The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 14byNigel Debonnaire©
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."
"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."
"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."