on the second floor, leaving our soaked coats at the front door. A stew was bubbling in the oven, and rolls in the warmer on top.

Going to the liquor cabinet, I opened it and brought out a bottle. "I know that we've been drinking most of the afternoon, but would you care for some fine Scotch?"

"Oh yes, please," she nodded. "I haven't gotten really good and pissed for a long time now." I poured and gave her a glass, then poured one for myself.

"That's part of the burden of the old vocation, isn't it? You've always got to be in control around the parishioners, don't you?"

Brenda gave me a funny look. "Yes, of course. You do have to stay in control around your parishioners. Most of them, at least." 

I put on some Vaughn Williams that I knew she liked. For three years already, Brenda and I had been pen pals: Janet had just left me here alone, and Brenda had just arrived in Alice Springs to work with the Aborigines. We wrote a lot about being strangers in a strange land, and having to serve the People of God as lone wolves. Her parents had passed away in the past three years since, and a few parishioners, like the Quilting Ladies, remembered her well. When the Mission Society asked about partnering with a parish abroad last month, we needed to look no farther than Alice Springs and Brenda. The Mission appeal had gone well so far, and it seemed like the parishioners were ready for a sister relationship with her parish.

The crack about being in control around most of my parishioners got me; surely the ladies hadn't been talking about the special pastoral care they gave me on a regular basis, but I resolved not to let her draw me out. I still had to wonder if this was some kind of set up: Bren had stayed with me all week without any hint of impropriety, and I'd been the perfect gentleman. Of course, this was the first respite we had for a week.

We chatted about church politics while the G Minor Mass for Double Choir wafted from the speakers, and the tribulations of life in ministry. I couldn't help noticing that when she loosened her collar, she unbuttoned a couple more buttons that necessary, revealing an expanse of tanned skin beneath her cross. After a refill of her glass, she broached a topic on her mind: "You know, this has been a wonderful visit home, and you've been the perfect host. Is there anything I can do to say thanks?"

"Not necessary. I'm sure that when I come to Alice Springs next year, you'll repay the hospitality. I'm anxious to see what the Todd River Regatta is all about." "Oh, that's a big lark, that is. You've made me feel so comfortable here, I feel as though I can trust you with anything." I raised my glass and toasted her in reply. "I'm glad my old friends have you as their Vicar: you've done well by them and you have my gratitude."

"You've done an excellent week's preaching here, Bren. The parish was proud of you before, and they're light years more proud after hearing about your work with the Aborigines. Personally, I'm glad we could take our friendship beyond e-mail pals."

"I feel the same way." She took a sip of her Scotch. "Can we talk about an issue that's been bothering me for a long time?"

"Sure, Bren. This is just about the right level of drunk to talk about theology. What's on your mind?"

She shifted on her seat, allowing the curve of her breast to show. "Alfie, what do you think about the Lot story?"

"What part of the story are you interested in?"

"The part in the city of Sodom, where he was trying to dissuade the crowd who wanted to rape the angels who were staying with him. What was the crime for which they were blinded?"

I fought my haze to remember the story. "Let's see, Lot had welcomed three angels, unaware, into the city of Sodom, and a mod had come to the doors demanding he bring them out for their pleasure. They would not accept Lot's virgin daughters in their place, and in response the angels blinded them and decreed the cities destruction the next day. The tradition of hospitality ran deep in that culture. A host protected his guest against all harm, even at the sacrifice of his property, and the crowd asked for too much. Letting them deflower his daughters would render them useless for an arranged marriage, so this was a sign of Lot's commitment to his guests. The Sodomites were punished for trying to violate the hospitality obligations."

"That's how I've usually looked at it. What about Leviticus' condemnation of men sleeping with men?"

"Israel was to go forth and multiply; anything that sidetracked them from that was forbidden. The were forbidden every kind of sex except vagina penetration, so they could increase the tribe. Onan's sin was not making a son with his brother's wife as the Law ordained, not the act of coitus interruptus or spilling his seed on the ground."




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 02



"Paul condemns homosexual practice pretty clearly."

"Yes, he does. In the context of his time, the prominent people who practiced homosexuality and pederasty were the idle rich. It was considered a pretty selfish orientation, which gave the larger community no benefit; it was associated with ecstacy cults as well. Temple prostitution of both genders had gone on for centuries, and abstaining from that was as important for early Christians as abstaining from meat offered to idols.""

"This is what I love about American clergy: they have such a wonderful background in Scripture without being literalists. Thanks, Alfie, I'd been wondering about these points for a long time."

The look of relief on her face was palpable. I returned it quizzically: "How come you wanted to talk about prohibitions of sodomy, Bren? Are there many gays in the desert beside Priscilla and companions?"

She unbuttoned a couple more buttons on her clergy shirt, and leaned back. "It's tough being a woman in Alice Springs with a dog collar. I have to be so careful, because if it seems as though if I'd try to seduce someone, I'm betraying my calling."

"I know what you mean."

"And if I do go out with someone, I feel as though I have to follow the strict party line, so to speak. My libido may be urging me to submit to the whims of a gorgeous young stud, but I won't be the same person in the pulpit for that man and everyone he knows if I do. I'd lost two parishes before I realized that being seen as a woman searching for a man weakened my role as Vicar, and it's one of the main reasons I ended up in Alice Springs. And if I want to do something that isn't considered legit. . ."

The truth hit me. "You like being sodomized."

She nodded her head. "Yes, I like being sodomized immensely. I like everything else about sex, too, but there's nothing like having your bum probed by a sweet throbbing cock. There was a boyfriend when I was in college who put me on to it, but I haven't had any steady relationships since then. Alice Springs is such a small town there's no privacy. I have improvise sex toys, but it's not the same as a man, and I have to be careful and hide my misused produce from my housekeeper."

Another slug of Scotch helped me keep my equilibrium. Bren was looking at me with expectant eyes, and unbuttoned another button on her shirt. Her breasts were firm and full, from what I could see, and her hips were full, round and ripe. Alcohol hadn't dulled my responses too much, and it gave me the courage to say, "Are you saying you're lonely, Bren, and you want someone to hold you that you don't have to worry about?"

She paused a few moments, obviously debating with herself about something. Then she quickly got up out of her chair, came over and kissed me deeply and hard on the lips. The window faced a brick wall, so I wasn't worried about onlookers. Her shirt came off, and I fondled her tits through their bra. She unzipped my fly, and was massaging my manhood into life, getting more and more excited as she discovered that it was the biggest she'd found yet. "Oh Alfie, I know I can trust you, and you know you can trust me. Make me feel like a woman again, please."

Undoing her bra released a pair of 38 C cups that nestled into my hands happily. She pulled off my clergy shirt and undershirt, running her hands over my hard body, and diving down to push my trousers to the floor. Loosening my boxers, she unleashed my nine and a half inch dick, which she stroked and fondled gently. I kneaded her buttocks, which brought purring, especially as I probed the vertical smile for soft spots. I whispered in her ear: "Lubrication. We'll need lubrication."

She whispered back, "Butter. It's organic, melts well, and the initial chill is quite thrilling. You've got some in the kitchen, don't you?"

"This is England, of course there's butter in the pantry. Give me a tick and meet me in my room." I jogged downstairs to get a stick out of the pantry, and I took the steps two at a time returning. Bren had laid herself on my bed nude with a dog collar around her throat, the room lit by a single, white candle, and I returned to put my dog collar on before I got in beside her Resuming our make out session was delightful, she was so soft and fresh, and her pelvis ground into mine urgently. I paid attention to her tits, licked and stroking them, before moving down to her clitoris. Women take a long time to get going, and I wanted her smoking before I invaded her ass. 

To that end, I wandered down her lovely knockers and tickled her belly button with my tongue before going down to swirl her clitoris. She moved around and took my stallion in her mouth, running the tip of her tongue around the rim of my corona, driving me wild. For several long, wonderful minutes we lay together in sixty-nine, but I kept enough presence of mind to pull the butter off the end table and out of its wrapper. I pressed the cool chunks of slick dairy against her rosebud, and she moaned as each one was gently pushed through and worked into her tight pucker. The entire stick went in that way, and I inserted one and then two fingers to massage the muscles to relaxation. On the third finger's entry, Bren went into a serenade of bliss as she found the mountaintop of her first orgasm. My cock fell out of her mouth, and I stopped licked and sucking her clitoris but kept the three fingers working inside her.

"My God, Alfie, you're so good. It's been too long, love, too long. I have to stop sucking you so you can buttfuck me. Let me catch my breath and we'll get this wonderful Willie into forbidden territory."

She caught her breath quickly, and came up on all fours while I continued to work her asshole. I got up off the bed and aligned myself for entry, and she wiggled her backside in anticipation. I took my fingers out and arranged the angle, pressing the head of my dick against her buttered backside. "Bren, it's all ready. You push back at your own pace, and when it's all the way in, we'll see where the spirit takes us."

"Yes, Alfie, yes. Oh, I can't wait." She pushed her pucker backward, where it took several tries before the end of my prick penetrated the tight circle. The feeling was astounding, the muscles gripping my cockhead like a vise. She bit her lip and moved back a little more. "You're so big, Alfie, I can't believe it. My old boyfriend was only half your size. I think I can take it, I want to take it all so badly. Let me work a little bit, love." Bit by bit, her willing backside pushed and pushed to take me in; after the first four inches she had to stop and relax some more. 'Oh my God, this is so great, I can hardly stand it. By a love and throw me my purse, it's just by my knee on the floor." I reached down and handed it to her, still partially impaled in her rectum. Pulling it around in front of her, she dug inside for a moment and pulled out a yellow object. "Let's go again."

I shoved forward slowly and cautiously, after all, I'd never sodomized anyone before in my life. Her head moved up and down, touching the bed a couple of times as I forced into her, and I gave her another break with an couple of inches to go. She moved the yellow object down to her dripping vagina and started to rub it on her slit. With a lunge, I went up to my balls and she moaned loudly: "Yes, yes, yes, Alfie, you're all in. It's so wonderful I can't believe it. Start pumping me slowly, and so we'll have enough speed that you can fill by bum with your hot spunk, love."

"Where did you get that ear of corn?" I'd finally recognized the object in her hand.

"At the pub. It wasn't on the menu, but they had some in the back room, and I persuaded them to cook it for me. Said I ate it fresh at Alice Springs all the time and missed it."

"You must be very lonely there."

"Yes, Alfie, yes. We get fresh produce shipped in all the time, and the sensation from all those little kernels are fantastic. I have to improvise all my sex toys, cucumbers, zucchini, carrots, bananas. The corn was a lark one night, and the kernels drive me wild as they plunge in and out." She started to work the Native American staple into her cunt as I began slowly pumping her ass. "This is a dream come true, Alfie, fucking an ear of corn while getting pounded by a big dick up my ass. Get the lad going, love."

It took no further encouragement for me to start the tidal action going. We started pumping slowly, while she worked the fresh vegetable into her canal, but soon we were bucking enthusiastically while she frantically screwed herself organically. I could feel the kernels savaging her cunt through her intestine: it added to the stimulation of her butter slickened crevasse, and soon I was delivering my hot load into her bowels while the cob was bringing her to mountaintop number two.

We disengaged and fell on the bed panting heavily in each other's arms. Her eyes glowed in the dim candlelight. "Ah, Alfred, didn't know you had it in you until today. Mrs. Sterns took me aside to tell me about the Quilting Ladies and how they're taking care of you; she thought I needed some similar care and you'd be happy to give me one. Now, don't look that way: they aren't telling just anyone about how they're keeping your axle greased, and I haven't heard anything about it from anyone outside the sewing circle. Your secret is safe, and knowing the parish, it'll stay that way." She chuckled briefly. "The way things are in the dear C. of E., nobody's going to care if a straight vicar screwing a bunch of old ladies, you're completely dull in that regard."

I took a deep breath, and collected myself. "So it's not like you have any feelings for me, is it?" A firm kiss on the lips with a darting tongue was the response to that. "I've loved you since we first started sending e-mails. I know that we're both committed to our ministries first, and we're happy with that. Neither one of us will probably get another chance at marriage with a healthy person, sometimes I think the Romans have right by making everyone do without. But I love you, and if we can only get together now and then, that's good enough for me." Her eyes shone in the dim light, and I knew she was sincere.

"We'll take turns going back and forth since our parishes are connected. I'll go to Australia next year and you can come back the year after. It'll keep our sister parish relationship going, among other things, and we can pick up the rest as we can."

"Speaking of other things, I need to clean up my toys before they get beyond repair." Taking the corn, she darted out of the room into the bathroom, where I heard the running water for several moments. Directly, she came back with a warm, damp, soapy washcloth and proceeded to cleanse my member of her grime. Her gentle touch and the soft cloth got me interested again, but when she took the cloth back my unit deflated.

We slept entwined, and at three-thirty in the morning we both awakened as if by cue by a gentle patter of rain on the window. She stroked my chest and nuzzled against my arm. "I miss hearing the rain while I'm sleeping. It's so lovely."

I stroked her hair. "I've got a crazy idea."

"What?"

"The garden's just been dug up, and the fence is high enough that no one can see over it. You said earlier you'd like to go roll naked in the rain, in the mud."

"No, really? You're crazy, Alfie."

"At this time of the morning, no one would see us. There's a huge tub just off the kitchen downstairs we could soak in after. We could fill it with hot water and have it waiting for us."

"You're a maniac, Alfie, a maniac. What a silly idea."

I started pushing the blanket off of us. "Well, I don't know about you, but it sounds good to me. Tomorrow's my day off, so I can sleep as much as I like. You don't go until Wednesday."

"You're daft, completely daft, and. . ."

"And what?"

"I'm amazed I didn't think of it first."

We danced down the stairs and she went out the door first while I filled the tub with water hot enough to peel paint. She was like a child, running around on the grass and skidding, her hair plastered on her head and shoulders, her breasts flopping independently in raucous mirth. I strode out into the downpour, letting the rain pelt me and savoring the feel of the wet grass and damp earth between my toes.Her arms caught me, and we whirled unsteadily until our lack of balance pitched us into the freshly dug earth of the garden. Rolling in the muck with glee, we wrestled playfully, caking our bodies and hair with mud, laughing like idiots. 

Our playfulness gave way to passion, and we were soon tongue kissing and groping one another's slick bodies. Finally, the chill of the water overcame us and we went inside to the bath. The water had cooled and was a prefect, comfortably toasty temperature and we washed each other tenderly, getting all the mud off each other's bodies and hair before savoring the hot water as she sat in front of me, resting her damp head back against my torso and grinding her inviting hips against me.

After drying each other off, we retreated to the warmth of our bed, and gently worked our passion back into urgency. I noticed she snuck a bottle of olive oil up from the pantry: "What's the oil for, love?"

"I'm going to use the corn again." She poured out a dollop and used it to cover the yellow kernels until the glistened, then worked some of the lubricant into her posterior. "Put the corn up my butt while you fuck me, love. Leave enough out so I can pump it."

It sounded odd, but that was the flavor of the evening. When she lay on her back and put her legs up over my shoulders, I worked the vegetable into the orifice that was its usual destiny with gentle determination. Once I had it inserted, I touched her cunt and found it was ready, so I thrust my passion inside her. Forty five blissful minutes we thrust with one another, while she pistoned the rough vegetable in her ass until we reached the mountaintops again. Afterward, we slept again until daylight found us.

Sheila came into the kitchen at ten to find us sitting dressed in ordinary clothes at the table and reading the morning papers with coffee. "Hello, Vic, hi, Brenda. Are you up for an omelet, tomato and fried slice for breakfast?"

"Yes, Mrs. Button, that sounds wonderful. Doesn't it, Reverend Alfred?"

"Yes, Reverend Brenda, I quite agree," I added without looking up from my paper. We continued reading in silence while she clattered around the kitchen, and before long, she presented us with two steaming plates. 

"Now you kids just have a lovely day, and don't worry about a thing. I know how you priests are when you get together, so don't mind me. Enjoy yourselves." She gave us broad wink and bustled out the door without her usual half hour's litany of daily events in the neighborhood or her usual recent offering of her flesh for my enjoyment.

Brenda looked over her paper. "What was that all about?" I looked back at her. "Well, I guess when some of our brethren got together in the past, they–kept vigil as we did last night. Knowing Sheila, she probably knew all about their gambols, and kept track of who was sleeping with whom. We're just another statistic."

"She knows?" Brenda's face looked frightened. "She figured it out that easily? My God, she's the biggest gossip in the county."

"Don't worry about it. She's one of the Quilting Ladies." I took another sip from my cup. "I have ways of keeping her quiet."

"I'm sure you do." Brenda smiled, as she started eating her breakfast. "I think I've seen one." Then she put her free hand on my knee under the table and gave it a squeeze. The rest of our day was bliss, and she gave me a long, deep kiss at the airport when she left on Wednesday. As we parted, I whispered in her ear, "Next year in Alice Springs." 



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 03



The third of three episodes a new series about Fr. Alfred, Vicar of St. Dunstan's. Categorizing these episodes is tough, since there isn't a "Dramedy" category on this site. Suggestions for future episodes are welcome, if you'd like to see more of Fr. Alfred and his flock.

The Bishop's Daughter

WEDNESDAY

Mary was the only one in the Quilting Room after I finished my tri-weekly run. Making sure the door was closed first, I came over to caress her from behind, give her a big kiss on the cheek and fondle her teardrop breast. She snuggled back against me as she paused her stitching. "Great to see ya, Vic. How's the lad?"

"Just fine Mary, just fine. How's with yourself."

"Grand, Vic, grand. Got to finish this one up before we go on holiday."

"Where are you off to this time?"

"Sheila and I are going cycling in Wales. Never been before, should be a laugh. Shame you can't come with us."

"I'm sorry about that as well. Have to save up my time off so I can have a proper visit to Australia next year."

Mary nodded her head. "Oh yes, our sister parish that our Brenda is taking care of. Did you have a good time with her while she was in town last month?"

I smiled to myself. "Yes, Mary, we had a wonderful time."

"That's grand, Vic, just grand. Give her our best the next time you e-mail her."

"Absolutely. Say, are you two going to Wales alone?"

"No, Vicar, our granddaughters are going with us. Her Jenny and my Agnes have been looking forward to this outing for months, ever since their eighteenth birthdays. It'll be a lark, that's for certain."

"You'll be a dangerous quartet, that's for certain."

She smiled broadly and kept at her work, as I inspected the newest quilt. It was a field of stars with the Star of Bethlehem in the center, with the outline of the village at the bottom and looked lovely. The sun was shining through the basement window for once: the light made Mary's red head of hair seem on fire. I noticed she had a lot to do, so I patted her shoulder as I made my way to the door.

"When does Mavis get back?"

Mary thought for a moment. "It's two weeks at least, Vicar, although I think it's more like a month. You know Mavis around a new grandchild; she can hardly tear herself away.'

"I'll send her a card."

"Do, Vic, she'd love it. Are you going to be all right without us?" she asked.

"I think so, Mary. Surely the girls here will take good care of everything. I'll miss you and Sheila. Celibacy won't be as easy since the Quilting ladies got involved with me. . ."

"Thanks, luv. Oh, did I hear that the Bishop was dropping by to see you?"

"Yes, His excellency Bishop Horace Delacroix is going to be here on Friday morning with his daughter Violette. There's staying until Tuesday morning. He wants to see how I'm doing, look over the records, visit with parishioners, and so forth. I'll be busy almost until the time you get back."

"Do you want some help with the lad before we go? It'll be a long, busy week without a chance to relax and be comfortable. Be happy to pop by after the quilt is done." She licked her lips suggestively.

"Now that you mention it. . ."

"Done, then. I'll miss your friendly John Thomas and your lovely spunk while I'm away. Later, Vic." She returned to her work, and I had to wait several moments before going over to the Vicarage in broad daylight.

THURSDAY

I had a quiet morning making sure everything was ready for the Bishop's visit. Mrs. Longeran was helping me get the house organized in the absence of the Quilting Ladies, but her efforts were problematic since she didn't know where everything was. Niall Jones the music director dropped by to discuss the services: everything was ready there and I knew they would be flawless. A quick look at the church verified that my Quilting ladies had worked their usual magic with color and flowers, and they'd left instructions for their daughters for what changes to make for the different services. The liquor cabinet was re-stocked by Bert Button: he'd found some fine French Brandy as well as a stock of excellent table wine. Looking over the bottles, he said: "I've got some first class Scotch as well, Vicar, I'll send Hugo round to drop it off. You'll need some Gin and Tonic for the little lady; Hugo will bring that by as well."

"How much do I owe you for this, Bert?"

Bert gave me a knowing wink. "My contribution to the parish, Vicar, in gratitude for services rendered." He laughed at my discomfort and slapped me on the back. 'You're all right in my book, Vic, you're all right. If ever you need a favor, just say the word."

"Th–thanks Bert. I'll remember that."

"Do, lad. I owe you for keeping my home peaceful," he said as he bolted out the door. Most men would have been much less than peaceful if he suspected what his Sheila was doing for me; Bert was just glad to have her out of his way.

Later that day, I had a chance to visit with my neighbor, the Reverend Arthur Farnsworth, Vicar of St. Edward the Confessor. He admitted me into his Vicarage with a bear hug and showed me to his sitting room. Artie was a swell guy and good company, and he'd known Bishop Delacroix for years. After settling me with a glass of Scotch, he sank into his overstuffed chair and asked: "Well, Alfie, what brings you by? Sweet Niall tells me that all is going swimmingly at St. Dunstan's, but you're having a special guest for the weekend."

I nodded as I sipped my drink. "Yes, Artie, the bishop's coming by for a visit."

"Ah well, Alfie, that's a particular little bit of trouble for you, then."

"How so?"

"Horace's as nice a little old lady as you'd want to meet, easy to please if you've got good French brandy, croissants, a gay bar, and a nice French bistro to visit. Francophile if there ever was one. Family's rich, from his wife, of course, so they can indulge their whims out of their own pocket. The problem is that daughter Violette is a mantrap, and has her daddy's ear."

"Oh, how do you know?"

"One hears the whispers. She's now thirty and has already been married three times, all to Anglican priests. While they had her favor, daddy lifted them high, then, when she was done with them. . . Well, when she dumped the first three, they all were sent to the missions: one to Zimbabwe, one to Uganda, and one to the Falklands. Word has it she's looking for number four."

"Saints preserve us," I said, crossing myself

"Saints preserve you. She keeps saying she wants a man who'll keep her in line, but she's terrorized every straight priest in the diocese, and is as single minded as a buzzsaw."

"So you're immune?"

"Yes, she's a laugh if you're not on her hit list. She loves hanging out with gays, particularly at the clubs where the drag shows are."

"Does she have anything to recommend her?"

"Nothing. You'll find out for yourself when you meet her tomorrow. Try to stay off her radar."

"I'll try. Is there anything she likes I can buy her off with?"

"Sex and lots of it. Once you sleep with her, she thinks she owns you. Otherwise, you'll have to pretend you're queer, but that will put you on the Bishop's radar another way. . .

I took a big gulp of my Scotch. 

FRIDAY

The bishop's car arrived at ten o-clock; a black Peugot pulled up to the curb and deposited father and daughter. Bishop Delacroix was a short, portly man with a red face, huge nose and straggly, white hair that he wore combed over. Violette Delacroix wore a teal Laurent original with a V neck and slit skirt over black, four inch heels. A tall extremely thin woman, her mousy hair was swept up in an elegant coif, and her pale skin was almost ivory. Her face was heavily pancaked, rouged, and lined; her mauve eye shadow clashed with her dark eyebrows and green eyes. Her chin was weak, her front teeth were exposed, and her eyes bugged out; the entire effect was the opposite of allure. When she spoke, her tone was grating and her attitude arrogant. She tried to imitate a runway model as she walked up the sidewalk and up to the door, but tottered more than glided and almost fell a couple of times.

I showed them to their rooms: a bishop's suite was built into the house a hundred years earlier and his Violette had an adjoining room. My quarters were down the hallway on the other side of two other guest suites, and I thought the creaky old floor would be my help, as well as a lock on my door.

The first day the Bishop visited the choir school, toured the church and the neighborhood, then stopped at the Sailor's Home down the street. He was the soul of the avuncular pastor, reaching out with a kind gesture or word to all he met. Violette trailed him dutifully, keeping her eyes in my direction for most of the day. I avoided her glance religiously.

High Tea was a grand gathering of all the Vestry, the Mayor, and other prominent parishioners and local luminaries. The local pub catered the meal, and Mrs. Longeran acquitted herself admirably in the organization of the event; I could not help imagining of how it would have went if my Quilting Ladies had been there. They seated me between the Bishop and the Bishop's daughter.

Halfway through the meal, I felt a prodding of my left calf. A quick check told me that it was Violette's toe that was questing rather than her father's. I shifted my weight and moved my leg, but the assault returned periodically. Eventually, it progressed to a brush of the hand against my thigh, higher and higher; it must have been at this time she must have inspected the cut of my trousers, for my next eye contact featured a broad, buck toothed grin and hungry eyes.

Bishop Delacroix was a genial presence on the podium, but didn't know when to stop talking, and when he finished, I had to rush the rest of the program before the audience faded into oblivion. My people were kind and attentive, once they were liberated from the dull program, and the Bishop enjoyed visiting the Vestry members present. Afterward, he whispered that he wanted to see me in his suite for a drink afterward.

I brought the French brandy and Scotch with me, as well as a couple of glasses. In contrast to his formal talk to the Vestry, in person he was charming, witting, and warm as a drinking partner. He wasn't interested in business that evening, so I listened as he told his war stories of fifty years of ministry, every one amusing. It became clear that he was genuinely concerned for the priests in his diocese, regardless of orientation, and he never foisted his affections on anyone.

As he wound down, he leaned over conspiratorially and whispered in my ear: "My Violette has taken a shining to you, lad. She's a wonderful girl and would make any priest an ideal wife."

Gulping, I said: "I'm flattered, You Lordship, but I don't feel as though I'm ready for a mate at this time in my life. I'm so devoted to my people. . ."

"And it shows, lad, it shows, and we're grateful to you. You're doing a wonderful job here, and your people love you. But you may be underestimating your need for a helpmate, and my Violette needs a man to take care of her. I know she's not Angelina Jolie, but if you take a liking to her and treat her well, you'll get my undying gratitude," he said with a wink. "Good night to you, lad, we have a long day tomorrow."

I staggered down the hallway; the bishop was a hard drinker and I futilely tried to keep up with him. A note was thrown under my door:

Freddie,

I want that glorious huge cock of yours, every lovely inch of it. I want you to push your prodigious pud up my pee hole and my poop chute. Tonight's the night.

V. D.

I hated being called Freddie; I'd always wished my parents had named me Albert instead of Alfred when I was young. My hands trembled as I remembered what Artie said the day before: "You'd have a better time sticking your John Thomas in a blender and then a belt sander than making love with Violette."

"Who said that?"

"Percy Smithers. You know him: he went to Darwin after the divorce last year."

A thought crossed my intoxicated reasoning: a locked door was no guarantee against a desperate woman like that. Three quarters of a bottle of Scotch remained, so I drank it all before retiring, falling into such a profound state of unconsciousness, I was lucky to hit my pillow on the way down. It proved to be good insurance: in the wee hours a thin, bony, cold hand fumbled its way into my briefs for attention, but my dissipation foiled her attempts to arouse me and she gave up after a while.

SATURDAY

My eyes were tiny, red rimmed slits in the mirror that morning, and my bare footsteps on the carpeted floor far too loud. I managed to shower and stagger down to breakfast to meet the Bishop and Violette, where I nibbled feebly on a piece of toast and sipped a massive mug of coffee. The Bishop slapped me on the shoulder, bringing awful pain from both the touch and the sound of his voice. He bellowed: "I think the youth of today are soft. Look at me: I drank more than you did and I'm fit as a fiddle."

"Daddy, I wish you hadn't monopolized him so last night. I wanted to have a quiet word with the Vicar on my own." Her whine was a laser slicing through my eardrums without anesthetic.

"Perhaps after dinner tonight at the Café Ypres. I'll be more considerate and leave you two young people a chance to spend some time together." I moaned, the agony was becoming critical.

The morning was spent going over the parish records with the Bishop: dull statistics and no clear pattern emerging, but some little indications of growth. After three pots of coffee, some water and aspirin I was feeling almost human, and able to join them for lunch. It was a sunny day, and the grass was exceptionally green in the sunlight, and Violette looked out the window with interest. When the Bishop retired to the W. C., she blurted out: "Is that fence high enough for people to see over it?"

I winced as her voice severed another set of nerves and drove daggers into my brain. "No, it isn't. I've been in all of the overlooking houses at one time or another, and no one can see into that back yard."

"It's a sunny day. I think I'd like to go sunbathing."

"Please be careful. Your father's windows and the windows to my study overlook the yard."

"Really?" she beamed. Bishop Delacroix returned at that moment and stretched. 

"An excellent morning, Father Alfred. All's well with the world, and since I'm not preaching tomorrow, I think I'll spent the afternoon sleeping in my quarters. What time is our dinner reservation?"

"Eight O'Clock, Your Lordship."

"Excellent. Do you kids have plans for the afternoon?"

"I need to write my sermon for tomorrow. Lots of pressure to be brilliant with the important guests present." Violette simpered, the sarcasm lost on her.

"Stout lad, stout lad. All right, work on your eloquence, and Violette, save your feminine wiles for the evening. A bientôt." With that he lumbered up the stair to his rooms. 

I excused myself from Violette's company and she agreed easily. A bottle of water and more aspirin accompanied me as I went down the hallway. My stomach turned as I entered my study and locked the door behind me. There was another note.

Freddie,

Take a peek out your window at what you may see,

for a tempting young nymph sunning herself will be.

V. D.

The sermon was slow going, and after about thirty minutes I noticed that someone was in the garden. Violette had reclined on a chaise lounge wearing naught but a pair of sunglasses. Her body would have trouble getting wet in the shower, her skin was pasty white, and her nipples were bare suggestions of bee stings on a perfectly flat chest. The wisp of pubic hair only accentuated her thinness and paleness. "She's showing off," I said to no one in particular, "she thinks that seeing her naked body will inflame me to passion." I chuckled at her arrogance and returned to my work. After a long interval, I noticed she had flipped over: her backside was no more appealing than her front. Her legs were spindly, her hips small and flat, and her back was covered by massive incursions of acne; her hair was a rat's nest. By the movement of her legs, I could tell she was posing, trying to tease me.

My hangover cleared, and a quiet tea did much to restore my spirits. Violette came in after three hours outside, crying, and slammed all the doors as she went up to her room. I met the Bishop at the bottom of the stairs around 7:30PM, where he looked rested and refreshed. He shook my hand and clapped me on the back.

"Well, my boy, it's just the two of us this evening. My dear little flower spent too much time in the sun this afternoon, and won't be presentable until tomorrow. Her room smells like a vinegar factory. She presents her apologies and looks forward to seeing you again tomorrow. Delicate skin she has, like mine and her mother's. I thought she'd learned. . ."

Our evening at the Café Ypres was convivial. I felt like I'd dodged another bullet.

SUNDAY

The Bishop was my guest for the Morning Prayer and Eucharist. My people filled the church for once, and Violette sat in the front row, demure and covering as much of her lightly reddened skin as she could. The sermon that I labored over with such difficulty was well accepted. Everything went smoothly, and a parish picnic at the City Park capped the official activities. Violette managed to sit next to me at the picnic table, and leaned to whisper in my ear: "I still want your body, I want it as soon as I can get it. Take charge of me and put me in my place, you magnificent stud." 

An impromptu football match started, fathers against sons, and the Bishop stood on the sidelines cheering lustily. The boys were short handed, so I volunteered to slip into the back line to help them out. My warped imagination tried to imagine making love to Violette's razor sharp body, and failed completely. She hovered in the shade, so I was able to keep my distance by staying in the sunlight.

After the match, someone suggested the local pub, and I gladly led those still remaining down the street in a spontaneous victory march, although I couldn't remember which side won. Once inside, I clapped the boys on the back and insisted on a game of darts. The Bishop joined us, and an idea for a spontaneous tournament was born. Violette had joined the ladies, but her eyes shot darts at me across the room.

A chance presented itself, and I was able to speak to the barman, Johnny Wickham, unnoticed. "Do you see that lady over there?"

He squinted. "The one who looks like a mop with bug eyes?"

"The one."

"Do you want me to turn her out?"

"No, no, Johnny. I want you to send her drinks and keep sending her drinks. Tell her they're from different men on the other side of the room. I want her passed out, if possible."

"You got it, Vicar." 

"It goes on my tab."

"Not a chance, Vic. Harry Hazelton's got you covered." I looked over to find him sitting in a corner, where he raised his glass to me with a broad smile. Another man who was happy his wife was busy tending the church for hours at a time. I returned the salute, and checked out how everything else was going.

The Bishop was getting along famously with Niall and some of the choir members in one corner of the pub. Violette took the bait, graciously nodded at the men who 'bought' her drinks and sipped them absent mindedly while the other women of the parish kept her talking about celebrity gossip. Most of the men were looking the other direction when she acknowledged them, and the one or two that did catch her beaming smile nodded nervously.

I relaxed a little and challenged Mary's grandson Derrick to a game of snooker. He was a kid almost my height and weight; a good natured lad whose innocence, geek- like intelligence, and facial ache kept him away from the girls. After he wiped the floor with me, I beckoned him out the door for a quick conversation.




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 03



"Are you having any luck at all with the girls, Derrick?"

"No, Father. They all stay away from me; they say I look like a monster. Me mum says I have qualities that would make any man proud and any woman grateful, but I can't see it."

"Are, are you still a virgin?"

He looked down ashamed. "Yes, Vicar."

"Would you like to become a man?"

"Yes, Vicar, but premarital sex is wrong."

"The Church has been known to give dispensations. If I gave you permission, this one time, would you be interested?"

"Yes, Father, yes. Tell me more." His face lit up and he started quivering.

"Come by the Rectory around seven tomorrow night; don't ring the doorbell, I'll be waiting for you. If you do what I say exactly and without question, you'll be a man when the evening's through."

"Grand, Vicar, grand. I'll be in your debt always."

Around nine, Violette tried to stand up and toppled into a deep snooze on the floor of the pub. Her father was over right away and turned to me for guidance. "We'll have a time keeping this one out of the papers. Just like last time."

I shook my head. "Ronnie who works for the local paper went home a half hour ago, so the press aren't here. If you give me a chance to have a quiet word with my people, we can keep this under wraps. Let me pick her up and we'll go home."

Violette was amazingly light for her height, and I put her over my shoulder in a fireman's carry.

Her father and I poured her into bed easily, and she responded to sharp slaps to her sunburned ass with muzzy indignation.

MONDAY

A note was slipped under my door in the morning light:

Freddie,

Tonight's the night, come Hell or high water, or get ready to leave for Nigeria.

V. D. 

I was ready. My reply was under her door within fifteen minutes, typed on a five by eight card..

V. D.

All right, tonight is the night, but you wanted me to be the man who takes charge of you and I will. You can talk the talk, but can you walk the walk? Follow these rules and you'll have the time of your life:

1.) You will be in my room at 8:00PM, wearing nothing but a silk robe. Your fingernails

and toenails must be red.

2.) You will wear a blindfold the entire time, but will not be gagged.

3.) I reserve the right to bind you in any position I see fit.

4.) I reserve the right to make more rules as the evening progresses, and notify you of them as I choose.

5.) I reserve the right to punish you in any way I see fit if you displease me.

D.S.

The morning saw the Bishop and I visited the nursing homes of the area, returning to the Vicarage for lunch. Violette breathed in my ear as she sat next to me.

"Yes, yes, yes, better than I hoped for. I accept your conditions."

"Completely and unconditionally?"

"Yes"

"Good. See you then."

"By the way, what does D.S. mean?"

"Determined Suitor." She smirked in reply.

The Bishop took another afternoon nap, as did his daughter in anticipation. I attended to some errands to collect some items, calling on Bert and Derrick, and spent the afternoon in my study making flash cards.

At Tea, the Bishop said, "I hope you kids are going to be all right without me this evening. I'm going out with Niall and some of the boys, and we won't be back until the wee hours."

"If you're sure we've got our work all done, your Lordship?"

"Oh yes, we're done for all intents and purposes. We'll have a chat tomorrow morning before my driver gets here. You kids have a splendid evening, and don't wait up for me."

He went up to change, and came back down wearing a leather jacket, a purple silk shirt and jeans. I didn't want to know where he was going. Violette tried to embrace me as he walked out the door, but I stopped her. "Follow the rules, follow the rules, wait for it. It won't be amazing if you don't follow the rules. You've got a while; take a long, hot bath to get ready."

She looked at me with her big goofy eyes and said, "All right. But it'll be a cool one, my skin still stings a bit." I was happy about that. She was still in the tub when Derrick arrived, and I ushered him into my bedroom to give him last minute instructions. 

"There's only one negative, but don't be too upset by it. Your lover will be blindfolded and it's vitally important that the only voice she hears is mine. I know you won't say anything of your own free will, but in the heat of the moment you may weaken. So put this ball gag in your mouth and everything will be fine."

"But what if I need to ask something?"

"Remember the signals and look for the cards. I've got your back, so to speak. Follow directions and be ready in the closet when you hear her come in."

Meanwhile, I bustled in a bottom drawer for a few items Mavis had me acquire for her. Laying them out on the bed, I put on my own bathrobe and met Violette in the sitting room promptly at 8:00. She wore a silk bathrobe and was clearly naked beneath, her nails done as directed. I bade her stop three feet away from me, and circled her verifying that all was well. "You will not speak until the blindfold goes on. Very good, very good. Go into the next room."

I'd thrown the coverlet off the bed, and there was a bulge in the sheer curtains that she didn't notice. "Stand in front of the Prie-dieu. Turn around. Very nice. Now, remove the robe."

She stood before me naked in the harsh, bright light, her skin a very significant red from her all over sunburn. Her nipples were starting to harden, and she trembled with anticipation. "Kneel on the Prie-dieu. Very good. You're going to handcuff yourself now." The prie-dieu was old fashioned: the kneeler was two feet behind the armrest, so as Violette knelt on it, she was perfectly positioned for penetration. I reached under the coverlet and produced a pair, which she docilely put on her own wrists, then looked up at me. "Now put on the blindfold on. Make sure you can't see anything, or this session ends now." She took the blindfold from me, and a band to wrap around that to ensure personal darkness. "You may speak now. Are you ready for what comes next?"

"Oh yes, baby, this is so kinky. I've dreamed of being handcuffed on my knees and savaged by a big, strong man. Give it to me, Freddy, give it to me."

Moving over, I opened the closet door and brought Derrick into the room. He'd obediently put the ball gag in his mouth, and was naked otherwise. His skin was splotchy and pimpled, but he sported a huge, thick twelve inch erection. This may work too well, I thought to myself.

I had Derrick slap her sunburned behind on both sides; she yelped in pain. "If you call me Freddie again, you will be punished," I said. "Understand?"

"Yes, Master."

"First, comes the tease." I signaled Derrick to run his fingertips lightly over her skin; she sighed and cooed at his touch. He moved in big slow circles, and responded immediately to my first set of flash cards: TWEAK NIPPLES. 

Moaning and sighing, were the response. "Oh Freddie, that's driving me wild. More, more."

I held up SLAP BUM, and he obliged with four stinging slaps, two to each side. 

"I told you that name would bring you punishment. If you don't apologize, I'll leave you alone until you do."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Father. I'll behave I promise. Touch me again, please, please."

Derrick resumed his tracery from the beginning, working her up again, and the next series said MILK NIPPLES, to which she responded to by mooing enthusiastically. Derrick's semi-hard member rubbed her buttocks as he did this, and she ground her hips back into him. PINCH NIPPLES brought slight convulsions and a long moan, which intensified as TWIST NIPPLES came up. I signaled him to stop and come over.

Next came huge feather duster, which Derrick traced up and down her body, to her verbal appreciation. "You're tickling me, oh stop it, stop it." Being thoroughly briefed, he didn't and it was several long moments before he gave her respite from that, while she laughed and giggled.. 

"Now a brief taste." COCK MOUTH came up, and Derrick quickly came around to put his penis in her face. She became aware of it and grabbed it, sticking it in her mouth and working fiendishly without preliminary. Derrick moaned in pain through the ball gag, and I said quickly, "Not so fast, or I'll come too soon. Slow down, slow down." She did and he relaxed. "Run your tongue over the corona, slowly, slowly, tease me like I teased you." Seeing that she was teachable, I pushed it farther. "Now, relax your throat and start taking it down. I want to feel those tonsils." Obediently, she worked more and more of his cock into her suck, having to pause for breath from time to time. For a moment, she seemed stuck at nine inches, but she took a deep breath, relaxed, and got him all the way in.

Derrick's face started to glow, and I could tell he wouldn't last much longer. "Keep this up and I'll come," I said, and sure enough, within a minute Derrick was filling Violette's mouth with his milky juice. She gagged and leaked a little around the sides, but gamely swallowed everything, using her finger to clean the overflow from her face. I motioned him back, and he almost fainted from joy. The tableau remained stationary for a few moments as I let them rest, before I moved to the second act of my humiliation drama.

"Are you ready for more, Violette?"

"Yes, Freddie, yes, Freddie. Give me that big dick up my cunt."

SLAP BUM resulted in several pops to each buttock; Violette howled in pain as they reawakened her self-inflicted solar punishment. "You were warned. I will make you wait for it, and I will make you suffer and beg for it. Be quiet, and if you're good, I'll let you have my magic pecker up your love canal."

She looked confused. "You're going to up your nose in my cunt?"

"Sorry, wrong country You'll get what was in your mouth where you want it."

"Hmm, yes. Soon, master, soon."

I handed Derrick a pair of Western spurs I kept as a memento of my childhood on the Great Plains. He started walking it over her back, bringing winces and gasps as the circle of sharp metal points pricked her reddened skin. He knelt on the floor and ran it around her front, circling in on her nipples. When he reached them, she groaned and said, "My God, Freddie, My God." Derrick needed no prompting to smack her ass several times in reply. While he did that, another inspiration hit me, and I reached into another dresser drawer.

Taking out a couple of mousetraps, I showed them to Derrick and showed him how I wanted them used. He rubbed one against her chest as I said, "You have been warned repeatedly about the name Freddie. Do you know what's rubbing against your chest?"

"No, Freddie."

A load crack resounded. "It's a mouse trap. Do you think it may catch something else besides a mouse?"

"I can't think of anything."

"I can." Derrick eased the trap open and teased her nub with it. After a moment, he let the trap close gently on her left nipple, clamping the bud tightly. Violette started breathing heavily and sweating. "We seem to have caught something with that mousetrap. How does that feel?"

She caught her breath heavily. "It's so tight, so tight. I can barely stand it, oh, oh ,oh."

"I have another trap. Shall we see what it may catch?"

She nodded, and Derrick opened the other trap and closed it on her right nipple. He stepped back and let her feel its steel grip on her sensitive flesh, made more tight by their exposure to the sun's rays two days before. She writhed and twisted in her confinement, kneeling at the prie-dieu, her hands handcuffed in front of her, her eyes still thoroughly blinded. We let her wiggle for two minutes, then I held up the card STROKE CLIT.

Violette responded immediately to Derrick's hand playing with her pussy lips and hood. The fluid started dripping heavily immediate on the newspaper I'd put down to protect the carpet. She moaned and groaned and writhed in pleasure, and I held up PINCH CLIT to see what it would bring. It brought bucking and screaming, but no demand to stop. FINGER CUNT almost sent her into orbit.

Finally, it was time for the culmination and the cards, FUCK HER appeared. Derrick slowly worked his twelve inches into her birth canal; she began screaming "Yes, yes, yes." I turned to my dresser to draw up another card for Derrick, as they began bucking in earnest. Violette stared screaming "Fuck me, Freddie, fuck me, Freddie" so loud that I thought she would wake the neighborhood, and Derrick responded by spanking her cheery red ass repeatedly as he plowed into her. 

My new sign: ON MY SIGNAL, PULL OFF TRAPS. It would be a challenge to find the right moment; she still bucked and fucked with gusto, taking her time to reach her orgasm. I signaled him right at the moment of climax, so that the pain of blood returning to her nipples would hit her at the simultaneously. Derrick kept pounding her and momentarily I could tell that he was filling her with his semen, blasting strongly. I let them buck and come to rest, before motioning Derrick to return to the closet.

I released Violette's handcuffs and led her into my sitting room, where I took off the blindfold and returned her robe to her. She threw her arms around me in a bear hug and kissed my cheek, sseking my lips. Dancing with excitement, she said, "Oh, you're the one, you're the one. I don't know when I had such a wonderful fucking." 

"Release me, you're still under my command." She did immediately, and knelt before me.

"Yes, Master."

Pointing to the door, I directed her: "Go to your room and go to sleep without washing. You may bathe in the morning, and I will see you before you go. Leave me." She winked and left my quarters soundlessly, forgetting her robe and walking naked through the hall.

When I returned to my bedroom, Derrick had already dressed and removed the gag. I collected the digital camera which contained some excellent stills I took of the session, while Derrick downloaded the output of Bert's digital video camera that was concealed in the window bay. We took them down to my study for processing. It took a while, because I had Derrick dub over my voice in the video, and as the scenes replayed for him, he was distracted. On finishing, I saved some choice clips in a folder on my desktop, and gave a flash drive full of the original data to Derrick. "You're still staying with your grandmum, aren't you?"

"Yes, Vicar."

"Put this on her dresser when you get home. If you want to copy it onto your own laptop, go ahead, but make sure it's on her dresser before you go to sleep. She'll take care of it."

"Yes, Vicar. And, and, and thanks. I'll never by able to repay you."

"Don't worry about it, Derrick. Happy to help a nice boy become a man."

TUESDAY

I'd done some running that morning to clear my head after a sleepless night. Dropping in on Niall and his partner, I heard the story about their night out on the town. Mrs. Longernan fixed my breakfast, and I was at work in my study by nine.

The bishop wandered down to my study around ten in the morning. He was due to leave after noon, and we chatted about light matters for several minutes. I was a bit anxious since I didn't know his response to Violette's indiscretions would be, but I was consoled by my 'insurance policy'.

"Well, my boy, my Violette has grown rather fond of you. What are you intentions toward her?"

"Bishop Delacroix, your daughter is a remarkable woman. She is delightful company and would make a fine wife for someone someday. As I said earlier, I'm not ready to marry right now, since I feel I have to dedicate all my time to my people here at St. Dunstan's. . ."

"I'd like my Violette to be happy. If you're not willing to help me with this, I do have a parish in Nigeria that could use a Vicar with your kind of commitment to his flock. . ."

"Bishop Delacroix, I'd like you to look at something first." I activated my desktop and showed him the clips I'd edited the night before. He looked at them with interest, with little comment. Then I showed him the still shots I'd taken, and he threw up his hands in surrender. "As you can see, Bishop Delacroix, I never touched your daughter, regardless what she thinks."

He looked thoughtful rather than angry, almost philosophical. "Congratulations Alfred, you've got me. I never saw you or the face of the young man you recruited to help you. He must be nineteen or twenty, too bad he's straight. I assume you've got copies with someone?"

"Yes, the chair of the Vestry has a copy, and will testify to the contents without hesitation."

Mary Sterns was always forward when on crusade as Chair of the Vestry.

"Bravo. Nice prie-dieu, by the way. Well, I'm glad my Violette had such a good time while she was here. I noticed that your young man didn't use protection."

"Damn. Sorry, Horace. Should have thought of that."

"No matter, no matter. A thirty year old, thrice divorced bishop's daughter bearing a child out of wedlock isn't going to raise any eyebrows these days. She may even grow some tits like her mother did when she was pregnant."

"At least, it's not the same kind of scandal as it would be if word got out that a clergyman spent an evening behind gloryhole, taking on all comers."

The bishop was taken aback in fear for a moment, then relaxed and smiled again. "My lad, we'll leave you here at St. Dunstan's, but I'm putting you on the Diocesan Planning Commission. We need your talents for the broader picture. And you need a pay rise, in recognition for your excellent work, as well as a stipend for being on the Commission. Anything else you'd like?"

"I can't think of anything. Please take a copy of these files; I feel Violette may need some convincing that it wasn't me that–gave her such–at good time last night." I handed him a CD I burned that morning of Violette's show.

"Understandable. I hope that she doesn't want to track the lad down."

"Shall we keep that secret for the boy's sake? He's only nineteen"

"Indeed, we shall."

WEDNESDAY

I walked over to the Quilting Room mid-morning to find Sheila and Mary starting a new project. They were dressed conservatively in blouses and slacks, but their shoes were off their feet as they worked as usual. Shutting the door, I moved over to give each of them an ardent kiss on the lips to welcome them back.

Sheila gasped and chuckled. "Seems like the lad has missed us, hasn't he?"

Mary wiped her mouth and smiled. "Guess so, Sheila. How did the Bishop's visit go, Vicar?"

"Well, Mary. I would say that I'm sorry you missed it, but the talk on Saturday night was lethal, and I wished I was with you in Wales. All's well in the end: the Bishop had a good time in the parish, as did his daughter. We are rewarded for our efforts and the future looks bright. How did the trip go?"

"It was grand. Got a flash drive with some pictures we can look at."

"How about after lunch? We could go down to the pub for a gala celebration of your return, then back to look at them in my study."

"Grand," Mary said.

"Excellent, Vicar," cooed Sheila as I ran my hand over her shoulders.

I did some more paperwork and got a call from the Bishop's office, confirming my appointment to the Diocesan Planning Commission. A handwritten card came in the morning mail from Violette:

Alfred,

Thanks for such a wonderful time. I'm still worn out from the other night, which I will never forget. The video will be the prize of my collection. Maybe I'll only do young boys from now on. Anyway, you're off my hit list; you can pimp for me anytime.

Violette

The luncheon was splendid, and deliciously lubricated by a pint. After coming back to the Vicarage, I pulled up their pictures of Wales from their flash drive.

"See here we are at the castle by the sea, I forget its name." Sheila said. "We got some sun while we were riding, what a joy that was. The next picture is on the road at the mountaintop, not far from there. We used the timer to get all of us in." It was a picture of all four women, minimally clad, taken against a spectacular view of the Wye valley.




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 03



"Do you ride topless often?" I asked.

Sheila continued. "Oh yes, the feel of the wind and the sun on the skin is so lovely. It made Mary and I feel as though we were teenagers again, and the youngsters rather enjoyed it as well. They'd never done anything like that before, and were stunned that we had."

"That's young people for you," Mary interjected, "Think they've invented everything."

"Anyway, several vehicles sounded their horns at us as we went by, and there was no end of friendly natives who treated us to food and drink when we stopped," Sheila burbled.

"I should think so." Jenny and Agnes were stunning young women, and the sight of their tender young breasts stirred my manhood. "You're going to show your whole family these pictures?"

The women laughed. "Course not, Vicar. We took these because we knew you'd like them; Jenny and Agnes are such show offs. After we download these to your hard drive, we'll erase them for the general public."

We finished the photos, and Sheila turned me in the chair to face them. "There's one other thing to show you from the trip, a souvenir, and it was the granddaughters' idea to do it one night in Cardiff."

"What?"

"This." They lifted their blouses and bras . 

"Your granddaughters talked you into getting your nipples pierced?" Sheila's nipples held a couple of plain gold bars, while Mary had a on couple of lovely silver rings with green stones that dangled from each on an inch long gold chain. "Didn't that hurt?"

"Only for an moment. It's made them ever so sensitive since," Sheila said.

"Yes, and the prices on the jewelry to put in them were so reasonable. Cheaper than earrings,." Mary chimed in.

I touched the bars on Sheila's nipples, and was rewarded with a long sigh. Mary thrust herself closer so I could play with her jewelry more easily. "What will your husband do when he finds out, Sheila?"

"He hasn't seen me without my bra for years, Vicar. He won't notice, and I can always blame it on Jenny if I have to."

Mary sat down on my lap, with her teardrop, bejeweled breasts in my face. "By the way, Vic, I need to talk with you about my Derrick."

"Mary, I'm sorry that I used him like that. I left you that flash drive as insurance against the Bishop moving me, since you're the Chair of the Vestry and I could trust you. I had to use all my skills to keep that predator out of my bed, and I thought it was time for Derrick to become a man."

"Good on ya, Vic. I'm glad you could help each other out. You know, my Derrick's asked her Jenny out Saturday night, and we've been trying to get those kids together for years. It's good to see him so confident. You're so good with the young people." She glanced through the door to the bedroom. "But we see that you haven't returned Bert's videocorder yet."

"Oh, that. I'll take it back now if you want."

"No, Vicar, that's not what we had in mind," Sheila said. "Maybe you'd like to do some movie making this afternoon, only with natural light, a mobile camera, and women who don't look like stick insects. It'd also give you a chance to play with the new jewelry."

"And I owe you a specially good shagging for favors done while I was away," Mary said with a gleam in her eye.

I took a quick look at my calendar. "I think I have some time free this afternoon."

"Grand."



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 04



FUND RAISING

Another slice of life at St. Dunstan's; for background, please consult the previous episodes First in a flock of four. Feedback welcome.

We sat around a large table in the Vestry Room just off the Undercroft of St. Dunstan's Church. The September Vestry meeting had gone an hour and half so far, and Bert Button's tirade was making it longer. He pounded the table as he spoke at full volume, almost shouting and shook his finger at various members of the council:

". . .We have got to get this money situation taken care of once and for all. The stained glass needs repair, the steeple hasn't been jacked for ten years, the organ is in awful shape, and the brickwork is badly in need of tuckpointing. Then, there's the £30.000 we owe the diocese from years ago. The last time the Rev. Stokely asked for money from Bishop Delacroix, he was turned down flat. We need to do something."

Mary Sterns looked stunning: her red hair was set off by her dark business suit and white blouse, yet the look on her face was a study of frustration. She tapped her gavel. "I agree with Bert, although I'm not sure how we're going to go about this. It would be good to start the Autumn with a plan for getting rid of the debt. Any ideas how to go about this?"

"Rummage sale."

"Carnival."

"Bake sale."

"Selling the children to White Slavers."

Mary tapped her gavel and shot Harry Hazelton a dirty look. "Harry, you should be ashamed of yourself."

"But I can provide at least a dozen meself."

"I know you're only half serious, and Mavis would kill you in your sleep if she knew you brought it up. Let's have only reasonable ideas, please."

"A raffle."

"Texas Hold 'Em Tournament."

"Beauty pageant."

"Slave Auction–for chores around the yard one afternoon and such."

"All you can drink night."

"Futures speculation."

Mary tapped the gavel again. Bert Button and Fred Bayless were on the receiving end of her glare this time; they chuckled like schoolboys in defiance of her ire. Bert pointed over at Wilma Branson and shouted: "Hey Wilma, call your cousin Richard; he'll take care of everything out of petty cash." Mary pointed the gavel at him, and he gave her a smirk. She turned to me. "Vicar, do you have any ideas?"

"There are several good ideas here already, and some of them can be combined to good effect. We could have a fund raiser around All Saints' Day, or All Souls' Day; it would do the Parish spirit good as well as raise some cash. Why doesn't everyone who made suggestions work on their ideas over the next week, and we can get together a week from today to share them and develop the big picture. I know this means a special meeting, but if we stay on task and hold the goofing off until afterward," Bert and Fred sniggered again, "we can keep the meeting under an hour, make a good start on our fund raising plans, and still have time for the Pub." 

There were nods around the table, especially from those whose minds had been numbed by the ordeal. Mary called for a motion, which was made and seconded, that passed unanimously. The meeting adjourned two minutes later, and the members of the Vestry broke into groups of two and three to talk. Fred, Bert, and Harry came up and punched me lightly on the shoulder: "Nothing personal, Vicar," Fred said, "thought we could use a bit o' humor. Things were getting long."

"Yeah, Vic, nothing personal," Bert and Harry echoed.

I thought for a moment. "All right, apology accepted. Your penance will be to work out a Texas Hold 'Em tournament for a £100 stake where the parish will get half the proceeds, preferably to happen around the time of a Parish festival. Man enough for it?"

"Sure, Vic, love to do it," Harry said.

"Just get ready to lose your money, Vic" Fred laughed.

"Good night, gentlemen."

"Good night, Vicar," Bert said, "Care for a round at the Pub?"

"I'd love to Bert, but I've had a long day, and I've got another tomorrow."

"Sure Vic. Good night."

"God bless."

I wandered around the room and found people excited about doing a Parish festival. At last, I got to the Chair, where Mary just finished with an very anxious parishioner who was concerned about modesty at a possible beauty contest. Seeing it was me, she blew out a frustrated breath and looked at me cross-eyed. "Care for a drink?" I asked.

"That'll do for starters, a double at least, " she said, "let's close up the Undercroft and get into someplace more comfortable." The last of the Vestry had left, and we did the routine of shutting off the lights and making sure the doors were locked. Carrying our briefcases in opposing hands, we walked upstairs and through the deserted church holding hands with fingers interlocked. We went to my sitting room on the second floor of the Vicarage; Mary threw her case down on the floor and demanded: "Who do I have to fuck to get a bloody drink around here?" 

"I think you know the answer to that question," I replied coyly.

"Give me that drink first." I poured two huge Scotches, and we sat together on a small sofa. Kicking off her shoes, she settled back against me with her drink in one hand and her other on my opposite knee. I curled my arm around her, grasping her elbow initially, but she moved her arm so I could cup her left breast. We sat there, savoring one another's touch, for a lifetime, sipping our drinks. At last she came out of her reverie: "Well, what's the mood?"

I took a sip and gave her a squeeze. "I think that a festival or fair sounds like a good idea, even if only for community building. Asked the Three Stooges if they'd organize the poker tournament."

"You didn't."

"They can't fail. Either they're going to be excited enough to do a good job of it, or they'll bicker or blow it off and it won't happen. I'll keep an eye on them should they get anywhere near launching it; it could rake in a lot of money if it gets off the ground."

Mary nodded. "All right, I see your point. It would be good to have those clowns busy with something they're motivated to do. There's something else we ought to do if we're going to get serious money raised."

"What's that?"

"Talk to the rich people. It's been several years since we've targeted them particularly, and the last time they rejected all Father Stokely outright. You're liked well enough and you haven't hit them up yet; it's time."

Another slug of Scotch loosened my muscles. "I don't know; I'm ordinary folks and I'm not that comfortable around rich people."

Turning to look at me, Mary was puzzled. "I thought the Episcopal Church in America was The Eye of the Needle; the rich man's gate to heaven."

"We never were that rich in Western Kansas, although we were comfortable. The class system over here is still in force, and I could screw up the etiquette."

"You're an outsider and people will forgive you if you make a mistake where they wouldn't forgive me or Father Stokely. Give it a try, luv. Don't see yourself short." She looked at me, and her glance turned to concern. "You don't like fund-raising, do you?"

I looked down. "It's something I've never felt comfortable with. Working on the annual fund appeal is always my toughest message to preach every year. Asking people for money is something I understand in theory, but doing it always frightens me."

Her face held a look of sympathy. "I know, I know. I'm not comfortable with this either, but it's for the good of the parish. You've always stepped up when we needed you before, Vic. Can you do it. now?"

After a long silent moment, I nodded my head. "All right, I'll give it a try. Help me with the list?"

"Sure, luv. Anything you say."

"Anything?" She smiled at me sarcastically, then gave me a long, deep kiss where we sampled the fine Scotch on each other's lips and on our tongues. My senses began to tingle, and I slipped my right hand inside her jacket to caress her perfect breast.

Finally, we broke and looked at each other longingly, our hips joined. "I feel a bit manky, and a bit tense," I said softly, "maybe we should get in the shower."

"I can't mess with my hair. Don't have another hair appointment for weeks."

"Janet left one of her shower caps in the dresser, I believe."

"I feel manky."

The steam floated away what was left of our worries, as we luxuriated together under the warm water. I ran my hands over her shoulders, chest and breasts as the water flowed over us; she ground her bare hips into my groin until my nine-inch manhood teased her splendid curves. We switched places, and she rubbed herself all over my backside while her hands went up and down my chest and stomach. She went lower and started stroking my erection one hand after the other, speeding up until I almost popped before she stopped. 

I turned to face her and managed to lower myself to one knee: directly in front of me was her bare labia, with the bud on top. My tongue insinuated itself in her delicate folds, wandering around, swirling the bud, probing the depths. Mary leaned back against the wall as the water poured over her front. Inserting a finger, I picked up the pace until she was close to her climax.

Standing up again, she started to kneel, but I stopped her. Turning around and leaning against the wall for leverage, I picked up her hips and sat her on my erection facing away from me. She gasped at the penetration, and I steadied her as I bounced her off my hips. Shuddering and hooting, she quickly reached the peak of her ecstacy, her vagina clasping my cock intensely. I slowed down and let her relax, until she said: "When are you going to let me off this ride? I'm hungry for some spunk."

"Not yet, I'm not done with you here."

"I don't know if I can take this any longer," she warbled.

"Let's find out."

I started thrusting into her again, the water flowing over her bouncing backside, her white shower cap bobbing up and down. Mary trembled, writhed and came twice more before I erupted in rivers deep inside her; she could hardly stand as I dried her off lovingly, running the towel gently over her wet skin. After toweling her off, I dried myself and carried her to my bed, where she curled up beside me and fell fast asleep.

In the early morning light, I felt my John Thomas engulfed between warm, loving lips. A head of short, beautifully curled head of red hair was bobbing up and down over the pulled back blankets. A soft tongue was running circles around my corona, encouraging me to full stature. Giving into the sensations, I felt electricity build in my twin batteries. As I got closer, she swallowed more and more of my erection into her mouth until she reached my pubic hair, moving in and out in long strokes. Then she sped up and stayed around the corona, her hand stroking the shaft in a circular pattern. My fountain sprang to life, and my Mary took in all the cream I had to offer.

We dressed: I in my bathrobe; she in her suit from the night before. "Well, Agnes ought to be off to school by now, and Derrick's going out today, so I should get in before they realize I've been out all night." 

"There's a turnabout," I observed, "Normally kids coming in after a night out avoid their parents." .

She gave me a nasty look, and made a face. Then she took a piece of paper and wrote down five names: Colonel Sterling Hyde-Smith; Mr. Harold Caldwell; Mrs. Clarissa Clyde-Walker; Mr. Frederick Titterington, O.B.E.; Mrs. Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazelton. "Vicar, these are the people you need to talk to in the next week. Each one of them is rich enough that they could write a check tomorrow for everything we need and not miss it. It would be better if each contributed something; we need a broader donor base in case there is one dies or develops a desire to use his or her money as influence. If they give £5000 each in a spirit of true charity, I believe we can make up the rest with the festival and smaller donors. Do you understand?"

"Sure, Mary. I agree, having one big donor who gives us everything will have a bad effect on the parish; people will hang back and wait for the patron to bail them out. Momentum in the parish for anything will grind to a halt. The more big donors we get on board as equals or for limited parts of the picture, the better, but everybody needs to be part of the picture."

"Great, luv. Let me give you this list of some of the pieces of the project, as well as copies of the estimates for the work. For example, if Col. Hyde-Smith would like to restore the stained glass, including the portrait of St. George in the South Transept, that would be great, we could take it. See if there's something on our shopping list one of them would take a shine to."

"All right, I'll work on it. I'll get cleaned up and start making some phone calls."

"Great. Sheila is out of town and Mavis is under the weather, so you'll have to put up with my cooking the next few days."

I gave her a long, strong kiss while holding her tight. "I could live with that."

Colonel Sterling Hyde-Smith is a hale man in his seventies who was a career Army man. The strong jaw, fierce grey eyes, prominent nose, tall and heavy, with large limbs bespoke a warrior. He'd gotten his first taste of battle in Korea, and served with distinction in many peace keeping and police actions, finishing active duty with a command during the Falklands war. Still very active, his only free time was early the next morning at the range, and he invited me to shoot skeet with him. I accepted, thanking God for my cowboy heritage one of the few times in my life. 

It was a grey morning when we met on the range, and he met me with a firm grasp that I returned in kind. "Good man, Father, good, strong grip. Like to see a man of the cloth with some balls for a change. Not like that Nancy boy Stokely we had before. Ever shoot skeet before?"

"When I was younger. I won the Kansas State Skeet Association Gold medal in my age group two years running, but I'm very rusty. Probably can't hit the broad side of the barn anymore."

"Nonsense, lad, self confidence is two thirds of the battle. Take your weapon. Open fire. We'll get those flying gauchos." We got our guns and went to the range without many words. The weapon wasn't much different than my shotgun on the ranch, and I was ready to shoot very quickly.

I waited initially, deferring to the older man, but he would have none of it. Generously, he beckoned "Go ahead, lad. I'll be right behind you."

"PULL." My first shot destroyed the clay pigeon in my flight, pieces flying everywhere. "Must be like riding a bicycle."

"Good shooting, lad. PULL." His first shot was on target as well, as I expected.

"PULL." Another hit.

"I hear that poofter Niall is still playing the organ at St. Dunstan's PULL."

"Yes, I've kept Niall on, for professional reasons. We're a High Church parish, and a High Church parish without excellent music is a contradiction in terms. PULL."

"High Church is the only church worth doing. You do it right, every detail perfect, every button gleaming, every shoe shining, because that's the way it's done. Snap to attention, look smart on parade. PULL."

"Of course, Colonel, I agree with you completely. PULL. It takes a lot of work, and many good people to celebrate the liturgy well. Especially people with unique talents."

"Well, done lad. Yes, I like the way you do things at St. Dunstan's. PULL. You're no wanker, no old granny like Horace Delacroix. You're a man's man, and that's the kind of fellows we need running the Church of England."

"PULL. It's hard to find an organist who isn't. . ."

"Right about that, lad. Musicians all like that, especially organists. Bloody little fairies. PULL. Even heard the little Niall is in close with the old queen Horace. Guess we have to put up with the blighters. Nothing can be done, write it off."

His attitude was irritating me. "All musicians aren't gay. Agnes Sterns isn't. PULL."

He put his gun down a moment. "Who's she? She a parishioner?"

"Oh, yes. Mary Sterns is her grandmother. . ."

"Fine, fine lady that one."

"And she's an organ scholar; graduating with a Bachelor's this spring. Fills in while Niall's away."

"Oh yes, I remember her. Little corker, that one. PULL Pert little titties and a world class ass, just like her grandmother. Your shot, Father."

"PULL." My string of hits was unbroken.

The Colonel sighted his weapon. "PULL." His last shot missed; and he clapped me on the back in recognition. "Well done, lad. You've still got it; good show. Didn't know there were marksmen in Western Kansas. How about a spot of breakfast; the club does an excellent bangers and mash."

"Delighted, Colonel." Heaven help me, I was lying; the Colonel's attitudes were making my skin crawl. We made the short trip to his club in caravan; it was an elegant place, with a myriad of trophy heads of different animals on the walls. Portraits of companies took up the rest of the space: units from India, Sudan, South Africa, Egypt. This was a club for retired Imperial officers for a hundred and fifty years. We were shown a table and settled in; the waiter brought coffee, which the Colonel added to from his hip flask. 

"Bangers and Mash for both of us," he said, without looking at the menu.

"Fine." I took out my file and showed him the state of the stained glass windows. "You can see how urgently this work is needed. Here is an estimate from the restoration company, as you can see it will take almost £5000 pounds to complete this job. Alas, we are in debt and have many more things to undertake. . . " 

"Well, lad, I can help you here. This South Transept window of St. George is a treasure; it would be a shame to lose him to the ravages of time. I'll write you a check right now, let me get my pen."

"Please, take mine."

"Thanks, Father. £5000, to be used for St. George and the rest of the heavenly band. Here you go."

"Thanks Colonel." The bangers and mash were astounding.

The next evening saw me in the drawing room of Harold Caldwell at the billiard table. Caldwell is an investment banker and futures trader. He is a five feet seven, in his mid fifties, very thin with dark hair, brown eyes and a persuasive smile. A picture on the mantelpiece was a young woman who was not his ex-wife or his daughter. The music coming from his house wide sound system was much to my liking: the best of English church music, but the game we were playing was beyond me. I had played Eight Ball as a youngster many times, but Three Cushion Billiards was eluding me. Caldwell made series after series of shots, and laughed with every success. He was relentless, and after another loss I returned my cue to the rack and took up my snifter of Cognac. "You're too good for me, Mr. Caldwell."

"Harry, Father, Harry. This is just something to pass the time; you're a sport for trying it. I've never heard of Eight Ball, you'll have to show me sometime."

"Done. But you'll need to drop by the Pub, unfortunately."

"No problem, Father, I've been in lots of Pubs. Worked my way up from through the ranks, I did, lived in a tiny flat when I was just starting out, and worked fourteen hours per day. Wonderful times, Father, wonderful. I'd love to see our people at the Pub some evening. Just have to find a day free."

"Of course"

"How is our sweet Niall doing?"

"Oh, he's doing all right. Seems to be very happy with the choir this year; they're sounding great"

"You can say that again."

"And he's very happy with his new partner Francis. They had me over for dinner the other night and showed me their collection of Pollock reproductions."

"That's great, Father. You're reaching out to everyone in the parish, I hear."

"Thank you, Harry. Just doing my job."

"So you say the organ is in disrepair?"

"Yes. The reservoir needs to be releathered, and neither the Bombardes or the Cornets were installed with the rest of the organ in the Eighties. A few small things in the console need doing as well: cleaning contacts and such. It will take some fine detailed work by some highly skilled professionals. . ."




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 04



"Say no more. Is £5000 enough?"

"Yes, Mr. Cald–Harry. Yes, Harry, £5000 will be enough."

"I'll write you a check."

The visits were piling up: the next day, late in the morning, I was in the mansion of Mrs. Clarissa Chase-Walker, heiress to a small fortune. Mary warned me to be careful, saying that she had connections that could help us, but she was very erratic and could also give us a lot of trouble. She greeted me at her door in a floral wrap-around dress, a thirty something young woman six feet tall, bleach blond hair, long legs, Kate Moss thin with 33B breasts. Her face was a classic cameo type: broad eyes, slender nose, small thin lips, a pointed chin, porcelain skin. A smarmy grin played on her face as she admitted me, and lead me to a sunroom with small crustless sandwiches and fresh fruit with freshly whipped cream accompanied a tea service on a glass top table She crossed her thin legs, exposing more skin that I thought possible. For a few moments, she scrutinized me without speaking; I sipped my water unperturbed and sampled a couple of finger sandwiches. At last she said, "Violette is right; nothing much bothers you."

"Violette?"

"Yes, Violette Delacroix was my roommate in high school and University. She is a whiny, self centered, spoiled little bitch who needed to be put in her place, and I'm glad you were the one to do it. I talked with her this morning: she just found out she's pregnant." She paused to stare a few moments. "No fear there; you're either an excellent poker player or innocent of causing her condition."

"I think both, perhaps."

"Well, it's hardly a virgin birth for her. Still, she seems to have changed for the better, thanks to you somehow."

"I admit nothing, but I deny nothing. If her life has changed, it was her choice let it be changed."

"Touché, wise Father Alfred. You are entirely right." She helped herself to a sandwich, nibbling it daintily while rubbing her crossed legs together. A sip of coffee and she continued, "Like so many others, I rather like the job you're doing at St. Dunstan's and would be happy to contribute to its betterment. But you're going to have to earn it."

She stood up and turned around, opening her dress and dropping it dramatically to the floor, revealing an hourglass figure before turning to stand before me naked.. On her body were twelve patches of black plastic tape, stuck directly to her skin and numbered. Posing with one black, high heeled foot in front of the other, she said, "On my body are these pull tabs. Each is numbered as you see. There are twelve envelopes on the table with corresponding numbers. I will let you pull four of these off my body. If you pick the right four, you will raise as much as £10.000 for St. Dunstan's; pick the wrong ones and you will have nothing from me. Show me the same ingenuity and ruthlessness you did taming Violette and the money will be yours."

I took a long look around her, and at the envelopes. "There's no way I can talk you into absolute charity?"

"My soul has a long way to go before I can do that. I can be generous, but there's a price to pay. Treat me right,, make the right choices, and I'll give you the whole thing."

I stared at her smirk for a long time, looking for a weakness. Her limpid blue eyes were sharp, bearing into mine in challenge and defiance. Time stood still as we engaged in a stare down; my eyes boring into her to read her ming. If she was anything like Violette, she would expect boldness, strength, and domination. Her breathing grew heavy and she started to tremble a little bit. Walking around behind her, I noticed the strip of heavy tape marked #8 was stuck up her ass, just below numbers #6 and #7. Touching her posterior, she relaxed, parted her legs and sighed at my touch. Grasping the end, I ripped the #8 tape, probably taking some hair with it. She bent over backward and mewled in response to my initiative. I opened envelope #8: it was her check for £2000. "That was wonderful, Father. I am so looking forward to your next choice."

Walking around front, I was glad my evaluation of her character was correct so far. #2 covered her right nipple; a sharp rip brought a full body wince and a check for £1500. Her breast was an ivory white little pyramid, its purity spoiled by a faint, two inch wide, red stripe that covered an inch wide nipple that was hardening in the cool air. Looking deep into her eyes again, I said: "I've got you figured out." #3 on the left breast pulled forth another extreme pain reaction, stronger than the last one, and a second check for £1500. Halfway there, I said to myself. #5 was over her crotch, tightly covering her clitoris. I stared into her eyes knowingly; her eyes showed fear and acknowledgment that the last tape was where I thought it was. My hand went down to massage the tape covered opening, finding the bud and teasing it; she ground her hips into my touch and purred. We stared wordlessly at one another as I tickled the plastic, her eyes smoky with lust. Milking it for all it was worth, I eventually made the last rip, pulling out some pubic hair by the roots. She jerked forward quickly with a tears in her eyes and howled as the electrician's tape tore at her delicate labia, bending over to nurse herself. The envelope contained a check for £5000: my instinct about her was right.

In a couple of moments, she recovered from the last deconstruction and stood up calmly without shame, her breasts pointing relentlessly at me. "Well Father, you deliver as promised; I salute you. It was more than I expected. You have your money, drawn on the same bank your Parish accounts are. Now you need to be able to leave."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, don't worry Father, I'm not going to chain you down or kidnap you. But, if you don't do what I ask before you leave, I'm going to call the bank and stop payment on these checks as you walk about the door."

What? What kind of game was this? "And what you ask is?"

"I'm not like most women, Father. My husband is gay, and uninterested in me in any way other than my money and my social contacts. Some women would find this frustrating; I've found it liberating. Violette Delacroix is a simpering, indulgent, self centered cow whose company most women find excruciating; I rather relish her, she reminds me that money and influence do not make up for lack of intellect, imagination, and insight. Besides, we're old school chums, we go back a long way and as upper class women we're supposed to stay in touch with each other no matter how we feel about one another. Violette sees me as a bosom friend and opens her heart to me, and in the tiny reservoir of Christian charity I have, I listen to her and cheer her when she needs it."

"I think I'm beginning to see."

"No Father, not quite. Violette opens her heart to me, I do not open mine to her. Because unlike her, I'm a successful manipulating self centered bitch."

"And Violette's ineptitude reinforces your superiority and makes you feel warm and fuzzy?."

"Touché. Again, you are very perceptive."

"Thank you."

"However, she does have adventures that I find myself envious of."

"Such as?" Alarms went off in the back of my head.

"Many women would not be interested in being handcuffed kneeling at a prie-dieu, with mousetraps on their tits, having their bottoms spanked while being fucked doggy style. I, on the other hand, would positively adore such treatment."

"And that is the price for leaving this house with checks that will not bounce?"

"Exactly. I just purchased a fine old prie-dieu for my bedroom yesterday."

"I see."

"I am certain that you don't have a virgin nineteen year old boy handy, but I think you can manage on your own. By the way, my very gay butler Simon will be keeping an eye on us, and he has a copy of the script. Embellishments are permitted, but not omissions."

"Protection?"

"Unnecessary. If there is a baby, like Violette I would be unwilling to share it."

"As I would expect. What guarantee is there you wouldn't make a tape to blackmail me with?"

"Really, Father, we have an ongoing relationship as pastor and parishioner. I may need your-- spiritual guidance again sometime, and you may need to seek my generosity in future. There is nothing I want from you other than your special attention this day, and I have no interest in influencing the politics of St. Dunstan's. There are much more interesting games for me to play. Besides, I do not have the documentation fetish that you do: I have no desire to video myself having sex; the embarrassment may work both ways should it come to light." 

Her beautiful eyes were both compelling and entreating. After several moments, I took another piece of tape and ripped it off her chest. She sighed. "Since I'm not sunburned like Violette was, there is a riding crop in my bedroom for you to partially duplicate the effect. And I would for like you to retain your clothes: I've always dreamed of being ravished by a man in a dog collar."

The next morning I found myself standing barefoot in a shallow stream with an eight iron in my hand, trying to save a water lie. Mr. Frederick Titterington, O.B.E., a medium height, thin, local industrialist in his sixties, was happy to host me for a round of golf at daybreak. Unfortunately, Mr. Titterington's handicap is 5 and mine is 18. So I found myself hacking desperately to keep up with his progress, holding him back from his normal pace. I pulled my club back and took a swing; the water sprayed up, soaking my golfing outfit and sending sand and rocks several feet away from the bank. The ball flew up over the ridge and out of sight in the general direction of the Sixth hole. Gingerly walking up the hill in barefoot and winching at the random twig and pebble, I reached my wheeled bag where I had a towel to dry off my feet so I could put my socks and golf shoes back on. 

Mr. Titterington was waiting for me at the green. His brown eyes danced under grey eyebrows and his thick lips creased in a huge mile, showing tobacco stained teeth.. Taking his pipe out of his mouth, he clapped me on the back and chuckled: "I'll give you this lad, you don't give up. Good for you, Father, God bless you." Using the pipe stem as a pointer, he indicated a bunker to the right of the green. "Your ball ended up there, lad. Get your sand wedge and blast it out. Which stroke are you on for this hole?"

"Seven"

"Grand, you're improving. Never give up; that's how I made my business work, and we're now one of the largest concrete manufacturers in England." I looked over the rim of the bunker, and saw my ball nestled nine feet down at the bottom; I would need a shot almost straight up to get out. Gritting my teeth, I took my club down and made ready to try to get out of yet another bunker. The first shot was dreadful: the ball didn't even clear the lip and fell back down almost to the same place at my feet. The second shot also failed exactly the same way, but the third was a miracle, and I was on the edge of the green. Mr. Titterington generously let me go first, and I four putted. He sank a thirty foot putt with no problems, rejoicing in his good aim and good fortune.

There was a bench just before the Seventh hole, under an old birch tree with wide branches that grandly overlooked the par-3 Seventh hole, and he gestured that we should sit down on it. "There's a group just behind us that wants to play through, so let's have a chat in this beautiful spot as we wait. Have a seat, Father."

"Thank you, Mr. Titterington"

"Frederick, please Father."

"Thank you, Frederick. I hope you had a chance to look over the estimate I gave you."

"Yes, I did, Father, and it looks like this is a fine choice. Is this the cheapest bid?"

"It is the cheapest and best bid, Frederick."

He gave he a surprised look. "Is there a reason for the distinction?"

"I feel that it is good stewardship to spend a minimum on the physical requirements; after all, we are called to feed the hungry and clothe the poor. However, if we overemphasize economy, cut corners that should not be cut, accept work that is not well done out of a false sense of economy, then before long we should have to spend more money on the same projects time and time again, resulting in the long run in a far greater expenditure than if we could have spent a little more initially for work that is more reliable."

"A laudable sentiment, Father, but. . .."

"I have some experience in this matter. My home parish in Hays, Kansas chose to take the cheapest bid for tuckpointing when I was a child, against expert advice, and three years later had to have the work entirely redone for more than the bid of the better quality company that was in the running. Doing major work like this has should not be done by incompetents, even if they submit the lowest bid."

Mr. Titterington pondered this story for a long moment. He pursed his lips, stroked his thinning grey hair, and came to a decision. "All right, Father. I appreciate that you want to spend St. Dunstan's money wisely, I really do. It shows a great love for the parish, which is quite remarkable considering you're not English. And you're right, the Church deserves our best."

"Thank you, Frederick."

"You also have a good business sense, one that you've gotten through experience rather than any stupid MBA or any useless 'mentoring' program or such. And you don't give up on something, but you hang in there until the job is done. I see a lot of a younger me in you. So I've decided that I'm going to help you out."

"I'm honored, sir."

"No, no, not until the next Honors are announced. Yes, I'm going to give you £10.000 for tuckpointing the church, and to make sure it will be done right, I'll give you the excellent quality cement at cost. How does that suit you, Father?"

"That suits me extremely well. Thank you, Frederick, on behalf of the entire St. Dunstan community."

'You're very welcome, and it's a great blessing for our parish to have such dynamic leadership. Now, it's time to tee off. I know that you'd love to play all 18 holes, but I've got to get back to work in a couple of hours, so we'll cut this short at 9 holes. . ."

The next day, I was wearing my best suit perched on a sofa in an ornate sitting room. The mansion of Mrs. Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazelton was one of the oldest in the area; dating back to the 18th century. Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton was true aristocracy, she could trace her ancestry on one side back to an illegitimate son of Charles II, and to younger daughter of Queen Victoria on the other. Her husband made a fortune with his father in Indian silks, returning to England to live in opulence, where he met Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton as a young woman. They had four children, three had emigrated to New Zealand and one to America: she lived alone with her servants, supervised by her butler Willikins. 

This interview was different: Mary Sterns sat on an exquisite chair wearing a gold business suit with a light yellow blouse with a ruffled collar and a low neckline. We sipped cups of tea as we waited, and Mary was in good spirits. "I can't believe you got £30,000 in donations from my list already,: she said. "The major portions of the work are funded, and now we can work on the debt. You're amazing, Vicar, just amazing. I wish it were possible for you to get something from Clarissa without going as far as you did, but given the situation, I doubt even you could escape those demands. She's been on her own too long, poor thing, and you'll find her seeking another session someday in exchange for something. It's good that she thinks we're out of her league, and pulls her strings elsewhere, at least. Oh, well."

"Anything I should know about Mrs. P-F.?"

"She's a genuinely nice person, and will be happy to help once she's aware of the need. The only problem is that she has times where she thinks she's somewhere else, talking to someone else. Just bear with her if she gets like that, pretend you're who she thinks you are, and she'll come back to the present before long." 

The door opened, and Mrs. Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazelton entered. She was a tiny, thin woman of eighty five, with elegant, long white hair, perfect makeup and a white sheath over a white dress. It took a moment for her to cross the room and sit next to me on the couch; I stood as she entered and took her hand as she maneuvered to get comfortable. Willikins brought her a cup of tea and a saucer of biscuits: she nibbled one before taking a sip of tea. "Hello, Father," she said in a high, thin, quiet warble. "It's a pleasure to see you today, you should drop over more often. You brought our dear Mary with you as well, doesn't she look just lovely today? This is a woman who could get one interested in the finer things of life. The boys say she's a real corker, from what I understand." 

Mary blushed sweetly, and looked away. Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton smiled at her, and turned back to me. "Now, do you have everything you need, tea, biscuits, toast, marmelade?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton, fine. Just wanted to drop in and fill you in about what's happening around St. Dunstan's"

There was a dish of buttermints on the end table beside her, she took one and put it in her mouth. 

"Ah, St. Dunstan's. Such a wonderful parish, a place where everyone can feel at home no matter what their class. You've done a wonderful job, Father Alfred, wonderful. I would be happy to help you any way I can."

"Well, Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton, you know that we have a debt to pay off, in addition to our needed repair projects. I was hoping that you would be able to help us out with some debt reduction."

"How much do you owe, Father?" Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton took another mint; I looked at Mary, who returned my look blankly. My lips moved, should I tell her how much we owe? She mouthed back, yes, of course, you can trust her.

"Our debt with the Diocese is £30.000, and are in the middle of raising funds for multiple projects such as steeplejacking, tuckpointing, refurbishing the organ, restoring the ornamental carvings in the Rood Screen, and a couple of other items as we can get around to them. We're planning a parish festival around All Saints Day to raise some money and build Parish spirit."

"Oh, they had such wonderful carnivals when I was a lass. I rode the Merry Go Round for an hour until I got a bit queasy in the tummy. It was the ten year anniversary of the Armistice, I was eight. There were gigantic balloons, and cotton candy; it was St. Martin's Summer. Oh Henry, please get me some cotton candy now, I don't want to do the Love Tuinnel, yet. Don't worry, you'll get what you want later, you randy devil." Her eyes defocused for a moment; she gave her head a gentle shake and looked at Mary and I without recognition, then nodded and smiled. "Lovely days, Vicar, Mary, just lovely."

"I remember the fairs when I was growing up in Kansas."

"Oh, yes, you're from Kansas. You had Merry Go Rounds there?"

"Yes, Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton. I rode them, too."

"How nice?" She took yet another mint. "Mary, can we get you something?"

"No, Lucinda, I'm fine."

She turned back to me. The topic of conversation rambled the next forty five minutes from her childhood, the Blitz, raising children in the '50's, various parties and events at the palace. Periodically, she refreshed herself with nibbles of her biscuit, sips of tea and mints. I had a tough time following it all, but I appreciated the living history she was giving me. I was that Mary was recording it; someday her memories would be preserved. "Well, Father, if I may confess, there's something about the old days I really miss. I can't do much anymore, it's like eating: I can have a taste of many things, maybe two, three, four, five bites but no more."

She took a sip of tea to moisten her throat, and turned to Willikins: "Jeremy, you may leave us for the moment; I will ring when I need you. You may get our tray ready."




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 04



"Yes, Mistress," he said, bowing out the door.

"I used to love giving my dear Sidney oral sex. We had all those children in a short time, and never got the hang of pulling out early. He managed to acquire a 'marriage manual' as they called them, and we found out about oral sex. It was so good for us: we started doing it exclusively from that day until the week he died. That was twenty five years ago, and I miss having my sweet salami."

There are an awkward pause as I tried not to think about where this was going, hoping she'd get sidetracked again. Mary said at last: "What else did you say to me, Lucinda, when we talked about that yesterday?"

She thought for a moment, then smiled thinly. "Yes, the Vicar is a single man, will keep a secret, and is very lonely sometimes. Perhaps he would like a little action, since he's such a nice man doing such a nice job and has so many things to worry about. Getting some lipstick on his dipstick could do him a world of good."

My jaw dropped to hear her talk like that. I looked at Mary, who nodded her head in approval. There was nothing appealing about Mrs. Parkhust-Frazelton, but a wicked idea caught my imagination, and I wondered what affect her wet, minty, bare gums would have.

Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton reached into her mouth and handed something to Mary, who put it in a glass at the table beside him. Mary put the false teeth on an end table, and moved her chair close to the sofa, putting herself in easy reach of us. Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton looked at me and said, "How would you like some oral sex, Vicar? I can't promise you endurance, but I'm sure we can work something out. You are an astoundingly beautiful man, I hope you know that. Please get out your manhood, Vicar, and let's see if we can get it to stand up."

I lowered my trousers: my member was barely stirring from its lair, but Mary's sweet hands played with it and got it to the stiffness required. Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton began to stroke it herself, put another buttermint in her mouth and lowered her head onto my member. There was a tingle as her mouth tentatively engulfed me: all those mints were dancing in her mouth drove the head of my erection wild. Her mint coated tongue was like a butterfly, flitting over my slit and around my corona; my erection provided a lot of slickness to give her the taste she longed for. Her blue veined hand tenderly grasped my shaft, moving down and tracing a delicate finger around my scrotum and circling my oysters. She couldn't take much of the length into her warm mouth, but the head of my cock was being treated royally.

After about five minutes, she began to pull away, and I helped her back into a sitting position. She continued to stroke my shaft with a feather touch, smiling broadly and licking her lips. Mary gave her dentures back to her and she put them into her mouth one handed. "That was better than I could have hoped for, Father. I think in another minute, I could have tasted your fullness." Her hand ran down my shaft and reached under to caress my balls. "You know, I watch adult videos from time to time. I love to watch what I can't do anymore. We can't leave this lovely fellow all alone, now that he's all worked up. Mary dear, could you help me?"

Mary's familiar soft grip held me now. Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton's eyes were following the action up and down with a gleam, it was as if she were making love to my member just by watching it. "When he's ready, you can speed up, dear. I'd like to see a money shot in person again." 

Providing a show just for her, Mary used both her hands to make love to me, stopping from time to time to lubricate me in her mouth "Mmm, those are nice mints, Lucinda," she said, and took one. I felt a tingle in my testicles, and a look to Mary told her I was close. She sped up her pace, and Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton reached over ready to catch her share of the product. Faster and faster Mary stroked, until I erupted in delight; Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton gathered some wet creaminess in her hand and brought it to her lips. She lapped up as much of the semen from her hand as she could, licking her palm and sucking her fingers and savored the taste. Mary's soft and mint tingled mouth moved to clean up the rest of my spunk, and her engulfment of my member questing every drop almost drove me wild. Mrs. Parkhust-Frazelton's eyes were closed in reverie as she rolled my semen around her mouth, a smile on her face. "Very nice, Father, very nice. You taste delicious." 

After things settled back to normal, I redid my fly and she rang the bell. Willikins brought a large tray with finger food and vegetables for our luncheon; we made small talk during the meal She called for her checkbook, and I didn't look as she made out a check for the parish. Giving it to Mary, I didn't want to see how much it was for.

The All Saints Festival went better than expected. The turnout for the three days was excellent in spite of indifferent weather, and satisfaction high. A number of booths offered baked goods, trinkets, and other miscellaneous items for sale to brisk business; several games and rides entertained the children and children at heart. The youth combined a beauty pageant with a slave auction, raising much interest from the men of the parish. Most of the young people's slave time was purchased by their parents, and Betsy Clark, Harry and Mavis Hazelton's sixteen year old granddaughter, won the beauty pageant. The Three Stooges succeeded in organizing a fine Texas Hold 'Em tournament, and made a fair amount of profit from it for the parish. I played in the tournament and made the final table, but the cards were running Harry Hazelton's way that day, and his face beamed as if we won the World cup single handed.

.

At the end of the celebration, it was agreed informally that the festival become a yearly event. Many hands took part in the clean up, and I slept well that night. The next morning, Mary came by with the figures. "We did far better than expected, Vicar. We netted over £5000 with the festival"

"How did that happen?"

"Well, most of it came from the Poker tournament, and the Slave Auction was the next high money raiser. With that, we have money for all our projects in hand, which will make the Bishop happy."

"What about the debt?"

"Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton took care of that and more. Do you know how much she wrote that check for when we visited her?"

"How much?"

She showed me the amount on the page. £500.000. I almost fainted on the spot. Mary's eyes danced, and she touched my arm to steady me. "Any ideas for what to do with this beyond the debt retirement?"

I thought for a moment. "Endowment funds. Let's create a £100.000 fund for Choir School scholarships, so poor boys and girls can sing in the choir. Then let's do a University fund for the teens of our parish who want to go on to higher education. Does that sound good?"

Mary beamed. "That sounds very good. You're a genius, Vic. I think this calls for a drink."

"I think that we need to do something first. I don't know about you, but I feel rather grimy, since I just got back from my morning run. A shower would be in order before that."

"Sounds like a plan, Vic. I'll meet you there.



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 05



A COMET FOR TWELFTH NIGHT

Another slice of life at St. Dunstan's; for background, please consult the previous episodes Second in a flock of four. Feedback welcome.

*

"Tell me, Vicar, was the Star of Bethlehem a comet?" It was a balmy fall day, and appropriate to have a bit of St. Martin's summer on Martinmas. The choir boys hadn't been very interested in my presentation on St. Martin, and I was filling my time with them before rehearsal by taking questions.

"What makes you say that, Jeremy?" I responded. Jeremy Ploughright was a tall lad in the choir, and at the top of his class in science. He was also one of the most forthcoming, and would discuss anything until stopped.

"Well, Vicar, we just learned in science class that a comet is going to pass by Earth next month around Christmas, and I wondered if that was what the Wise Men saw."

It took a moment to remember what I read about the subject of the Star: I'd done a paper on this for a class at Seabury in my Seminary days. "Hmmm, there's no conclusive proof which astrological phenomena was the Star of Bethlehem. There was a triple conjunction of Mars, Saturn and Jupiter that happened around the years 7-6 BC; Johannes Kepler suggested the this conjunction was the Star. Origen suggested in the Third Century that the Star of Bethlehem was a comet and there's a lot of support for that theory. I don't have a strong opinion either way. Tell me about the one that's coming." Freddie Burkitt's hand shot in the air, begging me to call on him. Freddie was one of Mavis Hazelton's grandchildren. "Okay, Freddie, tell us about it."

"Father, it's going to become visible around the feast of St. Lucy, December 12th, but it won't show a tail until Christmas Eve. We'll see it all the way to Twelfth Night, January 6th, although the best view will be in the Southern Hemisphere."

"Excellent, Freddie." Mavis was always proud of her oldest grandson, who was exceptionally bright as well. The choir director came into the room, and I led them in the Lord's Prayer before they filed out for rehearsal. Curious, I looked up the information on the comet on the Internet when I got back to my study, and refreshed my grasp of the theories around the Star of Bethlehem. 

As coincidence would have it, Mavis brought my Tea around that evening. I told her about Freddie's knowledge of the comet and she puffed up with pride. "He's a bright lad, our Freddie. Takes after his father in brains, although he'd better not become the piker the old man is. Leaving a wife and five children on their own like he did, for an eighteen year old trollop! Forgive and forget, the Bible says, but that prick isn't getting any slack from me, in fact, I'd gladly hold open the door to Hades for the bastard."

"Mavis, the Bible doesn't say 'Forgive and forget'."

"No. I could have sworn."

"Look it up sometime. We'll talk about Freddie's dad another time. So Freddie's a talented lad?"

"Oh yes, Vicar, our pride and joy. In a few years, he'll be a scholarship boy, we're certain."

"Grand. By the way, this is wonderful, Mavis. You've outdone yourself."

"Thanks, Vic, flattery like that will get you everywhere." She turned and gave me a broad wink. 

"How about some company for a while after?"

"Grand, Mavis. Bring your bag of fun?"

"Always, Vic, always. Thought about a thing or two I noticed last time I was here."

"What?"

"Just wait." I finished my meal, and led Mavis upstairs, my pants bulging in anticipation.

When we got upstairs, she stood on her toes and gave me a long, sloppy French kiss. I took off my jacket and dog collar, but stopped knowing she like to control how much she undressed me, and she liked to be pleased fully naked while I was dressed. Opening her bag, she showed me how she had run a ten foot length of high test fishing line through the chain of her nipple clamps; the far end held a safety pin like clasp at the end. At her bidding, I took the line and ran it up to a hook that was directly over my bed: my predecessor had a flowerpot hung there, directly over where his wife slept from what I understood. She disrobed; her plump, short body bounced onto the bed making it creak frighteningly. I found the length of rope kept in her bag, gave her a long, deep kiss as she lay there and asked her: "Will you have the usual, Mavis?"

"I thought a little variation tonight, Vic. Tie the girls up like you always do, but don't oil them. Put some of the fishing weights from my bag on the end of the line. I'll tell ya when it's enough."

I did a series of alternating figure eights and loops around her huge mammaries, but instead of tying the rope off around her neck, I ran the end up around the poles of my headboard, looping them around to tie them to her wrists. "Ooo, lovely Vic, wish I'd thought of that. Now put the clamps on. Ooowwwww, yes. Tighter, tigher,yes. Now the other one. Ooooooowwwwwwww. Same as the other one: tighter. Yes, yes, yes, stop. Let's get the weights out."

I recognized them from my rural American childhood: simple balls of lead with a small loop at one end to attach it to the line. They were huge, and felt like two pounds each. "Where did you get these?"

"Harry's trawling net. The clip on with a device like that on the end of the line is from it, too.."

"What if Harry misses them?"

"Hasn't gone fishing for fifteen years; hasn't even looked in the garage for seven. He won't miss them, and if he did, he wouldn't care. Clip a couple on the line and let them swing." 

My bedroom had a high ceiling, and the other end of the line was hanging at chest height in front of me. Giving it an experimental pull, I stretched her buds a little, just to see how she would take it. She let out a long wail, then puffed and blew several times. "It's grand, Vic, it's grand. What a charmer you are, laddie. Put the weights on."

The weights pulled the chain up, lifting her heavy mounds. It let them swing, clanking at the middle, making her puff and blow to control herself. I took out another and showed it to her; she nodded quickly and pulled her hands down, tightening her tits more. One, two three more, and I could tell she reached her limit. The chain pulled the clamps up; her buds were distended for two inches and her boobs started to turn red from their confinement. Sending them swinging dramatically, I lay down next to her on the bed, almost fully clothed I traced my long fingernails across the stretched skin of her breasts, while licking my way around her huge, seven inch wide nipples avoiding the clamped nubbins. Mavis began to wiggle and squirm, moaning and yelping telling me that she was close to her orgasm. Back and forth the fishing weights went, pulling her nipples and breasts in rhythm as I worked on them with my fingernails and tongue. At last, she began to shudder, crossing the boundary to a massive orgasm, thrashing around regardless of the confinement, that lasted for almost seven minutes.

I released her, and she gave me a deep kiss. Standing me beside the bed, she undid my fly and pulled my pants to the floor, sticking my erection through the flap of my boxers. She gave me a two-handed hand job, going into my boxers to lick my oysters the whole time. The session stimulated me more than I imagined, and it wasn't long before I provided a white flood of spunk to cover her face and coat her tongue. Licking madly and guiding it with her fingers, she got every drop, swallowing it like a fine post dinner prandial.

The St. Martin's summer ended two days later, dispelled by dark clouds and cold rain. The Quilting Ladies were working on a great Christmas quilt, and granddaughters Jenny Button, Agnes Sterns and Betsy Clark were helping to speed the work. This meant fewer passing encounters in the Quilting room, but the ladies always brought my Tea, and when I didn't have an evening commitment, stayed to provide dessert. 

Thanksgiving was always a day of absence. I had no real attachment to the other American civic holidays in exile, but the memories of my family gathered at the ranch on Thanksgiving always tugged at me: sitting around a groaning table of traditional Turkey, dressing and fixings to eat ourselves silly; playing cards all afternoon while our dinners settled; a day end horseback ride around the property regardless of the weather, sandwiches and pie around a roaring hearth in the evening. That day I stopped being a happy adopted Englishman and longed for the Plains of Western Kansas. Mary and Sheila did their best to give me the content of the occasion, but it was the 9:00PM call home after the conclusion of the family feast that kept the flame of my heart going.

Advent began its season of longing and hope, and my personal hope to see the comet on St. Lucy's Day was frustrated by cloudy skies and sleet. The one clear night was had was broken by a program at the local grade school; Mary and I looked for vain in the Vicarage back yard for the hairy star for half an hour afterward.

It was a cold, wet December 23. The streets were damp and the sky overcast, lending a peculiar sheen to the night as I walked back from the Sailor's Home Christmas Party. The men were grateful for the company, and that was what mattered to me: I hate the prolonged wallowing in Christmas sentimentality that precedes the feast itself for a month and a half. Thank God for England: it refused to go ditzy about the reindeer and snowmen and sappy melodrama that my homeland likes to snuggle with this time of year. St. Dunstan's had retrieved an ancient Tradition of Midnight Eucharist at my urging, and in three years the attendance had become respectable enough to keep it going. 

Christmas Eve midnight: that was the time to roll out the tree and all the trimmings, to lose oneself joyfully in the celebration of the Savior's birth. The Quilting Ladies didn't quite understand why I didn't let them deck the Vicarage sooner; they thought that as an American I would want all the cheap folderol of my home culture's Christmas. There were a few good natured jibes about "Father Ebenezer", but in the end they respected my wishes. 

My dinner was in the oven, with a note from Sheila that she would be by later after her husband Bert went to bed. I listened to the news on the BBC as I ate, and opened the mail. There were cards from home: my parents sent a card with a letter detailing the news about our distant relatives, births, graduations, marriages, divorces, deaths. I went back to visit my hometown of Hays, Kansas once since I relocated to England, and that was three years ago. Thanks to the Internet, I had pictures and albums sent regularly of the family, and the ones that affected me the most was seeing my parents age. After dinner and the end of the news, I went to my study to click through the photos I stored: their faces were now lined and their hair gone grey. Dad had said that he needs to hire a local youth to cut his yard and the trees; he always relished puttering around outside, and this meant he was accepting the diminishment of his abilities. I thought of the Dylan Thomas poem "To my Father", and how one should resist the great, slow fade, but for his sake I was glad he was taking no chances of a fall or other calamity by overextending himself.

Opening my diary, I saw that January was fairly free, but the prices for a ticket on short notice was out of my reach. Mid-June looked promising, three weeks open there, but they were committed to visiting Australia and the sister parish. It would be tough to give up time with the lovely Rev. Brenda Porter. . .

"Cooie, Vicar, where are ye?" Sheila's voice wafted from the back door.

"In here, Sheila."

She came around the door and looked at monitor. "New pictures from home?"

"No, just looking over some old ones."

Coming across the room, she sat on my lap and gave me a long, deep kiss. "You look rather pensive. Do you miss being home this time of year?"

"I don't know," I said, as my thoughts swirled with memories good and bad, old pain, and growing lust. "I never fit in at home: my parents were wonderful, but I was never meant to live on the Great Plains, and I knew that from an early age. When I discovered England, it was my dream to live here, and the past four and half years are a dream come true. I love it here and would happily stay to the end of my days, but looking at pictures of my family makes me want to go back for a while, despite the awful memories, just to look at the sky full of stars from horizon to horizon and see the storms sweep across the landscape once again."

Sheila hugged me and gave me another kiss. "Well then, luv, you should find a way to go back before it's too late. For your own peace of mind, you should go just to be able to say you did."

I kissed her deeply. "You're right, Sheila, I know you're right. I guess I'll have to find a way."

"Grand. Now, why don't you take me upstairs, throw me on the bed, rip my clothes off and fuck me silly."

"Done." I stood up with her in my arms; she didn't weigh very much and I could carry her easily. Mounting the stairs, she giggled like a schoolgirl and licked my ear wetly. We came into the bedroom and I threw her down on the bed. She was wearing an old white blouse and grey slacks, and kicked off her blue flats as she hit the bed.

"Rip my clothes off, Vic, I've got spares in my bag. This lot was headed for the bin anyway, not even good enough for charity." Seeing the look in her eye, I tore her blouse to shreds, buttons flying everywhere. There were a pair of heavy scissors on my dresser; I cut her bra off one strap at a time, turned her slacks into origami, then did the same to her panties. She bounced up on all fours naked, and released my trousers, pulling them down with my boxers to reveal my nine inch member swelling to fullness. As I removed my shirt, she stroked my John Thomas while juggling my oysters, rendering me ready for action. When I was naked, she took the corona in her mouth, running her tongue around the rim hungrily. After her efforts had gotten me fully prepared, she purred: "I'm ready now, Vicar, take me now, take me now. I want all of it." Pushing her down on the bed, I knelt between her legs and thrust my entire length into her slickness at once.

Sheila was usually quiet in bed, but very active, grinding her hips as I thrust into her in a way that made me quiver, but tonight she was a wild woman, writhing, clawing my back, moaning and screaming as she orgasmed. I pulled out and sent a huge stream of white globs across her stomach and breasts, which she rubbed into her skin, sucking a huge glob she scooped up off her index finger. I lay down to rest beside her and recover, as she snuggled into my side, still massaging my seed around on her corpus.

We lay snuggled for a while in silence, gathering strength for another round. I felt at peace and ready for new adventures, while she looked pensive. I gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Penny for your thoughts, Sheila."

She reached out of idly stroke my flaccid penis and tender testicles. "I was thinking about my granddaughter Jenny."

"Oh?" That struck me as an odd topic.

"Well, I feel responsible for her, since we've raised her after her parents died. She's becoming a woman, and I want to help her be happy."

"That's a wonderful thing you're doing, Sheila. I know you and Jenny have a great relationship, and she's becoming a very fine young lady."

"Well, she's been dating Derrick Sterns for three months now, and she's been asking me questions about womanly things."

"Again, it's wonderful she can talk with you about that. There's a lot of mothers that would envy your relationship."

"We've looked at a lot of books about different things, but Jenny's not good at learning from books. She's kind of like someone from that state by your home, what is it, oh yes, Missouri."

"Yeeesss. We're not terribly fond of Missourians where I come from, especially during college football and basketball seasons. . ."

"What I'm trying to say is that she does better if someone shows her. You did a nice thing for young Derrick, teaching him how to be a man, and I was wondering if you'd help me show Jenny a couple of tricks?"

Eighteen year old Jenny was a regular on weekends, frequently tagging along with her grandmother, but the picture that came to mind was a shot of the two of them with Mary Sterns and her granddaughter Agnes from a cycling tour of Wales. They were standing in front of the Wye valley beside their bikes naked from the waist up. All four were gorgeous in their own way, and Jenny had long, conical breasts that stood straight out with big, puffy nipples. There were several other shots of them riding topless they took for my benefit; I still had the pictures on a flash drive of special shots that normally rested in the bottom of my desk. At last I said: "I'll have to think about that."

"You're doing some thinking about it now from what I can tell, luv." My cock was starting to recover and harden at the memory of those pictures. She stroked it gently, giving it a couple of long, slow licks to lubricate it. "It'll be a while before we can do it: Jenny takes a school trip to Brittany next month, so it'll be February before we can think about doing it." 

"That's good to know. We'll talk about it later."

Sheila leaned over to give my twin orbs several moments of circular licking before traveling up the length of my shaft to suck me again, working deeper and deeper until it was all the way down her throat. Several minutes of working in and out had my juices building, and she worked her way back off, giving the rim of the head a lot of attention. "All the talk of Kansas makes me think the cowboy would like to take a ride." She switched to an atrocious Western accent: "You wanna saddle up your old grey mare for a ride?"

I guided her onto all fours, and lined up to enter her from behind. Putting the tip of my branding iron against her damp hide, I responded: "Get ready, here comes the cowpoke."

Bit by bit I fed my dick into her, teasing as she eagerly leaned back against me, slick and hot. As I began to buck against her, I slapped her ass and shouted: "Giddeyap."

She whinnied several times, laughing hysterically until her lust quieted them. Sighing, she bowed her head and rolled it around. "Ride 'em, cowboy. Slap my bum again, Vic, this filly needs some encouragement." So I rode her hard, smacking her lovely bubble butt to a light red as I pistoned her from behind, she whinnied lasciviously several more times. Soon, we both found the way to our lusty way skyward.

Christmas Eve was a better day, and I had the time to complete my preparations for the Midnight service. Mavis brought over Tea; she bustled in the door and shook flakes off her coat. "Happy Christmas, Vic, here's your tea. I think it's started snowing outside."

"Thanks Mavis. How's the family?"

"Ooh, I've got a houseful, but it's so lovely to have them all there. Had to get away for a while, the mob is driving my daft even though I adore them."

"How's Harry holding up?"

"As usual; the man just tends to sit on his couch and watch Telly. I think he loves having the house full too, but you'll never catch him admitting it, that one. Last night I caught him with asleep on the couch with our Bertie's three year old Sammy sleeping on his lap with his thumb in his mouth. Just put a blanket over them and left the dears to it."

"And the new baby in Scotland?" 

"Plumping up a treat, Vic. A real charmer."

"I'm glad, Mavis. Thanks for Tea, it looks delicious."

"Well, I hate to drop off your food and run, Vicar, but my family needs me at home today. If I don't see you later, Happy Christmas, and give us a good hug and kiss before we go."

I reached down and gave Mavis a lingering osculation that made her shrink within my grasp eventually. "Oh Vicar, you're such a naughty boy. If I didn't have a houseful of children. . ." She bustled out the door into the Currier and Ives scene out my back door..




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 05



While I enjoyed my meal, I listened to my recording of Handel's Messiah done on period instruments by Christopher Hogwood and the Academy of Ancient Music. The elegant simplicity of that recording I prized more than any with modern orchestras and choruses, and it put me in the holiday spirit. In the time between tea and the midnight service, I opened my mailbox and sent e-mails home to my parents and siblings.

The service went off beautifully in every way: the choir under Niall's direction was superb as usual, and the turnout was the largest yet. I didn't get fancy with the Christmas message; sometimes when we labor so thoroughly to gild the lily we forget the lovely flower that won our hearts in the first place, and so it is with this story. During communion, Jenny Button gave me a huge wink which completely discombobulated me as I gave her the host; she was wearing a plunging neckline that gave me an excellent view of her cleavage as she knelt at the altar rail. After communion, Mary Sterns stood up to announce that there was a great Christmas reception in the Undercroft immediately afterward, and since they were already awake at one in the morning, they bloody well ought to stay a bit longer to continue the celebration.

I thought it would be some punch and cookies awaiting us as I descended the stairs, but I was wrong. The Undercroft was decorated within an inch of its life with a massive tree in the corner; many kinds of sweets and cookies rested on the table beside some sandwiches, vegetables, and other substantial finger food. The great quilt the ladies were working on was hung across the front of the Undercroft, and Mary was selling chances for a drawing to possess it. Almost everyone at the service came down the stairs, settling at tables in family groups but individuals wandered the hall freely to chat with one another. The children started chasing one another in the open spaces of the room, while the youth collected in their own groups by gender. I floated through the room to say hello to everyone, and in the middle discovered that someone had hung a sprig of mistletoe. Agnes Sterns and Jenny Button came up to me with broad grins on their faces as I was talking with Percy Wilton and Stan Dover, pulled me head down and planted wet kisses on both my cheeks simultaneously before I knew what was happening. Percy and Stan pointed up and laughed themselves silly at my surprise and embarrassment.

The room was abuzz with all the conversations when Mary Sterns stepped up to a microphone and called for order. "Good evening, St. Dunstan's, and Happy Christmas. Are we all having a good time?" An uncoordinated set of cheers greeted her question. "Well, be sure and help yourself to more goodies, we've got a lot to go around. I promise that we won't have a long program, and Father Christmas will be here in a minute for the kiddies. We'll have the drawing for the raffle shortly.

"On a serious note, we had a very moving mission from our Rev. Brenda Porter a few months ago about her fine work in Australia. We haven't had formal campaign for her, but I can tell you that this Christmas, we've raised £5,000 for her mission in Alice Springs. Well done, St. Dunstan's." Warm applause replied to her announcement, and the room quieted down shortly after. "Now I'd like to ask Father Alfred to come forward for something special."

Oh no, I said to myself, what are they up to now? I was at the back of the hall and made my way forward with some trepidation; the look on Mary's face was reason to think that something I might regret was going to happen. Finally, I arrived beside Mary, who shook my hand and took out an envelope she had in her bag.

"Vicar, we know that you've been working very hard the past couple of months as we paid off the mortgage, and as you lead us through Advent season to get ready for tonight's celebration. I know that your work behind the scenes to help Rev. Brenda has also been untiring. So we're going to help you relax a bit." A round of applause greeted these words, and a picture taken at that moment had my face screwed in a ridiculous look.

"You've been planning this summer for a trip to our sister parish, to visit Rev. Brenda's mission and tell our sister parish about St. Dunstan's. Well, some of us have been thinking that it would be safer if this money order didn't have a chance to get lost in the mail, and it's fortunate that you're ready for a holiday. So here's a ticket for Australia; you leave the day after tomorrow."

My jaw dropped. What the fuck was going on here? I was going to Australia, now? How long?

"You'll be gone for three weeks, Vicar. We've got Rev. Jennings lined up to take your place while you're gone, and our Brenda knows you're on your way. She's looking forward to seeing you very much." Mary gave me a broad smile, handed me the envelope, and gestured me to the microphone.

I took my place reluctantly. "What? Really? Now? How come? Thanks, I guess. When did you set that up? Goodness gracious."

Mary put her arm around my shoulder. "We love the job you're doing for us here, Vicar, and we wanted to show you our thanks. God love you, Fr. Alfred, you're a real blessing for us all." The twinkle in her eye disturbed me, but I finally gathered myself to bow in appreciation as they gave me their heartfelt applause. I knew I didn't deserve it but a long shot, but it would be rude to stop them.

Harry Hazleton came out dressed as Father Christmas, and was immediately swarmed by all under the age of ten. He kept good spirits as he passed out trinkets to the boys and girls, saying: ". . .there's more under the tree at home for you there. I just came from your houses; and William, I caught you trying to peek at me from the top of the stairs. You'll have to be a better boy next year." Four year old William's jaw dropped at 'Father Christmas' insight, his eyes bugging out and he ran to tell his mother about how he was caught. The North Pole denizen then sat down on the podium and proceeded to let several young ladies of the parish tell him what they wanted for Christmas to the vast amusement of all, then some of the next generation came forward ending with Mavis, who wanted a new husband and received a smack on the derriere in response. Sheila won the drawing for the quilt, drawing cries of "Fix, fix." from the crowd, including her husband. The party kept rolling until three in the morning, and all drifted into the early Christmas morning laughing and at peace. 

Epiphany after evensong, Rev. Brenda Porter took me out for a picnic in the outback under the stars in her Land Rover. The promised comet trailed a long tail across the sky, three days away from disappearing on its loop around the far side of the Sun. We settled down on a bank next to an alkali pool, spread our blanket and laid back to look at the stars. It had been a lovely week: Brenda had shown me the entire area around Alice Springs and introduced me to her parishioners, who were eager to hear my stories from both Western Kansas and England. I was part of social gatherings and native rituals, tourist excursions and sedentary meditation. The nights together had been magic: we reveled in our physicality like old lovers reunited. Brenda had gone on the Pill for the month, so we could move as the spirit moved us, and I was able to indulge her anal desires until she was almost sated. 

We spread out the picnic and shared our snack with some cold beer. Afterward we stretched out side by side in wonder at the universe above us. "Penny for your thoughts," Brenda said.

I paused for thought. "This reminds me of home, Bren. The stars are all different, but the canopy of lights from horizon to horizon is just what I'd see from a hillside in western Kansas. The heat is about right, too, it's blazing there after dark in midsummer, just like here. I was just thinking about visiting home before I left, and since I was able to make this trip now, I can go back there this summer."

"That's lovely, Alfie. It'll do you good to see the home country, even if you struggle with it."

"It's sticky there after sundown as well."

"Well, if you're too hot, you're probably wearing too many clothes. Let me help you."

She started unbuttoning my shirt, pausing to run her hand over my sweaty chest, and pulled it back to trace her fingernails over my skin. I reached up to pull her t-shirt over her head, then undid her front clasp bra to release her full, heavy breasts. We spent a long time just moving our hands on each other's skin; I teased her right nipple with my finger, and she gasped. "It's been too long, Alfie, too long. Almost had an orgasm when Mary sent me the e-mail to tell me you were coming now rather than June."

"Bren, I almost popped my cork when I found out I was on my way. It was a reception after Christmas midnight Eucharist and it would have been embarrassing to soil my wide front in front of the whole parish."

Brenda chuckled. "Well, I'm glad they made it possible now, Alfie. My people are glad you're here, and you've made quite an impression on them. Wouldn't be surprised if they made you an honorary member of the tribe before you go."  

"Well, I like them as well; you have a warm, wonderful group of people to serve here. You're lucky, Bren."

"You are too, Alfie." She began unbuckling my belt and undoing my shorts. "I wonder if there's anything for me down here."

I stroked her bare back as she pulled off the rest of my clothes and started massaging my member. "I think you're a little to hot as well. Let me get you out of these." I unzipped her shorts and pulled them off, revealing her wonderful broad hips in the first quarter moonlight. My hand traversed the expanse, teasing her vertical smile with my fingertips as she bend over my cock. She rolled over and we started kissing deeply, rubbing our sweat slick bodies together as our hands moved all around each other's backs. Our tongues did a whirling Christmas dance, our bodies sought to make as much contact as possible, chest against breasts, belly against belly, crotch against crotch, legs entwined. I laid her on her back, and she stopped me to get something out of the hamper. It was a long, think cucumber, that she lubricated with some oil.

I took the oil and put some on my hand, then worked some of it into her pucker with my fingers as I prepared to delve into her moist vagina. She laid back and purred as I got three fingers into her rectum, then I started pushing my nine inch cock into her pussy lips. I felt the cucumber and moved my hand aside so she could guide it up her ass. As we thrust against each other, she worked the cucumber around with her free hand, sweat flying off our bodies in the evening's heat until we exploded simultaneously. 

We lay looking up at the stars for a while, holding hands, until I had recovered enough for another session. She had left the cucumber up her ass as she came up on all fours, and I inserted its twin into her still soppy swamp gradually. Kneeling before here, I was able to manipulate both vegetables while her exquisite mouth did its magic on my cock and balls. I was about to spend my load when I stopped, went around behind her, lubricated my erection, removed the cucumber from her ass and replaced it with my own greased imitation. 

"Oh Alfie, pound my ass, you wonderful man. I've been dreaming of your cock up my bum ever since my last visit home. What a spiritual experience this is, I feel the universe all around me and universal love coursing through my blood stream. Yes, yes, yes, Alfie. You're grand with the cucumber in my cunt as well, I think I'm coming unglued. Halfway in, yes, yes, keep going my love, keep going." Her tight rectum was heavenly around my John Thomas, and I knew it wouldn't be long before I fulfilled her deepest desire. "All the way in, let me savor it for a minute, Alfie love. Now pound me, stud, pound me. Give it to me rough, stud."

It was several minutes before Brenda screamed her ecstacy into the night, and shortly afterward I shot several times into her darkness. She asked me to stay inside her until I was completely spent and my pecker returned to flaccidity, which I did gladly. We lay entwined afterward, and she took a wet wipe to clean off my penis. The stars still shone down on us kindly, and the air was still and hot; the comet trailed its promise of a new age across the sky. "Happy Twelfth Night," Brenda whispered in my ear.

"Happy Twelfth Night, love."



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 06



A RAINY DAY'S LESSONS

Another slice of life at St. Dunstan's; for background, please consult the previous episodes Third in a flock of four. Feedback welcome.

*

"Hello, Vicar, staying dry?" Sheila's cheerfulness at the other end of the phone line belied the glum, grey early February day.

"No, Sheila, didn't have that option. Had to visit the hospital this morning, then teach the seniors of the choir school about the mystery of the Trinity."

"You did all that on a Monday? I thought you blokes only worked on Sunday." Snickers cascaded down the line on the heels of that quip.

"Sheila Button, I ought to turn you over my knee and paddle your backside beet red for that remark. You of all people surely know better"

More snickers reached my ears, and Sheila continued lightheartedly: "Well, tonight may be your chance, Vicar. Remember just before Christmas when I asked you for some help with Jenny?"

"Yes."

"Well, she's not working tonight, and Derrick's up at the Library getting ready for exams. I thought I'd bring her round when I brought over your tea and we'll teach her some of the finer things of life."

I stared at the receiver dumbfounded. The subject came up, and I didn't remember agreeing to it, but I didn't disagree with it. Shaking my head to clear it, I remembered one of the few things I'd learned in my years of pastoral ministry: if you give an ambiguous answer, the other person is going to assume you agreed with them and act on it. "I don't remember agreeing with this," I finally said.

"I know you didn't, you just said you'd think about it. Well, I don't want you to think about it; I want you to do it. I've got a lovely steak and potato for your tea tonight; I'll grill it medium rare, just as you like it, with sour cream for your baked potato and some lovely sprouts in fennel that you love. There's a lovely California Merlot to go with it, and a beautiful apple pie with some brie for afters."

My salivary glands cut in and began to argue for acceptance, but my mind wasn't so sure. "Yes right, and I'll take a photo series while you grill it for me wearing nothing but an apron."

class=Section2> 

"Ah, you're a treasure, Vic, that's an idea good enough I wish I'd thought of it. Jenny's just jumping up and down in excitement at the thought of coming round, like it's Christmas all over again."

"How's the relationship with Derrick going? Is he on track to make the big commitment?"

Jenny cut into the conversation. "Yes, Vicar. I think he may pop the question as soon as Friday night. I can't wait, I'm so eager I may get ahead of him."

It was something that I already knew, but I couldn't tell them. Derrick and I had been talking almost every other day, and he was so smitten with Jenny that he was looking for the right time to ask her to marry him. I finally sighed and said to them, "All right, I'll do it. Come over anytime."

"Be there in a tick." Sheila said. "Pull back the sheets."

I hung up the phone and looked out the window at the gloomy day. It was two in the afternoon, and this could last a while knowing Sheila. A banging downstairs reminded me that Percy Wilton was in the basement installing some exercise equipment for me in the new Recreation Room; I leaped down the stairs two at a time to speak with him.

Percy was brushing his hands after securing a bracket to the wall for my chin up station. He looked at me as I entered the room, and smiled. "Hello, Vicar. How's it look?"

"Grand, Percy. Well Done."

"Well, Vic, got a lot done so far today, had to move the walking machine across the room before I could get started. I figure that I can get the first three stations set up before five today, and we'll get the whole thing done by the weekend. Stan's over to help me tomorrow."

I fidgeted a little. "You look tired, Percy. You wouldn't be interested in calling it a day already, would you?"

He gave me a disbelieving look. "Well, I won't say it hasn't been tough on this thirty year old body with all the heavy lifting, but I can put in a full day's work for a full day's pay. I'm no slacker, Vic, I'm an honest man, particularly when I work for the Church."

"And glad I am that you're such a faithful son of the Church. But--the Bishop's coming round any minute and I'd like some peace and quiet to deal with him."

"Well, Vicar, that may be so, but there's some quiet stuff I can do while he's here. Needn't bother you at all. You've got old Horace in your back pocket anyway, word on the street says, and you've nothing to fear from himself."

I looked around and thought furiously. "Look, Percy, I need some space right now, and although I know you're a good son of the Church, it would give me some peace of mind if you'd knock off early." Pulling out my wallet, I drew out a twenty pound note: "Go collect Peggy and take her to a show, go the Pub and treat yourself to an early happy hour, whatever you want. I'll pay you for a full day today."

He took the note and looked it over. "Well, Vicar, I am feeling a little thirsty right now. Won't call Peg; she almost wore me out last night, the little vixen, and I need some space to recover my manhood before I see her again. I'll knock off right now if you want."

"Grand, Percy, grand. If this doesn't serve you, tell Johnny to put your drinks, and your drinks only, on my tab this evening, and I'll look for you and Stan tomorrow morning."

"Right, Vic, I'll grab my hat and coat and I'm gone. Mum's the word, and if there's anything I can do for you, consider it done. Bye, Vic." Percy almost had the light off and was out the door before I could turn and go back upstairs.

Sheila and Jenny bustled in the kitchen door with several bags, which they set down on the counter. They wore matching blue sweatsuits and sneakers under their coats, which struck me as rather odd attire considering the goal of the afternoon, but I let it pass. Quickly they unloaded their burdens on the counter, and Sheila then turned to give me a big hug and a kiss: "Hiya, Vicar."

Jenny came over to press her whole body against mine, her protruding breasts poking against my chest, and gave me a long, deep kiss before pulling back to look deep into my eyes. "Hello, Father Alfred," she said in a sultry voice.

Sheila swatted her on the shoulder. "I know you can do that bit, Jen, let's get to work organizing supper before we have our lessons upstairs. Have a drink while we're getting things together, Vic, and we'll be ready for you shortly." I got some ice from the icebox and poured myself a very stiff Scotch. Sitting at the table I got a view of the two women as they prepared a meal: like clockwork they had the potatoes in the oven; the sprouts and fennel in a steamer basket over a pot of water, ready for boiling; the rolls in a covered basket warming; the steaks laid out to come up to room temperature, and the grill inspected for readiness. It was amazing to see.

The tasks were done and Sheila turned to me. "I know you like to make love on an empty stomach, so let's go about our business upstairs now. Ready, Jen."

Jenny gave me a look and licked her lips. "Ready, Gran." They preceded me up the stairs, and walked into my bedroom where Jenny peeled back the covers on my bed. 

"All right, Jen, first lesson: taking off a man's clothes. Your Derrick probably hasn't needed much warming up, but after a while you may need to help jump start his engine. Taking off a man's clothes is a wonderful way to get him interested if you do it right."

Jenny knelt in front of me and started to unbuckle my belt. "No, no, no, Jen; you're going too fast. It's not a race to get him out before he pops his cork. Start with a kiss, a nice, gentle, long, deep kiss." She stood up and put her arms around my neck, pulling me gently toward her and meeting my lips softly and sweetly. After a moment, she opened her mouth and our tongues met, dancing with one another in a wet duet. "Good, Jen, that's a good start. You've got him interested. Now, while you're Frenching him, pull his jacket back and off her arms, one at a time." She pushed back my lapels and guided me out of the jacket, one arm at a time. Tossing it on the bed, she drew a reprimand, "Now Jen, don't forget to see the big picture. You're going to end up on the bed, so his clothes should go somewhere else. There's a lovely chair on the other side, guide the clothes there."

Sheila passed the jacket back to Jenny and she put it on the dressing chair. "Good girl, now you'll have to unbutton his shirt. Unless you're planning to date clergy, let's stop and let the Vicar undo his dog collar himself." We broke the kiss, and I reach back to undo the long, white, stiff collar, putting it on the dresser. Jenny pulled me back into a deep kiss, and her grandmother continued: "All right, first undo his sleeves, if you don't do those you'll never get the shirt off. Good girl, take your time. Now the other one. Grand. Now start at the top and work your way down. You may have to break the kiss but keep looking at him." She broke the kiss and gave me a very sultry look as she unbuttoned my shirt. Pulling it back over my shoulders, she deposited it on the chair next to my jacket. "Now before you go back to an embrace, you need to pull off his t-shirt, just grasp it by the bottom and pull it up over his head. Grand. Now you can kiss him again." Jenny clutched at me and pulled me forward so our mouths almost struck one another. "Not so fast, girl, take your time. You might hurt yourself that way. Back off and try again. Come in slow, yes, just like you did before."

Our lips touched, and once again our tongues were entwined. "Now come a choice: do you want to take all his clothes off or do you match his state of dress?"

Jenny pulled back. "I'd like to match him, Gran." She grabbed the bottom of her sweatshirt and started to pull up when her grandmother stopped her.

"No, no, Jen. If you're going to do that, take your time. It'll build up more steam;tease him a little bit, make him savor the revelation. That's right, yes, I like the turn away from him when the outer bit comes over your head. Now do the same thing with your t-shirt. Yes, girl, that's it."

Jenny was grinding her hips as she pulled her top up bit by bit. She turned and switched her weight back and forth, presenting one lovely buttock at a time, as her t-shirt went over her head, revealing a white bra. Reaching around to unclasp her bra, she let the straps pass over her shoulders before turning with her hands in front of her, holding up the bra and covering her breasts. The right hand threw the bra aside while the left covered her tits. She put her index finger in her mouth innocently in a moment of indecision before drawing her left hand away: her breasts were 36 C cups, sticking straight out and ending in two inch wide nipples, with no tan lines. Two golden bars graced her nipples, twin mementos of Wales, glinting in the afternoon light.

"Well done, Jen, you've really got him going now. See, he can barely keep his Willie in his pants."

I turned to Sheila. "If we're going to keep this even, you need to do your bit, Sheila. Let's get your top off as well." She gave me a saucy smirk, then pulled off her sweat suit top to reveal her slightly sagging boobs, graced by their set of bars installed in Wales the previous summer. 

Sheila stood silhouetted by the daylight from the window over looking a brick wall. "All right, Vicar. We're all even. Can we continue the lesson?"

"Sure, Sheila." She came over to kneel in front of me, pulling my pants off and my boxers to release my nine inch penis. Jenny moved over and gasped as it came out and her eyes grew wide. Her grandmother grasped my erection gently and started moving up and down the length of my shaft. As Jenny continued to undress me, she kissed my knees as my trousers came completely off, and licked my feet as my socks were removed. Sheila looked on approvingly, continuing her stroke without missing a beat.

"Now, Jen. When you wank your bloke, you need to be gentle when you start. If you pull too hard, it'll hurt and he'll lose interest. Long strokes are nice, but mixing up some short strokes up toward the head is a nice change of pace. The best is when you use a circular motion: the nerve endings get anxious because they don't know which will get tickled next. If you take your free hand down like this and juggle his balls very gently, it will turn him on even more. See how this is going: he's getting a some moisture coming out of the slit. Smear this around and he'll love you for it." Jenny watched rapt at her grandmother's technique, which I appreciated as well. "Now you try it."

Jenny came to take her place, and tentatively grasped my cock and stroked it slowly up and down. She went with the circular motion right away, and my cock responded for me. Licking her lips, she brought them very close to the head while she reached under to juggle my balls while she varied her strokes between long and short. "The smell of his cock is really turning me on, Gran. This is wonderful. Can I lick it now?"

"Yes, Jen, but just run your tongue over the head and around the rim. Oh yes, he likes that, see how his knees are trembling? Don't stop stroking him as you do this. Now work your way down the underside to the balls. Yes, take your hand away and lick his balls, a circular motion will get best results. How's that Vic?"

"Wonderful, Sheila. Jenny is doing very well indeed."

Sheila came over to stand next to us. "Now I want you to give me your finger. I'll suck on your finger and you suck on his dick. Just do what I do and see what happens. Make sure and cover your teeth with your lips." Jenny reached up with her right hand and put her index finger in her grandmother's mouth. Then she took the head of my member in her mouth, running her tongue around the corona and across the slit, driving me crazy. Then she sucked more and more of my erection gently into her mouth, teasing the underside with her tongue. Sheila removed her granddaughter's digit from her mouth and resumed her lecture: "Now, breathe through your nose and keep taking more and more in. Relax your jaw sweetie, it'll go easier. That's right, keep relaxing. Keep relaxing." Jenny had gotten five inches down her gullet but seemed to stop there. "You're not relaxed enough yet, sweetie."

Jenny pulled off my dick and complained. "But Gran, it's impossible to get a dick this big down anybody's throat. Can you do it?

"Of course, sweetie. Let me show you." Sheila took Jenny's place in front of me on her knees, and her wise tongue started its worship of my cock. After a few swirling licks, she started sucking inch after inch into her hot mouth, working it deeper and deeper until her nose was in my pubic hair, which she held for several moments before letting me out again. "You have to fight the gag reflex when he gets that fair, control your breathing, as long as you can breathe, and relax. Just imagine that you're swallowing him all the way down to your stomach and you'll make it. You can pour a pint directly into your stomach; I've seen you do it at the Pub. It's like that. Want to try again?"

"Sure, Gran." They switched places and Jenny started licking my corona again, driving me crazy. She worked me down, breathing slowly and relaxing, pushing past her gag reflex and past where she had gone before, until her nose was in my public hair as her grandmother's had been.

"Well done, Jen. If you can get the Vicar down, you can get your Derrick in there. He's a bit longer but not thicker. Don't hold him at the bottom longer than you can hold your breath; it's not good form to pass out with a man's cock all the way down your throat." Jenny started to work her way out, flicking her tongue around my corona and staying there until the electricity started to build in my twin batteries. Just as the tingle started building there, Jenny reached out to gently roll them again, increasing the current.

I didn't know where Sheila and Jenny wanted to go next, so I thought I should warn them. "Sheila, if she keeps up what she's doing, I'm going to come."

"And come you should, Vicar, you've lasted a wonderful long time so far. Jen, are you ready to finish the Vicar off in your mouth?"

"Mmm, mmmm."

"All right, let's have a try. You'll tell he's close by any noises he makes and more liquid that fills your mouth. Try to swallow it down and keep working with your tongue." She held her thumb up and blinked her eyes. "As his breath gets faster, stop tonguing and just suck, still wanking him with your hand. When he gets to the end, it will seem that the dick will grow dramatically in your mouth; then is when you should get ready to swallow." 

Jenny may have been inexperienced, but her grandmother's tutelage was turning her into a wonderful fellatiatrix. The current built and built in my battery pack; I held it back as long as I could before I released my discharge. Jenny eagerly sucked down every drop, tenderly squeezing my balls to milk me more. I almost fell down, the orgasm was so strong. She kept me in her mouth until I was limp again, when I sat down heavily on the bed while Jenny sat back on her heels in triumph, licking her lips.

I lay down on the bed, and reaching out, gave Sheila's right nipple bar a tweak. Sheila turned to Jenny and said: "Jen, why don't you run down to the kitchen and check the potatoes. It'll take a while for the Vicar to recover and we'll go through some other details."

"Yes, Gran." She bounced out of the room, her pert backside giving me a great demonstration in retreating of a firm, young ass.

Sheila gave me a deep kiss and stroked my chest. "Thanks, Vicar, you've been a gem so far. Did you have the talk with Derrick on oral sex?"

"Yes, it was a couple of days ago. We couldn't manage a demonstration like this, but I gave him some ideas to get him started. The most important thing is communication: did you tell Jenny that?"

"You bet, Vicar."

"And Jenny and Derrick haven't had sex yet?"

"No, Vic. Your advice was excellent: they went on several dates and got to know and get comfortable with one another while they were falling in love. Do you think it'll be all right if they have sex after they're engaged?"

"In the culture of Christ's time, betrothal involved conjugal rites; the wedding took place when the man was able to support a household. On the American frontier, couples would make a betrothal commitment and start living together with the agreement to make their vows when a minister got there. Sometimes, the children acted as witnesses to their parent's wedding."

"I see. Well, kids do almost everything with each other these days without even exchanging phone numbers, I guess. So you're saying it's all right after he pops the question."

"Yes, I think so. Is Jenny really a virgin?"

"Yes, believe it or not. She's never gone out with anybody more than three dates until Derrick, and I'm sure that they're not doing anything more than French kissing and some groping. You've got Derrick pretty well programmed, and I've been keeping Jenny under wraps until now."

"Are we going to show her what the positions are for normal sex?"

"Well, we'll start, but I'm sure she'll want to try a few things out herself."

It gave me quite a start to contemplate what I would be doing. "Are you sure you two want me to do this?"

Sheila looked me very seriously. "Jenny's told me that she's dreamed of you taking her virginity; it means everything to her for some reason. She knows she doesn't want to be a Vicar's wife, and she wants to marry Derrick. I don't know what's going through her mind, but it's harmless and it will mean a lot to her, even though she knows she can't breathe a word of it, ever. You can say no if you want; I know I've made a poor case of it because I can't describe how much this would mean to her, but I'll do anything I can to persuade you, no matter what it would be. I'll give you anything you may want for the house or a free trip, or a blow job every morning for the rest of your stay here; you can put me through any kind of perversion and broadcast it on the Internet if you want. This means the world to her"




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 06



A tear crept from her eye and I stroked her cheek. "You don't have to do anything to earn that, Sheila. The fact you are earnest that I do this for you is enough is enough to convince me, although I'm really not sure this is a good idea. If Jenny wants me to be her first rather than Derrick, then I'll do it for love of you." Sheila kissed my palm and up my arm to meet my lips, where she made love to my face until Jenny returned to the room.

"That looks wonderful, Gran. May I have a go?"

I looked at her. She was completely naked in the daylight: her dark hair hung down over her light brown shoulders, her pierced nipples were hardening; her flat stomach and puckered belly button pointed down to the gossamer spiderweb just above her labia; her round apple hips narrowed smoothly to her knees before swelling outward in shapely calves to narrow again at her ankles; her feet were the most lovely I'd seen in my life. Making love to this goddess would be a blessing.

"I'm not quite ready to start again," I said. "Why don't you review what you learned earlier today, Jenny."

"Yes, Vicar," she said huskily, and reached out to caress my half limp John Thomas. She crawled on the bed to sit between my legs, and when she licked the head of my cock, I could tell that she had been sucking mints downstairs. A little lip escaped and I felt a little sharpness; it wasn't enough to hurt, but it electrified me. "You can be a tiny bit toothy if you want, Jenny, but be very careful. If you scrape his cock hard with your teeth, at best he'll lose his erection and at worst he'll start to bleed and you may lose him completely." She pulled out and covered her teeth better before resuming. It took two minutes flat of her oral attention to bring me back to full staff after that. I gestured her away and patted the bed for her grandmother to lie down upon.

Sheila lay flat on her back at first, and a touch told me that she wasn't quite ready for penetration. A look and a nod and I took up the lecture. :"There are several ways to get a woman ready for sex: I'm going to show you a couple so you can talk your lover through them. The first is digital manipulation. See how my finger glides around her vaginal lips. I vary the sequence, occasionally paying more attention to this little bud on top. That's the clitoris, and something that will help your man give you a lot of pleasure. Notice the shivers that go through your grandmother's body as I touch it; I'm not staying there all the time yet because it takes a while to get her going. I found this out by experience, but also by communication. The best thing you can do for a lover is let him know what you like about what he's doing, and get him to do the same for you. 

"The other way to stimulate is through oral sex. Sheila, you need to take up the lecture now, I'll be busy." I went between her legs and started working my tongue up and down her lower lips.

"The Vicar is licking around the area of my vagina, lurking around and teasing me. I don't know if he coming in this time, or not. Oh, oh, oh, now he's licking my pussy lips, aahhhh, and getting that clitoris, or clit, every now and then. He's careful not to bite or blow, because either could mean pain or trouble. Oooo, now he's sticking his tongue right up my hole and working it around, my God that feels so good. Vicar, I'll give you a year or two to stop that. He can combine digital stimulation with oral technique, aha like that, oh my God, and if he keeps this up for another five minutes, you'll have to peel me off the ceiling." Since she was now very well lubricated, I decided to move on, rising up to my knees. 

I took over the lecture. "Now it's time to bring the yin and the yang together. Your grandmother is going to help me out by positioning me for insertion, do you see?" Jenny nodded her head, her eyes wide in fascination. "I'll plunge in gradually, so she can adjust to me up her vagina, even though we've done this before." I put the head inside first, and with broadening strokes I was soon pumping her full length. "Now, the woman doesn't just have to lie there and take it; she can thrust back in synchronization and it will feel better for her. If she grinds her hips, the sensations go up another level." Sheila started to grind her hips, and my breathing increased. "Oh yes, Sheila baby, that's very nice. Tell her about how you're feeling."

"Well, I don't have the silver tongue the Vicar has, but the hip action makes all the difference in the world. This is flat out lovely and wonderful. Walk around and see it from every angle, Jen." Jenny walked around as we pumped, taking mental notes. "Shall we switch now, Vic?"

"Yes, of course, this is a demonstration. Normally we'd stay at this until we came or we got tired and had to shift positions. Before we leave this basic position with the woman on her back, she can lift her legs up to several positions with her knees higher and higher. See how that changes the angle of penetration. I like it when a woman has her legs up over my shoulders: I can really get a good position to thrust almost straight down into the vagina, and the women I've known really love this position. Now let's flip over."

I let Sheila up off the bed and laid down on my back. She knelt over my erection and guided it into her cunt as she sat on my dick. "Jen dear, this is a great position as well, and the blokes enjoy it, too," Sheila began. "You get a lot of control over just how much he fills you up and you can vary the penetration for good effect. He can also play with your tits very nicely from here." I reached up to play with Sheila's breasts, drawing a long moan from her as her head lolled back for am moment. "Don't be afraid to try this one, or the other one we're going to do." After a few good pumps on my manhood, Sheila got off and got onto all fours, her favorite position and mine. 

"This is called 'doggy style' and it's a favorite of mine," I began. "It's a little tricky getting lined up, but the sensations at this angle are beyond belief." I started pumping Sheila from behind, she moaned and sighed as I gradually increased my pace. Reaching forward, I grasped the bars that impaled her breasts and gently toyed with them, sending her into another level of ecstasy. Jenny's face was fascinated at watching her grandmother getting so savagely impaled, and she reached down to finger herself while she licked her lips. Confident I could hold off, I brought Sheila to a shuddering orgasm, pulling out before I got too close to my own. She lay on the bed quivering for several minutes, grinning inanely.

Jenny lay down on the bed beside Sheila and opened her legs. "It's my turn now. Let's see how well I can do."

I took a deep breath. She was irresistible lying there: I was afraid that I'd shoot my wad all over her body before I could do what she wanted. Her legs were in the air, and she rubbed her damp pussy urgently to persuade me to do her will. Knowing her fascination for what she just saw, I started with her the same way I did with her grandmother, by touching and licking her slit.

A spasm took her as my tongue touched her clitoris, and her juices multiplied exponentially as I explored her sweet nectar, leading to a full set of uncontrolled quivering that lasted a full minute. She didn't need to tell me: that was her first orgasm. I paused several moments waiting for her to recover, and looked her in the eyes. She raised her legs and nodded, reaching out to guide my phallus to its destination.

Her virgin vagina was so slick that its initial resistance was minimal, but after I pushed the head in, I worked my way deeper very slowly, giving her time to adjust as she tried to take the whole thing. "Don't think there'll be blood, Vicar," she said. "I was a gymnast in school, and I've been borrowing Grandmum's dildo for two years now.." Winces accompanied every half inch deeper, but they were followed by looks of bliss as she got used to a new depth of insertion. 

"Do you want to stop here?" I asked.

"No, I want to take all of it. Keep going."

It seemed like an eternity, but I was able to get it all in, and a look of triumph settled on her face with her eyes twinkling in joy. She put her calves on my shoulders and started grinding her hips, and I began pumping slowly in and out, increasing to match her pace. Sheila rolled off the bed to watch for a moment, then left for the kitchen. After a minute or so, Jenny pushed me back, and wanted to turn me over so she could be on top. I laid down and let her impale herself on my cock; it took less time and she rode me hard while I fondled her firm breasts and played with her nipple jewelry. Two minutes later, and she stopped, getting on all fours and wiggled her hips in invitation. Coming around behind her, I slipped into her from behind, reaching up to toy with her wonderful tits and bringing her to another orgasm before I ejaculated.

She fell down to the bed just as Sheila reentered the room. Smiling broadly, she said, "Are you two finished yet?"

"No, Grandmum, the Vicar hasn't come yet. We need to make him come."

"Well, Jen, there's several ways we can do that."

I nodded my head. "I think I'm about to pop, and I need to if I'm not going away from this session with blue balls."

Jenny sat on the bed in front of me and kissed the end of my member. Turning to her grandmother, she said: "I want to take him up my ass."

Sheila gave her a dubious look. "I haven't been brave enough to do that yet, Jennifer Marie, although I know one or two people who have. This will take some lubrication, and I'm not sure we have anything here that will serve."

"Jenny, you don't have to do that," I interjected. "You can blow me again, or let your grandmother have some of the fun."

She sprung off the bed and reached into her bag, producing a wax wrapped cylinder. "I've got a stick of butter here, at room temperature. This will do the trick."

I patted my foot in nervousness while my John Thomas stayed at full attention at the sight of the delicious posterior. "It was a chore coming in the front door as it was. The back entry will be much more difficult."

"I want you to take all three kinds of my virginity tonight, Vicar. Yours was the first cock I 

sucked and yours was the first dick I fucked. Give it to my butt the first time, please and I'll not bother you again."

Her grandmother rolled her eyes and looked at me. "When she's this determined, the only thing to do is let her try it. Use the butter and see how far you can go."

I took the butter from Jenny, and unwrapped it. She lay on her back on the bed, throwing her legs up and her hips forward to present her dark channel. Massaging her little pucker, I used more and more butter until I pushed one finger, then two into her rear passage. "You'll have to relax even more, Jenny, use that gymnast flexibility. That's good, we've got two fingers up you; I want to work three in before I try the main weapon."

She grimaced and relaxed. "All right, Vicar, you're the boss." Another pat of soft butter, and the third finger had forced its entry; she squirmed as it came in but settled down and focused on the positive sensations. I brought her hand down and put it on her clitoris; she took the hint and began to play with herself, which helped the process even more. Gesturing, I got up back up on all fours for the last dance.

I got all the butter inside her before I lined up my intruder. Putting it directly on her pucker, I said: "All's ready, Jenny. We'll take this at your pace: just back up as much as you can take and take your time. Don't. . ." 

She started pushing immediately, getting the head through the tight ring of muscles almost immediately. Groaning, she leaned back more, working me deeper and deeper while frigging her clitoris. This was going quicker than the initial penetration of her virgin cunt; when we hit the half way point, she initiated longer and longer strokes. Finally, she accomplished what I thought impossible: I was in up to my balls and pumping her hard. I grabbed her right breast she moaned, and the biggest orgasm of the night took her; I popped out as she lay there to shudder on the bed. 

Sheila brought over some wet wipes to de-grime my erection. She started wanking me to

bring me off, and Jenny came over to let me blow my seed on her face, closing her eyes and opening her mouth to take in as much as the milky whiteness as she could. When I'd stopped pulsating, she licked the head clean and sucked out every last drop before scooping globs from her face to swallow.

Sheila gave my flaccid penis and long, slow kiss before I got dressed. We took the photo series of Sheila grilling steak wearing nothing but an apron, and Jenny wanted some cheesecake shots naked on the rug and couch. The girls put their clothes on and the meal was excellent as usual; Sheila's culinary craft was undimmed. Jenny kissed my hand rather than my lips in parting, and turned without looking back.

Her grandmother gave me a big kiss and hug. "I don't know how to repay you."

"Don't worry about it. There's only one thing I want to know."

"What?"

"Pulling out early is very unreliable as birth control. Let me know when her next period comes."

"Right, Vic."

A couple of weeks later, I was reassured when Sheila sent me an e-mail titled ALL CLEAR. The next day, Derrick and Jenny were in my office to announce their engagement and ask me to help prepare them for their life together... 



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 07



KEEPING THE WITSONS TOGETHER

Another slice of life at St. Dunstan's; for background, please consult the previous episodes Last in a flock of four. Feedback welcome.

"Father, you've got to help us. You're the only one we trust, and we want to save our marriage. Please, Vicar, please."

I sat back in my chair as I regarded Percy Witson and his wife Peggy. Percy is a handyman in the area, doing a lot of odd jobs around the Parish and working with his buddy Stan Dover he made enough to get by. Peggy is a receptionist for a local surgery, her hours are regular. They're both around thirty and have been married for ten years, have no children and their relationship was deteriorating. Percy's nose was on the large side and his eyes bugged out, and Peggy's nose was very small and her eyes deep set; both would be called rather plain. Average height and weight, not extremely beautiful, but not repulsive; good hearted dependable people who could once be called the bedrock of the Empire.

Why did they come to me? My marriage hadn't worked, and most of the happy couples I knew, like my classmates Terry and Gerry in Chicago, were so natural together that I believed fate destined them for each other and nothing could pry them apart. There were things from my parent's relationship I could probably use, as well as my training from Seabury Seminary in Chicago, but I felt so inadequate to help Percy and Peggy. The only reason I could justify for trying is they were simple people who thought I was a holy man, and they probably wouldn't accept a referral to a marriage counselor.

"All right, Percy, Peggy, I'll do what I can, but you'll have to trust me even if I ask you to do some things you think are silly."

Peggy leaned forward. "Of course, Father. I'm willing to do anything to save my marriage."

"All right, maybe the first thing to do is find out where you are now. Percy, what do you find most affirming about Peggy?"

"What's affirming mean?"

"He means something that makes you feel good about yourself, you daft man."

"Oh. Well, she does the washing regular."

"I see. Peggy, what do you find most affirming about Percy."

"He brings home his checks."

"Good, good," I said, while my mind went into overdrive. My God, what's holding these people together, habit? Well, got to try the dark side. I took a deep breath and said: "Well, what do you find most challenging about Peggy, Percy?" He put his hand on his mouth to think, and before Peggy could help me, I helped myself: "What is it that bothers you most about Peggy?"

"Where do I begin? I have to say that she always seems to think I should be somebody else."

"Ooo, that's a surprise. I'd have said that his problem is that I never what to shag him when he wants to shag."

"And what to you find most challenging about Percy?"

"He never wants to shag."

"That's not fair, I gave you a good shag a month ago, nearly wore myself out and fell asleep at work next day."

"Some shag it was; I could have watched Telly while you were shagging me and been just as entertained."

"Well, who do you want in your bed, Pierce Brosnan?"

"Stephen Fry would be more stimulating than you."

"Stop, stop, for the love of God, stop," I cried out. They were looking at each other with fire in their eyes, and I was afraid I'd lose them before we could even get started. "It's almost like you two have to start all over again. Starting over in some ways would be a better idea. All right, you've got to learn how to talk to each other, communication is the main thing."

Percy gave me a dubious look. "Can we learn in fifteen minutes, Vicar? I've got to be at work soon, and Peg's got to be at the office as well."

"All right, let's do a little bit per day, let's try it that way. When you get home tonight, I want you to talk to each other, but no one is allowed to say anything negative. If don't can't say anything nice, don't say anything. Not that you shouldn't talk; just don't talk about things that will start an argument. Can you do that?"

"Sure, Vicar," Peggy said, "We can do that."

"Yea, Vic. We'll give it a try."

"Great, come around tomorrow at the same time and tell me how you did. Have a great day." They left, and I put my head in my hands. Monday included a Diocesan Planning Commission, which was an exercise in futility, and a crabby old rag and bone man ranted in my office for two straight hours in the afternoon about how the country was going to pot before asking for a handout. I checked his background and found out he was a fraud, and tossed him out gladly. Scotch made the evening bearable.

The next day, they filed into my office solemnly. I sat at my desk and looked at them; they looked at me. At last I said: "How's it going?"

"All right, Vic," Percy said.

"Yeah, all right," Peggy added.

"How did things go at home last night?"

"Peg made a roast that was all right, boiled potato, carrots. I ate it all up."

"Percy took the trash out to the dustbin."

"Yes, and we talked, Vicar."

"We talked."

More silence hung heavily in my study. "Well, what did you talk about?"

"Well, we talked about the weather."

"There's a new show on the Telly tomorrow, with Ardal O'Hanlon, we talked about watching it."

"He's dead funny, Vic. We both laugh at Ardal no matter what he's in, he's so goofy."

"Did you talk about politics, what's happening in Parliament?"

Peggy sat straight up in her chair. "We're both Tories, Vic, and Labour is ruining this country, Tony Blair is an evil man."

"Oh yes, Vic, things have been dreadful since Tony Blair went in. He's such a puppy dog around the President of the United States, and we used to be an independent. . ."

"All right, all right, you agree on your politics." I interrupted. That's one hot topic I can cross off my list. "How about money? Are you doing all right with finances."

"We're hanging in there, Vic," Peggy said, ."We'll be better off when that Tony Blair goes back to his rabbit hole, but we pay the bills, put away a bit for a rainy day, and have a little for play."

"Oh yes, Vic. I only go down to the Pub once or twice a week, and I don't gamble much. Peg is a thrifty lass and we don't need posh stuff around the house. She has her dolls from her mum she likes, and we're content."

All right, cross another hot topic off the list. Maybe it's the family, that might be it. "How's your folks, Percy."

"Oh fine, fine. They moved to Mallorca a couple of years ago, so we hardly see them."

"Percy's folks are good people; I've always enjoyed me time with Mrs. Witson, and Percy gets along great with his dad."

"Her dad is long gone, and her mum is no bother, Vicar. Peg's mum could live with us if she had to, no problem, I'm happy."

"But you're not happy. You agree on a lot of things that break people apart: politics, money, family. What do you have problems with?"

"Dunno, Vic. Sometimes I wish she'd be a better Christian and obey me a bit more, ya

know, like the Bible says. I get frustrated."

"And why should I obey him? He's a decent bloke but he's got no ambition. Ten years ago he was an eager beaver, always on the make, always trying to better himself. Now, puh, he's turning into another slob like Harry Hazelton or Bert Button. Besides, the Bible also says you should challenge the fool in his folly."

"Those men are not slobs, they are respectable men who deserve our respect for living a long and productive life. They need their rest, and their wives do well to keep from bothering them." 

I clapped me hands to get their attention. "I think you need a change of scene. When you're at home, you tend to get stuck in the same topics, same attitudes. A nice meal out can help. There's a nice little place a couple of blocks away called Crimini's; an Italian place, good food, good atmosphere. Try to recapture a little romance in your life, let the violin music take you out of your routine. Tell Guiseppe you're my friends, and he'll take good care of you. Trying that tonight and come back tomorrow." They filed out of my office glumly, but the fact they still had a lot in common was a hopeful sign, I thought. If I could just get them to have a little more in common.

Tuesday was a grey day, and I worked at my desk to try to get ahead on my Sunday sermon. It was giving me trouble; my sermon from three years ago was perfectly fine, but I was feeling I was repeating myself. Dinner at the Pub meant I got to see some friendly faces, but I made a bad choice from the menu, and the aftereffects kept me from sleeping well.

Wednesday morning saw no change in the weather, and no change as Percy and Peggy filed into my office. "How did dinner go last night? Did you have a good time?"

Peggy nodded her head: "Good, Vic, good. It's a nice place, and the prices aren't too bad."

"Your mate Giuseppe took good care of us. He's all right."

"What did you have for dinner?"

"We had spaghetti and meat sauce."

"Me, too. It was right nice, and the best thing was I din't have to cook it."

What was I missing? "Didn't you find Crimini's romantic?" 

Percy looked confused. Peggy was also a bit puzzled and said: "Well, it was a bit darker than it should have been. The little guy with the violin was a bit annoying."

"Cor, there's nothing I hate worse than soppy Dago tunes scraping through the night."

"Were we supposed to get romantic there, Vic?"

I bit back the urge to say 'yes, you daft woman'. The Quilting Ladies found it charming, and even Derrick Sterns and Jenny Button liked it when I took them there. "What did you talk about?"

"Well, we talked about the weather, Vic," Percy began. "We had to record the show with Ardal in it, so we talked about when we were going to look at it."

"We talked about making a baby," Peggy said distantly. 

"Yeah," echoed Percy, "But we couldn't do much about it."

Red Flag! "Say more. How come you couldn't do much about it?"

"Well, we just weren't ready. My Willie wouldn't come up, and Peg was dry."

"Didn't you do any foreplay? Anything to pique your interest?"

Peggy looked confused. "Like what, Vic?"

"Did you kiss or anything before you went about this?"

Percy thought for a moment. "A little Vic, but we give each other a kiss every day before we go off to work."

"Did you kiss like when you were dating?"

They both laughed. "We aren't dating any more, Father," Peggy said, "Cor, we're supposed to snog in the back seat like teenagers?" She almost feel off her seat laughing.

"Cor, Father, I don't have to go shopping for milk anymore; done bought me a cow." Their hysterics continued, and Percy fell off his chair to writhe on the floor. Well, I thought to myself, at least I've got them laughing together.

It was a couple of minutes before they settled down, and looked at me with to say something profound. I thought feverishly for a few moments, then said: "All right, we've had fun this morning. Have some more fun together tonight. Watch your Ardal show together. What else do you like to do for fun?"

"We like to go to the Pub." Percy said.

"Yeah, when he pays me attention, I like the Pub, too."

"Well, go to the Pub tonight, but play together rather than drift off to your little friends. They'll understand. All right, off to work with you." They left chuckling, and I wondered how necessary I was necessary to this operation.

Wednesday was my day to visit the Choir School classes, which is a great change of pace. The seniors were in the mood to talk about the nature of Good and Evil, so an intelligent philosophical dialogue was wonderful. I went jogging after lunch, hoping it would stimulate my brain to an insight, but it didn't. After a tea of sandwiches, I was called over to the hospital to attend the family of a dying man, which took up the whole evening.

Lent hung heavily outside on a Thursday morning . I was getting tired of the rain. Charlotte Church's voice singing excerpts from Carmen didn't lighten my mood. It was disgusting .I didn't have to wake up early, but my eyes popped open at 5:00AM and sleep would not return. Sitting in my kitchen nursing my coffee wearing my pyjamas and bathrobe, I mused on how I missed the Quilting Ladies. Sheila was visiting her oldest son in Wales and Mary was in Belgium on business. Mavis was due the night before, but it would be evening before she dropped by. 5:15 AM. If I were a smoker, I could light up and spend some time ruining my health. I looked out the window; the darkness remained. Percy and Peggy's lack of understanding and self-awareness weren't helping, either.

At 5:30, a squat form let herself in the door and threw her head back; Mavis had come over for a visit. She took her coat off, revealing her nightgown covered by a bathrobe over Wellingtons: a quintessential Englishwoman out for an early morning chore. I looked at her in amazement: a squat, chubby woman barely over five feet tall, with greying hair and the biggest set of breasts I've ever seen. Giving me a huge, wet kiss, she bustled over to the stove and began putting pans on the burners, which she started. "What are you doing, Mavis?"

"Couldn't sleep, Vicar, and saw your light. Figured you could use a friendly face in the dark of night, and a bite to eat. Bacon and Scrambled Eggs, right? Toast, done on both sides as you like it?" 

"Well, yes, I'd like that Mavis. Thanks."

"Done then. Fifteen minutes and we'll have breakfast. Drink your coffee and all will be well."

Pulling food out of the icebox, she went about her work with energy and drive. I couldn't believe he could wake up this energetic. "When did you get in last night, Mavis?"

"Oh, is was about nine, Vicar. Harry picked me up at the station and took me straight home. I'm still a bundle of energy, and was awake at 4:30. Minding my own business, wondering what to do first, and I saw your light. It's been too long, so I figured if I fixed you a lovely breakfast on the awful morning, you might give me some nice, dirty business before you got on with your day.

"Well, I don't have an appointment until 9:00, so I guess I can work you in."

"Look, I've found some lovely mushrooms. Interested?"

"Sure. How about sauteing them and putting them in the scrambled eggs?"

"Never heard of that before. Let's give it a try."

Even though Mavis isn't the best cook in the parish, she's very capable and turned out a delicious breakfast for us. Washing as she went, all that was left at the end of the meal for the sink were the plates and silverware we were using. The clock read 5:55 as we finished. "Three hours for fun," Mavis giggled.

"Where do you want to go?"

"The last time I was over, you moved the old prie-dieu out of your room. Where did you put it?"

I thought for a moment. "Percy and Stan put it in the basement, where I have my weights. It's standing by itself, but the room is a junkyard."

A gleam came to her eyes. "Let's have a look."

We descended to the basement. Down a short hallway was a musty room, half full of stuff. The prie-dieu was by itself at one end of the room next to the wall; the other side held old furniture, tools, twine, and half full cans of paint. The temperature was noticeably chillier than upstairs. My weights were next to the door; my resolution to lift was still dormant by the mess of the room. It was lit by a bare bulb from a fixture in the dead center of the ceiling, casting eerie shadows around the place.

Mavis looked like a kid in a candy shop. "This will do, luv, this will do."

"What are you talking about?"

"I've always loved horror movies every time I was scared I was aroused at the same time. Four of my lassies were conceived right after I watched a horror show."

"All right, you're got your decrepit dungeon. What's next?"

Going over to the corner, she picked up a backless wooden chair and two pieces of twine approximately eighteen inches long. Rooting in the toolbox produced some C clamps and a small whisk broom; when she got all this back to the antique furniture, she pulled a length of rope, a rubber spatula and two small metallic objects from her huge bathrobe pockets. The tools went on the ledge initially while she experimented with the chair in the midst of the gap between the kneeler and the ledge. It barely fit, and she tried it out by sitting on it. A broad smile creased her face; she then brought an old nightstand over by her improvised dungeon area. The tools went on the nightstand and she turned to smile and bow at me.

"I"m ready, luv."

I shook my head. "All right, dear. What are we doing with all this?'

Her bathrobe came off to rest on the kneeler and her nightgown followed it. She wore a huge white bra and massive blue panties underneath; the bra came off releasing her gigantic breasts, covered by seven inch wide nipples that immediately perked to rock hardness. Sitting on the chair, she lifted her heavy breasts onto the ledge and gave me a goofy grin. "First, Vicar, I want you to tie my hands to the side of this thing with the twine. Not do it too tight, but it should serve."

"I don't know, Mavis, but if you say so."

"I've done my homework, Vic, it'll be all right."

"All right, dear. Here we go." I tied her hands easily; the prie-dieu had several ornamental carvings that accommodated bonds that I used with the Bishop's daughter. Mavis shivered from the chill and anticipation. The implements she gathered were impressive: only thing that I didn't see before were two horse spurs from on a shelf in the kitchen: souvenirs of my childhood on the Western Kansas ranch. Her big eyes looked up at me with a defiant smirk, daring me to do something. I traced my finger lazily on the top of her breast, flirting with the areola but staying away. Eyes closed, her lip quivered at the contact, and after avoiding the huge brown target, I finally crossed the line and made figure eights on the huge nipples, circling the thick nubs before moving off to ivory whiteness. An imp had me reach for her exposed armpits and ribs, and I had her laughing hysterically as long as I wanted.

When she calmed down, she caught her breath. "Vicar, you can do anything at all to my tits or backside, anything. You can pick up anything right there and run it over the skin or whack it or clamp it down. It's frightening what can happen, I've got no control, but it's turning me on like nothing else. The pain is no problem; I've tried it out on me own and I can take whatever you can dish out. G'wan, g'wan."

I picked up the C clamps first. It was like the clamps and chain we used for our titfucking sessions, so I put it on her thick nub. Round and round the bar went as the clamps bit down; she panted and moaned as they got tighter until she bade me stop. The other went around its mate, tighter and tighter until she gave the signal. "Oh, lovely Vic, lovely." I moved around behind her to trace my fingernails on her huge hips. Squirming in her seat, I broadened my pattern and reached around to get her flabby thighs. Soon I set a pattern where she thought I was headed for her clitoris, but I veered off at the last minute. I switched to trace my fingernails on her breasts for a few moments, before returning to her hips and thighs. Her breathing accelerated and decelerated as I moved on her body, and her seat grew damp with the nectar she was producing. 

Her breasts were sitting there begging for attention, so I took a spur next. Huge worried eyes followed it as I waved it slowly in front of her face, then gradually made contact with her flesh. The rolled up and down her mountains leaving red dots that disappeared quickly; when they invaded the brown areola, she moaned and cried as they traversed her sensitive skin. I took the other one and two wheels of sharp points pricked her: she cried out: "Harder, Vic, harder. Ooh, yes, push them down." After circling her reddening nubs several times I put them down and began to lick the unclamped part of her nipples. I knew it would bring her close; Mavis frequently orgasmed with nipple stimulation alone. She breathed quicker and quicker growing close; I jiggled the clamps and got yelps in reply. 




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 07



Now came the whisk broom: I traced the stiff bristles on her skin as she moaned. Once I sailed over the edge too quickly and she cooed: "You can do that again. I love the bristles raking my skin, and the stiff brushing is nice, too." Repeated the tracery, I shifted to intermittent brushing motions; her breathing grew faster when I did that, her face contorting with the strokes but returning to joy quickly. I stroked the irritated skin for a few moments with my open palm before brushing some more. She encouraged me more and I swept harder and began to work on her nipples. Her hands opened and close and pulled at her bonds; I knew from her reactions that she was close to orgasm. I went crazy raking the whisk broom all over her breasts, moving around but never letting up, leaving bright red tracery on her skin as she squirmed in her chair. 

Her clamped nipples were just starting to turn purple, so I knew it was time to bring her over the edge. My target became her nipples, whipping the broom against them as her mountaintop got closer, closer, closer. "Ow, ow, ow, yes Vic, that's the ticket. Harder, harder, faster, faster, yeoow, yes. Don't stop, don't stop, I'm almost there." As she went over the top, I released the clamps as she howled like a banshee, and massaged the thick nubs as the blood returned to them. Shuddering, she came back down to earth as I untied her hands. Her heads went at first to her tits, but soon they found my pajama bottoms where she pulled out my erection. Her mouth was a whirlpool and her tongue a tornado that quickly convinced my already loaded balls to send rivers of hot, sticky oatmeal down her hungry mouth to complete her breakfast.

My watch told me it was ten minutes to seven, and I relayed that fact to Mavis. She laughed: "I told you so, Vicar. We're done and it's not even seven. You've given me a little ray of sunshine, and we never got 'round to the spatula." She put her nightgown and bathrobe back on and turned to go back upstairs.

"You've got to leave the spurs with me." 

"Oh, did these fall in my pocket? How clumsy of me."

"You can find something like this at almost any curio shop over here."

"I'll look for it, Vicar." She smiled and bustled back to the kitchen to reclaim her coat and disappear into the greying day.

I went for a run, then showered just in time to meet the Witsons. Their mood was a little brighter this morning, so I took that as a good sign. They sat in front of me expectantly, on the edge of their chairs. "All right, did you have fun last night?" They nodded their heads like children. "What did you do?"

Percy began: "Well, first we watched Ardal. He was so funny, we had to look at it again."

"He's such an eejjit." Peggy chuckled.

"Then we went to the Pub for some games."

"How did that go?"

Peggy spoke up, "Well, I wiped the floor with him at snooker, but beat me pretty badly at darts and dominoes."

"I never was any good at snooker."

"Whiner."

I broke in. "And what did you do when you got home?"

"Went to bed, Father. We were tired and needed to go to work today."

My hopes dropped like a rock. Once again, I missed, but something was going right and I just didn't know how to spin it. "Did either of you have, warm feelings?"

Percy and Peggy looked at each other and nodded. "Did either of you get a little, randy?"

The puzzlement I'd seen frequently the past four days returned. They didn't connect their activities of the evening to anything in fact, their competition gave them a bond, but not the one I was looking for. Thinking through what I said the day before, I was ready to kick myself: there really weren't any non-competitive bar games. Maybe I was trying to go too fast, but maybe I didn't have the right station for them to tune into yet. Oh shit, I thought, time for a new direction. 

"All right, let's keep the light hearted atmosphere going, but tonight focus on being exceptionally kind to each other. Watch a little Telly, have a little laugh, have a good supper, but work at being nice to each other. You know what each of you like; use that knowledge. Anticipate one another's desires. Love is about little things."

"All right, Vicar, we'll give it a go."

A deanery meeting was that day, which meant boring business with the other pastors in the area, but a nice lunch and a chance to hang out with the guys. The Reverend Bill Foster of St. Michael's sat next to me at lunch, an experienced pastor nearly seventy and retiring next year. He was famed at working with couples, so I poured my heart out to him about my frustration working with the Witsons. He though for a moment, and said: "These folks seem to think in catagories: you tell them to have fun, so they have fun; you tell them to go out to dinner, they go out to dinner. They don't see the whole picture or how things work together. You need to break down the compartments in their lives. Try something that will take them out of the ordinary and make them cross boundaries."

"Thanks, Bill. Don't know where I'll go with that, but thanks."

"Hey, the Spirit will lead you at the right time. Have faith."

I returned to work on my sermon after I got home, and by the end of the afternoon it was in good shape. Mavis brought over my Tea, smiling a smile that couldn't be cured with surgery, and I watched a video of The Marriage of Figaro recorded at Covent Garden and fell asleep right afterward.

Friday morning was continued gloom inside and out. Percy and Peggy were downcast as they entered my study, and I was taken aback. Shit, what have I done wrong? I should have never tried counseling them, should have sent them to a therapist at gunpoint if I had to. They refused to look at me as they sat there a long moment, until I asked: "How's it going?"

"Fine."

"Fine."

"How did last night go?"

"All right."

"All right."

We sat in silence a while. I wasn't sure how to start with them, and perhaps the lack of input would get one of them to talk. Peggy said at last: "I've failed him."

"Oh?"

"Yes. We had a lovely evening: we had Indian take away, and watched the Telly. Percy was a dream, getting me drinks and holding my hand. I snuggled up to him all warm; it was like we were teenagers again, but we din't have to worry about Mum and Dad finding us. He was sitting on the couch and I was lying with my head in his lap, with my hand on his thigh. Well, his Willie started to get interested, so I just wandered my hand up and down his bulge."

"That sounds good, Peggy. What happened next?"

"Well, I looked up at him and he had this look in his eye. I knew what he wanted, but I've never been able to do it before."

"What that?"

"Take his Willie in my mouth. He hasn't asked me for years, but I know he's seen it in the dirty movies he watches, and I know he'd just love it if I could. So I unbuttoned his fly and his breathing went wild. I took his Willie out and stroked it with my hand. The smell curled my nose hairs, Vicar, but I was determined. Taking a few deep breaths helped me, and the air on his Willie got him harder, so I closed my eyes and put him in."

"What happened then?"

"Well, almost spewed on the spot. The taste was bad, and I kept remembering what my Mum said about what good girls did and din't do, and I always was a good girl, I was." She started crying, and Percy reached out to put his arm on her.

"Maybe if you could be there to help us, Vic?" Percy asked.

"What?"

Peggy cried another minute, then said soggily, "Oh yes, Vicar, we do what you ask us and everything's fine, but we always get stuck and don't know what to do next. Would you help us, Vic?"

Oh boy, what a Friday this was turning into! I looked out the window at the drizzle a moment, then turned to them. "You mean you want me to watch you try to make love?"

"Yes, Vicar."

"Yes, Vic."

I looked out the window and said to them. "I'm not sure. There are licensed sex therapists who know what they're doing that can help you better."

"No, Vic, we won't be having that." Percy said.

Peggy nodded her head. "We can't get naked in front of strangers, Vic. We know you; you're like family."

This was crazy. At length, I gave in. "All right, I'll try to help you."

"Grand," said Peggy, and knelt before Percy to unbutton his fly.

"Wait, wait, wait, this isn't the way to do it." Peggy stopped and looked up in dumbfounded. Percy's mouth came open. "Here is not the place to do this, and neither is my bedroom upstairs. Percy, did you and Stan get the old housekeeper's rooms fixed up like I asked?"

"Yes, Vicar. Ready for action."

"And if I remember rightly, there's a huge bathtub in the bathroom there."

"Yes, Vicar. Gigantic, Mrs. Hazelton could take a swim in that bath."

"Be nice, Percy. All right, but you have to do what I say. First, call in sick today at work, both of you. You haven't done that lately, have you?"

"No, Vicar. I'll call now." said Percy. He flipped his cell phone open and hit the speed dial.

"But Vicar, Dr. Roberts is counting on me," Peggy said.

"Look, if need be, I'll talk to Jerry for you. Make the call and see if you can manage it." We need to strike while the iron's hot, and waiting all day will just make things more difficult, I said to myself..

Peggy looked confused, but made the call. After a few moments, she handed me the phone, and I convinced Dr. Roberts to let her off without telling him any more than I had to. "Just call it emergency marriage therapy, Jerry. We need to do this now."

"Are you sure, Alfred?"

"No, but I know now's the time to try. Can you do without her today?" 

"Sure, Alfred, we can do without her today. Good luck; I'll pray for you."

"Thanks, I'll need that."

Percy rang off and nodded. Peggy bit her lip and looked anxious. "All right, here we go. Preparation is everything. Peggy, I want you to run a nice, warm bath in the housekeeper's flat, and make sure there are clean sheets on the bed. There's a closet in the connecting hallway that should have everything you need. Then pull down all the blinds of that apartment. Percy, next door is a candle shop. I want you to pick up some scented candles, anything with a berry in it or lavender or sage. Then run by Cliff's down the block and pick up some ice cream toppings: whipped cream, chocolate sauce, sprinkles, mint candies, anything you like. Meet me in the sitting room of the housekeeper's flat when you're done. All right?"

Peggy looked hopeful, but Percy was confused. He sputtered: "All right, Vicar. Are we having ice cream for afters?"

"Yes, Percy, we're having ice cream, but I've already got a full icebox of that, so you don't need to get any."

"Done, Vic. Back in a tick." He bolted out the door, and went down the stairs.

"Are you all right with this, Peggy."

"I guess so, Vic. It sounds strange, but we're counting on you, so I guess I should go along with it."

"Thanks, Peggy. I think it will help. Just relax and get about your work."

She went down the stairs and I followed a minute later. Figuring it would take around fifteen minutes for the tub to fill and Percy to make his rounds, I went over to the church for some quiet time alone. St. Dunstan's is a lovely old church, a miniature St. Paul's, with lots of statues and ornamental carvings. I stopped in front of a fine old oil painting of the Crucifixion.

"You had it tougher I know, but your disciples were pretty clueless too, weren't they? You had to come back from the dead before they caught on, didn't you, and it was still uphill work as you went out to Emmaus that Sunday afternoon. I don't know if I'm helping these people, and what I've got in mind today is pretty crazy, but you must have loved crazy people, and you still do as far as I know. Don't know where this idea came from, but I have a hunch. Help me, please. These are wonderful folks, they need to stay together, and they don't need the pain of splitting up or letting their marriage turn into a sterile wastland. What God has joined, right? Well, I think you've joined these two fairly well, even though they don't know it, we just need to bang in a couple of more nails, so to speak. Amen."

Fifteen minutes later found Percy, Peggy and I sitting in the little parlor of the housekeeper's flat off the kitchen hallway. They looked at me eager to find out what was going to happen next, and I didn't leave them hanging.

"All right, I think the first thing to do is relax and get comfortable with each other. Go back to the bathroom and get in the bath."

Percy leaned forward, tapping his hand on his knee. "Who's first, her or me?"

"Neither. I want you to get in together. I want to you soak in each other's company, wash each other's backs, and so forth. Do you think you can do that?"

"Cor, Vic, that doesn't seem to be something a nice girl would do," Peggy objected.

"Peggy, you're married to each other, and you've seen each other naked, haven't you?"

They both nodded their heads. "Well then it's legal, permitted, approved. You don't lose nice girl status over this. G'wan with you."

Peggy gave me a lost look. "You'll come on back, won't you?" I rolled my eyes. "Please, Vic, we trust you, and we'll get lost again if you don't help us."

"All right, all right. Go ahead and get your clothes off and get into the water; I'll be right there." Passing through the bedroom in the middle, I noticed that Percy had gotten the candles out and put them willy-nilly around the room, but the confections were still in their bags. I got them out and set up a topping bar on the dresser, then lit some of the candles. Peggy had drawn the blinds, and the atmosphere was starting to come around. I heard the sounds of someone entering the bath, and after a moment, another set. Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself: "I guess it's time, " I said, and rounded the corner into the room.

Percy and Peggy were sitting on opposite sides of the tub. Percy was an extremely thin, wiry man: his ribs showed and his chest hair was scrawny and intermittent, just like the hair on his head was becoming. Peggy had a plain face but rather fine ivory skin; the nipples of her 33 B bustline were sagging a little: two inches wide with delicate nubs perking up in the cool air. Fortunately for both of them, the faucet was in the middle of the tub, so neither had it sticking in their back. They looked at me blankly, awaiting instructions.

"How's the water?"

"Fine"

"Fine"

"All right. Peggy, I'd like you to move over by Percy. Sit facing away from him, and put your backside reasonably close to him."

"Father?"

"No, no, nothing down here is going to happen yet. I just want you to get in easy reach of each other, and fairly close. We're going to start with non-invasive touching first." She shifted around as I asked. "Percy, you can put your arms around her, and let her lean back against your chest, but don't get frisky yet. Just hold her there and relax. Relax both of you." 

They close their eyes, leaned back in the water and tried to relax. He put his arms around her, and she touched in arms in return. It wasn't exciting watching them loosen up, and two minutes took an hour to pass, but they let go at last and looked relaxed. I brought a washrag and a bar of soap over to them and set it by Percy's hand.

"Percy, why don't you take the bar and the washrag and soap you wife."

Peggy started: "But I took a shower last night and she took one this morning."

"No, no, relax. This isn't really about getting clean, this is about touching each other. It's not free form stroking, it has a little purpose, but you can learn a lot from this. Wet the washrag and get it frothy, Percy."

He looked at me blankly, then did as he was told. Gently, he began moving the washrag on her arms and shoulders. Peg responded to the touch; she was starting to melt. Coming around, he gently soaped her chest and breasts, paying a little more attention to the latter than he needed to. They were beautiful sight, Percy reaching around to adore her breasts with soap and water while she stretched her arms back over his head to caress him, eyes closed, with a look of peace, harmony and affection on her face.

Encouraged, he worked down her little belly and between her thighs. She tensed a moment, and I said; "Relax, Peggy, relax. It's all right, you're married, it's your husband touching you there. Easy, easy, easy." The tension lifted and her breathing began to increase. Percy worked down her thighs and legs, she lifted her little feet out of the water one at a time for him to soap. He looked at me when he was done. "Rinse her off, Percy, rinse her off. That's good." Putting the rag aside, he cupped his hand to pour the water over her, she luxuriated at the touch and moaned. A smile of victory lit up his face, but I shook my head at him. "Stay the course, Percy, there's a longer road than you think."

After he was done, she snuggled back into him and he laid back to enjoy it. I let them relish the situation for a moment, then said: "It's time to turn around kids. Peggy gets behind and washes Percy. No, go to the other end of the tub, that would be simpler. Yes, that's it. Good." They changed ends of the tub with Percy sitting close to Peggy. She needed no prompting to soap the washrag and scrub his arms and torso; he looked awkward but got to enjoy it after a bit. After doing his stomach, she hesitated. "Don't be afraid, Peggy, it's all right. You won't hurt him, and you're his wife. You can wash his genitals. Go on." She reached down and began to soap his penis and testicles, discovering that he was not circumcised. "Peggy, pull that skin back and very gently wash him there. That's probably where the smell is coming from. If you keep him clean, things will go easier." As she did that, his penis started to swell at the gentle touch. "Don't worry about that, Peggy, that just lets you get at everything easier. There's a little gunk there, just rub it away ever so gently." Look over her husband's shoulder, her mouth opened in amazement at what was happening.

He started to wince a bit as his wife scrubbed inside his foreskin. A wounded look came to his face, and I hastened to set him straight. "Bear with it, Percy. If you hang in there, the rewards may be more than you could imagine. You're a man; you can take it." He nodded his head and bit his lip until she was finished with his member. 

Peggy continued to scrub down his legs and he lifted his feet, one at a time, out of the water for her to scrub. When that was done, she cupped her hand and rinsed the soap off his body. He settled back into her chest and they luxuriated in the water.

"All right, kids. Stay there as long as you want. When you're ready to move on, I'll be in the bedroom. If you want to make love here, that's all right., but if you don't, that's all right as well. There are towels here for you; you might want to dry each other off rather than do it yourselves."

"Mmmm, yes Vicar," Peggy cooed, "we'll be there in a minute."

Back in the darkened bedrooms, I started lighting candles and made sure my props were ready. Five minutes took an hour to go by, and I heard them getting out of the bath. A glimpse in the bathroom mirror, which was visible from the living room, told me they were taking my advice. They walked into the bedroom together, and I gestured them to lay down on the bed side by side. Peggy's two inch nipples began to perk up once again above her belly and the sweep of her hips; Percy's member was stirring in interest but not yet ready for action. "How was that, kids?"

"Quite nice, Vic," Percy said. "We could do this again."

"Lovely, just lovely. Din't want it end."

I nodded my head. "You can take a bath together anytime if you've got a tub, a shower can be a nice thing to share as well. When you soap each other's genitals, you can take it farther if you want to."




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 07



"How far, Vic?"

"All the way to the Promised Land, Percy. It doesn't matter how you get there, and you don't have to go the same way every time. Knowing this may help you should help take the pressure off and get warmed up when you go about making the baby."

"Super, Vic. Are we going to do that now?" Peggy said.

"I want you to try something else first. You're good at having fun together, and the bedroom should be a place you have fun, too. I want you to do a few things for me: promise me you'll just do what I ask and not get flustered."

"Sure, Vic."

"Okay"

I took the whipped cream and put a small glob right over Percy's belly button. "Peggy, come lick this up off his belly." Peggy gave me a strange look, but leaned over and licked up the confection. He laughed out loud and jerked around a little bit in response. I put a small glob on Peggy's belly button. "Percy, do the honors." He bent down and a leisurely consumed the cream off her skin, making her giggle.

"We can do that again." Peggy said lightly.

"All right," I said, and we repeated the action. The laughter was still there, but little grunts began to filter in, and Peggy was starting to make a damp spot on the sheets. "One more time," and the two languorously used their tongues to tease and stimulate each other's ticklish skin. 

"Now for something completely different.," I said as I moved around the bed.

"What?" I put two dollops of whipped cream on Peggy's nipples, not piled very high and but covering the brown. Percy had a devilish smile on his face that made his wife look concerned, but as he licked the white goodness up, she began to moan over and over, caressing his head when he consumed the second one. She was disappointed when he was done; I put small dollops on Percy's nipples.

He looked at me with amusement. "Cor, Vic, this isn't going to do anything for me."

"Just see what happens. Have an open mind, Percy." Peggy came over and licked the canned ornamentation off, sucking and nibbling as she went. Percy's member jerked up on its own and stood up to its five inch fullness. 

"Another round?"

"Yes, yes."

The second round was even better from what I could tell. I put two little dollops on Percy's thighs, just below his genitalia; Peggy licked them up without a pause, savoring it as she had earlier.

They looked at me eagerly for the next round. I picked up the chocolate bottle. "You like chocolate, don't you, Peggy?"

"Love it, Vicar. Would do anything for chocolate."

"And you love Percy, don't you Peggy?"

"Oh yes, I love my Percy."

"All right." I took the chocolate bottle and squirted it all over Percy's cock and balls. Peggy looked interested, and I put a dollop of whipped cream on top, then a cherry. "Is this a dessert you'd like to try?"

Her eyes gave me a questioning look, but interested lurked behind them. "All right, Vicar. I'll give that a go." She moved down and started licking up the sweet sauces. Percy laid back, trembled and his head began to weave back and forth as his wife's tongue aggressively probed his crotch. Tenderly, she cleaned his balls of chocolate, moving up the shaft until she got to the head.

"Go around the rim, or the corona, as it's called." 

"Sure, Vic." Her tongue made several circuits as he went crazy, then she came down to find another pocket of chocolate. Another pass around, and she was pretty much done.

"All right, Peggy, take the head of his cock in and begin to suck. Work it like he still has chocolate in those hidden places, and don't forget to circle from time to time." Hungrily, her mouth closed on his manhood; he let out a cry of delight and began saying: "Yes, yes, yes" as she worked. "Keep going, Peggy, don't give up," I encouraged.

"Mmm-mmm"

"Oh baby, that's so lovely," Percy warbled, "I love you so much, my angel. Yes, yes, do that thing with your tongue, oh God. Don't bite down sweetheart, oh God, keep running the rim. Yes, yes, yes, yes." His head was moving and occasionally jerking to one side or the other as his wife pleased him. Her head started pumping up and down while she worked his shaft with her hand.

"If you do that in a circular motion, Peggy, he'll get more out of it." Right away, she did what I asked and Percy went to another level. "That's good, Peggy, keep up the good work."

Percy's breathing started getting faster and faster; Peggy responded by picking up her pace. I considered whether to stop them at this point, but it seemed better to let things develop; Percy would learn more about repayment if she was able to take him all the way. "When he seems to grow in your mouth, get ready to swallow, Peggy." I said. A few seconds later, Percy's hips thrust up dramatically while he sang an intricate appoggiatura. Uncertain for an instant, Peggy worked to suck down his semen; a little leaked out of the side of her mouth, but she continued until he subsided, staying until he was completely finished. 

She sat up and looked at me regally. "That was better than I thought it would be. I think I could do this again." Percy smiled one of the broadest smiles I've ever seen as he came down off the mountaintop, and touched his wife's arm. Her hand patted his stomach, and her face was also creased with a broad smile.

I let them recover, and then I went on. "Percy, you have a debt to repay. Are you willing to do it?"

"Sure, Vicar," he said, sitting up quickly. "I'd do anything for my darling Peg."

"Are you ready to hang in there as long as it takes?"

He licked his lips and nodded.

"Are you ready for some payback, Peggy?"

"That'd be grand, Vic."

"All right. Peggy lie down and part your legs slightly. Tell me Percy, do you like chocolate sundaes?"

He scratched his head. "Yeah, but I like butterscotch better. Got some in the bag there."

I rummaged around, found that particular sauce. "How about whipped cream?" A nod. "Sprinkles?" Another nod. "Cherries?" An enthusiastic nod. "I'll need your help to set this up, so kneel beside your wife." He did so, eager for what would happen next.

I took the bottle of butterscotch and started pouring it on her breasts. "Smear it around, cover the whole breast." Giggling like a child, he palmed his wife's breast with the caramel sauce, and did the same for the other when I poured some there. Peggy sighed as the liquid hit her and as it was smeared around. I took the trail down the center of her torso, through her navel, and steered around her public hair. She put her feet flat on the bed and brought her knees up, making her pelvis a container for the brown liquid that now covered her vagina. He smeared the trail down until his hand got between her legs; his touch on her clitoris sent a jolt of electricity through her. "All right, Percy, hold on a minute while I finish setting this up."

Then I covered Peggy's left breast with whipped cream, then the right. Another dollop went between her legs on top of the butterscotch. A few sprinkles went on each white mound and a cherry on two peaks and the center of the valley. I stepped back and looked at Percy, an eager kids straining to control himself. "Percy, dessert is served, Dig in."

With a shrill squeal of delight, Percy applied himself to Peggy's right cherry. His mouth was a vacuum, his tongue a tornado; she didn't know how to react to it as first, but as he uncovered her nipple and worked it over, she began to squirm. Around and around he went, getting every bit of topping off her tit, as she squealed with delight. When Percy liked his target clean, he moved across to devour her left cherry and slurp up the now melting liquids her left peak still held. "Oh yes, luv, yes. I'll give ya a year to stop that, Percy dearest," she warbled. Soon, he finished on top and took the thick caramel trail lower. Peggy parted her legs more in anticipation of his arrival, his tongue moving at the same frantic speed he did up top.

"Now Peggy, you need to help him please you. Tell him how he's doing, and guide him where he need to go."

"Oh, Perce, you're doing grand. Yes, lick the folds down there, yes, yes. Ooo, you found it, stay there, stay there, stay there." Percy moved between her legs and looped his arms up under her hips to fondle her breasts. "Oh, I like that, pull them a little honey. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh. Here it comes, here it comes." She emitted a series of high pitched yelps until she exploded in her orgasm, drenching Percy's face, and thrashing her body for several minutes. Percy got out of the way, lay beside her and took her in her arms when she stopped moving violently. Their lips met and the mouths opened; I could tell their tongue were dancing together. Standing up, I left the room for the kitchen to get myself a cup of coffee as I waited for them.

It was a half hour before they made their way, hand in hand and gazing into each other's eyes, into the kitchen. "Cup of coffee?" I asked. They nodded their heads. "Cream and/or sugar?" They shook their heads. "Have a seat?" They did, and a got two cups out, filled them and set them before the lovebirds. "Any questions?" They didn't respond.

"To review: anything you did with your hands in the tub, you can do on the couch or in bed. Anything you did with your mouths licking up whipped cream you can do to bare skin. You can use anything you did to warm up for the main event, and you can get creative. Understand?" They nodded slowly without taking their eyes off each other.

"When you get to the main event, there are variations that will make it better. Peggy, you can grind your hips as he pumps you. Percy, you could let her on top and let her dictate the action. There's a lot of material on the Internet. Feel free to use it." They nodded, and took a sip of coffee in perfect unison. "Look, I have to catch up with some paperwork. If you have any questions, I'll be in my study." They nodded again and took another sip. I left. As I got to my office, I muttered to myself: "I've heard of prayers answered, but this is way too fast."

Mavis brought my Tea that evening, since Mary and Sheila were still out of town. "Hiya, Vic, got some lovely fish for you tonight. Eat it up while it's hot; it won't keep." I sat and began my meal. She asked: "How was your day, Vic?"

"Strange, Mavis, very strange. How was yours?" I set about eating my repast as she talked.

"The same as yourself. Just one strange thing after another. Thanks for the dungeon time the other day; we'll have to give that another go sometime."

"Sure, Mavis." I took a couple more bites. "This is lovely, Mavis. Thanks."

"Well, you're welcome, luv. Eat it all up." Mavis looked as if she was going to go straight out again.

Giving her a wink, I smiled. "I need to leave some room for dessert."

"This is Lent, Father, I thought you gave up desserts."

"No, Mavis. Not me."

"But I din't bring ye one."

"Can you stay a bit tonight, Mavis?"

"Well, I reckon I can. Harry's already griping that I'm underfoot."

"Read into the icebox and take out that brown bag."

Opening the door, she took out the bag and unloaded it: the chocolate, butterscotch, whipped cream, sparkles, cherries. "Do ye have some frozen yogurt or something to put this on, Vicar?"

"I will after you take your top off."

Her eyes grew huge, and her face lit up. "You want to turn my tits into a sundae?"

I nodded.

She gave me her broadest smile. "Grand."



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 08



THE DIOCESAN RECOGNITION DINNER

The Vicar and his Quilting Ladies ride again. Many thanks for the feedback: both the constructive criticism and the kudos, both are greatly appreciated. The folks of St. Dunstan's are expanding their horizons, with your kind permission, and the Vicar will try to stay out of a rut. I tried to persuade Bishop Horace Delacroix to appoint a lady Archdeacon, but he had another favorite to install in that office.

Those of you familiar with how churches work know the profound banality of the meetings, receptions and dinners associated with them, especially when the leadership is involved. I'm sure surviving them as stretched your creativity, as it has mine.

The first bird of spring was singing, and the way my day was going I thought it was crapping on my head alone all day long. It even took the energy out of my legs as I jogged down the pavement; the day hung heavy with one exercise in futility after another.

First, came an interminable breakfast meeting with the Diocesan Planning Commission, replete with a thick sheaf of papers that kept me up reading half the night before so I wouldn't look like total ass. Immediately afterward, Bishop Horace Delacroix and Archdeacon Tommy Hughes buttonholed me to work on one of my parishioners, Mrs. Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazelton, to become a major donor for a diocesan project, promising great favors for success and dire treatment for failure. Second, a formal luncheon with Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton, a generous donor to St. Dunstan's. She was a delicate eighty five year old widow with a menagerie of hats to cover her sparse, grey locks, whose conversation was inevitably banal except when reminiscing about her sex life, and whose chef produced almost inedible meals. At the end of my interview, she asked me to return in a couple of weeks for 'a special treat', since she figured I would be getting lonely in the Vicarage and would need some release.

I'd managed a short nap afterward, since by the Grace of God I'd stayed awake fairly well so far, and tried to treat myself by slipping in to listen to choir rehearsal, but the boys had a strong dose of spring fever and Niall could hardly keep them focused. The Lesson for Sunday was the Great Priestly Prayer from John 16: a passage I always struggled to make sense of and struggled even more to preach every time the Lectionary spewed it up. The running usually re-energized me, but today my body felt leaden.

There was one last thing I tried to lighten my spirits; a favorite fantasy of mine. After getting back to my rooms, I put my feet up and set up a string of Charlotte Church tracks on my iPod. As her silvery voice wafted into my headphones, I imagined us together at Kew Gardens, the Palm House. We had the place to ourselves, and she was wandering nude through the sunlit palms like a nymph, her long hair arranged down toward her bare breasts and sweet nipples. She smiled as she sang to me, her chest heaving, one hand coquettishly laid just below her throat and her other laid flat on her thigh, right beside the fragile web spun between her bronzed legs. 

Her voice became more passionate as a new palm rose to salute her. Unfortunately, the phone rang just then with another piece of triviality to deal with, and the spell was broken.

The capper was the Diocesan Recognition Dinner that night. "Another bloody boring formal function," I grumbled into the mirror as I adjusted my dog collar in preparation, "at least the black pinstripe suit came back from the cleaners on time.".

"Cooie, Vicar, are you decent?" Mary Sterns' voice came up the stairs as she mounted the stairs. "It's almost time for our car, and I hope you're ready, luv."

"Ready as of this moment," I replied, and she entered my bedroom. She was a sixty year old grandmother who didn't look her age: a red formal dress showed off her splendid figure above matching shoes, a black fur wrap covered her shoulders and chest, her medium red hair was splendidly coiffed above her dancing blue eyes, stunning makeup that highlighted her excellent facial contours and minimized her crow's feet wrinkles, red lipstick, and diamond earrings glittered on her shell like ears. Pulling off her wrap and pirouetting revealed a pleasantly sculpted neckline that showed her teardrop breasts to good effect, and her skin glowed. "Mary, people will think you're my mistress rather than the Chair of my Vestry."

Her eyes gave me a saucy gleam. "Little would they know that I really am one of your mistresses as well as the Chair of St. Dunstan's Vestry. Are you ready?"

I took her into my arms and gave her a long deep kiss, which she responded by grinding her crotch into mine. "I'm more ready to spend the night here with you, but I guess we must be going." Another quick kiss and we were descending the stairs to exit where our cab awaited. I escorted her gallantly to the vehicle, holding the door open for her and seeing her settled before closing it and going around to enter myself.

The cab driver had recently arrived in England, and after three minutes explanation he finally understood where we wanted him to take us. Mary settled against my shoulder as we moved into traffic for the half hour ride to the Bishop's residence. I held her gently as we rode through the twilight streets, and savored the touch of her body against mine.

A large vehicle crowded us for moment before rumbling on; I flipped a bird that fortunately went unseen by the huge driver. "Damn you fucking truck. Why don't you share the damn road?" 

Mary laughed and slapped my knee. "Vic, sometimes I think we'll never make an complete Englishman out of you. We call them lorries over here."

My anger passed and I chuckled. "Yes, I still call lifts elevators, biscuits cookies, constantly get my chips and crisps mixed up and mispronounce aluminum by your standard. I've adjusted and I haven't; I'm reminded about that a lot. It's a good thing I don't tell stories about my family: you'd never understand about my cousin Randy."

She snickered. "Well, at least you're entertaining in your ignorance." After a pause she said quietly: "Did my Derrick and his Jenny come round to see you yesterday?"

"They did."

"Were you able to help them with their–little problem?"

"You know that professional ethics prohibit me from discussing what another parishioner has said to me, even if he is a member of your family."

Reaching down, she gave a strategic spot on my trousers a squeeze. "I'll make it worth your while."

My pants became very uncomfortable very quickly as she began to stroke the fabric in just the right place. "If you give me a damp spot in the cab before we visit the Bishop, he's going to know a lot more about us than he should know. And I don't think the taxi driver needs a Kama Sutra demonstration if we're to get to the right place on time."

"Shit," she said as she stopped. "I hate it when you're right. I know what they're doing anyway; Derrick told me at lunch yesterday."

"Are you all right with that?"

"Of course. Jenny's a nice girl from a good family; Sheila and I have been trying to get those two kids together for years. It's too bad we have to hurry things up since they've been careless. Jenny told Agnes they were pumping away one afternoon and got lost in what they were doing, forgetting to pull out in time."

"They should have been more careful. Well, the arrangements are taken care of. I'll push the paperwork, and we'll have the wedding in a couple of weeks."

"Grand. Don't know if I'm ready to be a great grandmother, and neither is Sheila, but we're not afraid to find out."

I gave her shoulders a squeeze. "That won't change how I feel about either one of you."

"Thanks, luv." She turned and gave me a long, slow, soft kiss that required her to fix her lipstick and makeup afterward. A classic spit in a handkerchief removed the evidence from my face stiff white collar.

"Did Mavis go back up to Scotland again?"

"Yes, she left this morning. The christening is this Sunday and she's going to stay a month."

"Has this grandchild changed her outlook significantly?"

"What do you mean, Vic?"

"You've known her most of your life: does she seem different to you lately?"

"No more than Sheila and I feel. You've opened doors for us, and we've all blossomed in new ways since that morning in the Quilting Room all those months ago."

"Well, some of her requests have rather bothered me lately."

"Oh"

"Well, you know that I moved that old prie-dieu to the basement Recreation Room since I dodged that bullet seven months ago."

"The Bishop's Daughter?"

"Exactly. After that night, I couldn't have it in the room anymore, and Percy Wilton and Stan Dover were kind enough to take it down for me."

"Good lads, have been keeping the Church in shape for years."

"Well, Mavis has discovered it, and every time she's over for–recreation, she takes me down there to use it."

"This sounds interesting. Say more."

"She puts a stool over the kneeler part and drapes her big breasts over the ledge. Says it holds them up better than anything she's ever known and likes the access it gives me."

"We might have to try that."

"I don't know if you want to go as far as she does. Last time she had me get out my Western spurs and run them all over mammoth tits after I tied her up. Then I had to run a feather duster all over them while she used the biggest vibrator I have ever seen on her private parts."

"Now I'm in danger of a wet spot."

"I'm afraid of what she's going to ask for when she gets back. She's such a dear, she's so eager to explore this new side to herself, and I'm glad to help her out, just like I do for you and Sheila. I'm afraid that she's going to ask me for more pain for pleasure, and I don't know if I can handle that."

Mary turned to look me squarely in the face. "Look, if it makes Mavis happy and you're willing to do it, what's the problem with that? What two consenting adults do in private is their own business." She snuggled her body against mine and heal my hands in front of her. "It's all right with us if Mavis becomes a slut for pain. It doesn't matter if she wants you to string her up and whip her whole body a cheery red; you'll still be the sweet Vicar we know and love." She gave me a quick peck on the lips. "And it's OK if it turns you on, too."

I shook my head. "I think it would be better if she could find someone who can take care of those. . .desires better than I. Someone more experienced in giving what she wants."

"Mavis trusts you, and that's the most important thing," Mary interjected, "like Sheila and I, we have no other real options out there for what we want, and you are more special than you realize. What's Mavis going to do, take out an ad? 'Extrememly plump, 60 year old, hyperactive, multiple grandmother with enormous knockers seeks partner to explore her masochistic side. Must obtain husband's permission and trust.'? Who do think would answer that ad that she'd want to meet?"

"All right, all right, I think I understand."

We made small talk for the rest of the ride until we arrived at the Bishop's Residence. It was a grand old house in a stately part of town; its initial construction went back to the 14th century and the reign of Edward III, and it had been rebuilt several times. The weather was extremely clement, and we were ushered into the garden for pre-dinner drinks. After being announced, we moved to get our drinks, then separated so I could chat with my brother Anglican priests and Mary could visit with some of the clergy wives she knew. George Staton, the Vicar of St. Alban's spotted me: a longtime acquaintance who helped me get settled in the diocese. George is a distinguished man of middle age, his hair almost completely turned from black to grey, his lean body sporting only a small paunch. He was wearing his best suit with his dog collar, and came over to herd me behind a shrub for a whispered conversation.

"Alfie, good to see you," he whispered,. "How's St. Dunstan's these days?"

"Fine, George," I whispered back, "Finally out of debt and ready to move on some new projects. How's your parish?"

"Damn place is falling apart. I've spent the entire week with contractors: roofing contractors, tuck pointing contractors, flooring contractors, wood workers, stained glass repair. I could go on forever. Launching a capital campaign next week, and I hope some old rich fogey will get sentimental enough to give me the whole amount."

"Have you got one in mind?"

"God yes, several, and royal pains in the bum they are. Think they run the country from Monday to Saturday, and don't change their attitude on Sunday. God, I wish I was back in Liverpool."

"I'm sorry, George. Hang in there."

"Well, I didn't throw you in the bushes to gripe at you. I've been hearing that a certain transplanted American managed to dodge the Wicked Witch of the West without being sent to Timbuktu. That was an escape comparable to Dunkirk, my friend. You are one of my best friends, Alfie, tell me how you did it."

"George, I just played the good host when they dropped by; I was firm about my boundaries and they respected them."

He rolled his eyes. "Bullshit, you've got something on them. Either that, or you decided to work the other side of the aisle. Have you gone queer, Alfie?" It was time for me to roll my eyes. 

"Blackmail, then. And pretty damn good, since V.D. got knocked up around then and you managed to avoid the noose while getting a plum job on the Planning Committee. C'mon mate, tell me."

"Do I look like someone who would stoop to blackmail?" I tried my best innocent look on him.

"Don't make me laugh. It was life or death: any of us would stoop to anything we could, and justified it would be. The only time I'm glad to be married to Rachel is when Hatchet Face is around." He gave me a long, probing look, then relented. "All right, I'll let you keep your little secret, but my hat's off to you for pulling off the greatest escape since Houdini." He slapped me on the back, and we emerged from the bushes. He looked across the room. "Did you come with the Chair of your Vestry again this year?"

"Yes. Mary and I are great friends; she's wonderful escort for an occasion like this." The chimes were ringing, a signal that all were to go to the dining room for the meal and State of the Diocese address. We started toward the door and Mary angled across to meet me. 

George's brows went up in interest: "My heavens, she's a stunning lady. You know, if she were a few years younger, she would be on my radar." 

Out of charity I stifled my initial reply. "She is younger than you are, George, " I said quietly after a pause. Mary gave George a warm greeting before she took my arm to enter the room.

The dining hall was huge enough to hold the clergy of the diocese, their wives and the Chair of every Parish Vestry. They were seated at many round tables around the room, while the head table was next to a wall hung with pennants bearing the Diocesan crest and the Bishop's noble ancestors. Ancient wood paneling surrounded up, reaching upward to massive oak beams that dramatically supported the Great Hall. Candlelight dominated the room, helped by some subtle track lights that destroyed the aesthetic appeal of the room. I nudged Mary: "Those lights had to be put up in the Seventies, didn't they?" She nodded and gave me strange look.

"Where are we sitting, Vicar?" she said. I checked the tickets I received in the mail and discovered that we were by ourselves by a table next to the wall, far to the left of the podium. "Great," Mary muttered softly, "We'll be looking at Old Dunderhead's profile all night." The table was covered by a long, white tablecloth that reached the floor, and a single blue candle and a single red rose held center stage with the normal condiment dispensers. Looking around, only half the tables near us were occupied, and the ones that were held priests that I had only met once or twice: functional strangers. We sat at the table, and accepted our carafe of wine that accompanied the meal.

Mary was splendid company at table, as she always was. The meal was unremarkable, but the wine was passable, and a waiter kept our carafe topped up. We chatted easily while the meal progressed, and over dessert, noticed Violette Delacroix getting up to powder her nose. I pointed her out to Mary.

"Oh yes, I remember Hatchet Face. She came to the Ladies' Society Tea last year, the shrew. Goodness gracious, she is pregnant. At least she's got some nice little titties now, and that baby bump looks about seven months along. Pity she couldn't find a better dress to wear." Violette was wearing an awful green smock that uncovered much of her bony chest and left her calves exposed: her hair was its usual chaotic weave, and her feet uncharacteristically were thrust into flat, black shoes. She maneuvered heavily to the door without a glance in our direction.

I looked at Mary's face carefully as she watched Violette. It had missed her that seven months ago, I had fooled Violette into thinking that Mary's grandson Derrick was me, and it was her great grandchild the Bishop's daughter was carrying. The only look Mary's face held was amusement, and I was not going to remind her of all the implications of Violette's condition. 

Dessert was dreadful and we only took a couple of bites before putting our forks down for good. The coffee was also vile, so we returned to the wine, which was tasting better with each succeeding glass. The lights dimmed and the Bishop began the program. First on the program was a series of reports from heads of different organizations: they droned endlessly about their operations with sedate pride in the work they were accomplishing. The diners close to us submitted to the monotony and took a glazed look on their faces; experienced diners ready for a long evening's open-eyed nap.

Two minutes into the first droll presentation, I felt a silken touch inside my right knee. I glanced over at Mary, whose head was propped on her hands and benignly smiling at the podium without giving me a glance. The candlelight gave her face a warm glow, and her hair was a roaring blaze. Turning back to the speaker, I tried to follow in case there was an important needle of information lurking in the haystack of words, but a nyloned instep softly and slowly traversed my right thigh, barely making contact but creating a compelling distraction with each pass.

Applause stirred me out of my reverie, and I glanced in Mary's direction; she was still ignoring me with a faint, sly smile on her face. The next two speakers were accompanied by the teasing touch, and my manhood was becoming very interested in getting attention of its own. I caught her glancing at me: she kept a poker face save a gleam in her eye that sparkled in the shadows. Finally, her foot rested in my crotch, where her toes wiggled against the rising bulge in my trousers and caressed my oysters. My attention to the speakers was completely sidetracked, and glances around showed our distant neighbors were still in their ecclesiastical-function- meditative-state. My breathing grew heavy as I looked at Mary, who kept her attention focused on the current purveyor of boredom as a smile broadened on her lips.

Finally, it was time for the Bishop to speak at length. He was greeted with a standing ovation that lasted a couple of minutes, and no one noticed how awkwardly I stood or the massive bulge that poked forward from my trousers. As we sat, Mary gave me a hungry look and said, "I do believe I dropped my dessert fork. I'll be just a moment." 

As the Bishop began his ponderous presentation, I felt a pair of hands pushing the floor length table cloth out to cover my lap. My trousers came undone under the table, and I squirmed as they were pulled down, followed by my boxers. The faux leather of the chair was cold against my posterior, but a pair of soft hands stroked and fondled my forked radish, sending another kind of shiver through me. A glance around showed the indifference of the other diners, and a waiter soundlessly came to offer another carafe of wine. I nodded and poured a glass to sip.




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 08



"I'd like some of wine, luv," a soft voice came from under the table. Pouring it awkwardly since my reach across the table was hindered, I passed the glass down. It was taken by one hand while the other trapped mine below; a soft mouth enveloped my index finger, sucking gently and teasing the nail with the tongue. My member began to dance in anticipation, but Mary didn't let go my finger for several moments of elegant frustration.

I regained my damp digit and brought my hand up to raise the wine glass. The soft lips began to quest up my thigh, the gentle tongue tip peeked out to work its magic on my sensitive skin. Higher and higher they rose, reaching the twin orbs in the middle, to suck and swirl them with huge, wet licks that drove me crazy. The long tongue began to ascend my nine inch shaft until it reached the end, then left just before engulfing. Mary's right hand began stroking me and I felt an overpowering tingle as her sweet mouth devoured the head of my cock. She'd taken a mouthful of wine before sucking me in, and the combination of the wine and the soft, sweet mouth I knew so well almost made me expend my seed immediately. Backing off, the soft lips went back to the testicles to lick and swirl before ascending the column again and taking another sip before slipping my massive head into her loving mouth.

It was difficult to keep silent through all this. My face contorted and my mouth went dry as I tried to hold back the moans of pleasure that would normally escape my lips. Mary backed off again, and resumed her quest from the beginning. The Bishop droned on fundraising, and as Mary took me in her mouth the third time it became clear that she wanted to bring things to a culmination. Anyone looking at me would have seen my face screwed up in agony as the pressure built in my balls; my ejaculation pulsed several times as the chair of my Vestry sought to swallow every drop.

Panting, I returned to reality, and Mary reappeared on the other side of the table. She took out her compact; semen had overflowed her mouth and dripped down on her bare chest. It was a miracle that none hit her gown. Looking at the mirror, she scooped all the residual wetness from her face into her mouth, sucking her fingers, and gathered the spots of whiteness off her chest to savor. She gave me a mischievous look as she cleaned her fingers, and took a sip of wine. "I think I'll have to go fix my face for a moment," she whispered. "Be right back."

As she glided silently from the room, I began the chore of pulling up my boxers and pants under the table unnoticed. It was exasperating, and when a glance from across the room caught mine, I had to stop and feign interest in the Bishop's address. The chore was finished around the time Mary returned to the table. She looked immaculate and radiant as she glided back into her chair. I leaned over and whispered to her: "Your fork has been on the table all this time." She had to fight to hold back a chuckle.

We ran into Reverend Arthur Farnsworth, Vicar of St. Edward the Confessor as we were leaving, the nearest parish to mine. Arthur was staggering drunk as he left with his friend, Archdeacon Tommy Hughes, my tormentor from earlier in the day. They had their own method of coping with the Bishop's Yearly Report Torture: alcoholic stupor. Arthur stuck out his hand and lurched over to shake mine. 

"Alfie, my pal, how's it going? And is this the lovely Mary Sterns, chair of the Vestry? Pleased to meet you, my lady. Alfie, I think I'd almost go back across the aisle for a lady like this." He tried to give Mary's hand a gallant kiss, but he almost fell and his companion steadied him; they must have been working their way through several carafes during the talk. "You two seem extremely alert and lucid at this point of the evening. Did you really listen to what old Horace windbag was saying?"

"Of course not, Artie. Did you?"

"Oh no, no, no, no, no, no, no," he covered his mouth and sputtered, "Pbbt, pbbt, pbbt, I could be that guy on The Vicar of Dibley. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, yes. He, he, he. Didn't follow a worm, a word of it. Did you see old Viola-Violette up there with her baby bulge? She's finally got tits. At-at-at least she doesn't have to worry about being arresssested as a transvestite anymore."

"Yes, I guess that's right, Artie."

"But, but, but you two are the only happy people leaving here tonight, other than old Horace. You need to tell me this sooo I can do it next year and keep my brain for melting." He staggered again. "C'mon Alfie, give for your old mate."

"Can't say Artie. Mary would kill me."

Tommy swerved toward me and veered back again. "Oh c'mon Alfie, mate. I'm your mate, too, jus' like Artie. I coudna keep up with Queen Horace's drivel and I wrote the damn shite." Arthur started sputtering in glee again.

I glanced around and didn't see anyone else I knew. "Well, Artie, Mary got down under the table and gave me some stunning oral sex while Horace was boring everybody else to death."

Mary gulped and turned crimson, but Arthur and Tommy missed it, breaking into wet, snickers. "Pbbt, pbbt, pbbt, sure, Alfie, sure," Arthur tittered.. "Pity I didn't think of it myself. Musst give it a try with Timmy, Tommy next year." 

Tommy fell down on the floor laughing and rolled around. "Couldna doo it at the head table, Artie. Too many folks would shee, and Queennie would get jealllous."

Arthur gave me a very broad wink and touched his nose on the fourth try. "If you don't want to tell me, Alfie boy, you don't have to. We can all keep our little secrets." Tommy got to his feet still chuckling and leaned up against Arthur. "Well, Tommy and I have to go home and have sex all night. You, you, you and Mary go ahead do the same, me old mate, it'd be grand. Ha, ha, ha. Night, night." Tommy echoed him weakly, and they staggered, one against each other, off down the corridor to their taxi.

Turning, I saw anger on Mary's face. She pulled back when I reached out for her, and tapped her foot. "Mary, love, you ever hear the phrase: 'the Truth shall set you free?' You saw Artie; he didn't believe me even though I told him the truth. It would have been the same if he'd been sober. You would be amazed at what facts people don't accept, even when told directly."

She relaxed a little bit, but walked out to the taxi ahead of me, opened her own door and entered quickly closing it behind her. When I joined her inside, she had more to say after I gave the driver his instructions.. 

"I don't think it's funny. You're implying that we don't belong together, that it's incredible that we should be a couple. You're implying that we look ridiculous together."

"We didn't look ridiculous together. George Staton was ready to jump your bones in the garden, and he's a happily married man, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. I've seen the young men at the Pub give you the eye when you wear your shorts in the summertime, showing off that fantastic derriere of yours. I'm not ashamed to take you anywhere, from an audience with the Queen to the Ellis County, Kansas festival."

"I've always wanted to see Kansas; see where you came from."

"Well, I'm going back this summer and if you've got the time and money, you're welcome to come with me. We'll spend some time in Chicago and the Rockies and make a trip of it."

"Can I bring my Agnes with me?"

My mouth worked faster than my mind. "Of course, bring your Agnes along. Bring your Agnes along? We'll never have an intimate moment the whole time we're there."

She kissed me and stroked my cheek. "We're smarter than she is, and she'll want to wander off alone. There'll be moments for us to share. I don't know how we'll get together the money, but we'll do it. It's a date."

"Grand." Snuggling into my arm, we rode in romantic quiet all the way home. The day was ending much better than it began.

After entering the Rectory, she leapt into my arms. "Take me to your bed, stud. The appetizer is over, it's time for the main course." She batted her eyes ridiculously; I laughed and carried her up to my lair, where I unwrapped her and we made love long into the night..



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 09



THE RECREATION ROOM

Many authors have written about how their characters have taken on lives of their own, even going off in directions against the author's will at times. From the start, Mavis Hazelton has been one of those characters for me. A plump, robust lady of limitless energy, boundless enthusiasm, and voracious appetites, she must surely make her poor husband Harry exhausted watching her, which is probably why he encourages her to visit her distant grandchildren as much as possible, and spend a lot of her time in the Quilting Room. I debated letting Mavis take center stage and push the Vicar this far, but she never lets up and never goes about anything she likes half-way.

Mavis is going farther than before on her birthday, and if you're not into S/M, you may skip ahead from where she gets out of the hottub to ease nature to the last three paragraphs.

My testicles were churning as they never had before: I thought I was losing my mind. Two minutes into fellatio and it felt as though electricity was shooting from my corona down the shaft, where the voltage meters was surging up to a massive discharge. I was in heaven, I was incoherent, and if my partner wasn't eighty-five years old, I would have been in love. Maybe I was anyway.

Mrs. Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazelton was local aristocrat: a small, frail old woman with white hair. She was generous benefactor to the parish, I had finally given in to pressure from above to persuade her to giving the Bishop some money. Either I tried it, or Bishop Delacroix was going to visit her to make the pitch himself, with his horrendous daughter Violette in tow, made even more insufferable by the ninth month of pregnancy. I couldn't allow this kind of torture to a sweet old lady, so there I was.

We were sitting on her sofa, and Lucinda was regaling me with anecdotes from her marriage. "Oh yes, Sidney was such a beautiful lad, with such a lovely body in his youth. Our generation was different than today's generation: when we got to our wedding night, we were both virgins with no idea what to do. Poor Sidney had to go out late at night in downtown London to find a 'marriage manual' as it was called, but when he found one, the doors of knowledge were opened and we had such a lovely time having sex. I never knew having my nipples licked would feel so wonderful. 

"Then, after five years and four children, we read about oral sex; I said it was sounded disgusting, but Sidney was brave enough to go first. I made so much noise the first time he went down on me, I was afraid I'd wake the servants. Then, I summoned up the courage to take his penis in my mouth and we had nothing but oral sex until after menopause. Sidney had such a cute little penis and it fit my mouth so perfectly. . ."

At this point, her gnarled hand wandered over to my fly, and started fumbling with the zipper. Her random memory tossed up her belief that I was a lonely, humble Vicar without sexual release, and her oral talents, mastered over thirty years of marriage, would comfort me. The first time, Mary was there to help her, but this time we were alone. At her bidding, I opened my fly and produced my nine inch John Thomas. Her trembling hand grasped me loosely, while she removed her dentures to a side table, took a small candy from a tin and put it in her mouth. "What's that, Lucinda?" 

"Cinnamon Altoids, Vicar. I've got some mint ones here, too. Would you like one?"

I'd heard this urban legend before. "Are these candies you're fond of?"

"Oh, I haven't had these for years; I loved them when I was a girl. Someone told me they were good for oral sex, so I thought I'd try it. Sidney would have loved something like this; I used to gargle just before I sucked him. . ." I steadied her shoulders as her head came forward to take in my member, her gums and tongue nipping and sucking to take me in.

Now, I'm the biggest skeptic in the world about legends such as this, but for me the result was immediate. My John Thomas sprang up like a Jack-in-the-Box at the touch of her mouth, throbbing at the fiery sensations playing over me. In four minutes, my voltmeter pegged and I filled her mouth with a series of powerful discharges. It was too much for her to handle, and she used her teacup to catch what she couldn't swallow. 

Putting her teeth back in, she settled back on the sofa, took another candy, and sipped my ejaculate from her tea cup. After finishing, she had me pour some tea for her. "So, you'd like me to help Bishop Delacroix with one of his little projects; I'll have to think about that. Give me until Monday to decide, all right? Here Vicar, have one of these cheesy biscuits." 

The afternoon at home was quiet, and early evening found me at Happy Hour at the Pub. I was sitting at table with several men of the parish: Percy Wilton, Stan Dover, Bert Button and Harry Hazelton were holding forth on the perils of modern life and aging while going through several pints and plates of chips covered in chili sauce while Derrick Sterns and I tried to make sense of it all.. The Quilting Ladies were across the way with several other ladies of the parish. Sheila's granddaughter Jenny was there, just starting to show Derrick's baby; Mary's grandson was marrying her on Saturday with only the immediate family present. Agnes was the image of her grandmother Mary sitting beside her, a blue tube top showed her generous endowment and her erect pierced nipples were clearly visible through the fabric. She caught me looking at her, and gave me a big smile and a wink. Trying not to stare with her grandmother next to her, I looked over at the Telly to see the weather forecast for the coming weekend.

"Hey, Vicar. What do you think of the new Rec Room?" Percy Whitson asked

"Well done, Percy, you've done a good job. I like the way you've laid everything out; it will be easy to go from one station to another in sequence. There's still a lot of room to move around and room for new additions."

Stan smirked. "We got another addition coming on Saturday morning, Vic. Since we don't have Evensong in summertime, you'll be able to try it out right after Tea."

"And what would that be?" The men all laughed.

"You'll have to find out, Vicar," Harry Hazelton chuckled. "Let's just say it's bigger than a breadbasket, even bigger than my Mavis." More laughter and a toast followed; Derrick smiled awkwardly, since he wasn't used to being in a group of men this age.

Percy tapped me on the shoulder: "By the way, Vic, speaking of additions, just got the news today. My Peg's got a bun in the oven." His face shone as if he'd won the World Cup single handed.

"Congratulations, Percy," I shook his hand and ordered him a drink. "I'm happy for both of you."

"We owe you a lot, Vic," Percy whispered. "Without you, none of this would have happened."

I turned to Derrick, who was sitting on my left. "How are you doing, son? Ready for the big day on Saturday?"

He nodded his head. "Sure, Vic. It's a dream come true; I love Jenny so much and we're so looking forward to the baby. I've got a scholarship for university, a free ride as you Yanks put it, and Grandmum is going to let us stay with her until we get through school and get our feet on the ground."

"Won't she be a bit cramped? Her house isn't that big."

"She says it'll be grand. Agnes is looking for a place after she graduates in a couple of months, and we're going to have a yard sale soon to clear out some space. There's a lot of time Grandmum's not home, and she says she can always go work on her quilting at the parish if she needs some space."

I gulped some beer, and patted Derrick on the shoulder. "Well, don't forget, if there's any advice I can give you, you know, father/son advice since you Dad's not here for you, just ask."

"Thanks, Vic. I owe you a lot." 

Bert Button caught my eye, and said, "How about a game of darts, Vic?"

"Sure, Bert." It was the only way for me to find out what was on his mind without being obvious. We went over to the dart board and pulled the projectiles out in preparation for the match. We threw three rounds before Bert was ready to start.

"Vic, do you think the kids are ready to tie the knot? I know that Sheila and I got married around their age, for pretty much the same reason, but kids today are different. I'm worried about our Jenny: she lost her mum five years ago and her dad last year. She might be going too fast; she may be wanting a home too soon." I pulled the darts out of the board for another round. "I can't tell you much, Bert, but I think they'll be all right. You know his situation is the same as Jenny's: he lost his parents long ago and Mary's been taking care of him since. Derrick's a promising young man, he idolizes Jenny, and she's hooked on him. They know the difficulties they face, and they seem as ready to try as any young couple I've seen who weren't in a hurry. Besides, Mary will be looking after them and I'll keep an eye on them as well. They'll be fine, Bert."

Bert threw his darts. "Thanks, Vic. That helps put my mind at ease. Fancy another go?"

"No, Bert. You're too good. Thanks."

As we returned to the table, the girls were just leaving. Sheila came over to the table: "You're on your own tonight, boys. We're going to have a little hen party at Mary's house for our Jen, before she takes the great leap. See you later."

Harry looked around and noticed the pub was almost empty. "Fancy a game of Texas Hold 'Em, boys."

Stan and Percy nodded their heads, and after a moment Bert also agreed. Derrick looked uncertain, and I said: "Doesn't Johnny want to close up? Surely there's something on the telly he'd like to watch in the peace of his apartment."

Harry shouted to the bar, "Hey, Johnny. Fancy a game of Hold 'Em?"

"Sure, Harry," Johnny said. "We'll have a little lock in for our doomed lad Derrick. Just let me cash out, turn the key and set up the pints for the game."

I felt uneasy. "Pot limit, right, Harry? Twenty pound stake?"

"Sure, Vicar, anything you say. We'll even stake the poor lad so he doesn't have to lose his own money."

"All right. Deal me in."

The poker game lasted until 11:00PM, and I was up eighty pounds. I walked Derrick back home and said to him as we reached his door: "You need to watch your money closely from now on, lad, so don't play poker or any game of chance. You're very bright, but learning the games will cost you more than you can afford right now. The lads at the bar are all right, but next time, just throw some darts and watch, all right?"

"Sure, Vicar, thanks. Where did you learn to play poker like that?"

"Dodge City, Kansas," I said, pausing for dramatic effect.. "Or close to there. I grew up playing with my family, and my grandfather used to cheat, so I had to be good. Take my advice."

"Of course, Vicar. Thanks for all you've done for me."

"Good night, Derrick."

"Good night, Vicar."

The tone he said that touched me as it never had before. I walked back to the Vicarage in silence through the dark streets.

The wedding on Saturday went off without a hitch. The Sterns and Button clans turned out in force, and celebrated the union half the night in the Undercroft; I heard the throbbing disco at a distance from my bedroom where I had retreated for some peace and quiet. I almost overslept the next morning, and barely got into my vestments in time for Morning Song and Eucharist. 

The afternoon was just right in every way: blue skies, perfect temperature, a light breeze faintly tinged with the sea. My spirits were light, and I soon changed into a t-shirt and shorts to putter in the yard for the rest of the afternoon.  

Teatime saw all three of the Quilting Ladies come around: Mavis had fixed a picnic hamper whose contents we enjoyed out back on a huge blanket. They were dressed in t-shirts, shorts and sandals with wide floppy hats.  I brought my iPod , plugging it into my housewide speaker system and we enjoyed Mendelssohn's Midsummer Night's Eve music as we dined. It was an idyllic late Spring afternoon in the green garden with the flowers in bloom and the breeze wafting their scent around: my ladies were cheerful and relaxed after the successful wedding, and Mavis was celebrating her birthday. We drank her good health three times, and she asked me pointedly: "Vicar, what would you give me for my birthday?"

It took me aback for a moment, and Sheila and Mary were giving me wicked smiles. "I guess I could give you a good time, Mavis."

"Would you give me anything I wanted?"

"I guess, sure Mavis, it's your birthday, so I'll entertain you however you wish."

She looked at the other two triumphantly. "You're witnesses, lassies. I'll even let you watch."

The conversation wandered back to the wedding, and Mavis asked: "Where did the kids go for their honeymoon?"

Sheila said: "They don't know I know, but they went to Paignton. Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton paid for the trip and they'll be gone a week. She really is a love underneath that cool, aristocratic exterior. They were so happy to get a honeymoon; they thought they'd have to do without. Bert and I are going to move her things over to Mary's while they're gone this week."

"I've already got a room ready for the baby, right next to theirs," Mary added. "It's down a long hallway from my room; we old ladies like our sleep and I wouldn't deprive the kids any of the great joys of caring for a baby." They giggled like schoolgirls at that line. After dessert, Mary gave me a look and asked pointedly: "How did you like the surprise in your Recreation Room, Vicar?"

I was confused for a moment, then remembered: "Oh yes, the boys were talking about it in the Pub the other night. No, I haven't had time to get down there since they brought whatever it was over. Didn't work out yesterday morning, just took a run around the neighborhood before the wedding. Can you tell me what it is?"

They looked at each other and snickered. Sheila said: "Oh no, Vicar, you have to find out for yourself. Let's get this lot put away and we'll show you." The hamper was repacked with leftovers, the trash thrown away, and the ladies escorted me down my own basement stairs to the newly refurbished Recreation Room.

It was a marvel: Percy Wilton and Stan Dover had worked wonders. My workout stations were all done, the weightlifting bench was on a podium and toward the far end was a huge hottub, but enough for all four of us. Small speakers stuck out from the far end, and a master control held an MP3 player that would play all my beloved classical music recordings. It was lit with a myriad of candles of all sizes around the room, most of them being the big bottle candles that usually lit the church. I walked around marveling at everything while the ladies smirked. The only thing that was incongruous was the old prie-dieu that was over by the hottub. "Shall we break in the hot tub, Vic?" Mary said.

"Sure, Mary. Let's fire it up." Punching a couple of buttons, the waters started to seethe, and as they got ready, I went to the player to punch up Handel's Water Music. I gave each of my ladies a big hug and a kiss: I was speechless at their generosity. Before long, everything was ready, and we stripped down to luxuriate nude in the waters while the lyrical strains that accompanied King George I on the Thames caressed our ears.

After a while, Mavis excused herself to ease nature and Mary tapped me on the shoulder. I opened my eyes to look at her; she had a serious look on her face. "Vicar, I'd like to talk with you about our friend Mavis. Sheila and I give the soppy old cow a hard time, but we love her like a sister and want to see her happy. Today's her birthday, and she's going to ask you to do some things that you may be reluctant to do. I just want to say that we're going to be here through this to make sure nothing goes amiss, and reassure you that everything's all right."

I looked at her funny, and said: "Don't worry about it. I'll try to do the birthday girl right. It's about time to get out of the tub anyway. Let's get out, make dear Mavis' dreams come true." The three of us scrambled out of the tub, and Sheila and pulled a box from behind the tub; it was a postal package addressed to Mavis, unpacking it and putting the objects on the floor as Mavis' footsteps echoed down the stairs..

First, came a couple of wrist restraints. Mavis picked them up, and a chain holding two vicious looking clamps. "First, Vic, let's get the girls going and put these to good use. Sit down on the bench and I'll come over." I did as she asked, and she presented her massive knockers to me. Mavis tended to be short and chubby, and her breasts were like volleyballs under her blouse. The nipple took up almost the entire front of the big orbs, fully seven inches across, with nubs a half inch thick at the ends. I lifted her mammary and began licking all around the huge brown saucer, nipping at the nub and making her quiver with delight. After a few minutes, her nipple was fully erect, and she asked me to put the clamp on it. She grimaced and hooted as I tightened the device, nodding when she was satisfied with the effect. Turning my attention to the other globe, I worked around the marathon areola then inward to the nub. Getting the matching salute there, she bade me to clamp that one as well. 

The chain between the clamps was a rather long one, and I wondered why. Mavis turned to show off her clamped nipples to the girls and beckoned Sheila to come over with the cuffs and other items. "Vicar, I want you to tie my wrists to the chin up bar, but first I want you to secure the chain to it with a nut and bolt. You'll need your wrench to tighten it."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes, Vicar, you can do it." She walked over and Sheila met us there. The bar was just above the top of Mavis' head, so I didn't think there would be enough slack to fix the chain to it. I started lifting it, pulling Mavis' heavy breasts up and stretching her nubs. "Pull them up, Vicar, oh, oh, oh, oh, yes. Ooooooo, that's nice." I touched the chain to the bar, something I thought impossible, but Mavis wanted more. "You can get them a little higher, Vic, I can take it." I squatted down in front of her and took her gargantuan breasts on my shoulders to lift them, getting enough of the chain around the bar to drive the bolt through two sets of loops from opposite sides and secure them with a nut and bolt. It looked rather fragile, and I asked:"Mary, please get me another set or two of nuts and bolts; I don't think this will hold." Compliance was immediate, and I secured them as well, lowering myself to transfer the weight back to Mavis gradually and stepping away confident they would hold.  

Mavis howled as the full tension of her breast weight shifted to her nipples. Taking several short, sharp breaths before her breathing steadied, she asked: "You got a picture, Sheila dear?"

Sheila produced a digital camera and took a shot. I looked at it: Mavis' breasts were hauled up by the clamp and chain wickedly, but the broad smile on her face belied the pain in her eye. "Now the cuffs, Vic, now the cuffs," Mavis begged, and I secured her hands to the ends of the bar. More pictures, and Mary brought over a huge multi-strand flogger.

"This is for Mavis," Mary said quietly as she handed it to me. "She wants to you turn her whole backside a bright red."

"Start slowly," Sheila interjected. "As you get used to the whip, you'll be able to give her just what she wants."

"G'wan Vicar," Mavis begged. "It's my birthday. Get on with it, please."

Mavis' chubby back and huge hips presented a target I couldn't miss. I essayed a couple of very light taps, to her encouragement and Mary and Sheila's approval. Swinging the last through, I began to get a feel for its balance and how I could make it fly through the air as I waved it around falling short of my target: I wanted to make it an extension of my arm before I returned to Mavis' flesh. I landed a blow between her shoulder blades that brought a whimper. The girls nodded, and I repeated it. Mavis cried out as I turned put red stripes on her back, working back and forth to turn them into a solid wall of crimson. 




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 09



I paused and she panted heavily. Sheila gave her a sip of water from a bottle, and she gathered herself. "Do my bum now, Vicar, do my bum."

Her legs jerked up involuntarily as the stinging blows landed on her gigantic hips. She jerked and twisted, putting a great strain on her clamped nipples away from me; the girls had a better view of her front and nodded I should continue. A wet spot started to form on the floor beneath Mavis, as I worked her over, her essence dripped down from her crotch forming a puddle on the linoleum floor. I paused to reach under her and probe her with a couple of fingers. She howled with delight and bucked down against my hand. "Fist me, Vicar, fist me."

"Let me finish your bottom and legs, first."

"Ooo, yes, please do. Grand, Vic, grand. Keep up the good work, you're a luv."

The Water Music concluded, and Sheila went over to program a new selection. Stravinsky's Firebird began its dark passacaglia, oddly appropriate as the whip cracked against Mavis' massive ass and legs. Soon, I had her from heel to shoulder blade a solid, bright red. Going over I squatted behind her and probed her crotch again: her swamp was incredibly damp and my fingers slipped in with ease. "Oh yes, Vic, more, more." 

An inspiration struck me: there was enough room between her crotch and the wall for me to sit with my face at clitoris level. Her legs were away from the wall since her huge mammaries were swinging free despite their shackles. I maneuvered myself to sit beneath her, giving her clit a welcoming lick. The chain rattled in response, and I made a fist with my right hand, putting the knuckle of my index finger against her vaginal opening. Sheila came around to take a few snaps of this position, and I started to work my fist up her canal while licking her clit feverishly.

"Oh yes, Vic, you're a dream come true. Push it up farther, push it up farther."

Mavis' capacity was extreme and I was able to get my whole hand in up to the wrist. Twisting it brought more jangling and cries of joy, and more pleas to put in more. Suddenly, I felt a warm suction on my John Thomas; Mary had come over and fellatiated me while stroking my twin oysters. I felt resistance, so I began a twisting piston accompanied by more action on her little bud. "Give it a nibble, give it a nibble," Mavis said,. "Oooh yes, harder, harder. Don't be afraid, you won't hurt me. Yes, harder."

I squeezed her clitoris between my teeth and that sent her over the edge; an earthquake sized orgasm took her. She quivered and shook, making the chain jingle and her breasts do a vigorous constrained dance. "Leave it till it passes," she screamed out, and a full two minutes later she began to subside. Meanwhile, my own gonads were getting ready for their release, and Mary accelerated her pace to push me over the top. Sheila was already releasing her from her bonds as Mary's sweet mouth coaxed my seed to its welcome embrace. I slowly pulled my arm back out of her; we released her and helped her to lie down on the bench, still shaking and smiling broadly. "Oh, that was wonderful, a real slice of heaven, luv." She kissed my hand and smiled up at me, her eyes shining.

Mary fetched Bert's videocorder, which they set up on a stand, and played through what had just happened at high speed. Sheila had some excellent shots on her digital camera as well, and Mavis cooed at each picture that showed her in pain. I put my arm around Sheila's shoulder and said: "Well, Mavis, I hope this is what you wanted for your birthday."

She took a deep breath. "Yes, luv, it's a great start. Let me recover and we'll do the rest of it." I could hardly believe my ears. The rest of it? Sheila sprinted out of the room and pounded up the stairs, her breasts flopping dramatically. I looked at Mary, who nodded and said: "Mavis would like to finish at the prie-dieu," The lowest tufts of Mary's grey pubic hair were damp, and a gleam I had never seen before lurked in her eyes. "She'd like to be tied at the kneeler with her hands behind her and her breasts resting on the ledge. First, she'd like you to flog her tits like you did her backside, turning them nicely red, then cover them with a few coats of hot wax. If you'd like to do anything else beforehand to get her going, that's fine with her. Then, when you're done, she'll give you a nice blow job to thank you for your efforts."

Mavis looked up at me eagerly, and after a moment I nodded my head. Sheila returned with a couple of things from upstairs: a ball gag and a rope I'd used with Mavis before. Mavis got up with difficulty and made her way over to the prie-dieu, putting the stool over the kneeler. Her back was still red from the abuse. Sheila cuffed her hands behind her back, and I tied her chest and breasts as I had before, not too tightly. Mavis shook with anticipation: "I've been looking forward to this all day, luv. Tried doing it myself, but I just can't get the right angle and power. Done the old candle wax before, that's a treat: you can cover me in hot parrafin any day, Vicar. Better get the ball gag in Sheila, I don't want to shake the rafters with this session." Sheila put the gag in her mouth and tied it behind her head; Mary took a few stills with Sheila's camera, then took the videocorder and got ready.

Before taking up unfamiliar means, I did something I knew Mavis liked. I took my Western spurs out, and held them before her eyes. Marvis' eyes grew huge and she purred; a glance told me that Mary was interested as well, and Sheila trembled at the sight. Teasingly, I barely made contact with Mavis' skin, tracing all around ever so lightly, then I increased the pressure until the points dug into her skin. She screamed into her gag as I circled her nubs closely, and a few scattered droplets appeared in the wake of the spurs. 

Then, it was time to reclaim the whip. I started the whip in the air to get some momentum, Mavis' eyes followed it fascinated at its journey. The first few taps straight down were rather light; Sheila said: "Don't forget to work over the nipples, Vic; Mavis loves that." I walked around to get a few sideways swings at my big brown targets, and she moaned at each kiss of the whip on her nubs. Moving back and forth, I alternated my lashes from top to side to middle to nipple. Tears flowed from Mavis' closed eyes as the skin of her massive churns turned a shade of red that matched her backside; she nodded her head and moaned almost constantly throughout.

I stopped for a moment. "Have I missed anything?"

Mary put the camera down a moment. "You didn't do the undersides." Mavis shook her head up and down vigorously in agreement. 

Pondering for a moment, I turned and whispered in Sheila's ear: "There's a 12 inch plastic ruler in my desk in the study upstairs. Be a love and run get it for me." She left the room and pounded up the stairs as Mary gave me a quizzical look. I picked up Mavis' breast to see the contrast between the angry, irritated skin from the side to the pale, untouched skin below. Dropping it hard on the ledge, I picked up the other one to inspect it before letting it fall heavily. 

Sheila returned, her breasts bouncing with her haste, carrying a double boiler and the plastic ruler in her mouth. She handed me what I wanted and set the pot aside. I smiled at Mavis, whose eyes were large and bright. "This is going to be a little to awkward to use the whip, so I'll try this with your permission." Mavis looked at it with some fear, then nodded her head. I squeezed the nipple and pulled her heavy right tit up with my left hand, smacking the creamy white skin with the ruler several times before letting it fall. She howled through the gag, and I took the other one up to give the opposite creamy whiteness the same treatment.

I stroked the top of her breasts and teased her areolas to give her a little positive stimulation before lifting the right one up to whack it with the ruler several times again before letting it fall. After several rounds, the underside of her breasts matched the rest of the orbs in color, and thick streams of tears flowed down Mavis' face.

I touched her cheek and brushed away some of the liquid. "Is this what you wanted?" I asked, touching her face. She nodded her head and pushed her cheek against my palm. "Then let's head for the finale, after another interlude."

There was a feather duster there, and I took it to tickle her armpits and neck. Mavis twisted and turned to get away from it, giggling behind her gag, whopping in huge breaths. Seeing her distress and incipient hyperventilation, I only did this for a few seconds, turning to tickle Sheila then Mary, interrupting their jobs as photographers. 

Le Sacre du Printemps began to wail from the music system, as I took a ladle from the double boiler full of parrafin to dribble droplets of fire on the red skin. Mavis sighed and moaned as the wax painted its designs; shrieking though her gag when the wax hit her enormous nipples. Working back and forth, I turned her breasts a sea of bright orange oceans of wax, pouring out larger and larger dollops. Four layers were enough, and I stepped aside so Mary and Sheila could record the art work. Taking the ball gag out, Mavis took several deep breaths and accepted some water that Sheila gave her. "Oh Vic, that was better than I could have hoped for. Let me suck you while I'm still tied up and helpless and my tits covered with wax."

She opened her mouth and sucked the head of my member in. Her tongue was a feather around my corona, then she pulled me in until I was plunging deep into her throat. I didn't go all the way in, but far enough that her mouth and throat were a warm, clasping, velvet glove that summoned my semen to fill it. She didn't release me until I had released every drop, and I undid her bonds after pulling out of her.

There were a few tasks left. First came a butter knife to scrape off the worst of the artwork, then the whisk broom to take off every last bit. Mavis' head went back in fresh delight and she twisted and squirmed her way up the mountain to another thundering climax. We helped Mavis back into the hottub, programming the waters to soothe muscles that had been in confined far too long. Mary, Sheila and I watched the last portion of Mavis' birthday present, and my manhood revived. The girls each gave me a deep kiss, and fondled me gently. "Let's wrap it up by giving Mavis a floor show. What do you think?"

They both nodded. "Capital idea, Vicar, capital."  

Sheila and Mary were great fun as we tried to perform for Mavis in every position she asked from us. Fortunately, my exercise regimen kept me in shape for some wild positions, and after my prostate was thoroughly exhausted, we all sat in the hot tub drinking champagne and toasting Mavis. We had to call it an evening before 11, since I had to return to Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazelton's house the next morning: she'd promised a decision about a contribution for the Bishop.

The next morning I was on the sofa in Mrs.Parkhurst-Frazelton's mansion. Sleep was reluctant to leave my eyes, but I managed not to doze off before she entered the room. In her trembling hand was a check for the Bishop: I looked at it, and sighed inwardly that old Horace would be happy.

"Now, Vicar, we need to attend to something we didn't get around to the other day. I promised you months ago that I would help you in your solitude. It must be torture to be all alone in that Vicarage, night after night. . .."  I quaked in both terror and anticipation as she got our her tin of Altoids.



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 10



GOING HOME

 J. R. R. Tolkien said in the Fellowship of the Ring that any exile would have a deep desire to look on their ancient home again, even if it became the abode of dragons. As you can imagine, the Vicar has very mixed feelings about returning to his Great Plains home from England, mostly ambivalence, and getting him to make this journey was difficult. We resist taking up the identity we left behind there, for it is difficult for the people we grew up with to see us as anything but the child we were, but like most of us who return from exile, even for a short time, the dragons we face there are of our own creation. 

It was a view from the top of the world, or at least, the top of Chicago. We were lucky and had a clear day for our visit to the Sears Tower; Mary Sterns and her granddaughter Agnes were rapt. We were dressed in t-shirts, shorts and sandals; Mary and Agnes carried huge handbags and I had a backpack. Agnes was snapping picture after picture while Mary and I stood looking at different points of interest near and far. It was one week into our American sojourn: the first ten days were in Chicago, one of my favorite cities for its museums, the opera and the many neighborhoods of architectural interest. We had spent time in the Art Institute, the Field Museum, Shedd Aquarium, the Museum of Science and Industry, and a couple of smaller galleries. Cosi fan tutte was playing at Chicago Opera, and we caught an evening of Beethoven and Mahler at the CSO. Agnes was hanging with us remarkably, but seven days of celibacy with the delicious Mary at close range without touching her was getting frustrating. The sultry, twenty two year old Agnes was a continuing temptation as well.

Agnes was on the Lake Side of the Tower as I stood opposite; Mary came up and snuggled into me, seriously compromising my control. Her head was next to mine, and I whispered in her ear: "I'm going mad being this near and this far. We need some time alone."

Mary smiled and whispered back: "This afternoon is a possibility, luv. Agnes met some young people from the parish on Sunday, and they've invited her to an afternoon on the North Shore Beach. She's been dying to get some sun, and get away from the elders. If your mate Father Tony is out, we may have a chance to spend some quality time."

Her bag was on her right side and I was on her left: the view of my hand and front below my waist was blocked to all viewers, and I turned my hips to form a triangle to block the other view. As we stood close to the window, I was able to slip my hand down unseen to cup and fondle Mary's left bum and play with her vertical smile. She sighed and leaned back against my hand without making too big a show, and I continued to softly knead and stoke her still tight, shapely curve. "Now it's my turn to be frustrated, and I don't think I'll make it back across the Chicago River," she whispered. I risked a deeper thrust and reached underneath for her slit, finding it damp through her shorts. Tiny circles from her hips greeted my intrusion, and we kept this up until I saw Agnes working her way around the exterior of the Observation Deck toward us. "Rats," came the almost inaudible whisper.

Agnes was twenty two years old, around five-six, like her grandmother, with fiery red hair, shapely legs, and a small, tight, very curvaceous posterior like her grandmother. Her t-shirt had found its way into her bag, revealing a dark red tube top that displayed her 34 C breasts; the nipples were hardening and revealing the rings she chose to wear in them that day. After taking some shots straight down at a barge in the South Fork of the Chicago River, she turned toward us and said: "Vic, why don't you get some shots of Gran and I over by Lake Michigan? It would just rock out loud."

"Rock out loud," I repeated faintly, tasting for the meaning of the phrase. "Sure, Agnes. Are you game, Mary?"

Mary gave me a look that should have slain me on the spot. "You know the answer to that one, but I'll be happy to pose with Aggie by the Lake. Show us where you'd like to be, honey." Agnes rolled her eyes and led us around the deck to a spot where the John Hancock building would be off in the distance behind them.

As she directed me to my spot, she said: "Gran, why don't you take off your t-shirt and show off the halter top I gave you for Christmas? It'd be dead sexy, Gran." Mary nodded and peeled off her shirt, showing off a halter that displayed her teardrop breasts to good effect; her nipples immediately hardened and showed off the bars that she was wearing in them. They stood side by side, their arms around each other, and could have passed for mother/daughter. The only differences were that Mary's red hair color clearly came from a bottle, and her twin peaks hung about three quarters of an inch lower than her granddaughter's, which stood out proudly straight ahead.. I took some shots from straight ahead and then moved around to different angles. Some of the other guys were surreptitiously take shots of them as well; they were sports and turned to smile at them when they noticed an admirer. The down elevator arrived and we went immediately to return to Terra Firma.

Lunch was at a wild place called Ed Debevic's on the near North Side that featured Fifies atmosphere and music, down home artery-hardening American food such as hamburgers, French Fries and Milkshakes, and a cast of abusive waiters and waitresses that periodically gave floor shows on the counters. The girls loved it, and teased me about my home culture at its best. We then walked northwest past the elegant buildings and the trendy inhabitants toward the Vicarage where we were staying. We arrived at our lodging, four blocks from Lincoln Park, at a parish nestled amid apartments and condominiums.

Going through the front door, I saw that Terry left me a note. It read: 

Gerry and I are at the beach this afternoon, then off the Evanston for dinner with Dr. Marcus. You can catch up with us or stay home, whatever you want. We'll be back late.

Love, Terry

Agnes read the lovely script with interest and asked: "How did you meet Father Terry?"

"We went to Seabury together up in Evanston, same graduating class. Dr. Marcus was one of our profs; he was Terry's advisor, but I did less than well in his New Testament Greek class. Terry and Gerry are both from the North Side, and they took my ex-wife Janet and I into their hearts and all over Chicago when we showed up here as Western Kansas refugees. We spent a lot of time at North Beach, Wrigley Field, Berghoff's, and a lot of other places; they made our stay in Chicago a delight. Janet lost touch with them after we divorced, but I kept in touch and when I told them about coming home, they insisted I stay with them and bring anybody I wanted with me."

Mary nodded. "Lovely hosts they've been. I was up early yesterday; Gerry and I had a delightful conversation and we exchanged e-mail addresses. Tomorrow at Wrigley field sounds like a lot of fun, and I still don't understand baseball."

Nodding, Agnes agreed. "The Vicar and his Missus here are first rate. Do they have any children?"

"No, but they're trying. If nothing happens in a year or two, they'll adopt."

"Where did your Janet end up?"

"Agnes Mary Jane Sterns," Mary injected severely, "that's a very rude and insensitive question."

"It's all right, Mary," I said calmly, "it's water under the bridge now, and I'm happy with my life as it is. Janet went back to Western Kansas; my mother told me she married an accountant from Hays around Christmas time a couple of years ago. My anger with her has passed, and I'm glad she's found some happiness she couldn't find with me."

Agnes shrugged and went upstairs to the room she was sharing with her grandmother. A look that could maim followed her from Mary's eyes, as she patted her foot on the floor. "Cheeky girl," she said at last, "I'm going to have to give her a talking to."

"Mary, I don't mind. Let it pass. The kids in the Choir School asked me that question for six months after she left England, and every now and then a parishioner brings up the subject. It's hard to hurt me there"

She calmed down. "All right, I guess, but she needs to learn to respect other people's feelings."

I took her hand and kissed it. "It's been tough raising her and her brother Derrick since the accident, hasn't it?"

"Ooh, don't I know it, and those children aren't finished with me yet." There was coffee in the pot, and she poured herself and I a cup. 

About ten minutes latter we heard a clatter down the stairs; Agnes entered wearing a blue, one piece bathing suit, a matching wrap around skirt and flip flops. My libido did a couple of somersaults: she was stunning even in plain, causal attire. She carried her bag with its necessary cargo. "I'm off to meet my friends at the Lake. Should be back by sundown unless I give you a buzz."

"All right." Mary sat motionless, holding up her cheek for Agnes to kiss. I waved at her, which she returned before she bounced out the door. Mary was still unsettled, took a sip of her coffee and looked off into space. Looking at me eventually, she asked, "Is there something you want?"

"Yes," I said as calmly as I could, "I was remembering a moment earlier today in the Sears Tower when you were uncertain that you could make across the Chicago River without losing control. We have the house to ourselves this afternoon, as well as a week of celibacy to recover from, and it's all I can do to keep from throwing you over my shoulder and hauling you upstairs to ravish you."

"Oh," she said, blinking several times. "I wondered what I was forgetting." So I threw her over my shoulder and hauled her upstairs to ravish her most of the rest of the afternoon.

Four days later, I was driving them in a rented car on I-70 across the great state of Kansas. The flight from Chicago to Kansas City was smooth, and I had the pleasure of getting an upgrade from the car rental agency to an SUV. I would have preferred a convertible, but the amount of luggage the girls brought made it impossible. As we passed Junction City at noontime, a storm was a distant smudge on the horizon, and after lunch we had a great view of its progress across the Great Plains despite having to pull over for the worst of the downpour. We sat there, and I wondered: "I still don't understand why you want to visit Hays. Most people can't wait to get past it on their way to Denver or Kansas City, and there's little of interest other than Fort Hays State University and the old frontier fort on the south end of town. The few people I counted as friends growing up are long gone, like I did, because there's not a lot out here other than cattle ranching and farming."

Mary touched my shoulder. "It gave us you, and that's the main reason we want to see it."

"I'm also interested in all those long, flat roads," Agnes added. "For an islander, the prospect of a flat land that goes on forever is exciting, and I can't wait to go biking."

"You said something about a night sky full of stars. . ." Mary added.

I relaxed. "There are fond memories of the Plains for me. My pride tells me that I'm in a universe far beyond what anyone in Hays can imagine, but I am getting excited about seeing the ranch again. My father got it from my grandfather, who got it from his father, who claimed his land according to the Homestead Act after the Civil War."

"Does any of your family still work it?"

"My oldest brother, Jonathan, basically runs the operation right now, 3000 acres of cattle land southwest of Hays, but his two boys aren't interested in the family business. When my brother grows old, he'll have to sell the family ranch if none of the relatives are interested in keeping it going."

"That's sad," Agnes said very softly.

I reached back and patted her knee. "Hey, that's no way to think. We survived a lot of hard times out on the Plains over the years: Indians, drought, floods, blizzards, tornadoes, hailstorms, crooked traders, and lawyers. When things look darkest, something always turns up to keep you going: we'll survive. Even if we have to sell the family ranch, it'll surely be to people who will love the land and use it as we did. It's way too far out to develop."

The SUV took an exit west of Hays; I wasn't ready for a trip down main street quite yet. The girls were fascinated by all the things I took for granted on the back roads; huge bales of hay, occasional oil wells, cattle grazing in the fields, endless expanses of wheat ripe for harvesting. The storm that just passed sent up a strong rainbow that stretched from northeast to southeast and gave off two faint reflections. "That's a sign," Mary said. "Something special is going to happen here."

At last, we turned into the farm lane that led to my folks house, and the girls stretched in anticipation of finishing the trip. "Don't get out yet," I warned them, "the house is two miles away."

"Really?" Agnes said.

"Really," I replied, "the house was built before the main roads, and my grandfather didn't want the main road closer than two miles to his house. Said that if you couldn't walk around in your front yard in your underwear with being embarrassed, your neighbors were too close." The girls laughed heartily at that.

"I can't imagine not having a neighbor twenty feet away, much less out of sight," Mary chuckled. Five minutes found us pulling up to the house, and my mother waiting to welcome us with iced lemonade and fresh cookies.

My mother is a long, tall and lean woman, six foot even in her youth, bronzed in the Western Sun, mother of six children who had given her fifteen grandchildren so far. She stood on the porch as we arrived, her arms across her body, wearing a light blue dress and a clean white apron, her long grey hair down around her shoulders and her black shoes on her feet. Her face was lined and her green eyes still held fire after eighty years. My father sat beside her on the porch in his wheelchair: his full head of thick, long white hair was brushed back away from his face, like a revival preacher or a biblical prophet, but his eyes were watery. He was six four in his younger days, but height didn't matter to a wheelchair patient. In his prime, he ran the ranch during the day, doing some night work sweeping the local schools when it was tough making ends meet, and his torso still proclaimed the strength he needed for bucking hay bales, wrestling recalcitrant cows into a trailer, and maneuvering fifty pound bags of feed from the pickup to the barn. 

Mom greeted me with a big hug as I neared the porch. The girls came up behind me and I had a chance to introduce them. "Mom, I'd like you to meet my special friend Mary Sterns, Chair of the Vestry of St. Dunstan's, and on of my traveling companions for this visit."

Mary offered my mother her hand in introduction. "Good afternoon, Mrs. . .", 

My Mother bypassed Mary's outstretched hand, rushing past it to embrace her embrace her and cut her off. "It's Wilma, Mary, call me Wilma. You're most welcome here in Western Kansas" My friend responded stiffly at first, then warmed up and relaxed as Mom was slow to break the embrace. 

"And this is her granddaughter, Agnes Sterns, assistant organist at St. Dunstan's and graduate student in Organ." Agnes came up slowly as Mom released Mary from her grasp.

Mom turned and embraced Agnes warmly as well. Releasing her, she said, "What a lovely young lady you are, Agnes. It's a pleasure to meet you as well. I hope that you and your grandmother will make yourselves at home while you're here; any friends of my son are always welcome here."

Waving like a maniac as we approached, my Father sang out: "My name's Fletcher, but you can call me Fletch. I'll give you a big hug when you get here, but don't start anything I can't finish."

"Flet–CHER!" my Mother objected, as she came up the walk behind them.

Dad hung his head. "Just kidding, Wilma, just kidding. Can't an old man flirt a little? 

After we got settled, and my Mother started to get to know Mary and Agnes, I called Reverend Harris at St. Michael's about the weekend's liturgies. He was my pastor as a teenager and always encouraged my vocation. He was also ecstatic about he was getting two weekends off unexpectedly, and wanted to brief me about where everything was at St. Paul's: "It's not like your fancy liturgies in Blighty, my lad. You remember: we're simple folks here at St. Michael's, and although we can still sing and we're very reverent, we're down to earth."

"That's fine by me, Father Harris. I'm happy to help you, really."

"Thanks, lad. Your mother has a note for you about a couple of baptisms that's scheduled for next weekend. I can come back and do them if necessary, but read the note and think about it, first."

"What are you talking about?"

"Just read the note. Later, Alfred."

"Later, Father Harris."

Rev. Harris' mystery went on hold as I entered my father's study. "How're you doin', my boy? It's good to have you home." he crooned. He was sitting at his desk in a wheelchair; arthritis brought on by too many long workdays in the cold and wet had crippled him, but his face was bright and he beckoned me near. Reaching up his arms, he embraced me for a long moment, which also disturbed me since he was a classic stoic American man who was physically distant with his sons. 

"Are you all right, Dad?" I asked when we finally broke the embrace.

"Fine, son, fine."

"How come the hug? You never hugged me before, even on the day I married or the day I was ordained."

He smiled for a moment. "I realized that life was short, and I needed to show people how I felt about them. You remember I had that heart attack a couple o' years ago, just after your last visit? I almost crossed over to the other side, had a near death experience like the book says, complete with approaching the Light. It changed me, Alfred, and it changed me for the better. I now know what's important in life, and I'm not afraid to do or say anything to anyone. Time is short, and you should always live each day like it's your last. But you know this from all your fancy education and theology, don't you?"

"Sure, Dad," I said slowly. "I know that, but I don't always remember it."

"Remember it, son, remember it. And like our Savior said, it's how we treat others that really matters."

My father caught me up with the situation about the ranch and the oil investments. There were rumors that they would start pumping the oil wells again, which would mean a little more income, but Dad wasn't counting on it. He updated me about my three brothers and two sisters, all older than I and all busy with their own families. I asked him about Janet, and he said it'd have to wait until I got to talk with Mom.

Farm meals haven't changed much over the years, and my mother put together a spread in that great tradition. She had great success with her garden, so we had fresh green beans, lettuce and tomatoes along with a genuine, locally cured ham the neighbors gave them, mashed potatoes and Sawmill gravy, and fresh cornbread. Mary and Agnes ate sparingly as usual, but the tastes of home whetted my appetite like no other, and I savored three pieces of cornbread with my mother's home canned applesauce on top. The tradition of saving dessert for an hour or so after supper was also observed, and Mother said she had homemade ice cream to go with a classic apple pie.

I helped her with the dishes; she shooed Mary and Agnes off to keep my father company in order to she have me to herself. After we put everything away, she beckoned me to sit at the table, and handed me a handwritten note from Janet:

Alfred,

I hope that the years have been kind to you: you really found yourself in England and I'm

glad you're happy there. It's a pity that I couldn't find my way there, but sometimes




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 10



we try and fail, and it's how we deal with failure that matters in life.

Six weeks ago I gave birth to two lovely babies, Simon and Veronica. John and I thank

God every day for them: I had a difficult pregnancy and there were many nights I was

afraid I'd lose them. It was the memory of your rock solid faith that helped me turn to Christ for help from my heart instead of my mind, as you always encouraged me.

I know that there may be a lot of pain for you left over from our marriage, but you have been my rock and you helped me through this even though you were at a distance and unaware. A week from Sunday my children are going to be baptized and I considered it a sign from God that you're home right now. John and I would consider it an honor if you would baptize Simon and Veronica; it would mean so much to us, and it might mean something for you as well. We'd understand if you can't do it, but I think your presence would be more important than anyone else's there. The family is with me about this idea; we hope that you will pray about it and let the Spirit guide you.

In Christ's peace and love, Janet

I sat in my chair dumbfounded. Mom looked at me with concern, and after a long silence finally said: "She brought the babies over last week. They're little angels, just adorable Janet told me everything that's in the note and it struck home with me: I had trouble carrying you and many times I thought I'd lose you. Don't know if you can do the baptisms or not, but consider it, son, consider it. If not for your sake, then for sake of the children." She handed me a picture of the two infants, redfaced, sleepy, wearing matching white outfits in the carriers, then left the room and shut the door. I didn't know what to think.

Sunday Eucharist went smoothly enough. Many more people remembered me that I thought, and they all had to greet me afterward, updating me on their families. The Jeffersons from down the road gave me warm greetings, and said they were honored that a vocation they had been praying for years had sprung up so close to home and was so strong. Mary and Agnes made acquaintances easily and soon were chatting busily with women who had known me my entire life. Occasionally I caught their eye; they pointed at their new friends and acted like they had learned state secrets about my past, but Mary read my disquiet. We came home at last, and after changing, I talked with her alone in her room.

"I'll take you into Hays tomorrow like we planned and rent some bikes for you to ride this week. We'll get three but I don't think I'll be taking the same roads. There's something I need to work through now, and I need some time alone."  

"Your mother told me all about it, luv," she said. She held my cheek with her hand and looked deep into my eyes with her compelling pools of blue. "I know this opens a Pandora's Box of things you thought locked away or resolved. Take your time alone with our blessing. Aggie and I will explore the back roads of Western Kansas." Her lips met mine and stayed there for a long, loving time. She pulled away and said: "You have stolen my hard old heart, luv, and although it will take a long time for you to figure out what you have to do, but I know your heart will lead you the right direction in the end."

There was a horse in the barn named Sophie that I'd ridden on my last visit home, and after I took the girls into Hays to rent their bicycles, I rode Sophie all around the ranch. At night, I was physically back at the house, eating with my parents and my Englishwomen, watching television and commenting on the days events, but I was disconnected and longed to keep riding the Plains. There were showers on Tuesday, and I let myself get wet; after the clouds parted, my skin browned to a reddish hue as it had during my youth working there on the ranch. Sophie was patient with me, and quietly nickered when it was time to let her graze or return to the house. 

Wednesday morning's sun rose dramatically from behind some thin clouds, and I saw it with Sophie from the top of a rise on the North side of the place. I read Morning Prayer from horseback: I was not as faithful to my daily prayers as I should be, but the mire of my emotions desperately required me to seek release. Finishing, we took a gallop to the South, veering wide to the East to avoid the house, and heading for opposite side of the place. Memories of Janet still clogged my memory . . .

It was fiendishly warm that September night sixteen years ago as Janet and I crossed the Fort Hays State campus holding hands. We'd been a couple for a year, and we'd behaved ourselves. Sure, we'd had our make out sessions when a roommate was away for the weekend, or far behind abandoned stacks in the library, but never went beyond first base. The summer was spent working different church camps as counselors: we'd spent many nights literally beating the bushes to catch kids doing what we were considering that night. That September day we'd registered for classes and in a couple of days they would start.

The sun finally had set behind a few wisps of clouds; the night insects were tuning up for another serenade. It was a huge bunch of bushes on the fringe of campus then, far from any lights, and no one was paying attention to us. Looking around, I commented: "This is like being in a LeCarré novel. Do you have your cover story?"

Janet hit me on the arm. "You nut," she whined softly. "You're far too paranoid. Nobody cares that we're sitting by these bushes your buddy told you about, and when we slip underneath, no one will see us. Campus police never comes out here."

I gave her a quick kiss on the lips. "All right, Jan, you're right, I guess. Are you ready?"

Her eyes shone. "Absolutely."

Taking a last look around, we slipped underneath to find a hollow big enough to inhabit comfortably. There were a couple of beer cans thrown there, but I tossed them aside easily as we settled in on our backs. Our lips met, famished by our long absence from one another, our tongues flicking electrically back and forth. I stroked her side as she stroked my back: familiar territory, but still fantastic for a pair of twenty year old virgins. Then, her blouse buttons came undone; I had fondled her bra many times before, but that was our limit that first year. She stroked my backside and undid my belt.

Now we were crossing lines. Her nimble fingers were fumbling inside my pants, and my hand slipped inside her bra to find uncharted territory. A wet spot started to form on my undershorts, and she homed in on it, stroking and squeezing softly. After a moment's taut groping, I reached around to unfasten her bra: I didn't know what I was doing and she had to help me. With difficulty, my mouth left her and I ran my tongue over her smooth skin, noticing in the faint light the line between her summer tanned skin and the milky white of her unexposed flesh. I found the bud and started to lick it, swirling it with my tongue and it responded by hardening to a tiny ball.

Janet reached into my shorts and released my cock; the first time a woman had handled it in my memory. I moaned and slid my hand into her damp shorts, finding her wet spot easily and a little bud that widened it as I played with it. She spasmed as I did this, and my mouth returned to her left nipple as I stroked her slit. I traced her cunt lips directly, probing into the damp channel, and she quickly bucked and moaned. Her hand forgot what it was doing; for a very long time I had hold of a bucking bronc on my hand, and I kept my lip lock on her soft mound until she pushed my hand away. Putting her head on my chest, she panted for a long time. "Was it good for you?" She was speechless; only nodding her head.

Then, she pushed me down and pulled me pants down far enough that my pole swung free, eager for action. She started stroking it again and said: "I want to make you feel as good as you made me feel." Her mouth found mine again, and our tongues danced again. 

Breaking for a moment, I whispered: "I'd love it if you kissed me three feet lower." I could tell she was thinking about it for a moment and almost said something. She looked me right in the eyes, and I saw her adoration. Bending over, she kissed the head of my cock; tentatively, she sucked me in, her tongue darting wetly the entire time. It wasn't the best oral sex I ever had, but it was the first, and it took less than a minute for her to claim my first orgasm, flowing out the sides of her mouth and falling to the soft bed of foliage like drops of egg white. After that night, our trajectory together was sealed, through joy to commitment to relocation to rejection and parting.

In the present, a bright summer August Wednesday, Sophie was glad for the run, but as the morning warmed, we took a break in the Southwest corner of the ranch. I sat on a rock outcropping and tried some Eastern meditation techniques, attempting to empty my mind of everything. The twenty year old blonde from Colby who shared love with such gusto sixteen years ago haunted by thoughts for a while, but she dissolved in the growing haze of another summer's day on the Great Plains, and I found some release. It was lunchtime before hunger roused me, and I thought of a place to eat my sandwiches.

It was a place of family history that I sought: the old tree that sat in a little depression on the Southwest side of the ranch. My great grandfather planted it and several others here when he set up his homestead in the 1870's, and it was the only survivor. The trunk was fifteen feet thick, and its thick branches was an oasis in the treeless prairie: a singularity. Grandfather found a water source fifty feet down, and set up a windmill to pump a small pond for the cattle; my brothers and sisters and I learned to swim there and it was the site of many family picnics. It was a mile off the road, on a lane that led back to the house two miles farther on.

When Sophie and I trotted up, I found the spot had been taken. The Sterns women had discovered the oasis, and were making use of it. The bikes were propped under the tree, and Mary sat on a blanket under its shade unclad. Agnes was splashing around the pond, floating on her back with her sweet breasts pointing up, sunlight striking a spark on her nipple jewelry. Waving, Mary spotted me and invited me over. There was a moment's indecision: I wasn't in a mood to talk, but it would be rude not to say hello after the saw me. Sophie trotted up and I slid off her back; the horse went to graze in the shade.

A warm hug greeted me, and Agnes waved from the pond. Mary's face held concern as she greeted me and said: "How's it going, luv?"

"Slowly. It's taken a couple of days just to get a strategy together to flush out the old memories, but I feel like I can get started. I know that sounds strange, but a lot of times it takes a couple of days of a retreat just to get settled and unwound. How are you two doing?"

"Grand, Vicar, just grand. We've been riding twenty miles a day, letting the wind blow over our faces, and the sun bake us. These roads just go on forever; it's so lovely to see this much ground. Your Mum clued us in about this spot and we've been taking our lunches here, as well as a cooling dip."

"I'm glad to her you're having a good time. Sorry I can't spend more of it with you right now."

"We understand, luv. You've got a lot to work out. Take your time and we'll still be here for you when you're ready. Care for a spot of lunch?"

Agnes had gotten out of the pond and wandered over to make friends with Sophie. She was a young Venus: pert breasts, moderately thin, luscious, nicely rounded hips, bronzed skin without a tan line, and long, red hair that hang wetly between her shoulder blades. It was too late to stop her: it was extremely dangerous to approach an unknown animal period, much less naked, but Sophie was extremely gentle, and was fondly licking her hand while soaking up the newly sprung affection. I looked back at Mary: a distant mirror of her granddaughter, a few more wrinkles and sags with shorter hair. But she generated as many sparks as the younger woman, and it was difficult to decline her invitation.

"I wish I could stay a while, Mary. But I'm in training, so to speak. I'll meet you here after I've worked through everything."

"All right, Vicar. As you take this to your good heart, remember: when all is said and done, you're a Priest, and the best thing for you to do is act like one." 

I gave her a delicate kiss on her cheek. "Thanks, luv." Calling Sophie away from Agnes was a little difficult, but I remounted my horse and rode back to my outcropping for lunch and an afternoon's meditation.

My head knew all along that her life had gone on, and mine had as well. We were both happy in our own ways, and I wasn't willing to give anything up try repairing something beyond hope. Our lives were full, and we didn't need each other, perhaps we never really needed each other. 

My heart was having a tough time catching up to my head, and it was only seeing a brilliant Thursday morning's sunrise that I was able to find real peace in my heart about Janet.

The baptism still bothered me, but Mary's words came back, echoing louder and louder in my ears. They were innocents who needed to be washed and claimed by Christ, and as a priest it was my calling and my duty to wash and claim them for Him. It wasn't about my pain or jealousy or pride, or any relationships I had with anyone in the past. I looked at the picture of the two infants, so similar to the other babies I had baptized, and my hard heart started softening. The world didn't revolve around me, and knowing that helped me make up my mind. On Thursday afternoon, I rode back to the house and sent a brief message to the e-mail address she provided on the note: "I'll be there Sunday. Alfred." After I hit the send button, I found my father in his study and we played Gin Rummy until suppertime. After supper, we got out the Scrabble set and had a hilarious game arguing about the differences in spelling between England and America.

On Friday, I gave Sophie a rest and joined Mary and Agnes in their bike ride down the long, flat roads of Western Kansas. By 10:00AM, the swelter had started, and Mary and Agnes peeled their tops off down to their skin: their tans were so deep brown that I couldn't tell where the tan ended and the nipple began. Although my eyes rejoiced to see the beauty, my libido was still dormant from my week's self struggle, and my heart weary; they respected my need for silence and didn't suggest anything prurient. Saturday I spent in my father's study, preparing my Sunday homilies. A night of storms took the baking sear out of the air, and Sunday dawned bright, clean and lovely.

The Eucharist went well, and I got good comments on my reflections on Matthew 25, the core of my personal theology. The baptisms afterward found me extremely nervous: this parish had started baptizing babies by immersion a few years before, and Janet wanted me to immerse her children. The Sacristan filled me in on the technique, and I could begin. It was a day that I thanked God for the Book of Common Prayer: it gave me poetic words when I had none, and the Spirit gave me strength to perform the Rite. The Sacristan of St. Michael's took the precaution of putting very warm water in the font, so the babies never hinted at crying as they entered the water. There were the obligatory pictures afterward, and Janet promised to send me a copy of the shot where I held the babies. My parents, Mary and Agnes accompanied me to the dinner afterward, and I was able to stay a respectable time, greeting all present as a good priest should. 

I could do no more than give basic congratulations to John and Janet, although I longed to say much more. They were at a loss for words as well; John responded to my congratulations with a warm handshake, and Janet gave me a hug and a chaste kiss on the cheek. She said: "I know this was tough for you, Alfred. Thank you for doing this, you don't know how much it means for me. I owe a lot to you." That was the moment I had to leave.

We spent the rest of the Sabbath around the house with my parents; from their interplay, it was clear that Mary and Agnes had endeared themselves to Mom and Dad while I was lost in my meditation. My brother Jonathan, and my sisters Eunice and Nancy came over with their spouses and children still at home shortly after we took a nap for an impromptu family reunion that lasted well after dark. 

Monday morning was an active morning: my parents were leaving for Seattle to visit my brother Jim and his family, and Jonathan brought his van over to take them to Salina for their plane. He arrived around 8:00AM, and I helped load the bags for the trip. Dad gave me a big hug before Jonathan and I lifted him into the passenger seat and Mom had tears in her eyes. "Next year, we're thinking about England," she said, "Do you think you can handle it if we came over to see you?"

"Absolutely Mom, I'd be thrilled to have you and Dad across the pond. Come whenever you can and stay as long as you want."

"Thanks, son. Alfred, I think your father may have only one more year of traveling in him. He'll be eighty five in November, and I'm not as young as I used to be. If he lasts five more years, I probably won't be able to take care of him and have to put him in a nursing home, even though it may break my heart."

I gave my mother a long hug. "I won't be away so long next time. You come to England next year and I'll be back the year after. We'll go from there and I'll always be in Cyberspace. Maybe we could set up a video link."

"Take care, son, and God bless you. Your father and I are proud of you."

I stood in the morning sunlight for several moments watching the van pull away until the disappeared over the crest of the hill, the dust trail a smoky smudge hanging timelessly in the yellow beams. Someone came up behind me. "Fancy a bike ride this morning?" Mary whispered in my ear.

"Sure. How soon do you want to head out for Denver?"

"Tomorrow would be grand. We have plans for today."

I turned and gave her a quizzical look, to which she replied with a wicked smile.

Agnes stuck her head out the door. "Get a move on, Vic. We're wasting a lovely day."

I went to change into a blue polo shirt, white shorts, athletic socks and shoes. As I came back out the door to take my bicycle, Mary and Agnes were wearing red shorts with white stripes up the side, red lined white tube socks and running shoes, and nothing from the waist up. Agnes' pierced nipples held elegant silver dangles that hung three inches beneath her firm, conical breasts; Mary's nipples had two inch golden sunbursts whose hollow center allowed her perky nubs to peek through. "Let's get a wiggle on," Agnes jeered and pedaled off. Mary and I gave each other a look and followed her.

Once we hit the paved road, Agnes set a leisurely pace for us, and we pedaled and chatted in the morning sun. The air started crisp, perking their nipples beautifully, but grew hotter as the day wore on. We had the road to ourselves for the most part, although a couple of old farmers passed us the going the other direction. The girls waved innocently at them; they responded with a wave and a toot of their horns. "Have you seen many farmers on the road this week?" I asked.

"A few," Mary said, "They're so friendly. One bloke paced us and chatted us up the other day, but he went on his business after a while."

."I thought your brother's Jonathan's eyes were going to pop out of his head the day he came across us," Agnes said. The dangles she wore wove a merry dance as she pedaled, making me glad we were going slowly. "He stopped the truck and watched us go by with his mouth open. It was so cute."

"Your family are just grand, Vic," Mary cut in, "we got on famously and I told your mum she had no worries coming to God's country next year." We waved as another farmer passed us and wove down his side of the road ahead of us until he topped the rise out of sight. "We'll help you take care of them." 




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 10



Around lunchtime, they guided me to a very familiar spot: the old tree with the windmill and pond nearby. We laid our bikes by the tree trunk, and to my amazement, the girls went over to the windmill where they brought over a large basket from the locker underneath it. "Your mum told us about this place," Mary said as she struggled with her burden, "we've been putting our luncheons here all week. The water is grand after a long day's ride." Agnes helped her spread a large blanket in the shade of the tree and we reclined on it after a sip of water from our bottles, panting from the heat. A breeze stirred the green canopy above us, and the water rippled gently in reply. Life did not get much better.

A red nailed foot started stroking my leg. I looked over at Mary quizzically; this was rather bold with Agnes next to us. She looked back at me with a question in her eyes, and I asked, "What's up, Mary?"

"Vicar, I'd like to talk with you about membership in a parish organization."

"Which one?"

"The Quilting Ladies."

"That's hardly an official organization, and you haven't asked me about its membership before."

"You've helped my Derrick and Sheila's Jenny learn about life and love and helped bring them together. Mavis' twin granddaughters are fifteen and three years away at least. Aggie is a good girl who wants to carry on in graduate school and focus on her studies." Agnes was a promising organ scholar who filled in when Niall was away, and was starting her Master's in organ that fall. Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazleton had given her a scholarship to make a Master's and even a Doctorate possible if she wanted it; she had the talent. "She hates the social scene, isn't interested in boys her age, but needs a hobby to help her relax from the day's studies. The needle work appeals to her and everything that goes with it. It will be a great diversion and keep her grounded in everyday life while she's in the Ivory Tower of Academia. What do you think?"

My mind began a slow, counter-clockwise spin. Was she asking me to screw her granddaughter? "Do Sheila and Mavis approve?"

"Oh yes, I talked it over with them before we left. Mavis will be out of town a lot, Sheila can only manage one night a week these days, and when Jenny has her baby I'm going to be helping her quite a bit. You've been on your own too much lately, and Aggie will help us take care of you."

I rolled over to see what Agnes thought of the idea, and found her lying on her side completely naked, smiling broadly. She was a golden brown goddess from head to toe, with a mane of long, fiery red hair cascading down her back and a tuft of fire between her legs. "I'd love to be a Quilting Lady, Vicar," she purred. "Do you think I have what it takes?"

No words came out of my mouth, but my eyes must have told her, for her bright blue eyes shone at my reaction. Mary's hand began to stroke my back, pushing me gently toward her. Agnes moved closer and our lips met for the first time; a sweet encounter that deepened as our tongues sought each other. Mary removed my shoes and socks, then worked my shorts down over my hips and legs. My hands wandered over Agnes' back as hers quested down my sides and stomach. She sat me up to pull my polo shirt over my head, then the sweaty t-shirt I had underneath. Her grandmother refreshed my feet with a couple of wet wipes, then massaged them and ran her tongue along the instep, taking my big toe in her soft, relentless mouth. My erection sprung through the flap in my drawers, and it was trapped before the last bit of clothing could be removed. Agnes' long, strong, nimble fingers began drawing an ornate, lyrical melody from my organ comparable to any Bach prelude; I reached over her to caress her firm breast, tracing delicate circles that caused her to gasp time and time again.

We were loath to give up this position under the green leaves and breeze. The younger woman shifted around to pull my briefs off and take my wet manhood into her mouth. Two tongues swirling different parts of me were more than I could bear, so I motioned the older woman to come higher. "Sit here," I said and patted the blanketed ground beside me. I began licking her inner thigh and working my way up to the honey pot I'd tasted so often. My tongue chased her wet bud around and around as Agnes' tongue made music with my corona. Soon we was all moving to the plateau, and we all came together by a quirk of fortune, Mary screaming and writhing, Agnes shuddering as she sucked down pulse after pulse of my elixir of love. 

When the quaking subsided, we lay together entwined with me in the middle. "Were you masturbating, Agnes?"

"No, Vicar. It's never happened to me before, but I was so into giving you head, my cunt just started spasming and quaking and when you cut loose I couldn't help myself."

"Oh that's grand, Aggie," Mary said, reaching out to stroke her cheek, "that's happened to me more than once. Isn't it wonderful?"

Food was mostly forgotten that afternoon as we made love. Agnes revealed that she as on the Pill, so I brought her to several orgasms as I penetrated her from several positions; like her grandmother, she liked doggy style best, with me reaching over to grope her youthful orbs roughly. Mary wasn't forgotten: I fucked her hard with her legs draped over my shoulders, bringing her to another screaming orgasm before I pulled out to shoot hot, white cream over her brown stomach and tits. We three took a refreshing dip in the pond: the water was cool and we played for a half hour like children, naked, before lying in the grass to dry in the sun. 

Returning to the shade of the tree, we ate a little before resuming our lovemaking. Agnes covered her tits, her grandmother's tits and my genitalia in whipped cream, putting cherries where the nipples would be, and we took turns taking pictures with the digital camera that materialized from somewhere. Mary had just finished taking some shots of my white erection, when she and Agnes suddenly pressed their covered breasts together and smashed them into my face, a variation of the classic pie-in-the-face. I pushed Agnes face into my cream covered cock and balls, and squirted the rest of the can on Mary's face as she laughed hysterically. After she settled, we started kissing the frosting off each other's faces while Agnes started slurping the confection from my body, rubbing the remainder of her ornamentation on my thigh and stomach. 

Mary had removed her nipple jewelry, so I went after the leftovers on her breast with enthusiasm, sucking the nipples into my mouth to tongue and nibble them gently as Agnes turned her quest for sweets into another blowjob, savoring the length of my shaft, my testicles and the head of my cock relentlessly. They switched places: Agnes had removed her jewelry also, so I gobbled her tits and pert nipples while Mary worked her deep throat magic. 

Suddenly, I felt a wet intruder probing from behind toward my pucker. The younger woman's relentless tongue found its object in the middle of my backside and ran the rim, teasing and tantalizing every nerve while the older woman's quested every sensitive spot on my balls while stroking my cock. Agnes continued her enthusiastic rim job while Mary worked her way back down to my cockhead; she had just pulled me into her sucking nirvana when I exploded in my biggest load of the day.

We were exhausted after that, and lay down to nap in the summer steam bath. I awakened before they did, and took a dip to clear my head. Paddling around under the blue sky took me back to my childhood days again: my brothers and sisters always swam naked here. They never engaged in the sport I had for most of the day; we were a proper family in that way, but as a preteen I spent a lot of time hiding erections in the water while ogling my older sisters' blossoming breasts. I lolled on my back and relaxed in the water, face up. Suddenly, Mary popped up between my legs and sent a huge spray over my head, then came over to dunk me under. I escaped her grasp and leapt up to take her under, and we struggled in the water like that for a while. Laughing, we treaded water and came together for a kiss, her normally elegant, short, pert hair plastered all over her head. 

Agnes stood on the bank, her long hair flowing in the breeze over her lovely bronze body, 

Mary and I came out of the water, and Agnes produced towels from their stash for us to dry ourselves with. We ate again as the sun moved toward the west; in another hour and a half it would be a blaze of crimson glory with a thumbnail moon as its companion. The branches played in the wind and I found myself reluctant to leave here. I felt connected to my ancestor who came to this spot and built himself a house and a home with a strong woman beside him in a way I never had before. With his hard life, I doubt if he and his lady had a free day to revel in the fields as we did. Mary looked at me, and I said: "Should we go back soon?"

"Whatever for? We brought everything we need to spend the night here, including insect repellant, and after a little sunrise loving we'll be ready to go back, do our little chores, pack up the van, and be on our way to Denver. Jonathan even promised to return the bikes to Hays for us, so that's one worry taken care of."

"I've always dreamed of camping on the Great Plains, and this spot is perfect," Agnes crooned. "The sky is clear and I want to see the stars from horizon to horizon. There's one more thing I'd like you to do for me before we leave as well."

"What's that?"

"I'd like you to fuck me up the ass."

I looked at Mary, who gave me a shrug. "I'm done for the day, luv, and with the way the girls are going on about sodomy, I think I'll give it a try in Colorado. You've already deflowered her mouth and pussy, so you might as well go for the trifecta."

"You're a virgin?" I shouted incredulously.

Agnes came to kneel beside me and stroke my arm. "Yes, Vicar. You're my first, just like you were for Jenny. I've wanted you so badly for years, since I met you, just like she did."

"I thought that since you finished university and were so popular, you go out with friends all the time, that someone would have. . ."

"No, Vicar. Sure, I've dated a few lads, and even given a couple of handjobs, but none of them took my fancy and I pushed them away before they got near my bed. I've used a vibrator for years now, and dildos, but you were my first." She reached over and kissed me long and deep on the lips.

I began to softly stroke her tender, tight, splendid backside, teasing her crack and making her wiggle against my hand while sucking harder. Mary returned after a few moments with the oil, and after a thought I said: "Mary, why don't you take over for Aggie while I get her ready?" Agnes reluctantly gave up her place on my cock, but moved aside to let her grandmother sit between my legs and suck me into her mouth. She came up on all fours again, and I put the oil beside her, stroking her inner thighs and playing with her clitoris. Agnes grew very creamy between her legs, and I oiled up my right hand while working my left in her fresh slit. She parted her legs as my oily hand stroked her perfect ass cheeks in search of a pucker. I lubricated her crack well, before tracing the tight bud that was my destination, then massaged it with liberal amounts of oil. Purring, she said: "Oh my God, Vicar, this is wonderful. Please don't stop, please don't stop."  

Satisfied, I put the tip of my middle finger in her pucker. Her response was positive and I slowly worked my way in, then sent my index finger to join it. Gasps of surprise came as the second digit penetrated her nether region. Mary moved down my shaft and was working on my testicles, almost distracting me from my quest. I was surely going to be slick enough for this. Agnes got used to the fingers up her ass, and was leaning back into them when I introduced the third. My left hand toyed with her clitoris, making her exquisitely moist, and after adjusting to the new intruder, she was moaning and moving against my fingers again.

The sun started its descent toward the horizon, and the air started to cool. "It's almost time, Mary. If you would get me nice and wet, please?" Mary worked a few exceptionally long wet slurps on my penis before releasing it, dripping with her saliva. 

She took a couple of deep breaths before she got up. "It's hard to leave you like that," she moaned, "I wanted to take you the rest of the way. But this is for Aggie."

I pulled my fingers out of Agnes with a pop, and she groaned in disappointment. I saw her grandmother out of the corner of my eye, with the digital camera. Red hair took on an ethereal glow as the rays of the reddening sun struck it as it bounced back and forth. I put the head of my penis in her lubricated valley and said: "It's ready, Aggie. All you have to do is lean back. Take your time and if you need more lubrication, let me know. This is for you, and we want you to enjoy it."

"Yes, Vicar, yes. I'm ready." She pushed back and after a few second's resistance, I started penetrating her anus. Taking her time, she stopped after the head was in, then again with every inch of insertion. I stuck my left index finger up her cunt and played with her clitoris with the middle finger of that hand. My oily right hand went to clasp her breast, spreading the slickness all around her brown peak. Her vaginal fluids started to make a spot on the blanket, and she began to move back and forth as I reached my limit. 

The slow back and forth motion increased in pace, and soon I was bucking her as hard as I did her birth canal. I began to worry that I would tear her fragile tissues with the strong thrusting. Mary read the concern on my face and put aside her camera: "She's doing fine, Vic. If you were hurting her, she'd tell you, believe me there. Everything looks fine. Keep up the good work, luv." 

"Yes, yes, yes, I'm fine, Vic, I'm more than fine. There's enough lubrication, ah, ah, ah, don't worry there. Just keep fucking me like that, oh my God how wonderful!" Her red hair in the dying sunlight looked like a raging fire, and our bodies were covered with sweat, but we kept on. It was an eternity before Agnes started writhing and moaning in a huge orgasm that lasted for five full minutes. I pulled out and Mary came over right away to wank me toward my climax, but Agnes turned around right away and took the knob of my greasy pole into her mouth, licking all around the corona and sucking eagerly. It took the Sterns women a minute and half to take me to the mountaintop, and Agnes swallowed every drop.

The sun hadn't touched the earth yet, so we went back to the pond to wash the worst of our efforts off, then Mary produced a large bottle of sanitizer, which we rubbed all over our bodies to kill some of the microbes from the pond and each other. I took the digital camera and got some fine pictures of Mary and Agnes together, nude, framed by the sunset, their nipple jewelry glinting. A trip to the locker at the windmill produced our overnight gear: sleeping bags, a gas powered grill, citronella candles, cans of bug spray, moisturizer, blankets. We set the candles up in a perimeter around our place, and sprayed one another liberally to keep the pests away. Champagne came out of a cooler, and we drank three bottles as the stars came out.

Naked together under a blanket, we looked up at the stars that filled the sky from horizon to horizon. "I never imagined it would be like this," Agnes said, "never knew there were so many stars."

"My breath is quite taken away as well," Mary said. I lay flat on my back and the girls took places at my side, their shoulders inside my armpits facing me, their bodies snuggled against mine and their legs laying across me. "Thanks for sharing your home with us," Mary said as she kissed my cheek. Agnes did the same.

"Thank you, my dears. You have truly helped me come home."



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 11



 PLATO'S CAVE

Small towns and small parishes are full of odd connections, and concepts acquire new descriptions in old places. For example, spiritual direction can take on a whole new meaning. . .  

The pungent, ammonia-laced aroma of disinfectant invaded my sinuses. It didn't matter that it was private hospital that catered to those accustomed to the best, with lavish decoration that could make one think it was an Continental Spa: it had a hospital smell no amount of air freshener could neutralize. I strolled down the hallway of the geriatric ward to a corner room, and entered.

The lights were dim in the brightening morning; the blinds drawn shut to protect Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazelton's eyes from the morning glare off the concrete box building across from her west window. Monitors tracked her heart rate, breathing, and blood pressure, and an IV dripped into the back of her left hand. It seemed a breath of wind could crush the fragile woman lying before me, her chest barely stirring under her blanket, her eyes closed, her lips very slightly parted.

As I stood there looking at her, I became aware of a presence at the foot of the bed. It was a big, dark lump in the pale illumination, but as my eyes adjusted, I realized that it was a person, a nun praying at the foot of the bed. The contour of her face in the twilight was smooth, like a fine marble statue of a child, but I saw her lips moving slightly. Her eyes were shut and her delicate fingers traversed a simple, dark wooden Rosary. Lost in prayer, she seemed unaware of my presence, and I grew still as well in respect for her devotion.

After about two minutes, Lucinda stirred a little, looking my direction with her eyes barely closed, her eyebrows furrowed slightly. "Barbie, Barbie dear," came a surprising strong voice, "make sure Alfie gets his Altoids, there's a good lass."

My jaw dropped instantly, but the nun paid Lucinda's rambling no attention, continuing her prayer. Lucinda relaxed and faded back into a deeper slumber. When I recovered from my fright, I found myself entering a kind of meditation paralleling the nun kneeling at the foot of the bed. 

I was jostled from my reverie by someone rising from the floor. She caught my eye, started slightly, and then beckoned me to leave the room with her. After a parting glance at Lucinda, I followed her out the door.

She turned to me and said: "From the Anglican Dog Collar, I would hazard a guess that you're the Vicar of St. Dunstan's."

"Yes. You may call me Alfred."

"Thank you, Father Alfred. I'm Mother Mary Rufus, of St. George's Convent."

"Alfred, please. We're in the same business, so to speak, workers in the same vineyard. I've heard of the convent, it's not far from here, is it?"

"No, just outside civilization; an easy bus ride. We run a soup kitchen nearby."

"Of course, I know where you're talking about. Kent House, isn't it? Mother Mary Rufus: that would make you the Prioress, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, very perceptive of you. You have leadership responsibility as well, running a parish."

"I thought all Prioresses were old dumpy women with warts and wrinkles." Mother Mary Rufus was almost my height; her face was smooth and clear, and her serene, dark brown eyes held an unexpected distant twinkle. Her body was hidden under her dark habit, and her face was framed by her dark wimple, white bandeau and coif, and dark rimmed glasses. Her oval face with its understated nose and cheekbones, reminded me of someone, but I couldn't put my finger on who. Her slight smile with perfect teeth communicated both serenity and amusement. A huge, silver crucifix inlaid with red stones hung from her neck: it looked sharp around the edges, particularly at the points but I imagined that wearing it over at least two layers of clothing would make it no hazard. Standing before me, her posture was perfectly straight yet relaxed. An elegant, noble woman, yet humble.

Looking me squarely in the eyes, she winked at me before continuing.

"You're very kind," she said. " In my community, all the dumpy old women with warts and wrinkles want to enjoy their retirement and leave running the convent to those of us who are younger and more energetic."

"How wise of them." A nurse passed us in the hallway and ducked into Lucinda's room. "How long have you known Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton?"

"A long time: she's related to one of our sisters.. She has been a very generous patron of our soup kitchen for many years, and entrusted us to take charge of her care in her old age."

"Oh? I thought she had four children. Surely one of them would be responsible for taking care of her."

"Unfortunately, their affection is mixed with greed; none of them will readily trust of one of their siblings with control of her money. So it was agreed that the Prioress of our Convent would take that responsibility, with her condition reported to the children regularly."

"Doesn't that take up a lot of your time?"

"Someone drops by regularly, checks in with Willikins about how she's eating and getting around, knits with her for a while, that sort of thing. We take turns."

"I thought Mary Sterns was looking after her from day to day."

"I've known Mrs. Sterns for a long time as well; we keep in touch. Mrs. Sterns does drop by almost every day and she is Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton's solicitor as well as her friend, but I have her power of attorney, as you Americans call it."

"Oh, that would explain a few things." I kept finding myself drawn back to the nun's eyes: they were captivating and compelling. A wisp or two of blond hair peeked out from underneath her bandeau; I tried not to stare as they caught my eye. The nurse came back out of Lucinda's room, and turned to talk with Mother Mary Rufus.

"Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton has improved since last night," the nurse said. "The pneumonia has cleared from her lungs, and her heart rate and breathing are almost normal. The Doctor may want to keep her here on antibiotics the rest of the day to be sure, but you can probably take her home first thing tomorrow morning."

"Prognosis?"

"Well, another few days and she should be as active as she was before this illness. Don't let her push herself, and you'll be all right."

"Thank you, Sister." 

The nurse took the clipboard back to the nurses' station and turned to me. "Vicar, would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Yes, of course."

"Why don't we have a cup together in the hospital cafeteria?"

As we rode down in the elevator, I found rather sacrilegious thoughts of Mother Mary Rufus running through my head. Her face, seen from the side and in harsh flourescent light, was excellently proportioned and her skin smooth and clear. The side of her mouth was turned up slightly: I focused to the side to make my scrutiny of her less obvious, but her flicking eyes told me that she was stealing glances downward at me as well. Far down, below the hem of her tunic, her sandaled feet peeked out, her perfectly pedicured toes soft and vulnerable and appealing. Just before the doors opened, she licked her lips once. I followed her as if drawn by a magnet.

The cafeteria could have passed for an upscale Paris bistro. Mother Mary Rufus insisted that I have a seat while she got two huge cups of steaming brew. The weather was promising to be a warm August day with rain likely. At this time of day with no serious caffination prior to the visit, the black elixir was most welcome. We sipped and her delicate index finger played with rim of the cup away from her, near me. Her eyes captured mine once again, and she said: "I understand that you just returned from a vacation to your home in America. How was it?"

"Good, very good. Going home is always a difficult thing, but I feel better having made the trip. A lot of things got resolved, a lot of baggage was left behind. It's good to get back to the St. Dunstan's: you wouldn't believe the state things were in when I returned last Wednesday. I hardly caught up on my jet lag and my calendar was full for three days; I barely had time to write my sermon for Sunday. Last night, I just found out Lucinda was here, so I promised myself that I'd come around before anything else happened today, and thanks to a still scrambled internal clock, I was up extremely early today." 

She took another demure sip, her finger giving the rim another soft stroke. "That's so very kind of you. I'm sure Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton will appreciate it when she comes around." Her eyes were locked on mine, and I could swear that some rather secular speculations were happening right behind them. "Full day today as well?" She asked at last.

I looked away for a moment before returning. "No, Monday is usually my day off, and I worked like a maniac to take care of everything before I went to bed last night. I just have to be sure nobody sees me sneaking into the Vicarage to change clothes before I make good my escape."

"Plans?"

"Well, I usually make up my day off agenda as I go along."

Another sip of coffee and she proceeded quickly. "I hope you don't find me forward, but we're undertaking a major renovation of our Chapel at St. George, and I was wondering if you could drop by this morning and give me some advice. The diocese has had its say, and Mrs. Sterns tells me that you did an excellent job supervising St. Dunstan's renovation last year. You have a good sense of architecture and history, from what I hear."

"My fame precedes me," I replied. Her eyes were inviting, enticing behind her glasses which had slipped down her nose just enough that she looked over them at me. "Yes, something artistic and abstract would be a good way to unwind compared to the stuff I've had to deal with since I came back," I continued. 

"We have some very lovely grounds far away from the urban rush, with a nice small lake. If you wish, we could even give you a Guest room for an afternoon nap, and feed you as well. The organ is in good shape, although we hope to expand it in the new renovation."

I gulped my coffee and sputtered. "It seems Lucinda has been telling you a lot about me."

Her eyes darted innocently back and forth a couple of times before returning to mine. "Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton speaks very highly of you and your many gifts, as does Mrs. Sterns. It is Divine Providence that our paths crossed today." Another sip and another delicate toying with the cup.

Gravity was pulling me, and I said: "Done. I'll be happy to drop by this morning and stay until the afternoon at least. Which bus stop do I get off at?"

A soft chuckle welled from inside the depths beneath the tunic and scapular. "Yes, you're an American. We would never end sentences with a preposition. It's the last stop on the number 53; the bus turns around in our circle before heading back into town. So you'll be there by lunchtime?"

"Sooner, I hope." I got up and shook her hand in parting: her hand was delicate yet strong as it grasped mine. "I'm just going to get a few things, grab my backpack and hop the bus."

"Excellent. I'll be in my office when you get there." I started fishing around in my trousers for change, but she stopped me. "Vicar, today is on me. I'm sure you'll be happy to get it next time."

I nodded and turned toward the door. The bus had just left the stop, so I impulsively waved for a cab to take me back to St. Dunstan's. Leaving on my working clothes, I thrust some casual clothes and a few other things into my pack, as well as a notepad and digital camera. St. George's Convent was renowned for its beautiful grounds, but few ever saw them other than the sisters. As I came back down the Vicarage front steps, there wasn't a familiar face in sight and the 53 bus was just pulling up to the curb.

As I rode out to the Convent, my imagination turned back to Mother Mary Rufus' face: angelic, child like, demure, peaceful. Her eyes haunted me, and I wondered if she had been a courtesan or royal mistress in a past life. The coffee break felt like a seduction. I chided myself for wondering what she would look like without her habit, what her gentle hands would feel like on my body, or even how she would look with her glasses off. The bus picked up speed as it approached the edge of town, and soon the spire of the Convent Chapel was reflecting the morning sun.

I disembarked before an impressive stone castle-like structure. A sister in a white veil greeted me at the front steps. "Good morning, Father Alfred, I'm Sister Mary Justin. Welcome to St. George's. Let me show you to the Mother Superior's office; she had to take care of something at the Dormitory but she'll be right back. Please, follow me."

We ascended the great exterior stone staircase with wrought iron railings into the massive structure built from huge blocks of native stone. The entryway was stately, ancient wood, and the paneling inside warmed up a dreary green tile floor and pale yellow ceiling. Passing through the corridors, I saw sisters working in the Library, a class of postulants learning about community history, a study group of lay people led by one of the sisters, among other things. After a series of offices, Sister Mary Justin led me to a huge, beautifully appointed office that had a fireplace, a somber antique table with eight chairs, a massive desk and a large collection of books. As I waited, I browsed the titles: most were dull tomes on the history of religious life and spirituality, but a shelf of 18th and 19th Century fiction had some curious choices besides Dickens and Twain: The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders, Justine, the Kama Sutra, Tantric Worship and three 20th century titles, Catcher in the Rye, The Thorn Birds, and Memoirs of a Geisha. 

I was leafing through the rare, illustrated edition of Tantric Worship when Mother Mary Rufus burst through the door, obviously fuming. She paced back and forth for a couple of moments; I hoped she didn't notice me slipping my book back into the bookcase. Flinging herself in her huge, overstuffed chair, she muttered under her breath until she realized that I was in the room waiting for her. She was embarrassed: getting up quickly, she moved toward a coffeepot and said: "I'm sorry, Vicar, didn't realize that you were here already. Coffee?"

"Sure," I said. "Tough morning?"

She poured two huge mugs of fragrant brew and handed me one. The caption on my mug was: You don't have to be crazy to work here, but it helps. Hers was a picture of a cross eyed cat.

"Sometimes I think that my handymen are here just to drive me nuts. We gave them a simple task this morning, unblock the basement loo and replace the hot water heater with the one sitting in its box right next to it, and now we've got to call in a contractor to get the work done right and a clean up crew to straighten up after. I swear, if there's a just God, Percy Witson and Stan Dover are doing to spend at least another century in Purgatory making all their fuck-ups right before they get to see God face to face."

"Percy Witson and Stan Dover?"

A look of disbelief met mine. "Yeah, they've been working for us for about five years already. You know them?"

"Ah, yes, they do some work for me around St Dunstan's." My head started to spin: how does she know Percy and Stan, I asked myself.

'I'm sorry," she said, taking a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey from her desk drawer and pouring a generous slug into her cup. "Interested?" she asked, pointing the bottle at me.

"No thanks, it's a little early for me."

Putting the bottle away, she took a deep drink of her mug and blew out a breath. "If those clowns are doing anything significant at your place, you'd better double check their work and make sure things aren't going to fall apart tomorrow. They're nice guys and willing, but it's been a penance coping with them"

I took a gulp from my cup: it tasted wonderful. "Well, they're parishioners of mine, and we have a Sexton who supervises them, or at least is supposed to keep an eye on them. The stories I could tell. . ." An image of Percy and his wife floated through my mind from our last 'counseling session', and I lost my train of thought. After an awkward moment, I changed the subject. "You wanted me to look over some plans you had for renovations."

Mother Mary Rufus looked confused for a moment, then turned to take out some blueprints from a cupboard behind her. I pulled up a chair and looked at the upside down as she unfolded them on top of the chaos of paperwork on her desk. "These are the plans for the new arboretum behind the Chapel–oh, Vicar, please come around here and look at them directly. I promise, I won't bite." Her mouth curled up slightly at the corner and she gave me a wink as she said it.

Sliding around the desk, I stood directly in front of her chair, bending over to scrutinize the plans. She settled in next to me: her right hand pointing out details, her left hand resting on my back and a subtle fragrance infiltrating my nostrils. It was familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Do nuns wear perfume, I asked myself. I didn't remember any of the nuns I'd met before, Anglican, Orthodox or Catholic, wearing perfume, even in America, but there was a first time for everything. As we looked and talked, she had to break contact from time to time, and when her hand re-established contact with me, it rested slightly and almost imperceptibly lower each time. 

She moved in front of me and bent over to show some detail in the plans. I leaned over from behind to look over her shoulder, and I could swear she intentionally pushed her posterior into my groin. My John Thomas stirred to life as I felt a crease in the fabric before me, the outline of her cheeks, and very subtly they shifted as if welcoming me. The tone of her voice and the content of her talk didn't change: she kept telling me about the plans as her body spoke to mine in another language. After she finished her point, she suddenly stepped aside to show me documentation for the organ renovation.

Standing behind me again as I bent over the organ specifications, her hand was just above my hip, her thumb resting on my belt line, when the signal for the noon meal sounded. "Please, Vicar, come with me," she said, leading me down a long hallway to the Refectory.

The Refectory was a huge room with massive wooden beams and long, polished tables. It was somber, ancient, dignified, sparse. All faced the center of the room, and when the dishes were set out, one of the nuns went to a podium to do mealtime reading. I expected the tables to be rather empty at this time of day, however, over fifty nuns showed up, most were senior citizens, but there was a group of fifteen novices and postulants at table as well, fresh faced in their innocence, girls in their late teens/early twenties. Mother Mary Rufus put me at her right at the head table as all stood. Grace was said, and she graciously pulled out the chair for me to be seated before taking her place. 

As I started into my marinated artichoke salad, I expected to hear from one of the great spiritual classics, such as The Dark Night of the Soul, or The Seven Storey Mountain, but to my surprise the reader began reading a chapter from Sophie's Choice by William Saroyan. The sisters all ate calmly, at a measured pace. Mother Mary Rufus raised each morsel to her mouth delicately and serenely as the account of Sophie's residence in a Warsaw apartment with members of the Underground was recounted. Huge fans rotated slowly above to circulate the air as we turned to our entrees, salmon steak in a dill butter sauce and wild rice. The reader's voice trembled a little as the story recounted Stingo and Sophie's excursion to Jones Beach and their nude swim. Looking around the room, there were moist eyes in some of the older faces. Some of the younger women the novices and postulants were blushing slightly, their hands trembling a little as they continued eating while the narrative spoke about Sophie using Stingo's premature ejaculate as a skin moisturizer. Sophie tried to swim out far enough to drown and Stingo rescued her. Fresh fruit followed the main course, and I ate a fig as the reading and the meal concluded. All rose for a prayer of thanks, and the sisters left, chatting busily.




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 11



Mother Mary Rufus took my arm, and said: "I believe it's time for a tour of the property. You can see the current state of the Chapel, try out the organ, and see the grounds."

"I don't want to take up much of your valuable time. Surely you have better things to do."

She seemed to bat her eyes for an instant. "Other things to do, yes; better things to do, no. Anything on my desk right now can wait. After all, isn't hospitality to a guest our first priority as people of faith?"

"Lead on, Mother."

"First, I have to check my mail." She went to a bank of open mailboxes, looked at a stack of envelopes in her box, and tossed them back. Then she picked up a small doll beside the boxes on a table: it was a grotesque gnome with wrinkled skin and ridiculously long red hair. Standing it erect in her mailbox, she came back over to lead me from the room and out the door to the grounds.

As we toured the Chapel, buildings, and grounds, she touched me surreptitiously when no one was looking. From time to time my eyes met hers; their magnetic spell pulled at me and it took a big effort to break free each time. We didn't go through the Dormitory or any of the rest of the enclosure (although we had broken that restriction when I shared lunch with them in the Refectory), but we went everywhere else. The grounds were lovely, and I took several photos of the lake, the forest and the angelic woman who cared for them.

We were walking down a trail through some woods; it was a giant outdoor Rosary. As we moved through the trees, I had to ask: "I noticed that the book for lunch wasn't exactly spiritual reading in the strictest sense of the word. Who chooses the table readings?"

"I do," she said with a sly smile on her face.

I did a double take. "Interesting. Why Sophie's Choice?"

"We finished City of God a week ago, and needed something different in tone. Sophie's Choice is a wonderful exploration of mental illness, survivor guilt and frustrated young love. Besides, it has a sad ending, and the girls like a good cry from time to time."

"Interesting. But what about the sex scenes?"

"I don't believe in shielding my women from any aspect of life. Even though they've given up lasting relationships with men, they should be aware of the feelings and motivations involved, as well as the experiences others have had. It makes them better people and helps them relate to ordinary people better outside the Convent walls."

"And is Justine next?"

Mother Mary Rufus chuckled. "No, we're doing The Seven Storey Mountain by Merton next. We'll do Justine right before our next abuse seminar." I had to laugh at that, and she joined me.

Each stopping point had set of three illustrations on a pillar in the midst of the woods, one for each of classic sets of Joyful, Sorrowful, and Glorious Mysteries. She guided me down a small path that departed from the trail from the Third Mystery that wound a significant distance through the woods before coming to a grotto. We moved into its shade as the heat of the day began to set in; I mopped my brow with a handkerchief. The Mother Superior sat lightly on the slab and beckoned me to do likewise.

"This grotto is a old pilgrimage spot, going back to the days of the founding of the convent."

"How long was that ago?"

"1257. The Earl of Kent returned from a Holy Land Pilgrimage with leprosy. A pilgrimage to the small shrine of Our Lady that occupied this spot cured him, and he endowed a convent here in gratitude. The convent served the pilgrims until Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries and put these pilgrimage sites out of business.."

"And when was this convent re-established?"

"It was never closed. The Prioress of that time made an agreement with the local Baron, and it survived the days of Persecution until the Enlightenment brought about official tolerance."

I shook my head and looked at her. Her eyes were electric, she was leaning toward me, her hand was on my thigh and her face glowed so intensely I thought smoke was about to appear. All day long I had been fantasizing about the taste of her lips, and now they were inches away. My voice came from a great distance: "How did they survive Henry's Persecution?"

The distance was no longer. Her lips tasted of cinnamon, sweet and hot; she must have been sucking Cinnamon Altoids as we walked. My hands embraced her veil and hers roved freely up and down the back of my clerical blazer. After a long, electric moment, we came up for air and she took my hand, pulling me to my feet. Inside the grotto opening, there was a recess: pressing in there opened a door behind the slab, also out of sight of the opening. 

Around the corner lay a room about fifteen by fifteen feet. My companion began lighting several candles on ledges around the room; a double bed rested in the middle. There were several screened small openings around the room, none looked directly into the woods and all could be closed. There was also a small space heater in one corner, and several vases of bright flowers made it a hidden garden. 

The last candle was glowing; she lit a stick of gentle incense and turned to face me, taking off her glasses. "Welcome to Plato's Cave, the most secret part of our establishment." She undid her belt and laid it over the headboard. "The Sisters of the Persecution Era survived as they could: with protection by the local Baron, bribing the odd traveling Church of England official, scattering temporarily if things got too intense, and occasionally, by taking off their habits." At this, she removed her veil, crown band and coif. Her blond hair was jaggedly cropped under her headdress, but it was still lustrous in its rough captivity, reflecting the candlelight. Her wimple came next, then her scapular, and finally her long sleeved tunic. 

I was amazed as she stood before me in just a light blue slip, transparent for all practical purposes. Her breasts stood out perfectly, with two inch nipples reacting to their freedom by hardening. Not a thin body, nor a chubby one, but just the right weight. Her hips swelled subtly, with nice, rounded cheeks behind her. A web of curly blond hair nestled between her legs above her sex. Her eyes held mine captive; I could not look away. "I hardly know you," I murmured. 

Her left eyebrow went up quizzically. "You don't? I know you. We're both shepherds of our flocks, both committed to a life for others. For me, celibacy means I do not bind my life to one man but to a community of sisters to serve a greater purpose. I'm not ready to give up celibacy, but a short, discreet break from time to time hurts no one if we don't allow false expectations to develop. You have a similar arrangement, I believe."

My God, how secret is my secret, I thought to myself. "There probably aren't a lot of people whom you could trust with this secret."

"Absolutely not. I've only had one lover since I took final vows, and that was ten years ago. A Latin American Bishop who spent a month on retreat here. Of course, I wasn't a virgin when I arrived."

"Oh. Tell me about it."

Her eyes stayed fixed on mine. "I grew up in St. Dunstan's parish, a child of extreme privilege. Spoiled rotten by my parents, I had everything I wanted right away. I had fine clothes and expert beauty care; I was a knockout every day of the week. Boys I collected and discarded at whim. There isn't anything I didn't try: I've done every position, explored every possibility and sampled every perversion. One day my confirmation class came here for a retreat and my life changed. The serenity and purpose of the nuns spoke to me, and my vanity suddenly didn't mean much to me anymore. My family was livid at first, but they accepted my desire to become a Catholic nun, and we've been at peace since then."

Standing there, she looked so vulnerable, hunger radiating from her body. My eyes wandered to her hair and she flinched. I looked at her breasts and their stiff nipples, and she swayed in invitation. Her sandals had come off, and her tender bare feet gripped the floor, eager to propel herself toward me. Coming over, I took her in my arms; she melted and met my lips in a passionate kiss, grinding her hips forward. Breaking the embrace, I pulled her slip over her head, and she stood unclad before me.

I sensed her unease and said to her: "You seem to be self conscious about your hair. Would you like to put your veil back on?"

She nodded, putting her silver crucifix around her neck before putting on the bandeau, stiff headband and dark veil that reached down between her shoulder blades. The red stones of the crucifix sparkled in the mix of candlelight and indirect sunlight against the backdrop of her bare skin. Her nervousness melted as her head was covered again. A realization struck me: "You don't wear panties, do you?" I asked.

Shaking her head and smiling, she confessed: "I like the sensation of being bare underneath my slip. It's kind of kinky, I admit, but it thrills me to no end that I'm dressed three layers deep and I'm missing the bottom layer. I wasn't wearing underwear when I met the Pope last year, and the rush was unbelievable: it was like I was standing naked in front of him and everyone else at St. Peter's."

"You are wicked in your own way."

"Now I think that you're a bit overdressed." She knelt before me and began undoing my trousers. Freeing my member quickly, she began to kiss it softly all over, gently stroking me with her soft hands. The sight of her on her knees, her veil at my waist level, was a surprising turn-on. Her mouth engulfed me, and I felt the tingle of Cinnamon Altoids once again, sending my senses into orbit.

"Oh, Mother Mary Rufus," I warbled as I was nearing the boundary of my self control.

She backed away suddenly and sat back on her heels. "This is Plato's Cave, Alfred," she said in a measured voice. "The realities outside Plato's Cave are just shadows on the wall in here; they do not affect us. We see them indistinctly, but this is a different reality, this room. Call me by my birth name here: I am Barbara."

"Barbara. Barbara? I think I've heard that name before."

"When you remember, we can talk about it. In the meantime, Barbara wants to suck your cock and swallow your spunk." From a hidden source, she put another Cinnamon Altoid into her mouth and began stroking my nine inch erection very gently and very quickly with her super soft hands. Her eyes were fixed on my damp cockhead just before her eyes and her jaw moved as she sucked her candy hard to milk the maximum amount of essence from it. She leaned forward to tease my oysters, first gently then more aggressively, the cinnamon fire making my dick jump on its own. Just when I thought I couldn't take anymore, she lurched forward, licking and sucking me like a famished infant. I lasted through two minutes of roller coaster thrills before blasting a load that seemed to last for hours. Barbara tried to take it all in, but it leaked out the sides of her mouth. She swallowed as much as she could, then licked all around my groin and down my legs, questing every drop including a dollop that landed on top of my right foot.

I sat heavily on the floor and pulled her to me, her head on my shoulder, my mouth kissing a soft white shoulder in front of me. She trembled at my touch, and soon my finger was tracing feathery patterns on her skin. Sighing, she leaned back to give me more room, and I lifted her onto the bed, spreading her legs for comfort. Kissing and licking her chest, I began working my way down her body, pausing to savor her teardrop breast and sweet nipple. She sighed and caressed my head as I worshiped her perfect orb and nibbled her soft bud. Working my way over, a bitter, metallic taste crossed my mouth; I must have kissed the corpus of her crucifix in passing, but I didn't mind. After pausing at her other breast, I went my slimy way to her navel, teasing her belly button before approaching the golden carpet below. She sighed and spread her legs as my mouth found her folds and probed her slit; my tongue swirled and teased her clitoris as her breathing increased rapidly. Turning so I could see her, I buried my mouth in her vagina, coming up to lick her clit from time to time, searching for her G-spot. Her veiled head started bouncing back and forth, the crucifix doing a frog dance on her chest between her orbs. Soon it was her turn: it began with a low, intense wail that built in volume and timber until she was screaming my name as her orgasm hit her.

By the time she recovered, lying clasped in my arms and breathing heavily, she looked down to see my erection had returned. "Barbara," I whispered, "how would you like to make love? Standard Missionary position, doggy style, standing up, spooning?"

"I want to sit on your rod, Alfred," she said in a steady voice, her eyes shining in determination. "I want to ride this pony like a wild woman." We got on the bed, kissed and groped each other until she laid me back, pulling my knees into the air, before raising up and lowering herself on my manhood. Her slick vagina welcomed me with a tight embrace, sucking me in as deliciously as her mouth did not long before. Rocking, and swaying, it took her a while to work my nine inches into her very tight canal, but she reached bottom and began grinding her hips. Soon we were bucking hard.

I looked up and saw the crucifix swaying crazily back and forth, grazing her nipples and thumping her breasts vigorously. Afraid a sharp edge may hurt her, I reached up to fondle her breasts and keep them from the sacred pendulum, but she pushed them away. Smiling serenely and fondly, she looked down and said in a bare whisper: "But I like it this way. A little mortification never hurt anybody." It was a scene that lasted a long time; she rode me like a bucking bronco, the crucifix bouncing between her breasts like a ball attached to a paddle, leaving marks and drawing a tiny bit of blood. All this turned me on as nothing had before: the veiled head above me, the heavy bouncing pendant, the hungry cunt that massaged my dick expertly. Something stirred in my balls, and I bucked up against her hard in anticipation. "I'm going to let go soon," I warned her. "Where do you want me to shoot my load?"

"Yes, yes, yes, Alfred, give me every drop right in my pussy. It will be all right. I want your spunk." She hit the Promised. Land just before I did, but her wildly contracting orgasm put me over the edge withing seconds and I was sending my seed up into her hungry orifice. She rode me until I was limp, then plopped down into my arms.

I looked at my watch after we lay still for several minutes. "Is there anybody who will be looking for you right now?"

She looked up at me. "No. I gave them a signal, and my immediate subordinate will take care of anything urgent that may arise."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember when I put that ugly, red-headed doll in my mailbox?"

"Yes. It was so ugly it was kind of cute."

"We call him St. Schlomo. . ."

"Hebrew for Solomon, King of Israel. The wise man who built the Temple."

". . .the horny little bugger who had a thousand wives and three hundred concubines. There are five of us who know about Plato's Cave and have use of it. The Prioress always knows, even if she doesn't take advantage of it. It was created during the Persecutions: you may have heard of Priests' Holes?" I nodded my head. "This was one, a hiding place for Jesuits who came through in common dress.. After the persecution ended, it became a tradition that senior nuns who wanted to entertain in a special way would have use of it without the others finding out."

"So when you put St Schlomo in your mailbox. . ."

"I was saying that I'd be here and didn't want to be disturbed. Marty uses this place too, and she's my second in command."

"Marty?"

"Sister Mary Martha, as she's known outside of Plato's Cave. Jeannie's the other one who entertains here, and Cheryl and Susie come up here together for private time pretty regularly."

That took a moment to sink in, then I asked: "They're the only lesbians in your community?"

"The only active ones here now. Anyone caught having sex in the Dormitory is disciplined and not in a fun way, but in a legal way. Nuns have been expelled for breaking that rule. So any lesbian couples have to get access to this place. . ."

"Which isn't easy, I take it."

"Which is only given to those over forty and at least fifteen years in final vows."

"Oh." I stroked her chest absent mindedly as we lay snuggled for a few moments. "There's something that doesn't click yet, Barbara."

"Yes, Alfred?"

"I've been getting resonances from you that I didn't realize until now and I'd like to know more about them."

"Yes?"

"I just realized that your perfume is familiar and where I've encountered it before. It's Lucinda's perfume, isn't it?"

"Yes. What else?'

"Cinnamon Altoids. Granted you're not a normal nun. . ."

She tweaked my member and smiled. "So you've figured that out?"

". . .how would you know about the Altoids? Yes, you read books and articles that surprise me, and I wouldn't put is past you to find that tidbit on the Internet, but how would you know how to use this without some direct experience?"

"I'm not the adventurous type?"

"Oh, that's for certain, but you're very smart, very self-controlled and very discreet. You know the theory, but you don't practice often, admit it."

"I admit it."

"And you know Percy and Stan. You grew up in the neighborhood, you knew then since you were children, I would guess, but you left there long before I arrived. Your parents may still be alive, and you've probably known Lucinda since childhood."

"Right there. My father is dead, but my mother isn't yet."

"I can't figure out how you found out about me and my–adventures. Who do you know that well? Mavis Hazelton?"

"I know her, but not that well. Her oldest daughter is a year older than I, and was a chum growing up."

"Sheila Button?"

"Also the parent of a friend. You know how much teenagers confide in their friends' parents."

"Not much at all, if I remember correctly. You must know Mary if she's Lucinda's solicitor; she might have. . ."

"Only after I knew everything already. By the way, Mary Sterns is St. George's solicitor as well, but you're not quite there yet."

I gazed into her eyes, and my eyes traveled around her face. She was exceptionally tall for a woman, and had to be taller than her mother, so that wasn't a clue. The brown eyes, the nose and cheekbones, blonde hair, oval face. Who was I thinking of?

Then it hit me. Her mother was older that my other friends and lovers. The youngest child gets spoiled frequently, and those of wealthy parents more so. But the name Barbara was mentioned only once at St. Dunstan's in passing during my six years there, a story of transformation, but an old story. 

I took a guess: "Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazelton is your mother."

Barbara smiled broadly. "Right on the first guess."

"But I thought all of Lucinda's children were in their fifties."

"They are, except for me. I was an oops; thirteen years younger than my next oldest sibling. Mother was forty three when I was born; I am forty two right now. She must have needed a break from giving Dad blow jobs one night, so here I am."

"But nobody talks about you around the parish. Your mother doesn't talk about you."

Barbara shrugged and burrowed into my armpit. "Growing up I was a complete brat, and a slut. They wouldn't like to remember what I was; I was an ugly, self-centered bitch. I ran away, reformed, left the Church of England and became a Catholic nun. When I took my vows, I told my mother that for the purposes of the estate, she had to consider me dead. She's stayed with that in talking with people: she's proud of me, but her usual social circles would never understand my story, so she's gotten used to leaving me off the list. That's one reason she's been so generous: she's been giving away my part of the family fortune."




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 11



"And she told you about me?"

"And she bragged to me about you. If she was forty years younger, she'd camp out on your doorstep. It was awkward at first to listen to her preen about how good her cocksucking technique is, but I'm a good listener and after awhile it turned me on. When I confronted Mary Sterns about it, she confirmed it, knowing I could keep a secret. I knew you had a nine inch cock and a sex drive that could handle me, that you were an incredibly sweet yet adventurous person who could be trusted and who wouldn't get any silly ideas about a long term relationship."

"So now I understand Sophie's Choice, and the other books in your library."

"Which were all there when I was elected Mother Superior. My community has always been a little different. You should see our video library; we have a complete run of Baywatch."

I shook my head in disbelief. "Oh, really?"

"Yes. Some of them watch it for Pamela Anderson, but I can't get enough of David Hasselhoff's abs." 

"That's strange."

We lay together in silence for a bit. The candles burned, the incense flavored the air, and the leaves rustled in the breeze outside Plato's Cave. It was bizarre being in bed with a woman with a veil on her head, but I kind of liked it. My knee probed her groin and she embraced it with her legs. "So what now?" I asked

She stroked my arm. "As I said, I'm happy with my life, you're happy with yours, and one day a month in Plato's Cave is enough for me. You can come on a Monday, and tell your parishioners that you're coming out for spiritual direction. A few of them come over here for that purpose anyway. St. Schlomo will protect us, and all will be well."

"What a set-up," I sighed. "All right, we'll celebrate St. Schlomo's day monthly. I can handle that. What shall we do yet today, isn't it time for us to get back?"

"Are you up for one more round? We have time before supper." She reached down to stroke my root, which responded immediately.

"I think so, Barbara. This may be the beginning of a beautiful relationship."



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 12



REQUIEM FOR A VERGER

Time rolls on, and things change dramatically at St. Dunstan's. There are times that veer wildly between the comic, erotic and tragic, and this story recounts one such time. 

Agnes Sterns sat in front of my desk, signing the contract before her. Her grandmother Mary then signed it as Chair of the Vestry, then I signed it. We continued with the other two copies, then sat back. Agnes was beaming: Mary was smiling and I was uneasy. A fine Tuesday morning shone in the windows; it was going to be a clear, bright, late August day in England. In preparation for the warm weather, Agnes wore a halter top and shorts over her sandaled feet; Mary was wearing a light business suit in preparation for her day's work. It was time to complete the agreement.

"Agnes, you've just signed a contract to be the live-in housekeeper at the Vicarage. In exchange for the apartment, reasonable board, and the stipend listed, you will clean all the rooms of the Vicarage at least once per week. You'll also do the grocery shopping, and provide one meal per day when one of the other cooks aren't available. To bring up an old line from my country: yes, you will do windows, as well as other tasks I may set for you around the house." She smiled broadly and winked at me. I took a deep breath before I continued.

"As far as the parts we aren't putting on paper: I will never enter your quarters without your express invitation that day, except in case of emergency. What you do with your time, provided you get your work and your study done, is your own business. We'll work out a series of signals if either of us are interested in 'other' things. . ."

"Like putting the Wellies in front of my door?" Agnes broke in.

"Yes, like that. I always check my e-mail when I get in, so you can send me a note saying. . ."

"Theological discussion this evening?"

"Good, good, I knew there was a reason I wanted you around. Or vice versa, if we're not both available to talk in person. You may always say 'no' or 'not tonight' with no pressure or repercussions. And if you find some young man that you want to develop a relationship, you can continue to live here and do your two jobs of assistant organist/choirmaster and housekeeper while we curtail the 'other' duties."

"Why say that, Vicar? Who could be more interesting than you?"

"You're young, and if you find someone your own age, I don't want to hold you back. I'm happy to spend whatever time with you that will be our lot, at any level, but I don't want you to think you can't move on. I'll be all right no matter what happens."

Agnes smiled, nodded and came around to sit on my lap and give me a big, open mouthed kiss. "I'm yours, Vicar."

I gave her a smack on her pert backside. "Also, as the junior Quilting Lady, the senior members take precedence, agreed?'" Mary nodded broadly at this. 

"Agreed." She said with a smile, and looked at her watch. "Time to get to University. Back by teatime.'

"Very good. Sheila's bringing Tea tonight."

Agnes looked a bit downcast for a moment, but perked up. "I can get my quarters organized," she realized, and almost skipped out the door.

Mary watched all of this and looked at me with concern. "Well, you've got your live-in housekeeper. I hope she doesn't wear you out."

"I'm concerned too, but I think that this week's schedule will help matters. Sheila's coming by tonight, you tomorrow, and Mavis Thursday. That will give Agnes a little space to work out ordinary routines before anything else. Hopefully her classes will keep her busy enough that she won't be that anxious for extra-curricular activities until Friday."

Mary's foot started tapping and she shook her head. "She's young, vibrant and head over heels over you. Things may not go according to plan. Take care and treat her right."

"I'll treat her like a queen. Did you work out the cleaning schedule with her?"

"Right here's your copy. Put it somewhere out of sight."

I shook my head. "No, I'll put it out here in the kitchen where all can see it. It's like that part of the Asimov Foundation series, where two characters engage in espionage while maintaining a lot of open, regular contacts as a cover. It's the best way to diminish any rumors; by acting as normally as possible in public, not being afraid to interact legitimately in plain sight."

She gave me a lingering kiss and a hug. "Time to go. Wish business wasn't so good."

"Amen. Later."

Halfway down the path from the back door, Mary passed Stan Dover on his way in. I had a brief heart palpitation imagining what he might have seen had he arrived a few moments earlier. He knocked as he reached the door, and I invited him in.

"Mornin', Vic. How's it hanging?"

"I'm good, Stan. How are you?"

"Never better, all thanks to you."

"Oh? How?"

"My mate Percy told me some pointers you gave him, and my life's never been the same."

Oh no, I thought, I told Percy to keep quiet about his 'marital counseling'. Stan's wife Doris had a face that could stop traffic for the wrong reasons, and a body that rivaled Mavis Hazelton without the upper endowment. A pleasant enough woman, but with a snide sense of humor and a grating laugh that rivaled Violette Delacroix's for the nails-on-chalkboard effect.. Visions of her making love with Stan, who was the polar opposite of Harrison Ford in looks himself, sprang into my head and turned my stomach. Desperately, I had to change the subject.. "By the way, where is Percy this morning?"

"Oh, Percy had to take his Peg in for her check-up; she's halfway with her pregnancy. Probably going to bore us with more ultrasound shots of his wee lassie later at the Pub, the preening stud."

"Well, I'm glad that Percy and Peggy are happy. . ."

"Sure, Vic, sure. But it's all he talks about. Bloody hell, I never got that daft when my Doris was in the family way, and we did it three times."

"Well, it took them a while. . ."

"I guess. Anyway, our love life needed a bit of a spur, so I has a private chin wag with Percy and he gives me some of your ideas, and lo and behold, old Doris hit her stride again and I'm a happy man."

"Wonderful, Stan. Now, about going up to check out the roof. . ."

"Sure, Vic, happy to do it. No problem. See, I gets home last night, and the kids are all out with their mates, can't keep teenagers at home and who'd want to, know what I mean," he said putting his finger aside his nose, "and Doris has picked up some lovely fish and chips for our Tea. Well, she's wearing her blue floral dress, you know, with the low neckline which really gives you a good look at her knockers, and this bit of tartar sauce falls on her chest, you know she's like you Yanks about that stuff, and I says to her, 'Here, luv, I'll take care o' that,' and I leans over and licks it off her skin. Well she gets a bit uppity first, and says I'm a pervert, but she's giggling and I dribble a little more on her knocker and lick it off again and she's giggling and I pour the whole lot down her front. 

"Well, she stands up and says 'What the fook are you playin' at now, Stanley?' and I says I'm trying to spice up our love life, just like you helped Perce and Peg, and she stops cold a minute and says, 'Well, if the Vicar thinks it's a good idea,' and unzips her frock. Well, I'm going at it like a mad cannibal, slurping up tartar sauce and great handfuls of beautiful tit meat that I'm squeezing and working and she's breathing and moaning like a high priced hooker . ."

Now I was squirming and tapping my foot, waiting for a place to jump in and derail this conversation, but Stan is known for extended rapid paced narratives and unfortunately for me, he was on a roll.

"Well, next thing we know, we're in the bedroom and I've got her clothes off and I'm rubbing the tartar sauce all around her tits and licking it off the nipples and the whole nine yards. Then she reaches down and unbuttons my pants and starts pulling them off. Well, we get my John Thomas out for air, and I asks her to give my lollipop a lick and she makes this face, you know, squeezing her eyebrows down and shoving her nose up and biting her lip and I says, why not do what the Vicar recommends and dip it in chocolate sauce. Well, that makes her stop and think, and after a minute she runs out the door starkers to the kitchen and brings back some strawberry jam. My word, Vicar, I thought I was going to shoot my wad right then and there, her hand felt so good as she smeared the jam all over my prick and nutsack and her tongue was a miracle as she licked and sucked around, I thought my mind was going to cum right out of my ears, I did."

"Great, Stan, now about the roof. . ."

"I don't know when I had such a big load of cum, and my Doris swallowed it all down, all down like a trooper and she never done that before. Well, what could I do, I ripped off her panties and stuck my nose as far down her cunt as I could, I did, and worked my tongue like a Chinese lickmaster, no matter how bad she tasted. Also reached up and gave her tits another good mashing, and she came like a banshee, over and over and over again, writhing and wriggling like a beached fish. . ."

"Wonderful, now. . ."

"Wonderful isn't the word for it, Vicar, it was heaven, a real slice of heaven. It wasn't half an hour before we were ready to go again and as I was banging her hard we were both saying 'Thank God for the Vicar, what a great man to teach us.' Cor, Vic, when the kids came in and heard us upstairs, they went right out of their minds with disgust, which is what I'd like them to think when they think about sex, quite frankly, anything to slow the randy little buggers down."

His three children were known as some of the biggest hell-raisers in the area; I'd caught them several times canoodling under the shrubbery since each turned thirteen. "Yes. . ."

"Well, I don't have all day to visit with you, Vicar, glad for the help and now I'm going up to the roof to see what we've got going on up there." He smiled and pounded up the stairs two at a time on his way to check the attic and state of the roof. There had been some dribbles on the walls that concerned me, and I'd been trying to get Percy and Stan to look at it for months.

Sighing, I went to my study to get ready for my first appointment. Niall Jones was first in my diary, the Organist/Choirmaster. He was a fixture at St. Dunstan's, having served for ten years under my predecessor, and heavily involved with politics of the parish at that time. We had gotten along well during my tenure: I was happy with how Niall organized the music and handled the choir, and he was happy to focus solely on his art. A sandy haired man of medium height and thin, he came into my study wearing charcoal slacks and an a grey t-shirt with three gold chains around his neck. He sat in my chair and put one sandaled foot up as he crossed his legs. "How's the lad, Vic?"

"Fine, Niall, fine. Yourself?"

"Grand, Vicar, grand. Francis wanted me to say thanks again from coming round for dinner last night, and the excellent bottle of Pinot Noir."

"I had a wonderful time. You know me: I can get lost in music trivia for hours. What can I do for you today?"

"Well, I'd like to try something new this Christmas season, and wanted to know how you felt about it?"

"Isn't it a bit early to think about Christmas at the end of August?"

"You've forgotten your time on the organ bench, Vicar. I have to plan the whole fall and Advent out now, looking at what I can do for Christmas long before it happens. Used to plan the whole year out in advance, but with the turnover among the Choir boys, I've had to scale that back a bit."

"Okay, what would you like to try?"

"Lessons and Carols. Thought it would be a nice starter for Christmas eve before the Midnight Mass."

I thought for minute. "That's kind of overloading the evening, isn't it?"

"Maybe. But I've been thinking that it's a wonderful tradition, and if it's all good, if we give everybody a stretch break before the Eucharist, it should work. After all, people go to three hour movies happily if they're good enough."

"Well, this puts a lot of pressure on you and the Choir, Niall, but if you think you can pull it off, go ahead. We can try it once, at least."

"Grand, Vicar, thanks. Did you hear the news about Lady Violette?"

"No, what."

"She popped out her little one last night. A grand boy, a big, heavy bugger. Horace says she was in labor for twenty hours, lots of pain, and drove the Sisters crazy the whole time."

As long as she enjoyed herself, I thought. "Has she named the child?"

"Yes, a crazy one it is. Horace Frederick Arthur Delacroix. Says she's going to call him Freddie."

I winced. "God help the little lad."

Niall grinned evilly. "God help the little lad, indeed. Violette's a lot of fun, I love the salacious bitch, but I don't envy anyone who'll call her Mum."

"Maybe I should give him a gift certificate for the psychotherapy in twenty years as a Christening present?" 

Niall almost fell off his chair laughing. "Well done, Vic, he'll need it in about twenty one years, ha, ha, ha. Gift certificate for psychotherapy, ha, ha, ha. Very droll, very droll indeed." I laughed as well, but not as enthusiastically since the images of the baby's conception were more vivid in my mind's eye than I wanted them to be. 

After Niall settled down from his mirth, I asked: "Is there anything else you wanted to talk about, Niall?"

"Oh, no, Vic, that's all I wanted to ask about. How's the new housekeeper, wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more."

I sat up straight and tried to act nonchalant. "Agnes is moving in today, and I'm sure things will work out beautifully. I'm sure living next door to the church will give her more time for organ practice "

"Organ practice indeed, Vic, organ practice indeed," he said smirking. "I'm sure she'll keep your Vicarage a lovely place to come home to." 

"Yes, she's a thorough worker and very meticulous. I'm glad to help her out."

"Sure, Vic, sure," Niall insinuated, "Agnes is a lovely girl, and if I were straight I'd have my leg over in a flash."

I gave him a very serious frown. "She's doing a good job as your assistant, isn't she?" 

"Lovely, Vicar, she's a fabulous player and a joy to work with. We get along famously, and the only thing I worry about is that some other parish is going to give her the job she deserves. I hope that things will work out for you two; I want her to be happy, and if you can tie her down here more tightly, even better. . ."

"I'd like her to stay around a while, Niall. I want her to be happy as well, but I can't promise how long she'll stay with us."

"Excellent, Vicar." He put his finger aside his nose. "Mum's the word, we're all family here. Oh, by the way, Francis and I have been trying out some of your advice."

"My advice?" What the hell could he be talking about?

"Using chocolate sauce in the bedroom. Franny and I made a nice Swiss chocolate sauce last night for the dessert, remember it on the ice cream? We took it with us to the bedroom for our fun after you left. It was delicious and it took forever to get every last morsel off Franny's little chocolate balls. Never had someone shoot their massive wad on my scalp before, but I rather fancied the Cameron Diaz hair treatment.."

I shuddered: my reputation was going directions that I never thought of, and I wasn't sure it was a good thing. Looking at Niall's smiling face, I was speechless, and he laughed at my embarrassment. "Don't worry, Vicar, this isn't a bad thing. You're helping people in many ways here. Don't get flustered about it, although I must say, you blush is very pretty. Later."

"See you, Niall," I said unsteadily. He left with a smirk on his face and I checked my e-mail. There was a note from Reverend Brenda Porter entitled 'Update'. I opened it and was stunned to read the contents.

Dearest Alfie,

Don't know how to tell you this, but I've met someone, someone special, here in Alice

Springs. He's an elder of one of the Aboriginal Tribes, and he's retired here. 'Terry' is 

his English name, and although he's sixty years old weathered, scarred, and grey, he has

given my life new meaning. 

I'm leaving the priesthood, Alfie. My call was so strong at first, but I can't juggle my

needs with my parish's very well; you remember I had to leave England because of those

affairs with parishioners. Well, it happened here too, but I was lucky this time. Terry is

the man whose feet I want to sit at, and whose baby I'm going to have. The bishop here was hard on me, cruel, and so I have to go. I treasured the time we spent together and I'll

never forget you, Alfie dear, neither your love nor your wisdom. Thank you.

Mum is having some problems with my decision; if you can find it in you run by the

house and comfort her, I'd appreciate it, especially since I'm not coming back to England for quite a while.

In the meantime, Godspeed,

Brenda.

A quick look at the directory and I was ringing Mrs. Porter's number, but there was no answer. I made a note to myself to call her later. Losing her was a pang, but not as sharp as I expected. She hadn't written for six months, and had canceled a planned visit on behalf of her parish recently. My life was full without her, and whatever long term hopes I might have had were only pipe dreams.

It took me a few moments to get my brain moving again. I turned to an article I was writing for a scholarly journal back in the States: a reflection on the Council of Whitby and its lasting ramifications. Listlessly, I thumbed some ancient tomes and reviewed some recent articles, but I couldn't focus on the material. I kicked myself mentally: the article had to be transmitted within a week and the current draft was a mess. Academic writing was part of my condition for staying in England after completing my formal study, and if I let it flag Bishop Delacroix, his successor or the current Bishop of Topeka would be justified in shipping me back over the Pond. With some internal determination I was able to get one paragraph into respectable shape, and resolved to spend more time on it the next day.

I called Sister Barbara and asked her how her mother, Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazleton was doing.

"She went home last night at last, Alfred. Resting comfortably under Willikins' vigilant care. I think in a couple of days she'll be up for a visit."

"Grand, Barbara, glad to hear it. I'll be over to see her Friday. How's things at the shop?"

"Same looney lot. I saw the top of my desk this morning before the mail got in, so a major miracle is probably just over the horizon. Our vocation days are this weekend, and everyone is running full tilt."

"How many are coming?"

"Fifty."

"That's wonderful!"

"I guess, but it's a bloody nuisance getting ready for them. There's sleeping everywhere except Plato's Cave. I know we'll be lucky to get any of them, but it's good to tell our story to girls who're interested."

"That's the spirit. Keep the faith."

"Are you coming by Sunday night?"

"Won't you be tired? Won't your rooms be all cluttered by the recent departures?"

"No, I'll need a break after the big hen party. We haven't had a resident Chaplain for years, and we aren't using those quarters, so they're yours if you want them. I've got a lovely bottle of Amaretto I'd like to share, and the Chapel at night has a–special magic that I know you'll appreciate."

"All right, if you say so."

"See you soon, Alfred,." she purred.

"Bye, Barbara."

Going for a jog, I found Fred Bayless waiting for me when I returned. Fred was a retired shopkeeper who had been married for forty years to Doris, who was universally considered a saint for putting up with him. His chubby form reflected his former profession of butcher; he was relatively short, with thick hands and fingers, blue eyes and thick with a hairline in permanent retreat to an enclave of white wisps on the back of his head. Fred's normal good cheer was missing as I showed him to my study, and he sat heavily on my stuffed chair.




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 12



"I need your help, Vicar," he began abruptly.

"All right," I said as I settled behind my desk.. "What can I do for you?"

"It's Doris. She doesn't excite me any more."

"Can you say more?"

Fred scratched his head and thought, struggling to form the words. "Well, over the years, she's let herself go. When we was first married, she was a little wisp of a gal, fragile as a feather, I was afraid I'd squash her when I got on top and, you know, she was so lively and carefree. Then the babies came, and the years of housework and now she's fat."

"Are you the same man you were when you first married?"

He chuckled. "Well, I've put on a couple of pounds in my time, but it's all her fault; she feeds me up with meat and potatoes, all this heavy food all these years and I've gone to pot. Why does she do this, Vicar?"

I counted to ten as I let this remark pass: he probably wouldn't eat anything but meat and potatoes. This was going to take a while, if it would work at all. "Do you get, ah, desires, when you look at other women?"

"Well, Vicar, I like a good show as much as the next man, used to go to the strip clubs for a while, but they're too expensive for me now. Tried flirting a bit with different girls at the Pub, but they brush me off, so I don't do it anymore. Now and then I look at some magazines or surf the Internet, but not that often. Don't even wank myself that often these days."

My mind worked hard to keep from picturing that. "Have you been in for a checkup lately?"

"Oh, about six months ago, Vic. Regular service, oil change and lube, you know?" He chuckled grimly again, and scratched his head. "But I was wondering if you had any magic remedies like what's helped me mates Stan and George."

"George? Who's George?"

"George Harris, he's over at St. Edmund the Confessor parish. The Reverend Arthur Farnsworth was telling him that if he'd do some crazy things with food in the bedroom his love life would improve, and it worked for him. Can't understand it myself; Clara's a hot bit of tottie who could get me going with a wink and a smile, know what I mean? Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more. George said he poured honey all over her chest and rubbed it over her breasts and stomach, and they fucked like rabbits all night long. Father Arthur said he got the idea from you."

Thank you, Artie, I thought to myself. There's probably people playing with the food in bed all over the deanery thanks to the gossip line. "Well, I can't say that's all my idea, but I don't think that this is something that a little boundary stretching is going to help. From what I'm hearing. Doris doesn't strike me as the adventurous type."

"Well, she never was much of a goer. Nice enough, and seemed to enjoy it in her day, but now she's like a dead weight."

"Do you think she still loves you?"

His eyes searched around the room anxiously, finding rest in the corner of the ceiling over my left shoulder. "I don't know," he said in an unusually quiet voice, "I just don't know." His hands began twitching in his lap and his breathing grew quicker and shallower. "She takes care of me all right, and she's always so attentive, and she listens when I tell her something, but I look in her eyes sometime and I think she's just going through the motions, like she has no other option than live out her life like this." He bit his lip a minute, and blinked a few times. "It was the same look my Mum had in her eye when she was doing the laundry by hand when I was a lad, just before Dad walked out."

"Fred, are you thinking of leaving Doris?"

"No, no, Vicar, I'd never do that. I'm a better man that my Father was, and I'm not giving up. Doris doesn't excite me anymore, but it doesn't mean I don't care about her or want to take care of her. She gave me four lovely children, and I'm proud of all of them. Just feel rather lost, like, like. . ."

"You're disconnected from yourself? Like there's something missing?" He nodded, and a single tear snuck out of the corner of his eye.

I looked at him silently for several moments, but he had nothing more to say. Eventually, I said: "Fred, I think you still love Doris, and although you're feeling frustrated and want things to change, you're afraid of many things. First think I think you should do is get a physical, and tell your doctor what you've told me about how you're not that interested in Doris. Maybe something else is going on."

"What, what, you mean I might have cancer or somethin'?"

"I don't know, but you need to find that out. I'm not a doctor, but I know that different conditions can affect desire. As far as Doris goes, I don't think that kinky bedroom play is quite what you're looking for. Try being nice to Doris for no good reason, you know, acts of random kindness. Don't say much about it to her, but just try reaching out in subtle ways, like taking out the trash before she asks you."

He face dropped. "You mean that might help?"

"Couldn't hurt. There are many way to break out of a rut. Focus on her, and see what happens."

At that moment, the phone rang. I looked at him and he nodded, so I picked up. "Vicar, Vicar, it's Sheila. I'm riding an ambulance to the Emergency; Bert collapsed in the yard and we think it may be his heart."

"Do you want me to come over?"

"Yes, Vicar, yes, please."

"I'm on my way."

I rang off and turned to Fred. "Sorry, Fred, I've got to run. Emergency hospital call. Think about what I said and see what you can do."

"Sure, Vicar. I'll think it over." He was a bit shell shocked, which was unusual for him.

I scribbled a hasty note for Agnes, and after escorting him to the door, I got my car out and drove to the hospital like a madman. It had been cloudy all day, with bits of sunlight peeking through, but the day was winding down and the gloom was gradually growing more and more grey toward the twilight. Traffic was light, fortunately, and I pulled in near the emergency entrance. I thought about Bert, genial guy, a bit lethargic, and fond Arsenal and his family. He was the Verger and Sexton for St. Dunstan's, but only took his public office at Christmas and Easter, and supervised Percy and Stan in their handyman work around the Parish. Occasionally, he swept the Chapel floor when he had nothing better to do. The only time I generally saw him was on Sundays.

Sheila was already in the waiting room. "They're working on him now, I don't know what's going on. He was weeding the garden and just keeled over; I didn't find him for, oh twenty minutes maybe, I was doing the wash." She sobbed and put her head on my shoulder for several long moments.

I held her and let her cry. When she had settled a little, I asked her what I could do. "I don't know, Vicar, just stay with me here? I called Jen and Derrick already, and they're on their way. Jen'll call everyone." She settled back against my chest and we sat in silence.

Jenny and Derrick showed up a half hour after I got there. Their dress was casual: they had been on campus. Jenny was showing her five month pregnancy in a floral top over white shorts; Derrick had a polo shirt and jeans on his tall and lanky form. They were both very worried when Sheila told them the story; no one had come out to update us on Bert's condition. Jenny sat next to her grandmother and held her, while Derrick and I wandered up the hall for a moment or two.

"How's it going, Derrick?"

"Fine, Vic. Jenny called Aunt Sandra, Aunt Julie and Uncle Clive. Sandra and Julie will get here as soon as they can arrange it; it'll take Clive a while to get here. He was driving his lorry back from Poland and needs to go home to Cornwall before he can come here. The cousins will find out from their folks. I gave my Gran a call, so she's on her way, too."

"Excellent. I'll stick around until you find out something, and we'll go from there."

"Grand, Vic."

We walked farther down the hall in silence, and turned a corner. When I was sure we were out of earshot of the women, I asked him: "Derrick, can I ask you about something completely unrelated to what's happening here?"

He brightened up and said: "Sure, Vic. What do you want to know?"

"Has Percy Witson been talking about the marital counseling he got?"

Derrick laughed. "Well, he hasn't been going into a lot of detail, I think his wife would kill him, but he's been saying that chocolate sauce in the bedroom has changed his life and he has you to thank for it. Some of the younger lads around the parish try it, some of the gals, too. 'Not even if you've got chocolate sauce' is now a put down at the Pub."

I chuckled softly at that. "So that's all he's saying?"

"Sure, Vic, that's all. What, is there more to it?"

"Yes, but I can't say. Along the lines of how I helped you out a few months ago."

"Oh, I see. Right, Vic, mum's the word. I hear the Bishop's daughter had a baby. What's she calling him?"

"Freddie."

"Grand. As long as it isn't Derrick."

We went back to the women, and Mary had joined them, as well as Sheila's daughters Sandra and Julie. They were listening to a doctor finish an explanation; the man walked away just as we were walking up. The Button women began sobbing, and Mary took Derrick and I aside to fill us in.

"It's the same thing that took Tommy; Bert had a massive heart attack," Mary said. "We don't know how long he was lying in the garden before Sheila found him. He's going to be in Intensive Care this evening at least, and it's a coin flip whether he lasts through the night or not. They're going to run a series of tests tomorrow to see more about what's going on, but his brain was deprived of oxygen for a while and they don't know if he was out too long to bring him back."

I nodded and looked at Derrick. "How old was Mr. Button?" he asked.

"Around sixty seven, I think," his grandmother answered.. "Are you hungry, lad?"

"Famished, Gran."

She looked at me and I nodded as well. "Would you boys mind going for some takeaway?"

"Mary, I'm here to do whatever I can," I said. "Let me check in with Sheila, and we're on our way."

Sheila was fine with her daughters, granddaughter and best friend present, so Derrick and I went after a pizza. They had moved Bert to Intensive Care while we were out, and the women were at a waiting room nearby. Conversation was at a minimum as the meal progressed: Sheila's daughters caught us up on their children, and pressed Jenny for details about her pregnancy. Derrick and I found a deck of cards and started playing Gin Rummy over to the side as we waited: so passed the evening's vigil. The hospital was relatively unoccupied that evening, and rooms for everyone who wanted to stay were available. Mary left around 10; Derrick and Jenny went home around 11, promising to drop by the Button house to check that all was well; Julie and Sandra went to bed around the same time; and Clive checked in approaching the Chunnel.

Sleep eluded Sheila, and she wanted company, so I sat up with her. Sporadically we chatted about some innocent subject. Suddenly she stood up: "That stupid git, that bloody stupid git. I told him for years that sitting on his arse would kill him. Just like Tommy Sterns did, the damn eejit did nothing but sit on his dammed arse in front of the Telly or down at the Pub. Never paid attention to what he et, never paid attention to how much he drank. The bastard deserves to die, the useless bastard."

I let her rant; it probably did her good to get it out of her system. As she wound down, the night nurse came in the door; the look on her face said everything. Sheila's rage shattered like a dish hitting the floor and she collapsed in my arms in tears, as the final news was announced. 

Three days later we celebrated Burt Button's life and conducted him to his final rest. Family gathered to comfort Sheila and each other, taking the opportunity to catch up with each other's lives. There was storytelling, memories and good food to share: Sheila spent mot of the time in the kitchen, refusing to be herded out by her daughters. "It's therapy for me," she said, "cooking helps me cope. Leave me alone." The Wake was a joyful remembrance of Burt's blessings and foibles, and the Funeral worked its healing office and proclaimed hope of eternal life. Sheila was quiet throughout, shedding hardly a tear, while the rest of her clan grieved more openly, especially at the cemetery. I stopped by the house to visit as they had a light meal, and stayed until most of the extended family had drifted away. It was with trepidation that I saw Sheila beckoning me upstairs; I knew she harbored some anger with him over his lethargy after his retirement, and his disinterest in her needs. I slipped upstairs a decent interval after she left the room; the only lavatory was there, so I had a cover story.

After closing the door to her room, she pointed to a chair by her dresser for me to sit in. Sheila and I had been intimate for about a year and a half, but we had always met in the Quilting Room or the Vicarage. Their room was stark, the walls a fleur de lis wallpaper that had seen better days, the bed barely big enough for two, the two dressers cluttered with jewelry and pocket contents. She paced nervously, looking in every direction but at me or out the window, taking slow, deep breaths. Her arms were crossed in front of her and after a minute she tossed her widow's hat on the bed so hard it bounced off the other side. I knew she wanted to tell me something, but she was fighting for the words. Sitting quietly, I .let her choose her time to speak.

Bert gave every indication of acquiescence to Sheila's extracurricular activities, but never referred to our relationship directly. Like his friend Harry Hazelton, he proclaimed himself no longer interested in sex, and glad to see his wife occupied with someone he trusted. His attitude struck me as rather indolent and apathetic. The only thing I'd seen rouse his interest in the past six years of my residence in the neighborhood were the various games and collateral conversations in the Pub, and the welfare of his children and grandchildren.

Finally, Sheila slowed down and sat on the bed rigidly, tapping her right foot on the floor rapidly. She was still focused on a corner of the room, and it was a clipped, angry tone that come from her that I never heard before.

"God forgive me, Vicar, but I hated the bastard. Bert Button was a self-centered, stupid git, who never saw past his own prejudices. Never wanted to find a job that made more money, never cared about what his children were wearing as they grew up. Everything revolved around him."

She looked at me directly. "He beat me, Vicar, the man struck me. He had enough self-control that he never did it around the children, thank God, but I felt the back of his hand more times than I can remember. Around the Pub or the Church, he was a great old lad, always ready for a laugh and a pint, and if you caught him at the right time, he'd even help you. But he was quick to anger around the house, and his acid tongue was quicker than the back of his hand."

"He asked me about Derrick just before he married Jenny," I interjected.

"Yes, he was very protective of his daughters and Jenny, who we raised since she was nine. It was all I could do to keep her away from him. No, I never thought he was going to force himself on her, but he treated her like his personal maid. We had to jump at his every command. 

"I married him because I had to: I was pregnant with Georgie when we went to the Registry Office; that's what people did in those days. My God, why did he and Clara had to die in that crash? Mary and Tommy had to get married for the same reason, and so did Mavis and Harry. We've survived all these years, your Quilting Ladies, by keeping busy and staying out of the way, but we couldn't do it 24/7. 

"When we had enough babies, the sex stopped. I was a doormat to him, he even masturbated in bed next to me for years without a care for my feelings."

"Why didn't you leave him?"

"Women of my generation and my mother's generation and my grandmother's generation always stood by our men, no matter what. For better or worse. Divorce was a scandal that no one wanted to live with, and Bert used the shame of it on me every time I wondered if I should leave, just to keep me here. You were telling me it was like that in Kansas where you were growing up; divorced people were a public scandal, weren't they?"

I nodded my head.

"Well, I rode it out and now I'm free of the bastard. I'm a widow and I couldn't be happier. You did a lovely job with the funeral, and you managed to find his few little virtues in your homily. The children appreciated that, and I'm glad for their sake. Those little kindnesses and the abundant mercy of Christ may gain him entrance through the Pearly Gates, but as far as I'm concerned, I wouldn't care if he were roasting over the fires of Hell for all eternity. May God forgive me for my anger."

There was nothing to say, and I kept my silence. She was still agitated, and it was better to let the steam dissipate on its own. Finally, she flopped back on the bed, and the storm was beginning to pass. I ventured a quiet question: "What now, Sheila?"

She turned on her side to look at me. "I don't know, Vicar. I hate this house; sleeping here the past three days without him has been agony, too. Maybe I need a change of location: Clive's girl just left him and he needs help with his little lads. I can take care of them for a while. Maybe stay permanently."

"Are you sure you want to live in Cornwall, away from your friends? Maybe you should just change rooms here?"

Smiling, she started to weep a little. "I'll miss you, Vicar, and Mary and Mavis and all the other folks at St. Dunstan's. It won't be a permanent exile; I'll have to come back to check in on Jenny from time to time, be here for the Christening of her baby. Not planning to sell the house or anything; Sandy and Julie can look after it. Just need to get away from here for a while, and Cornwall seems as a good place as any.

"I do know a few folks about there by Clive's place, and the parish out there is a good one. Maybe after a few months, I can even pray for the black soul of Bert Button. I don't know. I'll stay in touch, Vicar, don't worry about me."

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

A fresh spate of weeping hit her. "No, of course not. I'll have to wait a little before making up my mind. I know I'm blubbering ninny right now, and I'm not thinking straight."

"If there's anything I can do, please let me know, Sheila."

"I do know, and you're a love. I'll be all right, tonight, you can go home now. You look tired," she said, laying a soft hand on my cheek. I kissed it and left.

When I got back to the Vicarage, Agnes' light was still on in her quarters. She had done yeoman work the past few days, helping in many different ways, and she played for the funeral. I let myself in the back door, and she was in the kitchen to meet me. Her hair was brushed back, and a diaphanous white negligee that hinted at the treasures within. Smiling, her eyes narrowed right away as she saw the look on my face, and gave me a big hug. "How are you?"

"Tired. It's been a long three days. You?"

"A little tired, but okay. Hungry?"

"No, thank you. I had something at Sheila's house."

"Yeah, I remember, they had a ton. Mrs. Button's a great cook and so are her daughters. Anything I can do for you?"

I looked at her eager blue eyes. Any other night, I would have swept her into my arms and taken her to my room, but the burdens of the day, especially Sheila's revelations, bore down on me. Nobody knew, I thought to myself, she was miserable for years and she hid it from everybody, even her own children. I looked into Agnes' eyes and asked: "How was your grandmother when your grandfather died?"





The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 12



Agnes started at the question, but thought for a moment. "She was very sad. They did so much together, like they were joined at the hip. It took her two years to come out of her funk, right about when you arrived, Vicar. She went back to school to study and start a new profession. The solicitor work started filling her life, and so did the parish. I'm glad she's happy again, and bubbly; she wasn't herself for the longest time."

I gave her a quick kiss on the lips. "Thanks, Agnes. I appreciate that. Matter of perspective."

She kissed me back with some gusto. "Are you sure there isn't anything you'd like tonight?" she said with a lascivious wink.

My lips started to form the word "No" but my last attentive neurons fired. Agnes was still excited to be here, to be with me, and was looking forward to my attention. Over the past four days, I had no time for her other than business. She was strong and lovely, but also fragile, and I needed to remember that after having lived with the other Quilting Ladies self-assured quest for the finer things in love. I put my finger on her chin and said: "I need a back rub before I can get to sleep, and I haven't filled the other side of my bed for a while. I can't make any promises: my tank is pretty dry, but if you want to spend the night next to me without any action, you're welcome."

A lithe body leapt into my arms and kissed me hard. We walked upstairs to my room, where she gave me an excellent back rub, and spooned warmly against me for the night. She fixed me an excellent breakfast before going to school the next day, and I looked forward to getting to know her better.



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 13



Clarissa Clyde-Walker is a master manipulator, unlike the rest of the kind folks of St. Dunstan's. Many are interested in Clarissa getting some non-fatal comeuppance, including someone unexpected. There are rather intense scenes after Clarissa goes to the Recreation Room, so if you're not into S/M you may want to stop there and rest assured the Vicar will get what he wants and Clarissa will get more than she wants. 

Jim Lefebvre, a building contractor and long time parishioner, finished his inspection of the fallen section of the Vicarage roof. Percy Witson and Stan Dover managed to put a tarpaulin above the cave-in to keep the rain out, but any significant wind from the wrong direction would blow it away. Jim was a short, dark-haired man in his late thirties wearing a business suit with matching tie and shirt, and his pens were in a pocket protector. He scratched his head, blinking several times, and walked downstairs without a word. Percy, Stan and I followed him as he descended, and Jim didn't stop until he reached the kitchen at the bottom of two flights of stairs. Then, he looked at me, looked at the other, then back at me with an anguished look in his eye. "This should never have gotten this far, gentlemen, never, ever. I can't fathom how you two morons let things slide. This roof should have been replaced ten years ago. Reverend Stokeley was a miser having you two eejits patch things together year to year, and you obviously didn't let your current Vicar know what you were doing."

Percy and Stan stood meekly with their hats in their hands, looking at the floor. I asked them: "Did you know that this was going to happen?"

Percy didn't look up, but mumbled: "Well, yeah Vic, but we din't think it would be so soon. Stan and me done a good job holding things together and if we din't have that storm last week, and then this morning's before we could patch it up, then she would'a been fine, just fine."

Stan nodded his head. "Sorry Vic, we should'a gotten over sooner yesterday. We let you down."

"Vicar, it's a miracle that roof didn't cave in completely ten years ago," Jim broke in. "Now you've got no choice. I'll have to make my report to the Local Council, and you'll have to get going fast to repair it, or this house will be declared uninhabitable and you'll have to move out lock, stock and barrel."

My glance at the Miracle Workers was not returned. "What do I need to do now?" I asked Jim.

"Well, you've done what you can, you'll have to keep a close eye on it, and pray that we don't get another storm like last night's for a while. I'll do you a bid to replace it, we'll get the licences, and get things going fast since you have your arse hanging out, so to speak. I'll fax you the bid after I get back to the office and work things out; if you want to call a Vestry meeting tonight or tomorrow, I'll come by and lay things out for you."

"All right, Jim. Thanks for coming around so quickly. We'll be in touch." I shook his hand before he left; Percy and Stan were ignored.

I turned to them. "All right, go back up and make sure it will hold off everything short of a hurricane before you do anything else. Do you know the weather forecast for the next few days?"

"No Vic, haven't had a chance to check it out," Stan said brightly.

"Well, you will check it out everyday from now on, and you better pray that we're due for some unseasonably dry weather until we can get this thing taken care of, do you make myself clear?"

"Yes, Vic."

"Yes, Vicar."

"Get to work." They bounded up the stairs without a backward glance, and soon I heard a duet of hammering from the attic. I retreated to my study and Tallis masses to quench the flames of my anger until I got the fax from Jim's company. Looking at it twice, I got my Scotch bottle out and downed two shots neat before I hit my speed dial.

Mary answered on the first ring. "Well, Vic. What's the story?"

"We need to get the Vestry together tonight if we can. It's worse than I thought."

"How bad is that?"

"£18.000 to 20.000."

"Shit. I'll get the calls going."

"Thanks, Mary. I owe you."

"I have some ideas for repayment of that debt, but business before pleasure. Later, luv."

"Bye." With everything else, £25.000 would be more accurate. I didn't need the Vestry meeting to tell me what the situation was: we didn't have the money, the diocese was short of money for lending to parishes, and I wasn't in the Bishop's favor right now. Sure, they'd give us an emergency loan, but their attitude would be awful. Even with my personal leverage on Bishop Delacroix, the repercussions would be lasting. Bishop Delacroix was close to retirement and there was no inkling who his successor might be.. If it were Archdeacon Tommy Hughes, I would be in deep trouble carrying a debt with the Diocese, and get all the blame for incurring it. Hell, I could find myself back in Kansas.

It took a miracle to get a majority of the Vestry to turn out on a Friday night, but we did it. Jim Lefebvre came by with a detailed account of the damage the fallen roof caused, and his estimate of the work for repair, along with a timeline if he could get started right away. After he left, Fred Bayless took the floor: "Jim's right: Percy and Stan have been duct taping things together for a decade and it's a miracle it hasn't caved in sooner. It's November, and we need to get it fixed right away. Don't know where we're going to get the money, but I'm sure the Vicar can come up with something; he's come through for us before. In any case, I think we need to go forward in faith: let's get the work started early next week and surely the Lord will come up with the funding by the time the work's done."

They voted to start the project unanimously without knowing where the funding was coming from. I could hardly believe the inane smiles on their faces; what the hell were they thinking? Mary gaveled the meeting over, and they filed out quickly to get back to the Pub. Shaking my head, Mary and I closed up the Undercroft and went back to the Vicarage for a drink. The temperature was already several degrees cooler than ususal with the hole in the roof. Two large Scotches weren't helping, and Agnes bounced in from the University into my sitting room where Mary and I were commiserating.

"Hello Gran, hi Vic. What's happening? It's so cold in here."

"The roof caved in today, luv. Right over this room, in fact. Just got out a Vestry meeting about it: we've got to raise £25.000 right away."

"But what about the recent fundraising? We did very well, didn't we?"

"Yes, and most of that leftover money went into endowments, " I said. "It's my fault: I should have saved out more of Lucinda's gift as a rainy day fund."

"Don't blame yourself, Vic," Mary said, laying a hand on my shoulder. "We have a good operating reserve; there's no way anyone would have enough to cover something like this."

"Why not put an insurance claim in?" Agnes asked. "This is just the kind of thing. . ."

"If it was the Church, we'd have the money tomorrow. Reverend Stokeley didn't see fit to put the Vicarage on the insurance plan for some odd reason, and the Diocese won't cover it, either."

"That's strange," Agnes said.

"That's what I thought when I read over the policy this afternoon after Jim Lefebvre left.," I said. "Stokeley must have saved some money on premiums that way, and Niall tells me he never liked the Vicarage and rather hoped it would fall apart some day."

Mary blew out an incredulous puff of air. "The bastard Stokeley. I always knew he was a selfish bastard. And a stupid git."

"Well, I feel like an idiot for discovering all this six years after I got here. I thought I'd understood all the paperwork when I came here, but this is the first time we've had anything like this happen. I trusted Tweedledum and Tweedledumber to know what they were doing maintaining the place, and I trusted that we were covered against any calamities." Mary put her hand on my shoulder as my head bowed down. Agnes came over and kissed my forehead, stroking my cheek.

"Ladies, I think I need some time alone tonight. Probably need to drink a lot more Scotch and think. Tomorrow I need to make some phone calls to the big donors."

"It'll be a shorter list than usual," Mary said, "Lucinda's back in the hospital and they have her sedated pretty well. Harry Caldwell is on a business trip to Turkey and Syria, and Fred Titterington is on a Mediterranean cruise on a private yacht with no specific date to return. Looks like you'll have to call the Colonel."

"Forget that," I said, "I went shooting with him last week, and he left for an African safari yesterday. There's only one name on the list, and I'm afraid of what the price for that money might be."

Mary shuddered. Agnes was puzzled: "Who would that be?"

"Clarissa Clyde-Walker."

"She gave you money? That selfish bitch?" Agnes asked, incredulously. I took a big gulp of my Scotch.

"The Vicar had to pay a great personal price to get her contribution last time," Mary continued. "And there's no telling what she might ask for something like this. She'll know she has leverage, and it won't be pleasant. Not to mention, the Bishop's daughter is her personal friend, and she could easily drop the wrong word in the wrong ear."

Agnes' eyes bugged out. "Holy fuck."

"That's about right," I snapped. "We can certainly get a short term loan until Lucinda recovers, or one of the others gets back to the country, can't we?"

"Yes, we could," Mary said. "But you have to get the Bishop's permission to borrow money, don't you?"

"Ah, yes, I forgot. Perhaps I could borrow it personally?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe we could get Cherie Goodson at People's Bank to push that through, but she's as malicious a gossip as Clarissa, cut from the same cloth. You'd do just as well getting Jim Lefebvre to let you pay off in installments."

"With the way the building sector is right now, he might not be able to do that. Well, Monday we'll work both ends of that street and see what we come up with." I looked at my watch: it was 9:00PM, but it felt much later in the evening. "I need to crash after the way today's gone."

Mary came over and kissed me. "I'll call Cherie to sound her out tomorrow, carefully of course.. You talk with Jim. Good night, luv."

"Good night."

"Good night, Gran."

Good night, sweetie. Don't keep the Vicar up too late."

"I won't," Agnes and I saw Mary down to the door and watched her walk to her car. "Do you want to stay with me tonight? It's still warm in my apartment, and you look like you could use a friend."

"Thanks, Agnes, but I really need some time alone. Please don't take it personally. The guest room down the hall is a bit warmer, and with a couple of extra blankets, I'll be fine."

"All right, Vic, but I want to tell you a secret. Before she left, Mrs. Button had a hidden camera system installed in your Recreation Room; professionals put it in rather than Percy and Stan. If you have to 'entertain' Mrs. Clyde-Walker, you'll be able to–control the situation like you did with the Bishop's daughter. I know how to run it, and we'll have what we need to turn the tables."

I kissed Agnes hard on the lips. "That's the best news I've had today. You're such a bright gal." I looked in her shining eyes, and the invitation there, but my gas tank was absolutely dry between lack of sleep and stress. "Good night," I said before another soft kiss in dismissal.

"Good night, Vic," she said before reluctantly slipping out the door.

The phone rang around 9:00AM the next morning. I almost didn't want to answer it when the caller ID showed who the other person on the line was. Ever since that day that September a year ago, I had been dreading another conversation with Clarissa Clyde-Walker. Playing games always wears me out, and now was the time to get my game face on.

"Good morning, St. Dunstan's."

"Hello, Father Alfred. This is Clarissa Clyde-Walker."

"Good morning, Ms. Clyde-Walker"

"No need to be so formal, Alfred. A little bird told me that you are in some difficulty and need to raise funds quickly. I may be able to help you out."

"That would be wonderful, Clarissa."

"Excellent. Why don't you drop over to the house for tea and we'll discuss it."

"I'll be there around four."

"Excellent. It will be a brief interview, Father; I have a cocktail party to attend at six. I believe we can make our arrangements quickly."

"Very well. Until four, then."

"Until then."

I rang off and spent the entire day worrying about what she had in mind. Thank goodness I had a sermon on file that fit that weekend's liturgy: my mind wasn't focused on my job. Knowing her, it was surely nasty, surely something I wasn't interested in doing, and surely something that couldn't be discussed over the phone.

Arriving promptly, I was escorted into her sitting room by her butler Simon, who beckoned me to have a seat on the sofa while I waited for his mistress and poured me a cup of tea. Five minutes later, Clarissa Clyde-Walker made her entry, wearing a strapless blue sun dress over her long, thin body. Her flawless porcelain skin framed her fine cheek bones and the rest of her very subtle curves. Her long legs were bare and her feet in sandals. She greeted me and offered to pour me another cup of tea, which I accepted. We made small talk while she nibbled on a finger sandwich from a silver tea service, and commented on the unseasonable quantity of rain.

"Yes, the rain is doing wonders for my flower garden, although the polo pitch is getting rather soggy. My husband Percival landed a nasty crack on the head falling from his horse a week ago when his mount slipped in the mud; he just missed getting crushed by his horse." The last line was spoken with regret rather than worry.

"How is he recuperating?"

"Oh, he'll be out of the hospital in a couple of days or so. The doctor says he'll be fine."

"That is good news."

"Now Vicar, I understand you've had some problems with the water at your house."

"Yes, we have."

"And you're in desperate need to remedy the situation."

"Yes, I am."

"And I believe that £25.000 will cover the expenses?"

"Yes, Clarissa."

"Well, I don't want my Vicar to catch his death from the damp or have our fine Vicarage damaged by the ongoing flood. Contract with the builders; I will be happy to underwrite this project."

"Thank you, Clarissa."

She sat and looked at me coyly over another sandwich. "Are you not hungry, Vicar?"

"Tea is fine for the moment, Clarissa, I'm not hungry. I'm sure what you have to offer is superb, as always, but my appetite has never been robust."

Smiling broadly, she nodded. "It is a blessing we both share: it gives us slim bodies and energy that most people do not have. We should discuss appetites a bit more before we leave the subject."

"I rather thought you would." Here it comes, I thought.

"Very perceptive, Father, you do not disappoint. As before, there is something I want from you in exchange, and it has to do with appetites. Our previous interview, where we recreated our little Violette's adventure under your roof, was fantastic: it was all I dreamed about for months afterward. I would like to expand on that theme, if I could, but first I need to know which day you take off every week."

"Monday. After the weekend, I always need time to recuperate."

She looked at her diary, and nodded. "Excellent, I am free then as well. There is a fantasy that has tickled me fancy for ages: the Day of Agony. I understand that you have a basement room that you have fixed up as a workout room that includes a hot tub and an old  prie-dieu?

"Yes, I do. I take it that you would like to come--inspect it on Monday?"

"Excellent, well done, Father. Monday will be the day. Unlike last time, there will be no script and no limitations. I would bring Simon along for safety reasons, however, he was so taken by your endowment last time that it took extensive deprogramming to relieve his fixation on your protuberance I trust that Mrs. Sterns or other reliable person in your confidence could–chaperone us?"

"Mary just left for the Continent to do some rather urgent business in Nice and Marseilles."

"Is Mrs. Button available?"

"She is taking care of her grandson's children in Cornwall. I have no idea when and if she will return."

She took another sip of her tea, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. "How about the young woman who recently moved into your housekeeper's quarters, Agnes Sterns? She's a student and presumably has some flexibility."

"Agnes attends lectures most of the day Monday, and has to practice for four hours in preparation for her weekly organ lesson the next day. I doubt that she would be available during the day. Mrs. Hazelton is in town and would be free."  

Clarissa gulped. "Mavis Hazelton, the biggest gossip in the parish? The fat little cow with obscene udders and the voice that cuts glass? Surely there is another option?"

I shook my head. "Mavis is privy to many things she does not talk about. There are two other reasons you might actually prefer Mavis for our interview on Monday."

"And they are?" she asked incredulously.

"First, she is the most informed about the techniques we will be using, including safety, and would be the best to assist me."

"Granted. And the other reason?"

"If you truly want a day of agony, and her voice irritates you, why not be holistic and assault all your senses?"

She pursed her lips and thought. "Good point. We might as well set up a playlist of syrupy romantic ballads from Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack, interspersed with the Cowboy music of your home country to help round things out."

"We'll see. I am curious why you want to come on my day off."

"You will have no appointments, and it will be understood if you do not answer your phone or your doorbell that day. You can even lock the doors of your house without suspicion."

"Security an issue?"

"I don't want Percival finding grounds for divorce, nor gossip reaching the wrong ears. My car will be parked in your parking lot, and I will enter the Church before coming to the Vicarage via the corridor from the Vesting Room."

"Very well, I'll swear Mavis to absolute secrecy. And the big question, why me? Surely you could find a secret lover who would satisfy your needs discreetly."

She smiled very prettily and sipped her tea, blinking several times coquettishly. "Because my fantasy focuses around physical abuse by a man of the cloth, by the way, if you can scare up a monk's robe I would appreciate it. Mostly because I have the leverage to force you to do it, and it amuses me: you would certainly not entertain me in this fashion of your own free will, but I can make you give me pleasure any way, any day I wish." Licking her lips after taking another sip, she continued: "And you are a very dishy man, Vicar. Such well developed muscles and such a generous endowment. The thought of you culminating the day by thrusting yourself deeply inside me and expending yourself gives me shivers of anticipation." She punctuated the comment with a delicate shake before returning to her avaricious look.

I stared at her blankly for several moments; she stared back with a steely glare of domination. "All right," I said at last. "See you Monday at 8:00AM" 

As I made my way to the door, I took a deep breath. I didn't have the imagination to organize what she wanted. The things I did with Mavis were entirely her idea, and she made almost all the preparations. There wasn't enough time to read or surf the Internet, but there was someone I knew who did. First, I had to call Mary. .She wasn't home, so I went over to the Quilting room, and to my great fortune Mary and Mavis were both there. They were working on a small quilt for Jenny's incipient baby, but paused their work to greet me warmly with hugs and kisses. I asked them both to sit down.




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 13



"I have good news and bad news from the Clarissa quarter."

Mary frowned while Mavis kept sewing, cheerfully ignorant of what was going on. "What's the good news?" Mary said dubiously.

"She's going to give us the money to fix the Vicarage Roof."

"All right, what's the asking price?"

"My day off."

Mavis did a double take, and Mary frowned some more. "And what does she want to do on your day off?"

"A 'Day of Agony' as she called it; an elaboration of last year's entertainment."

Mavis asked: "And what was last year's entertainment?"

I turned to Mavis and waited until she looked at me. "Do you remember how we treated the Bishop's daughter a year and a half ago."

"Old Hachet Face?"

"Herself."

"Oh yes, I remember. Quite a lovely little game and well played."

"Clarissa played a little game to give me money for the improvement drive, then insisted I give her the complete Violette treatment not to stop the payment on the cheques."

Mary shook her head. Mavis plowed on blithely: "You mean you handcuffed her naked on the prie-dieu, put mousetraps on her tits and spanked her while fucking her doggy style?"

"Yes. Now, she wants an entire day of torture, with no boundaries, in exchange for paying for the roof."

A bright smile lit up Mavis' face. "When do we plan this out, Vic? I've got some lovely ideas for that little tramp already. Too bad Millie can't come down; she'd adore this." Mary rolled her eyes, although I caught a glint I didn't recognize.

. 

Throughout the weekend I got e-mails from Clarissa, bland in tone, but with attachments that showed some of her preferences for Monday. I was sitting in my study on Sunday afternoon when Mother Mary Rufus gave me a phone call. "Hi, Alfred, how's it going? Are you coming by tonight?"

"Bleak, Barbara, bleak. You were right about Percy and Stan; the Vicarage roof fell in the other day and it was their screwball practice of patching it together to get by that created the crisis. If they just told me what was going on, I would have been able to take my time replacing it; now I have to work every side of the street to get it fixed quickly."

"How much?"

"I figure £25,000."

"Whew, that's a lot. I'd go ahead and give it to you out of Mom's account, but my brothers and sisters would have my hide for it. She'll be herself soon, can you wait that long?"

"No, not with November weather. I got a pledge to cover the amount, but it comes with a price."

"That price is?"

"A day with Clarissa Clyde-Walker, tomorrow." Stunned silence came down the line. "Are you still there Barbara?"

"Yesss, I'd forgotten about her," she started slowly. "I remember the little bitch; she was two years younger than I. Oh, what I'd give to see her squirm, that proud little. . ."

"If you're free tomorrow, I could arrange it."

"Tell me more." I told her about the plans for Clarissa's 'Day of Agony', and her response was immediate. "I'm taking tomorrow off and I'll be there; what do you need me to bring?"

"Not much. Are you any good monitoring a digital video recording system?"

"Just took a refresher class in it last year. We do some promotional and devotional digital video clips in house, and that was my one of my jobs before I ascended to glory eighteen months ago."

"That's perfect, Agnes is busy all day and can't help us. If we can get a good video, we should be able to neutralize her anytime she wants to use her influence in future."

"How so?"

She's happy to be married, and having hubby find out about her–recreation would ruin that."

"Done, done and done. That little bitch has bad mouthed me, humiliated me and worse since we were in grade school. I'll be there at 7:00AM to get acquainted with your system and the lay of the land."

"See you then."

It was Sunday evening when I was able to give Clarissa's pictures a thorough looking over; Mavis brought my Tea that evening, so she was able to look over my shoulder as I prepared the schedule. Mavis was very helpful, and her suggestions were very interesting. 

"Well, luv, we'll have great fun tomorrow," Mavis said at last. "She's always been a nasty little guttersnipe and I'll adore watching her squirm. Have you got what you need?"

"Yes. Thanks for helping me. Tell me, what do you think of Barbara Parkhurst-Frazleton?"

"Our little Barbie, who ran off and became a Catholic nun? A spoiled brat for a very long time, but a good pal of my Millie. Glad she found her calling with God and made good, even though she swam the Tiber."

"What would you think if she came over to run the video tomorrow?"

Mavis thought for a moment. "Barbie was always a clever gel. She still a noone?" I nodded my head. "Well, I guess noones are different these days. Barbie P-F. was always reliable if you asked her to do something, and she always did things right, which is more than I could say about her older brothers and sisters. I don't have a problem with it, if she doesn't."

"Even with what we have planned for you to do?"

"Even with that. Barbie dislikes Lady Clarissa more than I do, and she's got good reason; Clarissa tore into our Barbie with both claws many times growing up. Sister Barbie's a grown woman; she can handle herself, I'm sure, if she's willing to do this." 

I digested this bit with some surprise: I would have thought Mavis to be a little more outraged at a nun recording an intense scene like this, but Mavis always surprised me. 

"Are you sure you wouldn't like a little warm up tonight, luv?" She asked, batting her eyes outrageously.

"No, I think I need to save myself for tomorrow. It's going to be a long day for all four of us."

"Okay." 

At 7:00, a tall woman got off the bus in front of the Church wearing a dark red sweats, mirror sunglasses and a red handkerchief covering her head. The building was already open, thanks to our new Sexton, Derrick Sterns, and I heard a knock at the door leading from the Church shortly afterward. I got up from my morning paper to see who it was: it was Mother Mary Rufus of St. George's, aka Barbara Parkhurst-Frazleton. 

A flying embrace almost knocked me off my feet. She buried her tongue in my mouth for several long minutes, and just when I thought I would asphyxiate, she released me. "Good morning, Alfred."

"Good morning, Barbara."

"Time for a quickie?"

"I don't think so, unfortunately. Need to pace myself so we can give Clarissa as much punishment as we can. Computer's this way. Coffee?"

"Oh yes, thank you." I poured her a cup of French Vanilla coffee and led her to my study where the computer was already set up and the cameras downstairs active. She pulled up the control panel, poked around a few keys, tried the mouse, and pronounced herself ready. 

Right then, Mavis came through the door. "Cooie, Vicar, are ye decent?"

"In here, Mavis."

She bustled in and immediately reached out toward Barbara. "Oh, our little Barbie doll, come home at last." I could see Barbara wince as Mavis embraced her, but smiled warmly as they broke the embrace. "It's good to see you, lassie. How's your mum?"

"Hopefully, she'll be out of Hospital next week. How's Millie?"

"Oh just grand, chasing four teenagers around the house and keeping them out of trouble. I'll tell her you said hello."

"Thanks." Barbara looked at Mavis for a long moment, then broke out in a huge smile and hugged her. As they broke, she said: "Would you mind going downstairs and just walking around so I can practice the tracking controls."

"Sure, luv." Mavis laid a huge, gentle paw on Barbara's cheek. "It's so good you see you, lass." 

Then Mavis went downstairs to walk around for Barbara's benefit.

Promptly at 8:00AM, Clarrisa Clyde-Wright pulled into the parking lot by the Church, and came into the Nave. Mavis and I were waiting in the hallway by the connecting corridor; shortly the clip of high heels reverberated on the linoleum Three knocks on the door, and I opened it. She stood there, in a white raincoat and black heels, her head covered by a scarf and dark eyeglasses on her face. I found a monk's habit at a costume shop, with a matching nun's outfit for Mavis. We led her to the kitchen, were I took her coat and scarf; her sunglasses went on the table. 

Her eyes darted between us, a combination of excitement and fear. She wore a longsleeved, high necked black blouse and black slacks over her heels. I poured her a cup of coffee, and she took it black. Mavis looked at her in fascination; Clarissa grew uncomfortable under her gaze and said at last; "Good morning, Mrs. Hazelton."

"Good morning, Clarissa. How are you this morning?" Mavis intoned sweetly.

"Nervous. You?"

"Ah, it's a grand day, and I hope you'll think it one as well. You've come to the right place, luv." Mavis gave her a bawdy wink and looked at her with ravenous eyes.

Clarissa turned to me in worry. "What part is she going to have in this?"

I put my hand on Clarissa's shoulder, and squeezed. "Mavis is here to oversee, recommend and assist me should I need it. You don't need to worry, the only one who will be touching you today is myself." She relaxed a little, sat and drank her coffee.

Standing in front of her as she finished it, I took her by the shoulders, pulled her to her feet, and said: "From now on, you will do what I command or you will be punished. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, Master."

"Very good. Use the restroom before we go downstairs; I don't want any accidents in the middle of this." Clarissa was directed to the W.C. in the housekeepers' quarters, and after she returned I beckoned her downstairs.

The Recreation Room was decorated as a dungeon. A myriad of candles illuminated the room, chains were hung in several places, mostly for decoration, and the pool table was covered by a black sheet of plastic. A black covered table held many instruments, ready for use, and a bar hung from the ceiling, cuffs at either end open to caress delicate wrists and possess them. In front of the bar was the prie-dieu, facing the position, and several feet beside it was a chair with a small table holding a double hot plate and a couple of pots. Clarissa took all this in with wide open eyes, biting her lip, and trembling slightly. I beckoned to a chair by the door. "I believe it is time to remove your clothes."

Clarissa removed her clothes, her hourglass figure and porcelain skin shone in the candlelight. Her inch wide nipples grew stiff at the touch of the cool air of the basement; her breathing grew shallower and quicker. I took her hand and lead her to the bar, gently lifting one hand to bind it, then the other. She stood before me, her eyes gleaming, ready.

Mavis cut in. "Concentrate on your breathing, luv. Take long, deep breaths, or you'll hyperventilate. We can't be having that, can we?" Clarissa shook her head and worked to control her breathing. Her eyes followed me as I went to the table and pondered where to begin. 

"You said no safewords, Clarissa. I'm going to give them to you anyway: doing without is madness. Let's stay with Yellow for slow down and Red for stop. If you're gagged, three thumps with your hand or foot mean slow down and another three mean stop. We have a first aid kit here, and all the candles are paraffin. It would be very unromantic if your day of agony took you to Hospital, and it would be difficult to keep that news from Percival. Agreed?"

Nodding her head, Clarissa kept looking around. "Understood and agreed, although I think I'm pretty tough."

We'll see. Let's start slowly, we've got all day. "

Sitting where Clarissa could see her was Mavis: she was hovering over a hot plate, on which was a pot of water with a metal bowl above in an improvised double boiler. A candy thermometer stuck out of the top, which Mavis checked from time to time. From my angle, I could see Clarissa staring at the pot, while Mavis grinned inanely as she stirred the mixture.

Picking up a small flogger, I whipped the wall just behind her as hard as I could. She flinched, and I hit it again. Then, rubbed the strands of the whip across her backside, she wiggled her hips in invitation. Another two sharp cracks landed on the wall, and Mavis laughed as Clarissa recoiled from both of them. A glance upward at an almost invisible camera showed it follow her closely. I aimed a blow to just miss her back; she felt the breeze and stuck her backside out farther toward me. Two more deliberate misses, then a sharp crack against the wall. 

"What's wrong with you, Goddamit," she screamed. "Aren't you going to hit me?" From the back, I could tell that her face was red with frustration.

I struck the perfect porcelain backside in front of me. It left a faint frazzle of red lines on her right hip: I essayed three more licks of the whip, spaced in time, augmenting the pattern. Moving to the left hip, four kisses fell quickly, bringing moaning and a comparable design. The next five licks fell at a moderate tempo on her shoulder blades, followed by a pair of quick snaps to each hip. 

A look at Mavis told me how things were going, she nodded as I questioned her with my eyes. Coming up close, I trailed the strands of the leather up and down her legs, barely touching the skin, as she quivered a little. The strands navigated the tender valley between her hips, she moved to broaden the crevasse and I circled to make a deeper pass with the flogger. Suddenly, I lashed at the back of her legs and calves in a flurry, moving up to deepen the angry nest of red on her hips. Just as quickly, the punishment stopped and I ran my hands over her shoulders, down her back, over her hips and down her legs. Coming back under, my hand probed around to find her folds, wet already, tracing my finger just close enough to feel the electricity of her genitals but not making contact.

I walked around in front of her, standing within reach; her eyes followed me greedily. Putting the flogger down and picking up a riding crop, I observed: "You want this, don't you?" She nodded her head. "You want this on your front, don't you?' Another nod, sweat was already streaming down her face and body. "Not yet. My arm is a little tired and needs to recuperate. My John Thomas is hard and needs some attention. You seem a little tied up right now." Mavis snorted at the bad line. "So I'll have to ask dear Mavis to assist me." She flounced over in her habit and knelt on the floor in front of me, unbuttoning my cassock. "You will count the strokes, and if you miss one, I'll have to remind you."

As Mavis pulled my stiff wand from my cassock, Clarissa whined: "When am I going to get that?"

"When I want to give it to you. Depends on how cooperative you are. Mess up or piss me off and you may not get it at all." Mavis had finished unbuttoning, and began to savor my erection. I kept my eye in Clarissa as I received my tribute; she kept her eyes on the action and kept counting. My knees started to go weak as Mavis' talents generated extreme pleasure; her tongue was soft and cunning and seemed to be everywhere on my cock and balls at once. Clarissa's voice began to warble and fade as she counted.

Two sharp shocks to her stomach brought her back to attention. My juices were starting to boil, but I had to get Clarissa's attention twice more before I was ready to explode. According to plan, I pulled reluctantly away from Mavis' talented mouth to ejaculate on her face. It ran in revulets down her cheeks on onto her habit; her questing tongue got a few drops between her lips. When I was done, I swept up a small morsel with my finger and fed it to Clarissa.

We released Clarissa, and led her over to the prie-dieu. We knelt her down and tied her hands to the sides of the furniture. I took away the chair, forcing her to kneel, and bound her hands behind her. Her breasts just covered the ledge, the little nipples barely peeking over the edge.

The buds were not as erect as I wanted them, so I took a piece of ice from a bucket and teased Clarissa's nipple into hardness before applying the clamp. Repeating on the other side, I tested the tension by pulling the chain. "Is this suitable, Clarissa?" I asked.

"Kind of you to inquire, Vicar, " she said calmly. "Yes, this will do nicely. The preparations are excellent, and I look forward to the culmination of this particular exercise." 

"Fine. You will count the blows." 

"One, two, oooh, three, ah, ah, ah, four, five, six, aiiieeee. . ."

It didn't take as long for the crop to turn Clarissa's tits deep red, and I pulled the chain quite high to get the expose of the underside of her breasts to whack it with a small plastic ruler. She screamed as I worked her over between calling out numbers, tears flowing freely down her face as well, but she didn't back down or come anywhere close to saying her safeword. Mavis watched the whole thing gleefully, rubbing my semen into her face.

After finishing up top, I went around behind and felt between Clarissa's legs: it was a damp and carnivorous swamp that tried to suck my hand in. I took the flogger again and I flicked once on Clarissa's cunt. She sighed and wiggled, so I repeated it. Several more repetitions, and she moaned: "If you keep doing that, I'll just explode." 

"Far be it from me to disappoint you," I said, and kept whipping her clit until she almost fell off the prie-dieu in her orgasm. Mavis had to act quickly to steady her; in grabbing her, Clarissa's head ending up in the crack between Mavis' breasts. I untied her and the look on her face was one of disgust when we raised her to her feet. 

"I appreciate you wanting to protect me, Mrs. Hazelton, but I hope that I will never again be where I just was; I almost asphyxiated," she said with a curled lip and a haughty voice. Her body glistened with sweat that poured from everywhere.

Reaching into a cooler, I opened a huge bottle of ice water. I grabbed her wrist and poured it over her; she danced away and shuddered, but could not escape the cold flood. When it was empty, I gave her an insouciant shrug: "You looked as though you needed to cool off. Would you like some to drink?"

Her eyes glared at me. "Yes, thank you,' she said through chattering teeth, taking another bottle and drinking it quickly. "Let me use the facilities before we continue."

"Of course." I brought a pan over and put it beneath her. "Here you go."

'What? You want me to pee in front of you and that tub of–in front of Mrs. Hazelton?"

"This is the 'Day of Agony' you requested, is it not? If you want to quit now. . ."

"No, no. I see your game, touché. I did ask for this. All right." She squatted over the basin and let loose a strong and melodious stream that reverberated for a minute and a half. I took the basin over by the door to the next room; Clarissa looked concerned. "You aren't going to do anything to me with that later, are you?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out, isn't it?"

Shrugging her shoulders, she stood waiting for the next exercise. I motioned her to a cot, indicating her to lie face up. Two sets of cuffs were fixed to the corners of the bed: I secured her arms and legs so she was flat on her back, spread eagled. I motioned to Mavis, and she brought over a basket of wooden clothespins: "These simple household objects are quite handy, aren't they?" I put five on the underside of her right arm, then five more on the left. "They'll hurt a bit now with the initial bite, but when they come off it will hurt more, especially if I leave them for a while." Five more went on the inside of each thigh, and several pinched into her waistline. "I think that this will fulfill your requirements for the next portion of our adventure this day."

Clarissa looked over at Mavis. "Mrs. Hazelton, have you ever had clothespins on your body?" she asked.

"No, luv, never thought of that before. Used enough on the line in my time, especially when my lassies were in nappies. Do they hurt much?"




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 13



"No, not much, OW," she said, as I started putting a series on her right breast, along the curve from inside out. She winced as each one bit her delicate, white flesh freshly recovered from abuse.

After matching the other side, I took an eight inch vibrator, and lubricated it. "This will test you. I'm going to put this up your ass, then one just like it up your vagina. Think you can take it?" Her eyes grew large, but she said nothing. Pouring some oil on her tight bud, I worked it in thoroughly before I started slipping the device inside her. It took several minutes to work the greasy tool as far as it would go, but there was enough lubrication to slide its mate in her vagina without help. "Mavis and I will be upstairs to have a little lunch and a cuppa. While we're gone, there is one condition: you may not orgasm while we're gone. If you do, there will be punishment. And we can hear you upstairs; baby monitors are most versatile." Grinning, I put three more clothespins on each breast, one on the nub flanked by two in the areola. Then I switched the vibrators on and Mavis and I left.

The hum of the vibrators was barely perceptible in the kitchen monitor as Mavis bustled around. Barbara gave me the thumbs up without speaking from my study next door: Clarissa didn't ask about hidden cameras, and we didn't tell her. She was writhing pretty well, and incoherent gasps, moans and gibbering filtered up to us. Mavis was smirking as she stole a glance. "It's not charitable, Father, but I can't say that I'm not enjoying seeing that little bitch suffer. You've got a wicked side to you, Vic; I'm glad you're on the side of Goodness."

"Thanks, Mavis, I guess. I had help," I said, winking for her. "What's for lunch?"

Mushroom omelets were the feature for lunch, and a nice spinach salad with a bacon vinegarette dressing. The Mother Superior kept her eye on the monitors and ate her lunch in the study silently, lest Clarissa suspect another person was in the house. There was a portion for Clarissa, which Mavis prepared specially for her. Frozen yogurt was the dessert, and a nice Earl Grey Tea accompanied all. 

We returned to the basement; Clarissa was on the edge of coming unglued. "Let me cum, please let me cum, oh please, please, please, I'll do anything, please."

I surveyed the scene: she was sweating profusely and the clothespins were holding. Her nipples were purple, and it was time to end the scene. Taking the crop, I whipped the pins from her arms, legs, waist and breasts except the nipples. Carefully taking the outside pins, I left the ones on her nubs. I sat on the bed to her left, and grasped the cunt vibrator with my right hand. "All right, I'm going to fuck you with this and you can orgasm whenever you want." I thrust the machine in and out of her vagina, my right hand poised. She bucked against my hand hard and quickly started to rear up in ecstacy: I took the clamps off her nipples at that time and she went wild. 

When she stopped thrashing, I slipped the vibrators out of her and massaged her breasts back to life. Her porcelain skin was slick with sweat and her hair sodden. A gesture brought a bottle of ice water to my hand, which I poured over her to cool her off, bringing another set of shuddering and shivering. When she settled down, I untied her and asked: "Are you hungry?"

"Fanished."

"Luncheon is served at the table." I gestured to a small table where a bowl and a bottle of water rested.

I had to help her walk across the room and sit down. Looking down, she saw a bowl full of light green mush with no silverware. "Is this what I'm supposed to eat?"

"Yes," I said. "You have a choice: you can either eat it as is, without complaint, or I tie your hands behind your back and you can eat it like a dog. Or I can shove your face into it. Which would you prefer?"

Her eyes shone in rebellion, but her tone of voice softened. "I guess I'd like to use my hands. May I begin now?"

"What's the magic word?"

"Please, Master?"

"All right." Clarissa ate the whole thing, using her fingers to scoop up the glop and licking the bowl clean. She drank some water to rehydrate, and sat up. "Well, what's next on the program?"

"I think that since this is an exercise room, a little exercise is in order. Typical stuff: pushups, sit ups, jumping rope. It'll limber you up after your confinement, and help you get ready for what's to come. There should be punishment for bad form. Twenty five is the magic number, and when you complete each set, you move on. Ready?"

"Yes," she said.

"Excellent. Pushups first. Count them as you go, and if you feel the riding crop, you'll have to start over."

In excellent shape, Clarissa had no problem with push-ups; I hit her a couple of times just to increase the number. Sit-ups weren't any problem, either, once again I hit her just to increase the repetitions. For all her decadence, she kept herself in excellent shape. She took the jump rope with some reluctance, however. 

"My tits will jiggle around a lot doing this."

"So? 'Day of Agony', remember? Do you want to stop now?"

"No, no. But I'd–I'd–I'd. . ."

"Say no more. I shouldn't be doing this, but I'll help you control your jiggle." Taking a piece of ice, I made her buds hard again and brought out a set of clamps with a long chain. She howled as I fixed them on her nipples, and I put the middle of the chain in her mouth. "Bite down on this and your tits won't flop all over the place. To further encourage you, I'll smack your posterior with every jump, so count the smacks instead of the jumps until you get to twenty five. Ready?"

She looked at me rebelliously, but got into a ready position with the end of the rope in her hands and the chain in her mouth. I nodded and she began. It was a little tricky to sequence the whip at the right time to miss the jump rope, but within a few skips, I had it. Clarissa's breasts tried to bounce robustly, limited by the clamped nipples. Tears were flowing freely down her face and her voice was tense as she counted the strokes. When we got to twenty five, she spat the chain out of her mouth and started to take off a clamp until a sharp blow reminded her who was in charge. With pleading eyes, she looked at me, begging me to release her. I did, and her knees almost buckled.

"I think it's time you rested after your workout, then we'll get to the finale. Please lie down." I bound her to the bed, her hands above her head and her legs widely up in the air back toward her, presenting her pussy and asshole to the ceiling. Bringing out a stand with a bottle and valve, I set it up next to the bed. She looked up at me quizzically, but I stroked her breasts and thighs, gently rubbing her abused nipples, before proceeding. "This is a variation of an old theme, but the water isn't going to be dripping on your head." I set up the drip to hit her clit, and after a couple of tries got things where I wanted them. Mavis had just returned from the kitchen and the washing up; she sat there rapt in interest. Looking at her, I said: "While Clarissa takes a break, Mavis, why don't you tell her about your family."

Blinking, she asked: "All of them?"

I nodded. "Don't leave out a grandchild of the twenty."

"No, no, no, no, please for the love of God, no," shrieked Clarissa, writhing in her bonds.

"You'll listen, or it will go ill with you. I'll be back before long." I put a strip of duct tape over her mouth; Mavis was just getting rolling as I ascended the stairs.

The mantra of Mavis' narration help me relax as I sipped some Scotch upstairs at my computer; Barbara snuggled against me. I did some little things while we took a break: checked my e-mail, looked at the news, played with her crotch . Outside, the clouds still hung heavy, but it wasn't raining and the sun trying to peek out made it look like we would have a chance to dry out a bit. 

Barbara squeezed me and gave me a kiss as Clarissa struggled against her bonds. "I never knew you had this in you, Alfred! It's so good to see that bitch get her just desserts. You have no idea what she did to me, especially one night when I got very wasted at a party. She took some Polaroids of me passed out naked with a Seven Up bottle way up my cunt, and showed them to three quarters of the school. I have never been so humiliated. There were many, many other dirty tricks she played on me that were almost as bad. May I have a copy of this?"

"Sure. I'll put in on a flash drive, so you can wipe it if you need to."

"If you've got space, you can put Violette's night to remember on it too, as well as your adventures with the other ladies." Her eyes were gleaming with desire, and it was tough for me to leave her like that.

"Do you mind seeing your friends' mothers involved with me?"

"Not at all. I never realized Mrs. Hazelton had such monster tits. I'd love to just touch them sometime."

"You'll have to speak with her about that."

She took another quick peek at the monitor. "You'd better get back downstairs." The shot of Clarissa indicated she was trying to endure the litany, but the dripping water was foiling her concentration. She was hanging in there better than I thought, and as I heard Mavis start on the baby in Scotland, I knew it was time for the final act.

Coming down the stairs, Clarissa's wild eyes locked on me as I approached. Her pussy was damp with natural juices stirred by the little droplets from on high, her nipples erect, and her toes wriggled in frustration. "Enjoying yourself?" She screamed through the tape, pulling at her bonds. "Wonderful," I said as I turned toward Mavis. "Has she been any trouble?"

Mavis gave me a serious look. "She's behaved beautifully, the little lamb. I think she needs some personal attention right now, however."

"Would you please check the temperature of the paraffin?"

"Sure, luv." Mavis went to the hot plate to look at the reading. "It's at forty-three right now, luv."

I did the conversion math in my head: I never got used to thinking in European temperature standards. The formula was tough to remember at first, but after long practice I got it down. "Hmm, that's around 110E, isn't it? Let's crank it up a little bit, get it to at least 115E, or forty-six before we're ready."

"All right, luv." She said, cranking the knob of the hot plate to maximum. "Should be ready in just a tick."

Clarissa's eyes went wide. "Yes, Clarissa, I'm going to coat you in hot wax. I'll start out slowly, then ease up the heat, bit by bit. I'll dribble it on your stomach, your chest, down onto your breasts, your nipples, then I'm going to heat up your thighs, right up to your lovely shaved snatch." Moving my hand softly over the places I described, she moved and wiggled desperately to caress my palm. "Then we're going to knock off the wax, heat it up a little bit more and repeat. Probably twice. And if you're a very good girl, I'll stick a vibrator up your ass and fuck you silly." Her eyes closed: she moaned and nodded her head eagerly. "If you can handle it, I'll leave you tied up." She nodded her head eagerly again. "If you're little bad, I'm going to leave you unfucked and if you're really bad I'm going to fuck you up the ass without lubrication." Terror appeared in her eyes, then a pleading look. "It's up to you." I said.

"Ready, luv," Mavis sang out. "Be careful and don't hurt yourself." She handed me the bowl with a hotpad. She also gave me a small ladle, and I stirred the wax with it to check its consistency. 

"Here we go," I said cheerfully, dripping a little on Clarissa's stomach from about a three feet above. It splattered and ran a little before hardening on her quivering flesh; her breathing growing faster as she adjusted to the heat. Bit by bit, I covered her creamy white skin with light blue wax, working in small patterns. When the wax hit her nipple, she shrieked into the duct tape over her mouth and thrashed a little. "Enough?" She shook her head no, and I resumed after a moment.

The splatter of hot rain on her pussy made her squirm, but she moaned and nodded her head. I went halfway down her thigh, making sure to get every bit of her tender inside flesh before admiring my work. Mavis looked over and smiled. "That's just beautiful, luv. Ready for more?"

"In a moment." I admired my work for a few moments while Clarissa looked at me with a musky gaze. I put on a pair of rough leather gloves, with which I brushed away most of the wax; Clarissa bucked hard and yelled through the tape as her tender skin was raked off. Giving her some time to settle, I took a larger ladle and stirred the pot.

"Up to forty-nine, Vic," Mavis said. "She'll love that."

My first trail went from her waist up over her breast, almost to her sternum, then down the other side in a great arch, as she wriggled and giggled. Next came a sinuous S-shaped trail that began at her right armpit and wove down, avoiding her mounds, to finish on her sweet folds. Then I used a series of passes to cover the uncovered skin, making sure to get her exposed hips as they lifted off the cot, running down the delicate curves of her ass toward her crack. Clarissa seemed to be smiling under the taped mouth, and her eyes were lost in reverie. 

After that portion settled in, I used a small broom to take off the wax to her agony except between her legs. Going to the ice bucket, I took a piece of ice to harden the wax and peel it off. She ground her hips against the cold intruder; I took another one and teased her folds with it, paying attention to her clitoris. This brought more hip grinding, and I pushed the cube up inside her, which made her quiver. I repeated the journey and inserted another ice cube to cause more quivering and returned to Mavis.

"Fifty-one now, Vic. Ready for the last push?" She stroked my jeans where my bulge was already tenting.

"Yes, let's get this over with," I said eagerly. Mavis' eyes were shining as she looked at Clarissa lying ready to be treated like a piece of meat.

"All right, Clarissa. You've been a good girl up to now, don't screw it up." I held a larger ladle higher and dropped a breast covering glob down; she responded enthusiastically and smiled behind her gag. The next two globs went into her crotch and on her hips; she bucked under her bonds and lifted herself up to meet the hot liquid. Within two minutes the rest of her exposed skin except her face was covered, and a second layer added, then a third. Her eyes were shut in bliss and her eyebrows furrowed and unfurrowed as each wave of heat assaulted her.

I looked at Mavis, who winked and smiled. Once again, I took an ice cube to harden the wax at her slit to dislodge it, using it to chill her nether lips before shoving it in. A second traced its cold path; I pulled up my robe as quickly as I could, and thrust my entire member into her in one thrust. Her muffled squeals went on and one as I pounded her relentlessly for several minutes; she was very tight and her vaginal muscles clasped my member tightly as I savaged them. I pulled out to her disappointment, lubricating a vibrator that went into her anal bud. My fingers prepared her for another rectal penetration, and soon the buzzing intruder was working its magic. My erection re-entered her again, and pushed ahead to her grinding hips, wildly shuddering body, and muffled gibbering as her head went back and forth.

Mavis turned the tub on, without the water heater, and it churned to life as we churned to our conclusion. Clarissa reached a violent orgasm that lasted several moments, her hips thrusting up strongly: I pulled the tape off her mouth as it hit and the room rang with her screams and shrieks of delight. As it wound down, I felt the wave of semen build within me: after briefly considering whether to pull out and send it all over her body,. I shot wave after wave deep into her womb, her pelvic muscles pulling gladly to milk every drop from my testicles. 

I lay on top of her waxy form as we recovered. Clarissa kissed my cheek and her tongue quested my ear as I panted back to normal. When I was myself again, I pulled out of her and unbound her. She was limp and unable to walk as I picked the wax off her now pinkish skin; her eyes followed my every move, her body twitching as every chunk reluctantly released her skin. Done with this task, I carried her to the tub and lowered her in, her arms clasped around my neck. She whispered weakly in my ear: "That was better than I could have hoped for. Reach into my purse; take out the envelope addressed to St. Dunstan's. You've got your money." 



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 14



A twist on an old tradition, after a nativity celebration, then some cast changes. 

With much heartfelt gratitude to B. D., who helped me develop Barbara, aka Mother Mary Rufus

"One, two three, four, five, six. . ." I grunted as I did my curls with five pound weights in the Recreation Room. It was the Monday before Christmas, and it was tough getting my workouts into my schedule. It wouldn't even be a proper day off: the calendar held a morning Christmas celebration at the Sailor's Home, an afternoon open house at St. George's Convent, and an appearance two private Christmas parties at other Anglican Priests' houses that evening. The entire week was tied up like this, with gatherings, rehearsals, and other once-a-year events.

Mother Mary Rufus, aka Barbara P.-F, sat on a bench watching me do my workout. It was a little after six in the morning, but she was always up this early. The nuns arose for Matins at 3:30AM, and Morning Prayer with Mass was at 5:00. She was delicately munching a croissant as she watched me pump weights. Her long, lean body was completely on display: she was naked except for a red handkerchief that almost completely covered her head, a few wisps of golden hair peeked out from underneath, and a silky golden patch of pubic hair shone proudly between her legs. Her face was oval, with nicely proportioned nose and cheekbones, and dark brown eyes that were compelling. Her delicate toes wiggled when I looked their direction in invitation. It was a stark contrast for her to be so completely unashamed of her nudity yet so adamant about having her head covered.

I was working out in gym shorts, socks and sneakers. Usually, I wore a t-shirt as well, but Barbara wanted to see my muscles as I worked out. She counted out the sets of repetitions as I went from one station to another, and after finishing her breakfast, toweled me off when I finished and sat beside her.

Slapping my tight abdomen, I asked: "Is this as good as David Hasselhoff?"

She smiled in a sultry way and asked innocently: "David who?"

We looked at each other like a pair of goofy teenagers for a moment. "How is it you can slip away from the Convent like this so easily?" I asked.

"I go running almost every day, been doing it for years. It's well known that I don't always stay on the grounds, so when I put on my sweats and head out after breakfast, it's business as usual. When I come here, I run to the next bus stop and hop a one there, getting off at the same place on the return journey."

"Being gone this long isn't a problem?"

"My absences in the morning have always been irregular, and the girls cope with it without batting an eye. I always check my calendar before I go out, so I usually don't miss anything important."

"So you've been out for an hour and a half to two hours before?"

"Oh yes. Not for such a good reason until lately," she said, and leaned over to give me a long, deep kiss.

Touching her head, I wondered aloud: "This is a little out of place, I think. Why are you so sensitive about your hair? It's very lovely."

She leaned back and blushed like a schoolgirl. "Most of us have our hair cropped roughly because there's no point in letting it grow or going out to the beauty shop. I've had it cropped ever since I started wearing a veil. A few of the girls let it grow out long, winding it up in a bun everyday. Marty's is long enough she could play Lady Godiva without getting arrested for public nudity." 

"Why not let your hair grow now?"

"Habit, I guess." I laughed out loud and she reluctantly joined me. "I'm used to it being short, and like not having to worry about it. My father grew a long beard in his old age for a similar reason: he wanted to spare himself the bathroom time shaving every morning. It's also a spiritual exercise, a surrender of pride, to have my hair lopped off this short and this roughly." She looked at me thoughtfully a few moments. "I used to have long, luxuriant hair, and maybe soon I'll let it grow again. Maybe it would be nice to wrap it around your long, thick cock and jack it off until the spunk flew out on the velvety soft strands."

Something stirred in my shorts and Barbara noticed it right away. I needed to cool off a little more before we did anything else, so I changed the subject. "What do the sisters call you behind closed doors?"

A disbelieving eye met mine, then her shoulders shrugged. "They call me Red around St. George's."

"Ah, Rufus is Latin for Red. That's funny, especially since you're not a redhead."

"Yes, I guess so. We all have nicknames: occasionally it's from the sister's given name, sometimes not. My parents and my friends' parents always called me Barbie, but I got tired of that about three minutes after turning 12. My postulant class called me Babs, which was only slightly better, and when I took my vows and got my new name. Red became the norm, and I'm grateful for it. When one of my community calls me 'Mother Mary Rufus', I start getting worried unless she's over ninety."

"I dunno, Rufus is so goofy and yet so euphonious. I love the sound of that name."

"It was the name of our neighbor's pet dog when I was growing up. I swear Mother Mary Athanasius gave me that name just to take me down a peg or two.

"With a name like Athanasius, I can understand her need to make others suffer the same way. How do you go about naming your new sisters?"

"Oh, I try to do it right: I talk with them a lot, try to see which saint they have resonance with, and check which names are already being used."

"How practical. I let those close to me call me Alfie, but I positively hate Freddie."

"I could tell by the video of Violetta's Violation. I loved the prie-dieu. Who else calls you Freddie?"

"People who know it bugs me and want to get under my skin, generally. Like Archdeacon Timothy Hughes, who's coming by just after the holidays for our tri-annual audit."

"That sounds like a potential sodomization."

"Yeah, I'll have to make sure the books are immaculate, and the Vestry are all on the same page when they talk with him. From what I hear, he's good at sodomizing Vicars who don't measure up to his administrative standards."

"Figuratively, of course."

"Figuratively, I hope. If he gets elected Bishop when old lady Horace retires, things could get nasty indeed."

Barbara came over and knelt in front of me, putting her hands on my thighs. "Speaking of videos, I'm so glad you shared your homemade videos of the Quilting Ladies. I never knew that Mary Sterns, Sheila Button, Mavis Hazelton and their families were so wanton. That sequence by the pond with the windmill, that was your parent's ranch, wasn't it?"

"Yes. I've know that spot all my life."

"So lovely. Anyway, Millie Hazelton and I used to cruise for boys together, had a few little orgies, and fooled around with each other when we couldn't find a boy we wanted. I would love to get a hold of her mom's tits. Some day, we'll have to have a big party down here and really get wild."

"That would be nice. What are you doing the day after Christmas?"

"Boxing Day? Oh damn, I'm busy at the Convent. We have some traditions that I can't get away from."

"Such as?"

"Well, this is absolutely secret, and I could get fried if anyone knew I told you, but we've revived the celebration of the Feast of Fools."

"Really? The yearly parody of everything holy? I thought it was done on the Feast of the Circumcision."

"Well, that was when we had that feast on the calendar, but that's been changed. A holy day to celebrate Jesus' foreskin was a little over the top. On the day after Christmas, we celebrate the Tierce and Mass for St. Stephen the First Martyr in the early morning, but after breakfast we go crazy all day long. We sing dirty songs in the chapel, parody prayers, burn leather, eat puddings and sausages at a priestless mass, get roaring drunk, then get naked after supper and cavort in the Dormitory."

"Sounds like fun. You lock the doors for this, of course?" Barbara nodded. "How about the nuns who don't have a sense of humor?"

"They visit their families with our blessings. Anybody who's judgmental, self-righteous, or can't laugh doesn't make it into our community, anyway."

"Wow, I wish I could see a video of that."

Barbara smirked. "I think something can be arranged. Flash drives are so easy to conceal and sneak around. In the meantime, speaking of foreskins and audits, there's a foreskin close by I'd like to audit right now." She pulled down my shorts and jockstrap, lifted my John Thomas and began licking my salty, sweaty balls. 

Her tongue circled around every inch of my scrotum while her right hand gently pulled my pecker next to her ear. The sight of the red handkerchief on her head and her glasses made me feel I was being sucked off by a biker chick, a real turn on for some reason that day, but Barbara's body was flawless and unmarked. She worked her way up my shaft; I turned to imply that I wanted her to lay on top of me so I could repay the favor, but she pushed me back and focused all her attention on my crotch. Her tongue was a master of stimulating my corona, going around in tireless circles, and very quickly I felt a tension in my loins. Breathing heavily, her body started to wave back and forth; I looked under her, but she wasn't fingering herself while she blew me. I held back as long as I could, letting the tension build to the sticking point, before jetting a stream of cream in her hungry mouth. As she devoured the output, her breathing accelerated and she orgasmed strongly as she worked my cock in her mouth.

After licking up every morsel, she stood up and looked at the clock. "Shit, I've got to get out of here," she said, quickly pulling on her red sweats and sneakers. "I'll get you that video in a couple of weeks, the next time you swing by the Convent for 'spiritual direction'. Bye, bye, Alfred." She gave me a quick kiss before slipping silently up the stairs and out the door. 

I was able to shower, dress and eat my breakfast before Agnes staggered out of her rooms in her bathrobe. She had just completed finals, and had a long list of things to do that week, so fortunately she wasn't in the mood for morning recreation. She accepted a quick kiss before I ran out the door to my social commitments. The rest of the week was a blur.

Jennifer Button Sterns re-enacted the core portion of the Christmas story in a nearby delivery room around dawn on Christmas day. It was a relatively easy labor and delivery for a first time mother, but when I tried to articulate that reality, Mary grabbed my lower lip as hard as she could and asked me if I wanted her to pull it back over my head.

The position of Verger had been vacant for several weeks: Bert Button held the joint office of Verger/Sexton, both leading the service with his baton and supervising the Church and its grounds. Neither was a very taxing position, for we only used the Verger ceremonially on holidays such as Christmas and Easter, and the Sexton's job was supervising Percy Witson and Stan Dover. After Bert's death almost three months earlier, there was spirited discussion in the Vestry about who should get the job and whether the responsibilities should be split. Many names were mentioned, but it seemed no one was terribly interested in the job.

It was Jenny who expressed interest in the Verger portion, having studied Anglican liturgy at University her first semester as well as one her own, and by default was given the position. Her husband Derrick Sterns became the Sexton: he did a splendid job sweeping the floors, keeping the Church secure, setting up for services, and helping his grandmother Mary and her friends with decorations for special events. Since Derrick and Jenny lived a couple blocks away, the arrangement fit their school and work schedules well, as well as giving them a little supplemental income. The cross I had to bear with Fred Bayless was regularly supervising Percy Witson and Stan Dover, however this job grew easier after their cock-up with Vicarage roof made them more humble.

It was a magical Christmas Eve. Many things tried for the first time were warmly received, and the Lessons and Carols service Organist/Choirmaster Niall Frazier wanted so much was a great success, with the capable assistance of my little Agnes. Jenny, in her official capacity as Verger, led the processions grandly with her staff of office, stepping proudly in spite of her advanced pregnancy bulging her surplice. Sheila cried and told me later that it was so moving to see her granddaughter taking her grandfather's place she couldn't contain herself. Most of the crowd that came for Lessons and Carols stayed for the Eucharist, and five minutes into the reception afterward, Jenny's labor began. A sizable contingent accompanied her to the Maternity in addition to her husband, Derrick. 

So there we were, in the small hours of Christmas morning, with Mary squeezing my lower lip with a force unexpected from a great grandmother, and whispering in my ear. "It's probably your fault we sat around here all the wee hours Christmas Eve. All that parading around would have popped out the most bashful babe; I'll bet the Virgin herself had to do some such silliness the day before our Savior was born."

I started to say something and she released my lower lip. "I've heard that going dancing is a great way to start labor; acting as Verger is probably as good a substitute as any. By the way congratulations, Great Grandmother."

"Thank you," she said, calming down and shooting me a dirty look. "Sorry about that, luv. Just a bit too wired up after a very long day on top of a very long month."

"I know what you mean. Just don't expect me to use this lip anytime soon."

The family rotated through to congratulate the new father; I pressed a traditional cigar on him with a promise to smoke one with him soon. They drifted off quickly, and I ducked in to see the new mother and child as the Christmas morning sun shone in brightly through the window. Jenny was bedraggled with hair slicked back and still damp, slightly awkward with a newborn in her arms. The child's face already showed a strong resemblance to his father Derrick, and he had a shock of red hair on his head. I gave her a kiss on the forehead in congratulations, and looked at the small face asleep at his mother's breast, crossing his forehead in blessing.

Jenny told me that she and Derrick had just agreed on the name the morning before. "His name is Alfred Thomas Derrick Sterns. Now I know what you're thinking, Mrs. Sterns told me she thought my parading around last night got things going, but I know she's wrong. Derrick and me went dancing a couple of weeks ago and it didn't do anything. It was me giving Derrick his first blow job in three months yesterday afternoon, after we finally settled on the baby's name, that got little Alfie headed toward the exit. I read all about it."

"Oh, really." I asked distantly, while gazing at the baby's sleeping face.

"Yeah. African women do it. They swallow spunk when they want to have their babies. Read about it online the other day, and Derrick was happy to help me out."

"I'm sure he was."

"Yeah, he was. It took him forever to see things right about the lad's name."

I turned to look her in the face. "Your way."

"Of course," She said with a shrug.

Christmas Day was very quiet; I took a nap to catch up on some sleep after a long night and day.

My original plans were to spend the day with the Sterns family, but after the birth vigil they and the Buttons were all exhausted. A call from Mavis Hazelton extended an invitation to her house, and I went there for my Christmas dinner. Bedlam incarnate was the scene: I spent most of the afternoon and evening chatting with Harry while Mavis bustled around on a thousand small errands, as the children worked on destroying their new gifts from Father Christmas.. A discussion on the Baby Jesus with the small ones gave some interesting perspectives: one of Mavis' four year old granddaughters thought "Round John Virgin" was a character in the Creché scene and was disappointed he wasn't in her grandmother's set. I think I told her that "Round John Virgin" went out to pick up some pizza while they were posing for the picture.

Freddie Burkitt, a bright thirteen year old grandson who went to the Choir School, challenged me to a game of Chess. He tried to distract me by bringing up various intellectual discussion topics as we played, but my ability level is so much higher than his, he didn't have a chance. I noticed a group of teenage girls watching for a while out of the corner of my eye. There were six of them between the ages of 13-16, just budding into womanhood, and the look in their eyes unnerved me. I smiled at them graciously when my gaze met theirs and they giggled, turning to each other to whisper furtively. Looking back at the game, I remembered that the oldest were 16 year old twins. I hoped that Mavis wouldn't get the same idea that Mary and Sheila did about who would deflower their granddaughters; these girls looked at though they could give me a heart attack in a couple of years or so. 

Dinner was a massive storm of traditional food and drink, and I was stuffed as I staggered down the street to the Vicarage. As I left, Mavis called out: "See you tomorrow, Vic." 

Christmas night was a long and restful slumber for me, after I spent some time at the computer, with camera and microphone that allowed me to be a partake in the sights and sounds of my family celebration on the Great Plains. Mom told me that they had their tickets for England in May, and were looking forward to seeing St. Dunstan's. Dad had enough seasonal joviality to fly across the Pond himself, and I was glad to see him so happy. Every nephew and niece had to spend time peering at me through the camera, asking what Santa Claus brought me, and telling me excitedly what he had brought them. It was good to get a glimpse of home that day.

Waking up late, I took my run through the silent streets on moderate Boxing Day. A long soak in the hottub followed, complete with the Christmas music of Holst, Vaughn Williams and other fine composers. After lunch, the Quilting Ladies came by, including Sheila Button, who was still visiting from Cornwall. 

Mary's eyes sparkled after we exchanged hugs and kisses. "Vic, we've had a thought for this Boxing Day."

"Oh?"

"Yes. We take care of what needs doing around here, the cooking and cleaning and such, and you take care of what we need, like the spirituality and sex, so switching places won't really accomplish much. So we'd like to trade places with each other this Boxing Day, so to speak."

"This sounds interesting. Say more."

Sheila broke in. "Well, Mavis usually likes some pain, but today she'll get just ordinary stuff."

"Last Friday you fucked me in every hole while Gran and Mavis watched," Agnes said, "So today I'll watch while you do them. You'll probably have to tie me up," she giggled.

"Mary and Sheila haven't tried any really kinky stuff, yet," Mavis leered, "So maybe you should give them a little taste of the spicier courses."

"But the real turnabout, Vicar," Mary said, "is that we usually tell you want we want, and like a good lad, you make us feel wonderful. Today, you get to pick what you do to us, whatever your devious, wicked little heart desires. We've given you some ideas, but you're in charge today."

"Oh." They were right; I'd been dancing to their tunes for a year and a half. We had stumbled onto this series of relationships one day in the Quilting Room; as the weeks and months went on, I had sex with Mary, Sheila and Mavis regularly, but I always asked them what they wanted and tried to provide their needs. My commitment to them included extreme activities I'd never dreamed of trying before, but I'd enjoyed pleasing them immensely. Every Vicar should be so lucky, I said to myself, but I never thought about wanting to call the shots. "You're on. Let's go down to the Recreation Room. Except you, Mary."




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 14



The women trooped down to the basement ahead of me, docile and quiet, while I rummaged around in the kitchen for stuff that might enliven the proceedings. Mary waited for me quietly, and I turned to her and asked: "Mary, would you run home and fetch another set of nipple jewelry? No, bring all your spare nipple rings and earrings. Thanks." She nodded and put on her coat and ducked back out the door.

A few items from the icebox, a few from the junk drawer, and a quick inventory of the stuff in the locked closet just beyond the Recreation Room provided the means. As I entered, the girls were sitting in different places around the room, looking eagerly at me.

"All right, let's get started. First, you should strip. Did you turn the thermostat up?" Agnes nodded. "Excellent. I'd like Agnes over by the chin up bar, Sheila by the prie-dieu, and Mavis on the bed. Mary is running an errand for me." Silently, the women started removing their clothes; as their tops came off, the cool temperature of the basement perked their nipples up immediately. Soon they were naked, and I pointed to Mavis: "There's something different about our friend Mavis. Do you know what I'm thinking about?"

Sheila and Agnes shook their heads no at first, but I pointed to their nipples and Agnes got the idea first. "Mrs. Hazelton's nipples aren't pierced like ours." 

Mavis' eyes went huge. Sheila looked to one side for a moment, then back at Mavis. "Yes, luv. We had ours done on the cycling trip to Wales, but you've never done it."

"Never thought of it, luv," Mavis replied. "D'ya like yours, Sheila dear?"

Sheila thought for a moment. "Yes, I have to say I do. I love the way they feel under my bra, and my nipples are so much more sensitive. I could've taken them out anytime I wanted, but never wanted to. What do you think Agnes?"

"I have to agree with Mrs. Button," Agnes chimed in. "The barbells have felt nice, but I've liked the rings best, bigger is better. Gives the Vicar something else to hang onto," she said with a huge, Cheshire cat grin, fingering her right nipple. "I think you'd like it, Mrs. Hazelton."

"D'ya know where I can get it done?"

"I could do it, Mrs. Hazelton," Agnes said. "I've pierced the ears and tits of a lot of my friends, and my gear is upstairs."

"Ooo, lovely idea, lassie. I don't like the thought of a stranger poking at my girls." 

I smiled to myself. Sheila looked dubious; she had trained as a nurse in her youth. "How about sterilization? How about aftercare?"

"Check and check," Agnes said proudly. "I always sterilize the instruments ahead of time, clean up completely after working, and I've got the right gear for aftercare, including disinfectant. I do my homework, Mrs. Button."

"Agnes, why don't you fetch your gear?" I asked. "We'll make that the first activity when your grandmother gets back."

"Do you want anything pierced, Vicar? You'd look grand with an ear stud." 

"Thank you, no, Agnes," I replied, "I think I'll stick with the holes I've got already."

Agnes got her instruments boiling in a pot on a hot plate we kept downstairs, and Mary was back from her errand rather quickly. Mavis was rather nervous, and I fetched the Scotch bottle to give her some liquid courage. At last the tools were ready, and I moved behind Mavis as she sat on the bed . Sheila, Agnes and I donned rubber gloves, and Agnes prepared her target. I lifted her mammoth right breast, reaching around to tweak the nub to its full inch and a half budding. My head rested on Mavis' shoulder, so I had a ringside view. 

Agnes approached with her piercing needle, pulling the nipple out hard to stretch it as far as possible. Mavis quivered in front of me, and suddenly, the needle was through. There was no cry, but a sharp intake of breath with the penetration and insertion. The second needle was prepared; I held up Mavis' left breast and teased the bud to prepare it. Mavis took another sharp breath as Agnes pulled her nipple out hard, and just as suddenly, the needle had done its work again, and Mavis' let out a small cry of triumph as the operation was done.

A bottle of soothing, antiseptic balm was in Agnes' kit, and Mavis took it over to the mirror, where she admired her new ornamentation. "I think I'll put in some rings, first," she said, wincing as she rubbed the medicine into her punctured flesh.

We stripped off our gloves and disposed of the trash properly. I pointed to Agnes, standing lusciously nude: "Well done, Aggie. Now, about that ringside seat you requested." I led her over to the chin up bar, where I bound her hands shoulder height beside her. She was wearing rings in her nipples that afternoon, and I ran a string through them, putting the middle in their mouth. The tension was minimal on her breasts. "Just so you won't feel neglected, but know your boundaries." A smile was my answer.

"Now, Sheila, it's time for your homecoming. I'd like you to kneel at the prie-dieu." Trembling, she did as I asked, and I blindfolded her. Next, I handcuffed her hands in front of her, and slipped a pair of mousetraps on her nipples. "It's the Violette," Mary mused. 

"With a slight difference," I replied. "Now, Mary, why don't you take a seat." She put her dainty derrieré on a cold metal folding chair, and I tied her hands behind her at the level of her hips. She cooed as I brought out a pair of big, wooden clamps, which I put on her breasts, squeezing them. Then I put a ball gag into her mouth, which she accepted. Moving back across the room, I put my very stiff member into a lubricated condom, and picked up a bottle of baby oil I brought down with me from upstairs. Looking Sheila's slit, she was dripping on the floor and more than ready to accept my erection, thrusting back against it hard as I pumped her. 

I started to dribble the oil down her crack from behind, guiding it toward her tiny bud with a gloved finger, freshly donned. She gasped as I penetrated her anus and began working the oil in. "I remember the rainy day in February when you said you might be ready for this someday, Sheila," I murmured. "This is your homecoming present; this is your day."

The oil dripped down. Looking at Mary and Agnes, they were rapt and squirming. Mavis was watching from the mirror and smiling. A second finger joined the first, and a third while my John Thomas was addressing her snatch. When I felt her slick and loose, I pulled out and put the head of my cock on her rosebud. 

"Yes, yes, yes, Vicar. I'm ready tonight, let's do it," she whispered There was gentle resistance from the ring of muscles, but after the tip pushed in, they accepted my length and thickness gradually. My gloved left hand reached around to tease her bud as I ravished her rectum, and very quickly she reached a mountaintop she'd never seen before. I filled the condom right after her orgasm, ripped off the mousetraps, and we wound down together.

Switching on the hottub, I lifted a very limp and happy Sheila into the swirling waters where she settled gladly. I went to the downstairs bathroom to divest myself of my rubberware and freshen up for the next task. Mary or Agnes? Maybe I should go a different direction.

Coming back into the room, I put on another pair of rough leather work gloves. Mary's breasts were turning light red, the nipples poking out dramatically with their golden bars. A sharp intake of breath accompanied their touch; I ran the gloves all over her breasts, gently tweaking her nipples, and she moaned as I groped her. Bringing a bag over to Mary, I fished inside for my Western spurs. Her eyes grew large as I produced them, twinkling as she nodded her head. Not speaking, I ran the spurs over her reddening flesh, prickling her areolae and teasing the golden bars she wore in her nipples. After the metal came the feathers: I ticked all around her breasts, armpits and stomach, causing her to quake with laughter behind her gag. I put the duster in her crotch, and the tickles became stimulation, bringing her to an violent orgasm with her legs thrashing around. I released her and for once she was speechless as I lifted her into the waters. 

"Mavis, lay down on the bed with your legs over the side, face down."

"But won't that irritate my nipples?"

"I imagine so. There's more I wish to irritate, in another part of your body. Are you up for it?"

Mavis looked at me for a moment bewildered. I smiled back at her and pointed to the bed; sheepishly she went over and lay down heavily on her stomach, wincing as she did. I took a large vibrator out of my bag and put it against her huge cunt, settling against her clit. She shivered and sighed, spreading her legs wider. It was around two minutes before I was able to work it into her wide channel, and after a few pumps with it, I turned it on. "Oh yes, luv, what a wonderful idea. What's next?"

I parted her huge hips and found my target. Donning another pair of rubber gloves and a lubricated condom, I poured baby oil into her crack around her anus. She quivered and shivered as I played around the rim with my slick finger and teased about entering. A sudden thrust buried it, and she squirmed. Normally, I was able to fist Mavis' cunt rather easily, and since even my large cock didn't fit in her huge vagina, fisting was my main method of pleasing her below the waist. Today, I would open another passage. She accepted a second finger in her ass but resisted a third; it took several moments and a lot of oil to get that in. "Did you enjoy watching what I did to Sheila?" I asked her.

"Ooo yes, luv, it was dead sexy."

"She's not going to be the only one."

"Oh my. I don't think I can do anything to stop you, Vic." Soon, her pucker was a slick as humanly possible, and I started pushing my member in. She shook profoundly as I inserted bit by bit; trying to relax but making me fight for it at first. It took ten minutes before I hit bottom, by that time she was vibrating the bed hard, reaching a screaming orgasm within a minute. I pulled out, removed the vibrator and helped her roll over. She panted, her chest heaving, her hair sodden with sweat, her eyes closed. Her hands moved over her freshly pierced nipples, and hummed tunelessly. "Ooo, never thought I'd like that so much," she moaned.

Another trip to the rest room to clean up, and it was time to deal with Agnes. She was grinning like a maniac as I approached her with the bag, daring me. Her eyes went wide with surprise as I brought out a can of Cool Whip. Taking a pair of scissors, I cut the string binding her nipple rings, and cut the excess away, then I covered them with huge dollops of sweet, creamy whiteness. "You really practice what you preach, Vicar," Sheila jibed from the hottub.

I went over to get my digital camera: unlike many sessions with the Quilting Ladies, we hadn't recorded anything yet, but I took some pictures of Agnes' cream covered tits. Then, I dove into the fluffy confection like a kid at a pie eating contest. Agnes shrieked, screamed and giggled as I devoured her breasts; I moved up her chest as I finished with her ringed nipples to leave a smear that eventually covered her face with second hand whiteness. While we were tongue kissing, I lifted her hips off the floor; my dick found a wet embrace awaiting it and I plowed into her. We pumped savagely, Agnes supported by her bound wrists and my hands holding her, until we both found the summit of our passion. I let her go, and we joined the others in the hottub.

A bottle of champagne appeared from a tubside cooler, and we passed it around after opening it. It was a special treat to be with all of them together, however something told me that this little community was about the change for good. I avoided the topic and just looked around at them lolling back in the waters, their breasts bobbing, their faces relaxed. Their eyes were closed, but occasionally one of them would open her eyes and wink at me. Slipping under the waters, I let them bubbles work their magic on me.

"I hear you've seduced by a nun," Mary broke in out of the blue.

My relaxation ended. "Oh?"

Mary looked at me with steely eyes. "I was visiting with Mother Mary Rufus the other day. . ."

"Our little Barbie?" Sheila interjected.

". . .yes, Barbara Parkhurst-Frazelton, Lucinda's youngest."

"She was such a dear friend to my Millie," Mavis broke in.

"Yes, she was one of my Laura's friends as well. We were talking about her mother, and she mentioned meeting you at the hospital last July."

"Of course," I said innocently. "You've all known her for years, but I hadn't met her yet. She was most charming."

Mary smiled wickedly and pressed on. I could tell she was teasing me, deliberately trying to make me squirm by the look in her eye, but it was a lighthearted tease behind the bluster. "Charming indeed; I remember her charm very well. . ."

"Oh, yes, and a lovely gel she was. She had such luxurious,. long blonde hair," Mavis thrust in.

"Well, not anymore as far as I know," Mary snipped, ". . anyway, you've been going to St. George's Convent for spiritual direction about once a month since then."

And some fantastic head, I said to myself. She should give classes.

"I've been going there for years as well," Sheila chimed in, "Sister Mary Jerome has done wonders for me."

"Barbara told me about Lucinda's bragging, and the implication of my involvement. She didn't want to cause us any trouble. . ."

"She always was a nice lass," Mavis said.

". . .and she was interested in becoming a 'Quilting Lady'" Mary finished.

Agnes digested all this with a straight face, then said calmly: "Why not?"

Mavis and Sheila looked at each other. "Wouldn't you mind, Agnes?" Mary asked her granddaughter.

"I don't have a monopoly on the Vicar," she said, "I've got a lot to do around here, and at school, but I'm not ready for a real relationship. A bit of fun with this hunky man from time to time is enough, but since I'm sharing him with you three, one more at the table won't matter to me."

Sheila looked sad for a moment: "Well, not three I'm afraid. I have to tell you that I'll be moving to Cornwall for good after New Year's. It's been so wonderful there: peaceful, calm, a breath of fresh air. I've wanted to get away from here for years, just haven't let myself accept that fact, and my duty kept me stuck. Oh, I'll be back to visit regularly, have to keep an eye on little Alfred, and the other grandchildren. My son Clive's a good man, I raised him right, and the kids are 6 and 8, my favorite ages. It took a while to get used to being in a houseful of men, but now I love it. So I'm going to move."

Mavis teared up. "We'll miss you, Sheila lass. My Frieda lives in Somerset; may I come visit ye?"

Sheila looked at Mavis and lurched to clasp her in a tight, passionate embrace. "You can come anytime you want," she said tearily, "All of you, any of you, anytime."

Mary laid her hand on Sheila's shoulder. After Sheila disengaged from Mavis, she turned to Mary and gave her a long, firm, lingering kiss directly on the lips. A quick peck for Agnes, and Sheila came to me, giving me a long, open mouthed kiss pressing her entire bare body against mine. I was too spent to respond below my waist, but I held her a long time as well, savoring the moment and I let her break the contact. 

Sheila returned to her place, and Mary spoke up. "I've been struggling with this for a while. The past couple of months, my work load has gone up fantastically. You know Vicar, I'd spend every day and every night in your bed, and your suck your lovely cock three times a day, but my free time is growing shorter as time goes by. Until recently, I didn't have much work as a solicitor, Lucinda and her daughter are pretty much my only clients, and it was good to do a little work for something to do and some income, enjoying myself with friends and family. Lucinda's interests are far flung, her health is declining, things are getting volatile overseas and I have to spend the entire month of January in Nice. . ."

"What a sacrifice," Mavis said nervously.

Mary gave her a sharp look, and continued. ". . .and after that I'll have to be at different places on the Continent and Turkey for three more months. I'll be home for a couple of days at a time, just enough to do my laundry and repack. I hate leaving Jenny, Derrick and the baby without help for that long, but I've got no choice. Lucinda and I go back a long way, and I owe her a lot, more than you could ever know. St. George's is beginning a new fund drive as well, and they need my help for organizing that, tool. I hate this, but I'm going to have to duck out of the rotation for a while, maybe a long while."

I went over and gathered her into my arms. She was trembling in spite of the hot water, and sobbed as I held her close. "It's all right, Mary. I'll see you when you can come by, whenever. I'm here if you need me, you know that."

"Thanks."

"I'll look in on Jenny and the baby," Mavis volunteered, and Mary reached out to touch her arm.

"I will, too," Agnes said.

When she released me, I fetched another champagne bottle from the cooler beside the tub. Opening it, I held it on high and proposed a toast. "My friends, here's to us. We'll always be together in spirit." We drank and talked and hugged and wept until Boxing Day was done.

The series isn't done yet; Mary and Sheila aren't gone forever. The new Quilting Ladies: Mavis, Barbara and Agnes, with the chance that other interesting characters will drop by. 



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 15



Auditors come in many forms. An archdeacon can be worse than an IRS representative, and Divine Intervention can be all that saves your ass.

A pair of luscious breasts with a huge crucifix swinging between them transfixed me. Candlelight gave them a lustrous, warm glow, and cut red glass stones embedded in the crucifix threw sparkling lights before me. Up and down it bounced, twirling, spinning, rebounding as the pendant ricocheted from mound to mound. It skimmed light brown nipples, bringing sighs and gyrations, as a voracious vagina clenched my John Thomas and milked it greedily. My eyes locked on the crucifix as my senses built to a delicious culmination.

Barbara insisted on wearing her veil and crucifix as we made love naked in Plato's Cave the first Monday of every month. She was growing her hair out, and I saw it more frequently as it reached a respectable length, but here she wanted to retain these two pieces from her other role as Mother Mary Rufus of St. George's Convent. Her eyes were closed as she rode my erection, her hands resting on my six pack abdominal muscles and her strong thighs bulging with effort. My hands was kneading her nicely rounded buttocks, and I could tell she would be ascending her mountain of delight soon.

We came within seconds of each other, and she fell exhausted on top of me, twitching. Over the six months after we became intimate she was a fairly silent lover, doubtless trained by years of convent restraint, but afterward she would want to talk about my recent adventures with my hierarchy. The space heater made up the difference between the body heat we could provide and the frosty January air in this hidden room; she lay slick with sweat and panting on me as we came back down to earth, still connected at the loins. The corpus of the crucifix pressed into my chest, but not painfully, so I held her on top of me in the afterglow.

After a while, she sat up a little, and her lips creased into a wicked smile. "That was wonderful, Beloved, as usual." Bending over for a long kiss, she tousled my hair and sat back. "You owe me the beginning of a story."

My wits were floating on a calm sea of being: I doubt if I could have told her my name right then. "Which one?"

"The one from last week with Archdeacon Tommy Hughes. I was in the last act, but you need to fill me in about the first scenes."

"Oh yes," I murmured as the logical portion of my brain booted up again. "Why didn't I tell you on Friday?"

"I had to leave before you were done with Tommy, and it's been a long weekend for both of us. Time for the rest of the story, Father Alfred."

***  

Artie and I were in his sitting room on Thursday morning, sipping steaming cups of coffee. The air was brisk that day as I walked over to St. Edmund the Confessor. He was in his mid thirties, short, dark, thin, dressed in a dark trousers and a jumper. The jerkiness of his manner told me he was nervous about something: "What's up Artie?"

"Lunch at a parishioner's today. Hortense Bayless."

"Mike's wife, Fred's sister?"

"The same." He took another nervous sip of coffee. "She's finally got me locked into coming by for lunch today; I've been putting it off for months."

"You're worried."

"Damn straight, pardon the pun. One of the pushiest, rudest, most intrusive busybodies I've ever known, and thinks she's Madonna as well."

"Which one?"

"Mrs. Ritchie."

"Hmm."

'I'm afraid that Mike's going to be away somewhere and she's going to put the moves on me."

"Really? Doesn't she realize that she's trying to run a Mac program on Windows?"

"Oh, yes, quite probably, but she's convinced that she's the one who could set me straight. I've run into several women like that, who think they can do a reverse Anne Heche."

"And you think she's after your bod?"

"Oh yes. Little suggestions, little innuendos, suggestions that are banter on the surface, but underneath, ooo. . ."

"Think she'd mind if you brought along a buddy?"

Artie's face brightened. "What a splendid idea! Would you? God that'd be glorious. Let me ring her up and see if it's all right." He left the room and had a murmured conversation in the next room, then returned.

"You're on, mate," he said as he settled back into his chair considerably more relaxed. "She had a time saying no, because she likes to suck up to clergy so much, and a time saying yes, because she wants me alone to herself. You being from Fred and Doris' parish tipped the scales. I owe you one, mate."

"Happy to help. Repayment starts now. Tommy Hughes is coming round on Monday for the big audit. . ."

"I'll pray for you."

". . .and I was wondering what I need to be careful about."

Artie looked right and left conspiratorially, and leaned over to speak in softer tones. "Tommy's almost a lock for next bishop. You know him: he's damned bright and damned cunning. On your menu tomorrow: little things to gripe about how the Church was redone a year ago, nothing strictly outside the bounds. Wonders why you don't have a Curate and why you spend so much on sweet Niall the Choirmaster and lovely young Agnes the assistant. Questions about little improvements like your recreation room and the housekeeper's apartment refurbishment. The roof repair."

"Christ, the damn thing fell in."

"I know. Wants to know why your lot hasn't given the Bishop more money. . ."

"Really, Artie! I saw the numbers for the parishes in the deanery and the diocese and we're the top contributors per capita to the Bishop's causes. We can prove it."

"Nicely put. The main questions will be the rumors about your love life. . ."

"Of which he can prove nothing."

"Agreed, of which he can prove nothing, and your dealings with Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazelton. Thinks you may have pushed her too much, taken advantage of her old age to squeeze more than you should have from her."

"God, the woman's richer than Richard Branson, and it's old money. She could rebuild the whole damn parish, endow us forever, and not notice the loss."

"I know, but it would be better if someone could back you up about her contribution history. I take it she's indisposed."

"She back in hospital, and sedated again. It's been a long haul for her the past year, and we haven't asked her for anything since she's been ill. I can prove that from her daughter."

"Daughter? I thought all her children lived abroad."

"Mother Mary Rufus, of St. George's. She's Lucinda's caretaker and Mary Sterns is her solicitor."

"You should have one of them handy when you talk with Tommy. Be on your best game, Alfie, Tommy is a major leaguer and if you fuck up, he literally will have your ass, take my word for it. Or rather, take Jimmy Wilson's word for it, over at St. John's. Screwed up his books and word on the street is that Tommy actually had him bent over a chair."

"Eeek!" While clenching my buttocks, I took a big gulp of my coffee and wished it were something stronger. "Thanks, Artie, forewarned is forearmed. The books are immaculate and the choir is ready to sing together. Just a couple of calls to make, and we'll be ready for Tommy." 

"Excellent." He looked at his watch, and beckoned me to rise. "It's time to go over to Hortense's house. She's excited enough to have two vicars instead of one, probably can barely keep herself from peeing, so be ready to get fawned over."

"Yuck."

"Yuck, indeed."

***

Barbara was lying with her head on my chest as I told her the first part of the story. I was still half-erect inside her, and she twitched her hips from time to time to keep herself lubricated. She looked at me and said: "Artie is pretty queer, isn't he?"

"Rather. Or so I thought until Thursday when we went to Hortense's house."

"Oh? I vaguely remember hearing about her, pushy broad. Wouldn't think she could turn anyone's head, much less a gay man."

"Agreed. I've seen few as pushy as her; thank God nobody around St. Dunstan's is that bad." I cupped her cheek and gave her a kiss. "But what happened Thursday. . ."

***

We walked over to our destination. The sky was dark, heavy with threatening clouds, but not ready to burst quite yet at midday. The wind was gusty, but not too bad, and the temperature was moderate for January. As usual, Artie chattered about various events around his parish and around the Chancery. We approached the Bayless house, and Artie brought up a surprising tidbit. "I had dinner with Percival Clyde-Walker last night. Says his lady is with child."

"Really. That's a surprise."

"Rather. Seems the rabbit just died: she must have gotten knocked up around the end of October/first of November. Just after Perce fell off his horse playing Polo."

"Surely you're not saying Clarissa's having the second Virgin birth in history."

Artie snickered. "You're wicked, Alfie. Perce tells this story about one morning: he comes out of his sedation with Clarissa's hand on his John Thomas and a dollop of creamy whiteness in a small basin. He can't move yet, so he can't stop her from doing anything. Going into a corner, she sucks up the lot in a turkey baster and inserts it down in her birth canal with a shit eating grin on her face. Next morning the same, and the morning after."

"How did Percival accomplish this? Wasn't he under medication for pain then?"

"Yes, indeedy. I was on the same stuff after an operation, and couldn't pop a boner until I'd been off it for three weeks."

"Medicine works differently on different people."

"That's what Perce's doctor told him. And there are many ways to–collect the dew from the peaches, so to speak."

"Of course, of course. So how did Clarissa get pregnant? Was it the baster, or did another breeding stud jump the fence? I guess when the baby is born, there's DNA testing. . ."

"Not in this case, Alfie, my boy. Old Mother Clyde-Walker is just aglow with the prospect of a new generation. Percival is an only, and given his bent and Clarissa's previous lack of interest in reproduction, she gave up on an heir to the family name. Now that Clarissa's got a bun in her oven, Old Mother C-W's in Nirvana, and Perce doesn't want to screw that up.."

"So a gay man, in a marriage of convenience, gets his wife pregnant while on pain medication for a concussion by ejaculating in his sleep and his wife putting his seed in her vagina via a turkey baster."

"Yes, Alfie, that's it. You wouldn't know more, would ya?"

"No, absolutely not. Only conjecture, Artie. I guess it doesn't matter if it were a prince or a street cleaner that actually did the deed."

"Probably. Knowing Clarissa though, she probably was very picky about her sperm donor."

And how much fun she could have collecting the donation, I thought to myself. We came to an ordinary house with a small yard. "Is this our destination?"

Artie nodded, and we ascended the stairway. "Vicar, so wonderful so see you," a gravelly voice fluted raspily from the door that opened before we could knock. "At last you grace my humble abode with your illustrious presence. And you brought the Vicar of St. Dunstan's with you, honor upon honor! Fred and Doris have so many lovely things to say about you. Come in, come in. I'm sorry that Mike can't be here with us, but he's up visiting our body in the Lake Country. Please give me your coats, boys and be at home."

***

Barbara rolled off me and got a blanket to cover us. Snuggled together, she looked at me with confusion. "I'll come back to Clarissa. What does Hortense look like?"

"Short, plump, five one, yard wide hips, floppy breasts, mousy hair. Carries herself like Madonna or Janice Dickenson."

"Okay, looks aren't everything. So how was lunch?"

"She had a table full of stuff, three different entreés, six side dishes and two desserts. Fussed over us and chatted the entire time about silly trivia; we hardly got a word in edgewise. Almost has Mavis Hazelton's reservoir of energy. I can see why Artie gets worn out by her."

"Doesn't she do a lot around that parish?"

"Yes and no. She's always around, but she pushes people around and tries to push Artie when she can get away with it. Not really helpful in actually doing stuff, but supervises a lot."

"Ugh. We've got a couple of sisters like that."

"What, you all don't love each other to pieces, work together without asking and live in peace and harmony?"

She punched me hard on the shoulder. "You know better than that. There's ways to cope with them. What happened after lunch?"

"We got a tour of her house, complete with a display of her commemorative collections. It went on forever. She even took us to the basement, and when we passed through the family room, things got interesting. . ."

***

"Now this is an ordinary English basement, complete with wash on the line. Oh my goodness, I even have my unmentionables here, what an embarrassment. I hope Vicars, that you've seen delicates like these before, although perhaps not as nice as these are." They were rather large and sturdy, yet frilly and suggestive in a bizarre way. I'd never seen a thong that big before, and shuddered to imagine Hortense wearing it. The lady of the house was trying to play coy over the revelation, but Artie pushed on to a door beyond the clothesline that was standing ajar. Hortense shifted from coquette to panic in milliseconds: "No, Vicar, don't go in there, it's just, just, just a mechanical room, nothing to see here."

Artie ignored her and entered, coming back out with a broad grin on his face. "Hey Alfie, you've got to get a look at this, mate," he beckoned as Hortense toddled desperately after him.

I was amazed to see a dungeon in this ordinary English home. My Recreation Room was set up primarily for exercise and was occasionally used for other purposes; this room was for erotic punishment only. There was a set of stocks, hooks and chains hung from the ceiling and walls, a pair of restraints set into one wall. Artie whistled and said, "Who did this?"

Hortense lost all her energy. "Mike did this," she said in a small voice, "we like to, to, to, play–dress up, from time to time."

"Really," Artie observed, his features animated. I stayed in the doorway, and Artie went over to the wrist restraints by the near wall that hung from the ceiling. Grabbing one and holding over to Hortense, he smiled broadly. "These look nice. How do they feel?"

"I don't know," she whispered, "Mike likes them."

She was close to Artie, so he grabbed a wrist and locked it into the leather bond. Maneuvering her to the wall before she could object, he locked her other wrist up and she stood with her hands by her head. Her lower lip quivered as Artie stepped back to look at her.

"So Mike likes them," he began. "I'll bet you have a lovely bustier in your drawer upstairs to wear for him when you tie him up down here." She hung her head, and said nothing. He went over to a small cabinet and started rummaging through it. "Nice, nice. Ball gags, whips, clamps, dildos. Everything an ordinary housewife would need to keep her husband happy. You naughty, naughty girl." He took out a large pair of shears; her eyes grew large as she regarded them.

Artie brought them over and traced up and down the front of her blouse. "I guess this is the first time you've been. . .the submissive, isn't it?" He had an evil gleam on his face that I could barely stand to look at. With a quick motion, he clipped the buttons off her blouse and tore it off her body. "I've seen how you look at me, Hortense. How you flirt, how you tease. You really want me to see your bra like this, don't you?" Her eyes rose a little. He snipped the shears again, "You want to see me without your bra, quite probably, quite probably." A few more snips and she was naked from the waist up, her breasts tumbling down as they were released.

My vantage point was to the side through this. Artie put the shears down and approached Hortense, teasing her with his hands just off her tits, moving within millimeters of her nipples. He licked a finger and traced wet circles on her left nipple; it erected and she let out a sigh. "Look at these jugs, Alfie. Ever seen anything like these?" He picked them up with his hands and palmed them up and down, letting them bounce. She struggled between embarrassment at her exposure, outrage at her arbitrary treatment, and rapture that her beloved Vicar and lust object was finally touching her. 

Artie spent several minutes playing with her breasts asexually, like a child would play with a couple of balloons. He mashed them together, squeezed them, slapped them, pulled the nipples, without regard to Hortense's desires or responses. Finally, he slapped the sides so they would bounce together for several moments before stepping back. Her head hung down. "Well, Horty, we've had a lovely time today, thanks for lunch. Let's do this again, real soon. C'mon, Alfie." He turned on his heel and marched out the door.

Hortense was still bound to the wall, topless, tears streaming down her face. I went over and unbound her, whispering, "Sorry, sorry," before I left her fumbling to cover herself.

***

"That was rather cold of Artie, don't you think?" Barbara asked.

"Absolutely. If I knew something like this could have happened, I would have let him go there alone. Mary Bayless was telling her friends after Evensong yesterday that her sister was in the dumps lately. I knew Artie could be wicked, but I never knew he could be as cruel as this."

"It takes all kinds. There are Catholic priests with attitudes that wreak such havoc, I wish they had wives to take them down a peg or two. Problem is, these guys are such jackasses, no self respecting woman would have them, even if they were free."

"Well, I don't think I'll go visiting with Artie anytime soon."

Barbara pondered for a moment. "Shouldn't Artie be afraid of Mrs. Bayless causing him trouble for this?"

"Artie was crowing about how he didn't have to worry all the way home. Hortense wouldn't want it known she has a dungeon in her basement; it would destroy her image around St. Edmund's as the pious matron. She also wouldn't want it known she took her Vicar to her basement with her laundry hanging out so Artie could see her bras and panties. Artie being famously gay doesn't help her either; who would believe that he'd play with her tits?"

We lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. She put her arm on my chest and laid her head on it. "So tell me about your interview with Tommy. What's his position again?"

"Archdeacon is a close subordinate to the Bishop in our system. Don't know what your equivalent would be."

"Probably a Vicar General or something like that."

"Probably. He does whatever Horace tells him to do. Anyway. . ."

***

I sat across my own desk from Archdeacon Tommy Hughes, who was ensconced in my place in my chair. He was a distinguished man in his 50's: salt and pepper hair, fair skin completely smooth shaven, blue eyes just developing crow's feet, slender with delicate hands. The parish ledger was open in front of him, the Baptismal Register, Marriage Register and Vestry Minutes underneath, and his half lens reading glasses were perched at the end of his nose. "Now, Vicar, about the tuckpointing you had done earlier last year, why didn't you accept the lowest bid you received for the work?"

I pulled a file from my cabinet across the room, and opened it in front of him. "As you can see by these reports, the two companies with the lowest bids have an unfortunate track record in customer satisfaction. The low bidder has several complaints with the local Building commission, and the next bidder has just been shuttered due to fraud and negligence of the higher ups. The firm we awarded the contract has an excellent reputation, so fine that the primary donor, Mr. Frederick Titterington, O.B.E., was happy not only to contribute but to make a further donation of cement at cost. The Vestry voted unanimously to approve the contract. So the overall expense to St. Dunstan's ended up with an expense equivalent to the lowest bid submitted, with the best guarantee that the work would not have to be repeated in the near future."




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 15



The Archdeacon looked at the paperwork and clicked his tongue. Turning the pages, he paused periodically, then used his calculator to check figures. Finally, he close the file and put it down. "Everything here is in order here, Freddie." Putting it aside, he consulted his notepad. "Now about the repairs to the Vestry Roof. I see that it was repaired quickly in November after—an accident. Freddie, tell me how your supervision of the facilities was responsible for this–disaster."

Returning the Renovation file to the cabinet, I brought out another on the Roof Repair. "You'll want to reference the Vestry minutes from the emergency meeting of 2 November 2005." He thumbed the pages and found the notes quickly. I laid the file on the desk. "On top, you'll find the report of Mr. Jim Lefebvre, contractor. This details the recent history of neglect of the Vicarage roof from Bishop Stokeley's tenure here on. The Sexton at that time, Mr. Bert Button assured me frequently that there were no problems. He was also the local building inspector, and did not visit the Vicarage for the last five years before his death."

"I understand he passed away in September. My condolences," Tommy said coldly.

"Thank you. The minutes record the Vestry's discussion and vote. Next, the detailed proposal from Mr. Lefebvre and the emergency clearance from the Local Council dated 7 November. We had to move quickly or I would have been homeless. Thanks to the generosity of Ms. Percival Clyde-Walker, we were able to pay in full, and the summation report indicates."

"Yes, Freddie, very interesting. However, you never checked out your attic yourself until the roof fell in."

"Yes, Archdeacon. I was assured there was no problem for years, and didn't see the need to double check myself. A lesson learned; a failing that won't be repeated."

"See that it isn't," came the sharp retort. "Well, things seem to be resolved satisfactorily, thanks to Mr. Lefebvre and Ms. Clyde-Walker. Undoubtedly this charity is why she was blessed with child so soon after."

***

"Now here's something I want to talk to you about," Barbara broke in, taking my cock in her hand. "I was there when Clarissa-–made her contribution. From the anecdotal evidence, timing and conclusion of the scene, which I saw with my own eyes, it seems that this revolver isn't firing blanks." She stroked it and it responded to her. Tickling my oysters, it began to jump and bob, searching for a home. "Yes, big boy, you seem to have made a baby," she cooed to my manhood,. "How d'ya feel about that?"

A moment passed; it was something I had thought about a lot since I heard the news from Artie. At last I said, "A couple of things. I'm glad that the equipment works. A man likes to know. As far as the baby, it's not really mine, even if I did provide the DNA. Clarissa told me over a year ago that if she had a baby, it would be all hers like Violette's. I figured it out: she's wanted a baby for years."

"She liked your looks, she liked your brains and she could make you do it."

"Exactly. What a conniving bitch."

"Agreed. Hardly a good description for the mother of your child, but agreed."

I shook my head. "He'll be a pampered heir, his mother will ruin his life, and someday he'll be a foppish rich man in his own right. She'd raise a daughter in her own image, which is quite frightening. The child I fathered with Clarissa will never really be mine. Someday, I'll have children that are really my own."

Her veiled head turned toward my stiff member. "Certainly, Alfie, certainly. In the meantime." She engulfed my moist cockhead and began working her magic tongue all around my corona, stroking the length with delicate fingers.. My stories were lost in her talented manipulation, and I responded by sneaking the nearest hand up her thigh, seeking the damp forest between her legs. Finding my goal, I slipped a finger into her moist canal and worked it at the same pace she was working my genitalia. 

The sight of the dark veiled head with my cock in her mouth was still a powerful turnon. She sighed and hummed as I slipped another finger inside her, still matching her rhythm. Twitching her shoulders, she got the crucifix swinging between her breasts again: I was glued as it glided gently at first, then wider and wider, quicker and quicker, until it bounced roughly from side to side. It grazed her nipples, and her mouth gave me an slight, involuntary compression as it made contact with the lovely brown peaks. We worked faster, in perfect synchronization, her mouth on my member, my hand in her canal, until we found the great mystic moment of bliss together: her gushing a geyser on my hand, me sending a flood to her hungry maw.

I thrashed as she tongued me post-orgasm: I loved the sensations and she knew it. My hand massaged her fresh fluids into her thighs, which returned my gentle caress. As last, she lay beside me, pulling up the cover. The fabric of her veil was soft against my shoulder. The skin of her inner calf was soft against mine. She sighed and murmured: "I'm glad those potent baby makers aren't heading anywhere dangerous."

My eyes flipped wide open. "What about earlier? I thought I sent a load of baby makers down a dangerous direction about forty five minutes ago?"

Barbara looked at me with glassy eyes. "It's all right, Alfred, it's all right."

"You're on the Pill?"

She nodded her head. "Yes, I am. So no problems."

"I thought you Catholics didn't believe in the Pill?"

She took a deep breath. "I've always had irregular periods, it runs in the family. Mother went down particularly hard, and was glad when the Pill came out; my sisters felt the same way. When I get periods without drugs, I'm absolutely incapacitated, and I feel like shite for four days. The Pill makes me regular and takes most of the edge off 'that time of the month.'"

"You can take it for that?"

She nodded again. "It's a matter of primary and secondary effect; you know enough about ethics to understand that. The primary effect of me taking the drug is good health, and it's become essential that I take it. That's what makes it OK. The secondary effect is infertility, but that's not why I take it, so it's permitted. If the primary reason I took it was contraception, then I'd be in trouble, but as it is, the community pays for it, it's open and above board and I pick up my prescription from the chemist wearing a full habit."

"Sweet."

"Now for the rest of the story."

***

Archdeacon Tommy Hughes was looking vexed. His search for documentary proof of irregularities was finished, and fruitless. He sat back in my chair, looked out my window, and mused. "Several rumors are circulating about secret sexual activities, but I haven't gotten proof–yet. I would like to know about your new live-in housekeeper, Agnes Sterns."

I nodded. "Agnes is a graduate student at University in Organ, scholarship student, assistant Organist/Choirmaster, and she needed a place to live and work to pay some daily expenses. The Vestry thought it would be a good idea for her to work for the further assistance, and so the idea of her living in the apartment was broached by her grandmother, who is Chair of the Vestry. The Vestry agreed to the arrangement, as you can see by the Contract itself before you and the minutes of the August meeting. I do not have a key to the apartment, although there is one hidden in the kitchen for emergencies. . ."

"I'm sure. Perhaps the night gets a bit cold. . ."

". . .which can be verified by an inspection of my key ring. Ms. Sterns can confirm all this."

"I'm certain."

"As can her grandmother and the Sexton of the Parish, who happens to be her brother. I think it unlikely that multiple family members would arrange a situation where one of their women serves as a live-in, paid sexual surrogate."

Tommy leaned back in my chair. "Interesting, Freddie, and persuasive. Yes, I wouldn't set my sister up in a situation like this unless I was assured that everything was proper. Point taken."

Looking at me directly, he pushed on: "Most parishes this size, Vicar, have a Curate to assist with pastoral duties. You haven't had a Curate since you've been here, and with your duties at the Diocesan Planning Commission as well as here, I'm sure you could use the help."

"Then I wouldn't be able to afford my organist/choirmaster or his assistant."

"Many parishes your size make do with volunteers."

"I know, and they suffer. This is a High Church parish, always has been, and the quality of the liturgy is of primary importance in keeping the parish happy. Niall Jones has his ARCO, studying for the FRCO, and has a long tenure here. Agnes Sterns has her CertRCO, and is continuing her studies, also. The financial picture of the parish is the best it's been in years, and per capita, we're the biggest contributors to the Bishop's causes. I believe this is due to the excellent liturgy here."

"There is a young man, newly ordained, very bright and needing some mentoring that I'd like to send here to learn the ropes as your Curate," he said, with eyebrow raised and vocal inflection that suggested obedience. 

"Unless you can pay him, I'm afraid we can't have him. Since I'm single and unattached, I have no problem doing all the pastoral care here as well as my sacramental duties, and we have a group of visitors that keep close track of the shut-ins. I believe the Bishop wanted me to write up that program? My health is good, my energy is good, and I appreciate your vote of confidence in me as a mentor. I must respectfully decline the offer of a curate.

"Also, under the terms of the endowment creating the choir school, we must have an accredited RCO member to direct it, and I am not at liberty to abrogate those rules. It compels the parish to spend the money; we don't have a choice. We must have a full time organist/choirmaster here."

***

"I've seen that dodge before," Barbara cut in. "He sends you a young priest who's his personal spy, who'll undercut you at every turn and build up his own constituency in the parish."

"Well spotted. Of course," I replied. "That's why I do the staffing as I do, and why I had your mother's gift written up the way it is. To block the Chancery out. To block Tommy out. Unless we can bring our general income up by half, we won't be able to afford a Curate. If I get overwhelmed, there's several retired Anglican Priests I can call on for help."

"Well done," Barbara murmured appreciatively, giving me a congratulatory kiss.

***

Archdeacon Tommy Hughes joined his hands and twirled his thumbs for a moment. "How's the scholarship coming? Is the article on the Council of Whitby done?"

"Yes, Archdeacon. I have an e-mail confirming receipt, and it will be appearing in the April edition. Yesterday, a grant came through for an essay comparing and contrasting the teachings of the Lollards and the Hussites; I'll start work on it shortly with a completion date of September."

"I'm sure that will be adequate for Bishop Delacroix and Bishop Langford in Topeka to maintain your status here as a visiting academe. Ad astra per aspera."

"I'm impressed you know the state motto of Kansas, sir. 'To the stars through difficulties.' How flattering."

"The last thing I'd like to bring up is the case of Ms. Lucinda Parkhurst--Frazelton. She has been the largest donor to St. Dunstan's and to the Diocese over the past three years. There is rumor that she rambles about—interesting and private events of her life and encounters with her Vicar."

"As the elderly frequently do. Who knows what are real memories and what is fantasy?"

"As does my mother, and nothing shuts her up. With Ms. Parkhurst–Frazelton's feeble mental state, I'm uncertain her wishes are being met with her donations. Do you have any correspondence on the nature of her contributions?"

Once again, I dug out a file. "Here are the letters from her proposing the gifts that started the 'Stanley Parkhurst-Frazelton Memorial Choristers Endowment' and the 'Barbara Parkhurst-Frazelton Young Women's Scholarship Endowment.' I can collate a definitive list of recipients of the Choir Awards if you wish from our data files, and the second is being given to Ms. Agnes Sterns this year. The Financial Records of these two funds are before you."

"Do you have documentation that gives her family's endorsement of her actions?"

"She hasn't been declared incompetent at this time."

"True, but we must hold to a higher standard."

"Really? Her contributions to the Bishop may be discredited as well."

"I doubt it," he said brazenly. If the context would have been a poker table, I would have put him on a bluff, but calling it would be difficult. His face was hawkish; he was circling on his prey in lazy, wide circles. "I believe that Ms. Parkhurst-Frazelton is in Hospital at this time, unavailable for an interview, and her solicitor Mary Sterns, who just happens to be the Chair of your Vestry, is also unavailable at this time. You were to have documentation of all possible concerns before my arrival."

"Of course, give me a moment." I picked my cell phone out of my pocket, hit speed dial and said, "Now." A moment later, the door opened.

***

"And that's when I rode to your rescue," Barbara gloated as she raised up on her elbow triumphantly.

I kissed her and chucked her chin. "And that's when you rode to my rescue, in full habit and papers in hand. He was floored to see a full bird penguin, and to find out that Lucinda's designated representative was her youngest daughter who happened to be the head of a religious community. You put him straight about everything your mother gave us, everything she did, and what her motivations were. It was funny to see his jaw open and close so rapidly like that. You tamed a tiger, Barbara." I gave her a big, sloppy kiss thanks.

"Yes, indeed.," she chuckled. Barbara could still be like a schoolgirl at times; she lay on her stomach on my chest, her legs kicking back and forth and her toes wiggling in glee. She rolled over onto the bed; I glanced at her beautiful breasts: there were marks from the crucifix that were already starting to turn from deep red to purple. "You owe me big time, Alfie boy, big time. You ass is mine."

"You weren't able to stick around for the aftermath, Barbara."

***

The Archdeacon accepted a cup of tea and some biscuits after we finished in my office. chatting pleasantly enough about different people we knew, but part of him was disconnected as we sat in my sitting room. We never made eye contact. "Violette brought the baby around the office yesterday to visit Grandpa. I never understand how infants can turn perfectly sensible adults into drooling idiots, and Horace is the worst I've seen."

"Have they figured out who he looks like yet?" I said, stirring my cup of tea calmly, using my best poker face.

"Well, he's just getting out of the worm face stage. He's about six months old, and he seems to have missed getting his mother's nose. His fuzz is getting thinner, but it's red. Horace thinks he looks like him, and nobody disagrees."

Fortunately, we didn't continue the charade of forced conviviality for long. He left a dazed man, obviously tired and a bit frustrated as I saw him to the door. He whispered just before he left: "Next time I'll find something, you will screw up somewhere and your delicious ass will truly and literally be mine. Your sweet lovely cheeks will have to bend over and part for me someday, Freddie boy, and then I'm in, just you wait and see." He stepped into his car and was whisked downtown.

***

Barbara and I lay in each other's arms, my head resting on her chest next to her crucifix. My hand was idly toying with her nipple, and my leg was over hers. The space heater clattered a little bit from time to time, and the openings to the outside, sealed by plastic, showed that sunset was approaching. Her hand was resting on my head and occasionally she gave my brow a kiss. 

"I'm glad your ass is safe for now," she said. "You've never been interested. . .?"

"No. Doctor's office visits confirm my preference for one way traffic down there."

"Mmm. Can't say I'm interested in that either." We lay there, savoring the incense burning in the corner and the candlelight. "So you're sure Archdeacon Tommy Hughes is going to be the next Bishop?"

"Well, he's the front runner. Don't know what the strength of his support is, or how his reputation will affect him once Queen Horace abdicates. Machiavellian, that man is. His shit list doesn't seem to be long, and a lot of the guys on it are on the fringe of the diocese."

"Like you?"

"Like me, although not geographically."

She stroked my hair and I stroked her breast. Another kiss on the head, and she asked: "What will you do if he gets elected Bishop??"

"I don't know. I just don't know."



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 16



All of us get stuck by the weather from time to time. Sometimes, it can be a very good thing.

". . .temperatures tonight will be below freezing and remain that way through Friday. That's all for the weather, and now back to music." I switched off the radio; as usual, I caught the tail end of the forecast and had to get the rest of the details elsewhere. Going into the study, I called up the weather page and read the entire forecast: a freak winter storm was descending the British Iles from the Arctic: snow was beginning overnight and the equivalent of 4 inches expected by daybreak, with swirling snow through the next day and a half at least. It was expected to paralyze the entire country, except for the Southwest and Wales. I took a look at the pantry and emergency supplies: all were in order to last several days, and I began soaking some beans so I could prepare a pot of authentic chili against the cold weather. Thank God the roof got fixed in record time. Putting the kettle on, I prepared some jasmine tea and cookies, rather biscuits, and settled into the paper, which I hadn't a chance to read until then.

At 9:00PM Agnes Sterns bustled through the door as she usually did on a Wednesday evening, shivering. "Hiya, Vic. Beastly out there, it is." Giving me a peck on the forehead, she hustled through dump her books in her apartment and throw off her coat, returning to sit and pick up a portion of the paper I wasn't reading. The kettle sang and I poured the boiling water into the teapot to steep. Looking around, she got the milk out of the icebox and put a little in her cup, and after a couple of minutes or so, topped it off with freshly brewed tea, spooning in a teaspoon of sugar. I let it go for a couple more minutes, then poured myself a cup without any additions.

"You're still uncoverted, Vicar," she said. "No self respecting Brit would drink their tea without milk and sugar."

"This is jasmine tea, very delicate. Although, I guess I'm stuck in the habit of drinking tea alone from my early days. In the summer, I still put it over ice."

She shivered. "All right, you Philistine, be like that. This tea is perfectly lovely with milk and sugar, so I'll drink it this way. You can satisfy your heathen tastes as you like."

"Okay," I said, thumbing through the paper. 

"By the way," she continued, "any other heathen tastes you'd be interested in satisfying tonight? Tomorrow should be an off day for everybody."

I peeked over the top of the paper and winked. "One or two heathen tastes come to mind. Perhaps a nice roaring fire in the fireplace will a treat on a night like this.'

"The one with the nice, soft rug in front of it?"

"Yes."

"I like the way you're thinking." Returning to our papers, we leisurely sipped our tea and turned pages, although I could almost feel the electricity from her side of the table. My placid domesticity was less than perfect as well, but I kept my discipline and exterior calm as I finished the paper, the biscuits and tea. Agnes was gazing at me with big, puppy dog eyes, entranced. It bothered me a little, but I put on a brave front as I asked: "Care to go upstairs and get the fire lit?"

"Sure, Vic." She jumped to her feet and almost danced up the stairs ahead of me.

Tonight she was wearing a dark brown heavy sweater, a blue blouse beneath, a plaid woolen skirt that went down to her knees, thick, kneehigh socks; the boots she wore were by the back door and she hadn't put on slippers. The bun she wore in her hair as she came in had been released, and her lustrous red hair cascaded down over her shoulders toward the middle of her back. Her stockinged feet slipped a little as she pranced on the wooden floors, but she reveled in the slickness and slid gleefully around, giggling like a child. 

I went in my sitting room and laid a fire, building it as I learned in my youth on the Great Plains, and my undiminished skill was validated as it took one match to light it. It built slowly, and I made sure the grate was open and the glass doors shut so my rooms wouldn't fill with smoke. Reclining on a couch directly in front of it, I listened as Agnes continued her impromptu cavorting in the hallway. Occasionally she would fly past the door, sliding on the waxed, wooden floor in her stocking feet, hair flying a little behind her, arms spread wide.

She did a wonderful job keeping the house clean, sticking to her schedule, and impressing her grandmother Mary with her dedication. Studies and practice kept her very busy during the week. We usually spent Friday evenings together: I would take her out someplace away from the parish for dinner and then we'd go dancing. Unlike most young people, she disdained nightclubbing, preferring ballroom dancing. I was learning gradually the different steps and grateful that my youthful days playing the organ made my feet compliant to lithe and graceful motions. Last weekend, we took fourth in an amateur competition. 

Our sex life was infrequent, and I was reluctant to push it. She was enamored of me, and would have spent every night in my bed happily, but I allowed her less access than I did the other Quilting Ladies. Until Sheila Button left town a couple of months ago, they still brought meals over four times a week, and I usually made love to the cook that evening, as we had for months. There were also encounters with all of them in the Quilting Room, impromptu encounters like the first time, that were delightful. Agnes was extremely busy with her studies, and having six nights a week to read or practice to her heart's content seemed appropriate; as far as I could tell, she was working hard and enjoying her graduate studies in music very much. 

With a scream, she slid into the room, her shirt untucked under her sweater, her arms at her sides, her breasts bouncing once at the stop, her skin glowing with perspiration, her eyes bright, her long hair disheveled and a goofy grin on her face. Agnes grabbed her sweater by the bottom and stripped it off over her head, saying: "Gosh, it's hot in here." Throwing it on a convenient chair, she went over to put my iPod in its dock, calling up Vaughn Williams' Songs of Travel. Balancing on the mantelpiece, she perched on one leg at a time to strip off her knee high socks, revealing her graceful calves, delicate feet and pert little rednailed toes. They joined the sweater on the chair, and she snuggled into my side. I put my arm over her, my hand cupping her teardrop breast, my finger absently stroking her nipple with its bar. Sighing, she wriggled into me a bit more, and we savored the music.

After a while, I said: "I was wondering something just now."

"Oh," she murmured.

"How come we never listen to organ music when you come up here?"

She sat up and turned to face me. "Listening to organ music is too much like work. I always get ticked when I hear a phrasing or articulation or rubato I don't agree with, and it takes all the enjoyment out of it."

"Oh. Then who's your favorite performer?"

"That's easy, it's me."

I gave her a disbelieving look. "That's a little bit smug of you, isn't it?"

"Not at all. When I'm on the bench, I can interpret the music exactly as I think it should go, or at least try. There's nothing more thrilling that putting my hands on my favorite literature for myself; shaping phrases and tempi like a piece of clay; I'm surprised more people aren't eager to do it. When I want to hear music interpreted as I like it best, I do it myself."

"That makes sense, put that way." She nestled back into my side; my hand sought her graceful curve and sweet, jeweled bud.

"Who's your favorite preacher?" She asked after a moment.

"There are many that I've liked over the years, but I guess I'd have to say I am. For much the same reason."

"See," she said triumphantly, "It's not about false pride, it's about knowing what you can do, having control of what you're doing, being good at what you do, bringing your work to a polished finality, and knowing that you'd done what you set out to do, for the most part."

I shook my head snuggled into her. Agnes was twenty two years old going on thirty five. "There are some things we need other to do for us, or help us with," I said.

An evil glint came to her eye. "Such as?"

I reached down and touched her soft lips to mine, pulling her close. She welcomed my embrace and opened her mouth to twine her tongue with mine. A few minutes of sweetness and we parted to sit rapt by Vaughn Williams. When it ended, she asked: "What's next?"

"How about some Mozart?"

"Divertimenti?"

"Nothing that light. Maybe the Coronation Mass?"

"Excellent for sacramental sex?"

"Maybe not. I've got Haydn Symphony 104 in there. It's a nice balance between sobriety and honest cheerfulness."

"Sounds good." I got up and began the solemn tones of the minor introduction, with its languid, limping four note call and response. "I though your said this was cheerful," she smirked.

"Hang on a minute." Toward the end of the somber introduction, the oboe took up the four note minor call at the cadence just before the solid, mirthful tune began the main part of the first movement. Agnes shook her head in recognition, and I came back to sit on the floor, my head resting on her skirt between her spread legs. The fire burned, Haydn sang his rustic yet sophisticated song, and the wind danced snowflakes against the window. She draped her left leg over my shoulder and put her bare foot on my thigh. 

Her warmth and freshness teased my sensations, and before long I could wait no longer. I started with kissing the inside of her knee. Her skin glowed redly in the light, a host of freckles in a sea of pale skin that had almost completely lost its summer tan. A soft hand rested on my head and stroked it as I worked my way around. Then I quested down her supple calf, holding her leg up and turning as I moved to her ankle and down toward her instep. She turned with me, laying back on the sofa and turning to I could get at her foot more directly. A giggle and a moan accompanied my exploration of her musky instep, and I finally went up to take her big toe into my mouth. 

She gasped as I sucked and licked it. "Oh my God, I never knew this would turn me on," she said, her head resting back on the cushion and her hand idly stroking the buttons of her blouse. I worked my tongue around her ticklish foot and teased between her toes. Finally, I started back up working on her shin toward her knee. Crossing it, I moved inward, making my way up her soft thigh and going under her skirt. "Do you want me to take this off?" she asked.

"No," I said, and moved deeper and deeper as her legs started to shift. As the other thigh grew closer, I went back and forth between the two pillars toward the nest above. It was covered by a white cotton panty, and as I reached it, I tickled it through the fabric with my hand. Her hips convulsed upward once, twice, and I pulled aside the whiteness to reveal her bud. 

"Oh yes, Vic, oh yes." With the tip of my tongue, I slowly teased inward, barely making contact with her sweet lips and seeking the bud within. Pushing herself toward me and sitting up a little, her bud came out of its hood, and reached out for my taste buds. Playing coy to generate more heat and nectar, I suddenly dove in, circling her clit madly and probing into vagina to seek her juices. He hand came up outside her skirt and started rubbing her sweaty blouse; several of her buttons were undone as she was trying to get out of it, but I batted her hands away to fondle her through her clothes. 

It was during the beginning of the Minuet that she came to a grand climax, her back arching off the couch and her head whipping back and forth. She even managed to wail in D major, the same key as the music. It took the rest of the movement for her orgasm to finish and into the Finale. Breathing heavily, she watched me as I came from underneath her skirt and sat with her legs resting across my lap; I stroked them slowly and gently as she returned to earth. I rubbed the flat of my hand on the soles of her feet, and she wiggled her toes in greeting.

"Oh my, Vicar, that was astounding. Thanks."

"Oh, you're welcome. What shall we listen to next?"

"That was the farthest thing from my mind." She sat up and wrapped her arms around me, kissing me deeply as Haydn finished his last symphony.

The fire was gone, so I carried her into the bedroom after setting Schubert's Fifth Symphony with its lilting, carefree celebration of life. The snow still swirled outside the window, and the wind wailed. We undressed and got into bed together, kissing and embracing fully naked. Coming up for air, she whispered in my ear: "Fuck me, Vicar, please fuck me. It's been too long."

The last bothered me slightly, but my passion would not be quenched and I mounted her with her legs up in the air. Her channel welcomed my barge as it made its slow penetration to its depth, and we began to rock back and forth. Pulling her nipple bars, she ground her hips and moaned as I rode her, squeezing her pelvic muscles to milk my John Thomas as it rode in and out. Two orgasms overwhelmed her senses before I sent my affection deep into her cavity, a long climax that I never thought would end.

Panting, I lay on top of her as we recovered, still inside her. We rolled sideways together, me facing the window, and stayed conjoined until I receded out of her. Rubbing noses, she turned to face the window as well, spooning her sweet backside into me as she watched the snowflakes with me. 

After a long time, she said: "Are you still awake?"

"Yes," I answered right away. "I'm still awake and ready for anything."

"There's something that's bothering me."

"Oh"

"Yes. I know my Gran, Mrs. Button and Mrs. Hazelton always call you Vicar, even when you're with them like we are now. If that's what you're comfortable with, that's all right by me, but it seems a little awkward to be like this and for me to call you Vicar while we're alone. You also call me Agnes when we're alone, even when I've got your dick in my mouth. Lovers have pet names for each other, I'd like to call you something a little more personal and let you know you can call me by a nickname, too."

That struck a jarring chord. I gave her a squeeze, and thought for a moment. She was right: Janet and I had little nicknames for each other, as did most of the couples I knew. My parents called each other Carmie and Cougie for reasons I never fully understood, but probably came from their love of big band music. I resisted having such little nicknames for the Quilting Ladies, partly because our sex was more recreational than intimate. Agnes was different and deserved some consideration for her unique position. 

"You want me to call you, Aggie?"

"If you want. Maybe something else will come up."

"Well, not for a while."

"What a stupid line." She reached around and my member was responding to her touch. "Well, maybe not. Anyway, call me Aggie or Ag until you come up with something better. Honey, dear or sweetie would be fine, too."

"How about Sweet Cheeks, or Perky Nipples, or Dimple Bottom?"

She reached around and smacked my backside. "Now you're being silly."

"These are a few of my favorite things." I reached around and lightly took her nipple in my fingers. "I do adore your perky nipples. How would Perky or Perk do?"

She thought for a minute. "That'll do. Just not in public; I don't want to put on the spot for an explanation."

"You think you don't want to explain. All right, when we're alone, and only when we're alone, you can call me Alfie, or Al or some variation of that. Anything but Freddie."

Turning around, she made an O with her lips. "I remember now, that's what Violette called you, and you had her spanked for it."

I sighed. "I need to change the password on my computer."

"I didn't see it there, I saw it on Derrick's computer. I've respected your privacy religiously, even when I cleaned in your study and your computer flipped on when I moved the mouse. You've been such a gentleman in respecting mine."

"And always will."

"Thanks, Al–Al," she reached up and kissed me on the lips, "Al dear, but you needn't worry. You can always look through anything of mine."

I pulled her close, her breathing was quickening and she shuddered close to me. "Where were we, Perky?" 

Agnes rubbed those perky nipples against my chest. "Well, I think we're naked in bed together and you're getting an erection, Al darling," she cooed in my ear.

I took her shell like ear in mouth, searching every line with my tongue and teasing her earring. "Any particular position you'd like to try right now, Perky?"

"Al dear, you can fuck me anyway you want." 

After checking that she was ready for another penetration, I lifted her hips up so she was on all fours. She reached between her legs to grasp my cock, stroking it and pulling it toward her. I teased her slit with my corona for a few moments; she pushed back against me trying to get me in, but I pulled away. Another teasing approach, she guided me in and I poked at the exterior of her vagina before pulling back again. Her hips ground into my pelvis, and I got the idea that teasing was no longer a good idea. She reached back again, and this time after rubbing the tip of my member around her lips, I pushed in to fill her completely and thrust toward our goal. She orgasmed three times before I did, and I thanked God for the Pill as I jettisoned my semen into her womb..

We fell asleep in each other's arms afterward. The clock radio came on at 6:00AM with bulletins announcing cancellations. After ten minutes, I hit a button and fell back into deep sleep. 

A dim light was barely illuminating my room. The covers were off, I forgot why. There was a damp tingle between my legs; I was fully erect and a long red shock of hair was hunched over me. A soft hand was twisting around my pole while a frenetic, feather light tongue was all over my cockhead, my testicles were already preparing for release. 

Agnes must have gone to her bedroom during the night; she was wearing a soft, red silk bathrobe, open in front. As I awakened, she laid out more flatly on my leg and I bent it so my knee rested in her crotch. Using my foot as leverage, I gave her a ponyride as she sucked me, her cunt dampening my kneecap. She bucked harder and harder, keeping her head relatively still as it went about its business on my wand, moving her mouth down to lick my balls and work its way back to the top. My orgasm jolted my eyes wide open, and Agnes devoured every drop that came from my member. Rolling her over, I dove between her legs and repaid the favor, sending her over the edge once again.

Looking out at the snow in the grey light, she said: "Nice way to start a day, isn't it, Al?"

I rested my head in her crotch and looked out the window. "Yes, Perky. I agree completely."

"You know," she said, "Ever since that day in Kansas, I can't get enough of you. I can't tell you have special that day was at the Windmill, or sleeping under the starts, or waking up next to you in the dawn light."

"It was special for me, too. A cleansing of memories. Your grandmother rather liked it as well."

"Gran adores you, and was as glad to be there as I was. She helped me get ready for that day."

"Oh? " My brow furrowed. "Say more."

"Jenny and I adored you every since you got here. You had your wife with you at first, and we were just gels, but we would sleep over at each other's houses and fantasize about how you would take our maidenheads."

"How long ago?" 

"Well, I was sixteen and Jenny was thirteen. We were like sisters: we both lost our parents, both were living near each other with our grandparents in a strange town, both wondered if a boy would ever look at us. Our grandmothers are best friends, so we met each other early on and hit it off. You'd jog through the neighborhood, looking all hot and sweaty, your muscles peeking out behind your shirt, your bulge between your legs. At first, we'd try to gross each other out with the details, but then it got more. . .eager. I started practicing the organ, and when you'd come through and say hello to me, my heart would just about explode."




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 16



"Well, I'm flattered. Is that why, oh, I shouldn't. . ."

"I know about the session when Jenny came over with Mrs. Button before she got engaged to Derrick. She told me all about it; I was on the verge of an orgasm with every detail, and I was so jealous. You fulfilled her deepest fantasy, Al, and she was ready to move on to Derrick after you made her dream come true."

"Did you date many boys when you were in school?"

"A few, nobody got very far. As you Yanks say, nobody got past first base. I used to slip my Gran's dildos out of her room and use them, imagining it was you between my legs, making me wet, driving deep into me. Jenny used to do the same thing with her Grandmother's cucumbers."

"Did she miss them?"

"Not after a certain event in the Quilting Room over a year and a half ago. Jenny and I didn't figure it out until we went on the cycling tour of Wales with our Grans; away from here, they said a few things at the wrong time when they thought we weren't listening, and we put it all together. That was a great trip, we really bonded during that bike ride and we felt they were finally going to treat us like women."

"Well, they showed me the pictures of you riding topless around Wales. Didn't that seem a bit immodest?"

"Oh, we've never been very modest in my family, and Jen and her Gran used to drive old Mr. Button crazy walking around the house in warm weather with little or nothing on top. I think they used his embarrassment to keep him away; he was pretty rough on them. Gran and I've gone to Spain almost every summer to get a good all over tan. And of course, we wanted you to see those pictures of us topless, and our Grans were self-confident enough in themselves, in you and in us that they let it happen."

"All right. When did you lose your virginity?"

"Depends on how you count that."

"When did you first sleep with a man?"

"It was on the Great Plains of Kansas, beside a pond by a windmill."

That stunned me. She was a virgin until age twenty two? She saved herself for me? "But you seemed so experienced."

"Gran went over everything with me, and I was prepared. I even practiced taking a dildo up my bum so you could sodomize me. As for the rest, I just gave myself over to pleasing you, whether you were with me or with Gran. Watching you fuck Gran was really hot, by the way."

The rest of the story. How many other young women in the parish are fantasizing about me, I asked myself. It was almost like the legend from mediaeval Europe of Droit du Seigneur, where the local lord had the right to deflower every virgin in his land on her wedding night. ."I'd better be careful," I said at last, "I could get into all kinds of trouble if more girls had your ideas."

She wriggled up close to me, getting as close as possible. "I'm going to be the Doorkeeper, and nobody is getting close to you other than the Quilting Ladies from now on. Anyway, Jen and I didn't have close friend among the kids who grew up here, and we never told a soul other than our Grans about our fantasies about you. Mrs. Hazelton has some granddaughters around our age, but they live a long way from here, and don't come round very often. Our cousins aren't usually around either, so you're safe as far as I know. Of course, Niall would be just rapturous if you'd try his side of the street. . ."

Sighing I said: "Well, that's like trying run a ordinary Mac program on Windows: it won't work."

Suddenly she bounced out of bed and started putting on her robe. "Hey, are you as famished as I am?"

My stomach reminded me that it had been since that light snack last night that I had eaten. "Yes, I guess we got sidetracked."

She giggled, covering her mouth. "Why don't I whip us up a grand, big English breakfast?"

"Have you got everything you need?"

"Oh yes, I had Jen drop off a few things yesterday afternoon while we were out. Before the storm hit."

"Well, if you do breakfast, I'll do you a classic American staple for cold weather."

She did a double take. "You, cook?"

"I did it when I was growing up, you should see me at the grill. I picked up a chili recipe in western Kansas that'll put hair on your chest."

"Oh?" Opening her robe, she took a look at her chest, pulling it open so her breasts peeked out. "I don't think I need any hair there."

"Figure of speech, Perk"

"Well, then, let's call it a plan. Let me get started, and come down in about fifteen minutes."

I took a quick shower and checked the weather on the Internet: it was going to last all day, all night and not finish until sundown the next day. A look out the window was a grey swirl swarming with huge, white flakes. No one would be out today, and probably not tomorrow either. I put on my silken robe and slippers; this was going to be a lovely day with a lovely lady, and a tingling uncertain excitement came over me as I contemplated the possibilities.

There was enough wood upstairs to lay another fire after a scooped up last night's ashes, and I programmed the iPod with Tchaikovsky, Rimsky Korsakov and other Russian composers of that time. I didn't do heavy late Romanticism often, but today was different.

The table was laden with Bangers, eggs over easy, tomato, mushrooms, and a black pudding. Despite the blizzard, the paper had made its way to the table, and Agnes poured me a cup of tea as I sat down. Taking a sip, I smiled and said to her: "English Breakfast, how stereotypical."

"Well, I like it and so do you," she fussed from the oven, where she pulled a tray of toast from under the broiler. Her robe slipped open as she bent over, giving me a side view of her left breast, before standing up. "Oh shit, the butter," she said, reaching into the icebox to pull out the butter holder. We said grace, and I began to fill our plates, which I noticed were warm.

Buttering my toast, I looked at her as she took a couple of slices of the black pudding. "I'm still a bit reluctant to try that."

"Then you're still not a proper Englishman," she sneered coyly, "you can't just pick and choose from our traditions; that what you Yanks do."

"Oho, look who's picking and choosing. I've never had brunch at your Grandmother's house, but I know that every morning she had to have her baked beans, and every Diocesan breakfast I've been to has beans as well."

"Don't like baked beans, first thing. Pintos are all right, and chili's all right, but having that heavy crap in the morning makes me feel like I'm carrying a stomach full of lead weights.

Just like those awful grits we had that one day in Chicago."

"Grits are a Southern dish, and I'm not fond of them either. I'm glad that you made an accommodation and fried the eggs over easy."

"I'm glad you taught me that Vic–Al. I always hated those rubbery flat things until now." Her teasing blue eyes grew soft. "You've helped me discover many things."

There was a twitching between my legs, and I turned my attention to the food. We shared the paper and listened to BBC News. I helped her with the washing up, then started constructing my chili. Agnes watched with fascination as I chopped onions and garlic, drained the beans, and browned some chunks of salt pork before softening the vegetables in the huge soup pot with the homemade chili powder.. Fetching bottles of bourbon and tequila from the liquor cabinet, and some tomato paste from the pantry, I started assembling the ingredients.

"Is liquor at standard part of Chili?" Agnes asked.

"No, but I think it adds a special depth and body. If we had some Pilsner beer, I'd put a bottle of that or two in as well."

"Oh, we've got some, you just didn't see it." She disappeared into the study where my liquor cabinet was and brought out a couple of bottles of Corona. 

"Why isn't this in the fridge?" I asked testily.

"I don't know. Should it be?" came her innocent reply.

"Typical Brit. Non-English beer should be kept in the fridge, its brewing process is different and it drinks better just above freezing."

"Oh. I didn't know that." She went and brought in three six packs to put them in the icebox; fortunately was an industrial refrigerator with a huge capacity and held them comfortably. I opened the two cars she brought, as I sauteed the Going back, she brought a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale, poured it in a glass and sipped from it as she draped herself over a straight backed chair. "So is this anything like what we tried in Denver?"

"Beats the shit out of what we tried in Denver," I said as the liquids came up to the temperature I wanted.. It was taking a strong red color from the power I manufactured with love after returning from America from some dried chilies and cumin seed I'd purchased online. Opening the cans of tomato paste, I stirred them in, watching them melt in the seething liquid and thickening it. Backing the heat down to a bare simmer, I put the lid on and came over to the redhead. Kissing her on the forehead, I glanced down. "I can tell you're a student; I haven't had beer for breakfast since I was at undergrad in Hays."

She took a big slug from her glass, and offered me a sip. "Here, it'll put hair on your chest."

I took a generous swallow, and gave it back to her. "Hey, how did you get the paper in? It must have been freezing out there."

"I just walked out to the curb and got it."

"With your coat on?"

"No. It wasn't long enough for me to get cold." The image of her walking through the snow only clad in a thin bathrobe was disturbing and exciting. "It reminds me of something we can try this morning."

"What."

"Well, we can get the old hottub going for a nice long soak. Then, we go outside and play in the snow until we get cold. Back inside and back in the tub; the relaxation is supposed to be amazing."

"Really?"

Nodding her head, she smiled. "It's kind of like the sauna the Finns do. Want to give it a try?"

It sounded crazy, but I was curious. "All right. I need to spend a minute or two longer here; why don't you get the hottub going?"

Like a flash, she was pounding down the stairs. I stayed with my pot until I was happy that the tomato paste was dissolved, then got into the cupboard to prepare the elements to make cornbread. Looking in the fridge, there was a quart of buttermilk behind the newly cooling beer, and I was already salivating over supper. Going upstairs, fetched my iPod to give our morning some context.

I found Agnes naked in the hottub, and I doffed my robe to join her after setting the player up and starting the playlist. Soaking opposite each other, we floated in the water to Borodin's Polovetsian Dances as our bodies surrendered to the warm pulsing waters. When we got to the famous theme, I took her in my arms and danced her around in the tub, buoyant in our crouches to keep as much underwater as possible. Like the lyrics this melody evoked the musical Kismet, we were in paradise.

After the bustling conclusion, Agnes hustled me out of the tub and chased me upstairs and out the back door. The wind was still swirling the snowflakes, the church a faint outline in the haze beside us, the bare tree limbs clicking softly as they danced. She tackled me and rolled me in the snow over and over laughing. Coming up, I reached down to grab handfuls of snow to dump on her: over her head, into her crotch, around her breasts. Laughing, she tried to dodge me, and picked up snow to retaliate feebly. It wasn't as cold as I thought at first, steam coming off our hot bodies, and our exercise prolonged our warmth, but at last my skin was getting very cold and my teeth started to chatter. Agnes was a cold as well, holding her hands under her armpits, his nipples making hard buds, her skin turning very white. I gave her a look that asked whether it was time to go back in.

"I'm tougher than you are, Al. I'll bet you're a wimp." Her eyes flashed in challenge as she started to hop slightly from foot to foot.

Call me an old man, but I wasn't interested in this game. "All right, I'm a wimp, you win. Last one in the water is a rotten egg."

My cock flopped crazily as I set a record sprinting through the kitchen, pounding down the stairs and almost vaulting back into the hottub. Agnes was right behind me, and we shivered for a moment as the heat returned to our bodies. As the chill left, my body tensed and then in a great rush, relaxed profoundly, going limp in every part. A look to the side told me that Agnes had the same experience. "That's almost as good as an orgasm," she said, and wandered over to sit on my lap as I sat in the water. Her hair was pressed against my face; I inhaled a wonderful musk that swept my senses away and pulled my hand around her around her waist. 

After a few moments, she jumped a little bit and turned around to smile at me. "I think someone has some new tension here," she leered as she grasped my burgeoning erection and began to stroke it.

"Well, perhaps we should seek some relief," I replied, smiling.

"Care for another snowfight?" she teased.

I shook my head. "Special tension requires special attention."

The love theme of Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet flowed through the air, and Agnes took a deep breath, ducking under the water to lave her tongue around the tip of my phallus. In less than a minute, she came up for a deep breath, then ducked under to continue her soft tongue work. Coming up again, she said: "Unless you have a special oxygen tank around, why don't you sit on the ledge of the tub and let me do this without drowning."

"Next time, I'll ask a mermaid to drop by. I bet they give underwater blowjobs seven days a week." She smacked my shoulder and I lifted myself up to sit as she requested. 

Her red hair was slicked back against her head, and drops of water covered her face and shoulders. The gold bars in her nipples gleamed, and as they lifted out of the water, the chill of the air turned the peaks slightly stiff. Her eyes were her most compelling feature: blue pools of hunger and determination, devouring my dick as she stroked it; her tongue licked her lips and teased the corners of her mouth in anticipation that descended to it goal as she let herself down in the water. Toying and teasing, she worked around my upper thighs and nibbled my oysters before ascending to the corona, working it around and around. It seemed an eternity before she engulfed me and began sucking, her tongue flicked electrically all around my member, imparting me with energy. Before she could get me to the mountaintop, she had me stand up and part my cheeks. Moving behind me, she stroked me with her soft wrinkled hand as her face pressed into my backside and her tongue quested my soft pucker. Finding its goal, it pushed in and wandered around, sending another surge of energy, and before long, her delicate relentless hand drew out several jolts of white passion from me that splattered on the ledge of the hottub and ran down the inside toward the water. 

I sat back into the water at an angle, as she came up out of the tub and sat on the ledge. Her fingers scooped up globs of my ejaculate, which she massaged into her stomach and on her face, ducking a loaded finger into her mouth to savor it. I started kissing her knee, and teased and tormented my way around her upper thighs and tender crotch, avoiding her clit and circling around it. She squirmed as I gave her false hope of contact; her fluids were already dripping from her oral worship of my body, and her cunt tried to move toward my lips as I worked around, but when it got close I danced away, just out of range.

"This isn't fair," she cooed, "this isn't fair at all." I glanced up to see her head lolling loosely, her neck muscles completely relaxed. My fingers started making circles around her clit; I teased her several moments as she tried to move to get more direct stimulation. 

Her eyes met mine for a moment: a symbiosis of animal passion, desire and adoration that took me aback. I responded by plunging my index finger in her vagina, and leaning forward to attack her clitoris with my lips and teeth. Licking like a cyclone and faintly nibbling while my finger worked frantically, I brought her to release within a minute, echoed before the first one faded completely. When she had enough, she slowly fell off the ledge into the water, to put her head on my chest and wrap her body around mine.

Our skin was in the deep prune stage, so I lifted her out and carried her to the double bed that was in semi-storage there, drying her off with a huge towel before drying myself off. Putting her robe over her, I donned my own again, laying down beside her. She drew close and I put my arm over her as we lay together in silence.

Our afternoon was spent listening to music entwined: the Russians were followed by Debussy's La Mer, Ravel's Tombeau du Couperin, and Stravinksy's Firebird and Petroushka. The glorious smell of chili wafted down to us, and I went up periodically to check the pot, adding a little beer when it got too thick. Around five, I started putting the cornbread together, and Agnes came up behind me to wrap her arms around my waist and lay her head on my back. The windows gave the same swirling dark grey-flecked picture they had all day; the forecast was unchanged for snow to last until the next afternoon. I was afraid we would lose the power or the heat during this day, but we were fortunate. After putting the cornbread in the oven, I made some jasmine tea; we drank it, her sitting on my lap, as the wind murmured its chill song. 

After supper, we went back upstairs to light another fire, and as we reclined on the couch, Agnes asked: "What do you think of the Quilting Ladies?"

"How do you mean that?"

"How good are they in bed?"

"Well, that's a little bit personal."

"I've seen you screw my Gran, and Jenny described you fucking her and her grandmother in detail. I've seen you whip Mrs. Hazelton's huge tits and pour hot wax on them, as well as torture another woman who wanted it for almost an entire day; I saw the video. For almost three months I've been cleaning every corner of this house, and fixing some of your meals. We've had sex more than once, and I've had my tongue up your ass a couple of times. Do you think you could trust me with some personal reflections in confidence, now?"

Laughing, I gave her a squeeze. "You're right, Agnes dear, point well taken."

"You're afraid of me," she said flatly.

Ouch, that was too perceptive. Her eyes dug into mine, and I wrinkled my brow as I thought, which she lampooned. At last, I thought of something that didn't seem idiotic to say. "Yes, I'm afraid, but not because I can't trust you. If I didn't trust you, you wouldn't be living in the apartment. We're fourteen years apart in age; you're from a different generation than I am. We grew up in very different cultures in very different places. You're young and you have your whole life in front of you. I don't want you to. . ."

". . .think I'm going to push you to marry me and spend the rest of our lives in domestic bliss. I thought we've been over that, but I guess we haven't."

She rolled over to lay gently on top of me, her hands flat against my chest and her left legs between mine. Her face was inches away, her blue eyes were set. "I've got a career in music to pursue right now: it takes up most of my time and will until I get my Master's. I don't know whether I want a doctorate yet, but the door's open. I have friends of both sexes at school, I socialize with them regularly and although we're good friends in a limited way, I have no desire to sleep with any of them, although I know that several would like to sleep with me. Whether I want to limit my future mobility or not is something I'm not ready to decide yet, and I'm going to make sure I don't have to."

Teasing my chest hair, she continued: "Talking with my friends, I don't think that any of them who had a lover would be happy with getting laid at average of twice a month at the beginning of their relationships. That's what we've averaged, and it's fine with me. I don't know any of them who would share their man willingly, and I came on board knowing that three women had numbers in the deli queue smaller than mine. I adore you with all my heart, and the Church that comes with you, but I'm not ready to be a Vicar's wife yet. You were hurt deeply by Janet and that's not healed: you're afraid that the next person who loves you may not love your job or the baggage that comes with it."  




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 16



Her lips swooped down on mine, and she lay down on top of me, wiggling her entire body into mine. My breath had been taken away, and I responded to her sweet embrace. Breaking the kiss, she looked at me deeply. "Did Janet ever spend an afternoon with you listening to music like we did? Did Janet ever confront you about your feelings?"

"No to both. She could never stay still, and she never called me on my misconceptions."

Another passionate kiss, and she rose up, grinning manically. "If that's not true love, I don't know what is."

"What about boys your own age?" I asked.

"You think you're from a different planet than they are? I can't fathom them or their interests. They see me as a piece of meat. My Dad treated my Mum like that; no, thank you. They have no interest in the better things in life, or like to explore the eternal, at least, not with me. I appreciate your concern about me finding someone my own age I'd like better; but that's not on the radar right now."

"What about. . ."

"We don't have to decide anything: I'm happy the way things are, and thanks to the Pill, they're going to stay that way unless and until we decide otherwise together." I knew from her eyes that everything she said was up front. "Still afraid of me?" she teased delicately.

I relaxed a bit. "For the most part, no. Only that when we do make love, you'll wear me out so completely, I won't be able to keep your grandmother happy."

She rolled off and lay flat beside me, her robe open again to reveal her navel, her pubic hair, and hint at the sweetness of her breasts. Putting my hand on her stomach, I rubbed it and said: "However, I'm not worn out completely yet, and I don't think you can, but you're such a dynamo we may have to restrain you."

A broad smile creased her face. "As long as you don't hurt me, I find myself stimulated by that idea. I'm not ready for Mrs. Hazelton country."

I hopped on top of her, pinning her arms and legs with mine; she looked at me defiantly. Bouncing off the bed, I retrieved some wrist and ankle cuffs from my dresser that I'd only used on Mavis before, and bound her to the four corners of the bed, her robe wide open, her freckled skin completely at my mercy. Her still defiant look provoked me to tickle her mercilessly, digging into her ribs and under her breasts, going down to her inner thighs and sensitive feet. She howled with delight and was breathless when I let up. I let her catch her breath, then assailed her again.

After that round, I released her to bind her hands up over her head and her legs to the mantlepiece, her vagina and rectum pointed at the ceiling and her feet toward the wall spread wide. I pulled back my robe, revealing my full nine inch erection, and after making sure she was damp enough, plunged in to ride her hard.

As I fucked her, different sets of eyes came into view. Janet's very light blue eyes always looked up at my hairline while we made love, Rev. Brenda Porter's dark brown eyes always gazed past my left ear when we were face to face. Mary Sterns' blue eyes usually looked down, her eyes meeting mine occasionally to convey the delight of our passion; Mavis' huge brown puppy dog eyes always sought the next onslaught, however, we had never made love face to face. Sheila's light brown eyes turning to gold would flick around, closing in passion but strangely sad when they met mine. Barbara's eyes always were dark brown pools of transcendental essence that were a doorway to another plane of being. They were all special, all made me feel like a man, all made me feel profoundly loved.

Agnes' blue eyes were the same as her grandmother's, but the look in them as we made love, panting, her hands tied over her head and her legs straight up in the air, was a laser that reached into mine, drawing psychically closer and opening the window to her soul as she sought to open mine. We came together, and when I released her, we held each other close enough to be a gestalt.

Daybreak the next morning found her on her knees with my cock buried in her ass, my right hand mauling her breasts and my left tormenting her cunt as she moaned, bucked and shrieked. The new fire glowed merrily in the grate, giving the room a rosy glow and warmth. A look out the window showed the snow still turning the world impenetrably white. In my glee, a song came to my lips:

"Oh, the weather outside is frightful. . ."

Don't think the contest for the Vicar's affections isn't over yet; there's a lot to happen before this series is over. Both will have encounters with others, say, as soon as the next episode or two.



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 17



It was a night of tradition. For the past few years, the Anglican priests of my Deanery gathered on Fat Tuesday to enjoy a night of revelry just before the austerity of Lent. This year was my turn to host the occasion. We usually had a business meeting just after lunch, and this year's meeting was incredibly stressful: Archdeacon Tommy Hughes was there to declaim the latest set of directives from on high and lecture us on the importance of the Bishop's Lenten Appeal. He also rehashed every critical note he made during his round of visits around the Deanery since the beginning of the year. 

"Boys and Girls," he snarled as he approached his conclusion, "things are not going well in this Deanery. Only one parish out of eight is in the black, and only one parish has met its quota in the Bishop's Appeal. Within two years there's going to be new leadership in this Diocese, and these trends must be reversed or there will be significant changes here. None of you are exempt. Be warned." With that, he filed his papers in his leather briefcase, shrugged on his coat and waddled uncomfortably out the door.

"Haemorrhoids," Father Arthur Farnsworth said calmly after the Archdeacon left the house. "Tommy's always had problems with them, and I confess, I made those problems a little worse last night." His face creased in a self-satisfied smirk "I'm doing you a public service, lads and lassies. At least in this Deanery, he's getting a royal pain in the arse before he inflicts one."

His high pitched giggle pierced the quiet for several moments.

"Why don't I get a pitcher of Hurricanes ready for us?" I proposed after Artie subsided. "There's also a single malt Scotch for those who prefer English tradition over New Orleans. Drinks in two minutes, maybe less; food in thirty." I bustled to the kitchen to check my simmering pots and start the rice cooker.

Coming back, I brought some shaved ice and concocted a couple of pitchers of the Louisiana punch. Artie took one with relish, as did the female vicars of the Deanery: Edwina Hall of St. Augustine's, a thin, tall brunette in her 40's with sparkling blue eyes; Roberta Okoye of St, Barnabas, a short, skinny Nigerian also around 40's with a few flecks on white in her short black hair; Beatrice Williams of St. Paul's, a medium height, pleasingly plump woman not yet 30, whose dark brown skin, dark brown eyes and dark hair betrayed her Indian ancestry; Miriam Hali of St. William's (St. Will's as she usually called it), another young thin woman in her 30's from Nigeria; and Pamela Andrews of St. Helen's, another 30 something brunette with blue eyes and rounded curves who hailed from Brighton. George Staton, the middle aged Vicar of St. Alban's, with brown eyes, hair almost completely turned from black to grey, lean with a small paunch, chose to not to deviate from his habitual Scotch. 

By dinnertime, those assembled had recovered from their verbal sodomization via alcoholic consolation and were ready for a party. Since the usual chefs were unavailable that evening, I was happy to cook, preparing gumbo, jambalaya, red beans and rice, and other Southern delicacies for our repast. Some nice imported California Beaujolais accompanied the meal, and after a simple dessert, we repaired to my sitting room for our revelry. 

Sitting around and listening to Cajun music from my iPod, we were in a gleeful mood. Two sofas and four cozy chairs were drawn into a circle; Roberta and Miriam her protegé took one sofa and George and Artie made an odd couple on the other. Artie had managed to slip out and return with eight bead necklaces around his neck: leave it to him to find a good thing and overdo it. Looking around the room, I was struck with a realization: almost all the female Vicars in the Diocese were here. There were a few female Curates around, but all the Vicars were in this one and the one next to us. I pointed this out to Roberta, who was next to me as I sat between the sofas, and she answered with her head held high in noble, resonant tones with her crisp accent slightly dulled by several Hurricanes:

"Damn straight, Alfie. I am amazed that a poofter like Tommy Hughes can keep us Lady Vicars so thoroughly screwed. He's been making the pastoral assignments for the past five years, and he keeps us on the poor side of town. I'm not complaining, my needs are simple and my people I would not trade for any price, but for once I'd like to run a parish where keeping the lights on was NOT a day to day soap opera."

Miriam nodded in agreement. "At St. Will's, I had a marathon sit in with my Curate to raise funds. We sat on the roof for three days, had reporters from the local telly to publicize it, in order to fix the Church roof. If it wasn't for your mate, Jim Lefebvre, we won't have had enough after all that, but fortunately he was willing to give us a break."

"Jim's a great guy," I said, "He redid my Vicarage roof a few months ago."

"Tell us how you got the money for that roof, Alfie," Arthur's voice broke the conversation in the room.

It was an embarrassing moment that left me uncertain, but I decided on simplicity. "A parishioner donated the funds."

"And who was that, Alfie? Was it Clarissa Clyde-Walker?"

I fixed my gaze calmly on Arthur. "Yes, it was. Ms. Clyde-Walker has helped us before, and was generous in our time of need."

"I hear she's as tight with her cash as her legs were open in her youth," Pamela interjected, "her exploits were legend when I was in school. Teased all the boys, kept only the best athletes and the richest boys. Never understood how she ended up with Percival."

"Artie probably has that story, don't you Artie?" I replied. "Why don't you give us that little tidbit, just between us in this room. Right?" My suggestion was met with nods. "We're all comfy here, and ready for some juicy stories in honor of Fat Tuesday to pump up the revelry."

Artie looked uncomfortable for a few moments and gulped down the rest of his drink. Going to the sideboard, he poured another and turned around with a wicked look on his face. "All right, but in exchange I want something special."

"Special," George said, "what kind of special?"

"You all have to tell me the story of how you lost it," he asked with a self satisfied smirk.

"Lost what?" Edwina asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Lost it," Artie plowed on, "Your innocence. Your cherry, if you haven't already."

"This had better be a good one," George murmured. He took another sip from his glass and glanced at the bottle that rested next to him on the end table. It had started the evening full and was now three quarters empty. "If it is, then you have a deal, but you have to go first."

"No, no, Georgie, I'm not giving you the product before payment. You tell your stories first."

There was a stillness in the room that lasted several moments, while the music played. Beatrice William's dark eyes were shining in interest. "Perhaps we could go on the installment plan, "she suggested. "We can tell a couple of our stories, and when the down payment is sufficient, you tell us yours. If it's good enough, then we'll finish you off."

Artie swayed a little thinking about it, then lurched over to the sofa next to George to spin awkwardly landing, almost spilling his drink. "All right, agreed. As long as Alfie and George start us off, and then you, little Bee."

"Done," George said, "And I'll go first."

***

It was a warm evening as Rachel and I strolled down the beach on Samos. Take in the scene with your imagination with my friends, the temperature is perfect, a slight breeze wafts delicious aromas your direction, the moist sand feels refreshing under your bare feet. She was wearing a one piece swimsuit with a wrap around skirt, her figure in those days was stunning; I wore a t-shirt and cutoffs, the lean, young stallion. Strolling hand in hand as the round full moon lit our way almost as brightly as the daylight, a few bright stars peek through the moonlight, we were in paradise. No on else is on the beach: it was just the two of us and the waves.

Up the cliff, we heard a party going on at a private club. They had a live band, and the music was excellent, not the wheezy Greek crap we'd been swimming in for the past week. We swayed involuntarily to the music, our feet embraced the rhythms of the music. I stopped, drew her close, took the oversized bag from her shoulder that contained everything she needed, and said softly, "May I have this dance?"

"But I'm not that good a dancer," Rachel protested feebly.

"That's all right, neither am I," I replied. "What matters is that we have each other, the moon, the stars, the beach, the music, and we have now."

I held her in my strong arms, and our feet moved in the sand to the music. No, we weren't good dancers, but you had the universe to ourselves. Our bodies were pressed against each another, and I sensed that she would never let me go. Of course, at that time, it seemed like the best thing. in the world.

The stars started to swirl more rapidly, the music became distant, gravity loosened its grip. All I could see was her eyes, shining like suns before me, feel her tightly pressed body and my manhood bulged against her pelvis. The spinning went faster and faster until we fell to the sand; I landed beside her and covered her with my arm. Our lips blended, our tongues danced for several, infinite, liquid moments. Her eyes are all I saw.

My voice whispered in her ear:

"How beautiful are your feet in sandals,

O prince's daughter!

Your rounded thighs are like jewels,

the handiwork of an artist.

Your navel is a round bowl

that should never lack for mixed wine.

Your body is a heap of wheat

encircled with lilies.

Your breasts are like twin fawns,

the young of a gazelle.

Your neck is like a tower of ivory.

Your eyes are like the pools in Heshbon

by the gate of Bath-rabbim.

Your nose is like the tower on Lebanon

that looks toward Damascus.

You head rises like Carmel;

your hair is like draperies of purple;

a king is held captive in its tresses.

How beautiful you are, how pleasing,

my love, my delight!

Your very figure is like a palm tree,

your breasts are like clusters.

I said: I will climb the palm tree,

I will take hold of its branches.

Now let your breasts be like clusters of the vine

and the fragrance of your breath like apples,

And your mouth like an excellent wine-

that flows smoothly for my lover,

spreading over the lips and the teeth. 

She responded:

"Set me as a seal on your heart,

as a seal on your arm;

For stern as death is love,

relentless as the nether world is devotion;

its flames are a blazing fire.

Deep waters cannot quench love,

nor floods sweep it away." 

Her eyes are shining brighter than the stars twinkling above us. "Amen," I said, "set me like a seal on your heart as well. Be the sun the rises every day of my life and the moon that charms me to sleep. Now. Always."

She spread a blanket, our bodies melded, and we spent the night making love until the rosy fingers of dawn touched the East. We returned to England three weeks later, married, and a little over eight months later she gave me my first daughter.

****

"Oooh, I never knew you were such a romantic, Georgie boy," Arthur leered, and gave him a peck on the cheek, to which George screwed up his face in reply. 

"That was so romantic," Roberta agreed, nodding her head. "Just like the romance novels I read as a teenager in Nigeria. I wish my first night had been so wonderful. Like most people in my country, my marriage was arranged when I was fifteen, and consummated the next year. A living nightmare until malaria took him, and I was able to leave my children with my family there while I studied for ordination." Roberta was the mother of four, who now lived with her at St. Augustine's. She ruled them and her parish wisely and well.

"Yeah, those were the days," George mused after taking another sip and refilling his half full glass. "Sometimes I look at Rache and see that young nymph on the Greek Island beach. If I was more sober, I'd go home and we'd dance again."

"You're next, Alfie," Arthur leered through his inebriated haze. A look around the room showed interest in my story, so I told them about my stolen first tryst with Janet under the bush at Fort Hays State University. Sure, it was only a fellatio story, but it was the night we crossed the boundary, and we have vaginal penetration on our next date. (Author's Note: this scene is described in Episode 10: Going Home.) 

"How are you dealing with Janet's memory these days, Alfred?" Roberta asked with concern.

I pondered a moment. "I'm more at peace with it than I've been for many years. The visit home last summer helped. But I'm still not ready to find another mate. There's a hole in my heart that may not close again."

Arthur sighed and turned on Beatrice. "Okay, lady Bea, lift our spirits with your story. I'll bet it's a juicy one."

"You're a scamp, Artie," she said, batting her eyes coquettishly. "I'll bet it's better than yours.

***

My parents were from Mumbai, but I grew up right here, in St. Dunstan's parish of all places. The pastor then was a wonderful man, Reverend Alastair Donovan. An extremely tall man, huge, with great big hands that could hold me in their palm. He came to St. Dunstan's when I was fourteen and he was the star of my universe from the start. I could tell he admired me: he spent several years in India, and I could tell that my dark brown skin aroused him by the bulge in his wide fronts he couldn't hide all the time. 

I turned eighteen, and made an appointment with him to talk about becoming a priest. He was very supportive, and started giving me little jobs around the parish to learn what it was like to wear a dog collar. I also became his favorite acolyte, proud to vest with him every week. His charm was working on me too, and I dream that one day he would take my maidenhead.

One Sunday he slipped a note in my pocket, and I was in heaven.

It was a little close in the cabinet, on the feast of Pentecost, but I didn't mind; I doing what he told me to. Slipping out right after the Recessional, I managed to get into an old vestment cabinet unseen and stripped to my thong as the Postlude sounded from a distance. It was a huge cabinet, I could stand in there easily and the textures of the old garments felt interesting against my skin: textured yet soft, smelling faintly of old incense. The taste of Cinnamon Altoids was strong in my mouth: he asked me to suck on them as I waited for him. I embraced the old robes and made love to them, savoring their silky textured feel against my stomach, breasts, nipples, legs and face. 

There were footsteps on the floor outside, and rustling of robes sliding from shoulders. "Vicar, there's something in there," a girl's voice said. 

"Don't worry, Barbara, it's just mice," Vicar Alastair's sonorous voice intoned.

"Mice!!!" A quick, light, frightened staccato of small feet pattered the floor away from your direction.

"It's all right, they won't hurt you. Is everything done and put away?"

"Yes, Father," comes a quavering reply from near the outside door. "Where's Beatrice?"

"She had to run an errand for me to the Vicarage. It's time to clean that nasty old Thurible" There was more shuffling, then he began again: "Well then, run on home, Barbara. Thanks for serving today; you did well."

"Bye, Father," came the high piping reply. A door closed, and there was some rustling outside. I heard the sounds of drawers and cabinet doors opening and closing. After a few moments, there was a soft knock at your door, and I moved forward past the old robes into the Sacristy. The lights were turned off, it was lit by the EXIT sign, wisps of fading daylight through the opaque windows, and a lone candle burning away from the windows.

Father Alastair stood there before me, still standing in his red vestments just as he was for church. There was a hungry smile on his face as he devoured my brown naked body with his eyes. I was ready to play with the great Teddy Bear and make him as happy as he made me. Gently he pushed me to my knees on the carpeted floor, and lifted his robes over my head.

His pants and underwear were gone; an erect penis feebly slapped my cheek as the garment was draped to cover me. I began worshiping his cock as I'd read about in so many books: running my tongue over the purple head, gently playing with his balls, licking up and down the shaft, engulfing him just as he wanted me to do. His precum oozed into my mouth: I can tell he'd been looking forward to this for quite a while, and it wouldn't be long. A click and a rustle told me that he'd taken an Altoid out of the box he'd left on the table beside me, maybe two.

I licked and sucked and fondled and worshiped his dear rod, lost in sensation, until his prick swelled preparing for delivery. He thrust into my face, his dick driving deeper and deeper into my mouth and throat; he murmured incoherently with his hand on my ears through the robes he wore. Then the river ran, sending its salty stream down my waiting throat. I drank the river dry, until he softened in my mouth and returned to his normal state.

The air felt cool and refreshing as he whipped his garment off me, my skin slick with sweat and my nipples perking in the sudden chill. With strong arms he lifted me up to sit on the counter, my legs danging in the air far apart, my cherry eagerly waiting for its immolation. He brought over a chair and sat in front of me, began stroking my thighs from knees to crotch in long, slow strokes. His right hand settled at my crotch, tenderly massaging the folds and coaxing the bud out of its hiding place. Butterfly kisses flit from one leg to the other, rising, rising. As they approached my damp pussy, his hands ascended to caress my pert, little breasts. His tongue was questing, circling, teasing, until it found my cunt lips and clit, where it begins its adoration.

He moved so expertly; he was a master. Knew just when to speed up and slow down, when to probe my slick slit and when to caress my clitoris with his tongue. I felt the orgasm building, onward, onward. Relentlessly he pursued his goal, his hands worshiping on my breasts, where they slid over my damp skin, stimulating my nipples with gentle strokes and soft pinches. I never wanted it to end, but I was lifted up by an inexorable force, and I shuddered and shook as I reached the summit, quivering on the counter. It seemed to last a lifetime, that orgasm, and he knew how to stroke and touch me to bring me down easy.

When he was done, he was slick with sweat, the robes drained him. As I lay there unable to move, he took them off and hung them up carefully. His hair was disheveled, he wiped the sweat from his brow, all he left on was his black shirt and white insert. It was a dream come true: he would fuck me wearing his clerics. Taking me to the Moon on gossamer wings got him aroused again, and as he sat down, I knelt between his legs to take him in my mouth again. It was salty and stiff as I explored his corona. At last, I threw your legs over his, sitting on his lap, and impaled myself on his sweet spike; I was in such a land of bliss I didn't notice the pain of my cherry's demise.. He nuzzled my chest as we begin pumping together, and time lost itself as we rode together toward our next mountain top.

****

Arthur was rapt in adoration of Beatrice's story. The other ladies were licking their lips and pumping their feet with crossed legs, and George's eyes were more alive then they had been since the afternoon. Sighing, Arthur almost crooned: "Father Alastair was my mentor as well. I hid in his closet naked once after the Sunday Eucharist, and he took my virgin ass so gently I hardly felt the pain. Missed the old buggerer so much after he died six years ago. I'd give anything to have him back"




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 17



Another round of silence descended on the group. The music played, and I fetched some crisps for the group to munch on as they continued drinking. As I went up and down the stairs, I remembered conversations I had in the past three days preparing for Lent.

****

"You're giving up what for Lent, Vicar? Are ye out of your fooking mind?" Mavis' eyes were wide in disbelief as she digested what my resolution would mean to her. We were laying together in my bedroom after I'd sodomized her; the color was just now returning to her huge breasts after being tied and abused as she enjoyed. 

"I shouldn't think it would be that difficult," I replied. "After all, we've all had a lot of abstinent years, even recently. Every time you spend a month or two in Scotland, you're giving it up. I need to clear my mind, re-establish my self control."

Her face was agitated and a little red. "Well, why the hell don't ye just give up chockies like the rest of us? What the fook am I supposed to do for six weeks here? At least, when I go up to Scotland I'm not expecting to get laid every now and then!" 

"It's about a spiritual journey, Mavis, it's about sharpening our senses, about making more room for Christ."

She tapped her foot and glared at me. "Well, my Sherrel will be glad to see me, and the baby needs two to chase after her.. If you're taking Lent off, there's no reason to stay here. It's not as though Harry's ever going to fook me again."

Sister Barbara was more sanguine about the news. "I can understand where you're coming from, Alfred, I really do. Renunciation for the purpose of spiritual cleansing has a long and noble tradition. Is there any reason that someone else wouldn't serve, such as giving up chocolate?"

I shook my head. "I'm not that hooked on chocolate, and I don't have any other vices that would produce the same results. My prayer life has been rather hollow lately, and I need to focus on it more."

"You could give up Classical Music."

"No way, babe, that's like giving up breathing. Classical Music helps me center for prayers."

"Like Charlotte Church?"

"Guess I'll have to give up Charlotte, but otherwise I'll need my Palestrina and Tallis to keep me on track." 

She paced around her office, her habit billowing slightly behind her, her brow furrowed in thought. "I'm not going to tell you not to do it. I think you're being a bit selfish, but it is your life. You may find this resolution difficult to keep." The last sentence was said with a touch of foreboding, but I laughed. 

"I knew you'd understand, Barbara. We're used to long dry spells; we can make it through another."

"Together?" She asked, with a quizzical look.

Agnes was strangely quiet when I spoke with her in the kitchen that afternoon. "You know yourself best, Reverend Father. May God strengthen you in your resolve." The look on her face was the same one she used when we played poker. I was worried.

***

When I returned to the sitting room with the crisps, the mood had lightened and Arthur was doing a devastating impression of Bishop Horace Delacroix fawning over his grandson. Miriam had fallen off the sofa and was rolling on the floor as Roberta was laying flat on the sofa shaking. George's paunch was quivering like Santa's bowl fully of jelly. I'd seen the impression before, so my reaction was not as enthusiastic as my fellow laborers in the vineyard.

Arthur finished his floor show, and changed the topic. "Now Alfie's back with reinforcements, let's press on. Who's next?"

"I thought you were next, Artie. We've surely made the down payment."

Arthur looked maniacal. "We're on a roll, brothers and sisters. Surely these stories are better than a droll tale of how the Poove landed the Bitch. C'mon Eddie, Miri, Pam. Surely you've got a great romantic story of deflowerment, haven't you, Pammy?"

Pamela turned bright red. She was a genial woman normally, but Arthur had a talent for pissing her off. A long pull from her Hurricane, and she said: "All right, all right, since everybody else is doing it. But if you laugh, Artie. . ." She balled her fist and shook it at Arthur in mock threat.

****

I was a high school exchange student in America, in the Midwest of Alfie's homeland. Every year they had a Renaissance Festival, and I usually went, entirely tickled that a bunch of Yanks would go to such lengths to make believe they were in Shakespeare's England. I was watching a group called the Mud Theater, and the roast turkey leg I was nibbling was delicious. It was little warm, so I only wore a thong underneath my wench's costume to get the benefit of any stray breezes. Shut it, Artie, right now, shut it before you start. It was the last show of the day, and hysterical; I laughed so much I almost dropped my leg. 

A hooded monk came up beside me in a brown robe with rope belt. There was something about him I couldn't put my finger on. His hood swivelled to meet my gaze: he had a huge beard, mostly pepper with a little salt, and piercing blue eyes. "Good, my lady," he intoned, "Would you grant me the boom of allowing this humble friar to nibble on your leg?"

"I beg your pardon," I replied in my sauciest tone.

He gave me a hungry look and said, "Your turkey leg, m'lady. I am well nigh famished and am in need sustenance."

I paused a moment, yes, I did Artie you prick, and thought 'what the hell'. Putting the leg to his mouth, I said, "Satisfy yourself, Brother." He took a bite, the grease smearing his beard a little, his lips moist. As he chewed, there was a gleam in his eye and his right eyebrow arched. The sounds of the festival faded and shivers of animal magnetism drew me to him.. 

We chatted for several moments in witty repartee, he was extremely amusing and tickled my fancy. The robe blurs his outline: he's around six foot two, a big teddy bear, his hands were strong yet delicate. At last he said, "Would you attend me for a few moments, m'lady. There's a part of the Fair that I would show thee that few see."

I was with a group of other high school students and afraid I'd miss them at the end of the Fair. "It's almost time for closing and I need to meet some folks at the gate."

"You shall not be a moment late, m'lady, and your companions shall not miss you. I swear on my honor. I would show thee this little garden within our sight." He pointed to a little landscaped garden with lovely flowers and a stone arch that's less than a minute walk away. I thought: 'Well, it's close and the show is ending; they're passing the hat. Why not?'

He escorted me around the garden, pausing to show me rare blossoms, and we passed through the arch to the other side. People were milling around just outside the garden, but no one else came in. The clouds are passing in front of the sun, the breeze is delicate and fragrant. "Now for the most lovely portion," he said, leading me through the arch again. He touched the capstone above as we passed and there was a tingle as he led me through.

On the other side there was a path that I didn't notice before. It ran away from the garden. "Do we have time to go down this trail?" I asked.

"We have all the time you wish, m'lady. Did I not give you my promise?" So, I went with him down the trail, which was just wide enough for two to walk abreast.

Don't you get that smirk on your face, Artie, wipe it off right now. As we walked, there were some subtle differences: the sky seemed a little more electric blue, the greens were deeper but just as vibrant, the birdsong was captivating yet unfamiliar. The trees were ancient, stately, the forest floor clear of undergrowth. Deer graze placidly as we passed, looking up at us with friendly eyes before returning to their lunch. The trail wound about a half mile through the woods to a ledge that overlooked a waterfall and a small pool. The water was crystal clear, and he leads you behind the waterfall where there's a cave. "Welcome to my cell," he said.

"Are you a prisoner here?" I asked.

"No, m'lady, I am no prisoner. This is the residence of a hermit, called a cell." Inside was a simple yet wide bed, a table, a chair, a fireplace with ironware, pots of cooking. Fragrant herbs hung, and fresh fruit was in a bowl, but it was unfamiliar. In a corner was a ledge that looks like an altar with rose colored candles; he lit them. 

"Where is this place? I didn't know there was a trail like this near the Festival site, and I know there area well."

"We have passed from your world to mine. This place is called Trennit, a place where magic works." He threw back his hood, his hair was long and flowing, his ears were very slightly pointed. "Time flows differently in this place; when I take you back through the arch, not a moment will have passed in your world. May I sample your leg once again?"

I gasped, I didn't realize I was still holding it. Silently I brought it to his lips, and he closed his eyes as he relished the moist meat. There was a plate on the table, I put the turkey leg on it after he was done. Eyes still closed, he finished and said, "May I share this flavor with you?"

My lips were drawn to his as if by magnetism; Rasputin had his charm. My tongue probed his mouth as his probed mine, the taste of the turkey is better than I remembered it. His arms embraced me and mine encircled his solid frame. His hands wandered down to massage your buttocks, squeezing, stroking and caressing. A bulge gently pressed into my stomach. Suddenly, I heard my voice saying: "May I sample your leg, Brother?"

He let go of me and lifted his robe, tucking the front into his rope belt. His cock was pointing at me, almost stiff but still not quite hard, and his big balls hung down like a pair of juicy, ripe grapes. I went to my knees to stroke him, make him harder, tease his root with the tip of my tongue. "May I beg a boon of thee?" he asked.

"Name it."

"Sample my grapes before you savor the stem. It is a service that delights me, and I shall reward thee greatly for thy pains."

My tongue traveled his slightly salty orbs, which became a little slick with the grease from my mouth that came from his. As I traversed the roundness, his cock stirred and jumped above me; I hit a sweet spot between his testicles and his cock danced nervous dance of exaltation. His breathing became shallower and faster, I took this as my cue to ascend the ladder to his spongy cockhead. He tangled his artistic hands in my hair, encouraging me to take more and more of him in your mouth. There was just a little more than I could handle easily, but I coped and soon I alternated between running my tongue all over his mushroom and his dick thrusting deep into by mouth. The tension built and soon he sent his flood into my waiting mouth and down my throat.

I held him in my mouth until he was soft again, and after he recovered he lifted me to my feet, sweeping me into his arms and taking me over to the altar in his corner. He pulled my wench outfit over my head and stripped me to my thong. The stone was a little cold underneath me, but it was smooth and surprisingly comfortable. He went over and threw some incense on the fire, which burned orange, red and blue for a few moments. "You may stay an hour, a month, a day, a year, and no time will pass outside this land of Trennit. We have all the time in the universe. How may I serve my lady and please her on my altar of love?"

"You may lick my pussy until I reach my climax, then you may take my maidenhead with your noble staff, my lord." Burying his fuzzy face between my legs, his beard tickled my thighs as his wise tongue licked and gentle teeth nibbled until the walls of my reluctance fell. Then his restored rod plunged deep within me and made magic until strange constellations swam into view in the sky outside. I stayed with him a year and a day before I came back through the arch, and rejoined my classmates as promised, with no time lost..

****

Arthur blew a raspberry. "And when was the next time you went through the wardrobe to visit your carnal Narnia?"

Pamela gave him a dismissive shrug. "I may have embellished things a little," she said flippantly, "but I did lose my virginity in the woods of America near a Renaissance Festival. The monk was my boyfriend Burt, and he was lovely. It was a grassy hillside by a pool, and pure magic. I've never known a man like him since."

Miriam glowed from the floor, where she was stretched out, his dog collar undone and her skirt riding high on her ebony thighs. "I don't care if it wasn't exactly true, Pam. It is the story that matters, the details are just condiments."

"I did it for you, Artie baby. I knew all that monk sex would turn you on and make your wide fronts stretch a little," Pamela said smugly.

"It did Pammy, it was fabulous. I am so hard," Artie crooned, crossing his legs and pumping his foot.

"Well, I think we need a little more realism around here," Edwina observed. She was earthy woman whose quick wit was devastating, but alcohol had an odd effect on her. In the beginning of a party, it made her less talkative until she ceased altogether, then it brought on extreme honesty and candor, bearing witness to the old maxim: in vino veritas. "Let me tell you how I lost mine, and it was very different that a fairy story, no offense, Artie."

"None taken," Artie replied.

****

It was a delicious meal; the dishes around the table are fairly empty of the lovely repast my Johnny prepared for us. My favorite meal, Beef Wellington, garlic potatoes and asparagus tips: the best preparation I've ever tasted. Sitting by the light of two red candles at my small, round kitchen table, he smiled as me through the gentle light, his eyes dancing merrily. He was dressed comfortably in the nice silk shirt I gave him and dark trousers, you had on a silk blouse and a dark skirt. To savor the feel of the silk, I wasn't wearing a bra and a pair pink panties were the only thing under my skirt. Yes, I can be a sensualist from time to time. We were sipping Grand Marniér, my favorite orange liqueur, and savoring the moment.

His brow narrowed slightly, and he said: "This has been magic so far, and I look forward to what comes next, but I need to look at the weather and attend to a couple of–personal things. Tomorrow I'm going to Dorset to tour the farms. Why don't you get a start on the dishes; I'll help you when I get back, and we can continue our evening without any messy unfinished business waiting for us in here."

I started to object, but he put a finger on your lips, gently. "Trust me," he whispered.

Fortunately, he helped you take everything to the counter, opened the dishwasher door, and got out the soap before he leaves the room, so I didn't kill him right away. A few things went in the dishwasher, but we used the nice china and there were a few pots that wouldn't fit. I donned yellow rubber gloves, added a dollop of detergent, ran the water and set about the task in a business-like manner.

Two thirds of the way through, I began to wonder what's taking him so long. The TV was on for quite a while, and the forecast was beginning to repeat. The last pots went in for a moment to soak. Suddenly, I felt a pair of hands on my shoulders; I looked up and saw his face reflected in the window. He looked at you solemnly and put his finger to his lips. You saw nothing but skin from the neck down to where my shoulder cuts off his image. I smelled faint traces of soap and dampness; Johnny must have taken a quick shower for me. A musk was hovering just over the edge of my perceptions, and my head was swimming.

Johnny's silent when he wants to be, moving like a breath of air: he slipped up on me without a sound. Gentle hands massage my shoulders, taking out a little tension dishwashing put there. I tried to turn to face him, but he wouldn't let me. "Keep your hands in the sink," he whispered in my ear, and gave my delicate ear a teasing lick, then another and another.

The hands stroked my silken back, then one broke away and circled to undo my blouse buttons. When the last was undone, a finger traced a line on my bare skin from my waist all the way up to my neck and back again. The suds in the sink were beginning to subside, I could feel the water growing cooler through my gloves. The hand stroking my back descended and turned over; it was now massaging the curve of my hip.

Both hands are all over my bum; they pulled up my skirt as they worshiped it. Then, I felt skin against skin. He traced his ten fingertips up the curves, fanned out and returned. A drawer opened quickly, a snip, and my panties were severed, and falling between my legs, pulling away from my sex.

I tried to turn around and see my beloved face to face, but he kept me facing the sink. His hands are all over my arse, and I felt his warm bulk behind me. It was heaven, and I knew in my heart that I could deny him nothing that night.

A slick, wet penis teased my arse, moving around and leaving trails of pre-cum. My legs parted for him for the first time, and the penis quested lower. His hands were under my blouse, making love to my breasts. "Step back a little more and spread your legs a little wider," came a whisper, and one hand descended to explore my wetness. The penis was between my legs, moving back and forth, and I leaned against the sink for balance, my hands resting on the sides. His hand was on my breast, his other hand was parting my folds, and after an seeming eternity of waiting, he thrust forward, impaling my slick cunt.

I bucked hard back against him, heedless of the pain of my hymen splitting, and soon it was heaven. The stars outside went swimmy, and soon I found out what an orgasm was, and again, and again. He sent his seed within me, and I welcomed him and held him inside me until he was soft again. Then he let me turn and hold him.

That dear man, my Johnny, dropped dead of a heart attack three years later in Dorset, and I've never been able to wash the dishes at night withing thinking of him. If you think doing dishes with a wet cunt is fun, try it sometime.

****

Artie slipped off the couch to sit on the floor heavily. "Ooo, Eddie, I never knew you had it in you. Guess I'll have to start doing the dishes naked with some Astroglide on the counter and hope my little love gets the hint. With rubber gloves even. Quelle romantíque."

My store of Cajun music exhausted itself, and George brought a DVD of New Orleans Mardi Gras celebrations, uncensored. I checked my guests glasses, and refilled them. The time was not yet eight o'clock, and I hoped things wouldn't get too far out of hand before the party broke up. Roberta was smiling broadly, and her hand shook as she held out her glass for another Hurricane. Miriam was laying on the floor, her curvy legs bare with her skirt hiked up. Beatrice was giving George some fond, teasing looks, which he responded to with bleary eyes provided by a bottle of single malt Scotch. Edwina unbuttoned another button to cool herself, exposing a hit of cleavage, and Pamela was incredibly cheerful despite Arthur's needling. Spouses were usually at this annual gathering, and I was glad for their absence. Or was I?

Miriam closed her eyes, and grew dreamy. "It's my turn now, and listen to my story, for it is all true."

****

I grew up a Catholic girl in Nigeria, and we had the Holy Ghost Fathers from Ireland. Fr. Kieran Flannery was my favorite, a man with a full head of flaming red hair and pale, white skin full of freckles. I thought he was so exotic and I was hungry for him from my teenage years until I left for England. You may know that I was a novice in the Sisters of St. Joseph, and it was our good fortune Fr. Kieran was our confessor.

It was late in the afternoon, a half hour after sundown, the faint hint of old incense lingering in the air. The grand old Gothic chapel of the convent was barely lit, with only the red sanctuary light and the small white bulb of the confessional illuminating the room. It was almost completely empty, every sound reverberated forever. Another novice finished sweeping and the door echoed hollowly as she left. I went to the Confessional and tentatively flicked the curtain aside, entering the grand old Confessional and knelt, face down, whispering my weekly litany of venial sins of lying, arguing, and lusting. I look up and saw his bushy, luxurious beard that covered his Roman collar, hearing dulcet tones that reassured and encouraged me. A voice flowed that could be a trumpet blast when needed, but it was so quiet, calm, patient, melodious. My skin goose pimpled despite the heat outside and the heat from my loins aching for the man. I finished the ritual and whispered an invitation: "Father, I love you, I need you, I must have you.". A rustling came from the other side and suddenly a huge form blocked the doorway, standing behind me with soft yet strong hands on my trembling shoulders, squeezing, massaging, moving forward over my shoulders and downward toward my breasts, his beard gently tickling my neck as his face approached. I smelled the musk of his wetness and I was ready.




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 17



He said: "You'll have to prove your worthiness to me. Give me your special kiss and if you do it well, I'll give ye what ye want."

So I unbuttoned his cassock from the bottom up; it took forever for my quivering fingers. At last, I got him open and took his long, white cock in my hand to stroke and admire it. My mother had taught me how to suck a man's cock when she taught me the facts of life, so I used every trick she taught me to make Father Keiran feel good as I knelt before him, my veil on my head and it was working. Just before he would have sent his spunk down my hungry throat, he pulled away and said: "Strip for me, take off that habit. I'd see your dusky body in the nip before I plumb your depths." 

I took off my habit in nothing flat, and stood before him a dark and lovely Daughter of Jerusalem. He sat in the chair, his wonderful cock thirteen inches long standing straight up in the air, can you stand it, Alfie? So I went over and lowered my dark body onto his white freckled cock and we danced the dance of love until we both sang in out ecstacy.

A month later, I was found with child and expelled from the Convent. Father Kieran went back to Ireland, and I was able to swim the Tiber backwards to join the Church of England. I named my boy Kieran as well, and I'm lucky he lives with me here, but he's got the devil in him from his Irish father, and a cock that frightens the girls at his school.

****

"How old is young Kieran now?" I asked Miriam.

"He's just turned 18, Alfie. Chocolate skin and red, curly hair. Trying to make it as a professional Football player, and studying law on the side."

"And you've never had another man?" Artie asked.

"Who could follow the man of my dreams?" Miriam said, hugging herself with a tear in her eye. "I've lost him forever, and sometimes I ache for him. But he's followed his calling and I've followed mine, as well as raised his son to be a fine young man. It's his loss."

Roberta reached over and touched Miriam's shoulder; the ladies' eyes were all most, and George was a bit weepy as well. Two long streams ran down Arthur's face as he sipped his drink. There were several long moments of silence, punctuated softly by the sounds from the Telly.

At last, Arthur collected himself and shrugged off his gloom. "Well, I've got all the stories, so now I'll have to give you the story of the Princess and the Queer.".

****

Percival Walker was my roommate at University. We got on famously from the start, even though he was a rich kid and I was working class. English literature was our major at the beginning, and we spent a lot of time with Marlowe's works, imagining what it would have been like to drink and screw with the man. Of course, Perce has a nice eight inches to play with, and my cock was always his favorite butt toy.

At that time, Perce was really torn up by his old Mum. She was ragging him constantly about finding the right girl to continue the family line, and like a good boy, he was dating proper young women of his class trying to find the right woman. So dear old Perce was solidly in the closet, and couldn't come out at all, even though he wanted to, 'cause his vile Mum threatened to disinherit him if he wasn't married by graduation. Didn't want to give the family fortune to a poofter, as she put it.

The problem was, every proper girl Perce dated was either spooked because he was queer, or spooked because they couldn't handle his massive meat, the tight little cunts. On night, I found one of the royals running across campus in the dark, half naked, shrieking: "The bastard damn near tore me in half!" What a shame, 'cause old Mother Walker would have loved a royal in the family.

Our senior year, it becomes plan that I'm called by the Lord, and he's called to run the family empire, so I'm trying to find the brood mare for him. I've known Clarissa since we were small: she grew up around the corner from my Mum's. She was an only as well, her only gal pal was Violette the Hatchet Face, and we three had cut a swath cruising for men around town when Perce was off playing Polo or in sunny Mallorca. 

One night we four were sitting around the campus, drooling over different blokes, when Perce pipes up. "Hey Clarissa, where's your family from?"

"Near here. We're the Queen's poor cousins, Perce."

"Oh, say more."

"My family is descended from a bastard son of Charles II. My ancestor had huge grants of lands in the Lake District, but my great grandfather was a gambler and went through the family fortune. Grandad was a solicitor and built it back, but Dad was another wastrel and we lived from hand to mouth. I'm in Burke's peerage, and when we could afford it, I went to finishing school That's when I met dear little Violette, here."

Violette looked incredibly smug, expecting a compliment that never came. Clarissa pressed on.

"Why do you ask, Perce?"

"Well, Mater is looking for me to find a proper wife before I graduate, or I'm out of the will. Someone with some breeding is preferred, and since you haven't seemed ready to settle down while we've been here, I thought you might be looking for a place to lay your head."

Clarissa pondered for a bit. "I don't have to save myself for you?"

"Hell, no," Perce said, "As long as we don't compete for the same boys, everything's fine."

"How much are you worth?" she aksed. Percival told her, and Violette turned green with envy. 

Clarissa's eyes took on an eldritch glow, her skin was flushed, and she started to perspire. "Any other conditions?" 

"Well, it would be nice if we could somehow produce an heir, but we can take our time. Would also like to know if you'd be good company when I'm striking out at the bars."

"How so?"

"Can you take eight inches?"

"Easy," she replied with her hands on her hips.

"Up your ass?"

Clarissa bent over and hiked up her skirt without a second thought. "Try me out, here and now," she said, wiggling her hips in invitation. Hell, her ass was so nice, I was tempted to give her a try.

We went back to our flat, teasing and laughing the whole way. Hatchet Face was feeling up my ass, but I laughed her off, telling her that if she could suck cock better than a man, I'd take her on. It was so drunk out, we barely got the door of the flat open. Perce must have drunk more than I thought, because he took his tube of favorite lube from his pocket, greased her up, and started slapping her ass with his dick. She moaned and groaned and kept egging him on until he pushed into her sweet ass and fucked her hard. She took it all, came twice without frigging herself, and Perce was in heaven as he deposited his load inside her. She turned around and did Ass-to-Mouth on him and old Perce was hooked.

****

"How long were they happy?" Roberta asked.

"About five minutes after the wedding," Arthur continued.. "They rarely saw each other while they were engaged, and Clarissa set her sights on seducing old Mother Walker, emotionally, not physically. When they married, they hyphenated, and old Mother changed her will to give them everything with the condition they never divorce. I thought they'd given up trying to have a baby until recently." Arthur gave me an inquiring look, which I stared down.

George stirred from his stupor. "Well, they deserve each other, and God save their spawn from the Evil One.. No-one deserves parents like them. Except for the money of course."

"Did Hatchet Face ever give you the blow job?" I asked evilly.

Arthur blushed. "I let her try, but I couldn't keep it up for a while. She was relentless, so I finally blew a huge load on her face and hair. Then I laughed and told her Perce was better."

The DVD of New Orleans had finished the parade scenes and showed street scenes from the French Quarter. There were endless shots of screaming girls pulling their shirts up, and a few women with painted chests walking around topless. "Ooo, that looks like fun," Beatrice opined.

Miriam looked at her with incredulity. "So show us your tits. I bet that Artie would give you one of his necklaces if you did. Whadda say, Artie?"

Artie's eyes suddenly went from dazed to electrified. "You bet, sweetheart. Should me your tits and I"ll give you a necklace."

"You're on," she said, and pulled up her cleric shirt and bra to display her relatively young breasts, 34C cups with nice, dark brown nipples against her Indian hued skin. She even bounced up and down to make them jiggle. Artie ran over and kissed them, putting a necklace around her neck as she pulled her shirt back down.

Miriam bounced to her feet. "Must keep up with my neighbor," she said, lifting her shirt to the heavens, displaying nice 32 B cups with eraser sized, rock hard nipples. Artie gave them a squeeze before draping a set of beads around her neck.

"I'll do it to, but you stay on that side of the room until my shirt is back down," Roberta said. Her breasts were like medium eggplants, wobbling and swaying seductively a few moments before they were safely concealed again, away from Artie's attention. She took the beads from around his neck and draped them over hers.

Pamela stood silently and uncovered herself next: she had massive knockers with huge nipples, similar to Mavis' but not as extreme, and she held them until he came over the jiggle them up and down. She giggled hysterically as Artie played with them, and left them out after getting her beads. 

George stirred from his haze again, and confronted Edwina's reluctance. "Edwina, dear, you shouldn't be shy. You have beautiful breasts, the best here, and you should favor us with a showing. I'll make it worth your while."

She blushed redly and hesitated. Artie sat in front of her like a puppy dog, but she ignored him. George held her gaze, inviting her with his eyes for several moments until she timidly began to unbutton her clergy shirt, slowly, teasingly. After removing it completely, she unfastened her bra and displayed the most beautifully proportioned set of mammaries I had ever seen in my life. George produced a small digital camera and snapped a picture as she smiled shyly for him.

After giving Edwina her set of beads, he turned to George and I. "Well, lads, we need to figure out a way for you to earn your beads."

"I'm not showing you my tits," I replied, making all present shake with mirth. "I don't have any, anyway."

"How 'bout showin' us your arse?" Artie replied.

"Done," George said. He stood awkwardly, almost fell down turning around, and dropped his trousers and boxers to display an ample, bubble butt. Artie turned his attention to me.

"You're up. mate."

I didn't want to do it, but I thought of a way that would irritate Arthur in partial exchange for his irritation of the evening. "All right, I'll show you my ass, but under one condition."

"Name it, mate, anything, anything at all," Arthur said with a gleam in his eyes.

"That you, Arthur, leave the room while I'm doing it. I don't drop trou until you leave and I pull them back up before you return."

Arthur's jaw dropped dramatically. "How will I know you've done it?"

"I think that five Anglican priests should be reliable witnesses, wouldn't you, and no pictures, George."

"Damn," he said, putting away the camera.

Miriam smiled broadly, as did Pamela and Miriam. "As Dean of this Deanery, I find this an adequate compromise, and order that it come to pass," Roberta said. Arthur, leave."

"Aw, come on." Arthur turned to everyone in the room seeking an ally, but found none.

"Now, Arthur," Roberta commanded, pointing at the door, taking a set of beads from him.

Sheepishly, he left the room, and Miriam closed the door behind him. Roberta held up a hand for a moment. "Why did you make that condition, Alfred?"

"Artie's been getting under my skin a lot lately, and I wanted to bug him. I knew that making him leave while I showed my butt would get his goat, and he deserves it."

"Very well, Reverend Father, point well taken. Now stand up and show us your sweet arse."

George stayed at my side, refusing to look, as I rose, turned and presented my glutes to the ladies. "Wow," Edwina said. "Nice and tight cheeks."

"Chippendale material," Roberta agreed.

"What a gift from God," Miriam whispered intensely.

"You should do parties," Pamela gushed. "Can I touch it?"

"Me, too," Beatrice insisted, "Me, too."

I thought for a moment. It was weird, but the alcohol inspired me, and they had shown us their tits. "All right, just for a minute." Five hands caressed and fondled my butt for a full minute, which George insisted on timing for some odd reason, before I turned and pulled up my pants. Roberta solemnly put the beads around my neck and went to the door to bring Arthur back into the room.

"You're cruel, mate, cruel," Arthur wined.

"Sorry mate," I replied, "Call it a head start on penance."

After that, the party broke up rather quickly, with Pamela and Edwina putting their clothes back on before they gathered their coats. Cabs were called to take them home, and I cleared up a little bit before going to bed.

Agnes came into the room wearing nothing but a thong. She poured herself a Hurricane and drained it. "Party over?" she asked innocently.

"Yes, I think so, Perky."

"Looking at the clock it is now five minutes before ten. If you're giving up sex for Lent, I insist you give me a full tank before we start this penance. Even a camel drinks all they can before crossing the desert."

"Will you help me clean this up later?"

"Is the Pope German? Is Bishop Delacroix queer?"

My member was responding to her body as it usually did, making my pants tight and my heart beat faster. "All right, we've got two hours. Let's see what we can get done in that time." She grabbed my wrist roughly and pulled me determinedly toward my bedroom.

To be continued in the next installment, where the Vicar's Lenten resolution is tested. Relentlessly. 



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 18



Stories about avoiding sex are rare on Literotica, I'm sure, but I hope this one gives you some chuckles in the delay before it delivers gratification.

Why the hell am I doing this, I asked myself as I pounded down the streets on Holy Saturday The air was a bit brisk, but not too bad, clouds hung heavily but didn't threaten rain before my morning jog was over. It had rained just before I started: the streets were damp and the air still hung heavy with moisture, fresh and clean. It seemed like a good idea six weeks ago, I said to myself again, giving up sex for Lent. I talked it over with the Quilting Ladies, and they all agreed it would be a good idea. At least, that's what they said to me directly. It had ended up a marathon of temptation and titillation, but I've endured it.

Could I help it if I wanted to get control of my life again? After all, I have a wonderful life, and most men would be envious. I'm having sex with four wonderful people rather regularly, a wonderful parish that really doesn't care much what I do as long as I take care of them and I'm happy, living Britannia that I adore, friends, intellectual stimulation, crocuses. For a thirty seven year old Vicar, an Anglican Priest in his prime, it just couldn't be better.

But, I was worried. It seemed that all I thought about was my next sexual encounter. My menu was too big. I could have Mavis' endless energy and massive mammaries aching for stimulation, Mary's dignified yet intense passion in a still perfect package, Barbara's epicurean secret fire in her hidden retreat, Agnes' round dewy freshness. If I was tired of them, there was wealthy old Lucinda's Cinnamon fired gummers, or Sheila's relentless quest for pleasure. My homilies were feeling flat, my scholarship veering off kilter in delay, my attention to the rest of my parishioners easily side tracked. A celibate Lent would surely get me back in focus, get me pointed the right direction. For the most part it did, but my resolution wasn't universally respected.

The worst was the daily porn as my computer started up. It started the day after Ash Wednesday: I hit the on button and was treated to a full screen of a lovely young lady, fully naked, touching herself for thirty seconds. It was just a torso; image ended at the neckline and just below the crotch. She looked familiar: I could have sworn it was Mother Mary Rufus herself (Barbara) who was gently stroking her own thighs and tweaking her nipples, but Barbara's bush was as blonde as the hair on her head, her fingernails lacking the black color of the model's, and this woman's pubic hair was a dark spiderweb. Once it ended, the program shut down and the clip erased itself before I could find out where it came from.

The next day, I cornered Agnes in the kitchen. She had just gotten up, and was wearing a pair of pink silken panties, huge blue bunny slippers, a white t-shirt, and no bra. Her pierced nipples stood up against the chilly air under the shirt, and I had a difficult time starting the conversation with the serious tone I wanted to take. "Agnes, I've been treated to a private show as I started up my computer the past two days."

"Really, Alfie?" she said innocently. "What kind of show?"

"A brief, thirty second clip of a naked woman stroking her body."

"My gosh, can you show them to me?"

"No, they self-destruct before I can do anything."

"Pity. Was she hot?"

"Can you tell me anything about where they came from or how they got there?"

"No, Alfie dear, I can't tell you anything. Remember: I don't know what your passwords are, and I'm not able to write computer programs. Do you know who the woman is?"

"Not for certain."

"Then I need to sweep and dust the upstairs rooms if that's all you want right now."

She flounced out the door. A new clip popped up on Saturday morning: the woman had parted her nether lips and was gently stroking her clitoris, creating a glisten of dew. Sunday was clear, then the series resumed on Monday where it left off on Saturday, with gentle fingers caressing a moist slit. On Wednesday, a large, green dildo appeared and worked its way into the model's cunt for the rest of the week. The next Sunday was off again, then a new model started appearing the second Monday of Lent. I could have sworn it was Agnes, but the model's fingernails were painted green, her nipples were unadorned and her cunt shaven bare. I tried everything I could to stop the playback, but it was fruitless trying to control it and again it self-destructed before I could find out more about it.

My entire Monday off was spent in a fruitless search for the origins of my persecution. I knew enough about my file structure and my programs to make me feel as though I was on the verge of finding it, but it remained elusive. Sure, I could have asked for help, but Agnes and Barbara were likely co-conspirators despite their protestations of innocence, and trying to explain the problem to someone else could be quite embarrassing, as well as revealing some relationships I wanted to keep concealed. So I chased Wild Geese and slept frustrated. Another show greeted me the next morning.

Tuesday morning I went shooting with Colonel Sterling Hyde-Smith.:It was a brisk morning at the shooting range, overcast, and the Colonel was in good spirits. We got to talking about what people gave up for Lent, and when I told him of my resolution, things got difficult.

"Well, lad, good for you. I'm still looking for a bit of tottie, have been for months, but having it and saying no is a sign of true masculine strength. Don't let them think they've got you by the balls, make'em wait for it. PULL." A clay pigeon shattered mid-flight.

"Thanks, Colonel. It's not easy. You've been single all your life, how do you manage? PULL."

My aim was good as well.

"Well, I was married to the Army, lad. India, Rhodesia, Aden, Falklands. Soldiered on through all kinds of weather, snow, rain, heat, cold, mud. You don't get randy when you're hip deep

in shite, laddie. PULL."

"I imagine. When we were getting in the wheat harvest back home, I was so tired, when I got to the house, I had no interest in the stack of girlie magazines under my bed."

"Stacks of girlie mags are a good thing. Or course, it was a combination of wanking myself and prostitutes that got me through the long tours I spent defending the Empire." 

I had to pause and reset myself before I shot again. It missed.

The Colonel stepped forward to take his place. "There was a native girl in Rhodesia, black as night, forty years old if a day, tits swinging down to her navel, plate in her lip. Wildest ride I ever had in my life; she fucked like an epileptic washing machine with wobbly bearings. God, she was wonderful. PULL."

Without a word, I took aim and yelled pull. Another miss. "Gave me a big bouncing bastard boy nine months later: became a merc like his old man. Then there was that shepherd girl in the Falklands, Vivien. Used to bite sheep's nuts off, and had thighs that could crack yours if you weren't careful. I lived for danger; God, she was glorious if you were man enough for her. PULL"

I lined up again, and the Colonel continued: "Then, the Indian girl in Darjeeling. Knew most of the Kama Sutra by heart. . ." Another miss and our match was done. "Bad luck, old bean. Would think something was distracting you. Well, well, on to the club for breakfast."

My duties around the parish were busy enough that I didn't have a lot of time to obsess on the campaign of sabotage. The rest of the week was extremely hot self play from the shaven one.

Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazelton was at home for most of Lent. I visited her weekly, but that week was the time she threatened my resolution. We were sitting in her sitting room: I in my formal suit and dog collar, and she in a light blue robe. Sipping tea and amicably discussing Tory politics looking toward the next election in a few years, an odd gleam came to her eye. "Now Vicar," she began, "I understand that you've been working especially long and hard since Lent began. This zeal is commendable, but not very healthy for you. How long has it been since I took care of you?"

"Oh, I think it was last week, wasn't it?" I started squirming; it would be difficult to fend her off. The heavens would understand my need to prevaricate. Fortunately, Willikins was still in the room, and Lucinda never discussed her sexual history or made a pass while he was present. 

"Willikins, we shall not need you for a while." I pleaded with my eyes for him to stay, but he shrugged his shoulders and evaporated silently as usual. "Now Vicar, let's get you taken care of."

"How long has it been since you've seen Barbara?" I said as she reached for the Cinnamon Altoids.

"I saw Mother Mary Rufus this morning. Now--unzip your trousers like a good boy."

"How is she feeling? I saw her the other day and thought she might have a cold coming on."

She stopped and thought for a moment. "Barbie looked a little peaked, but she didn't say anything about feeling ill."

I touched her shoulder. "There was some controversy at the convent that she was concerned about. Something about the novices? I didn't hear everything about it."

Lucinda snickered lightly for a moment. "The young girls were playing some games after lights out, all very innocent, but Barbie had to rattle their cages a little. They were playing Texas Hold 'Em; I never played the game myself."

"I played that game a lot when I was growing up in Western Kansas, along with draw and stud."

"Draw and Stud? What does that mean?" She put a candy in her mouth absent mindedly.

"They're kinds of poker. Surely they weren't playing for money?"

"No, no, it was strip poker. Barbie almost hit the roof. Had to give them an angry lecture about boundaries and told them they could play poker during their recreation time for chips, but not in the dormitory after the Great Silence." She settled back, a frail form against her soft cushions, sucking her Altoid, her eyes searching for a lost thought.

"I bet she was really mad."

"No, she was laughing when she told me. There were a few things she was going to do to keep the gals occupied, but I don't remember. . ."

"Do you know where Mary is today?'

A blank look. "Mary? Mary who?"

"Mary Sterns, your solicitor. Wasn't she going to be in Nigeria this week?"

"Oh, Mary Sterns, what a little corker. No, I think Mary dear is in South Africa this week. Got to visit our diamond mines, then the chromium plant in Rhodesia. . ."

"I think it's called Zimbabwe these days."

"It is," she pondered. "Poor Mr. Rhodes."

I looked at my watch. "Lucinda dear, I have to toddle off. Derrick needs help with changing some light bulbs between classes, and I promised to be there for him. Jenny had to take the baby for a check-up."

"Oh, good. Did you like your blow job, Vicar?"

I kissed her on the forehead. "You are a sweetheart, Lucinda. Thanks." As I passed through the hallways grateful for her confusion. Willikins was bringing a tray for her as I was leaving: he gave me a naughty look that turned into a scowl as I failed to respond with embarrassment. So the plot to disrupt my resolution was broader than one person, and Barbara was involved. 

During week three both models were working with each other: girl on girl action that I was finding difficult to watch. No faces were seen: the darkpubed girl wore a leather helmet that revealed only eye sockets, nose and mouth, the shaven girl's face and hair were never in view. The week's serial was the leather headed girl teasing her lover's breasts and groin, culminating with very hot tongue on clitoris action. Week four was role reversal: the shaven one wore the leather mask and pleasured her lover's breasts and dark haired pussy in excruciating detail.

I had some good times with the girls during the abstinence; I didn't avoid their company at all. Agnes and I watched a lot of movies and were regulars at the local ballroom dance club; one night we took first place in the Rumba competition. Barbara and I discussed some very abstract theological points that informed my current scholarly project, as well as comparing notes on travels we have taken around Europe and the Holy Land. Mary Sterns looked in one weekend, found out my Lenten resolution, and left spitting venom in frustration. Sheila sent a couple of postcards from Cornwall talking about her adventures with her grandsons there; Mavis spent most of her time with her daughter Sherrel in Scotland as promised.

But toward the end of Lent, as the weather got warmer, Agnes started puttering around the house and garden topless after hours, and gave me pointed looks when she caught me looking at her, daring me to say anything. Barbara dropped by at least two or three per week in the morning to use my hottub nude while I worked out. I asked Barbara about her casual nudity in my presence, and she replied: "My God, Alfie, you've seen me naked a lot. What's the big deal? I can't run around bare arsed at St. George's and I can't justify putting in a hottub for just myself there right now. Surely you're a grown man and not a teenager who pops a boner every time he sees a naked lady. Lighten up." 

Monday of week five found me in a discussion of the cultural struggles of the Maccabee revolt, when I asked her out of the blue: "Have you been growing your hair back, Barbara?" Her red head scarf had been looking fuller in the past few weeks.

She paused for a moment. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, I've been getting some, interesting pictures on my computer and I don't know where they're coming from. In some of them, I catch flashes of blond hair and I wondered. Around Christmas time you were talking about growing it out."

"Yes, I was."

There was a long pause. "And are you?"

She thought for along moment. "In Biblical times, a woman's hair was considered very sexually stimulating; that's why women in the Middle East and in Muslim cultures cover their hair to protect their modesty. That's the reason Paul said women should have their heads covered in Church, and also a reason nuns have worn veils over the years."

Another long pause. "Yes?" I asked.

It took a moment, but then she resumed her momentum. "Since your resolution is to give up sex for Lent, I think discussing my hair will possible weaken your resolution to maintain your commitment, and so I don't think we should talk about it. My hair, as awful as it is, might do for you what it did to those ancient Palestinians."

I looked in on Agnes again that night, as she sat on her couch listening to Le nozze di Figaro topless. "Agnes, dear, have you ever shaved your crotch?"

She thought for a moment. "No, Alfie, I haven't. Why do you ask?"

"There's something about my daily clips that has me wondering. Would you mind showing me?"

"Show me what?"

"Whether your pubes are still there?"

I'd never seen Agnes blush so redly. "But it's been weeks. . . " she gasped with a trembling voice. "Are you giving up your Lenten resolution?"

"No, I"m not. I'm just looking for who's corrupting my computer."

She recovered herself quickly. "Well I don't think I should show you my cunt, even if we have been lovers for nine months now. You've been staying away from it for five weeks now, and the only way I'm showing you my cunt is when you're ready to make it feel good, and not a moment sooner."

On Monday of Holy Week, Derrick and Jenny Sterns came in for an extended review of the liturgies and Jenny's role in each of them from Thursday through Sunday, as well as last minute preparation for their son Alfred's baptism. The weather was warm enough that they dressed lightly: Derrick had on an Arsenal t-shirt, khaki shorts and sandals that hung loosely on his taut body, while Jenny wore a halter top with his short shorts and flip flops. Jenny's nicely rounded ass brought back some fond memories of a year earlier; I ended up holding my three month old namesake and focusing on his red little head to distract me. He was the mirror image of his father Derrick. We were in the midst of reviewing the rubrics on the same side of the desk when little Alfred started squirming and fussing in my arms.

Derrick noticed it right away, and asked: "Does Alfie have a dirty nappy?"

I stuck a finger inside his diaper and found it dry. "Nope."

"Feeding time. Let me take him." Derrick took his son in his arms, but instead of going over to the diaper bag, waited as his wife undid her halter top. 

"About time, Alfie, my tits are about to pop," Jenny complained. Alfred was starting to cry as he was handed over to his mother, but settled at his mother's full breast quickly, hungrily drawing milk from her teat.

Jenny looked very lovely, sitting with her bare breasts heavy with milk, her son nursing contentedly at her left tit, and I started sweating profusely. "Hope you don't mind, Vic, feeding little Alfie like this," she said, "but you've seen it all before, so I figured you wouldn't mind. Usually I have to use a pump and put it bottles, but it feels so much better giving it to him this way. It's so peaceful and warm and nurturing; I feel so connected to my baby when he's milking my breast." Derrick smiled devilishly and touched her shoulder. "It's also a great turn on to see Derrick looking at us like that. He usually makes sure I'm empty, and then we fook like rabbits."

"Are you being careful?" I asked.

"We learned last time, Vic," Derrick interjected. "Jen's not Brittany Spears. We're on the Pill."

"Honey, would you take a little from the right one? It hurts so much I can hardly stand it." Derrick leaned over and licked her nipple thoroughly before taking it in his mouth and sucking gently for a minute. I had an urgent need to look out the window to see if any birds were returning for Spring.

"The Vicar is a great man, a man of the world, and it takes more than a couple of bare breasts to bother him." Derrick chimed in. "Now, what do we do after the Gospel on Sunday?"

"Right, yes." I staggered back to the topic and tried to tear my eyes away from the compelling scene. A strong urge to sample Jenny's right tit stuck in my mind, but I had to work around it, since she was Derrick's woman and not one of mine. Derrick was right there anyway, and I lacked the courage to ask if nothing else. It took both breasts to satisfy the little one before he fell asleep on his mother's shoulder. At last, I was able to focus on our business, which we concluded quickly. I showed them to the door, glad my large jumper hid my erection, and after seeing them out, darted to the kitchen to put some ice down my trousers. 

Agnes was at the sink washing dishes topless, and observed drily: "I've got a better way to handle that, when you're ready for it." I was amazed that she was so unclad: her skin was goosepimpled in the cool kitchen and her sweet nipples very erect, but her face was serene.

That night, I was at the pub tossing darts with Harry Hazleton, Stan Dover and Percy Whitson. It was very drunk out that night: there was nothing on my calendar the next morning, and I was resorting to extreme intoxication to relax avoid sex. It felt strange doing that since I was avoiding someone I really wanted to screw, like Mary, Barbara or Agnes instead of a witch like Violette, but the last push was wearing on my nerves. 

Harry totaled up the score and grinned. "Pay up, lads. Vic, you're game's off."

"I know. It'll get better soon."

"I hope so mate," Harry continued, "the house is a little too quiet with Mavis gone. I miss her so much, I'd almost fook her meself when she gets back." He roared with laughter as his remark, throwing his great head back and his huge belly shaking with glee. "What are ye drinkin', Vic?"

"Irish Boilermaker, Harry, Bushmills and Harp."

Stan laughed. "The Irish didna invent the Boilermaker, Vic, ye'll kill yerself with that combo."




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 18



Harry and Stan left to fetch libations, and Percy reached for his wallet. "Have I shown ya the latest pics of little Betsy yet?" 

"No, Percy. I saw her with you and Peggy on Sunday morning, however."

"Yeah, yeah, but you gotta see these. She's such a fine little lass." Betsy Whitson was born a day after Alfred Sterns: her baptism was coming up on Easter as well, the first born of older parents. Percy and Peggy Whitson had some problems with their relationship, and in spite of my help, they'd worked them out in such detail before me, that I felt I had been present at her conception, even though it must have happened just after I coached them in the art of lovemaking.

Percy had three new pictures of the baby, who looked happy in one of them. "She's fattening up fine, my Peg's got lots of lovely milk for her, more than she needs. Ah, Peg looks so lovely and peaceful with Besty at her tit, sucking away like a little piglet. I turn off the telly and could just watch them for hours. Last night, I was helping Peg, sucking her tit while my Betsy was sucking the other one, oh that milk tastes so lovely we should bottle it, when my prick got so hard I could hardly believe it. So I stood up and let Peg take me in her mouth: it was so beautiful seeing and feeling my big girl sucking my cock while my little girl was just a little lower sucking tit, that I came hard in less than a minute. Filled my woman's mouth so much, it overflowed a treat. After burping the little one and putting her down for the night, we screwed like rabbits, he, he, he, he, he." Percy chortled for several moments pleased with himself. 

"You need to be careful, Percy. Too many babies too soon can cause real problems."

"This is so grand, Vic, that Peg and I are gonna try for some stairs steps. She loves being preggers and nursing so much, and it makes me so horny, we gonna make up for all those lonely years."

"Can you afford it, Percy?"

"Ah, Vic, there's always room for one more at the table. We'll manage, we don't have to live like Lords or mahrajahs. Peg and I both come from big families, little money but lots of love. We'll be OK."

"You could pass for Romans, Percy."

Percy grinned. "I take that as a compliment, Vic."

I looked across the room and saw Peggy holding her daughter, chatting with Jenny Sterns holding little Alfie. Harry returned with the drinks and I downed the Bushmills quickly before slamming the Harp. "Again, Harry."

"I'll get it, Vic," Percy volunteered.

"You should," I slurred under my breath.

Still, after all these distractions and temptations, it was Holy Saturday, and I survived. A workout after jogging, followed by some rest and meditation should prepare me to celebrate the Resurrection. I was on the bench, working with a moderately heavy weight, Barbara spotting me, when Charlotte Church came on the iPod. The tracks weren't her usual sacred selections, but singing opera arias and other songs. Bizet's Habañera from Carmen infiltrated me ears, and it seemed that Charlotte was right in front of me, singing just for me, leaning down to take me in her mouth and I could still hear her singing as if my John Thomas had become my ear.

"Well, it seems Lent is ending just about the right time for you," Barbara said. "My church says Lent is over; I can help you with that." My erection was hard as a bar and stood proudly, seeking attention.

Shit, I thought to myself, somebody's been messing with my iPod now. I put the weights down, sat up, breathed heavily and shook my head. "I'd like to make it to Monday if I could. Easter requires my full attention, and I'd like to wait until I can revel in carnality without reservations."

Barbara smiled easily from under her red kerchief. "If you've got the self discipline, honey, so do I. There's another part of you that thinks otherwise, and I'm inclined to side with him." She sat down next to me, looking casual in her red sweats and within easy reach of my erection, her eyes latched hungrily on my pleasure pole.

I leaned over and kissed her. "Glad you're still interested after all this time. I hope the others are too pissed at me to come back."

"Never fear, we'll all be here on Monday. You'll probably need all of us after sex–I mean, after six weeks' build up. You'll probably need to hose us down after you hose us down."

On Easter Sunday, the celebrations were glorious, more special than ever. During the Liturgy, Jenny and Derrick Sterns presented my namesake for Baptism, and the Whitsons presented their pride and joy. Agnes played the Toccata from Widor's Fifth Symphony as a Postlude with such verve I thought the organ was going to come unglued. A splendid party at the Sterns house took up the afternoon; full of food and drink I staggered home to my bed for a well earned rest. My slumber was deeper than usual, and my awakening a shock.

The sun shone through the windows of the Quilting Room, as Mary Sterns slapped my cheeks to awaken me. I was naked, tied to the cot with my hands underneath me. My feet were bound to the corners: I was helpless. Looking around, they were almost all there: Mary, Mavis, Barbara, Agnes, all naked and all with hungry looks on their faces. My face must have asked a question, for Mary answered: "Sheila had to rest today after her long journey and the excitement of yesterday. You'll have to take care of her tomorrow before she goes back to Cornwall. Now, you great eejit, you'll have to take care of us, and that is not subject to debate."

Barbara cooed: "Now that's you've proven your toughness, it's time to make it up to the ones you abandoned these past few weeks. You're going to make us a promise when we're done with you, but first, we're going to make up for the past six weeks."

Mavis and Agnes were silent; Mary and Barbara approached my slumbering serpent. They started rubbing my thighs to begin the stimulation, then as my phallus recalled its proper response to feminine appreciation, Mary started licking the end of my member while Barbara started licking my oysters. With the long layoff, I didn't think I would last very long under Mary's and Barbara's skilled ministrations, when suddenly Mavis reached over with a cloth and applied a tourniquet to my John Thomas. 

"This'll make sure you'll last long enough for as long as we want it," Agnes chuckled. "We aren't wanting ya to blow your wad before you've made it up to us."

Mary sat on the bed and straddled my face; Barbara and Agnes straddled my bound feet, barely touching my toes with their slick genitalia. "Even with this precaution, Vicar," Mary began, "we don't want to make you too sore. Sheila's too fagged out to play today, but you'll have to reward her patience tomorrow. Stick your tongue out, Alfred."

Mary's lower lips were millimeters from my mouth. Gingerly, I stuck my tongue out and began to trace the lines of her folds; she responded by moving her hips lower and making circles. There was barely enough room for me to breath through my nose. The girls sitting on my toes began working them into their snatches. "Wiggle your toes, Alfie," Agnes cried out and Barbara's hips made their demands non-verbally. It was all I could do to pay attention to all three tasks: I felt like a juggler.

Just when I thought I was going to drown in Mary's nectar, she moved onto my cock and Mavis took her place. As Mary moved, I spotted Agnes and Barbara leaned over to each other, the open mouths locked together as they vigorously sucked face, fondling each other's breasts. Now I was working all four women at the same time. If I hadn't been tied up, I would have enjoyed it.

Mary suddenly shivered in her orgasm. After she recovered, Mavis moved down to take her place while Barbara sat on my face. Until now, Mavis' vagina had been too big for me to stimulate, but she had learned a new technique and was soon riding me with great vigor.

It wasn't long before Mavis hit the peak, and the girls switched places again. Agnes was on my face and Barbara was on my bound erection. By the stubble scratching my cheeks, I noticed that Agnes' pubic hair was extremely short: she must have been the shaved one in the videos. Barbara's hands were reaching around Agnes and playing with her front as I nibbled her bearded clam. Barbara and Agnes both tasted wonderful, and I was sorry when the last change came and Agnes was now riding me as the others watched. Gasping for air, I asked with my recently liberated mouth: "The mystery of the videos: you made them."

"Not alone," Agnes said with a sly smile. "I had help from divine providence."

"What?"

Barbara came over and tousled my hair. "I supervised the videos, set up the equipment, and wrote the program to put on your computer. By the way, your security isn't nearly good enough: I'll come by tomorrow and work on it for you."

"I though I saw you, but your hair color was wrong."

Another sly smile. "Every hear of dye?"

I shook my head to clear it. "You dyed your pubic hair to throw me off the trail?" The smile became a shit eating grin. "And Agnes shaved hers?" Agnes nodded her head as her body bounced up and down before collapsing in orgasm. "Where did you get–no, weren't you taking a risk with the dye job?"

"Who sees my pubic hair besides you? We have private showers at St. George's."

That made sense. "Where did you get the leather helmet?"

"From Mother's house."

"Your mother was into leather?"

"No, but my older sister Sylvia was. She's even got a pair of hip boots that fit me; I'll show them to you sometime. All I had to do was drop my the mansion and pick it up from her old room."

"You two were really going after it for the past three weeks."

Barbara and Agnes exchanged a smile. "Well, you were taking time off, and we had to do something to let off some steam," Barbara said, tousling Agnes' hair. "Aggie's a special girl, and now I'm not so jealous she's living here with you."

Agnes beamed at the touch, and snuggled into her hand. "The feeling's mutual, Barb. It was another world." She got off me and moved over to stand with the rest of the women. "BUT, it was still a stupid, self-centered stunt you pulled on us, and you're going to have to give us your solemn word NEVER to pull this kind of shit again."

The others nodded. "Damn straight!" Mavis said.

Barbara stood over me like an avenging angel. "Spiritual discipline is all fine and good, but when it affects others, then it's out of line. There was a monk in ancient Egypt that was fasting during Holy Week. He was invited to a gathering to welcome some guests, and decided to eat a single dried pea at the meal prepared for the guests. His abbot said: 'If you wanted to be virtuous, you should have stayed in your cell. By refusing to partake in the meal with our guests, you paraded your virtue and neglected your hospitality.'

"Your abstinence was fine for you, but it drove us crazy."

I got a little ticked with them. I thought we had discussed this before. "Didn't I ask you about that before Lent started?"

"And we're going to tell you no?" Barbara groused. "We thought you wouldn't last, especially with our little–instructional series popping up on your computer every morning. Even had a pool when you'd give it up and who would be the lucky lady, but you screwed that up, too. You're made of sterner stuff."

"So you've proved your point, ya big eejit," Mary broke in, "And we suffered for it. Next time you want to give something up, make it something that doesn't involve the people near and dear to you. Unless we're not that dear to you. . ."

I turned my head away from them; they were right. It was long moment, it seemed like a lifetime, but I was finally able to speak. "I'm been blessed beyond measure here, and particularly in you, all of you. I've been stupid and selfish in spite of my virtuous aspirations. Please forgive me."

They crossed their arms and made a show of making me hang in suspense, but a twinkle in Agnes' eye betrayed them. "Well, ladies," Barbara said at last, "This is a season of new life and forgiveness. I think we ought to forgive him this time."

"Provided he swears never to pull this kind of shite again," Mavis demanded.

"Done," I said.

"Now I guess we can let the Vicar off the hook," Mary said. "After six weeks and four women in a row, I'm sure he's going to have a lot of spunk that may drown all of us."

Agnes thought, "How do we decide who gets him?"

"A bet," Mary said, "we have a contest and the winner gets the Vicar the rest of the week, after Sheila's done with him."

I lay there as they thought. My red erection was still rock hard from its confinement. "I've got an idea," I said. " Who's the contestants for this prize?"

Mavis looked a bit sheepishly. "I've gotta bow out, loves. The house will be a wreck after the kids go home, and I need some rest. You three go after it."

"All right, a blow job contest." Barbara agreed.

"He'll pop right away," Agnes complained "The first contestant will win."

"Mavis is the pain slut; you three aren't really into pain, are you?" I asked. They shook their heads in negation. "Then while you're doing it, you'll be spanked. You can blow me as long as you can stand the pain in the butt. When the pain gets too bad, you stop and the paddling will stop. How does that sound?"

"Kinky," Barbara said, "But seems to be the best way at the moment. Mavis, will you do the honors?"

A wicked grin crossed Mavis' face. "The house can wait; the mess will still be there when I get back. I'll get a ping pong paddle from the Rec Hall. Hope nobody's in there tonight." She was back in an instant.

"Three gentle taps to get you started, then they get harder as time goes by.," Mavis said with too much anticipation. "You can keep it up as long as you can stand it. Mary, Barbara and Agnes, in that order. Good for you?" Three nods in agreement. "Release the Monster," Mavis commanded.

Agnes carefully removed the tourniquet, and my erection bobbed in its new found freedom. Mary bent over my torso in preparation and Mavis moved behind her ready to begin her job.

"Aren't you going to untie me?" I asked innocently.

"No, this will be more fun if you're still tied up," Mavis said, and the others giggled in reply. 

"We need to take another human bias out of this, just so he won't try to hold back, or play favorites," Barbara interjected.

"Do you mean when I think you mean, Barb?" Agnes asked.

"Blindfold him," Barbara said. "That way he doesn't know who's doing him. Means we'll scramble the order. Agreed?"

"Agreed." Mary nodded in reply.

Mavis found a strip of clean, dark cloth she could use as a blindfold. My eyes were covered and I heard the ladies get ready to start.

"Ready, set, go," Mavis said with obvious glee. Three taps, increasing in strength, met a sweet backside before I was engulfed by a hungry mouth. Freed of the restraint, I knew I was going to let go within a minute, but ten seconds of Mavis' ass beating was too much for her. Another took her place, and she lasted twenty seconds before giving up, just before I reached the point of no return. The third lasted fifteen seconds, and I called the contest fair since all had their chance.

"You didn't change the order."

"Is that wa'cha you think?" Mary said.

"I can tell."

"How about a bet?" Mavis said.

"You're on."

"What's the stakes?" Agnes asked.

"For every one I get right, breakfast in bed Saturday mornings, as long as it goes."

"If you lose," Agnes asked.

"I cook for myself every day I get one wrong."

"Done."

As we went through a couple of rotations, the sharp smack of a ping pong paddle on bare skin accompanying my joy. The effect was almost as frustrating as the tourniquet: just as I was to pop my load, my lady would have to back off to save her sweet cheeks. I could imagine their backsides showing a progression of colorations. My list of participants went without a hitch, and there was never a word of triumph over my failure. I knew my Quilting Ladies. 

Finally, Barbara took a deep breath, bent over and stayed with her oral ministrations until she reached her goal, taking several stinging swats more than she had before as she demonstrated her determination. My ejaculation seemed to last forever; it leaked out of the sides of Barbara's mouth, and the other women came over to join her in licking me clean as my sperm ran down into my crotch..

They finally released me, and I sat up on the bed, sore from the confinement. The sun shone brightly through the windows. Stretching, I looked at the ladies, still standing around me naked with goofy grins on their faces. "I will make a solemn promise never to give up sex like this again if you make me another solemn promise."

"And what's that, Alfie?" Barbara asked.

"That you never tie me down to a bed again unless I specifically ask you to." I stretched and winced again as the muscles complained. Standing up, I put my hand out, palm down. "Put your hand on mine and it's a deal."

They all put their hands on mine without hesitation. Sheila went home contented, Mavis and Agnes returned to their cheerful selves, and Barbara's smile didn't fade until Ascension Sunday. I had breakfast in bed every Saturday for two months solid. 



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 19



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's has what many men would call an ideal setup: a circle of women, called the Quilting Ladies, who attend to his needs in a--comprehensive manner, so to speak. The membership of this circle has shifted over the course of the larger story, but the overall relationship has remained fairly stable. This series has provided glimpses into the Vicar and his Quilting Ladies: since no story can tell a tale of every detail, many of the Vicar's ordinary carnal activities with them are unrecorded, but fairly regular, with one forty day exception. 

The Vicar's parents are in town for a visit, and he is genuinely glad to see them, however his regular rotation is necessarily--impeded, but not interrupted. 

I'm too old for this, I thought. Up and down my plastic steed went, as we traveled a circle to the traditionally raucous music that merry-go-rounds played. It was an historic landmark, this ride, yet its value as a cultural icon made it no less fun for Sheila Button's grandchildren Cecil and Clive. The frustration I was feeling wasn't due to having the boys, ages 10 and 8, out for the day. 

The ride ended, and the boys chimed almost in unison: "Let's have another go, let's have another go."

"I don't see why not? How about it, Wilma?" My father replied.

My mother laughed. "Well, they say 'you only go around once', but we can prove that old saying wrong, can't we?"

My parents landed at Heathrow a week before, and after they recovered from jet lag, we took a leisurely drive through England down to the English Riviera. Sheila Button lived nearby with her son Clive and his three boys, and she gladly served as our social director while we were in town. Our lodgings weren't far from hers: Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazelton offered us a bungalow that had a stunning view of the Channel for our stay. The Button household was in a less glamorous neighborhood nearby without the dynamic view, but clean and neat. The weather was bright and sunny for July, warm without the scorching heat that western Kansas offered this time of year. 

Our first night there was a festive occasion, Sheila fed us extremely well, and the boys adopted my folks as surrogate grandparents immediately, which Mom and Dad were happy to reciprocate. Into their third day together, I was starting to wear out, while the oldsters and youngsters were still going strong. The source of my frustration was our third different Merry-Go-Round, and I was getting a little dizzy.

My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. A glance showed a text message from Mother Mary Rufus:

07734 Hello

I responded in kind. She wrote back: <3 I love you 

It had been a couple of weeks since I'd seen her; she was gone to a community meeting the weeks before my parents came to town. The Merry-Go-Round was making me a little dizzy as I tried to look at the screen. I ended up replying: ilyt I love you, too.

The next message came right away: iab iwfusb I am bored. I wanna fuck you so bad.

We'd gotten into text messaging around the time she left for her chapter meeting, but she hadn't been this direct with me before. This was usually the time of month we had our "spiritual direction" session in Plato's Cave on the grounds of St. George's Convent; although we usually had some early morning rendezvous at the Vicarage in the intervening weeks, she could be so horny that she almost ripped my clothes off before we had disappeared into the hideout.

m2 msh Me too, Me so horny

?u@ Where are you?

swgb Southwest Great Britian (I intended)

I didn't know if she would remember my trip with my folks, although I told her in my last email. Barbara (aka Mother Mary Rufus) could be very forgetful if things were busy around the Convent, and a huge pile was probably waiting on her desk after she got back from her trip.

??? She had forgotten. This was tough, for I didn't know enough cyberspeak to explain further. The plastic pony started again, and I was having trouble punching numbers.

"Wadd' ya doing, Alfie?" came my mother's sweet voice. She was looking back over her shoulder at me from her horse, which she was sharing with 8 year old Clive.

"Text messaging. Something's up back home."

A look of worry hit her face. "Is that Jonathan? What's happening?"

"No, no, Mother, not your home, my home."

The screen displayed: wtfaud What the fuck are you doing? 

I tried to look down at the undulating screen and punched my next message with difficulty: w8 mos Wait. Mother over shoulder.

"But Alfred, our home is your home, it's always going to be your home."

"Mom, there's something up at St. Dunstan's. I've got to run back to the Button's and get online." She gave me a look of slight disbelief. The Merry-Go-Round went around again: the next group of little riders dancing in anticipation of their turn; Sheila's grandsons reveling in their circular gallop, shouting and stabbing with imaginary swords as the knights errant dispatched dragons and monsters; my father laughing from the bench behind me. The next message came: dltm wtfaud Don't lie to me. What the fuck are you doing?

Barbara was touchy sometimes, and I had to get to a better means of communication quickly.

I punched back a message in the clear: E mail me now

The reply came shortly: OK 

The ride ended, and we got off. As we exited, I told my father what I intended. He nodded and said: "Okay, son. It's a nice morning and I think we'll head over to the beach for a nice, long while. The boys look like they could use some space, and I'm ready to lie in the sun. Be back for lunch?"

"I think so. If I'm not right back, go ahead without me."

"You're trusting there'll be leftovers."

"Call me a man of faith."

My Dad chuckled and waved me on. We had walked from Sheila's house, so I had to cover a lot of ground quickly on foot. My polo shirt and shorts were all right for the run, but I was wearing sandals, which made the pavement harder than usual as I sprinted through the streets. Sheila was dusting the front room as I puffed through the door, and a look of concern immediately crossed her face. "What's wrong, Father? Are the boys all right? Your parents?"

I panted a little and caught my breath. "No, everything's fine." A moment later and I could speak normally. "Something's come up back home, so I need to get online."

"Was there an accident? Who's sick?"

"No, Sheila, everybody's fine. It's Mother Mary Rufus, and she's got a little, ah, cabin fever."

She calmed down and a whimsical look came to her face. "I see," she said as she arched an eyebrow at me. "Well, get online and write the good Mother. When you're done, come to my room. She's not the only one with cabin fever."

Her computer was in a family room adjoining the front room, and fortunate she had a high speed connection. It took a couple of minutes to get booted up and online, where a message was already in my inbox:

Alfred, Sorry I was so terse with you; forgot you were on holiday with your parents. How is Sheila doing? When are you coming back? MMR

A few strokes got the reply underway:

MMR She's fine and says hello. Due back Thursday night. Don't know when I can get away to see you: the folks are monopolizing my time. I love them, but wish I had some time to myself. I'm even looking forward to catching up on the office work. Alfie

A reply hit my inbox right away:

Alfie, You're crazy. NEED YOU BADLY. Have to find some time together. ;) Let me think. Later, MMR

Another message hit my inbox:

Al, Miss you, need, you, where the fuck are you? Have to keep mopping the floor my cunt is dripping so badly. Do you have to stay till Thursday? Perky

Agnes was getting lonely between chores. She would have come with us since school was on break, however Jenny was sick and needed help with her baby, so Agnes was stuck. I replied:

Perk, Can't get a word in edgewise. Mom and Dad having too good a time here. Sorry. Anything happening back there? Al

Sheila finished her dusting, and tapped me on the shoulder. "I'll be upstairs."

Al, Mrs. Helen Primrose died; Reverend Staton did the funeral. Niall's been grumpy and short with everybody. Jenny's feeling better and Derrick's relieved. Perk,

The news about Mrs. Primrose wasn't unexpected, but Arthur Farnsworth was supposed to be covering for me this trip. George Staton lived twice as far away and usually had to fight some traffic to get to St. Dunstan's. Perk, Where Arthur? I thought he was covering me. Al,

Arthur had been getting flakier by the day. The last time I saw him was just before I left, and he had assured me he would be on station the entire time I was gone.

Al, Artie's done a runner; his Verger doesn't know where he's at, and Artie told him to call Reverend Staton if anything happened there. The Reverend Archdeacon Creepy Arse did St. Edmund's last weekend. His Verger thinks he's having another fling and will show up either after he's landed his catch or gotten dumped. Perk

Archdeacon Tommy Hughes was covering for him on weekends? Arthur must have Tommy's nuts in his pocket to pull that off. The Vicar of St. Edmund's could disappear for weeks at a time when pursuing a new love.

Perk, Shit. That's the last time I trust that nutter Arthur. We should be getting back around Teatime on Thursday. Tell Jenny her Gran says hi. You might look in on MMR; she's getting restless, too. Al

The rest of my email was spam that took a couple of minutes to delete. I heard footsteps on the wood flooring, and a light breeze played in through the windows. It was an ideal day for the beach, although I could hardly wait the two days to get back to St. Dunstan's. I hadn't been in Mom and Dad's company so much since my last visit home before ordination.

Al, Haven't seen MMR for a while, but I'll ring her up. Won't be the same as your sweet nine inches. Travel safe. Perk

I looked at my watch, and figured that my party was just getting the hamper unpacked at the beach, so I had a little time. Going upstairs, I found Sheila's bedroom door open and heard movement coming from inside. 

Entering the room, I found her dusting her windows. "All done online?" she asked. I nodded. "The boys at the beach?" Another nod. "Are you sure your parents will be all right with them?"

I smiled. "My parents have been dealing with children their entire adult lives. They'll probably wear out the boys."

She came over, embraced me and raised her lips to mine for a long, open mouthed kiss. "Well, since you've got an excuse to be away for a while, and it's been donkey's years since I had a good shagging, why don't you produce your John Thomas and get to work?"

I chuckled and unbuttoned her blouse. She pulled my shirt over my head and undid my shorts, my member springing to life as it came into view. As I kicked off my sandals, she knelt down and gave it a welcoming lick, grasping it softly and stroking it to full extension. I teased her earlobes with my index fingers and she responded by engulfing me totally, her velvet tongue frantically working over the entire head while her soft hands stroked my scrotum as it tingled with initial interest. I closed my eyes and savored the seabreeze coming through the open window, stirring the wispy thin curtains and billowing them slightly.

Sheila stood up, stepped out of her shorts, and led me to the bed. "We shouldn't linger too long. No way of knowing how long they'll be out there, or how long you can be gone without arousing suspicion." 

She laid back and the bed and raised her legs high, her feet in the air. I knelt in front of her and let her guide me into her moist, ravenous receptacle. "Funny you should use the word arouse. . ."

Of the Quilting Ladies, Sheila was the least adventurous about trying new things. Seven months earlier she had finally worked up the nerve to try anal sex, but she made up in passion for what she lacked in imagination. Her body was still lean and well toned in her sixty second year, and she responded vigorously to my penetration, pulling me deep into her with every thrust, her calves resting on my shoulders, her eyes and mouth wide open and sneering in lust. I teased the golden bars of her pierced nipples, knowing we had limited time and wanting her to reach the intense climax she had waited for since Easter week. Time stood still: I did not want this dance of life to end, but fifteen minutes of hard thrusting brought us to passion's summit within seconds of each other, her first, and I fearlessly poured a week's worth of pent up abstinence deep into her. We finished and I dropped to the bed beside her, trying to regain my energy quickly so I could return to the family outing.

The breezes played across our naked skin as we held each other, and Sheila looked out the window. "He's there again."

"He who?"

"My neighbor, Sean. Nice enough guy, but he spies on me with his opera glasses when I'm in my room. We must have given him some show."

I pulled up a sheet hurriedly, and looked. Across the way, a man was putting down something at a table by the window, a grey form in the shaded room, and turning to go down an unseen hallway. "Does he know who I am or who's here?"

"Well, I haven't spoken with him about your visit. He made a joke the other night at the Pub about you three dropping by to see me, but he thought your parents were my friends and you were their university level boy. Doesn't know where you're from or what you do for a living." "Make sure you keep it that way."

"He's an all right enough bloke, Vicar; don't be paranoid. A couple of times I thought he fancied me."

"You think he fancies you? Isn't the spying enough indication?" "Well, I thought he was a just an ordinary pervert at first, but I got to know him better and he's a charming fellow when you get him talking. Sean was a Navvy overseas, he retired five years ago and his wife died two winters ago. Couldn't stay in the Midlands after she was gone, so he sold his house and moved down here. No family, adequate pension. Walks five K first thing every morning."

He had gone out of view and I relaxed a bit. "Is the Old Duffer good looking?"

She shrugged. "Oh, not bad. Moustache with curled corners, tight stomach. Seems to have a nice sized Willie, but hard to tell when it's soft and in his trousers."

I sat up and looked at Sheila incredulously. "You fancy him?"

Laughter answered my question. "A dry old prat like me?" Sheila's face was more tanned since Bert's death, another line or two had creased her face and there was a slight increase in the sag of her breasts and buttocks, but she was still fit and attractive.

"You listened to the wrong line for too many years. You're still an attractive woman, Sheila. Why do you think Sean is looking at you? He sees something worth looking at."

"You think so?" she asked incredulously. 

"Well, he could still be a garden variety sicko, but he might be as shy as you are about considering someone new."

"I'll have to think about that. He'll probably be at the pub tonight. I'll chat him up."

I got up and walked to the bathroom. "I'll take a quick shower before I go back. You think about that, Sheila. You're still an attractive woman, and an older man could get very interested in you."

"Cor."

When I got to the beach, Mom and Dad were ensconced on a blanket under a huge umbrella while the boys were running and playing in the surf. "Where have you been, sweetheart?" My mother asked me.

"Someone died back home. Everything's worked out, but it took a little while. Then I had to help Sheila move a few things around before I came back: today's her dusting day."

"I see," came a disbelieving inflection. "And why did you take a shower before you came back?"

"I felt gritty and wanted to get clean. So what?"

"Oh nothing, son, nothing. We've been just fine here; it's good to watch the boys play in the sun. Cecil and Clive are such wonderful kids. Don't they have an older brother?"

"Yes, named Bertram after his grandfather. He's twelve, and his father took him along on this trip to Warsaw. They were going to spend a half day there sightseeing before coming back. Bert was so proud of going along with his dad."

"I remember when you used to ride the range with me, son," my father interjected. "We'd spend the whole day in the plains, looking after the cattle, picnicking by the windmill, taking a dip to cool off. I enjoyed riding with all you boys."

A smell of the distant plains came to me through the aromas of the English beach. "Yes, Dad. Those were grand times. Grand times."

It was sunset before we returned, and Sheila had an unexpected glow. My mother exchanged looks with me, and I did my best poker face. Mom always knew when I wasn't telling the whole truth, and I felt all of fifteen again despite my thirty seven chronological years.

The next day, Sheila took Mom shopping for souvenirs while Dad and I played games with the boys on the patio. The return trip was uneventful, and Agnes was glad to see us back, almost giving me a scandalous embrace and kiss when we returned, although I got my head turned just in time to avoid her hungry mouth. "How's it going, Agnes?" I said when I got loose from her iron grasp.

She did a double take, then awareness filtered into her consciousness as she embraced my parents in greeting. They were happy to see her again, having met her with her grandmother the previous summer in Kansas. "Fine, Reverend Father," she said. "I fixed you a rather simple Tea for tonight, since we're having the big Supper tomorrow."

"Grand. Is the downstairs suite ready?"

"Yeah, Jenny and I got it cleaned up yesterday. Percy and Stan just got the hardware installed in the bathroom for your dad Monday, and Derrick checked it over. Harry Hazleton came round and tested it: he said it was as solid as a rock."

"If it could hold Harry up, it'll take Dad just fine."

"Is everybody able to make it tomorrow?"

"Yes, the Statons, Niall and his Francis, Gran, Derrick and Jenny with the baby, The Hazeltons, Mother Mary Rufus and Sister Mary Martha. Willikins is even bringing Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton."

"That was the lady who let us use her house, wasn't it?" Mom cut in.

I turned my face so she wouldn't see my reaction, but Agnes went straight ahead. "Yes, she's made a lot of things possible around here. Vicar, would you mind if I went out for a while? Derrick's home, and Jenny wants to get out and play some tennis. The baby's been very active this week, getting into all kinds of trouble, and she needs a break."

"Sure, Agnes. We'll be fine."

Agnes gave us a little curtsy, and then went back into her rooms to change. My mother went back into the kitchen and looked in the cupboards and the icebox for a moment, then nodded in approval before going to their rooms to unpack. As Mom unpacked in the bedroom and my Father settled into an easy chair, he gave me a warm look. "That's a sweet young thang you've under your roof, boy. She be a complete hottie-bottie. You tapped that ass?" he whispered with a broad smirk. Dad watched a lot of TV these days, as well as browsing the Urban Dictionary online, and liked to pick up new colloquialisms. He also liked to embarrass everyone in the family whenever possible, except Mom. I didn't answer him.

After they settled in, we had a nice supper and I showed them the backyard with the lovely flowers Mary and Mavis loved to cultivate. We took a peek into the church itself: the stately Gothic lady was at her best near day's ending with the sunlight setting the stained glass afire with rich colors. Dad marveled that the altar area handicapped accessible, rolling his wheelchair around the sanctuary area and behind the altar. They wanted me to play the organ for them, but I begged off, assuring them that Niall and Agnes would do the old Willis justice at the weekend liturgies. My fingers weren't in shape to play well.




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 19



We settled in the first floor sitting room to watch the BBC, when my cell phone buzzed around 9:00. I checked the number and it was Agnes. "Hello, Vicar. I need you in the chapel right now."

"What's up?"

"It's the organ. I was practicing and the there's something wrong: I think some of the pneumatics need adjustment, and I don't want to go into the pipe chamber while the Church's empty."

"Can't this wait?"

"I can't practice with it like this, and I'm busy all day tomorrow helping cook dinner. Get over here."

"All right, all right. Don't get your knickers in a twist." I rang off. Mother looked sweetly at me. "What's happening, Alfred."

"Agnes is having trouble with the organ and wants me to help her fix it. She wants to do it now, so if you'll excuse me."

"Sure, son," my Dad chimed in. "Gosh, this Ardal O'Hanlon is a funny guy."

Going back over to the darkened church was a little spooky, and I entered to see a pool of light in the balcony where the organ was. The windows were open, letting the night breeze in, but it was still July warm. "OK, Perky, what's going on," I asked from the aisle close to the balcony. "We had the tuner in just last week."

"Come up here."

I climbed the long, circular stairway to the loft. The light made the vastness of the nave a void that dimly caught the lights by the organ, windows dull in the wan light, the sanctuary lamp a lone red dot in the distance. As I crossed over to the console, Agnes came out of the organ case stark naked.

"I knew you'd be paranoid about having sex with your parents in the house, so I thought this would be a good alternative. Everything's locked up, and Derrick and Jenny are definitely staying home tonight, so we won't be interrupted." Derrick and Jenny sterns were the Sexton and Verger: they would be the only ones who could possibly show up unannounced.

Her red hair was down and wild, her body freckled and her skin glistening. Her breasts hung pertly with the jeweled nipples inviting attention, her flaming red bush damp with anticipation. It didn't take long to generate my typical response to her pulchritude. She went to the organ bench and sat at the end of the smooth, dark wood. "I've always enjoyed making sweet music here," she cooed with a sultry pucker of her lips.

It was novel: I'd never thought of making love on the organ bench, and it would surely be safe now; my parents were safely ensconced in front of the television and wouldn't come searching for me. Looking at the Sanctuary lamp, I was a little uneasy about copulating in my church. 

Agnes sensed my uneasiness and reached out her hand to me. "The Lord said for us to rejoice in His Courts and to make our home there. What better way to be a home somewhere than to make love there?"

I shook my head. "I don't think you'd get very far with that theological train of thought, but you win as usual." I took her hand and pressed it to my chest. My lips sought hers, as her hands unbuckled my belt. Working my way down her neck, I kissed her chest and down to the jeweled point, teasing the metal and its soft rubbery setting as Agnes sighed and stroked my hair. I stood up and she pulled my shorts and briefs down with one motion. Stroking me with her hand, she laid back and guided my cock to her dripping snatch.

At first, the echos of our lovemaking bouncing up and down and around the nave made me nervous, but after reassuring myself that we were safe, I entered the spirit of love as her ankles locked behind my naked buttocks. She lay on the organ bench, her eyes closed, savoring every thrust deep into her vagina. Her pelvic muscles grasped my phallus eagerly as it pistoned in and out, bringing me to a climax relatively quickly. After I finished projecting my semen into her, I pulled her up to a standing position as I planted two fingers inside her while working her clitoris, bending over to take her right breast with my mouth and sucking her nipple hard. It was only about a minute and a half before she began trembling uncontrollably.

I massaged our combined juices into her thighs as she came down from the summit. She leaned against me, shuddering, her head on my shoulder. After a few moments, she looked up at me and whispered: "How do you want to do it next?"

"In my room after the folks have gone home."

She frowned. "That's another week."

"I know, and I'm sorry, Perky. Just having them around is strange and I'm not myself. While they're here, I need to be with them. They'll be gone soon."

"All right, Al. I'll try to understand."

Fortunately, the Sexton's closet had some gentle cleansing agents than made me smell better before I went back to the Vicarage. As I came in the door, my Dad said in jocular tones: "You get 'er done, boy?"

"What?"

"The organ, son, the organ."

"Yeah, sure."

The next morning was rather sedate and I was able to make a dent in the pile of paperwork on my desk, returning phone calls and answering e-mail. Agnes and Mavis were working hard in the kitchen with the assistance of Mavis' identical twin granddaughters Elizabeth and Beatrice, and my parents were holed up in their suite. Around 11:00, Mom stuck her head into the kitchen, chatted with the Quilting Ladies for a few moments and go acquainted with Mavis, then dropped by my study. "Working hard, dear?"

"Yes, Mom. A lot to catch up with. What's up?"

"Your father and I are interested in seeing a movie this afternoon."

"Oh. Which one?"

"Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest. We enjoyed the first one a lot and thought Johnny Depp was hysterical. Would you like to go with us?"

I looked ruefully back and forth between the pile and my mother. Tonight was lost and maybe a good part of tomorrow, although I could probably beg out of anything with the excuse of sermon preparation. The look on her face told me that they wanted me to go with them. "Let me think about it 'til lunchtime?"

A smile. "Sure, honey. Take your time. The show doesn't start until 1:30."

"How long is the show?"

"Only three hours."

She left the room and I pondered. The pile would still be there Monday. I looked through my files of back homilies and found the one I preached three years ago on this weekend. It was rather good, so my resistance weakened. Then, my cell phone buzzed. "Hello?"

"Hi, handsome. What's up?" The voice was Mother Mary Rufus.

I sighed. "It's a merry-go-round today, too."

"Have any plans for this afternoon?" she leered. 

"I'm going to the movies with my mommy and daddy this afternoon," I jibed in a little boy voice.

"My, my, will they buy you some popcorn if you're a good boy?" she replied in a mommy voice.

"Shut up," I said, returning to a normal tone. "What do you have in mind?"

"Oh, I was hoping to spend some time with a special person this afternoon. Plato's Cave is open."

My manhood was interested in the thought, but my heart couldn't back out on my parents. "I'm sorry, Barbara. I don't know when I'll get to spend time with them again, Dad's health is all right at the moment, but it could go downhill at any time. When they go home, I might not get to see them again. It's tough to get away from them."

There was silence on the other end of the phone. "Which movie are you seeing?"

"Pirates of the Caribbean."

More silence. "That'll do. I'll meet you at the theater."

"You'll meet us at the theater?" "Sure. It's the Swiss Emporium, isn't it? Show at 1:30?"

"Yes. Won't you feel awkward seeing a movie in your habit?"

"No, because I won't be wearing my habit: I'll be undercover. Introduce me as Barbara. I'll find a way for us to sit by ourselves. Trust me."

"Yeah, all right, anything you say. Anything you want me to do to set this up?"

"Don't wear any underwear." I could almost hear the giggle in her voice. Lunch with the Quilting Ladies was fun for my parents, but rather tense for me. Agnes gave me concerned looks, but I shook my head. Mavis dominated the conversation with anecdotes of her grandchildren, which her granddaughters responded to with blushes and my parents responded to their own stories of grandchildren. I sat there waiting for it to pass. As we prepared to leave for the theater, I was able to dart upstairs and ditch my briefs. 

It was another lovely day, and since the theater wasn't far Mom and I walked the short distance, pushing Dad's wheelchair. A trim young blonde in a yellow sun dress and sunglasses approached us, waving broadly. "Hello, Reverend Alfred, how are you today?" Barbara piped in a high voice.

So looked stunning, and I tried to keep my jaw from dropping to the pavement, but recovered quickly enough that my parents didn't notice the pause. "Fine, Barbara, how are you?"

"Good," She said, spreading her arms and twirling in a circle. "Isn't it a wonderful day?"

"Of course. By the way, Barbara, these are my parents, Fletcher and Wilma. . ."

"Hello, Barbara, it's a pleasure to meet you," my Mother broke in. 

"Hi, Barbie," my Father purred in his smoothest voice.

". . .are you a parishioner of Alfred's?" Mom finished.

"No, but I see him for spiritual direction every month. Where are you off to this afternoon?"

"We're going to see Pirates of the Caribbean. Would you be interested in joining us?"

Barbara dug in a small yellow purse she carried and consulted a small diary. "I'm free this afternoon, and I'd love to attend the cinema with you."

"Great," my Dad said, "It's always nice to have a lovely young woman around." 

My mother hit him on the shoulder with the reprimand "Flet-CHER!" in her mock serious voice. Barbara was looking nice in her yellow sun dress, her long, blond hair flowing down to her shoulders, the halter portion of her dress showed off her fine form to good advantage, and her long legs well displayed by the short hem of her dress. She wore flip flops, and a thin white band on her head.

I wondered as I pushed my Father down the pavement whether she going to pull this off. She was going to be at dinner tonight in her habit, and my parents were no fools, especially my Mother. No one put on over on her in seventy three years as far as I knew. Arriving at the cinema, we got our tickets and found ourselves alone in a large screening room. I got my Dad settled in the handicapped seat as the ladies visited the concession area. A slideshow of local adverts played between showtimes, and my Dad whispered in my ear: "She's a real looker, son. Where'd you find her?" "Professionally," I whispered back. "I visited her mother in the hospital regularly and she was there one day. We started doing spiritual direction not long after that." Which was true, but it didn't feel that way.

He winked at me. "She'd be a nice lady to step out with."

"Dad!"

"Well, you're not getting younger, son. Just because things didn't work out with Janet doesn't mean you have to spend the rest of your life alone. I know you: you spend almost all your time working your butt off and you don't set aside enough time for yourself. You're getting older son, in your mid 30s, and it's time you thought about finding a lady to settle down with."

The ladies returned laden with popcorn and drinks. Mom turned to Dad: "The kids are going to sit up higher, Fletcher. Barbie has trouble with her neck and she'll get sore if she stays here with us looking up at the screen. Alfred will keep her company, won't you dear?"

"Yes, Mother." Score one for the wily Mother Superior: she even got my Mother's unwitting endorsement of her scheme. I saw the folks were comfortably settled, and then mounted the stairs with my cunning companion.

We settled in two rows down from the upper limit, in the center of the row of seats. I put up the armrest and we made ourselves comfortable. "How'd you get hold of the clothes?" I whispered.

"Borrowed them from Agnes. Fortunately we're almost the same size," she whispered back.

"Almost is the operate word. Your tits are about to pop out the sides that top is so loose."

"Wouldn't that be a tragedy?" she purred as she snuggled into my side.

We munched the buttery confection as we waited for the movie to start. She stroked my thigh, making my monster stir in his lair. "Not too fast. Wait till the lights go down," I urged. She responded by unzipping me.

The lights went down for the trailers, and my arm across her bare back moved as my hand dipped under her top to stroke her nipple. She responded by pulling my erection straight up and covering my cockhead with her buttery hand. We went very slowly, being careful to make no noise. My Dad's hearing wasn't great, but my Mom always seemed to have bionic ears, and I worried about what she might hear, but Barbara was as quiet as a mouse. The show began, and I untied her top, letting her breasts come free.  

We watched the movie, idly stroking each other, for about twenty minutes before we lost interest in it. It was funny, but the slow pacing was destroying my concentration, as was Barbara's glacially slow hand job. My long arm wandered lower until it reached her crotch: it was freshly shaven and moist in anticipation. As I found the hillock at the head of the valley, a warm, buttery wet embrace surrounded my corona. My eyes glazed as I surrendered myself to the sensations.

With a start, I wondered whether my folks were still focused on the screen. I looked down in their direction and saw something incredible: my Father's head was lolling back and my Mother was bent over him with the top of her head bobbing up and down frantically over his lap. Everything was forgotten: the movie and the soft company; my erection and my exploration of Barbara's clit. Good grief, I'd never stumbled into my parent's room while they were making love when I was little, and now it felt worse.

Barbara looked up after my shrinking flesh pulled out of her mouth with a pop. "What's wrong, Alfie?" she whispered with a look of concern on her face.

"Take a look down at my parents." She sat up and peeked down at them.

"Is your mom really giving your dad a blow job?" Her eyes were wide with surprise.

"It looks like it. I can't handle that. I know they make love in various ways, and Dad's sex drive hasn't flagged over the years, but I never wanted to know details. Yuck!"

She gave me an odd look. "I think it's sweet," she whispered, "that they love each other so much they're willing to try new things. When I was little, I used to hide in the closet and watch my parents make out. It was so incredible the first time I saw Mother deep throat Father, how she managed to get all of him down her throat and bury her nose in his pubic hair, I'll never know. That was how I learned the facts of life. She could orgasm just by sucking him off, and I orgasmed once just watching them."

I shook my head to clear it. "Things are different in America. I'm going to need some time to recover from this."

She put the other armrest beside me up in the air. "Why don't you lie down, sweety? Yes, put your head in my lap. Comfy? Take your time, dear, just try to put it out of your memory." She stroked my hair as I lay there, her naked breasts inches from my face. I relaxed at last and she pulled me close, my face between her breasts. I started to kiss between them and she let me relax downward, moving so her left breast came withing range of my mouth. I licked leisurely, teasing the pale white flesh glowing blue in the movielight, skimming close to the areola and darting away at he last moment before engulfing the nipple. She pulled up my shirt and stroked my bare stomach, moving lower gradually as my trouser snake recovered its interest. Soon she was pulling my erection as I nursed her hungrily. 

Swinging her leg over, I found myself face to face with her lower lips as she recovered her flesh flavored popsicle. The movie played, the colors flickering over us, and I dove into her honeycomb seeking its sweetness. Her moaning was transmitted to my erection, and soon it overflowed into her mouth as I brought her to a climax. We held tight against each other, using each other's flesh to stifle our moans of delight. Just then, my Dad let out a sharp yelp, and we giggled into each other's privates knowing that Dad had just arrived where we had been moments before. We recovered and sat back up to watch the movie, in each other's arms. Mom was sitting in Dad's lap with her arms around his shoulders, but the movement of her head indicated something was going on out of our sight. Barbara grinned like a cat in the dark while I tried to keep my attention on the screen, while stroking whatever bare flesh was within reach. Taking an ice cube out of her drink, I started making wet tracks across her skin. She purred as I did that, so I quested lower, teasing her valley with the cold intruder. My mother let out a gasp, which made me wince, but I didn't stop my endeavor. Taking out another cube, I teased Barbara some more, working around her wet slit and chilling her nubbin before slipping it inside, where it melted almost immediately. Two more followed, then I held a handful to make my hand very cold before slipping two frozen fingers inside her deep warmth. Barbara bit her lip in an effort to stay quiet, and I pushed my fingers in and out harder and faster. Before long she had another orgasm, her head and mouth tight against my chest to muffle her mews of delight.

The movie ended at last, and we put ourselves back together before the credits were done. We got down to my parent's seats as the house lights and slideshow returned, where I helped my Dad back into his wheelchair. After visiting the loo, Barbara walked us all the way back to the Vicarage. My mother was chatting with her happily as we walked in the summer afternoon, and Barbara was deftly avoiding details about what her job was. As we reached the Vicarage, the women shook hands and my Mother said: "Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Barbara. Hope to see you again sometime."

"I hope to see you again very soon," Barbara said, with a strange glint in her deep brown eyes. "Nice to get acquainted with you, Fletcher," she continued, bending down to give him a peck on the cheek.

"Likewise, my dear," he replied. She flounced away from us, her purse swinging as we navigated the ramp into the Church where a series of ramps would take us into the Vicarage.

"Ah, there's nothing like an afternoon at the movies," my Dad said with a wink as his eyes followed Barbara's backside into the distance.

The next episode will continue Fletcher and Wilma's visit from this point.



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 20



The Vicar continues to juggle encounters, hoping his parents won't find how exactly how well he knows his Quilting Ladies. 

Dinner was at seven, so there was time to relax and freshen up after we got back from the cinema before the other guests arrived. After a quick shower, I worked through some more papers on my desk and got myself organized for the weekend. Incredible aromas wafted up from the kitchen: the Quilting Ladies were working their magic again. The time seemed to fly and the doorbell starting ringing at 7:00. I changed into something more presentable than light summer casual wear and went downstairs to greet my guests in the front room.

George and Rachel Staton were first to arrive, a dignified couple in middle age. He was wearing his dog collar out of habit, sweating a little in the warm weather, mopping his brow occasionally with a white handkerchief in his hand. Rachel was a tall woman with blond hair, clear blue eyes, tanned and fit, wearing a blue dress and black pumps, her face and hair beautifully done: she must have visited the hairdresser earlier that day. Next was Harry Hazelton, a portly man in his sixties with greying hair, who donned a nice blazer that was a size too small for him over a tan shirt and dark trousers. Niall Jones and Francis Watson were next, smartly dressed but looking preoccupied as they took their drinks, and separated to chat with the others rather than maneuvering together as they usually did at social events. Mary Sterns was next, looking like a queen carrying her portfolio and wearing a crisp blue business suit with medium skirt, followed by Derrick and Jenny Sterns with their son Alfred, who was squirming to get in my arms as soon as he saw me. 

Last to arrive were Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazelton, escorted by her butler Willikins, and the two nuns from St. George's Convent. Mother Mary Rufus had donned a pair of thick, black rimmed glasses for the evening, and Sister Mary Martha gave me a knowing look as she greeted me. As I introduced them to my parents, my Father gave no indication that he'd met one of them earlier that day, but my Mother did a double take and narrowed her eyes for a moment before relaxing. Lucinda was very lucid that evening, so my worry about her opening an embarrassing topic faded. Willikins was reserved, accepting only soda water since he was on duty.

I handed the baby off to Mother Mary Martha, who made friends with him instantly, and went back to the kitchen to check on things. Mavis shooed me out immediately: "Now, Vicar, everything's going to be fine. Don't be buzzing around here and getting in the way. Me and Agnes will have it on the table in a few, so go back, have another drink, and relax. Did Harry make it?"

"Yes, Mavis, he got here a half hour ago."

She muttered to herself. "Will wonders never cease. And did he dress decent, or does he look like a tramp who staggered in from the Irish bogs?"

"He's wearing his blazer, he's clean shaven, freshly scrubbed, and behaving beautifully." An incredulous toss of her head and she bustled back to the kitchen. Mary Sterns cornered me in the hallway as I returned. "Hey, big boy, where you going?" she said, batting her eyelashes coquettishly. "Just back to the party."

"I'm back in town for a while. We need to get together."

"My folks are in town and taking up almost all my time. I don't know when I'll be free."

She furrowed her brow for a moment, the smiled. "I'll think of something. What are you doing tomorrow?"

"We're going into London in the late morning. Tourist stuff: Trafalgar Square, Tower of London, Parliament, etc."

"Mind if I tag along? Maybe bring along the kids?"

"I don't imagine it'll be a problem. The folks remember your visit a year ago; you'll be welcome companions. They love big excursions: they hauled all six of us around the Midwest in our old Ford station wagon like gypsies. "

"Grand. Be ready for anything." She let me by to rejoin my guests as she went back to the kitchen.

Agnes had placards for the seating arrangement, and broke up the couples to encourage conversation with new people. Betsy and Bea served us dressed as French Maids, their outfits scandalously low cut and high on the thigh. Like their mother and grandmother, they were a little plump, with plenty of curves, medium height, with dark hair and crystal blue eyes. They were made up the same way Agnes was, moderately but to excellent effect, that highlighted the roundness of the their faces and the length of their eyelashes. The men at the table locked eyes on them as soon as they came into view: George Staton gulped his drink, Niall and Francis opened their eyes wide in disbelief, my father smiled broadly, and Harry's chest swelled with pride like the cock of the walk. As Betsy put my appetizer in front of me, caviar with blini, I could see all the way down her right breast to the aureole. My father quipped as he was served: "You have a wonderful parish here, son."

Mavis also looked very proud of her descendants. They were turning eighteen in six months, and their eyes held a special twinkle when they caught mine. My palms started to sweat. My mother was sitting down the table from me and gave me a questioning look, which I responded to sheepishly.

I sat between Mary and Lucinda, who occasionally touched my knee or thigh as the meal progressed. The conversations at table were lively, and drifted to me in snippets.

Rachel Staton and Agnes: "I used to play tennis all the time, got a medal at university." "Still play?" "Oh, it's been ages. Need to get my racket re-strung." "I've needed a partner for months: Jenny's been too busy with the baby to play regularly. I could play every day if I had the chance." "Are you free around mid day?" "Yes, that's the only time in my schedule that isn't taken." "Why don't we try a set next week and see how it goes?"

Harry Hazelton and Francis Watson: "Your granddaughters are growing up fast." "They always do, mate. They take after their mother, but their height comes from my side of the family." "Do they always look so sharp?" "No, only on special occasions. I imagine they had help tonight, but they look a treat, don't they? I'm so proud of them: they could pose for Playboy." "Doubtlessly. If you say so."

My Father and Lucinda Parkhust-Frazelton: "How many head of cattle do you have Mr. . ." "Fletcher, Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton, please call me Fletcher." "You Americans are always so informal. Please call me Lucy." "Well, Lucy, I don't know exactly how many we have right now, my son Jonathan takes care of the business these days." "Yes, my children run my business as well, I never now what's going on with them. Do the big cattle drives over the endless prairie take up much of your time?" "No, Mrs. . .Lucy. We truck 'em to market in Hays. After we sell 'em, the buyer transports them for processing." "Do you have many problems with Indian attacks?"

Niall and Agnes: "I don't know if I could. My home is here, my work is here, I couldn't walk away from it." "But you love him don't you?" "Yes. That's the problem." "Then go with him." A sniff. "Don't think he wants me to."

George Staton and Mary: "No, I don't know when Bishop Delacroix is retiring. He's turning more and more over to his staff every month." "Do you think Tommy Hughes will be the next bishop?" "There's a block forming to vote against him, but I can't see them coming up with a majority unless he does something stupid." "I wonder how that can be arranged?"

Mother Mary Martha and Mavis: "So, do you noones ever take off your habits?" "Well, we have to take a shower now and then. We have go to bed at night." "Oooh, I think you girls probably have some fun in the dorms, after the light's out, don't ya now?" "Mrs. Hazelton, Matins comes very early in the morning."

Coincidence left me out of most of the conversations, and I tried to keep myself from piecing together too much from what I overheard. The twins made sure to display themselves to me every time they served and cleared, so I was well distracted by them and the worry that my mother might see me ogling them. My John Thomas was waxing and waning so quickly that my prostate didn't know what to do.

The evening ended without major mishap or embarrassment. Mother Mary Martha was quite charming, monopolizing the baby most of the evening while conversing with Willikins, and Mother Mary Rufus chatted casually with my Dad, who didn't seem to realize that he'd met her earlier in the day. Niall and his partner Francis hardly looked at each other. Rachel Staton and Agnes seemed to focus solely on each other. I caught my mother talking with George Staton frequently, but every time I looked at them, she turned away to look at the baby while George looked like he'd been caught in flagrante.

I saw our guests out eventually, and Agnes sat up with us playing cards until my parents were ready for bed. I turned our usual good night kiss into a chaste embrace since my parents were still watching, however they gave me a knowing look when I left them. That night, I fought the image of my Mother giving my Father fellatio that tried to monopolize my imagination. I knew they had a sex life since I have five older brothers and sisters, but I've always been militantly indifferent to the details.

The next morning we gathered for the excursion to London. The entire Sterns clan was to accompany us: Mary, Agnes, Jenny, Derrick and little Alfred turned out. My Mother was in heaven, fussing over the young people and the baby, my Father let the baby ride in the wheelchair in front of him, much to the child's delight. As we were feeding pigeons in Trafalgar square after the noon meal, a familiar face drifted by: Arthur Farnsworth, the missing Vicar of St. Edmund's, was out with an svelte, older man with grey hair and a thin, dark moustache. They both wore polo shirts, shorts, and sandals, the other man wore dark socks as well. 

I accosted him and he reluctantly recognized me. "Alfie, old mate, what brings you to London," he exploded wringing my hand and clapping my shoulder. "Gunther, meet one of my colleagues in the business, Alfred Allen. Alfred, this is Gunther, a friend I met a few days ago."

"Pleased to meet you, Herr Allen," Gunther said, extending his hand. His grip was firm and secure; he followed it by giving me his business card.. "Any friend of Karl's is a friend of mine." His English was excellent. Gunther Kellermann, Altenahr, Deutschland, the card proclaimed, with a phone number and a bottle of wine embossed on the card. "Ah, Karl?"

Arthur was looking around, and finally caught sight of the Sterns family and my parents. A look of desperation crossed his face. " I'm Karl Rove, Karl Arthur Rove, an old mate of Alfie's, sightseeing here with my friend Gunther. Surely he's told you about me."

Mary gave him a glacial look. "Yes, Karl, he's told us a lot about you." The others looked vaguely at him, but didn't respond to him.

My parents were looking back and forth between us; they must have caught the surprised expression on my face at Arthur's unexpected arrival. My Mom started to say something, then thought the better of it; my Dad looked like a six foot rock in eight feet of water.

"You're seeing the sights of London? Excellent. . ." Arthur carried on desperately.

"Karl, a quiet word with you." I took his arm and led him aside, out of range of the others. "What the hell are you up to? Where the hell have you been?"

Arthur peeked up at the others and whispered conspiratorially. "I met Gunther about ten days ago; he's part of a tour over here. Never thought I'd get him away from the Ball and Chain, but I did it. He's amazing, Alfie, amazing."

"But you promised to cover for me when I was out of town, and your own parish doesn't know where you are."

"But George and Pammy are around, so what's the big deal? Opportunities like Gunther don't happen every day. My God, Alfie, if you were gay, you'd know how fantastic this man is, although I'd have to kill you to keep you away from him."

I put a hand on his shoulder. "Spare me the details. Just move along and let me stay ignorant of what's going on. You've already spooked my parents, and the Sterns family. Get lost as soon as possible and talk to me when you're finished with this little melodrama."

Gunther was chatting with my parents about his winery in Germany, when Arthur returned to the group. "Gunther, my friend, we must be going if we're going to make the curtain."

Gunther looked confused. "Curtain?"

"You know, the Curtain. The matinee? The performance this afternoon?"

"Ach, ja." Gunther said, realizing whatever Arthur was referring to. "We have tickets to a--special event," he said with a wink. "It has been nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Mary said.

Arthur took Gunther's arm and hustled him down the pavement. They disappeared quickly as we stared after them. My Mother had a puzzled look on her face: "Who was that son? Doesn't he know your last name?"

"Later, Mom. Just forget you saw him for now and let's get on with the day. This is only a soap opera that you're better off not knowing about."

Mary nodded her head. "Vicar Alfred's right, Wilma. Ignorance is bliss." "Well, sometimes ya gotta grab some bliss," my Dad interjected. Everyone laughed and the spell was broken.

Just then, Mary's cell phone buzzed. "Hello. Yes, this is Mary Sterns. What? Where? The Baptist Church on Thornbridge Road? All right, I'm on my way. What? Call the Vicar? No, he's with me, we're down in London. All right, bye." She rang off, and turned to the rest of us. "There's a problem at the Thornbridge Soup Kitchen. The Vicar and I are on the Board, and there's an emergency meeting. Don't think it will take long, but we'll have to go back. Why don't you meet us at the Crow's Nest for Tea and we'll spend the evening there? Will that be all right, Wilma?"

My mother looked at me, then back at her. "I don't see any problem with that, Mary, I'm sure the kids can take us around London. When should we look for you?"

"Oh, I'd say we'll be at the Crow's Nest when you get there. Probably around Half Eight."

Derrick piped up. "Don't worry, Vicar, we'll take care of your parents well. See you at the Pub at 7:30."

Mary hailed a cab and gave an address for a Baptist church near St. Dunstan's. We settled back and I looked at her with doubting eyes. "All right, what do you have in mind?"

She batted her eyes and said: "I don't know what you're talking about." Her tone became serious. "Hazel Milton called and said there was a break in at the Soup Kitchen. The police are there, but they need a solicitor, your truly, and another trustee, you, to vouch for the state of the inventory and to witness to Hazel's innocence."

"Why can't their pastor, the eminent John Charles, do those things?"

"Because he's in the country with his family. They have a substitute tomorrow, and they're such a small congregation they don't have a full time staff. Remember?"

"Oh, yes, now I remember. How long is this likely to take?"

"Not long, after we assist the police with their inquiries. We may be able to take care of a couple other things before we rendezvous with our kindred." She shot me a bawdy wink and a broad smile 

After a few moments, I mused: "One might this that this is a set up for us to get some time alone."

"One might, however this is for real," she replied regally. "It is serendipitous: Mavis was going to ring me with a phantom crisis in half an hour to get us away if this hadn't come up. Oh, that reminds me, I have to call her off."

The Thornbridge Soup Kitchen was originally an ecumenical endeavor of all the Christian churches in our area, and in the past few years the local Orthodox Synagogue and Sunni Mosque joined us in the ministry. It was adjacent to the Thornbridge Baptist Church in the poorest part of town: a low, squat brick building next to a simple church with a modest steeple. A window in the kitchen had been broken out, and a few supplies were missing, but the safe was untouched. Hazel Milton was the pastor of the Free Church down the block: she opened up that morning, discovered the damage and rung for the police. A group from the local Mosque were serving that day, and they worked around the crime scene as several customers needed a hot meal.

Mary assisted Hazel with the report to the constable, and I countersigned some documents attesting to what was missing, since I'd helped take inventory the day before. We cleaned everything up and I blocked the missing pane until Percy and Stan could fix it the next day. Mary offered to lockup so Hazel could go home and get ready for her service the next day; when Hazel left Mary turned to me with a gleam in her eye. "Now, let's get to a little overdue business."

"All right, Mary. Where? I don't think they have a quilting room here."

The storeroom was tiny and half full of staples: cans, boxes and crates. The kitchen offered no surface that satisfied Mary, nor did the dining room, the tables were somewhat rickety and could only hold the weight of the dishes. A concrete floor was unappealing. 

Mary led me through a connecting hallway that ended in a small, plain door. She took out a key and we were in the vestibule of the church. It was rather severe, with posters for different events, a table for bulletins and a picture of Christ knocking at the door. She ushered me into the small worship space: it was dimly lit by stained glass windows framed by floor length curtains. A deep rug covered the floor and the eight rows of pews were heavily padded. There was a small balcony above us, and behind the huge pulpit that dominated the platform was a small altar. "I've always wanted to have sex in a church," she said.

"Really?"

"Oh yes. When I was a gal, we had a very dishy pastor, and I used to imagine that I was crouching naked in the pulpit to distract him as he preached. Don't know how I would have fought my way through his vestments, but that didn't matter. Kept me amused through many boring sermons." "Would you like to have a go at that now? I've always wondered what it would be like to have someone in the pulpit doing that while I preached."

Mary stripped down to her birthday suit in nothing flat. At the age of 63, a grandmother several times over and a great-grandmother, her body was still smooth and curvaceous. The colors from the stained glass windows set her red hair on fire: in her vanity, she dyed her public hair as well as the hair of her head for my benefit. Going to the pulpit, she knelt down and turned her back, totally hidden from the pews.

I took a deep breath and ascended to the rostrum. Peeking down, I saw her eyes glowing with lust as I organized myself to preach to an empty church. "Brothers and Sisters," I began with my best revival preacher impression, "hear the word of the Lord. He hath said unto us: 'be fruitful and multiply.' What teaching can we take from this divine word, from the One who told us to 'Love One Another'?" Mary unzipped my fly and was pulling out my swelling protuberance. "Should we sit alone in our small rooms and turn our backs on the great gift of procreation he hath given us? Or rather should we seek to share that divine impulse, going out to share it with as many as those lonely lost souls as we can, bringing divine love to them in a very special and personal way?"

Mary's tongue was doing its regular magic, swirling around my corona and teasing the slit, while her right hand wanked me and her left reached down to stimulate herself. "It is Satan, the Prince of Darkness, that tries to deceive us, to make us believe that sex is dirty, forbidden, unworthy of pious souls. It is the Father of Lies that would have us believe that we have to hide our true affections behind a wall of SHAME!" I pounded the pulpit. "This is abominable! This is unjust! This is a denial of the true gift of holy joy! Amen?"




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 20



"Amen," Mary muttered, pausing to respond before sucking me deep into her mouth. The walls rang as I continued as best I could, creating a spontaneous theology of orgasmic free love while my testicles were churning and my member was salivating in appreciation for the wonders Mary was providing. On and on I went, trying to see how long I could talk before a flood of fulfillment disconnected my tongue completely.

Just before I expelled the fullness of my nectar, Mary stopped, stood up and threw herself over the altar. "You've made a convert, Reverend Father, give me that Holy Love you've been preaching about!" 

It was overwhelming, to see her plastered naked over the small table, her breasts pressed down and her backside inviting. I stood there for a moment reluctantly, dripping and rock hard, at the thought of penetrating her in that place. "G'wan Vicar," she pleaded. "It's not like it's our church!" 

That was all I needed, and I pushed into her damp swamp to the hilt. She gasped and began thrusting back at me, heaving on the altar cloth, moaning and twisting her hands. The candles were on stands to the side, so I had to be careful not to knock them over; shortly, I was thrusting into her rapidly, pacing myself so that we orgasmed together, her torso flat on the altar, fulling impaled and receiving a geyser of semen. We stayed there locked together, breathing deeply together and savoring the contact of our moist bodies in the musty air.

After we returned to earth and disengaged, Mary gave me a long, deep, open mouthed kiss, before breaking to say: "That was a dream come true, Reverend Father. But if we'd done this at St. Dunstan's, I would never be able to pray there again."

I shuddered. "Yes, me too, and that would be a huge problem." Mary dressed and I buttoned up, and we set about making certain that no remnant of our lovemaking was left for the congregation to discover the next morning. We took a cab to Mary's place, where we took a shower together and she fellatiated me again, drinking down my nectar, before we called Agnes to find out where the party was. A cab took us back to London, where we rejoined them at the Crow's Nest, Mary's favorite pub in the City. My father was in great spirits, relishing the young people's company, while my Mother fussed over him. During Tea, Mom gave me a quizzical look, but I played it cool, hoping to fool her for once in my life.

Sunday was an ordinary July celebration that went without a hitch. My parents were satisfied with the liturgy and the music, and the Hazeltons hosted us for luncheon afterward. Betsy and Beatrice were helping their grandmother again, dressed in tight fitting tank tops and very short shorts, much to my Father's delight and my Mother's disapproval. Mom and Dad frequently sparred in jest when attractive women were around, and they provided the entertainment for all of us, which the girls were happy to encourage by flirting with Dad outrageously.

A quiet evening in, and the next day dawned brightly. We shared a modest breakfast Agnes prepared, and I asked them what they wanted to do that day.

"Son, I think we need to take it easy today," Dad said. "Everything's been great, but I'm a little tired. What about you, Wilma?"

"I feel the same way, Fletch. I'm sure Alfred has things he needs to do, and he may need to rest as well."

I gave them both a close visual inspection, but they seemed to be in good shape despite drooping eyelids. "All right, I need to run a little bit, then we can have a nice lunch at one of my favorite places nearby," I said. "I'll ask Agnes to go with us."

"Go ahead, Alfred. I'll ask." She turned and went to Agnes' room to invite her.

I dressed for my run, and my cell phone buzzed. "Vicar," Mavis said, "It's me. Something's up with Harry. Can you come round?"

"Yes, I guess I can," I replied. "Can you tell me more?"

"It's too long a story. I'll tell you when you get here."

"All right, Mavis, don't worry, I'll be right over."

I warned my parents that I had an emergency call without naming Mavis. It would be difficult to explain later: if Mavis was in need, I didn't want them tagging along since Mom had become close friends with Mavis the previous day. I doubted that this was a set up: Harry Hazelton rarely left home except in the afternoon to take up his usual booth in the Pub. The Hazelton's lived nearby, but I took the car in case I needed it later.

When I knocked on the door, Mavis' voice answered from a distance: "Come in, it's open." 

I looked around the living room and the front bedroom, where Harry slept, but they were empty. "Where are you, Mavis?"

"In the Laundry Room."

"In the Laundry Room?" Her voice sounded like it came from the kitchen. It was empty as I went through on the way to the basement stairs, so I opened that door and clomped down. The basement was a dank festival of concrete; the Laundry Room was on the opposite end, and occupied the width of the house. Going through the door gave me a sight: Mavis was standing topless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of boxers, next to the indoor clotheslines.

"I was wondering if you'd help me--rinse out a few things," she said coquettishly. The air was cooler than upstairs, and her huge nipples were extermely hard in the damp. She wore huge rings in her nipples. Her face was hopeful and her eyes were anxious.

"Where's Harry?"

"He went to the track today to play the ponies."

"I thought you didn't let him do that?"

"I don't let him do that often. Fifty pounds means that he'll be gone all day."

"I don't think I can give you all day."

"How about just the morning?"

"Done." She cupped her massive breasts and lifted them heavily to me. "The girls need your special attention." 

Mavis' breasts were basketball sized, with nipples seven inches across, nubs an inch and a half thick that protruded a half inch. She was around 5' 4", plump, with large hips and a head full of long grey hair, her skin was blotchy. I drew closer to her and lightly traced the acres of sensitive white flesh, toying with the rings and pulling them lightly. Her face was lost in lust and her breathing quickened. "Oh, Vicar, that's so lovely," she cooed, "so, so, so, lovely. I'll give you a week to stop that." Her eyes closed momentarily; she gently bit her lower lip. 

My eyes traveled around as I played with her aureolae. Beside her on the top of the washer was a set of padded handcuffs and a long rope. Directly above our heads was a long iron pipe that ran the length of the room; Mavis draped a metal chain with two eyelets over it in easy reach. A sack of clothespins was on the dryer, and she had purloined a multiple strand flogger from my basement cabinet. There were three red candles, lit and pooling wax, and a tub of ice at her feet. A spool of string, a bottle of baby oil, and my Western spurs, also borrowed without permission, completed the set of toys. "Is there any particular order you want me to go with these?"

She moaned softly. "I love everything to you to my tits, Vicar. I love standing helpless before you, waiting for you to use me. Do whatever you want, luv, turn my tits purple or red, twist my nipples, clamp me all over, freeze me or cook me. Make me cum again and again as you torment me." I grabbed the rings in her nipples and pulled up; she smiled broadly.

It was time to do something more energetic, so I took a scarf from the hamper and blindfolded her, then cuffed her hands behind her. Moving around behind her, I cupped her breasts from behind, palming them and groping harder and harder. I knew how she wanted me to use the items, and I spent the next hour and a half doing so. She came three times doing things we'd done many times before, taking pleasure from the pain I inflicted on her body. My erection needed relief when I finished, so I sat her on a stool, her breasts pale violet from their binding, put my John Thomas between her eager lips for her to relieve my tension. 

She was beaming as she showed me to the door in her pink bunny robe. "That was wonderful, as usual." Reaching up to put her hand on my cheek, she cooed. "I won't be able to wear a bra for days. By the way, did your folks like their Tea Friday night?"

"Yes, absolutely. Thanks for putting it together for us, and thanks for getting Beatrice and Elizabeth out to help with it."

"Oh, no worries. The lasses look up to you, Vicar, they adore you. In a few months, they'll be eighteen," she said, with an odd look in her eye and a smirk on her face. 

I got back to the Vicarage and changed into my running clothes. It was too humid to run far through the neighborhood, so I returned early to work out downstairs. When I descended, I heard the hottub burbling, and smiled at the thought of the nymph Agnes bathing, however when I entered the room, my parents were ensconced there, naked, with my Mother sitting on my Father's lap. I wasn't able to see anything other than their bare shoulders. My Dad called out: "Hi, son," but I darted back upstairs as quickly as possible and downed a shot of Bourbon before sitting heavily to recover from the sight. 

"How did he get down there?" I asked the empty air of my study. "He can't manage stairs anymore. There's no railing on the basement stairs." Then, I remembered. The Vicarage sat on a hillside: the front door was ground level, but the slope dropped off to a ground level entry to the basement. He could have wheeled out through the Chapel, tooled around the side of the building, and gone in through the back door. I hope he was clothed for the trip.

At that moment, Mary Sterns ducked in. She came over with a big smile and gave me a kiss on the cheek, but her face took on a look of concern when she saw the look on mine. "What happened to you?"

"I came back from my run and went downstairs to work out. Mom and Dad are down their in the tub."

"Yes?"

"Naked. Having sex." "Good for them" The puzzled look remained. "I guess you knew they did that, didn't you?" she said after a moment's pause.

"Yes."

"We're all adults here. Been there, done that, seen that."

"Yes."

Another awkward pause. "You're still sitting there like a lump."

"Yes."

"Did you never walk in on your parents when you were a tyke?"

"No. Never. When I got scared as a kid, I crawled in with my big sister Nancy who was five years older than I. If I was getting sick, or feeling extremely scared, Nancy would go get them. John told me about the facts of life; Janet and I worked out the rest with some study and practice. That's what I got for being the youngest of six: had to stand in line for service."

"So, how does this make you go all strange? It's not like you're a monk."

"Can't explain it very well. Most of the people I know don't want to know about their parent's sex lives. Makes me feel like an intruder, like I'm privy to forbidden knowledge that I don't want to know. Kind of like walking in on someone defecating or something like that. Very awkward; doesn't feel good."

She put her hand on my shoulder. "All right, take your time and get over it. You smell like a combination between an old sweat sock and. . .Mavis?" I nodded. "I'm glad you had time for her; she has been getting very--restless lately. Go clean up. Everything will be all right." I stood up slowly and she guided me to the door and toward the stairs. 

I showered and shaved after Mary left, putting on a nice shirt and slacks. Working through the stack on my desk and making several calls, I got caught up with everything that was left from my week out of town and worked ahead a little bit. Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazelton called with a dinner invitation for that evening: I was worried at first, but she was very lucid the other night and sounded like she was under control, so I accepted with the caveat that her daughter be present. 

My Mom stuck her head in to tell me that lunch was ready. Agnes was off playing tennis, so it was the three of us. We caught up on my brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, and all the cousins. They were happy to accept Lucinda's invitation, and talked about visiting the zoo the next day before packing Wednesday and leaving early Thursday morning. Not a word was spoken about seeing them in the tub earlier.

Agnes jogged into my study around 3:30, hot and sweaty, the moisture making her brief tennis outfit cling to her body. I was working on my dissertation proposal: my recent paper comparing and contrasting the teachings of the Lollards and the Hussites had given me an direction for an more extensive treatment of the subject, bringing in some original material I'd discovered in Oxford about Anne of Bohemia and her circle at the court of Richard II. She gave me a sultry look as I raised my head, then turned to lock the door before bounding across the room to land in my lap. She gave me a deep kiss and piped: "Hello, Al. Where's the parental units?"

"They're taking a nap. We're going to Lucinda Parkhurst Frazelton's house tonight, then to the Zoo tomorrow, so they need their energy. I thought you'd be worn out after your tennis this afternoon."

"Oh, I had a drink afterward with Rachel."

"Rachel?"

"Rachel Staton."

"And you came back all hot and horny right now?"

She squirmed on my lap and batted her eyes. "Yes."

"And you want to give you a good shagging?"

"If you please."

She was very appealing, and I got interested quickly. "All right, come sit on my lap and we'll talk about the first thing that comes up."

A sharp buzz of her pouting lips replied. "That line's so old. . ." But she came over, knelt before me and undid my fly. With a few deft strokes of her soft hand and tongue, my cock was ready for her, and she slid her panties down to impale herself slowly and easily. She gripped the arms of my chair to maintain her balance she glided up and down, drawing me deep inside her, as she turned her head straight up at the ceiling. I put my hands on her perky breasts and kneaded them, reveling in their soft downyness. My member was enjoying the ride in Agnes' tight channel, and soon I erupted a river of love deep inside her.

Just as she finished her orgasm mounted upon me, there were heavy footsteps and a knock at my door. "Alfred, are you in there?" asked my Mother's voice.

"Yes, Mom. Just--counseling a parishioner."

"Why is the door locked?"

"I always lock the door, never interrupted that way. Lots of people wander through here." Agnes put her head on my shoulder and bit me softly to suppress her giggling.

"All right, son. Your Dad just wanted to know if you wanted a drink at the Pub before we go over to Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton's house."

"Sure, Mom. Just give me fifteen more minutes for my--session, and I'll be right with you."

"We'll see you then." The heavy footsteps faded down the hallway.

Agnes had remained on my pelvis, listening with her eyes wide open in disbelief and her hand over her mouth. When my Mother finally departed, she moved her head to my chest and started laughing uncontrollably, muffling her amusement in my front. I smacked her on the buttock: "Ride's over, Perky. Let me off so I can clean up a little before I have to go out with my parents."

"This is as bad as being a student again for you, isn't it?" she jibed as she got off and pulled her panties back up. "Maybe next time we'll have to go parking out by the old factory."

"Is that the local parking spot right now?"

She smirked, skipped to the door, unlocked it, and disappeared toward her rooms. There was a half bath adjacent to my study, so I used it to clean up a little before going out.

Harry Hazelton was holding court at the Pub, jovially beckoning us to join him at the table. "Great day, Vicar, great day. Took a flutter at the gee-gees, and they paid off, my lads, they paid off every one! Made a full Monkey! Drinks are on me! Guv'nor, if you'd do the honors."

Johnny Wickham nodded and asked my parents what they wanted, nodding and smiling as they asked for Budweiser, a request that would have gotten one of the locals an evening's worth of abuse. I asked for Bushmills followed by a Harp lager and a glass of ice water. We settled in next to Harry with our drinks, who was beaming relentlessly, with Stan Dover and Percy Whitson nearby. As I sat next to Percy, he clapped me on the shoulder, his face alight with several pints, and shouted in my ear: "My Peg's got anudder bun in th' oven, Vic. All thanks ta yahu, lad." With that he laid a big, long, sloppy kiss on my left cheek. 

I looked unsteadily at my parents, and replied to him: "Congratulations, Percy. At last, you're building your stairsteps as you wanted."

"Dohn't'I know it, Vic, dohn't'I know it. She's been a right goer ever since you giv' us tat advice about. . ." At this, I knocked the glass of water into Percy's lap, which sent his arm flailing to knock over his and Stan's pints as he rocked back and forth in surprise.

"Hey, waddya doin'" Stan complained, pushing Percy back in my direction.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Percy, here let me help you. I'll buy you another round of drinks, boys." Percy settled down in a moment or two, and looked around unsteadily. 

"M'trousers'r wet," he said in amazement. My mother took over in an instant. "Ah, Mr. Whitson, I think I'd get home right away and change into something dry if I were you. It won't do you any good to sit around in your damp pants."

"Why don't you help Percy get home, Stan?" I said quickly. "I'm sure that his Peg wouldn't want anything else to happen to him tonight after their good news."

Stan was looking glum and rebellious for a moment. Johnny brought over another set of pints for the men, and Stan drained his with one swallow. "All right, Vicar, 'nly 'cause it's you that's askin'" He weaved upright and pulled his friend's arm over his shoulder, bringing Percy to a relatively upright position. "I'll buh back after I' seen him safe." They lurched across the Pub, and finding the outside door on the second try, went out into the street.

Harry continued beaming at us in spite of the accident, a little in his cups but not far out of control. My mother leaned over and said: "What was Mr. Whitson talking about dear, about how you helped him start his family?"

I took a breath. "Percy and his wife Peggy were having some marital problems, communication and such, and I worked with them a bit. Once they could talk again, their interest in starting a family resurfaced and they had their first little girl last winter."

"A lov'ly wee lass, with a full head of hair right out of the oven," Harry mused.

"And they were telling me that they wanted several children, so this is some news they were eager to hear."

"Don't know about that," my Father said, "several children that close in age can be an awful burden. They take up all your time." 

My Mother gave him a smack on the arm. "They took up all your time? I thought I was the designated child wrangler on the ranch?"

"Yes, yes, Wilma, you were, but I had a hand with those children as well."

"A hand, Fletcher, a hand?" 

Harry thankfully broke in before the conversation embarrassed me too much: "I know what ya' mean, Fletcher, me lad. Our six lasses came one after the other and keeping meself sane in the midst of that hen party was a trick, for certain. Had to rouse up before daybreak to get time in the lavvy every morning. My Mavis took care of them, all I had to do was bust up a couple of young lads who didn't know what respect for a lady meant."

"I kept the shotgun in the front room," my Dad said proudly, "kept my girls safe from any cocky young bucks that trespassed on our spread."

Mom hit Dad on the arm again: "Flet-CHER!" Turning to me, Harry inquired with a devilish grin: "Did'ya get over to see Mavis this mornin'? She was right anxious that you come by and abuse the girls for her."




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 20



My Dad gave me a wry smile. "Abuse the girls, son?"

I shot back the whiskey and took a sip of the lager. "Mavis and her girls are working on a quilt for our sister parish in Alice Springs. She wanted me to come by when they were there so they could get my opinion of what they were doing."

"Oh," my Mom said, "and since when have you become interested in stitchery? I had to nag you for three years before you learned how to put a button back on your shirt."

"It's a Pastor thing, Mom. They need my support and encouragement, so they asked me to come by and look at their work. I said it was just fine, and they were happy."

"But I didn't see any quilts in the Quilting Room of your church this weekend. Why aren't they working on it there?"

"Ah, they wanted it to be a family gift and so they didn't feel right about using the Parish room."

"Surely Mary and Sheila would have been all right with them working there."

"Oh yes, certainly." I took another sip of lager. "But they wanted to keep it a secret. Since it was just them and not the whole parish."

Harry looked a little bewildered at all this, but I gave him a look and he relaxed and smiled. "Right, Wilma, just like he's tellin' ya. They're makin' a quilt at my house. Takes up most o'th' front room."

"Abusing the girls?" my Mom pressed on.

"Well, we kid around a lot, you know, insult humor. They give me a hard time; I give them a hard time. It's the way they like it, Mom. If I gave them a kind word directly, they'd think I was sick or insane."

"Yeah, sick or insane," Harry echoed.

I looked at my watch. "It's time to finish our beer, it's almost time to go to Lucinda's house." Dad drank his brew down as I did; Mom gave me a doubting look as she finished hers. Harry used the opportunity to drain his glass and beckoned to the bartender for another.

"Well, it's been good to see you again, Fletch, Wilma. I hope you have a wonderful time at Lucinda's house," Harry said expansively. "Do ya think she'll do the Cinnamon Altoid thing for ya?"

I turned to my parents and moved them toward the door. "Lucinda sometimes does a tapioca dessert that she laces with Cinnamon Altoids sometimes. She's a little--unusual like that. We might see it and we might not, depends on her mood." I turned to Harry. "Bye Harry."

"Bye, me son, there's a good lad," he said, as he waved us out like royalty.

"Do you think Harry was a little sloshed tonight?" I asked my folks.

"I though Harry was a lot sloshed," Mom said, "but I wonder what he was really talking about."

We arrived at the Parkhurst-Frazelton mansion without incident, and Willikins was kind enough to give us a tour of the house when we arrived, since Lucinda was still getting ready. My folks were amazed; they thought it was more ornate than Buckingham Palace. We met Lucinda and her daughter, Mother Mary Rufus in full habit and glasses, in the sitting room, where we sat sipping sherry as she entertained us with stories about her travels with her husband. The Nun held her mother's hand as she talked, and when Lucinda seemed to veer toward a dangerous anecdote, she gave her mother's hand a hard squeeze to distract her and redirect the flow of the narratives.

Dinner was superb, as usual, and dessert was a glass flute of fresh strawberries with cream. As we savored it, my mother said: "I understand you have a special dessert made with tapioca and Cinnamon Altoids."

"I do?" Lucinda asked, with a disjointed tone in her voice. 

"Certainly, Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton," I broke in, "We've enjoyed it many times here together, haven't we, Mother Mary Rufus?"

"I do like Cinnamon Altoids. . ." Lucinda continued.

Mother Mary Rufus looked confused for a moment, then caught up with me. "Oh, yes, Mother, surely you remember. We had it just last Wednesday when I dropped by for supper. You taught Willikins your recipe."

Willikins was the model of subtle servitude and answered smoothly. "Yes, Madame, you taught me that recipe many years ago, and it's been my pleasure to serve it to you on many occasions."

Lucinda shook her head daintily, and blinked a moment. "Of course, tapioca and Altoids. My husband enjoyed it so."

We adjourned to the study with snifters of brandy after dinner, where my father and I shot some billiards while the women chatted. My game was off, as I tried to catch bits and pieces of their conversation, but they were just out of my range. Dad looked at my strangely as my shots went awry, and I shrugged my shoulders. "I'm way out of practice, Dad. Don't get a chance to shoot pool much with all the things going happening in the Parish."

"I'm sure," he said with a smirk on his face. The butler returned with some photo albums, and put them on a table in front of Lucinda and my mother. "I thought you would like to see some shots of my children growing up," Lucinda began, "We went to several nice places as we taught them about the world."

"That would be wonderful," Mom said. She loved photo albums and had a full shelf at the ranch devoted to family adventures and other travels. "Would you like to come over and see these, honey?"

"In a minute," Dad said, before he ran the table. "Now I'm ready. Thanks for the game, son."

"I've seen all these pictures many times and so has Father Alfred," Mother Mary Rufus interjected. "May I show him another part of the house that he may not have seen before?"

"What would you like to show him dear?" Lucinda asked quietly.

"I thought I'd show him my old room."

"Oh, that's a good idea. Run along then, Barbie."

"Is it all right if I go?" I asked my parents.

"Good grief, Alfred, you're a grown man now," Mom replied. "We'll be fine here, go see what the Sister wants to show you."

Willikins was standing nearby to keep an eye on them, so Mother Mary Rufus and I went off down a corridor. When we got out of sight, she took my hand and gave it a squeeze: "I thought she'd never get around to the pictures. You ready for a little fun?" I nodded my head.

It was up two levels and down a long corridor before we reached her old bedroom, which she occupied as Barbara Parkhurst-Frazelton. The cleaning staff kept it as she left it, but clean and neat. A large space, it was furnished in the Louis XV style, with a large, framed picture of Michelangelo's David dominating the wall across from her canopied bed. "I can still get into most of my clothes from that time," Barbara said, "but they're horribly out of style. Once in a while we have a costume party, and I find an old set of hippie style clothes to wear. There used to be a television and stereo in here, but I had them moved to the Rec Room after I moved out. There also used to be a huge picture of the Stones, Mick Jagger singing with Keith Richards behind him. This drawer is where I kept my dildo and vibrator collection."

"And where did they end up?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" She said with a coquettish smile. "It's the wrong time of the month to have a lot of fun together, but I've always wanted to seduce a man in my room. When I was a slut, I slept around in a lot of places, but never here." A box on Cinnamon Altoids appeared in her hand. "Care for a little of Mother's special dessert?"

I gathered her in my arms, her flowing habit clenched tightly to me, I gave her a long, hard kiss, and she sank to her knees to undo my trousers. A couple of red candies went into her mouth, and I took a couple as well. It had been a long time since the electric tingle of her wet tongue embraced my member, spreading its magic up from my groin through my torso and all the way to the tip of my head. Her head, a concerto of soft black and white cloth, black rimmed glasses and the lustrous skin of her face, culminating on her soft, red lips that played over my skin. Looking in the mirror, I regarded myself standing in the middle of the room, dressed in my dog collar, the habited nun kneeling before me, her body working back and forth. 

She was all over my cock, all over my testicles, up and down my thigh, licking, sucking, nibbling gently. My genitals were on fire, and soon I added a huge amount of my cream to the Cinnamon fire in her mouth, which she consumed like a famished person at the end of a fast. After sucking me dry, she looked up at me innocently and asked: "Shall we go back to our parents?" I gave her a swat on her heavily padded backside and we prepared to return.

The parents hardly noticed our return, my Father giving me a broad wink as we entered the room. Lucinda was describing a family journey to Greece, when my Father started to breathe more shallowly and rapidly. "Are you all right, Fletcher?" my Mother asked.

"For the most part," he got out. "Need a pill."

"Do you need a nitro-glycerin pill, sir?" Willikins asked. "Yes, that's what he needs," Mom said, "I've got them in my bag." She quickly fished one out and gave it to him, which helped rather quickly. "I think it's time we went back," she said.

Our departure was uneventful, although Mother Mary Rufus wore a silly grin on her face that made me nervous. We got Dad settled into bed when we got home and called it a night.

The next morning, Mom had to go out for a few things, so I went to have a chat with Dad. "Are you all right, Dad?"

"Fine son, just fine."

"Are you sure? What about last night?" 

"Oh, that happens from time to time, but I just take the nitro pill and I'm fine."

"I'm worried about you."

He thought for a moment, and smiled at me. "I appreciate that son, but you shouldn't. I've got good doctors, good medicine and the finest woman in the world to take care of me. Sure, I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow: I'd like to stay on this planet a while longer, but I'm ready for the next world anytime. Wilma will be all right without me; she's got a lot of folks to look after her when I'm gone.

"It's been good to see England, son, get an idea of your daily life. You've got a good life, good people around you, a good parish. I can see how you love it here. You've done well, son." "Thanks, Dad."

"How soon will you get your dissertation done?"

"The proposal should be done in another month. I'll get right on it and get it done by Easter of next year."

"You'll have to come back to defend it?"

"Yes, back to Chicago. I'll come out to the ranch while I'm on your side of the Pond."

"That'll be nice, son. Your mother is looking forward to another graduation."

"I know. I'll do everything I can to make that happen."

"I worry about her, Alfred, she works so hard. She's going to the Doc regularly, but she never tells me how she's doing. I'm afraid I'll wake up one day and find her gone."

"No, Dad, Mom's doing just fine. She'll be there for you." Dad paused for a moment and looked out the window. It had been raining earlier in the morning, but the sun had come out and the view of the back yard was stunning in its symphony of greens and flowers. He sighed, and said: "This is beautiful. Here and now, it's beautiful, and that's what matters. Don't forget to take one day at a time, son, savor what you have."

Mom came back at that moment, and shortly she and Agnes were running around getting their stuff organized for the return journey. I visited some shut ins that I hadn't gotten around to since before my trip after Lunch, and got back just in time for Tea. They made an early evening, since we had to take them to Heathrow for an 8:00AM departure.

Agnes and I saw them to Security, and I got a pass to assist them to their plane. Clerical dress does help from time to time. We waited for the plane in silence, watching the people go by on their way to holidays in different destinations. Most of them were talking about going to Spain, others to southern France. A tour of Catholics were on their way to Medjugore. The flight was called, and they got ready for preboarding. My Dad gave me a firm handshake and wished me farewell, but Mom clung to me for an embarrassingly long time with surprising force. Tears streamed down her face, and I whispered in her ear: "I'm glad you came."

She nodded in reply. "I'll be back home just after Easter. Keep me posted how you're doing. Give my best to the rest of the family."

"I love you, Alfred," she said in a trembling voice.

"I love you, Mom." She gave me another bear hug before turning to push my Dad's wheelchair down the jetway. He gave me a jaunty wave, and I stayed to watch as their plane taxied out for takeoff. It's not a good feeling wondering if you're ever going to see someone alive again. The two weeks had been wonderful, however, and I was glad they came.



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 21



The tradition of the silent retreat as laid out by St. Ignatius of Loyola goes back 500 years in Western Christianity. The enforced silence can provide an unique opportunity for free or directed reflection by making space for the Spirit to fill. I would imagine that the forward thinking Church of England would be amenable to borrowing from the Jesuit saint despite the historical rivalry. However, giving up speech doesn't necessarily mean giving up other things. . . 

Please welcome two new members to the cast; you could say Vicar Alfred and Mother Mary Rufus (aka Barbara) are getting apprentices, although neither mentor will be as relentless or demanding as The Donald. 

Finally, thanks to my anonymous friend in Australia, who gave me the idea for the silent retreat, as well as a couple of others. Please feel free to induct yourself as an honorary Quilting Lady. Vicar Alfred will be round the next time he's Down Under. 

He cast a long shadow as he entered my study, this virile young man. Curly red hair covered his head; his long, lean body was well muscled under light chocolate skin. His hands were soft and delicate, with long, thin fingers; his eyes blue and serious. I stood up and crossed the room to greet him: Kieran Hali, the son of Miriam, pastor of St. William's parish not far away. "How's it going, Kieran?" I asked as he came through my door.

"Not bad, Father, not bad."

"What brings you to St. Dunstan's today?"

"I'd like to chat with you about something I've been thinking about a lot lately." Keiran was the only child of an Irish father and a Nigerian mother. I'd seen him many times in my time at St. Dunstan's as he grew up in his mother's Vicarage, and at many joint service projects the area Youth groups undertook. "I don't know how my Mum is going to take it, and I need some advice."

"Sit, Kieran, sit. Anything I can do to help you?"

"Yes," he said, settling uncomfortably in his chair. I came out from behind my desk and sat across from him. His lanky frame was uncomfortable in the chair: he was almost 6' 8" in American standard and he consciously tried not to loom over me as he faced me. The music of his voice was pure British in deep, resonant tones, well spoken and deliberate. "I've been wrestling with something the past few months, and I wanted your advice."

"I'm flattered, Kieran. Please, tell me what's on your mind. Everything all right at school?"

"Yes, Father. But I'm thinking about changing my major."

"To what?" "Theology."

I crossed my legs as I regarded him. His face showed him to be a little timid in putting forward his idea, but there was a determination in his voice. "So you want to leave pre-Law for Theology? Is this an academic interest, or is there something more?"

He nodded his head. "I think God is calling me to be an Anglican Priest."

"Like your mother."

"Well, yes and no."

"Yes and no?"

"Well, I'm different than her."

"Of course." The leaves were rustling dryly on the trees outside: mid-October was turning green to various colors and putting a slight chill in the air, although fall in England was a bit more gentle than on the Plains of Kansas. Kieran was a bit nervous as he looked at me. "How did this come about?" I asked.

"Oh, many things, Father. I took an Ethics class in the first Semester that got me thinking about things, and I've been volunteering at the Thornbridge Soup Kitchen three times a week.. You've probably noticed that I've snuck into some of your liturgies at St. Dunstan's?"

"Yes, Kieran, I did, but I didn't think much of it. I assumed you had a good reason not to be at St. Will's and your mother approved of what you were doing."

"Well, Mum generally lets me alone about that, I haven't been ready to talk to her about this. Most of what I hear from her is about how busy she is and what a grind playing all the political games around St. Will's can be. I've gone with her on some home visits to tough areas, and that's been pretty good for both of us, but I haven't told her that. I truly love your preaching, and your sermon on Matthew 25 really touched my heart."

"The parable of the Sheep and the Goats?"

"Yes. Ever since then, I've had this feeling that I'm not cut out to be a Barrister, I'm just a bit too honest for that. I want to serve God, Father, to help people in need, to preach the Word, to administer the Sacraments."

His eyes were blazing and his voice was earnest. I remembered that fire when I was his age, and I approved. If he wants to try it, why not? "Sure, lad. You'll have to keep from telling Mary Sterns you think you're too honest to be a Barrister, but I think it's a great idea if that's how you feel. Might as well give it a try now. How much do you know about what you're getting into?"

"Oh, I know about the politics and the tectonic plates of power that grind against one another on every level. I know the hours it takes, how your life is taken up. It's also so powerful, it's like having a front row seat seeing the Holy Ghost working in people's lives. I've been praying the Office; I got a copy of the Book of Common Prayer from the University Bookstore." "Wonderful, Kieran. How much does your family have to do with this inclination?"

"I don't understand."

"Your mother is an Anglican priest. Your father is a Catholic priest. It looks like you're going into the family business."

A sudden gentle smile creased his face. "Yeah, I can see where you'd say that. I grew up in Vicarages, so you could say I'm a legacy. Only met my father once, a couple of years ago. He was in the retirement house for the Holy Ghost Fathers in Dublin, bent over with age but still pretty lively although fading a bit. I made my way there and introduced myself; he was very cordial but a bit distant. We talked about small things for a while, then he wanted to know exactly when and where I was born. He didn't dispute that he was my father one bit. He was worried that I'd want something from him, some money or recognition, but when I assured him I didn't, he relaxed a bit. Never indicated whether he was happy with me directly, but when I left, there was a small smile on his face. He passed a year later, and left me his old Rosary. Now that I think of it, it seems like, passing the torch."

I nodded, and thought about what to do. "I'm glad that the Lord is leading you this direction. So how can I help you?"

"Well, the diocese has an intern program for candidates for priesthood where they live in a parish while they go to school. I've got a brochure and talked with the Vocation Office."

"Frankie Crookshank. Good fellow, nice guy."

"Staying with my Mum would be a bit of spiritual incest, but I don't want to be too far away from her. St. Edmund's is the nearest parish, but Father Arthur is someone that I'm--I'm--uncomfortable with. Father George is the other near neighbor, but I've always admired you and the way you work the parish here, my Mum had always admired you so much, so I was wondering. . ."

"If you could do your internship here? Gosh, let me think about that. I'm flattered, Kieran, I truly am. There's a lot of things going on here that would give you a good cross section of what Church is all about, you could even spend some time in our sister parish in Alice Springs. You should get to Africa, too. We do have the physical space for you, but I'll have to think about it. When are you planning to talk to your mother?"

"Well, you're going off for a retreat in a couple of days, you Vicars of the area."

"Yes, three deaneries at St. George's Convent. An Ignatian retreat, we won't be able to talk for five days."

"Should I tell her before she goes or after?"

"Gosh, it could go either way. I'm sure you're bursting with the news, aren't you?" He nodded his head eagerly. "Well, go ahead and talk to her and tell her that I'm open to discussing it. I need to chat with a few folks here to see what they think about it; wouldn't want to do this without their support."

"Understood, wouldn't have it any other way."

"All right, I think we have a course of action. Full speed ahead, and I should be able to get back to you a week after the retreat."

He stood up and held out his hand. "Thanks, Father Alfred, I couldn't have asked for any more."

"God bless you, my son. May the Lord complete the good work He has begun in you."

"Amen."

I saw him to the door, and went to the kitchen where Agnes was fixing lunch. She was dressed in only a red thong; the nipples of her pert breasts were standing up with a silver chain running between the small, pierced rings she wore. Her red hair was tied back in a pony tail, and she was sweating a little in the heat of the kitchen. I gave her a peck on the cheek and a fondle as I stood behind her at the stove. "Someday, someone is going to walk in on you."

She wiggled her hips back into me. "Someone already has. What's up?"

"I was just talking with Kieran Hali. Do you know him?"

"Yes, Kieran and I are old mates. He's been like a little brother to me, we've known each other for ages."

"Kieran was just here and is interested in the priesthood."

"I wondered when he'd follow through on that. Been thinking about it for years."

"And he was interested in being an intern here. What would you think of that?"

She turned and gave me a big kiss. "It'd be lovely, Al. He's such a good kid, and we get along famously."

"We might have to be a little more discreet around him."

A frown creased her face momentarily. "Yeah, I can see that, but it's OK by me, O Great Shagmaster Deluxe. We've fucked in almost every room of the house, so we can throttle back. It'll be fun carrying on behind his back; maybe we could get away with it and he'd never know, even though he's living under the same roof." She giggled a moment with her hand to her face.

"Nice to see that you're in favor of the idea."

"He's very naive; I don't think he's ever had a date. Very shy around the girls, although they talk about him all the time behind his back."

"Oh, how so?"

"Well, he's a nice boy and very bright, not like some of the Lords Muck, posers and wankers most of the lads are. Gets embarrassed easily. Must be very sheltered growing up with Vicar Miriam."

"Well, we can see he gets educated in many different ways."

"Yeah, I can really get to work matchmaking for him now. He needs a woman, desperately."

I laughed and swatted her shapely backside. "I see we're going to take care of him better than he can imagine. I hope you don't corrupt him too badly."

"No more than I've corrupted him already," she sassed back. "Since you'll be preoccupied this afternoon and evening, tied up all day on the Lord's Day tomorrow, and leaving Monday to be quiet all week, how about a little mid-morning shag, right here and now?"

"Why can't we go back to your flat?"

"I have to keep an eye on the pots and pans. Why don't you go lock the door, while I work some more on a couple of things for here?"

It took a moment to lock the front and side doors. On returning to the kitchen, I noticed Agnes was rubbing baby oil on a long, freshly peeled carrot. Putting it on the cutting board, she gestured for me to open my fly, before which she knelt to prepare me. At the end of the long, thin kitchen, I saw a full length mirror leaning against the wall. It showed me the back of her sweet form, a perfect cello shape, and the luster of her red hair as it bobbed back and forth making me glad I was a man. When I was fully erect, she stood up and pointed to the olive oil on the counter: "Why don't you lube up my arse? I'd like you to put the carrot back there while you fill my love canal."

I used my right hand to lubricate her bottom, working in a lot of oil with two fingers. Her hips wiggled in delight as I invaded her backside. The carrot was around eight inches long: it widened to a half inch right away, swelled to an inch wide and the uppermost part was three inches wide. She had oiled up to the last swelling of the carrot, leaving it dry for handling. I teased her vertical smile several times before slowly working it in up to the bulb at the top. Reaching around with my left hand, I then massaged her bud and found her ready for penetration.

It was heaven, sliding into her tightly gripping wetness, that squeezed and caressed my John Thomas as I thrust into her. I looked at the mirror: she had braced herself at the counter bent over, the dimples of her back prominent, and she had taken the chain between her breasts in her teeth. The chain didn't provide much pressure, but it pulled her tits up beautifully, and I reached up to caress them. Before long, she squealed as her first orgasm hit her. I slowed down a little to let her catch her breath, then accelerated until my plume of love surged deep into her sweetness, coinciding with a second culmination of her pleasure. We stayed conjoined for several moments before she turned to rest her head on my chest. I worked the vegetable from its tight confinement and threw it in the bin. 

She turned around and looked up at me at last. "Let me throw a robe on and we'll have lunch."

The rest of the day was spent in homily preparation, and a quick call to Mary alerted her about the possible new resident. She thought the Vestry would go for it, but they would need some more information from the Vocation Office about the financial obligation before they could definitely approve it. A call from Reverend Miriam Hali came after Tea: she was a little uncertain about her son getting a dog collar of his own, but liked the idea of him spending his internship with me, and was grateful I would consider it.

Sunday went fairly normally, and Monday morning I threw a few things in my bag to take to St. George's convent for the retreat. The weather moderated greatly due to a freak high pressure system: St. Martin's summer was returning to the British Isles, so I threw in my warm weather casual clothes as well as a set of clerics. Normally, we wouldn't need them for a retreat, but Archdeacon Tommy Hughes was going to be there and sometimes he could be anal about breaking out formal dress for a Eucharist or Evensong. 

I took my car to the walled grounds of St. George's in case of an emergency. The entryway to the Covent was humming with activity as I signed in and got my room assignment. Sr. Mary Justin, a stately woman in her 40's with blue eyes, gold rimmed glasses and a round face, beamed as she saw me: "Welcome, Alfred, it's good to have you here for a full week."

"Thanks, Sister. Where've you got me this time."

"Oh, the room at the end of the corridor, right next to the back stairwell." A broad wink accompanied her instruction. "Two floors up, last one on the right." A young novice came up: she was short with electric brown eyes, dark eyebrows, and a squarish face. She wore a brown tunic with a white wimple and veil without a coif or underveil; a sister in Simple Vows for this community. Sr. Mary Justin turned and made a few hidden gestures, to which the novice replied OK, I'll wait for the next one in sign language.

I caught her eyes and signed: Hello, who are you?

I'm Sister Mary Francis Xavier came the reply.

"You know Sign, Alfred?" Sister Mary Justin asked

"Yes, my older sister Penny is deaf, so I grew up signing. Haven't had a chance to use it much here, except for the yearly celebration at the Deaf Academy." I turned to the younger nun: How long have you been here? You've been hiding yourself.

A little over two years. Our paths haven't crossed. It's good to talk with someone else. Her face creased in a broad smile as she formed the words with her lips as she signed.

Does everyone here sign? I asked her.

"Yes, Alfred, almost all of us here sign except for a couple of the oldest sisters in the Infirmary," the older nun interjected. "Sister Mary Athanasius has been deaf most of her life as well, and several of us have been teachers of the deaf over the years." Sister Mary Athanasius was around 50 and a lovely woman in her own right, as her superior reported: her nickname was Jeannie and she was another user of Plato's Cave. "So you'll have no secrets from us with her, Father." The young nun smirked as she read the older woman's lips, and her eyes shot impishly back and forth between us, her eyebrows wiggling with delight.

Only Miriam signs in my group I told them, so if you want to tell me something you don't what my lot to know, go right ahead. Sister Mary Francis Xavier giggled in an odd tone as I took my leave of them, carrying my bags toward the stairs. 

It was a spare room, with two single trundle beds, a wooden desk and chair, and a wardrobe. On the desk was a folder with several pages from my fearless leaders regarding the retreat and a small lamp. The schedule was simple: the sections would run from noon the first day to noon the last day, each day focused on a week's worth of material from Ignatius' Spiritual Exercises. Nothing in the material told us what the sessions would be like, but I knew what form they would probably take since I did my Master's Thesis on Ignatius. From the time after our first session to after our last session on Friday, our voices were to remain silent at all times except during our daily meeting our private spiritual director, and the daily Eucharist we would celebrate in the Chapel just before lunch. After lunch on Friday, there would be a brief conference where Bishop Horace would tell us what was new down at the Chancery. There were rumors that he'd announce his retirement then, but others denied it, saying he would wait until the next general meeting of the entire Diocese in two years' time. A lot of money was riding both directions.

We gathered for the noon meal in a large meeting room in the main building. My deanery gathered pretty much intact: Edwina Hall of St. Augustine's, a thin, tall brunette in her 40's with sparkling blue eyes; Roberta Okoye of St, Barnabas, a short, skinny Nigerian also around 40's with a few flecks on white in her short black hair; Beatrice Williams of St. Paul's, a medium height, pleasingly plump woman not yet 30, whose dark brown skin, dark brown eyes and dark hair betrayed her Indian ancestry; Miriam Hali of St. Will's, another young thin woman just turned 40 from Nigeria; Pamela Andrews of St. Helen's, and George Staton, the Vicar of St. Alban's, my mentor and great friend. "Where's Artie?" Beatrice asked, "he's been keeping his smiling face hidden a lot lately. I covered a funeral for him a week ago; got the call midnight the night before. He was frantic."

Pamela looked at the back of the room. "Found the little shit," she fumed. "He's in the back with the Sisterhood, clowning and laughing at everybody." The Sisterhood was a group of 30 and 20 something gay priests who bonded as a private subgroup within our Diocese. "Look at him with the napkin over his face: he's doing her Highness the Bishop in some obscure story he hasn't bothered to tell us. What a pompous twit!" Pamela and Beatrice were opposites: Pam despised Arthur as much as she could while still being civil with him, and Bea thought he was delightful and spent as much time as she could around him without moving in.

"Ah, let the lad have his fun," Roberta said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. "He may actually grow up some day. We don't have much time to catch up with each other before we have to take the phone off the hook. What's going on?" We spent several minutes circulating gossip and filling each other in on what was happening in our parishes. Most of it was speculation about the future.

One topic that stayed off the radar was Kieran's interest in the priesthood. I happened to be sitting by Miriam, so I whispered in her ear: "Do you want to tell them the good news?"




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 21



She whispered back: "Let's wait until it's a cert. Someone downtown may object: he had to visit Horace and Tommy yesterday."

"Damn." I was hoping that Frank Crookshank could sneak Kieran's internship through without the head witches' coven getting wind of it. Tommy Hughes might short circuit this just for giggles. "OK, mum's the word. Shit, I wish he didn't have to deal with those vultures."

"Ditto."

Mother Mary Rufus looked serene as she sat between Bishop Delacroix and Archdeacon Hughes. She was nibbling her food demurely and pretending to be involved in conversation with the Bishop, nodding occasionally. Her eye caught mine and I spotted a brief, conspiratorial twinkle. Miriam was talking to George Staton on the other side of her, so I signed I want to lick your nipple while the illuminati were looking the other direction. I was rewarded with a look of surprise confined to her flaring eyes and nothing more.

After the meal, my dearest lady of the veil got up and got our retreat started. Our first day, until the next luncheon, was on the Contemplation of Sin. Mother Mary Rufus indicated where we were to find our spiritual directors and passed out a sheet of assignments: Sister Mary Justin was my advisor for this retreat, as were the rest of my deanery. That wasn't how these retreats normally went, but I didn't complain: our leadership wouldn't know good spiritual practice if it masticated their gluteal protuberances, and griping wouldn't help. After taking a few questions, we were commanded to keep silence for the rest of the retreat except when specifically allowed. Sister Mary Francis Xavier was standing in a corner, trying to look inconspicuous and giving me devilish looks from under her veil.

The day was excellent for contemplation: the grounds were in splendid shape, and I wandered freely around them as long as daylight lasted. There was reading at dinner: Sister Mary Martha read to us from the Spiritual Exercises. We spent time together in the Chapel listening to the sisters do Evening Prayer, then retired to go to our rooms. On the way out, Mother Mary Rufus signed Midnight here surreptitiously. I nodded subtly in reply.

As I went through the common area, Sister Mary Francis Xavier was waiting for me, and beckoned me to follow her to a sitting room. Closing the doors behind us, she beckoned me to a small couch while she sat cross legged on a coffee table in front of me. She settled with her hands on her knees, smiling broadly as she faced me. I like you, she formed with her hands, you're cute.

I like you, too.

Where are you from?

America. Kansas. A ranch.

Wow, America. Did you ride horses?

Yes, since I can remember. 

I love to ride horses. Got to ride at day camp when I was a kid. I miss it.

Yes, I miss it, too. Don't have enough money to join a riding club.

What else do you like to do?

Play chess, screw. . . 

A look of shock and amazement crossed her face. OK for you, since you're Anglican. I smiled in reply. A joke. From an old movie.

She thought for a few seconds, then smiled. Blazing Saddles. 

Gosh, this woman was too sharp for me. Yes. A favorite.

Mine too. What do you really like to do?

Shoot skeet and pool, really play chess, work out and jog, hang out at the Pub.

I like the Pub, too. We get to go on Saturday night, once a month.

Didn't know that.

You're always busy then. Do you really like to screw?

I gave the answer a great deal of thought, since her superior would not appreciate my seduction of one of her flock. Not that I wanted to; she looked like a charming girl, but I didn't really know her very well and I'm really not a slut. Who doesn't? I finally came up with in reply

She beamed. Do you want to see my tits?

No, thank you. We don't know each other that well.

Maybe later. She looked at the clock and bounded toward the door. See you, she signed before she darted through the door, closing it soundlessly despite her haste.

I laid on the trundle bed and dozed until my alarm signaled it was almost midnight. I made my way to the chapel: its enormity was enhanced by the hundreds of flickering votive candles. A figure was sitting in the nave about half way back, coming closer I saw it was Mother Mary Rufus, a Rosary clenched in her hands. Another figure was in the shadows in the back; seeing this, I knelt in the front pew. The man in the back looked a lot like Arthur Farnsworth, but I'd never seen him at prayer before and didn't want to disturb the rare occurrence..

After an seeming eternity, the Mother Superior glided silently down the side aisle and down toward a door to the right of the altar, away from the Convent. Looking around, I saw Arthur had left, so I followed.

The night was still warm, and the moon was almost full in a cloudless sky, surrounded by a few dots of light. The warrior Orion was climbing up from the Eastern horizon. It was still rather warm thanks to the influx of tropical air, and I found her standing like a statue next to a specific tomb. I crept up behind her and caressed her. "Hi," I whispered in her ear.

"You're on a silent retreat; you shouldn't be speaking," she snapped lightly. "Why didn't you ever tell me you knew Sign?"

I walked in front of her. You never asked.

"Thank you for being a smartass. Sister Mary Francis Xavier told me about your older sister."

There are still things we don't know about each other. Want me to make a list?

"No, not tonight. I've got a better use for you." Her pique evaporated; she came forward and gave me a deep kiss.

Won't someone catch us here? I asked after we broke.

"Who goes into an enclosed Covent cemetery in the middle of the night?"

Horny nuns.

"Touché. Plato's Cave is busy tonight: Jeannie is entertaining, and she'll probably take it for the week." I shrugged my shoulders. "Her sweetheart is here; she's grown found of one of your seminarians she met at Kent House, so they'll be very busy."

Won't that get him into trouble?

"No, we put him on the Third Floor by the back stairwell. It's the only room on the floor someone could sneak out and not get caught by the security cameras or be heard by everyone else on the floor."

My room is in the same spot on Second Floor.

"This should surprise you?" She gave me another kiss, running her hands down the back of my t-shirt and caressing my backside. After a few moments, she turned me around and pointed at the stone over my shoulder. "Read that."

It read: MARY ATHANASIUS SMITH, 1899-1988

I turned around in confusion. "Do you remember?" I shook my head. She looked in disbelief. "Are you sure you don't remember?" Trouble was brewing: I could smell it. "She gave me something I've never gotten rid of," her voice growled lowly in warning.

Finally, it dawned on me. Your name?

Bingo. She relaxed. "Yes, she's the bitch that named me after my dog. I'm going to get back at her all week long. Drop your shorts and plant your sweet cheeks on her grave, sugar."

It was easy to comply: the thought of making love on someone's grave appealed to my warped sense of humor right away, especially since it was the nun who did my Barbara an injustice. The dirt was very fine and gentle as I sat bareassed on it, and it didn't take Barbara long to stroke and suck me into readiness. She pulled up her tunic all the way above her breasts and settled herself on me, her velvet vise moister than normal as it devoured my offering. I rested my shoulders on the stone, but couldn't maintain the position for very long; we traded places and her bare back was printed itself deeply in the turf as we rode our way to sublime culmination. As we lay together, me on top of her, after our orgasms, she whispered in my ear: "Same time tomorrow, big boy?" There was only one answer.

I showered after getting back to wash the dirt off my body. Morning Song was far too early the next day; I'm sure that I was barely coherent for my spiritual direction session with Sister Mary Justin right afterward.

Bishop Horace insisted we all dress up for Eucharist, so we looked like a Papal Conclave the next morning in the hour before lunch. Several of us gagged from the amount of incense Archdeacon Tommy insisted on using, Horace rambled forever during his sermon, and the wine for consecration was downright awful. Lunch was a simple but welcome respite after that experience.

Right after lunch, Sister Imp beckoned me into a sitting room as I was returning to my room. She led me to the couch and settled cross legged before me again, her tunic unnecessarily high to reveal shapely calves and delicate feet in leather sandals. You were out late last night, she said with a smirk on her face.

Oh, really? Yes, really. You went out just before midnight and got back about an hour and a half later, then you took a shower. Red was missing about the same time. Coincidence?

I was praying in the chapel and saw Red there. She crossed her arms and gave me a disdainful look. This is a retreat and we're supposed to pray, right?

She looked askance for a few more moments, then the mood dropped in an instant. I guess. I don't care. As long as Red enjoys herself.

And the showers are free that time of night. How did you know I was out?

It's my week to watch the cameras at night. The junior nuns in Simple Vows take turns a week at a time. I like it cause it means no class and no other work.

Good for you.

You weren't the only one wandering last night.

Oh, really?

Yes. You weren't the only one wandering. Several were out, in each other's rooms.

That got my attention. Oh? Who?

They weren't wearing name tags. Several young men went to the Bishop's room, the other old fart roamed the hallways looking for someone. The middle aged man with a little belly was in the Indian lady's room. All the other women had guests except the young African woman had a man.

George spent the night with Beatrice; she was rumored to be insatiable and George admitted to having a prescription for Viagara once. I saw them wander together in the gardens that afternoon and at Evensong they sat next to each other making eyes at one another. The Sisterhood had convened in the big Queen's quarters, the less I knew about that the better. Tommy was probably roaming the halls looking for Arthur. Miriam's solitude didn't surprise me; she had never recovered from the fling with Keiran's father twenty years ago and never dated to my knowledge. Roberta was always down to earth and earthy, but Edwina and Pamela had always struck me as extremely virginal women, too prim and proper to solicit male attention. I guess you never know, I signed at last. Where was Arthur?

Which one is he?

Short, thin, dark hair, dark eyes. Prankster, troublemaker. Usually floats with the Sisterhood.

A terrified look crossed her face, then disappeared as quickly as it appeared. Don't know.

Don't lie to me. Can't say. Don't ask me. Can I suck your cock?

I rocked back in surprise. We don't know each other well enough. Big Red will be jealous, won't she?

That was greeted with an odd, high pitched giggling. What Red doesn't know won't hurt me.

Sorry, I have to be faithful.

Her eyes opened wide and her shoulders went up and back. So, you admit it!

I admit nothing. I need to go take a nap.

Let me go with you.

Won't the cameras see you go into my room?

Yes, and I'd be in deep shit. Bye. She hopped up to her feet and darted silently out of the room. I wondered how they managed that.

The rest of the afternoon and evening were spent reviewing the early life of Christ. Bedtime came right after supper considering my soon to be interrupted sleep. I snuck out the back stairwell and made a circuitous route through the Chapel to the Cemetery at Midnight, so Sister Mary Francis Xavier wouldn't spot me. This night was warm as well, and I bent Barbara over the tombstone itself, with her stomach resting on the marble and her hands balancing on the ground beyond, her habit lifted high to expose her sweet posterior and her bare feet clenching the earth, as I made love to her from behind. The night wind rustled the fragile leaves on the trees and felt delicious on our skin. We were so turned on that it didn't take long for both of us to orgasm deeply.

Tell me about the deaf novice, I asked Barbara afterward. 

"Sister Mary Francis Xavier?" I nodded in reply. "Sharp as a whip, bright as a penny, pure trouble. Her adoptive mother named her Helen Joy Robinson, and she's lived up to her name. Zeal for religious life is apparent, zeal for pushing the boundaries is, too."

Was she always deaf?

"It was a freak ear infection when she was three, picked it up in Indonesia. Her mother thought taking her to distant places without proper medical care would be good for her. Top of her class from the day she hit school. She's taking classes in Biblical Studies at University, and teaches Sign to parents and siblings of deaf children at Kent House. They say she's the best."

Is she always aggressive?

"Is the moon always above us? Are the tombstones always grey? Yes, she's incredibly aggressive. She needs to learn to moderate that. "Why the curiosity?"

We've been talking. She is charming in her own way.

"Do you find her attractive?" Barbara asked with an edge to her voice.

I'm may be crazy but I'm not stupid. Too much for me to handle.

"She reminds me of me at that age. Thank God we grow out of it. Has she come on to you?"

I shook my head, lying to preserve tranquility. We'd stopped Contemplating Sin around lunchtime, and I was sure this was a readily forgivable situation.

Wednesday morning was a repeat of the previous morning. Sister Mary Justin was happy with the contemplations I shared with her, and I was happy to use my voice. The Eucharist was another heavily vested, sweaty firehouse, the clouds of incense billowing thickly and partially hiding the altar in an acrid haze. Gasping for air, we sought relief of our dining hall, sharing simple food and real wisdom from Ignatius.

The Imp sidetracked me again for another confab in the same room. You stayed in your room last night.

I was tired.

More room hopping. Couple of men went to old fart's suite all night, couple spent an hour with the Bishop around 10PM. Middle aged man was in older African woman's room. Young African woman only one left alone. 

Did the other girls keep the same partners? No. They're sluts.

I resent that. They are Anglican priests, noble women deserving respect. We both had to laugh. Did you track down Arthur? A cold, blank stare was the answer I got to that one. He's been a non-factor at this retreat, I haven't seen him since the first day, I persisted.

He's in trouble. Don't know what. Leave him be. Do you want to see my tits? My nipples are very puffy.

No, thanks. Red would get mad. A sneer was my reply, and she evaporated from the room again.

A fraught afternoon: the assignment was the Passion. I snuck up to the organ loft and essayed the B Minor Prelude and Fugue by Bach on the barely adequate Convent instrument. My memory was remarkably good, my fingers and feet surprisingly agile, and my concentration unbroken: the silent meditation must have focused me more than I realized. I had forgotten how much I missed playing. It was catharsis. Evensong was quite interesting: I sat in the back and watched my colleagues at prayer. Some were involved with the Service and some were involved with each other. The Sisterhood sat together and acted like restless choir boys in the Stalls, George sat cheek to cheek with Pamela, Miriam kept her distance appeared to be lost in contemplation.

Barbara repaid an old promise, taking off her veil to reveal long, lustrous, soft blonde hair which she wrapped around my cock to stroke me to ejaculation. My semen fell on the ground right next to the headstone, and Barbara whispered into the stone, "You're not a virgin anymore, Mother Mary Athanasius," right after I was finished. Stark naked she lay on the dirt of the grave; I tongued her moist cavern until I revived my desire to impale her. Clouds of dust puffed up as we writhed together; the ground was extremely dry. She let out a short cry that reverberated endlessly in the night as she reached her animal culmination, then giggled softly. "Ooo, listen, a wild bird crying."

Maybe it was a lone coyote on the prairie?

She hit my arm. "You're awful."

Hey, where's Artie hiding out at night?

"Can you keep a secret?" I gave her a disdainful look. "All right, stupid question. He's been sleeping in the Postulants' quarters. I know, I know, it's against the rules, but he's been incredibly distraught. The first night he wandered into their Rec room and just sat there, staring at the wall. They didn't know what to do with him, but Sister Mary Henry is an incredibly nice person, and after I told her that Artie is no danger to the girls, she let him stay. I'm sure he's hiding out from the boys."

Yeah, but I don't know why. Something happened. Well, if he wants to tell me fine, but if he doesn't. . .

"He's a child of God who's hurting and in trouble; he deserves compassion."

A pause. I hate it when you're right.

Another marathon morning, and the troops were restless during lunch. When the ban on speaking was lifted on Friday, there would be bedlam. I didn't even bother to go toward my room and headed directly for the sitting room where my daily conference with the Imp took place. I found her sitting Buddha-like on the end table again; taking my place on the couch opened her eyes. I started Helen Joy.

She started and went rigid, eyes wide open. Who told you?

Red. Don't worry, I won't spread it around. Taking a deep breath, she relaxed and yawned. What's the scorecard from last night?

Changing partners again. Your friend was with the young brunette last night. The young black woman was alone again. So George succeeded with the shapely Pamela and her massive knockers.

He must be saving Edwina for last; he's always been hot for her. And Artie was with the Postulants.

Sister Mary Francis Xavier's eyes went impossibly huge. How did you know?

Red told me.

Red tells you a lot.

She trusts me.

Obviously. Her eyes probed mine for several seconds, then she started to come off her perch to leave. 

I tapped her on the shoulder. Aren't you going to ask if I want to see you tits, or ask to suck my dick today? 

A wild smile was my only answer before she slipped out the door. 

The Resurrection appearances were today's food for thought. It was nice enough to walk outside again, but folks were generally walking alone that day if they were out. Evensong was another interesting study in interaction: the Sisterhood still carrying on like children; George was next to Edwina, their body language was that of old lovers, Arthur was in the back of one corner, and Miriam at the other. After returning to my room, I turned off the light and slipped into the trundle bed again to rest before another nocturnal excursion. Five minutes afterward, a strange, soft high pitched wail came from my wardrobe. It discharged a short, naked woman. She was skinny, five foot tall, with a helmet of red hair on her head and wisps of redness in her armpits and crotch. Facing me, she danced in place on the floor, her feet pattering madly, her hands head high, wailing on her weird tone. Her breasts were conical, protruded nicely from her chest and her erect, puffy nipples bounced up and down delightfully as they jiggled before me. She spun around twice, showing me a pretty, tight derriere with lovely dimples in her ass and the small of her back, then she shot through the door and down the back stairway before I could react. Part of me wished she could have stayed to give me what she offered a couple of days earlier, but I knew it would be a bad idea. That little firecracker could only be trouble, and I didn't need more trouble.




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 21



It was chilly that night in the cemetery under the bright full moon, so Barbara and I cuddled for a while fully clothed before she went between my legs to fellatiate me. As I approached the fountain stage, she pulled off to stroke me, sending my white shower upon the earth once again. "I don't want Mother Mary Athanasius to think she was only good enough for a one night stand," Barbara murmured, as she coaxed the last few drops, licking them off my corona like an ice cream cone, then engulfing the head with a satisfied hum.

After putting my manhood back in my track suit, she asked: "Squirt still giving you trouble?"

Who's Squirt?

"Your little troublemaker."

Oh, is Squirt her nickname here?

"Oh yes. Fits her, doesn't it?"

Sure, Red. Anything you say. No problems today. She has been giving me updates about who's sleeping with who. George is sleeping his way around the Deanery, the Bishop's been holding court for the Sisterhood, Artie's hiding out from Tommy with the postulants, and Miriam and I are the only ones sleeping alone.

Giving me a tweak between the legs, she asked sweetly: "Who says you've been celibate this week?"

I mean sharing a bed, literally sleeping. Never said I wasn't getting any.

"No, you couldn't say that. I passed through your wing before coming over here; George's voice was coming from Edwina's room, but everybody else seems to be sleeping in their own beds tonight. Guess your group is too old for extended debauchery." I punched her arm for that remark. "Present company excepted. Are you interested in our little Squirt?"

She's a lot of fun to be around, but I think I can sleep with only one nun at a time. Maybe she could be the teenage daughter I never had.

Barbara laughed. "Well, she grew up with a single mother, adopted in infancy. She's very dear to me in ways I can't explain. If you want to be a platonic friend with her, a male mentor, that's fine with me. She needs some healthy interaction with men."

Something in her past I don't know about? I think I can guess.

"Oh yes, like me, she was a spoiled, rich kid and slept around. Had a catastrophe on a student trip, was stranded in a foreign country with no friends, couldn't speak the language, no one knew Sign. Frightened to death, she was; some Greek nuns took her in and opened her eyes to the deeper Meaning of Life. After she came home, she spent a lot of time at youth retreats and stayed here a few weekends, and now she's made Simple Vows. If she stays with us, she'll be like St. Francis Xavier, a maniac with a mission who won't be able to sit still."

I stopped short and she went a step or two past me before stopping to turn around. I suddenly feel very old.

"What do you mean?"

First Kieran, then Helen. Being a father figure to young adults just getting started. Not used to being looked up to.

"Two things," came the smiling reply, "First, welcome to the club. Don't worry; after you get used to it, you'll love it and won't even miss your carefree youth. Second, don't worry. Your Quilting Ladies will help you keep your humility." I was smothered by the soft habit, and after a long open mouthed kiss, I smacked her padded butt affectionately.

That night I had a strange dream. Like the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey, I was drifting in a white cocoon around the planet Jupiter, lost in awe at the beauty of the universe. There were other cocoons around me, in slightly different orbits, some drawing close, some drawing away. Mary was a ways off and moving away slowly, Mavis was closer but imperceptibly moving off as well. Sheila was disappearing behind Jupiter's bulk, converging with a sphere too distant to make out, and for some reason, Agnes was zooming away at high speed. Barbara, in her Mother Mary Rufus habit, was circling around me like a twin, our orbits on a central axis, with Kieran and Sister Mary Francis Xavier approaching quickly. Bishop Horace and Archdeacon Tommy were jagged, pitted crags of threat that drifted by at a safe distance. 

I saw the constellation Orion off to my right: my family. In the clarity of open space, all the minor stars of that constellation were clear, just we they were out on the Great Plains away from city lights. My parents were on Orion's belt, but their stars were fading, while my siblings and their children grew brighter. A force pulled me toward them, gently at first, but faster and faster: soon I was racing across the great emptiness away from Jupiter and the people in my life now.

Then the sun rolled into my path, making me incredibly hot. It pulled me by the groin; my protective coating was burned away. Just as I was about the enter the photosphere, the flames parted and I approached a huge woman lying supine, heading for her vagina at high speed. There was no sensation of heat or danger; I wondered about this. When I entered the chasm, I landed on a high spire, totally naked and erect, with an immense crowd chanting my name at its base. The feeling of distance was overwhelming, as was my response to their adulation was arousal. My testicles churned and churned, my cock was an iron bar, and soon I would ejaculate a shower over them. An invisible force pulled by erection up and down and the people chanted louder and more vigorously as I approached my climax.

My eyes flipped open and I was lying flat on my trundle bed, a dark figure sitting on my pelvis, ejaculating into a warm, dark piece of heaven that milked me effortlessly. My partner was close to her orgasm, and I stroked her dark breasts to take her over the edge. She came hard, her mouth open in ecstasy, riding the waves of passion for eternal, timeless moments until she fell down and covered my body with her own.

In my first muzziness, I thought my little tormentor had slipped in for to arrogantly claim some pleasure from me, but the hue of her skin was black in the growing pre-dawn, her body voluptuously curvaceous, and her hair was black, short, curly with a fleck or two of grey. She panted as she held me, and I recognized Miriam.

She caught her breath, sat up and noticed I was awake. It was barely light enough for me to see her hands and face. Smiling, she signed Just this once.

I shook my head and gave her a puzzled look. Signing again, she said: Just this once. I've always wondered what it would be like, to be in your arms, to hold you. I've been so empty.

I didn't know.

The smile faded. I know. I know you well enough to desire you and well enough to know that we can never be partners in life. My people are my life now, and I can never give them up. It's the same with you, though you probably don't know it. It's why your Janet had to go. That's why you can't marry one of your Quilting Ladies, you could never put her above your people. You're lucky to have their unselfish love to sustain you.

My mind was still spinning from the dream and from the shock of discovering her in my bed. Her skin was silken and hot, and I caressed her breast with my palm. She sighed and savored the feel. Thanks. I'm glad to know what loving you is like. That's enough for me.

You're welcome. It was stupid, but the best I could come up with.

She kissed me with her full lips on mine. I trust you with my son. Absolutely. After a moment's afterglow, she got up and disappeared into the spreading light, moving through my door like a whisper.

After a few moments dozing in the dawning, I cleaned up and went to Morningsong. Miriam nodded in greeting, serene and demure as ever, and the others were eager, electric to finish the retreat and talk again. My last session with my spiritual director went well, although Sister Mary Justin quipped with a gleam in her eye that she regretted she couldn't give me the same kind of direction my regular director, Mother Mary Rufus, did. As I came to the chapel to vest for the Eucharist, there was a huge row between Bishop Horace, Archdeacon Tommy, and Mother Mary Rufus. Her voice overrode them: "I'm sorry, your eminences, but we weren't expecting the amount of incense you were going to be using this week. We have more on order, but the courier won't be here until mid-afternoon. Unless you have some in your luggage, you're going to have to do without today." I fought to keep from cheering, and the gratitude in the eyes of the other when we began without it was apparent.

Mother Mary Rufus made some concluding remarks for us over lunch, and our vow of silence was lifted. The room rang with dozens of conversations at once, and Bishop Horace had to bang his walking stick on the table to get our attention for his business meeting. It was long, droll, and held no surprises, so those who bet he would announce his retirement lost.

Miriam acted as if nothing happened the night before, and Archdeacon Tommy came to pass me a note saying that Frank Crookshank and the Bishop wanted to see me before I left in the Bishop's suite. Shit.

Horace was genial as he greeted me, and I noticed a picture of his grandson sitting alone on his table; a chubby, red headed boy of fifteen months who was the spitting image of Derrick Sterns. Tommy stood off to the side with an evil smirk on his face; Frank was on the opposite side as far away from Tommy as he could be, and he was anxious. "Alfred, there's something I'd like to invite you to consider," Horace began. "For years now, you've been without a Curate, and I quite understand how you're not able to have one for the foreseeable future. We have a new program for our seminarians that we're just starting, where they'll live and do ministry in a parish while they get their education and formation. There's not a lot of Vicars that are interested in this, or parish locations that are suitable, but St. Dunstan's is close enough to the University and Seminary that your location is ideal. Now, don't worry about money: we'll provide an expense account the student's room and board, as well as a small stipend for his services to your parish."

I cleared my throat. "How long do I have to consider this?"

"Oh, till Monday."

"Who are you thinking of sending to live with me?"

"Well, there are several possibilities, but one of them is the only son of one of our Vicars, and she's asked me especially to put him at St. Dunstan's. The other possible sites are far from her posting, so as a favor to her, I though I'd put him with you. His name is Kieran Hali. Have you met him?"

"Once or twice." Time for a poker face again.

"Superb. I know you have plenty of room for him, as well as a lot of pastoral work that he can cut his teeth on. What do you say?"

I milked a thoughtful pause as long as I could, before starting slowly. "Well, I don't know, your Eminence, but I guess since he's Miriam's boy and it would be convenient for him, I imagine it will be all right if he stays with me."

He stood up and came over to clasp my hand and pat me on the back. "I'm glad you're able to help us out, my lad, very glad. We'll make the arrangements, and he can move in with you just after the first of the year. Excellent." Tommy offered his wet hand as well, and I squeezed his cold fish politely without causing too much pain. Frank looked relieved.

When I got home, I rang up Kieran on his cell phone. "All right, lad, you're in. Just got the word today. How did you manage it?"

"Well, Mum promised to go to a special conference in January as a representative of the Diocese to tell them how Horace is doing great things for immigrants around here. She hates stuff like that, and she'll have to shovel a lot of shit to them about stuff that really doesn't happen, but it was a price she was willing to pay. The Ruling Poofters downtown wanted me to be their spy, and I told them I'd pass along whatever they wanted."

"You did?"

"Oh, yes. I love John LeCarré novels, so giving them regular disinformation is going to be a lot of fun. That's if you don't mind having a double agent under your roof."

I laughed. "It's going to be fun having you around, my son."



The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 22



A request for a specific seduction got me thinking it was time to include storylines that focus more on the gay characters around St. Dunstan's. I've never wanted the Vicar to be the center of every sexual relationship or escapade in the series, so this will explore how the other half is living, so to speak.  

It was one of my favorite holidays again: Twelfth Night. It's not as big as it is in Mediterranean countries, but I enjoy celebrating it here and my friends are more than open to that. We were finishing a huge feast the Quilting Ladies whipped up, seated around the huge, formal dining table in the Vicarage. The Quilting Ladies were there: Mary, Mavis, Barbara, Agnes, as well as Sister Mary Francis Xavier, who Barbara (Mother Mary Rufus) brought along, George and Rachel Staton, Niall Jones, the organist/choirmaster, Miriam Hali of St. Will's and her son Kieran, who had just moved into St. Dunstan's. The deconstructed Christmas puddings basked in the soft glow of many candles, wine and water glasses competed for room with coffee cups. The company was in fine spirits as I rose with a small glass of dessert wine to make a toast.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you a toast with a dual dedication. First, to Kieran Hali, who takes up his ministry with us today, may God bless him during his stay with us, fill his mind with wisdom and fill his heart with his Love."

"Hear, hear. Amen." Keiran raised his tall bulk from his chair, waved shyly, and beamed for a moment before taking a small bow. His mother was glowing beside him, wearing a multi-colored traditional African garment and hat, although I noticed she had imbibed several glasses of the red wine that evening.

"And secondly, to our own dear Agnes, who recently became a Fellow of the Royal College of Organists. We are blessed you are here, well done, and it's about time."

"Hear, hear." Agnes stood, smiling broadly. She had taken her test later than most of her classmates, being the last to be awarded that distinction, but she had finally done it. I wondered whether I had distracted her from her purpose with our relationship, or whether we'd given her too much to do around the parish. We were blessed to have two such Fellows at St. Dunstan's; Niall passed his test nine months earlier. Agnes curtsied twice and sat down, looking from side to side, and settling to chat animatedly with Rachel Staton.

The other faces around the table were interesting. Mary was basking in reflected glory, Mavis was giving me a knowing look that promised a request for a date, George Staton was slightly tipsy and bemused, as usual, his Rachel was looking at Agnes with unfettered admiration, Niall was obviously forcing a smile. 

We drank and went to chatting with each other around the table. Bea and Betsy Burkitt, Mavis' twin granddaughters who served as kitchen help that night, cleared the table, congratulated Agnes, and made certain that Kieran noticed them. Sister Mary Francis Xavier was very interested in Kieran as well. She caught my eye and I asked her: How's it going, Squirt?

Nice, very nice. She glanced at Kieran for a moment. Is he going to fit in here? I hope so. You think he should learn Sign?

The young nun's eager eyes lit up immediately. Oh yes, sign him up for my class tomorrow. Please.

I laughed and she laughed with me. 

George Staton came up to me as things were winding down. "Hey, Alfred, I've made a New Year's resolution and I'd like you to help me with it."

"Sure, George. Name it."

"I need to take up running again. Not as much as you do, not every chance. Two times a week, maybe three eventually?"

"Done, George. Just let me know which days, and you're on."

"Grand, Alfred. Thanks."

The evening sailed to its completion and everyone went home happy. Things were not to stay that way.

The next day, Tuesday, I awakened with a slight headache and the first phone call of the day was from the Bishop, which made it worse. "Good morning, Bishop Delacroix, what can I do for you today?"

"Fine, Father Alfred, just fine. How were your holidays?"

"They went well, in spite of Christmas being on the worst day of the week this year. And yours?"

"Just splendid, just splendid. Little Freddie is such a precocious lad; we spent most of the day in the family room just watching the lad play with his new toys. There's nothing like having small children in the house at Christmas time, remember that Father."

Great, I thought to myself, a gay Bishop is hinting I should get settle down and start a family. What's next?

"I'm glad your Yuletide was so enjoyable," I replied. "How can I help you today?"

"I've been asked to do a private baptism at St. Dunstan's the first Sunday of February, and was wondering if it would fit the Parish calendar."

I got out the book, turned to the Sunday and my head twinged; I knew what was coming. "May I ask the name of the family and the infant?" "Of course. It is the Clyde-Walker family: the infant is Vanessa Clarissa Frederika Clyde-Walker." 

Of course. The baby that I played unwitting sperm donor for. "What an alliterative name," I murmured. 

"Yes, her first name is after her paternal grandmother, and her second middle name is from a distant relative on her mother's side, who is a widow with no children." Yeah, right. Like his daughter Violette the Hatchet Face, Clarissa was finding a way to tweak me through naming a child.

"The date is clear on the calendar, Bishop Delacroix. Is there a time you wish to choose?"

"One o'clock?"

"Fine. I'm sure my people will take good care of you. Unfortunately, I will be absent that day."

"Oh, how come? Clarissa is most anxious you be in attendance."

"My father is not well, confined to a wheelchair, and I promised him last summer that I would visit him as soon as possible after Christmas season was over. Several small things will keep me here for the next couple of weeks, but I must keep my promise to see him as soon as I can. You know how it is, I never know when the next time I see him will be the last."

"Of course, Alfred, I understand, completely, family comes first. Will you be gone long?"

"Only two weeks. I'll do some research for my dissertation in Chicago while I'm over there. I'll be back by Ash Wednesday."

"Very well. God speed, Father Alfred."

"Thank you, Bishop Delacroix." He rang off and I went to my computer to price tickets to America. Dad wasn't that bad off, but I was thinking about going anyway, and Clarissa had just given me a good reason to push things forward. Wicked ideas filtered through my head: if she came asking for another 'Day of Agony', I would need no compulsion or encouragement to make her dream come true.

The week swam by, and Friday afternoon I was in the Sacristry attending to some odd errands. A distant moaning was filtering through the door from the Nave, so I went to find out who was there. No one was in the pews and it seemed to be coming from the loft. Ascending the stairs, I was greeted with an odd sight: the organ and the lights were on and but Niall was slumped over the desk, sobbing heavily over the keys. "Niall?" I asked.

He looked up with heavy, red eyes. His face was drawn and lined with lack of sleep under his sandy hair and his complexion was an awful color. "Yes, Vicar. What can I do for you?" he asked in a flat voice.

"If you'd like, please come over to the Vicarage, and let me see what I can do to help you. You've been out of sorts for months, and that's not right. You need help." He nodded briefly and shut down the organ. I accompanied him through the Nave, Sanctuary and Sacristry, down the corridor and into my Vicarage study.

He settled in a chair and accepted a glass of Scotch, sipping it slowly and taking a deep breath. I settled myself in a chair near him, away from my desk and waited for him to talk.

"It's Francis, Francis. My life hasn't been the same since he left." Francis Watson was Niall's partner, who had taken a job in America five months earlier. They had married in a civil service at the town hall shortly after Elton John, and seemed very happy together.

"How is he doing? Where is he in America?"

A sob. "He's in a place called Topeka, Kansas, running a regional communications agency. A CEO at last. They love him there." The last sentence trailed up in pitch, ending with a high squeak.

"I know Topeka well. A nice place to live, but you wouldn't want to visit there." A teary, glum look was the response I got. "Kidding, Niall, just kidding. Don't you ring him up fairly regularly?"

"Three times a week. It's not enough, Vicar, it's not enough. My life is so empty without him, my bed is so cold. I've had to sleep on the couch for weeks, I just can't stand that empty room. I knew this was going to happen, I told him so before he left, and we quarreled so much in those last weeks that I couldn't bear to see him off at Heathrow. It was an offer he couldn't refuse."

"So why are you here? Why didn't you follow him?"

An open mouthed look of astonishment was my answer. "I have so much here: the Choir School, the different choirs of the parish, my private studio, my other friends, my family, my wonderful Vicar to work for." I shook my head, but Niall touched my arm, "No, Father Alfred, you're the best Vicar I've ever worked for and the most supportive. I'd run through a brick wall for you, or take a suicide mission in No Man's Land."

"I'm flattered, Niall, but what good is all of this when your soulmate is on the other side of the ocean?"

He pondered this for several moments. "It's not good. It's awful. Dust and ashes, worthless."

I let him digest this for a long moment then continued: "Then why don't you go to him?"

"We've been apart too long. America has probably changed him, made him someone I wouldn't recognize. He may have found someone else he isn't telling me about."

Another pause. "Is this the Francis you know?"

"No."

"Then go find out. Take a leave of absence and go to America. I'll give you directions to Topeka, the rest is up to you. Take a month, take two months. Agnes is ready to fill in for you. Look around and see how you like it. Your skills would be as welcome there as well as they are here." 

The cold wind sang though the windows with a gentle buzz. It was overcast again, miserable weather. Niall was wrestling with himself. "I don't want to go," he said quietly.

"I'm not saying go for good. See where your relationship is; test the waters there. Be sure of where you stand. You are still Organist/Choirmaster here indefinitely. Going will give you some peace, give you a way forward. Sitting here and stewing in your own juices will do none of us any good."

"I guess you're right, Father Alfred," he said finally. "I should go and see him. My heart tells me I should go to him."

"Follow your heart."

A wink and a nod. "Thanks, Father."

"Anytime. Keep me posted."

"I will. Later." He rose and shook my hand.

It was time for Agnes to fix Tea in the kitchen, so I went to find her. Mary was taking her place, and accepted my embrace in greeting. "Hello, Reverend Father," she purred, "what can I cook up for you?"

"We'll talk about that, but where's Agnes? I thought it was her night."

She shrugged. "She called me this afternoon and said she was delayed at University, asked me to cover for her tonight."

"On a Friday?"

"I'm just reporting what I was told, don't know why," she said with a slight edge in her voice. There was a suspicion, but no evidence, and Mary never went off half cocked.

I sat on a chair. "I need to talk to her. Niall is going to take a leave of absence." "Anything wrong?"

"Relationship problems. He needs to sort things out with his Francis in America. We're going to need Agnes to step up to the plate for us with the Choir. She might have to get someone to help her."

"Oh, I thought Niall hasn't been himself lately. It makes sense, him getting away should do him a world of good. Agnes should be ready to take the reins, and Freddie Burkitt's coming along splendidly; he's probably ready to pitch in." 

"Sounds good to me. I'd rather not have to advertise, let's see what Agnes has to say."

Agnes made it in just after supper, and was thrilled at the prospect of taking over for Niall. She called him immediately to find a time to work out the immediate future of the music program, and talked about having Freddie Burkitt, Mavis' grandson, helping out with accompaniments. After ringing off, she excused herself to take a long bubble bath since she'd had a long day, saying she wasn't hungry. Mary and I shared our meal in silence, but I wasn't in the mood for love, much to Mary's disappointment.

Niall left for my home state the next Wednesday, after preparing Agnes to run the St. Dunstan's Music Ministry. Thinking Agnes' work load was getting too heavy, I got the Burkitt twins to do the housework and cooking regularly, despite the amount of flirtation that would be forthcoming. Mavis was delighted that her Betsy and Bea were going to help out around the house and their brother Freddie was going to help with the music program. She babbled on about them as I bound her massive tits in the Quilting Room the next day until I put a gag in her mouth and flogged her. She loved it. 

Friday morning found an unexpected visitor in the mid-morning: Rachel Staton, George's wife. Rachel was in her mid-50's, medium height with long, brunette hair starting to turn grey. Her face was oval with a small nose and a delicate chin. I'd heard that an exercise program helped her lose weight, and as she took off her coat, a light blue dress showed me it was a smashing success. She wore medium heels and a touch of makeup. 

I beckoned her to sit and I took a chair across from her. "What can I do for you today, Rachel?"

Her face was tense. She took an offered glass of water and sipped it nervously. "I've been a bad girl. You know George better than more people, and I trust you. You can tell me what to do."

"All right, Rachel. Go on."

"I've been cheating on George."

A cloud passed over the sun outside, and the room darkened melodramatically. A moment later, it brightened again, and I turned on another lamp to keep the atmosphere warm in case of a repeat. "I see. How long has this been going on?" "Six months. Oh, at first I thought there was nothing wrong with it, just a friendship that was a little deeper than most, something that gave me what I was missing in my relationship with George. She seduced me, slowly, gently, pulled me into her sunshine. I couldn't get enough, it was sweeter than honey. Bright, funny, beautiful, alive, she is. Our cover was perfect, and I got used to regular 'Afternoon Delight'. Then it all went wrong."

I touched her shoulder, giving it a passing squeeze and she took another sip of water. "I started thinking wild thoughts. I thought about how much fun it being married to her would be, sharing an apartment near the University. My life is so stale, so deeply rutted, I've just wanted to scream my head off day after day with frustration. George has gotten so distant, and my daughters are so far away from me."

"Where are they now?"

"Jill's in New Zealand working for Peter Jackson as a graphic designer, Molly is living in a bungalow in the south of France selling paintings, and Sarah's doing her doctorate in Archeology at the University of Toronto. I talk to them an average of once a month, and they never come home for the holidays."

"And your lover is younger than you are?"

"Oh, yes by much. She's younger than my girls, that what's so silly, I guess. So last week I said something stupid: I asked her if she would give up everything and live with me. Everything went wrong after that." Rachel pulled an handkerchief out of her small purse and wept hard tears for several minutes. There was nothing I could do but sit and let the storm spend itself. It finally subsided: she took a long drink of water and composed herself. "My darling went cold immediately, said I misunderstood her and I had a problem. She just wanted to have fun, and wasn't interested in shacking up with an old woman like me. She had her career to think about, and she wants babies someday." Another squall hit, and another pause until it passed. "How could she lead me on like this? How could she kiss me and lick me and make me feel so good all over, let me make her shake my rafters, and then say there was someone else more important that I am? She seemed to think because it was just us girls it didn't count."

"I don't know, Rachel. Have you ever had an affair with a woman before?"

"No. Never really came close, even when I was growing up. Hadn't really fantasized about it, either. She complimented me on how much weight I was losing and how nice I looked, and one day after we played tennis, she kissed me, impulsively, over the net. It was a surprise; I wanted more. Next time, we showered together, side by side, then we were soaping each other, and finally, we kissed again, naked in the shower, snogging forever in the hot water and slick against one another. Sneaking around behind our men was fun, and it even got me a little more interested in George. Oh, the look on his face the first time I laid a hand on him in the dark after a long dry spell. It was hilarious.

"But I spoiled it. The fun's all gone, and she doesn't want to have anything to do with me. I'm such an idiot, so dirty, so awful."

"No, you're not, Rachel. You're a beautiful person. You are loved by those who matter."

"Thanks for the nice words, but I can't feel it."

"I know. You have to let these clouds of gloom pass by a bit before you can work out what to do next."

"Should I leave George?"

I sighed and rubbed my nose. "Do you still love him?"

She stared ahead blankly for several moments. The hum of a vacuum cleaner came from upstairs, one of the girls was at work. The back door opened and shut, and clattering came from the kitchen. At last, in a small still voice, she whispered, "Yes. If he'd come back to me, be the lovely lad I once knew, talk to me again, call me to his side, I'd come running. I only cheated on him because I was so lonely and bored. He's cheated on me, I know, even though I don't know who. I guess that's why I carried on so long, I felt I was justified in getting back at him." 

I took a deep breath. "I can't betray a confidence, can't tell you everything George and I have talked about or what I've seen him do when you're not around, but I know that he genuinely loves you. He's struggled with himself and with growing older, and I'm not going to say he's a saint, none of us are, but I know that he's really looking for you, somewhere in the midst of the chaos he sees around him. He dwells on his disappointments more than he should, he drinks more than he should, he fantasizes more than he should, he does things he shouldn't. He needs you. The girl he's looking for is you."

It took her a while to digest this. I asked her: "What can I do for you?"

Rachel looked at me solemnly. "Pray for me."

"Of course."

"Thanks, Alfred. Thanks for listening."

"You're welcome." She got up and gave me a hug before I escorted her out. 

I met Molly Staton the first few months I was in England, just before she left for France. We'd corresponded occasionally, I had purchased a couple of paintings through her gallery, and I had her phone number. Since George had also mentioned his desire to be in closer contact with his girls, I called her and suggested it might be a good idea to have a family reunion in the near future. Molly was concerned that her parents were missing their children and admitted she hadn't thought much about it, but agreed to contact her sisters and see what she could do. 

On Saturday morning, I had a chat with Kieran to see how he was doing. He reported that the parish was making him feel at home, and he was happy with visiting the shut ins. Sister Mary Francis Xavier was helping him learn Sign, and she was also making him a bit nervous. Niall called Agnes Saturday afternoon to report that his visit to America was going well, and he was able to spend some quality time with Francis. Freddy Burkitt acquitted himself well at the organ during the weekend liturgies, supporting Agnes in her role as the new Choirmaster.




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 22



Sunday evening was an awful evening, pouring rain and chilly, and the warmth inside felt good. I was settled into a comfortable chair in front of a nice fire in my suite with a glass of lovely port enjoying Vivaldi and a copy of Lord of Light by Roger Zelazny, when my doorbell rang. Agnes was over at Derrick and Jenny's house and Kieran was over with the Youth Group in the Parish Hall, so I went down to answer it. 

Arthur Farnsworth, the Vicar of St. Edmund's parish, was standing hatless, drenched and unshaven before me. He was quivering from the cold, his eyes were red and his skin pale. "Can I come in, Alfie? Please."

"Sure, Arthur. You're soaked to the skin."

"Yeah. Been walking around a lot. Thanks." He entered and shook the water off his overcoat, but his jumper and trousers were soaked as well. I lead him to the laundry room, where the twins had done a load of my things the day before. "Arthur, why don't you dry off, change into my blue sweats and come up to my rooms to the fire. I'll be waiting for you there."

He landed close to the fire with a glass of brandy in his hand, still shivering slightly from time to time as the fire warmed him. I sat away from him across the room on a small couch. The past few months had not been good to him: I heard stories about him being absent frequently from his parish since last summer, and when he was there he acted very strangely. Just before the retreat at St. George's convent in October, he had gone into seclusion as much as he could, not answering his phone and only coming out for services. He had pissed me off as well, but his current awful state evoked some compassion from my cynical heart.

"Thanks, Alfie, you're a great mate. God bless you and all who sail in you. Knew you'd help me, you're almost the only one, except Pammy." Pamela Andrews was the Vicar of St. Helen's, the next parish beyond St. Edmund's, someone who adored Arthur and helped him frequently when he was unavailable. She had a massive crush on Arthur, but realized he didn't have the right programming to return her affections.

"What's going on with you, Arthur?" I asked, ready to wait a long time for a response. 

It was only a moment or two, after a sip of brandy, that he began talking.

"Well, you told me to get back to you when the melodrama was over," he began with a smirk. "I fell in love last summer, Alfie. Gunther is his name; you met him briefly on the street last July. The wine maker from Germany. "I met him and his frau as they went through the National Museum; I was there double checking my favorite exhibits and looking for adventure. You can handle six weeks of celibacy, Alfie, but I can't. There were part of a big group of German tourists, and he shone out like the sun from behind the crowds. You saw him: tall, lean, muscular, lovely noble face and blond hair with a hint of grew. He could have been a general in the Wehrmacht, such a dynamic, noble, powerful man: he could have won the Eastern Front for them.. You'd never know it, but he's 60 years old and a grandfather six times over. His frau is a dumpy little lady, with a face that could curdle milk and a waddle like a duck: Greta is her name. At first, I got Gunther aside for a quiet drink at the Museum canteen, and we hit it off right away. My dad was in the civil service, and I spent a lot of my childhood in Germany, so we'd go back and forth between languages, making outrageous puns. Loves football, theater, ballet, and fucking the hell out of sweet boys like me." He took a sip from his glass as the rain pattered against the window. 

"Greta is a major league ditz, so it was no problem for him to sneak away with me. I didn't want to tell him my real name, just a little protection in case things got dicey or we were caught in the wrong place. Horace and Tommy do it all the time." Horace and Tommy are the Bishop and his Archdeacon. "If I knew you were with your family, I never would have called you by the wrong last name. I didn't want him to know I was an Anglican Priest, either. After talking with him a little, I found out he's an Atheist and thinks every religion is an exercise in charlatanism."

"But you had to keep seeing him?"

"I had to keep seeing him. We went to a little place I have near Nelson's Column that day we saw you and made love for the first time. Oh, his lips were so soft and his moustache tickled. We explored each other's body every way possible, I tasted every yummy inch of him, and he went places I never knew I had. His cockhead was so big, I never thought I'd get my lips around it; his donkey dick is bigger than yours, buddy." I didn't ask him how he knew; I knew he'd never seen me naked or erect. "As I sucked him, he worked some Astroglide into my arse, then he pushed me on my back very forcefully and dramatically to line me up. It look a lifetime to push all the way in through my ring, heaven every inch, and I popped a boner with my legs in the air. For the first time in my life, I loved a blitzkreig and was ready to surrender. I creamed his stomach as he creamed my derrieré, then he made me clean him up all over, licking up all my spunk and his spunk and his shit from his genitalia and his stomach. Ambrosia, Alfie, ambrosia.

"We played hide and seek with Greta the whole time they were here. After they went home, we'd rendezvous in different places: Frankfurt, Delft, Copenhagen, Amsterdam, Paris. Since he travels a lot on business, it was easy. We did everything, absolutely everything: he was the best cocksucker I've ever known and his arse was a dream, too." Arthur took another sip of his glass and feel silent. "Oh, it was more than sex, Alfie, we went all over the place, did all kinds of innocent things. We were two halves of a single soul: interchangeable, entwined, Siamese connected by the balls. Couldn't get enough of his company.

"Then one day, I slipped. Used the L word. It all came crashing down just after that. I woke up one October morning in Brighton and found him going through my wallet. Found my ID and my Library card as Reverend Arthur Farnsworth. Went ballistic: ridiculed me, boasted he was just leading me on and he'd never leave his cow frau Greta, called me a Nancy boy and a wimp and a bad lay. I begged him not to leave and he laughed at me, walking through the door and slamming it behind him, shutting me out of his life from that day forward. 

"Well, I could hardly face any of my old mates after that, Alfie. They were kind during the retreat at St. George's and let me sleep with the nuns; I couldn't look at Tommy. I've hung out at Pammy's as much as I've dared since then, even let her have my body a time or two to pay the rent and keep the equipment in good working order. What's wrong, Alfie, what's wrong with me?"

Here was my chance. The little twerp had finally hit bottom and would listen to anything I had to say. At last, I ventured: "O what a tangled web we weave/when first we practice to deceive."

He chuckled. "Sir Walter Scott, Marmion, Canto vi, Stanza 17. However, the next line is: 'But my how we improve the score,/ as we practice more and more.'" 

"Right, Artie, right, run away from the truth," I snapped impatiently. "You create your own problems, have ever since I've known you. You usually cover your ass well, you've got friends in high places, but for the first time in a while, you've been busted and you have nowhere to hide from yourself."

"Touché, my friend," he muttered softly. "You are right, you are right. What now?"

I went to the sideboard and poured myself some brandy. "I don't know, Artie. Maybe it's time to turn over a new leaf. Maybe grow up a little. You've played around for years, maybe now you'll realize where it gets you sooner or later."

"All right, sure. I know that, guess always known that, but I've never followed through on it. Boys just want to have fun. Maybe you should give me a good birching right on my bare arse." 

I shook my head. "You'd probably like it too much. Otherwise, I might just give you the thrashing you deserve."

"Spot on," he said, laughing softly and mirthlessly. "How can I go on?"

"By going on. By getting on with your work, getting on with new projects that have nothing to do with sex. By getting some therapy. By letting time flow like a never ending stream."

A suddenly wiser face regarded me. "Yeah, Alfie. That's what you did when Janet left, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Pretty dumb wasn't it?"

I laughed. "Yeah. I never did the therapy, and the demons came back years later."

He finished his brandy with a gulp and stood up. "Well, can I crash in your guest room across the hall while my clothes dry?"

"Sure, Artie."

"Grand. I'll put your suit in the laundry when I go home in the morning. Lots to do."

"Right."

"Good night, Alfie."

"Good night, Artie."

The rain let up in the wee hours, Artie disappeared before I was up, and around seven I was on the pavement running with George Staton. He'd kept his New Year's resolution to run regularly admirably so far, working up to three times per week and his waistline was showing it. Usually we were silent as we passed through the neighborhoods like a couple of ghosts, but today he was talkative.

"Alfred, I'm worried about Rachel."

"Oh, George?"

"Yes. I think she may have had an affair lately."

We ran another block in silence. "What makes you think that?"

"Well, she used to play tennis a lot, and now she's got her racket at the back of her closet."

"And you were in there?"

"Looking for an old dress to use as a dropcloth."

"Brave man."

"She's been sad and moody for the longest time, then brightened up suddenly yesterday. Said she'd passed a test and everything was all right. I said, that's nice."

"Uh, huh. You know, you haven't been exactly honest, either."

"What?"

"A little bird told me you spent a lot of your time at St. George's outside your room after curfew."

Silence came. I thought he might head off another direction when we reached the next corner, but he stayed with me and puffed and blew. "I shouldn't be surprised, it's not like I was careful. I've had some other encounters as well you don't know about. Maiden aunts at weddings, prodigal daughters at funerals, young widowed grandmothers at christenings. I'm a hit with the over 40 single women, Alfred my lad: they love my hint of grey wisdom, my winning smile and my quick wit. Edwina tides me over when there's a long interregnum." Edwina Hall was the Vicar of St. Augustine's Parish; close by and on the same bus route as George's St. Alban's. I knew they were seeing each other, but not how much.

"So what do you think?" I asked him. "Who would you really like to have, among all the women of the world? Rachel? Edwina? One of the others?"

There was a pause before he gave me the answer I expected. "Rachel. My dear little Rachel, my sweetest bird. We've lost each other, and I'm not sure we can find each other again."

"If I can help you George, say the word." We completed the run in silence, and parted at my house, where he hopped his bus for home.

He came back later that morning with Rachel in tow, surprising me. They both had taken some liquid courage from what I could tell. She was nervous entering the house, and asked tentatively: "Is Agnes around?"

"No, she's at University this morning. The Burkitt twins are doing most of the housekeeping these days; Agnes is pretty busy with the Choir School when she's not on campus. Do you want me to tell her anything?"

"No, no, no, that's all right. We were playing tennis until her schedule got too busy. Wondered if things had settled down yet." Her face was very nervous, as if she were navigating a mine field.

"Do you want me to ask her for you?"

"No, Alfred, please don't. Just an idle wonder--thought. An idle thought. No problem."

"All right, Rachel. Will you both come this way?" I led them upstairs to my sitting room; the twins were downstairs and I didn't want them to overhear our conversation. They had promised me to keep mum about what they heard around the Vicarage, but I didn't want to tempt them this early in their employ. I caught Bea and asked her to bring a pot of tea with service up before returning to dusting the foyer.

We chatted about trivial matters while waiting for tea; Molly had organized a reunion for all of them in southern France in the first full week of February and they were trying to rationalize going. I assured them that Artie was back at his post, and Artie and Pam could cover for him as he covered for us them so often. They promised to consider it. They asked how my parents were doing, and I filled them in about my upcoming trip to the States without mentioning the reason for the timing. They wondered if there would be enough help for both of us to be gone, and I said that Miriam had already offered to help me, with Edwina in reserve. The tray arrived, Bea left, and we were able to get down to work.

"I see you don't have any chocolate sauce on the tray, Alfred."

I gave him an exasperated look. "George, let's be serious for a while. You want me to help you, you have to start talking. Tell us how you feel about Rachel."

He turned to face her and pulled his collar nervously, taking a while to get started. "Rache, I remember the night we danced on the beach in Greece. I wished it would never end, and I wish we could be like that again. I've always loved you, Rache, always. I'd--I'd--I'd rather die than live without you, and I'm willing to do what's needed." He bowed his head and waited for her response.

Rachel's eyes started leaking, she was slow to begin and unsteady. "I know you love me, George, I've always known it. We've just drifted apart over the years, especially the empty ones after the children left. You've lost your fire for the Church and I think your fire for me dwindled then as well. I know I'm not perfect, I haven't been perfect, and I've thought about other lifestyles. But I just realized I can't live without you either, George. I'm willing to do what's needed, too." She reached out and took his hand; he started to tear up.

"Well, how can I help you?" I said.

George looked at Rachel. "We need some counseling, Alfred. Can you help us there?"

"Well, despite my reputation, I'm not much of a serious marriage counselor. There's a retreat house up North where they do a special retreat for married couples wanting to reconnect. I know the director, and I can put in a word to get you on one of their weeks."

"Do it," Rachel said. Tears ran down George's face.

"And I think you need to see your girls again, and work out how you can keep in better touch. You may be separated, but there are ways these days we didn't have before. I can see my family and talk for hours with my webcam; all you have to do is agree on a time to be online together."

"That'll be a challenge, since we live at the four corners of the world," Rachel said.

"But we'll find a way to do it," George finished. "I'll go by the shops today."

"Great," I said, "In the meantime, be kind to one another. People who live together sometimes forget to be kind and treat their partner in ways they would never treat a friend."

"We'll do it," they said together.

Our tea was lovely, and we sipped it while returning to causal topics. I asked Rachel something about playing tennis with Agnes, but she managed to side step the subject. After a while, it was time for them to go and I wished them well. They nodded, and slipped out of the room silently. 

I followed the Statons out, then gave Mary Sterns a call on her cell. "Hey, baby, can you talk right now?"

"Sure, luv, I'm in a cab coming back from Heathrow."

"Agnes was playing a lot of tennis with Rachel Staton since last summer, and suddenly it stopped. I tried to ask Rachel about it, and she was evasive. Could you broach the subject while I'm in America? She's been scarce lately, although things are fine when she's here. She may know something about Rachel that I can use to help her."

"Sure, Father Alfred. I'll ask in my usual subtle way."

"Yeah, I know how subtle you can be."

"You busy this afternoon?"

"Ah, no, not really. Thought I'd take a nap, then pack for departure tomorrow."

"Stuff that. Meet me in the Quilting Room at 2:00."

"Done."

On the last day of January, I boarded a plane for America. After sleeping off my jet lag, I decided to stop in Topeka and visit Niall Jones and Francis Watson on my way to the family ranch near Hays, Kansas. They met me at a fine local golf club, and the weather being exceptionally mild, we sat outdoors on the veranda. The couple were obviously happy, and Niall had an announcement for me. "I've found what I came for, Father, and I want you to be the first to know," he began. "What you said about Topeka was awful, I love it here and I want to stay with my dear Franny." He turned to look at his partner and they regarded one another with deep love.

"I feel the same way, Vicar Alfred," Francis began, "I got so busy with business I forgot how much I missed my sweet Niall. He's going to fill a hole in my heart that's been ever since I got here."

It took a moment for this to sink in. Losing Niall wasn't good news from my perspective, but I wanted him to be happy, and he wasn't going to be staying in England away from his love. "I'm glad for you both. How do you want to handle this, Niall? I'll need a letter."

Niall reached into his pocket and produced a letter. "Here's my resignation letter to the Vestry. I'll come back in a couple of weeks, to take you through Lent and say goodbye to everybody Easter Sunday. Agnes is ready to run the show now: I'm sure you've been happy with her in my absence."

"Un-huh." Something bugged me: I flashed back to Twelfth Night and the looks Rachel Staton was giving Agnes. They were playing tennis almost daily then, at an indoor court. Or where they? The boys were looking at me strangely; some bizarre expression must have settled on my face. "Sure, Niall. She's been fabulous and Freddy Burkitt has helped out splendidly."

"Knew he would: a talented lad. And I've got a new job already. I start right after Easter."

"Oh. What job?"

"Organist and Choirmaster at Grace Cathedral, right here in Topeka. I start the first of May."

"Splendid, Niall. Well, you've really landed on your feet here."

"You bet, Father," Francis cut in, "the Spirit has truly been at work."

"By the way, Alfred, you should know something about Freddy Burkitt," Niall said out of the blue.

"No, Niall, you shouldn't," Francis cut in, "it's up to Freddy to tell people and not you."

"But the Vicar needs to know; he's an honorable man and Freddy's going to be working for him now. You know how tough it is, Francis, Freddy needs all the help he can get."

"What kind of help is Freddy going to need?" I queried timidly.

Niall took a deep breath and gathered himself before he began. "You know I've been giving Freddy lessons for a couple of years now. He's talented, so talented, bright and very sensitive. It's been hard on him, growing up in a working class neighborhood, and he can't tell his family, they'll kick him out on the street. . ."

"He's gay?" I interjected.

Both men nodded their heads. "We haven't done anything to Freddy, other than give him support and encouragement," Francis continued. "Growing up gay isn't easy anywhere. His parents are very traditional: they'd send him up as a nutcase and old Harry would Throw a Wobbly if he knew." 

"We've taught him how to play the game," Niall concluded, "tips on how to act, what's acceptable and what's not. He's got a boyfriend on the football team, but they're being discreet. I thought you should know in case anything comes up." I nodded, digesting this news. In some ways, I was glad I found out here, a long way from England, rather than at St. Dunstan's. "Thanks, Niall, Francis. I'll keep it under my hat"




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 22



"Just trying to help the lad."

My visit home was all too brief; they were overjoyed to see me. Dad was feeling well and his usual effervescent self. Sunday morning had a cold pre-dawn, but I saddled up my old horse Sophie and rode to a hilltop to watch the dawning. I thought about the baby being christened in my church that moment, and blessed her from afar. She would need it. Later that day, my whole family gathered: we shared the Eucharist and then a Candlemas feast.

Derrick Sterns picked me up at Heathrow when I returned, and warned me that a situation was awaiting me back at the parish. "I know you're tired, Vicar, but it won't wait. Grandmum and Mrs. Hazelton have their dander up, and I'd hate to be the object of their scorn right now."

"Shit, what did I do?"

"No, Vicar, you're in the clear this once. It's Agnes who's in the dock. Don't know what she did, but it must have been a doozy."

The connection clicked: I was an idiot not to see it. Sitting dumbfounded, I didn't say anything else all the way home, listening to Derrick's hip-hop music as we traveled the roads. Mary was sitting at my kitchen table fuming as I came in the door.

"Sorry to greet you like this, Father Alfred, but something's come up." When Mary called me Father Alfred, I knew the shit was about to hit the fan.

"Agnes was having an affair with Rachel Staton," I blurted out.

She gave me a double take. "Lots of time for thought on the trip home, wasn't there? Yes, Agnes seduced Rachel Staton last summer and carried on like a house afire for months. I'll let you hear the story from her own lips; Mavis is downstairs with her right now. She isn't as grown up as much as I thought she was, and I think we need to reconsider the arrangement here. A promise has been broken, and that's serious."

"Did you call Barbara?"

Another double take. "No, I haven't. Should I?"

"I think she's part of the circle, so she should be in on this. I'll call her."

Whipping out my cell, I got her on the first ring. "Mother Mary Rufus, may I help you?"

"This is Alfred. We have trouble here, Mother Mary Rufus. Are you free?"

"No, but I'm reasonable." I paused; she was in a carefree mood at the moment, and I wasn't there. "What's wrong, Alfred?" she asked in a more sedate tone.

"Agnes has betrayed a trust, and the other Quilting Ladies are here to confront her. Can you come over? I can pick you up if need be."

"No, I can sign out a car. Betrayed a trust?"

"We'll fill you in."

"Be right there. Bye." She rang off, and I told Mary that she would be there shortly. We sat and sipped tea in silence as we waited for the Mother Superior.

Barbara hustled through the kitchen door in full habit, and sat down with us at the table, accepting a cup of tea. "All right, what's going on with Agnes? How did she betray a trust?"

"Agnes seduced the wife of a nearby Vicar, and carried on with her for several months behind our backs," Mary began. "She led this woman on; when the woman asked her to run away together, our Agnes dropped her like a stone."

"How is this betraying a trust?" Barbara asked. 

"When she moved in here," I continued, "I told her that if she wanted to take up with someone else, if she met a boy she liked, she should tell me and we'd break off the romantic part of the relationship, continuing the working part. No questions, no judgement. I didn't want her dating around behind my back, and I thought I'd gotten that through to her. Lack of honesty there, by omission. The other part is she used someone who wasn't on the same page she was. Agnes just wanted to play, evidently, and the other woman was in a bad place and looking for something more. The husband suspected something eventually, but didn't quite have it right: he never suspected a lesbian affair."

"Which isn't our arrangement," Mary cut in. "We all know this is just for fun, and if one of us has another commitment, the other party clearly doesn't object. Bert Button and Harry Hazelton were lazy bastards and happy that their wives were getting laid without their having to lift a finger. My Tommy is dead these many years, and as far as you two go, well, the Lord is kind and merciful. This Vicar and his wife still loved each other and wanted to get back together even though they couldn't face it; Agnes cut into that, either knowingly or unknowingly."

The nun sat back and digested this, sipping her tea. " Does she regret what she's done?"

"She says she does," Mary said, "else we wouldn't be here. I would have had Derrick and his mates pack her up and haul her home otherwise. We probably ought to do that anyway, as far as I'm concerned, but Mavis and I wanted to get the Vicar's opinion whether he wants to live with her any longer."

"And I wanted yours, Barbara," I continued. "You're part of the group, and you have wisdom to offer us. I don't know what to do."

"We should hear her out," Barbara said, "And decide then. If she is truly repentant, then you have the choice whether to give her another chance."

"All right. Let's go and see what Agnes has to say for herself."

I followed the others down the stairs and to the Rec Room. Stopping suddenly at the base of the stairs, I put my hand on Mary's shoulder. "Where's Kieran tonight?"

"He's with his Mum. She needed him to escort her through some rough territory this afternoon, and he's at Kent House for his Sign class tonight for three hours. I gave him a pony and told him to have some fun at the Pub between times."

"He'll be there. All right, let's see her."

We opened the door to find Agnes with her head and hands in the stocks, her legs cuffed to a spreader. She was fully clothed, wearing a scarlet blouse and black skirt. There were trails of mascara running down her face and her hands were opening and closing in fear and frustration. Mavis sat in front of her Buddha like on a stool, in an ordinary blue dress, glaring at her relentlessly. "Oh my God," Agnes shrieked, "what kind of Inquisition is this? Alfred, Barbara, tell them to let me go, please!" Her grandmother took another stool and sat beside Mavis like a bookend, her blue business suit almost an exact match for Mavis' dress, and joined her friend's glare at the young woman. Barbara stayed at the doorway.

It seemed they were waiting for me to do something. I pulled a chair up close to Agnes' face and sat on it, the back inverted so I could rest my arms on it. The journey was a lead weight on my eyes. She looked at me pleading, her eyes puffy and her lips quivering. I searched her eyes and found fear. "Do you know why you're here?" I asked.

"Because I fucked Rachel Staton," she said in a whining tone.

"Is that all?"

"Yes," she barked defiantly. Too tired to contradict her, I looked at her with my tired face; the others did not move. After a huge interval, she blink and shed a couple of tears, her voice sounded a soft and timid: "No."

I sighed. "Tell me about it."

She sniffled and composed herself as best she could in her confinement. "In the middle of the summer, I had some time on my hands and I wanted to start playing tennis again. All my friends were busy in the middle of the day, and we had that party for your Mum and Dad, so I got to talking with Rachel and found out she wanted to start playing, too. We had the same times free, so we starting meeting.

"She was a joy to be around, smart, funny, and after she started sweating a bit, her face would have like this--glow. It was so lovely, and it took my breath away, I wanted to know this amazing woman better. Well, one day after the match we were showering in stalls next to each other and I sneaked a peek over the partition and noticed her body. I don't know what happened, but I was suddenly draw to touch it and caress it. Rachel looked over at me and a gleam devoured my body, I felt like a piece of meat and I felt this urge to give myself to her so powerfully. Our eyes met, and I said: 'You want me to wash your back?' She said yes, and it was all over: I soaped her back and her arse and ran my hands up and down her thighs in the empty shower room. She leaned back into my body and started quivering; I kept rubbing her thighs and probed her cunt, her legs parting and I had two fingers in her frigging away. It was glorious, it was the strongest she ever came, she said.

"From then on, we'd play a little tennis, then play in the shower. Then the rains came, and I'd go over to her house, or she'd come over here, or we'd go to this little pub in Dover Street that has some rooms. It was the best of both worlds: I had you and I had her. She seemed so confident. I asked her about her husband, but she said he wasn't interested in her anymore and he was sleeping around, so it would be no problem. It was pure fun, pure pleasure, pure joy, nobody got hurt."

"Then the fun stopped, and somebody got hurt," I said softly.

A sniff. I went to the bar and brought a glass of water, giving her a drink. She gulped it greedily, and a second glass I brought. The older women were still impassive when I glanced at them; Barbara was looking thoughtful. "Then the fun stopped," Agnes whimpered.

"I don't know were she got that idea," she continued in a loud voice. "We were spending a lot of time together, I was worried whether you were still buying my excuses that I had to be at the Uni, she wanted every moment I could give her, and I didn't know how to push her back. I didn't want to push her back, she was so exciting, but then one day, she asked me to run away with her." She hung her head. "I was scared, I didn't know what to say. Don't want to spend the rest of my life with another woman, I just wanted some fun. 

"She went to pieces on me, told me she loved me and her life was coming apart. Couldn't get away fast enough, barely got my clothes on. I figured, wait a few days, she'll calm down and it'll be just like before, but no, every time I asked her to play tennis or something, she begged me to be with her."

"This wasn't long after Twelfth Night, wasn't it?"

"Yes, just a few days after. Then when I called, she'd ring off after I told her who I was or she recognized my voice. I'd try to make things right, but she'd run away, avoid me, act like I was stalking her. I didn't mean to hurt her." Her eyes were earnest, her face composed.

"Do you understand how you betrayed a trust?" Barbara asked from the dark corner of the room.

"No."

"What did the Vicar tell you about relationships when you moved in here?"

"That if I found a boy I wanted to date I should let him know and he's let me go."

"Wouldn't that apply to a girl you wanted to date?"

A long, thoughtful pause. "I guess so. We were just playing around, and it was another woman. I thought it didn't count."

"Do you think it counts now?"

"Dunno. I guess it does."

Mary piped up. "Did you make that agreement just with him?"

A blank look. "No, Gran."

"Who else is part of that?"

She thought for a minute. "You, Mrs. Button, Mrs. Hazelton. Barb."

"Yes," Mary snapped. "You let us all down didn't you?" Her granddaughter's head hung down.

"Why didn't you call me if you were feeling horny?" Barbara said. "We had a good time during Lent last year."

"Yes, we did, and I'd love to do it again. You're so busy. I got lost in the moment, lost in my feelings. Lost."

I got up and paced back and forth a little bit. Turning to Agnes, I said: "Rachel Staton is a beautiful woman, intelligent, vulnerable. I've known her and George for years, seen her in the summertime and needed to hide my boner. I know George and Rachel have had trouble for years, they're always bickering, but they've always stayed together. They still love each other no matter what they've said, and getting in the middle something like that is asking for trouble. There's many times I'm sure Rachel would have loved me to take her like a wild animal while George wasn't looking and I'm sure at times he wouldn't have minded, but it wouldn't have been the same kind of innocent fun I have with you, your Grandmother, Mavis, Sheila or Barbara. We're all pretty secure in who we are; they aren't by a long shot. It's dangerous to fool around with someone who's not secure in themselves. Instead of making her feel better, you destabilized her, and when she turned to you for an anchor, you pushed her away. That's why you can't let yourself lose control. For the sake of the other." Agnes started to cry again. We waited as the tears flowed and the sobs racked her. When she calmed down again, she asked: "Is Rachel going to be all right?"

"I hope so," I answered. "She and George are going to try to put their relationship back together again. It's going to be work, but my heart tells me they'll succeed. I know them both well, and if they seek each other, they'll find each other."

Another pause. "Am I going to be all right?"

"That's up to you," Barbara said.

"I don't think she should stay here," Mary murmured.

"Amen," contributed Mavis.

"What do you want, Agnes?" I asked after another long pause.

"I want to stay here. I want things to be like they were. I want to clean the house and cook the meals and play the organ and be your Perky tits again." "No," Mary murmured.

"Amen," contributed Mavis.

Barbara's face was glum. "I think she should have another chance."

Turning to face her, I said: "As far as I'm concerned, you can stay. Things can't be the same again, we have to start over again building trust. That's reality. How can I be sure you won't do this again? The next time you could catch a disease like Herpes, HIV, Syphilis, even with someone as innocent looking as Rachel Staton. Then all of us would have it, including your grandmother. Someone could misunderstand your intentions, like Rachel did, or project their hopes on you, like Rachel did, and that's tough for anyone to deal with, no matter how old they are. That person might react violently. We have to be aware that what we do affects others, and take care of them as best we can." 

"I promise," she said solemnly, "I won't cheat again. I'll be a good girl, I'll control myself."

"Not good enough," her grandmother said.

"Amen."

"I'll do anything," Agnes screamed.

There was a long pregnant pause. "Penance," Mavis said quietly.

"Penance," Mary echoed just as softly.

"Only if she really wants to," Barbara said. "Kings and Emperors did penance to prove they regretted their actions and could be trusted again. It doesn't have to be corporal penance; she could give something up for a while. She could be celibate for a while."

"If she were a child, I'd give her a good spanking, and I think she's a child," Mary pronounced.

"All right, spank me, Gran. Anything to prove I'm serious."

Everyone looked at me. I was hurt: Agnes disappointed me greatly, and I wasn't sure I could trust her again. My heart told me she was sincere, but I needed something to prove it to me, and that's what made up my mind. "All right. Penance. But one condition."

They nodded their heads. "I will spank her," I said flatly.

"How do we know you'll hit her hard enough?" Mavis asked.

"I'm the one who lives with her," I answered, "I saw some things I didn't understand, and I should have asked her about them. Part of this is my fault."

"No, Vicar, it isn't. You can't be everywhere, she's an adult." Mavis entreated. "Don't blame yourself."

"Oh, I'm not blaming myself a lot, Mavis, just trying to acknowledge what I could have done and didn't."

A glance at Barbara. She shrugged. Mary said, "All right, Vicar, you do the honors. You're choosing to live with her; you should be the one."

"Let's get her ready, Mary," Mavis said and the two women approached Agnes. They released her from the stocks and stood her up straight, letting her stretch. From her stiffness, she must have been there for a while. After they gave her a chance to work the kinks out, they undressed her roughly, pulling her clothes off until she was completely naked. Agnes' tan was a memory of her bronzed tone from summertime, but there were no lines on her body. Mavis went to unlock a cabinet and returned with a large, two piece wooden clamp. "This has to be part of it," she said, "You said anything."

Agnes nodded hesitantly, and the two older women applied it tightly to her breasts, making them stand straight out. "If it was me," Mavis said, "We'd be spanking these babies," giving one an extra squeeze. Then, they positioned her down on the chair and locked her in the stocks again. 

Mary gave me a four inch wide rubber strap, supple and springy. "Do what you want with this," she said, and they stepped aside. Barbara stayed in the background; I guess she wanted to make sure we didn't go too far. I stood next her for several moments working up my nerve. Agnes was psyching herself with a stoic set to her face and hands.

The sound of the first blow rang off the concrete walls sharply. Agnes flinched but did not cry out, nor did she for the first ten blows. Her backside was round as an apple, golden with red wide stripes, and soft as silk. I rubbed her with my palm. The older women's faces told me there should be more, so I laid a few more stripes on the lovely globes. Agnes did betray me, and a part of her knew what she was doing. My surge of anger played out as I turned that wonderful ass a consistent beet red, howls of pain accompanying my last few strokes. 

Nodding from Mary and Mavis told me enough was enough, and I undid my fly. It took a couple moments digital manipulation before I had Agnes' sweet channel dewy and dripping, then I plunged a rock hard erection deep inside her. Pumping slowly at first, I accelerated my pace gradually until reaching a frantic pace. She bucked back against me as best she could, and for the first time in our relationship, we had simultaneous orgasms. I could hardly keep my feet when I was done; if Barbara hadn't fetched a glass of water, I probably would have collapsed on the spot from the physical and emotional exhaustion.

We released her. She sagged on being released, and I gathered her into my arms, carrying her up the stairs. The others followed, and we re-entered the sunlight as we reached the kitchen. I laid her on her bed and covered her. We reconvened in the kitchen, and I beckoned the women to follow me to my study. A quick browse through Agnes' video files showed a couple that I hadn't seen before. I opened them and we watched as Agnes and Rachel made love in our basement.

When we had seen it all, I asked if any of them wanted a copy of the files. Barbara said she did, so I made a copy for her, then deleted them from my hard drive. "Why did ye fook her?" Mavis asked.

"To show her I still loved her. Ladies, I need to be alone. I have a letter for you, Mary, from Niall. It's what we expected." Mary took it gravely and the women filed out.

I sat in my chair for quite a while, reeling from my exhaustion and confusion, fighting to stay awake. After a while, I was able to gather myself to return to her flat. I knocked on Agnes' door and heard her sobbing into her pillow. "May I come in?"

"Yes, Al, you don't have to ask," was the reply. She was curled up with a pillow in her arms, the blinds pulled against the glare outside. The day was bright and clear, yet cold. "You look awful," she snickered.

I sighed heavily. "I'm sure I do. I'll be living on coffee the rest of the day, then I'll need a stiff drink to put me out. How are you?"

"It hurts. My butt, my tits, but my heart worst of all."

"Let's leave that for now. We'll talk about it more tomorrow, and after that. I have some news you need to know." "Is it about Niall?"

"Yes. I just gave your grandmother his resignation letter." Agnes nodded. "He'll be back soon for Lent, but he's leaving Easter Sunday. Are you interested in taking his place?"

Her eyes lit up. I nodded. "As far as I'm concerned you can have the job, but convincing your Gran just got more difficult. If you can show you're a mature, responsible young woman for the next eight weeks, we may be able to get you accepted on probation, and you can prove yourself then. You and Niall can work with Freddy in the meantime so he can take your place, and make the transition. I hope you have a better idea of what mature means."




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 23



The rain fell on the tent over the grave in heavy drops. Mother Mary Rufus stood with her brothers and sisters with their children in its shelter as I read the graveside blessing for their mother. Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazelton had come to the end of her long journey, and gone to her reward. It seemed a bit sacrilegious as I read the words that my thoughts wandered to the feel of her warm, wet, cinnamon fired mouth encircling my manhood, and with difficulty I focused myself on the task at hand. 

A week earlier, I visited Lucinda in the hospital the last time. She was very alert and lucid that day; according to her daughter the nun, it was her last fully conscious day. The small woman seemed dwarfed by her hospital bed, wearing a pale blue nightgown on the clean, white sheets, her skin pale white and translucent. We talked about many things: about letting go and the promise of heaven, about her children and grandchildren, about her childhood and her parents who doted on her, about her husband and her expectation of seeing him again. It was ten o'clock in the evening, when she sighed and said: "Vicar, you've been so kind to me, made me feel like vibrant young woman again. Would you do me one more kindness?" Her voice was faint and tenuous

"Anything, Lucinda. Your kindness and generosity has been overwhelming, both to St. Dunstan's and to me."

"Let me make you happy one more time."

Lucinda was laying flat on her back; it was clear that she wasn't capable of much motion, and I doubted that she could even sit up unaided. Her bed could be raised to a full sitting position if needed, but I wasn't sure she could handle it. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Her eyes pleaded with me. "Raise the bed, Alfred, please. I want to try."

I pushed the button that elevated her; she rode up with her eyes close until she was almost sitting up straight. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, love, fine. My head's on just the right level. Take your trousers down; let me see it again." I buttoned my fly and lowered my briefs, leaving on my dog collar and jacket. 

A lovely smile creased her lips as my manhood was uncovered, and she laughed in delight. "Come closer, dear, let me see this lovely boy," she whispered, reaching out to embrace my phallus as I came close to the bed. "Get up on the mattress, let's see if we can get you at the right level." I knelt on the mattress; between my long legs and her diminutive height, her mouth was at the perfect level to try to fulfill her wish.

Her grip was soft yet tentative, encouraging me to fullness with slow strokes. "Sorry I don't have any candy, but I think I can do it without this last time." She closed her eyes in anticipation as she opened her toothless mouth to welcome my erection, which became rock hard as I felt her gums chewing on me. It was unlike any encounter I'd had with her before: more insistent and eager. I grasped the corner of the mattress beside me to keep my balance, for she was making my legs weak. Pulling out, she guided me closer so she could get a chance at my scrotum. Her gums nipped and gobbled at my testicles, which brought me very close to the edge very quickly. Sensing this, she pushed me back to she could give my corona her last, full effort, sucking it in while stroking the shaft with her left hand and rubbing my oysters with her right.

It didn't take long for me to give her what she wanted: milky whiteness flowed from the sides of her mouth down her chin to her neck and the base of her throat. She was obviously tired as I jettisoned the last drops, so I reclined her back until she motioned for me to stop just short of horizontal. Her hands went over her skin, guiding the cream to her mouth where she savored every drop. I stroked her hair as she cleaned herself, purring contentedly, and fell into a deep slumber.

My consciousness returned to the graveyard with a start. I realized I'd just finished a paragraph and didn't know where to go right away. Pausing for a moment, I let go of the memory and continued the service, drawing a puzzled look only from her daughter the Mother Superior.

There were many mourners clustered near around us, including my Quilting Ladies, Mary, Sheila, and Mavis, Agnes , and members of the Vestry. Sister Mary Francis Xavier was there in habit as well, her usual energy and cheerfulness subdued; standing with Lucinda's grandchildren, who ranged in age from 30 to teens. I wondered how she fit in to this picture. Windsor castle sent a representative: a child of one of the Queen's cousins who told me prior to the liturgy at St. Dunstan's he spent most of his time attending funerals of minor peers and other nobility in exchange for his pension. Several executives of Lucinda's corporation and subsidiaries were there as well, standing stolidly in the damp holding umbrellas. Most of St. George's Covent were there as well, arrayed in rows like warriors going to battle. Many of my parishioners, whom I had seen the day before as we celebrated the Resurrection, came as well: Lucinda was well known and beloved in the area.

I finished the text, and Barbara and her siblings threw hands full of earth into the grave on the casket. They stood for several long moments in tableau, and I kept my place as the gravediggers approached to do their job. My seminarian, Kieran Hali, was beside me as acolyte, bareheaded with the rain streaming down his face, holding a bucket and holy water sprinkler. Lucinda's children turned and went to embrace their spouses and children, and a receiving line formed as people approached to pay their respects. 

Many people approached me to murmur appreciation and chat briefly. Harry Hazleton was already bantering cheerfully with those around him, who smiled at his antics. Sheila's new husband, Sean Williams, came to take her arm. They had married a month ago in Devonshire after a brief courtship. I wanted to be there, but I was defending my dissertation the day before their wedding and my air connections couldn't get me back in time. Mary chatted with her granddaughter Agnes for a few moments before they turned to leave.

At last the group was finished, and the family repaired to the mansion for a light meal. It was a subdued and stately affair, Willikins the butler supervised the refreshments flawlessly as usual. A wink at Sister Mary Francis Xavier brought a slight, momentary smile in return as she sat by Barbara's older sister Patricia. I was siting next to the Mother Superior and murmured: "Why is Sister Mary Francis Xavier here?"

A look of fear passed her face momentarily, then subsided as she leaned over: "My sister Patty is her mother. She never knew her father's side of the family, so Mum was the only grandparent she ever knew. Mum always treated her with special kindness, even learning Sign to talk with her."

"I thought you said she was adopted?" 

"Patty and her ex adopted her just before he left her. She raised Helen as a single parent while she traveled the word. They've had their problems over the years, but they made their peace just before Helen became a Postulant."

"Does Helen–Sister Mary Francis Xavier know who her real parents were?"

"Oh yes," came an usually soft reply. She leaned away from me to talk with her oldest brother.

I caught the young nun's eye and signed: I'm sorry.

Thanks, she signed back.  It was time for her to go. She lived a long and good life.

Lucinda's family didn't appear to be a particularly warm bunch, and they drifted off fairly soon after finishing their meal. There were cordial hugs and kisses in parting, but stiff, distant, and aloof. Since I decided to stay as long as Barbara did, I found myself alone with the two nuns at the big table. Willikins the butler came to begin clearing the table, looking drawn and very old. He asked: "Will there be anything else, Miss Barbara?"

"No, Jeremy, that will be all. We'll talk tomorrow morning about what comes next. You can plan on two weeks off starting Friday, and rest assured the estate will take care of you."

"Thank you, Miss Barbara. I'll just get these into the washer and then retire to my rooms."

"Very good." The three of rose, and I followed the women into a study down the hall from the formal dining room. It was a library, with a fireplace and several comfortable chairs and sofas. A sideboard held an open bottle of red wine, fresh fruit, several cheeses and a loaf of fresh rye bread. 

Barbara threw herself down on the chair and whipped off her veil and wimple, shrugging free her long, luxuriant, blond hair. Helen did the same, uncovering her short, red locks splayed in enough directions to qualify as a Heavy Metal fan. I made myself useful after unhooking my dog collar, pouring three glasses of wine from the sideboard and bringing the refreshments nearer to a small table before settling into an overstuffed chair by the fireplace. Barbara took up a glass to propose a toast: "To Mum."

"To Lucinda" The three of us clinked glasses and settled back into our chairs.

"There's a story I need to tell before we go much farther," Barbara began. "Mum had a secret, and now seems as good a time as any to tell the story."

A secret? Helen asked.  What secret did Gran have?

"It's a long story, and a sad one. Among other things, Mum lied about her age."

"What?" I said, sitting bolt upright. "She wasn't eighty seven years old last June?"

"No," Barbara replied, "She was a year older than everyone thinks she is. It wasn't vanity: Mum was a year older than Dad was, and it wasn't considered proper in her day for a woman to marry an older man, so she docked a year to be the same age. But there was another reason. . ."

********

Christmas 1917 in a suburban Paris hospital, two in the morning. The duty nurse, Barbara Jenkins, sat at her desk in the Empire officer's ward, sewing on a small quilt. Her hands were small, like her frame, but they were quick and nimble. She liked the night duty for two reasons: one, it meant she had little to do with the military doctors, which she generally despised for their arrogant treatment of everyone, and two, she had time to work on her favorite hobby while on the job. Occasionally, a patient would enter the ward in the small hours after coming in from a casualty clearing station, but usually it was quiet.

One of her patients stirred in his sleep. The nurse went over and checked his chart: Captain S. J. McCoy, Canadian Cavalry. He was average height and under average weight; most of soldiers that spent any significant time on the Western Front were underweight. Age 25, enlistment date 24 August 1914; it was unusual for a front line soldier to survive that long. His hair was brown, his face handsome with high cheeksbones and his eyes blue under the bandages. Decorated several times for bravery, blinded by gas at Passchendaele on 5 November, superficially wounded in the thigh by shrapnel, with a subsequent infection due to contamination. The bacteria ridden Flanders fields that was so rich for farming contaminated almost every skin opening of the men who served there.

Captain McCoy was weakly struggling with his blankets and the duty nurse pulled them back. The patient immediately tried to scratch his leg, which she batted away until he gave up. Uncovering his thigh, she saw his dressing needed to be changed. "Now, now, Captain, stiff upper lip. You've been brave enough to take on the Boche a long ways from home, you can be brave enough not to scratch your leg until I tend to it. I promise I'll be gentle, sir. Do it for King and Country." Her voice was low and silky as she tried to coax him to submit to her touch.

"Not a Canadian, not a Canadian. Kicked out the blighter a hundred and forty-five years ago." His voice was faint, but it held an unfamiliar accent: a soft drawl heard nowhere in the British Empire.

A double take while she tried to place the accent. "Come now, Captain, you're in the Canadian Cavalry. You're in the King's service." She struggled to hold his hands down with surprising force.

"All right, I'll grant that, but don't pull that patriotic crap with me."

"Very well, Captain. If you let me change your dressing, you won't have to scratch your leg and irritate your infection. Be a sport, sir."

He sighed. "Well I've been a sport before, but I'll give it another try." He relaxed and let her removed her bandage, the corners of his mouth pulling up slightly in pain as she peeled back the tape.

She worked quickly to clean the wound and apply a fresh bandage. The infection didn't look bad, but she could imagine how much it itched. It was high on his thigh an inch to the right of his crotch, and in the process of changing the dressing she uncovered his genitals, The duty nurse was almost always professional in her care of the patients, but male genitalia always fascinated her. The Captain wasn't the largest man she'd ever seen, but he was the first uncircumcised man she'd ever examined. It nestled like a little worm on large testicles, and as she stared at it, it started to wiggle a little.

"Thanks, Ma'am, I feel much better. That's the best bandage change I believe I've ever had." He relaxed and settled to rest.

"You're welcome. You're a brave man, and you deserve all the kindness we can offer you." Looking around, she saw that none of the other men were awake; the soldier in the next bunk had bandages on his eyes. Sometimes in the dark of night, this duty nurse would perform a special service for the heroes she tended. Reaching out with her small, nimble hand, she grasped the white worm and pulled back its turtleneck.

It rose to greet her, coming out of its cocoon. Gentling encouraging it, she smiled as it grew under her firm tender touch. The Captain moaned and said: "Sweetheart, no one's ever done that for me before."

She looked at him with amazed: "A lovely lad like you, who's been in France for three years on the Front, a virgin?"

"I come from a place where we were taught to respect women. 'Never take advantage, never force yourself, always act like a gentleman,' Paw always said. My Paw also taught me to be careful of working women, and the diseases they could give me."

"Well, Captain McCoy, you're a very gallant as well as a very brave man. It's my privilege to reward you for the great sacrifice you've made for our great cause."

He snickered softly under his breath. "I know you have to give us this patriotic speech, Ma'am, but I'm an Old Sweat. I just do the best I can for my men and try to survive." He gasped a couple more times; the end of his fully swollen bulb was growing slick.

She bent over and drank in the musk coming off his skin. It was the most intoxicating thing she ever knew, and the only thing that tempted her from the tight self-disciple she exercised in war and peace. Work comes first, she was always taught, and after a good days work, moderation in the enjoyment of live's pleasures. Keeping her head close to her work, she took long draughts of the animal elixir that was seeping forth. It wouldn't be long, she knew from her secret experience.

The hours in the ward were always long and tiring. Nurse Jenkins had been there since November 1914, and it had been a long, grey struggle to keep her patients alive ever since. She'd gotten leave a couple of times, mostly spent in nearby Paris, but there weren't many ways a lone woman could entertain herself in a respectable manner and she tired of walking the boulevards aimlessly for hours. Once she had gone all the way back to England, to her family in the North Country, but she felt like an alien in her own home, and was uneasy the entire time. So, she took the night duty and sewed her quilts, giving them to refugees displaced by the fighting.

The sweet aroma filled her nostrils, and intoxicated her. Many times she had wondered what the precious liqueur she encouraged would feel like on her tongue, how it would taste, but she'd been shy about trying it. This was something described in one of her lectures at nursing school, but never discussed by the women she knew. Fear of what her mother might think, rest her soul, always kept her from sampling before, but this young man was different. There was something about him: he was different from all the others. The cock has grown to five inches long, and the head fascinated her at close range. It looked so supple and firm and ardent. Her mouth began to salivate.

Torn by several moments indecision, she finally gave in and engulfed the round fullness of his manhood. It was salty and sweet, and the reaction to her mouth was immediate. He reached down and began to stroke her hair with a trembling hand. She couldn't describe the feelings running through her as she devoured his manhood, only that it made her own crotch slick and eager. 

Suddenly, a geyser went off in her mouth. Instinctively, she sucked it down, pulse after pulse, a strand leaking from her mouth, compulsively devouring the recently discovered nectar flowing from her hero. His hands trembled uncontrollably, his breathing came in great draughts, his body tensed and relaxed with every expulsion.

The fountain ran dry, and she quested after every drop that had escaped her. If only she'd known the taste was so compelling, she would have sucked all the cocks she had stroked to orgasm during the night hours over the past three years.

"Ma'am, words fail me in describing my appreciation for your kindness. Would you do the honor of giving me your name?"

Breathing heavily, she sat up and put her hand lightly on his head. "Nurse Jenkins, Barbara Jenkins, Captain McCoy."

"My pleasure, Missus McCoy, my pleasure."

"Miss."

"Oh, I beg your pardon. Miss McCoy. That was the finest Christmas present I've ever gotten, never better. Do you have a young man somewhere waiting for you?"

"No. Never. Been married to my work, I have."

"Well, Miss McCoy, my kindest friend, you have an admirer waiting for you in this cot, as long as God permits me to be here. The doctor tells me that my bandages come off in a few days, and I'll be able to see your dear face in the flesh. I imagine that you have the face of an angel."

Nurse Barbara Jenkins had fine skin, rather, it was fine before the years of toil and sleeplessness had worn it. She was not five feet tall, with a small but perfectly proportioned frame. Her mother had always told her that she was plain, so she replied: "When you can see me, Captain McCoy, you'll see that I'm just an ordinary woman. Well, less than an ordinary women."

"Please, call me Stoney, like my family does."

She gasped. "That kind of familiarity won't do, Captain, surely you know that. It wouldn't be proper for people from different stations in life. . ."

"I don't know that. Back home in Kentucky, we always call those we love by their given names. Right now I'd say that Barbara is the sweetest name in the world, my dearest Barbara."

"Please, Captain. There's a chance we might be overheard and such a mode of address wouldn't be proper. You may call me Nurse Jenkins, and I shall call you Captain McCoy."

His bandaged head shook in negation. "I'll never understand you English and your need for formality. So damned reserved it's a miracle you generate a new generation every few years."

"Please, Captain, don't be vulgar."

A snicker. "After what you've just done for me, I'm the vulgar one? All right, all right, angel, if that's how you have to have it. But let me say this: you are a beautiful woman to do what you did for a poor soldier, and if peace comes tomorrow, I'd like to claim you as my own."

The faint light couldn't cover the blush that filled her face. "You're very kind, Captain. Go to sleep. You need your rest if you're to recover from your wounds."

"Yes, Nurse McCoy," he said with a hint of teasing in his voice. "Will you be here tomorrow?"




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 23



A pause. "Yes, I'll be here tomorrow."

"Good. Come see me."

"I'll think about it."

Nurse Jenkins went back to the wan light of her desk and picked up her sewing. The stars shone bright in the cold night as they wheeled overhead and she kept her watch on her soldiers, but a strange warmth she'd never known before lasted until daybreak.

The next night was almost identical in every way; the hospital was running a skeleton staff over the holidays, so there were be no traditional Boxing Day observance. Nurse Jenkins was sitting alone in the ward again. Periodically, she would put down her work to restoke the coal burning stove in the corner, only tonight she added a little more than usual. Just after midnight, there was a stirring in a familiar cot.

She went over to see Captain S. J. McCoy trying to scratch his itch, but when she took his wrist to stop him, it was clear he was shamming for her benefit. The hand went up to rest on her cheek, much to her surprise, then traced her facial curves. "Captain McCoy, what is the meaning of this?"

"I wanted to touch the face of an angel. How are you this evening, Nurse Jenkins?"

His hand was strong and rough: obviously he'd done a fair bit of manual labor in his life. She relaxed at that: he was from a social class near hers at least. Many officers had professed their undying admiration for her in the ward, but they were all of the aristocracy, and she knew what happened when aristocratic men got involved with women from under the stairs.

"I'm all right, Captain McCoy. How are you?"

"Fine, thank you. Did you have a good Christmas?"

"It was adequate."

He gave a low laugh. "Yeah, of course, adequate considering you're in Hell's antechamber and you're working on a holiday."

"You're cheeky, Captain."

"Pardon me, ma'am. The past three Christmases I was in the trenches, and that is Hell on Earth. This is the best one I've ever had over here, actually, it was the best yet." 

Hesitantly, she brought her hand up to touch the hand on her cheek. "It's seems rather blunt to call this clean, quiet field hospital Hell's antechamber. We do our best here to give you a quiet, restful place where you can heal from your wounds."  

"This place isn't bad at all. Your face is the loveliest thing I've ever touched."

Her skin grew warm under his touch. "You're most kind, Captain," She stifled a sniffle. "No one has ever said anything like that to me before."

"You're welcome. I wish you could call me Stoney, and I could call you Barbara."

"Oh, maybe sometime when we're alone, if we're ever alone. It depends on how soon you recover. What did the surgeon say today?"

"Oh, same thing, it'll be a couple of days before the bandages come off. I see light through my bandages, so I'm hopeful. My leg still hurts, but it's getting better. Probably going to bother me like my Paw's did."

"Your father was shot in a war?"

"Yeah, but a different one than this. In 1861, he rode over the state line to enlist in the Army of Northern Virginia. Got hit in the thigh trying to cave in the south end of the Union line at Gettysburg, and taken prisoner by Chamberlain. Used to say if the Minnie ball was one inch farther to the right, my brothers and sisters and I wouldn't have gotten here."

"I see. Your father was a Confederate, a rebel?"

"And damn proud of it. Survived Fort Douglas in Chicago, which was every bit as bad as Andersonville."

"Sure," His hand stayed at her cheek, his fingers toying with the brim of her headpiece. She resisted his touch as long as she could, but within a couple of minutes, she welcomed it. "Your hand is very strong."

"Many years working the farm."

"Yet you're an officer."

"When I was in school, I went to a one room school in Pike county Kentucky, and I won a statewide essay contest. My teacher encouraged me to go on and further my education, so I work hard and put myself through High School and a couple of years of college. Came home and taught at my one room school for three years."

"You taught young children?"

"Oh yes, enjoyed it greatly. Of course, I relied on intimidating the older boys that wanted to play rough, but once we got past that, everything was fine. More kids won awards in my school than any in the county; one boy got a scholarship."

"That's so wonderful. It hardly seems likely a tough man like you in a rural schoolhouse"

"Yeah, it was so different from here, seems like another world now."

"How did you end up in the Canadian cavalry?"

"Well, I've always read the newspapers closely, and when I read about the German atrocities in Belgium and President Wilson said we weren't going to get involved in a European war, I knew it wasn't right, I couldn't just let it go by without doing something about it. Went up north to Toronto and enlisted as soon as I could get my affairs in order."

"Did your father object?"

"He's dead, ma'am. Lost him eleven years ago. My brothers are tending the farm and taking care of Maw."

"How come you aren't in the infantry?"

"I grew up riding horses, even before I could walk. Used to work at Churchill Downs when I was going to college, rode whenever I could. They gave me a chance to show what I could do, and here I am."

"What a marvelous story. A Kentucky farm boy in the Canadian cavalry. It could never happen in England."

"Speaking of England, how's Parkie doing?"

"Parkie?"

"Captain Parkhurst in the next bunk. We've been buddies since we went through training together. I hauled him back over No Man's Land through mortars and machine gun fire when he got shot at Passchendaele."

Reluctantly, she took his hand from her cheek and went to the next bunk. Captain Charles Parkhurst, Canadian Cavalry, age 28, enlistment date 24 August 1914. Wounded twice before, decorated for bravery, shot in the chest and gassed at Passchendaele 5 November. His recovery was more complicated that Captain McCoy's, but his prospects were looking up. "He seems to be in good shape, Captain."

"Describe him to me."

"I don't know that I should."

"Ma'am, I've lived in the Trenches for three years. I've see men get their guts torn out by German machine gun fire, seen dead men caught on the barbed wire of No Man's Land move again as the rats consumed them from the inside, seen gangrene set in and rot off limbs when soldiers didn't take care of cuts and scratches, so there's nothing you can tell me that's going to turn my stomach. I've seen his ugly mug almost every day for three years. Tell me how Parkie's doing?"

"It must be horrible up there." She took a deep breath and relaxed. "Captain Parkhurst seems to be resting comfortably. He has bandages on his face, but otherwise his complexion looks clear. He's very thin, like you are, and he's got farther to go to recovery since he was shot in the chest, but his outlook is good."

He took a breath and sighed. "Thanks, Barbara."

"Captain!"

"Sorry. That makes me feel better. Parkie hasn't been talking much, and he's normally a motor mouth. I was worried about him."

"All right, Captain. Just remember where you are, you're not in Kentucky."

He laughed. "As if there was any doubt."

She laughed as well. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

He grew silent and trembled a little. "Well, I'm not sure if I should be asking about this, but, but, could you check my bandage?"

A broad smile crossed her face. "Like I did last night?" A hesitation, then a tentative nod. "All right, Captain, but don't you go telling your mates about your special treatment."

"A gentleman never discusses such personal matters." She lifted the blankets, and reached for his turtlenecked worm. As her tongue tickled the inside of the turtleneck, a strong, gentle hand found her covered breast, milking it gently as her tender mouth milked him.

Over the next few evenings, they shared more of the story of their lives. He was the youngest of six boys and four girls, she was the oldest of four girls. His family had scraped a living in the eastern Kentucky hills since getting off the boat from Northern Ireland three generations before. Her father was in charge of the stables at one of the Duke of York's residences and her mother one of the house staff. Growing up, she worked in the house as well, playing big sister to the Duke's children as well as her own, and as a teenager tended one of the boys when he was invalided with polio. Helping the young man struggle against the contagion revealed to her she liked nursing, and the Duke made it possible for her to attend nursing school, getting her an appointment to the staff of a major hospital in York. 

The events of August 1914 created a great need for medical staff in France, and Barbara Jenkins signed up early on, arriving in time to care for the survivors of the Race to the Channel. Since then she had tended the wards at night as her own personal trench, the days and the soldiers blurring together in a grey mass and her work a duty she strove to do without thinking much of why she was doing it. He talked about life in the Trenches: the damp squalor, the rats, and the whizzing death that sang past their ears almost daily as they wanted for the command to go Over the Top.

Every night she would pull back his blankets and fondle him to orgasm under the pretext of checking his bandaged thigh. He would want to touch her, and reluctantly she let him take more liberties with her clothed body. Her breath grew shortly and her mind giddy as he caressed her breasts, hips and crotch through her uniform, but the most thrilling was how he tenderly stroked her hair as she sucked him almost every night.

One January evening she was sewing a new quilt, and a figure limped over to stand in front of her desk. She looked up at his face, still discolored from the months of bandages, but his blue eyes were clear under his disheveled brown hair. "Nurse Jenkins?" the scarecrow asked.

"Captain McCoy, why are you out of bed? You need your rest."

"My bandages came off today. I can see."

It was difficult for her to look at him. The return of his sight meant he would be leaving the ward soon, another memory as the dull routine set in again. Why did she ever get close to him, knowing he would be gone before long? They never wrote or stayed in touch after they left.

"I'm glad for you, Captain. Obviously, you're ambulatory as well"

"Yes. You are beautiful, Nurse Jenkins, the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

She blushed in the wan light. "I am not. I've always been small for my age, and at times I'm mistaken for a twelve year old. It is difficult to persuade them otherwise." 

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really. My mother said I'll look like a teenager until I have grey hair and wrinkles."

A shy pause followed, and she looked down at her sewing again. "I-I-I have something for you," he stammered

"Oh." She looked up at him as he reached into his robe pocket.

"I saved up for this, bought it during my last leave in Paris, to send it to my sister Daisy, but now I want to give it to you." He put a thin box on her desk and waited.

Picking it up, she opened it and gasped at what was within. It was a gold bracelet with a thin chain; it picked up the wan light of her desk lamp and glittered wonderfully. "What? How? Why?"

"Because you are an angel. I was right: you have the face of an angel, the most beautiful I've ever seen. You are the light of my life."

"Captain McCoy, I don't deserve this," she stuttered. "You bought it for your sister, surely she deserves it."

"No, Barbara. You do. You're the most important woman in my life, my greatest treasure."

The bracelet continued to work its magic, and she looked at him in amazement. He beckoned her to put it on, and she did reluctantly. Tears began streaming down her cheeks, and she fought to make no sound as she sobbed.

"Don't cry, please. I love you, Barbara, I love you with all my heart," he whispered.

Her glistening eyes met his and held them. After a long sweet moment, she whispered: "I love you, Captain. With all my heart."

Over the next few nights, she spent as much as time with him as she dared, watching carefully for restless patients or those with insomnia. They did not go farther with their affections, since they did not wish to risk discovery. One night, when Nurse Jenkins came to Captain McCoy's cot, his arm shot out to his friend in the next bunk: "Parkie, Parkie, wakie, wakie."

"Now Stoney, can't you let a poor Doughboy sleep," came a muzzy voice from the next cot. "We can go Over the Top and get ourselves killed anytime after sunup tomorrow."

"Stand to, she's here."

The dark headed man in the next cot, sat up abruptly, and blinked. "Hello, hello, hello. You must be Stoney's Lady. And what a lovely bit of crumpet you are, how do you do?"

She blushed very redly in the dim light as McCoy whispered back harshly: "Stuff it, Parkie, she's mine, and she's a classy lady. Keep your hands off, or she'll give you a hot sauce enema you'll never forget." 

"My apologies, Sister. I'm impressed that you've made such an impression on our General. Was afraid that he had been a monk in a former lifetime. You are a lovely lady indeed, an angel. It is a pleasure to meet you at last; Stoney's been waxing prolifically about your virtues since I came out of my stupor."

Looking back and forth between the men, she hardly knew what to say. "Look now, Parkie, she's so bothered she can't talk. Who taught you how to treat a lady? You're as bad as a Yankee."

Gathering herself, she sallied forth into the conversation. "General? Why do you call him General? That's an odd nickname."

"Didn't he tell you about how he got his name?" Parkhurst leaned over conspiratorially. "When this pup became the last of his litter, his Paw and Maw had run out of family names to use. So they named him after the great Confederate General, Stonewall Jackson, whom his Father served with such distinction in the Army of Northern Virginia. Our General struggles to fill the standard his great namesake set forth, and the General is a man of dignity and valor whom I would follow gladly through the gates of Hell, which shall not prevail against him."

Parkhurst leaned back over to his friend next to him. "General you're taking advantage of this woman of virtue of breeding, quite obviously. Have you been so focused on making eyes at her that you've failed to reveal to her all your deep, dark secrets? You are a cad, sir, and if you were a gentleman I would ask you to step out."

McCoy looked askance. "Parkie, you are so full of shit your eyes are brown. I treat my lady well, every bit as you treat your fiancee back in Blighty. See the bracelet on her wrist?"

"My, my, my, you have surely captured this young man's heart, Sister," he said, holding her wrist up to examine the jewelry. "He saved all his allowance to buy this trinket for months. I withdraw all my rude remarks and beg your forgiveness."

"It's all right," she said quietly. "I'm not used to being part of this kind of talk."

"The best is for last, dear," McCoy said, "Parkie and I just got new orders. We've both been promoted to Major and assigned to desk jobs here in Paris. We made it out of the trenches, but we're going over to the enemy. . . "

"Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah," Parkhurst shouted.

"Be quiet," Nurse Jenkins hissed sharply. "There are patients here trying to sleep. Going over to the enemy?"

Parkhurst whispered conspiratorially. "The dread enemy of every good soldier in the front line. Rear echelon."

McCoy grasped her hand and held it to his lips, kissing it firmly. "The doctor says I'll be discharged tomorrow."

Her hand went to her mouth, and a tear escaped the corner of her eye. "But I'm billeted in Paris, so would you see me still if I called on you?"

Tears flowed freely from her eyes, and she wiped some off with the back of her hand. "Why would a handsome man like you want to see a tired old nurse off duty? Women will be fighting over you, especially since you're one of the young, whole and healthy ones in Paris."

"I love you, Barbara. When I give my heart, it's for all time."

"But I work nights, I, I, I, could only see you on weekends."

"You'll need something to eat when you get off shift, and something when before you come to work in the evening. You have weekends free. We'll manage, we'll do what we can. Day or night, the only person I want to show Paris is you."

Her head fell to the mattress to muffle her cries and she wept while his head stroked her hair. "Pardon me while I got back to sleep," Parkhurst mumbled as he turned over away from them.

The next few nights, Nurse Jenkins worked on her sewing as usual while tending the patients. The newly minted Major McCoy always met her coming off her shift and took her for a bite to eat. Since they were going different directions, he to work and she to her bed, they had time for nothing more than a kiss every day. Saturday night, they found a quiet bistro and spent the entire evening talking until closing.

He led her to a hotel, where they found a small, efficient room. It was threadbare, and the bed springs were worn, but on entering the room, S. J. picked up the small woman, swung her in circles and pronounced it perfect. "What do you mean, perfect?" Barbara asked as her equilibrium returned.

"Well, back home we had to sleep on the floor," He gave her a hard kiss. "Let's get out of these clothes."

"I'm not sure I should."

"We have to seize today, Barbara, that's what we have do at the Front."

"But there's still such a thing as a woman's virtue."

"Well, a gentleman always has to protect a woman's virtue."

"I've never done this before."

He stopped and pondered. "Really?"

"Really. None of the boys ever looked twice at me, so small and girlish. They teased me, saying I looked like their little sisters."

"But you're perfect."

"Thank you, S.J. I love you with all my heart, but I can't do this, not before we're married."

Looking around the room, he discovered some stationery and a pen and inkwell. "I have the answer." Turning the writing table around in the tiny room, he positioned it to face the bed. "Ever been an artist's model?"

"No."

"Like to give it a try?'

She sat up and thought. "What do I have to do?"

"Remove your clothes and lie on the bed."

"Stoney!"

"Please, there's nothing untoward about modeling. I'll even pay you a little something. C'mon Barbara, what do you say?"

She thought for a long moment, her shyness fighting her lust for the soldier. "As long as you stay behind your desk," she said at last.

He seated her on the bed facing him, her legs slightly parted and her arms behind her head, her small frame completely unclad. For her size, her figure was perfectly proportioned, her public hair tufted dark and sparse, and her small breasts shoot firm and proud. Taking his place, he began drawing on the stationery. After five minutes, she complained: "I'm a little chilly."

Going to the window register, he turned up the heat and removed his tunic and shirt, his spare torso still thin with his ribs showing. "There, that should do it. I like what the air does to your nipples."

"Keep drawing."

"Will you draw me when I'm done?"

"I have no artistic talent."

"Well, will you do what you did for me in the Hospital?"

She smiled. "I'll think about it." 

He went back to his work, then he came forward and pointed between her legs. "What's that between your legs?"

"What exactly are you talking about?"

Pointing between her legs, he asked: "The little red bud at the head of that little valley."

Blushing, she replied: "It's called the clitoris. A source of pleasure when used correctly, according to my physiology lecturer."

"Darn if it doesn't look like the littlest strawberry I've ever seen."

"You're silly. Do you know how silly you are?"




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 23



"I love strawberries, especially the tiny ones. They're the best."

"Really?"

"Oh yes. In fact, I'm in the mood for a strawberry right now."

"You keep your clothes on, Major!"

"Of course, of course." Coming around slowly from behind the table, he grasped her right foot and ankle, giving her instep a gentle kiss. Another followed slightly higher and another. He ascended her calf and lingered behind her knee, licking her tender soft skin, then worked his way upward.

"What are you doing to me?" she murmured.

"Nothing that's going to destroy your honor, love. I'm just going after a strawberry like you went after a worm." Climbing higher, he found her salty strawberry patch and savored her taste for several moments. Barbara didn't know what was happening to her, as new sensations ran through her body, but she couldn't push him away as he tuned her soul to new frequencies. Her body became slick with sweat, and she trembled, frightened and eager to see what happened next.

Her hips suddenly shot up, her pelvis pushing hard back at his mouth, her nipples like rubber buds that his fingers sought to squeeze. A high pitched siren song came from the back of her throat as a wave of pleasure she had never known before washed over her, followed by another and another. At last, she could take it no longer, pushing his head away, as she rode the cyclone from the heavens back down to earth.

S. J. knelt over her, his brow and hair wet with sweat and his undershirt soaked, smiling like a Cheshire cat. "Well? What do you think?"

Smiling up at him, she replied: "Thinking is the last thing I want to do right now. Where did you learn to do that? You've done this before?"

"No, on my honor, not. But I got a few pointers from Parkie. That's how he keeps his virgin lady back in Blighty loyal to him alone."

"Well, I think I need to repay your kindness, S. J." Unbuttoning his fly rapidly, she sought the turtlenecked worm she savored so sweetly before, and treated it more eagerly until it gave up its liqueur of passion. He lay beside her partially dressed, when she suddenly sat up and took the sheet he'd been working on from the writing table. A moment's glance and it was in S. J.'s face.

"Is this what you call Drawing? Is this what you call Art?" The figure was a rude stick figure, with awkward, fuzzy lines that betrayal the artist's lack of control over his medium.

He tore the paper away and put his hands on her breasts. "No. This is what I would call Art."

After that evening, strawberries and worms were the staple of their diet.

Early Tuesday morning, she was back on duty when Major Parkhurst caught her attention. She went over to him and sat on the bed. "Evening, Lady. How's tricks?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"How's my mate the General. Still recovering well?"

"The General?"

"You know, Major Stonewall Jackson McCoy of Kentucky. Stoney. The man who adores you."

"He's doing all right, Major. Hates his new billet, but other than that."

"Ah, you kids must not be getting enough privacy."

"That was uncalled for Major."

He patted her hand. "I don't mean anything by it. I owe him my life, and since he loves you, you have my undying loyalty as well, as long as you don't break his heart."

"I could never do that. Not for the whole world."

"I know. Now, he's seeing you every day, right?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"When my mate Stoney sets his sights on something, he's absolutely relentless in his pursuit. You've been more relaxed as well, so he must be taking care of you. Does he bring you flowers?"

"He usually has a red rose, when he can get one. I heard it's tough to do around here."

"Yes, it is. Do you go back to his billet with him?"

"That's not a proper question for a gentleman to ask a young lady."

"We've both been here three years, there's no way we can ever be young again, is there?" 

She looked down at the floor. "No, I guess there isn't any way we can ever be young again. No, I've never seen his billet and he's never seen mine. We go opposite directions when we part: he goes on duty and I go off to sleep as I can."

"Sleeping in the daytime has to be tough."

"Yes, but I manage enough."

"The appearance of your eyelids would argue otherwise, but I'll let it pass. Tell you what, Easter is a month or so away, the last day of March. Why don't you and the General come up to my parent's house in Sussex, that's not too far away. We can be there and back in no time flat."

"I don't think I can. Lots to do here, and I'm not sure I can get leave."

"You've got accumulated leave going back three years; I asked your superior. My uncle Barkie is a General; he can pull strings and get you leave any time you want."

"It's not that."

"Oh?"

"My father is a stable master and my mother a maid. It wouldn't be proper for me to be a guest on your parent's estate: you're aristocracy, I'm gentry. Surely you understand, I'm not your equal."

Major Parkhurst took her hand. "Look, my Dad was in the First Boer War, career officer and he met my Mum while she was a nurse in South Africa. You'll have lots to talk about with them. The War has changed a lot of things, Barbara Jenkins, and whether we're ready for it or not, we're going to be part of a different world when this damn war's over. At the Front, we take what entertainment or pleasure we can, for who knows when somebody's going to find that bullet with his name on it, and we don't fuss with seating arrangements. The Boche are going to make a push this Spring, they've got to. We could still lose everything. We need to take what goodness we can from life while we can. Please, come to Sussex with Stoney and I." He paused with a mischievous look on his face. "You know you want to, just to be with him if nothing else.

Another patient was restless and needed attention, so Nurse Jenkins didn't answer him right away. After about twenty minutes, she returned to Parkhurst's cot and found him still awake. "All right, I'll consider it. Only to be with S. J., only to be with him." She went back to her desk and her sewing and Major Parkhurst fell asleep with a smile on his face.

A week later, Major Charles Parkhurst was released from hospital, and went home to finish his recuperation. S. J. McCoy and Barbara Jenkins continued to meet daily and deepened their relationship, walking hand in hand by the Seine on late Saturday afternoons. They talked about many things, but not about their future; Barbara had a difficult time imagining one beyond a War with no end in sight. 

"How did you take up quilting?" he asked out of the blue one Saturday evening.

She thought for a moment. "I've always quilted, every since I can remember. My mother's family have done it as far back as I know; my mother still uses a quilt her grandmother made her. Lots of quilters in the North Country."

"My Maw quilts as well, and all my sisters. My sister Becky won first prize at the Pike County Fair a couple of years ago; wish I could have seen it. My people came from a part of Scotland close to the North Country originally, just over the border from your people, until King James invited them to live in Northern Ireland. Then, many of us went to America."

"Your people are famous for the patterns, aren't they?"

"Yes, very creative, very proud. When I use my Maw's quilt up at the Front, I can still feel her love all around me."

She hugged his arm tightly. "You must show it to me sometime."

Two days before their departure, the Germans broke through the British Fifth Army in the Kaiserslacht offensive, but neither McCoy or Parkhurst were cleared for combat duty, so they were permitted to travel across the Channel to England and the Parkhurst estate in Sussex. Charles met them at the door and gave them both huge bear hugs in greeting.

"Welcome, welcome, my dear friends," he enthused. "Let the cares of the world pass you by while you shelter within these ancient walls."

"Parkie, Parkie, it's been too long," Stoney replied in similar humor. "What's on the agenda?"

"Well, first you go to your rooms, get settled and freshen up. We'll take tea when you're ready, then shoot some billiards until suppertime. After supper, it's brandy and cigars in the smoke room, and at daybreak tomorrow, a foxhunt. Mummy is anxious to meet you, Miss Jenkins, as is my fiancee Lydia."

"I see you've got everything in order, Major Parkhurst," Stoney replied .

"No, no, no, no ranks or titles here, this is Liberty Hall, my dear Stoney. Make yourself at home, and relax for once. The Boche are a world away."

Nurse Barbara Jenkins couldn't believe the opulence of her quarters: it didn't feel right. She changed into a plain blue dress and dark sweater. S. J. McCoy came bursting through the door, wearing a riding clothes as soon as she let him in. "My dearest Barbara, we've died and gone to heaven." He embraced her and lifted her up to swing her around in circles until her head spun. Kissing her hard, he held her close for another long time.

"Patience, S. J. We have all weekend."

"I can't wait, sweetheart. I must have you."

"No, no, no. Not until we're married. We've got to be married. I'm sorry but that's how I was raised."

He looked at her face for a few somber moments, and said: "Back home, the preacher doesn't make his rounds very often, sometimes for years. When two young people in the backwoods want to get hitched, they make an agreement before witnesses and live as husband and wife until the preacher can come around and they do the wedding right. Sometimes, they have their kids act as ringbearers and flower girls."

"You can't pretend there's no clergy around here," she said.

"No, but getting married is three weeks of paperwork with the American Embassy, and we don't know whether we have three weeks. Parkie and I could get called back to the front any day if things get too bad, on convalescent leave or not, and you could be sent to a frontline hospital, where you could be in danger, too. Last I heard, the Boche were using new tactics, and we hadn't stopped them yet. When we get back to France, we might never see one another again."

"Just a small detail, dear, one that I am reluctant to bring to your attention," she said seriously with a hint of a smile on her face. "You've never asked me to marry you." There was a long pause as they looked at one another; he was genuinely confused and she was unflappable in her determination. "

Then he got down to one knee and took her right hand in his two. "Barbara Ann Jenkins, will you marry me?"

She sobbed and cried a moment. It was a moment she never thought would happen: all her life she had been told she looked too young, was too plain, too ordinary to find the right young man. Three years of struggle in the ward keeping wounded soldiers alive had almost eradicated any sense of what love and happiness meant from her consciousness. Then this charming man had broken through her crusty exterior, taken her places she'd never been before. There was only one answer.

"Yes, Stonewall Jackson McCoy. I will marry you. I don't know what I'm doing, where we'll live, or what kind of world we'll be living in, but I will marry you."

After a long kiss, he bolted from the room and tore down the hall, whooping and hollering, while she sat in a nearby chair dumbfounded. She looked out the window at the newly greening countryside, and the flowers starting to bud. A bird began to sing, the first one she truly listened to since August 1914. The promise of spring caught her heart as it never had before, now she was a woman in love and the whole world a garden of what might be.

Footsteps pounding down the corridor presaged the door being flung open. The two Canadian officers entered the room, closely followed by Charles' fiancee, Lydia Chalmers. "Congratulations, Nurse Jenkins, congratulations," Charles said. "May I kiss the bride?"

"You may not, Charles," Lydia cut in, and pointed at herself. "The only bride you're permitted to kiss until we're officially bound in matrimony is me. Pleasure to meet you, Barbara, and welcome back to England."

"The pleasure is mine," Barbara replied, and extended her hand. Lydia took it cordially, with a sincere smile of welcome. "What's all this then?"

"I've just talked Parkie and Lydia into a Pike County Kentucky wedding," S. J. said enthusiastically. "They're going to make their promise in front of us, here and now."

"Why? Aren't you getting ahead of yourselves?" Barbara asked.

"No, we've been engaged for a year now, " Charles said. "Lydia's parents won't let us get married until the War is over, but we can't wait. Who knows what tomorrow may bring, and we want to make our vows before God right now. Stoney has the right idea to revive this ancient tradition, and I for one and glad to bring it to England."

"I'm in agreement for once," Lydia added. "My parents are crazy, but there's no way I can defy them directly and stay on good terms: I'd like to remain in the Will. The same is true for Charles, so this is a splendid idea." She turned and kissed his cheek, leaning up on her tip toes. Lydia was a slender, medium height young woman, with blue eyes, red hair and wore a long, lace dress with matching hat. Charles was wearing a suit, white shirt and tie.

S. J. turned to Barbara. "I know you're impulsive once in a while Barbara, and you know we're meant for each other. Let's witness Parkie and Lydia's vows and they can do the same for us. We'll be married Kentucky style, and after we give the Kaiser the thrashing he deserves, we'll meet at the altar in front of a church full of people and do the whole thing up right. What do you say?"

Barbara's head was spinning, but the light in S. J. 's eyes and the enthusiasm Charles and Lydia had for each other was contagious, so there in Lydia's guest room with the fireplace blazing, the sun shining through the crystal windows and a portrait Albert and Victoria smiling down on them, they exchanged their vows of eternal fidelity to one another, with only God as their witness.

The formal dinner that evening was more entertaining than Stoney and Barbara could have imagined. Colonel Alfred Parkhurst was a jovial, plump man in his early seventies, with a salt and pepper mustache, goatee and long sideburns, who spoke animatedly about his adventures in Her Majesty's Service throughout the Empire. Mrs. Parkhurst, a matronly middle aged woman, was an excellent foil to the Colonel's jocularity, providing the occasional acerbic barb to deflate his pompous tendency. It was a long practiced repartee built on the bedrock of decades of intimacy and laced with obvious affection. After dinner, the men retired to the game room for billiards, brandy and cigars, while the women took tea in a sitting room.

Barbara, Lydia, and Mrs. Parkhurst settled into the chairs with their cups, which the older woman spiked with from a flask of brandy after the servants withdrew. After a few moments innocent conversation, Mrs. Parkhurst went straight to the point: "I understand that you're uncomfortable with us, Miss Jenkins."

Barbara almost choked on her tea. "Well, Mrs. Parkhurst, this is a situation unique in my experience so far."

"Where are you from, Miss Jenkins?"

"The North Country. Near York."

"Where did your parents work?"

Barbara took a deep breath. "My father was a stable master for the Duke of York, my mother was a maid."

"Are their professions a source of shame for you?"

"No, of course not." She took a nervous sip from her cup and waited in the suddenly silence.. Finally, she gave in. "Yes, yes, it was," she whispered harshly

"How so?"

Barbara took another long sip of brandy-laced tea. "My parents worked hard every day of their lives, put in long hours on behalf of the House and the Royal family, and they received no recognition for it. No word of thanks, no consideration for time off to attend family needs, no support when there was trouble in the family. They lost two little boys to tuberculosis, and the concern the betters showed them was whether the royals had been exposed."

"I see. How dreadful their masters were; I am ashamed of them. Is there anything else?"

"Well, I was blessed with a small frame and childish appearance, so none of the upper class boys were interested in me. But I saw all the maids who fell for the young men in their teens, yearning to move up in the world, idolizing the beautiful young men of unlimited promise, counting on them to make respectable women of them and take them away from servitude. Every time, the upper class twits led them on to take their honor and then dumped them coldly. One of them died in an illegal abortion, another committed suicide, and several lives were ruined. Lovely, innocent young maids turned prematurely into ugly, grim harridans."

"How terrible," Lydia cut in. "I've overheard my brothers talking about seducing the maids, but I never thought of it from the maid's perspective."

"So I talked my parents into sending me to nursing school, to get away from the House before one lad with an odd taste targeted me," Barbara continued. "The Duke got me a position at a private hospital in York, and in 1914, I signed up to tend our boys in France and I've been there every since."

"Well, my dear," Mrs. Parkhurst began, "you're not the only one to fall in love with a patient."

"Really, Mrs. Parkhurst?" Lydia asked incredulously.

"Yes, Lydia," she replied, "you would be surprised how many upper class women began their lives away from the aristocracy. I was an orphan in Cape Town growing up, didn't know who my parents were. Through hard work and patience, I earned a spot in a local nursing school and when the First Boer War began, I found myself in a field hospital close to the action."

"You met Colonel Parkhurst as a patient?" Barbara asked.

"Yes, he was struck down at the Battle of Laing's Nek in January 1881, and I tended him during the night shift. He was the kindest man I've ever met, and shortly there was nothing I wouldn't do for him. He'd been married before, unhappily, and his wife had just died in a ferry accident. It didn't matter that he was fifteen years older than I, or that he was from a prominent family, he captured my heart and before he returned home we were married."

"Have you ever regretted it?"

"There are always regrets, but the joys were far, far more than I could have ever hoped for. We lived in South Africa, Egypt, India, Australia, all with a family of four rambunctious boys that appeared fairly early on. If you're with the one you love, anyplace you live is paradise."

"Ah, that is so sweet, Mrs. Parkhurst," Lydia said. "Such an inspiration."

"That's a wonderful picture," Barbara said, pointing at a family portrait on the wall. She recognized the Parkhursts and Charles in his Canadian uniform standing with his three brothers in British Cavalry tunics behind their parents. "How old is it?"

"It was three years ago, Miss Jenkins," Mrs. Parkhurst said, wiping a tear from her eye. "In the wake of 4 August, my three boys got their commissions and prepared for action in France. Charles was supervising our ranch in Saskatchewan, so he made a long journey to Toronto to join the Canadians: he was always impulsive and couldn't wait to get home to sign on. They happened to be here at the same time after they finished training, so we sat for the portrait in London.

"As one ages, various aches and pains begin, and sorrow over the loss of loved ones challenges us as we struggle to carry on. Colonel Parkhurst had a mild stroke a year and a half ago, fortunately with a full recovery, and I have pains that are clearly the onset of Arthritis. We lost young Alfred at Loos, Stephen fell in the first assault at the Somme, and Joseph died of pneumonia after being severely wounded at Arras last year."




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 24



INITIATIONS 

Many threads to tie up, so please be patient with me, there'll be some fun in the course of the story. Please consult the previous episodes and the Vicar of St. Dunstan's Guide for more background on the characters. 

It was dusk in the open spaces of Western Kansas. It's my favorite time of day on the family ranch: sitting on the hill next to the old windmill and the tree my Grandfather planted on the Great Plains watching the red ball dip gradually past the horizon, watching the counterpoint of red and gold transmute to scarlet and violet as the dots of light revealed themselves at the end of centuries long pilgrimage through the cosmos. This is always humbling, fascinating and overwhelming for me, this spectacle of Mother Nature. The last day of August was very warm, but the heat was also starting to dissipate: the wind is deliciously cool and plays gently on my skin. I wished it could be a night to sleep under the stars, watching the slow dance flat on my back as the speckled procession wound from horizon to horizon, but my brothers and sisters in driving distance would coming out for the day tomorrow, arriving around breakfast time, so I want to be fresh for them.

The contours of my new life were still taking a while to sink in as I lean back into the old tree facing West. I am no longer the Vicar of St. Dunstan's. I am no longer in England. My career has gone a new direction, an unexpected direction, and it exhilarates me and scares me at the same time as it did when I got the job. For the rest of my life, I'm going to be here in Kansas. That thought doesn't weigh as much on my heart as it would have a few years ago. For much of my life, I yearned to escape this place, lose myself in Shangri-La, in the place I should have been born. I thought I found it in England, but as I'm settling into my new life back home in Kansas, I could see that wonderful place was just a way station, a place to find myself so I could come back. 

The thought made me shake my head. My wife's head rested on my right shoulder, and she stirred from her reverie in response. "Penny for your thoughts, luv," she murmured. That was something else to get used to: being a husband again. A glance downward at her swelling waist foretells another new role in the near future: father. 

"Just trying to take everything in, sweetheart," I reply. "A lot of new things to get used to; it's like I'm an entirely different person now."

"No, you aren't," she says with a smirk. "You're just discovering new sides of you. Which are just as lovely as the part I've grown to love already."

"Yeah, right." 

Turning my head, my lips met hers and parted so our tongues could dance a wet tango. My head was spinning when we stopped, an hour later by my calculation, although by the sky it must have been a couple of minutes. 

After we broke, I rested my head on hers for several moments and she asks again, "Penny for your thoughts?"

"Memories of England. Of a year ago."

*******

It was another balmy August Monday in England. I was sitting at a table at the back of the local pub with Mary Sterns, savoring Napoleon brandy and Havana cigars. Smoking wasn't permitted in the Vicarage, but I enjoy a good cigar occasionally and Mary was introduced to the magic of Havanas on one of her trips on behalf of the Parkhurst-Frazleton corporation. It was three days after I returned from America with the news I was leaving. The Pub singing its usual song through another evening: several games of darts and snooker sang their peasant carols while tables of oldsters and youngsters conspired to solve the problems of the word, or the problems of the each other. My seminarian, Kieran Hali, sat with Betsy and Beatrice Burkitt, awkwardly enduring their teasing and flirtation with shaking hands, damp face, and elusive eyes. Kieran was a tall, lanky, young man with light chocolate skin, well developed muscles under his t-shirt, and curly red hair; the girls were a little under average height and a little above average weight, the long, dark hair wound up on their heads and hints of their generous curves peeking from behind their chairs. The Burkitt Twins' roly-poly grandfather, Harry Hazelton, was holding forth with Stan Dover and Percy Whitson on an unusually successful day at the track over convivial pints that he doubtlessly purchased for them.

Sipping my brandy, I regarded Mary's profile as she pulled at her cigar. There were crow's feet around her mouth and eyes and several freckles that were muted by her makeup, but her clear blue eyes, red hair, medium nose, fine cheeks and sensuous red lips made me nostalgic for her even before my departure. She was dressed in a blue business suit with a white lace blouse that dipped to reveal a nicely proportioned cleavage, her white skin beautifully freckled. I took a drag from my cigar and remembered the fine shape of the hips parked beside me, hips that I held in my hands so often as our bodies clasped one another. So many memories of our time together: the trips we took, the meetings we endured, the afternoons spent making love in the Quilting Room. Giving her up would be the most difficult thing about leaving England.

Kieran looked up from his companions and his eyes rested on Mary as she sat beside me. His eyes sparkled as he looked at her, a faint smile crept to the corners of his mouth, and his fingers played with electricity. Looking back at Mary, her gaze was fixed on a corner of the ceiling following the billows as they ascended heavenward; she didn't notice Kieran at all. He caught my attention and looked down again, trying to focus on the girls once again.

Mary turned to look at me and said fondly: "We're going to miss you around here, ya feckin' bastard."

"I know. I'm going to miss me around here, too."

We puffed our cigars and sipped our brandy and let the Pub's song flow by. "Do you know who's going to take your place?" she asked quietly.

"George Staton," I replied in a similarly low voice. "He's ready for a move, and it's going to be his last. God willing, he'll retire from St. Dunstan's in a few years."

She sat back and puffed her cigar. "I can do business with George. Is his Rachel coming along?" 

"Yes. Their marriage seems secure once again, and she's doing better after some Prozac and psychotherapy."

"Did you pull any strings to get this done?"

I blew a smoke ring. "Yes. I thought George was the best person to come here, so when I talked with Bishop Horace and Archdeacon Tommy yesterday, I put a word in. The Bishop was feeling generous since his retirement is scheduled for next month and I'm going away, so he gave me what I wanted. Tommy agreed, seeing the opportunity to play nice with someone who's support he may need someday. It's a done deal."

"What was their response to your news?"

"Grins that would be best described as shit eating. It was the last time I would see those two institutional warlocks and the thought brings some reason to rejoice and be glad."

Mary snickered and I shared her mirth momentarily. She switched gears. "I saw our Barbara last week. Went down to Rome to see her."

"How's Mother Mary Rufus doing?"

"She's settling in her generalate. It's close to Vatican City on the same side of the Tiber, lovely gardens. Looked a little tired: poor thing had just finished up her mother's estate before her sisters elected her Superior of the whole worldwide community. She'll be stuck in Italy for six years."

"I can relate. I'm sure she was the most surprised woman when the General Chapter elected her. Rome isn't a bad place to be, and she'll get to travel in style."

"No, I wouldn't mind living there. Sister Mary Francis Xavier went with her to be her personal flunky and her connection home. It's always good to have a familiar face in a strange place."

If only you knew, I thought, that Barbara took her daughter along. Perhaps Sister Mary Francis Xavier is ready to settle into adulthood. "Does she get to come home after she's done her tour in Rome?" I asked.

"Usually they don't and she's not planning on it," she said. "Tough for a former abbess to go back to her home community as a regular girl. She talked about a house they have in Kansas, and wanting to go there eventually."

I sat up with surprised. Yes, it would be nice to have Barbara (Mother Mary Rufus) and Helen (Sister Mary Francis Xavier) close by in a few years. 

"Pity you're only here a couple more days,' she pouted. "We didn't get much notice of your leaving, either. There could have been a better reception after services yesterday knowing it was your last."

"You did what you could at the time, and that's good enough. What matters is the years we've had together."

Flicking her ash, she took another draw. I sipped my brandy, took a puff and changed the topic: "I'm worried about Kieran."

She blinked and turned to look at me, then over at him. He noticed her attention and smiled shyly. "Is he staying on with us?"

"Oh, yes, he's staying on at St. Dunstan's. He gets along well with George and Rachel, and the location is ideal for going to school and visiting his Mum at St. Will's. His issue is with typical boy stuff."

Mary returned Kieran's look with an unblinking gaze, puffing her cigar. Kieran's face brightened, then faded to uncertainty, wanting to pull away, but not succeeding. The twins were leaving to use the loo and didn't notice. "Tell me more," she said.

"Kieran, despite his good looks and charm, is a virgin. His mother raised him to be very respectful and deferential around women: his manners are impeccable. He's no problems being friendly with women: he treats Agnes like a sister and the shut in widows he visits say he's a treat, delightful company. But he's scared to ask out a woman for a date, a romantic date at least."

"Is he interested in girls?"

"Oh yes, very much. His hard drive bears testimony to this. We've talked about it a few times, surrogate father and son, and I've given him what wisdom I can. Confidence is what's lacking, as well as experience. And he's very shy."

Kieran finally melted under Mary's gaze and retreated toward the Men's Room. "I notice the Burkitt twins are interested in him."

"Yeah, they are. I think they'd shag him tonight if they got a chance, but I hear they're committed virgins as well."

Mary started beside me and gave me a disbelieving look. "Are they? When their grandmother Mavis was their age, she could tell the make of any car blindfolded by laying down on the back seat and spreading her legs."

I smiled. "Sometimes the message works: they're keeping themselves pure for the right man. They're playful, but also very cautious in their own way. They're also together almost constantly; they protect each other."

"They're also probably waiting for you, just like Jenny and Agnes did," Mary said, blowing a smoke ring.

I took a big gulp of brandy and a desperate drag on my Havana. Blowing it aloft, I shuddered. "I guess I owe it to Mavis, and to them. They are budding into attractive young women. There'll be time."

"It better be soon, if you don't want them to jump out of your closet and pounce on you unawares." She sat back and pondered the ceiling again, smoking languidly. "So the young man needs some help with his confidence. . ."

We sat and smoked and watched the Pub go by, until Mary leaned over to give me a peck on the cheek and bade me a good evening.

Tuesday dawned warm and bright: only three more days before I got on the plane to start my new life. Mavis came over to fix breakfast, which was the best meal she ever fixed for me. As I ate my food, she looked at me with big dampening eyes. "I hear that you're moving to Scotland for good, Mavis," I began.

"Yeah, Vicar. It seems the best thing to do. I'm tired of the city, tired of the neighborhood, tired of so many things. My littlest grandbabies are up there, and they need me, their Mum has such a time with them."

"How about Harry?"

She looked away and paused. "Harry will be all right on his own. He's a good enough man, and provided for me and the girls well enough, but it's time to end the charade. Freddie isn't the only homosexual in the family, and Harry will appreciate the space for his special mates."

I dropped my fork. "Do you mean, this man, who gave you six children. . ."

"Yeah, I had a time believing it as well. Din't really understand in the early days, well, in the Sixties it was illegal. He was good provider for us, a real trooper, but it was what his father expected of him, and Harry wouldn't challenge that, could never take on the old man. Now the old man has gone to his reward and we can let go."

"I see. If you're both happy. . ."

"Oh yes, Vicar, for certain. Harry will also keep an eye on Freddie and the twins. They're old enough to be on their own, away from Mum and Dad; he's very fond of them and will give them a little grandfatherly help from time to time and a bit of his pension in exchange for a place to stay in his old age."

"Won't you miss St. Dunstan's?"

"Oh yes, but Sheila's happy down in Cornwall with her new man and her family, and she inspired me to go a new direction. Who knows, I may find someone new up in the glens, a lad with something really special under his kilt." She said the last bit with a growl in her voice, and batted her eyes flirtatiously.

I smiled as I ate my eggs.

"I hope it's not too much to ask, but will you have time to do me a last favor?" she queried in a thin, little girl voice.

"If I can, Mavis, I will. What is it?"

"The twins' birthday is Thursday. They'll be eighteen and young women. You helped our Jenny and our Agnes make the transition, and I was hoping you could do the same for my gels."

"It will be tight. Maybe during the day."

She smiled broadly, and did a little dance step as best she could. "Maybe you could find some time to abuse my tits a bit before then." Pulling the belt on her dress, she unbuttoned a button.

"Sorry, Mavis, don't have time until Thursday, lots to do. I wish I did."

"But Thursday is my big packing day."

"Can't help it. If you can break free, we'll see."

"It's all I can ask for. Thanks, luv." She replaced her belt, buttoned her button, and headed for the door.

Kieran came in the door almost immediately, and we went to the Recreation Room for a hard morning's workout. Everything except the hottub was going later that day, sold on the Internet to a new adult club across town, and Kieran was the only one I trusted to help me. Two and a half hours hard labor saw everything ordered and in crates ready to go. Since the delivery men were bringing the crates out the basement door, I took him upstairs for a refreshing brew before we moved on.

He sat down uneasily at the spare chair in my study, and accepted a Newcastle Brown Ale with relish. I settled in my familiar chair with a cold Heineken, and chit chatted with him as checked my e-mail: mostly messages from home that tried to get me inundated in work before I even reported for my new job. I heard a few steps and I found he had left the room momentarily, so I pulled up the Quilting room camera to see Mary working there alone, dressed minimally on the pentulimate day of August. I longed to run over there and ravish her as I had so often before, but I had to start letting go. Kieran returned, and I killed the video.

"Well, lad, how are you doing?"

"Not too well, Vicar. I wish you didn't have to go."

"You know I don't want to either, but I have no choice. When you do the Lord's work, you have to go where the Spirit leads you."

"I know, Vicar, I know. I love how noble it sounds, and my heart tells me it's where I want to go. It's doing it that's the tough part."

"Amen, " I answered and took a long pull from my beer. "Tell me, have you found a girlfriend yet?"

It was amusing to watch him try to blush. "Well, Vicar, I haven't had much luck getting a girl to go out with me."

"I saw you at the Pub last night with the Birkitt twins. They seemed interested."

"Oh, they're like sisters to me. They're too immature; their kidding gets old pretty quickly. Cute, but not my type."

"Has Agnes tried to set you up with one of her friends?"

"Ah, Agnes. She's tried, but no go. All nice girls, good company, but different. Couple tried to stick their tongues down my throat the first time I kissed them." He shuddered and bowed his head. "Don't like pushy birds. Makes me feel like I'm the prize of a contest. Sometimes I think there just aren't any women out there in the world for me."

"Yet, Kieran, yet. You're how old, Kieran?"

"I'll be twenty this summer."

"That's a little young to become a monk, lad. Hang in there, something will turn up, and the right girl will come around for you. The Lord will provide, usually when you least expect it."

"If you say so, Vicar."

"I do. I know what it's like to be alone for months at a time and wondering if you'll ever be loved. Keep your heart and your mind open, son."

"Yes, Vicar."

"By the way, Kieran, Mary Sterns was saying she needed some help in the Quilting Room early this afternoon. Could you swing by there and help her out? I'm busy here."

He thought for a moment, the hint of a smile creasing his face. "No, I'm free. I can help her."

"Splendid," I replied taking a long pull from my beer. We rummaged around the pantry for some bread to break for lunch, and practiced the art of sandwich making to assuage our hunger. Afterward, we parted company: I to respond to the mountain of new e-mail and Kieran to the Quilting Room.

I settled into the chair behind my desk and thanked God we hadn't disconnected the camera system yet. Cameras would remain to monitor the outer doors and key passages for security; I would show George and Rachel how to use them. The other cameras were being removed Thursday after the majority of my personal effects started their journey back to Kansas. An hour's labor saw the mail answered, and I glanced at the headlines of the country I was about to leave.

Pulling up the Quilting Room channel, I focused the lipstick camera, taking the joystick in my hand to maneuver the frame as needed. It was a fine early afternoon, sunlight pouring in through the high windows in hard shafts of radiance. Kieran had settled on an old rocking chair: he rocked quickly and nervously as he watched Mary work on a quilt. Mary was wearing a polka dot halter top, shorts and sandals in the warm weather; the shorts displayed her nicely rounded hips and she stood with one foot in front of the other as she worked to accentuate the curve of her ass. He was undressing her with his eyes, and his rocking grew more nervous the more he looked at her almost bare back.

The absence of a microphone wasn't going to be a problem for me; since one of my sisters is deaf, I learned to read lips at an early age. The scene before me needed some background, however, so I punched up my playlist on my MP3 player.  Symphonie Pathétique by Tchaikovsky caught my eye. It wasn't something I listened to often, and it wasn't what they would have chosen, but it fit my mood, so I loaded it up and settled back as the plaintive bassoon growled over the coarse low strings.

Mary finished a stitch, and stepped back to see her progress. I could tell they were talking, but there was no microphone which was fine since I didn't really want to know what they were saying. As she spoke, I could see her hand go to the base of her neck, where it rested; her breathing got quicker and her eyes went up to the ceiling. She transferred her weight from one foot to another, and the hunger on Kieran's face increased dynamically, his mouth opening slightly and his tongue gently touching his lower lip. His hands gripped the arms of the rocker hard.

He stopped when she turned around, trying to act calm, and failing spectacularly. A wry smile found her lips as her hand patted her chest, and she took a step forward. She mouthed: "Even a woman my age appreciates the–amorous attention of man. Knowing that a virile young man such as yourself could look on me as desirable is so stimulating. . ." His hands began to tremble on the rocker, but he was stuck in his seat; his eyes were glued to her pink polka dot halter top. My knowledge of what lay within made me shift in my chair to seek comfort.




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 24



"You've seen naked women before, haven't you dear?" Mary mouthed flirtatiously as her hands went behind her back to undo her lower strap. Kieran sat rapt, nodding silently. Her hands went to the strap behind her neck as the garment hung loosely. She paused for a long moment, teasing him, then mouthed: "You'd like to see my breasts, wouldn't you?" He nodded again.

"You'd like to touch them perhaps? Stroke them, lick them, suck--my--nipples?" She stretched the last phrase out dramatically. He was transfixed, unable to nod his head. "Blink once for yes and twice for no, please Kieran." His eyes blinked once. Her eyes were fixed on his groin: there was a response from him that interested her. "It's so tough being a young man, so full of life and lust and so scared to let it out. Like Pandora's box, you don't know what's going to come out, you're scared and fascinated at the same time." 

She took another step forward and cupped his face with her left hand. The sunlight caught his curly red hair, and his lower lip trembled. A pull of the string, the halter went into a corner of the room, and her sumptuous breasts were unveiled inches from his face. Her nipples hardened immediately, beckoning his adoration. "You know you want to," she mouthed, "go ahead. Don't worry, luv. It's all right. You can't hurt me." 

Tentatively, softly, he leaned forward to embrace her white freckled skin with his lips. Her left hand circled from his cheek to the back of his curly red hair, encouraging him. "Go slow, dear, go slow. Savor the experience. Lips and tongue are fine. Oh, yes, oh yes." Her head went back as his hands came up to caress her breasts. "Take it easy, gently, gently. Yes, milk them, I love that."

He took her right nipple in his mouth and a look of bliss came over her face. "Yes, sweetheart, a little toothy is fine, just don't get carried away." Her right hand glided over his back while her left buried itself in his hair. A quick motion and she pulled his shirt off, revealing his beautifully developed muscles. 

She put her legs through under the arms of the rocker and sat on his lap, fondling his hair as he continued his adoration of her chest. For a moment, her eyes fixed on the camera for a moment. Her lips moved: "I'll take care of him. Don't worry." 

A whisper in his ear, and he stood up, carrying her in front of him to the cot that had been a regular part of the Quilting Room since that day when Mary, Sheila and Mavis first made love to me. It was sturdy and the right combination of firm and cozy. He put her on the bed and at her urging removed her shorts, unveiling all of her freckles and her shaven crotch. 

Then, she moved to his fly, unbuttoning his trousers one at a time, teasing him with a glacial pace, licking her lips and locking his eyes with hers. There was already a small fleck of dampness on his pants and a larger one on his briefs as they came into view. His cock was so long it had sprung through his right leg opening, held stiffly at an odd angle in from of her face. With some difficulty, Mary wrestled Kieran's briefs down his legs and beckoned him to sit on the bed next to her. I flipped to another camera to get a better view.

He sat back, leaning on his elbows, as she took his protuberance in her soft, delicate, rednailed hands as it rose to greet her. I shivered at the memory of those hands touching me; she got him fully erect within seconds, smiling at his length that was much more than usual, four inches greater than my nine. The knob glistened with opaque fluid and was traversing shades of red. 

"Ever have a girl do this for you?" Mary asked.

"No, ah, ah, no, Missus Sterns, no."

"Call me Mary," she said, "you may call me Mary, Kieran, especially when we're alone." Pursing her lips in contemplation, her dancing blue eyes fixed raptly on the pale juice her practiced manipulation summoned. "So you've never even gotten this far before. Do you like it?"

"Aaagh. It's sooo wonderful, I can hardly believe it. I feel something, don't know what it is. Like I'm going to pop."

Mary smiled; I could tell she was purring in anticipation. "You're going to pop and it'll be wonderful, Kieran. Glorious. Indescribable. And I get to take you there the first time. Lucky me" Bending over, she engulfed the head of his cock, sucking in her cheeks as she took it in and worked up and down on it. Her tongue would be a frenzy of activity, fluttering all over the tender skin, questing every fresh drop of semen as it rose. He fell back and started writhing; she continued her work in and out. Mary never developed the technique of deep throating, but she was always spectacular with the length she took into her magic mouth. His pelvis shot upward and semen leaked from the corners of her mouth as he orgasmed.

Flopping and twisting, his mouth opened to yell as his first climax overtook his entire being. 

Pulse after pulse leaked from her lips and streamed down her chin to drip on his thighs. She stayed with him in his journey, relentlessly imbibing from his fountain, for several long moments. He settled back, spent, and she worked down his shaft to lap every stray drop that had fallen white on his chocolate skin. 

When she finished, Mary lay back beside Kieran on her elbow, stroking his semi-soft member. His eyes were closed a long time as he floated in the afterglow. Suddenly he sat up and gave her a long, strong, open mouthed kiss on the lips. As their lips locked, his young manhood stirred to full life once again, which she encouraged more and more.

"While you're young, my love, you have this special grace," she said with a glimmer in her eyes. "You'll recover quickly and have multiple orgasms in the space of an hour. As you get older, it'll take longer to recover your stiffy." She cast a naughty glance at the camera, as if she were looking directly into my eyes. "We can commence your next lesson almost immediately."

"Right now?" he asked. "Should I do something to make you feel as good as I did?"

"You already have, sweetness," her mouth cooed. "You don't know how much I love sucking cock."

He tossed his head back in laughter. "The Burkitt twins say they suck cock."

She smiled. "They haven't yet. They're waiting for a special man. They just like to brag, just like your blokes down at the Wednesday football club talk in the locker room. Have your mates talked to you about sex?"

"Yeah," he replied, looking pensive. "Wild stories, like the adventures of Indiana Jones."

"I didn't know he had sexual adventures."

"No, they were just as believable. The only woman I can picture Indy sleeping with is Miriam, from the first movie. The second was a wimp and the third a maniac: Miriam was the only worthy one."

Mary gave his cock a long, sultry lick up and down the length of his shaft. His eyes rolled back in his head and he fell back on the cot as she returned to the head and took it in her mouth. "Let's get back to our lessons, luv," she said as she released him, "put your hand here." 

She guided his hand to her crotch. "Gently, so gently stroke and probe in the folds." A gasp as he did as she instructed. "Find the nub and play with it, yes, yes, yes, yes, that's it." Her face glowed and she tossed her head around as he stroked her moist lips. "I'm going to teach you how to bring me off next time, with your fingers and with your tongue. Would you like that?" He nodded, his face in awe of the ability he just discovered in his hands. Mary bit her lip. "But now, I want you to stick that monster in my cunt. Even lovely inch of him. I'm ready; lay me down, roll me over, and do it. Fuck me, Kieran. You know how, don't you, luv?"

He nodded his head and laid her on her back; she spread her legs wide and took his fresh erection to guide it between her legs. "Slowly, a little bit at a time. Takes a minute to get used to a monster like yours," she murmured, her lips slightly moving. It took several moments for him to impale himself fully, working his way in to alternating looks of pain and bliss. He hit bottom and she began to roll her hips back and forth under him as he thrust into her.

It was difficult to believe this woman was sixty five years old and a great grandmother. Her body had undoubtedly put on a couple of pounds over the years, filling out her waist and hips, her breasts sagged a bit and flopped around dramatically as they made the beast with two backs, but she was raw sexuality incarnate, ever fresh, ever young, ever fruitful. Her skin took on a glow that brightened gradually until she reached the land I knew so well, her face shining with perspiration, her eyes closed, her mouth frozen in a small circle, her nipples rock hard. He must have orgasmed about the same time, since his deep thrusting stopped shortly after her orgasm began.

I shut the window of my computer down as he slid off her, knowing their lesson wasn't quite done yet. Kieran had someone who would continue his education and cultivate him to be a self-assured young man, wise beyond his years, ready for wherever life would send him. Mary had someone to mentor, and give her a private fountain of youth. 

There was some unfinished business before I surrendered the computer. First, I put all the current parish programs and files on a tape backup in preparation for transfer. Then, I got a couple of flash drives and copied every home movie I'd recorded via my secret video system, from Violette's mousetrapped tits to Mary's seduction of Kieran, pocketing them when finished. Shutting down the computer, I pulled the hard drive and installed the new one I'd purchased Monday afternoon. After reinstalling all the programs and the data from the tape backup, I took the old drive out to the kitchen, pausing to pick up a hammer from the hall closet. I put the hard drive in a paper bag, and pounded it to rubble, my heart cracking with every blow. 

The bag of dust went straight into the bins by the garage, and I took a long slow stroll through the massive back yard, remembering every meal al fresco, every morning one of the Quilting Ladies tended the flowers, every silly moment of the night Reverend Brenda and I frolicked naked in the mud, every tryst with Agnes under the stars, every spring song of the birds. My heart was divided: I wished one of them were here so we could make love on the warm grass under the blue sky while the birds sang around us and the flowers made their fragrance, and yet if they were, I knew I was too lost in memory to savor lovemaking with a clear heart. Worn out, I went inside and upstairs to take a nap before I began the marathon packing up of my life.

I arose from my nap to clatter in the kitchen. Descending the stairs, I discovered Agnes at the stove, fixing dinner, wearing nothing but an apron and a forced smile. "Hi, Al," she said glumly, "Tea will be ready in ten minutes. Have a drink."

"How come you're taking a turn at the stove tonight?"

"Betsy and Bea are at their Gran's tonight, helping her pack for her move. My Gran was called into the office this afternoon, so I volunteered since there isn't much going on with the Choir boys on holiday."

"That's wonderful, Perk. What's for Tea?"

"Bangers and mash."

"Super." I settled at the kitchen table after pulling a St. Pauli Girl I found in the icebox. Agnes was of medium height and build; her buttocks were delightfully uncovered behind her apron, and contemplating it made my tennis shorts very uncomfortable, coming after my afternoon's voyeurism. The sweet sweep of her nicely tanned derriere called to me, and I laid my hand on its roundness. She moved back to meet my caress, and I stroked her beautiful curves from dimple to dimple for several moments while she was at the stove. Finally breaking contact, Agnes bustled about, putting a huge spinach salad on the table, setting plates and cutlery, and soon she was setting the main dish on the table and taking her place across from me.

We said grace, and she served the salad and the steaming main course. Her plain white apron came a third of the way up her chest, revealing two lovely brown melons, with sweet nipples outlined in the fabric. She picked at her food, keeping her eyes locked on mine, sipping her wine. My John Thomas grew more insistent in its attention of her, and it took all my self-discipline not to throw the food off the table, rip off her apron and savage her on the spot. There would have been a horrible mess to clean up. I ate my meal, returning her gaze intently until I cleared my plate. She teased every banger as it approached her lips, making it suffer just on the horizon of her lips before taking a soft small bite. Crossing my legs, I sipped my wine as I stared into her blue eyes, tapping my foot in the air as she took a lifetime to finish her meal.

After taking the plates to the sink, she turned and asked: "What would you like for afters?"

I laughed, sprang to my feet, and pulled her tightly against my body. "You, of course. Where would you like to fuck?"

Her eyes grew moist. "In your room, after you carry me to your bed."

"We'll take the downstairs guest suite. My room is going to be disassembled tomorrow." I took her over my shoulder in a fireman's carry, swatting her ripe posterior with a loud crack before leaving the kitchen. The front room was ready for me, and I threw her on the bed, shrugging off my clothes in a minute and kneeling between her legs. Her embrace was ferocious, her lips locked against mine, and her slit was an ocean of eager dampness to receive me.

We fucked several moments before I brought her to her first orgasm, shuddering and writhing against me madly. I flipped her over and re-entered her from behind, bucking so hard against her that the bed shook back and forth, making me fear its sudden demise. The charge in my batteries had built to the discharge point, and I emptied myself as she gasped in her second journey to the summit.

It took a few moments to regain my senses, and I flopped down hard beside her on the mattress. She covered my head with kisses; I felt the salty rain of tears. "What's the matter, Perky?"

"I don't know, Al, I feel like such a failure."

"You? A failure? Tell me more, Perk."

She sat on her heels above me and brushed the tears away. Her eyes were still full, and her brow downcast. "I don't know how much longer I can hold on as organist/choirmaster. When I was in school, playing the organ every week, helping Niall, working with the boys, was so much fun. Music was my life and it was sweet, the sweetest thing I've ever known. I thought my future would be full of concerts and recitals, going on tour overseas, and maybe teaching at University some day.

"After Niall left, things went all right for a while, Freddie did a great job helping me, but the fire wasn't there. I put out the word I wanted to play recitals, but I was only able to get two programmes other than here, and the papers didn't notice me. The year went on, and my teacher was working with new students, I felt a bit abandoned when he didn't have much time for me. Then the boys started pushing the line, testing me at every turn, and I feel overwhelmed. We've done every anthem I wanted to conduct, and most of what's available that's new is complete and utter shit. I feel like my years in music have been wasted."

She sobbed some more, and I took her hand in mine. The tableau remained for several long moments; she wasn't ready to listen to me and I needed time to compose myself. A few deep breaths and the waterworks subsided. Her face was more composed and her eyes told me she was ready to listen.

"Look, Perky, I can't tell if your musical career is over, but where you are right now isn't unusual for someone who's been in the field for a year. The honeymoon is over, and you're seeing the Dark Side of the business. Been there, done that. You can still find a way with those boys, and by now you may have a better idea of how to use Freddie to help you. Performing careers are fickle to start with, you never know when you'll get a break.

"You may need to take a position somewhere other than your home parish. You may want to do something else at a parish, a secretary, minister to the homebound, soup kitchen supervisor. Or perhaps you would like to inquire with primary schools or nurseries, perhaps you'd like to work around your Gran's office. I'd recommend that you hang on here and see how things work out: I'd hate for you to make a hasty decision and give up something you still love in spite of yourself. You're young, bright and beautiful, Agnes, the world is your oyster. Even if a door is closing now, another one is opening, at least one if not more."

Her head went down for a few moments, as she digested what I said. "How are you, Al?" she said out of the blue. "How are you negotiating the doors these days?"

I blew out my breath and sat up beside her. "Touché, dear. There's too much going on, everything's happening so fast. It's like surfing a waterfall. All I can do is ride the wave down and see where I land."

"And will you land with someone?"

I kissed her hand. "I'll stay in touch. Can't even begin to think about more than I am right now. I'm going home, I'm overwhelmed and I don't know where I'm going. I'm walking by faith; that's all I have right now."

She embraced me silently and held me for several moments. We spent the night in each other's arms. I heard Kieran slip in a three in the morning.

Wednesday was the great mobilization. The movers came horribly early to take most of my Recreation Room equipment away, catching me in my bathrobe and Agnes huddled under the sheets. We barely had time to clean up and dress when the crew arrived: Mary, Derrick, Jenny, little Alfred, and several other parishioners came to help me get packed up and ready to go. Jenny was eight months pregnant: between supervising little Alfred, who insisted on helping us, 

and making sure we had cold drinks, she presided over the kitchen as best she could preparing our luncheon. I passed through and she gave me a warm embrace.

"Vicar Alfred, I'm speechless. Don't want you to go."

"Thanks, Jenny. How's the baby?"

"Fat and sassy. Going to be a Premier league footballer as hard and often as he kicks me."

"Great. You look radiant."

She smiled broadly, a ripe, darkhaired blue-eyed nymph glowing in fresh sunlight. "Thanks, Vic. You're so kind, always have been. I wish we had another night together."

I kissed her brow. "You have a good man who will love you all your days. He's done more for you than I ever could. God has truly blessed you." 

The troops had me almost ready by one o'clock, packed and at the doorway, save a few things I needed to take with me for the last journey. We ate in the backyard, enjoying the fragrant flowers and bright sunlight, trying to push some rain clouds back over the horizon. I held court as long as I could, not wanting our company to part, until the doorbell rang to announce George and Rachel Staton's arrival. 

The Statons joined us for some food in the backyard, and the crew made short work of moving their things into the master suite and pastor's office. Agnes stayed in her room while they were there. George expressed his thanks to his new parishioners profusely, and excused himself and Rachel around Teatime.

The party lasted after dark. Derrick came over and threw his arm around my shoulder. "Vicar, I can't tell you how much you've done for me. You've been the father I never had. It breaks my heart to see you go."

"Thanks, Derrick. You're a fine young man, and I would have been proud to call you son if fate allowed. If I can ever help you, e-mail sails across the pond effortlessly."

"Oh, you're not done with Jenny and me yet. Another six weeks and there'll be baby pictures."

"Take care of your lady and your family. That's what matters most. You'll be fine; you'll all be fine."




The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 24



Others came by to say their farewells, drifting off piecemeal. Kieran gave me a hug that almost caved in my ribs, and Mary kissed me sweetly on the cheek. The gleam in her eye told me that her world was back in balance again, and Kieran was already displaying more self-confidence. Little Alfred played coy with his goodbyes; he surely didn't understand what was happening. After they all left, I wept like a baby.

The next day was a warm Thursday morning, the first of September, when Betsy and Bea Birkitt sat on the couch in my study. They wore matching Arsenal t-shirts stretched tightly over their ripening breasts, shorts that were well filled by apple-round, firm bottoms and sandaled feet displayed the same pattern of five different bright colors of their fingernails. Four dancing blue eyes looked at me expectantly, their red lips wet and their breathing heavy. I sat behind my desk and admired the scene, making them wait in silence even though I knew exactly what they wanted. Sitting back in my chair, I steepled my hands and waited for them to start talking.

Finally, Beatrice blurted out: "Today's our birthday, Vicar."

"Congratulations, girls. How old are you?"

"You know very well how old we are, Father. We're eighteen," Betsy snapped irritably. I sat placidly as she realized her gaffe, blushed and leaned away, momentarily humbled.

"Happy birthday, girls. May you be blessed with many more." Bea's toes started dancing nervously, and her hands began squeezing each other furtively. I crossed my legs and took a sip from my coffee mug.

"Gran said she talked with you," Bea continued.

"Yes, your Grandmother and I have talked many times over the years. Is there anything in particular you're referring to?"

Bea's eyes took on a pleading look, while Betsy struggled to regain her composure, frightened to say anything. "Well, it was about the, the, the favor you did Jenny and Agnes."

I started at a corner of the ceiling, and spun my right foot in leisurely circles as I stalled. "Hmm, I think I've done a few things for both Jenny and Agnes over the years that could be considered favors. Could you be more specific?"

Betsy's head snapped up. "Vicar, Gran asked you if you'd take our cherries."

Looking around casually, I replied: "Do you have some in your purses? Or did you put them in the kitchen?"

Bea sighed in exasperation. "We're virgins, Father, and we want you to take our virginity, just like you took Jenny and Agnes." Her chest was heaving, her fingers knotted themselves. Betsy looked like she was about to pounce like hungry tiger.

"We want you to give us a good fucking, Vic. Gran said you promised her," Betsy continued, almost snarling. "Time's running out. I've wanted to jump your bones since my boobs started growing, and I pretend my dildo is your cock every time I wank myself. Do I have to get down on my knees and beg, or what?" Bea nodded in agreement, squeezing her thighs together and rubbing her legs.

They sat at the edge of the couch like dogs straining their leashes, their foreheads were damp and spots were developing in the armpits. Four eyes consumed with lust devoured me as I sat calmly before them; four hands grabbed the fabric of the seat cushions, squeezing hard in anticipation.

"Well, we'll have to talk about this, discuss what each of you wants specifically, coordinate our schedules. . ."

"Are ya busy right now?" Bea breathed huskily.

"Any plans for the rest of the day?" Betsy continued

I made a show of turning to look at my clear desktop beside me, where my diary lay. Opening it slowly, I traced my finger up and down the page, which was completely empty. I knew Agnes, Jenny and Derrick and many others were helping their Grandmother Mary Sterns move the twins' Grandmother Mavis to Scotland, and would be packing all day before pausing for these girls' Birthday Party. Their Grandfather Harry had taken their brother Freddie to the track; Keiran was spending the day with his mother; Percy and Peggy Witson were expecting the birth of their third child any moment; Stan and Doris Dover were on holiday in Torquay. Artie Farnsworth was covering St. Dunstan's emergency calls, and his secretary assured me earlier that morning that he was in his study and on the job. It looked to be a quiet day around the Vicarage, the day before departure.

Gazing at the ceiling for several moments, I pondered before I replied: "The diary looks empty today, but. . ." The girls flew across the room and pounced on me: Bea flung her arms around my neck and kissed me so hard it almost hurt, her tongue pushing between my lips to seek mine; Betsy frantically unbuckled my trousers, undid them and pulled them down to the floor, then she pulled down my briefs and sucked my soft protrusion into the wet, swirling vortex of her mouth. Betsy's hand went to my scrotum, where it softly cupped, stroking and caressed my oysters while my erection stiffened quickly between her eager lips. Reaching out with both hands, I caressed their luscious bottoms, played with their crevasses, and stroked as they wiggled gladly against my palms. 

After about thirty seconds, Bea tapped Betsy's shoulder, pulled her mouth off mine, and shouted: "Switch." Betsy reluctantly pulled off and came up to suck my lips while her sister moved down to engulf my member. Bea's mouth was gentle, her suction soft and velvet while her tongue glided like a butterfly over my corona. Her fingers traced the lines of my scrotum, tickling the sensitive spot between my testicles. Betsy sucked my tongue into her mouth and swirled hers around it frantically. Their buttocks were still wiggling gleefully against my hands, and I savored the sensory overload for the next thirty seconds.

They changed again, Betsy doing her best to inhale more and more of my manhood while Bea tickled my tongue with hers and softly tweaked my nipples. Four inches out of nine was the best Betsy could do in thirty seconds, her tongue swirling madly as I almost came out of her mouth. The electricity was building in my batteries, and I felt close when time was up again.

This was a game, obviously: whoever made me ejaculate in her mouth would go first. I determined to last as long as I could, make them work for it. Bea was deep throating me, and the last two strokes of her shift found her nose hitting my short hairs. When they switched, Betsy moved down on my cock while Bea's tender lips moved down the shaft to my jewels. After thirty seconds of extreme bliss they switched again, one girl working down my shaft as the other worked up, and this repeated. My consciousness drifted, the growing tension between my legs a delicious magic I didn't want to part with, but the moment arrived when my discipline could hold out no longer. 

It was the strongest orgasm I ever had. Pulse after pulse filled her mouth and overflowed down, where another hungry tongue caressed it. Lost in time and space, riding the winds, I flew through the clouds, impregnating them so they could shower the earth. At last the waves grew shallower and fainter, until I was released, spent and relaxed while a duet of warm tongues sought every remembrance of my ecstasy.

"I win," Betsy crowed. "I go first. Now, this is how I want to do it. . ."

Forty five minutes later, we were in the bedroom of the ground floor guest suite where my parents stayed during their recent visit. It felt strange to spend my last two days in different quarters, but the timing of the switch made it the easiest way, and a good transition. George and Rachel could start moving into my quarters before they spent the night on Friday, the next night, with my relocation. They were spending the day with their daughter Molly in Paris, the deep breath before the plunge, as he put it. 

Betsy was on the bed with the covers pulled back, naked with her hands tied underneath her. Bea knelt on the old prie-dieu, her hands bound behind her back. I made sure the curtains were drawn on the two windows, then undressed myself. Four rapt eyes followed me as I approached Betsy on the bed; she licked her lips in anticipation. "Take the brush and do me, Vic," she whispered, "rub it all over me. I love the way it tickles my skin."

I took the bottle brush from the bed beside her, and began to wave it over her, making incidental contact. She sighed and I brushed her torso gently up and down between her breasts, working down to her navel and up to her throat. The brush left faint red trails that disappeared almost immediately. After tickling her throat and ears, it rolled up and down her right breast, spinning slowly on her stiff bud before moving on. 

"More, Father, more," she murmured, her eyes closed, and I rolled the spiky phallus shaped brush on her left breast, scratching circles around her big nipple, two inches across. The nipple erected harder and her body arched up to meet its stimulation. The brush caressed her whole body more ardently, and she wiggled her hips to get it to pay attention to her pelvis. It traversed her left thigh; her legs opened wider to encourage it higher, and it went from one knee to another, leaving reminders of its passage. 

Her labia were slick with ardor, and the brush teased the folds. She pressed her pelvis against it, and it tried to push its gentle way inside her. I kept its touch as light as I could, but she rubbed against it greedily, the stiff bristles irritating and stimulating her. "Ooo, it feels just like the electric toothbrush I use down there," she moaned. "Ahhh, more!" 

Taking away the brush, the middle finger of my left hand sought her sweetness, which sucked it in gladly. Another finger joined it, which my right hand settled on her left breast, caressing, rolling, tweaking the nipple. Her breathing increased as I probed her vagina and milked her nipple, twisting it slightly. "Now, Vicar, now. Put it in, I'm ready. Fuck me now for the first time."

Getting between her knees, I guided my manhood in its quest of deflowerment. Her virgin slit accepted the head, devouring it as eagerly as her mouth did, and about three inches. There was a resistance, a tension, a passing pain and a parting that led to bliss that filled her oval face and turned her body into an ember radiating sweet warmth. The flames built quickly until the firebursts began, sending her body riding waves of delight for several moments. I held myself inside her until they passed, withdrawing as her breathing became more regular, kneading her ample breasts as she came back to reality. Finally opening her eyes, she purred: "It was better than I imagined."

A noise just outside the window caught my attention, and I peeking through the curtains that looked at the stone wall of the Church. Mavis Hazelton, the twins' Grandmother was there, grinning inanely. She wore a blue wrap around dress, and her dark hair was tied in a bun. Her body was chubby, and her huge breasts were straining their confinement: I could tell she wasn't wearing a bra. Her joy turned to surprise as I caught her, and beckoning with my finger, she turned to come inside.

Mavis entered the room and closed the door behind her. "Who said you could be here today?" I asked harshly.

"I didn't see any harm. Sheila was here when you did her Jenny, and Mary was there when you did her Agnes."

"But we didn't specifically agree you should be here today, did we?"

"No," came the meek reply.

"Did she tell you she was going to be here, girls?"

"No."

"No."

"What about the people packing you up to move?"

"I told them the twins got arrested."

"That's easy to believe," I quipped. "For all I know, Harry's running a pool for who gets it first." Mavis stood there meekly, while the girls grew anxious.

I crossed my arms and pondered, my hand on my chin. "Then if you're breaking your word, I guess you should be punished." Mavis' dismay changed to desire: she adored punishment, and was probably hoping to be part of this last dance before I left. Many times in the past three years I made her orgasm by abusing her huge melons, but there wasn't a lot of resources due to my incipient move. 

"You wouldn't happen to have a bit of rope, would you Mavis?" I asked. Mine was already out the door.

She smiled and giggled like a school girl. "No. There may be something around here that might serve. Perhaps in the sacristry?"

Mavis took off her blue dress, revealing her medium sized, chubby frame. Her bra came off, and her massive breasts flopped toward the floor: basketball sized with nipples seven inches wide. There wasn't much to tie her to left in the room; I didn't intend to release the girls until I was done with both of them as per their request. An inspiration: the wardrobe faced the room and it held a minimum of hanging clothes which were destined for my suitcase before the wedding next week. There was enough room for her to stand under the clothes rod and enough room to access what I needed. I used a couple of old ties I intended to discard to fix her hands to the rod.

"Be right back," I chirped, and strode to the kitchen to rummage around. While I was there, I cleaned up a little bit to refresh myself, but there was nothing that suggested itself for Mavis' request. Taking a gamble, I traversed the passageway that led from the back Vicarage hallway to the Sacristry stark naked, and found some ropes we used to reserve pews for special occasions. "This should do the trick," I said to myself. Returning, I found the women as I left them, Bea shaking in anticipation.

After tying Mavis' hands above her head around the solid clothes rod, I began a Japanese tie I'd seen on the Internet. The girls watched as I bound their Grandmother's breasts; Bea whispered: "You can do that to me when you're done." I finished quickly despite some awkward reaching around Mavis, and her breasts began to rise and stick out proudly in their confinement. Feeling impish, I put one of my dirty socks in Mavis' mouth to gag her; she could rattle on forever if her mouth wasn't occupied.

"Tie my tits up too, Vic, tie my tits up too," Betsy pleaded. The ropes looked like they worked well enough; I stepped back to watch Mavis' sweet monstrous globes start to bulge and turn light red.

"We can only do so much today, girls, and I don't have anything else do this with," I said sadly, "you'll have to try it another time. We still have a party to go to later today, and you'll want to freshen up, I'm sure. Your Gran can teach you what it's like so you can try it with someone you love." Turning to her sister, I noticed that the pulley to the curtain was next to her right foot. "I wonder who pulled the curtain open so she could look in here."

Bea looked down and blushed slightly. Her foot was close enough that she could raise it and pull the cord with her toes. Making sure the curtain was drawn, I went to where I left my clothes and pulled my thick leather belt from my jeans. "I think someone has just given me a reason to give her a birthday spanking." 

"Oh yes, whip her ass good, Vicar, the little snitch," Betsy called out.. "She deserves it." Mavis looked at me with big eyes and nodded her head eagerly. I cracked the belt over the bed next to Betsy, startling her. 

Coming over to Bea's head, I bent over and looked her in the face. "Have you been a bad girl?"

"Yes," she said in a high, distant voice.

"Do you know what bad girls deserve?"

"They deserve to be spanked," She faked a pout very well, but her toes were dancing in anticipation, her hips switching and twitching. 

"Do you think I should spank you?"

"Yes, Vicar," she said in a husky voice, "I deserve to have my bare butt spanked well."

I held the leather in front of her face. "Kiss it," I ordered. She pursued her lips to kiss the implement of her punishment, then she opened her mouth to lick up and down as far as her tongue would reach. Going around behind her, I stroked her lovely, full buttocks, tracing every full curve with my fingers. She shuddered, her toes dancing again. I slapped her pure white globe with my hand, drawing a moan, and repeated it several times. Probing her crotch, I found her extremely damp already, and thrust my index finger into her suddenly, making her gasp.

Her ass showed a little faint red from the palm of my hand. Doubling the belt, I rubbed it up and down her back, then gave her the first gentle blow with it. Working back and forth, I picked up the pace and intensity until I found the sweet spot of exactly how hard to deliver the blows for the right balance of pain and pleasure. "One," I shouted at the first real stroke.

"Thank you, sir, may I have another?" She shouted.

"Two."

"Thank you, sir, may I have another?"

"Oh, Bea, I wish I were you right now," her sister moaned; her Grandmother moaned from her sock stuffed mouth in the closet. Onward I went, until I hit the magic number eighteen; my erection standing firm and ready as I made the last one.

Throwing the belt to the floor, I reached between her legs to find her well lubricated. I gently nudged her feet apart a little, then probed between her cheeks in search of her birth canal. I found the passage and began to push the head of my cock into her tight, damp hole. It took a while to work myself all the way inside her, pushing past her resistance as I had her sister's, but when the final barrier gave way, she leaned back as best she could to receive my thrusts. I slapped her already red butt and leaned forward to milk her generous breasts as I made love to her, she hooted and hollered before her voice ascended in a high coloratura and she had her orgasmic initiation.

I began pulsing right after Bea hit her high note, making my last exercise of St. Dunstan's droit du seigneur. Grasping her breasts tightly, I stayed inside her until our breathing both returned to normal and my soft John Thomas came free.

Picking up my belt, I turned to face Mavis in the closet, her breasts turning from light purple to medium, her eyes wide and shining in anticipation. I remembered the times I spent with her: very different from any other's, but special in their own way. If there was anything odd or unique I felt like trying, Mavis was my willing collaborator. Her luscious lips had caressed my body on many occasions, and I could never get enough of fondling her gigantic breasts. I knew what she wanted: to whip her tits until she came, working over her nipples especially. She was wearing rings in her pierced pillows, and I was sorry that I wasn't able to use them as she wanted, but I picked up my belt and approached her pleading, expectant, frightened eyes.

The first blow landed squarely across her huge nipples, hitting the nubs, and making her cry out through the dirty sock in her mouth. Her breathing seemed a little labored, so I took the sock out of her mouth. "Yes, Vicar, yes," she said once her jaw adjusted to liberty again, "give it to me." 

I hit her again and the twins gasped. A sense of catharsis flowed through me as I landed blow after blow.

"Yes, yes, yes, please, more, again, again, nice, ow, ow, yes, mmm, love it, I'll, miss you, yes, hard, hard, so good, so good, please.

"So close, close, close, close, close." A glance back; the twins' eyes were raptly drinking in the web of red marks across their grandmother's bound bare breasts. Bea's eyes gleamed and she licked her lips, her sweet mouths resting on the ledge of the prie-dieu; Betsy was sitting up on the bed, her hands still bound behind her, shaking her tits in invitation. The leather landed on Mavis again with a loud slap. "Yes, yes, yes, more, more, more, yes, almost, almost, almost, almost, AHHHH!" Her orgasm was so strong her hands broke free from their confinement and I caught her as she sagged to the floor, quickly releasing the ropes around he

*************

My cell phone interrupted my memories. I pulled it from my belt: "Hello?"