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 upwhatfor 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 notexpectingto 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 itisyour 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.