Mr. Wallace and Me Pt. 08-10

Part 10:

The next afternoon, about 20 people gathered in St. Mary's Catholic Church for Mr. Wallace's funeral. Five rows from the front pew, Mr. Drummond and Mr. Blanchard stood chatting before the start of the service when into the church walked a stunning young woman wearing black high heels, a dark blue hat and a form-fitting beige trenchcoat that clung to her slender curves like a second skin.

It was me.

I slowly walked to where Mr. Drummond was standing while Mr. Blanchard gawked at me.

"I guess you have my answer now, Mr. Drummond," I said softly. "Hello, Mr. Blanchard. How are you?"

Mr. Blanchard had a stupid smile on his face and didn't say a thing. He hadn't seen me since I had fled from Mr. Maddox. I was glad to see that Mr. Maddox wasn't in the church. He must still be in Idaho. Meanwhile, Mr. Drummond looked at me with kindness in his eyes.

"Are you certain, Billie?" he asked.

In response, I slowly undid the belt of my trenchcoat, unbuttoned the buttons and turned my back to Mr. Drummond.

"Would you please help me off with this, Mr. Drummond?"

Mr. Drummond moved the trenchcoat from my shoulders and it slid off my curvy body, revealing my tight little black dress accenting my tiny waist and hips. It had a V-neck, long, transparent lace sleeves that gathered at my wrists, and the skirt revealed a good bit of my bare thighs. My makeup, eyeliner and lipstick were understated, my perfume subtle.

"Holy shit," said Mr. Blanchard.

"Dennis!" reproached Mr. Drummond. "We're in a church."

I giggled.

"You know, Mr. Drummond," I said, trying to make conversation, "I was baptised as a baby in this church by Father Kincaid, and I was an altar boy here when I was little. My mother still attends Mass here every Sunday."

The people in the church started taking their seats. I looked up, and was surprised to see Father Kincaid instead of one of the other priests approach the lecturn. When I was an altar boy, Father Kincaid looked about 8 feet tall, but he was actually about 6-foot-4, now not as lean as he was but still imposing in what must be his early 70s. His face was craggy and evidence of the street brawler he was in his youth before taking up the priesthood. He had always seemed to be angry, maybe because one of his seminary classmates had become an archbishop, and he was stuck in this small church. All of us altar boys might misbehave with some of the nuns or younger priests watching us, but we were always on our best behavior when the intimidatating Father Kincaid was around.

We sat down in the pews, with Mr. Drummond on my right and Mr. Blanchard on my left. I crossed my legs and folded the trenchcoat over my lap as Father Kincaid began the funeral service. The minutes passed as Father Kincaid droned on in Latin and English. Then, I was startled to feel a hand on my left thigh, which I had crossed over my right. Mr. Blanchard had sneaked his rough right hand under my trenchcoat. I looked at him. His eyes stared straight ahead, his face betraying nothing as his busy hand squeezed and caressed the underside of my slender, bare thigh. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to make a disturbance in the church, so I just squirmed.

Mr. Blanchard, leaned over and whispered in my ear.

"I don't care if you aren't a woman," he hissed. "I want to fuck you."

A chill went through me. Mr. Blanchard's fingers moved up and lightly scraped against my panties. He leaned in again, his tongue moistening my ear.

"I'm GOING to fuck you," he whispered, "right after you suck my fat cock."

I started to breathe harder, my little penis beginning to stir in my panties. Mr. Blanchard wasn't going to stop unless ... unless ... I moved my coat off my lap.

As soon as I did, Mr. Blanchard quickly moved his hand away before anyone in the church could see what he had been doing. I whispered in Mr. Drummond's ear that I was having trouble seeing, and would he mind trading seats with me. He stood for a moment and I slid into his seat while he moved into mine. Father Kincaid was now saying nice things about Mr. Wallace, how he served his country and was an asset to the community. It was obvious that he didn't know Mr. Wallace at all. I doubted that Mr. Wallace was much of a churchgoer.

Finally, it was over, and people were filing out of the church. Mr. Drummond said that he would be going to the cemetery, but first he wanted to thank the priest for doing such a nice service. He took my elbow and with Mr. Blanchard walked up to Father Kincaid, who shook his hand, then looked down at me a bit curiously.

"Father," said Mr. Drummond, "this is my friend Dennis Blanchard, who served with Ted Wallace and me in Vietnam." Mr. Blanchard shook the old priest's hand with the same one that had just been on my thigh and under my dress. Then, Mr. Drummond motioned to me.

"And this," he said, "is a more-recent co-worker and friend of Ted's ... Billie Donahue."

It was so weird seeing Father Kincaid dressed as I was. I moved my transparent lace-covered right arm up to shake the hand of this priest who had intimidated me so much for all those years.

"Nice to meet you, Father," I said shyly.

Father Kincaid took my hand in his big, gnarled one ... and held it.

"Billie Donahue?" he said, staring at me. "Billie Donahue?"

I started to get a little nervous. Over his tight priest's collar, Father Kincaid's eyes were studying my face intently, moving down over my little dress, then back up to my face.

"Billie Donahue?" he mumbled. "Billie Donahue?"

Then it seemed as if a light went on in his craggy face.

"Billy Donahue!" he exclaimed. "Of course, Little Billy Donahue."

I looked over at Mr. Drummond, who looked a little confused and asked Father Kincaid whether he would be performing the graveyard service. The priest finally let go of my hand. He said that one of the other priests would be accompanying the casket to the cemetery.

"I'm getting a bit too old to be outside for long periods in this cold weather," said Father Kincaid, still staring at me while talking to Mr. Drummond. "You'll all be in very good hands with Father Ryan."

Father Kincaid motioned to a young priest, who came by immediately and was introduced to the three of us. He and Mr. Drummond spoke about the grave location in the cemetery, and while they did that, Father Kincaid spoke to me.

"Billy," he said, his eyes intensely on mine. "I believe I know your mother."

"Oh no!" I thought.

Father Kincaid looked angry.

"You have a lot to explain, Billy. I will see you in my office in 15 minutes," he said in a way that would brook no argument. He turned and walked away. I felt like I was a little kid again, being sent to the priest for some infraction or other. I didn't even think about not showing up at his office in the back of the church.

Mr. Drummond hadn't heard Father Kincaid talking to me. He asked if I would be going to the cemetery. Mr. Blanchard eagerly offered to drive me. I told them I wasn't up to going to the cemetery. Mr. Drummond said he understood and was glad I was accepting the Chicago offer. He asked if I could see him with one or both of my parents at his office tomorrow before he caught his plane. I told him I'd try to at least get Mom to meet him tomorrow. We made a tentative appointment for 10 o'clock in the morning. He shook my hand and picked up his coat from a pew. When I turned around, there was chubby Mr. Blanchard, who immediately took me into his arms to give me a goodbye hug and held me tight.

"You feel so good. Remember what I said," he whispered in my ear. "I'm going to fuck you. I'm going to fuck you raw."

He let me go, and I took a step back.

"Don't even think about it," I said, summoning up my courage. "If you ever touch me again, Mr. Blanchard, I'll ... I'll ... I don't know what I'll do."

Mr. Blanchard's fat face broke into a wide smile at my pitiful attempt at threatening him.

"We'll see about that," he said before joining the rest of the stragglers leaving the church.

I found myself all alone in the quiet church. I looked up at the stained glass windows and felt very small. I wondered what Father Kincaid would say to me. He'll probably tell me I'm going to hell, and who knows, maybe I am. With my trenchcoat over one arm, and the clicking from my high heels echoing in the church, I made my way to the door that I remembered from my altar boy days leading to a hallway and Father Kincaid's office. Nervously, I knocked timidly on the door.

"Come in," ordered Father Kincaid. Somehow, my little black dress seemed even more little as I opened the door and walked in. The office was exactly the same as I remembered from when I was a little boy. The same oaken desk, the same framed seminary degree, the same thick, gray carpet (at least my heels didn't make noise as I walked in) and the same portrait of the Virgin Mary,

"Hello, Father," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I was suddenly feeling embarrassed for being dressed as I was in front of this holy man who had baptised me.

Father Kincaid rose rapidly from the chair behind his desk, his eyes flashing. Little had changed since I was a boy. He still looked about 8-feet tall. His voice resounded like a cannon shot.

"What is this, Billy?" he bellowed, approaching me. "Is this some kind of twisted joke?"

"Please, Father," I said, placing my trenchcoat down on a chair. "Please don't be angry with me. I've been through so much."

The old priest towered over me in his priestly cassock and crossed his thick forearms across his chest.

"Well?" he said, his tone harsh. "Tell me."

I think I must have needed some kind of absolution because I stood there in that little dress and told him what had happened to me over the last month. I confessed that while initially I had been blackmailed by Mr. Wallace, I think maybe something inside me must enjoy being thought beautiful and being taken sexually by men.

Father Kincaid's bushy eyebrows narrowed and his craggy face turned red. He seemed like he was ready to explode.

"You have sex!" he roared. "You have sex ... with men!"

He was so close to me now that I could smell his musty odor that I remembered from my childhood. He was shouting, so imposing that I was now as scared as I was as a child.

"You defy the laws of this church and dress like a harlot to entice men to do evil!"

Father Kincaid then gripped my shoulders with his rough, gnarled hands. His right hand violently ripped down the transparent lace, baring my left arm all the way down to my wrist. I tried to squirm away, but he held me fast.

"You're a man, damn you!" he shouted, now using his right hand to tear off my hat and throw it aside, revealing my long blonde hair held atop my head with bobby pins. His right hand now gripping my hair, his left still on my right shoulder, he twisted my body backwards. Ungainly on my high heels, I quickly was forced onto my back on the carpet, my tiny dress riding up on my slender thighs.

"Whore!" he roared as he sat on my slender stomach, his knees on either side of my torso. I tried to fend him off with my arms, my left one now bare. His clerical collar askew on his thick throat, his eyes ablaze, he shouted at me to stop struggling.

"Put your arms down!" he ordered.

Confused, intimidated, shocked at the ferocity of his assault, I slowly, haltingly put my arms on either side of my head, palms facing up in surrender. Drooling and cursing like a madman, Father Kincaid put his hands inside the V-neck of my dress and powerfully tore it apart, revealing the small cleavage in my black push-up bra. It was the first bra I have ever worn, and it seemed to make him even angrier.

"Man shall not lay with man!" he spat out. I remember how he would quote Leviticus to us altar boys all the time. I wondered if this madman was going to beat me to death.right there on his carpet. Instead, to my surprise, he yanked down my bra and began biting my right nipple ... hard.

"Father ... Father Kincaid," I panted, my arms still helplessly on either side of my head. "Please ... Father, what are you doing?"

"Shame on you, temptress!" he mumbled as he continued his assault on my nipple, his right hand on my bare left shoulder, holding me down. "Dressing like a blasted beautiful female to seduce an honest man."

I didn't know what to think. Was he punishing me or lusting for me? No, it wasn't possible. This is Father Kincaid. I had never particularly liked him, but there was no one I ever respected more. Yet, the teeth torturing my nipple were his. I lay back and closed my eyes. Now-familiar feelings of surrender mixed in with the electric shocks emanating from my breast down my body. Father Kincaid's hands moved rapidly up and down my torso. There was a hunger in them, a lust for my body that scared me. How long has this old man been celebate?

Abruptly, Father Kincaid roughly turned me over onto my knees, pulled my blue, frilly panties down my legs and pushed my head down.

"Dammit, Billy, you've got an ass that would tempt the angels in heaven," he said.

He forcefully spread my butt cheeks, and moments later, I felt the first tongue ever to enter my rectum. I had never felt anything like this before. It was so different, so much more comfortable than the penises that had assaulted me down there. Then it struck me.

Father Michael Kincaid, the most respected priest in the history of the St. Mary's parish, the man who had baptised me when I was a baby, had his tongue up my ass!

And it felt so good. The holy man's tongue wetly wriggled inside me. My hopelessly torn little black dress clung sexily to me by one sleeve, and my panties were hung up on my high heels. His arthritically twisted fingers gripped my butt cheeks as I writhed and began to moan at the unfamiliar, delicious sensations.

The old man was really into tonguing me, continuing for so many minutes, relaxing my sphincter. I was making satisfied litle girlie noises as my body undulated. It felt so good.

"You like this, don't you, harlot?" he said cruelly when he finally came up for air. "You like dressing up like a sissy and making men want to use your tawdry body, don't you?"

His wet mouth returned to my rectum, soon to be replaced by his middle finger, which he pushed into me slowly at first, then very rapidly. I moved my head up from the carpet, tossing my hair and writhing.under this new assault. Soon, Father Kincaid's middle finger was joined by his forefinger, ramming into me as the old priest's teeth nibbled on my ass cheeks. Finally, his fingers left me. His old, spotted hands pulled my slender body to him from behind, the remnants of my dress clinging to me, my bra now pushed down around my waist. I heard his pants drop to the carpet and him mutter, "Forgive me, Jesus!"

Seconds later, Father Kincaid's long cock was thrust inside me. The old man's tongue and fingers had done such an efficient job of opening me up that his cock didn't hurt me much. His body in his priestly cassock was soon on my back. His left arm moved around the front of my chest and grasped my right shoulder, playing with the transparent lace. His other hand was in my hair, strongly pulling it back, sending bobby pins flying and making me arch my slender back. I heard him mutter "Hail Mary, full of grace" over and over again as he slammed into my subservient body again and again.

I heard the old man's heavy breathing and felt it on the back of my neck.

"Holy Christ," I thought, "I'm getting laid by Father Kincaid!"

I'm not sure whether it was the sex itself or the erotic aspect of distinguished Father Kincaid fucking me, but I realized my little penis was rock hard. Momentarily, I thought how I had made the right choice. I couldn't keep a hard-on with beautiful Tina, but this horrible, old priest was going to make me cum any minute.

Each of his thrusts was bringing me closer to orgasm. I squeezed my butt cheeks, now a full participant in sex with the craggy-faced priest. He began kissing and licking my back, neck and shoulders while his left hand grasped my small penis. I was getting so turned on, and I could sense he was getting close to shooting off inside me.

Then I heard his voice, no longer angry, as he turned my face by my hair.

"Come on, lass," he said, "give us a kiss."

I turned my head, and as soon as our lips met, my little penis erupted. In the throes of my orgasm, his tongue entered my mouth. His mouth was easily as needy and lustful for me as his hands were when he first attacked me. My sensual body was rocking, and soon I could feel him thrust harder inside me and let out a gutteral wail as his 70-something-year old prick gushed its cum inside me.

"Hail Mary, full of grace," he shouted, "Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."

The old man's body convulsed over and over again, and then he collapsed atop me, his breathing becoming more even as I purred femininely under him as the long minutes went by. His penis finally plopped out of me, and only then -- with our lust dissipated -- did the scope of what happened truly occur to me, and I think, to him. My blonde hair now messily over my neck and shoulders, I sat up and gently put my right hand fingertips on his craggy cheek.

After the intimacy we shared -- after the kiss he requested and received -- I was surprised at Father Kincaid's reaction.

Violently slapping my hand away, he struggled to his feet and pulled up his pants under his cassock. Staring down, he shook his finger at me as I leaned back on my elbows, my slim shoulders forward, what was left of my dress not coming close to covering my breasts and slender torso.

"Shame on you!" he bellowed, bending so his face was inches from mine. "Shame! A man, dressing like a slutty female to tempt unsuspecting men. You're going to roast in hell if you don't change your ways, Billy Donahue!"

I couldn't believe after what he had done to me, the intimacy that we felt at the end, that the dignified priest was saying this to me. I felt used and violated ... and I wanted to cry.

"Does your wonderful mother know that you debase yourself this way?" he asked in his demanding way.

I shook my head "no" as I rose and slowly pulled the rag that used to be my fashionable, sexy little black dress off my body and adjusted my pushup bra back under my breasts.

"Well," said Father Kincaid in his superior manner, I've a good mind to tell her. I want your pledge that you're going to forsake Satan and give up this life of sin."

I reached for my trenchcoat and, my eyes never leaving Father Kincaid's, put it on. I buttoned it from the bottom up, my legs bare from about three inches above my knees. I tied the belt snugly around my tiny waist and fluffed out my flowing blonde hair behind me. With the thin trenchcoat clinging and conforming to my curvy body, I walked up close to the old priest, who was fully 10 inches taller than me.

"No," I said quietly as I unbuttoned the top button of the trenchcoat, "you won't be telling my mother, you old hypocrite. If you tell her about me, I'll tell everyone in the diocese what you just did to me."

Taken aback, Father Kincaid knew I meant it.

"Surely," he said, not nearly as blustery as he was before, "that won't be necessary."

I unbuttoned the second button and put my hands flat on his chest. He looked nonplussed. My voice was soft and seductive.

"You say I live a life of sin, Michael?" I said, purposely calling him by his first name, "when your cum is still inside my body?"

I unbuttoned the third button, and looking up at his craggy face, moved the top of the trenchcoat just off my slightly shimmying shoulders, creating a wide triangle of bare skin on my shoulders and chest leading down to the top of my pushed-up breasts. Father Kincaid swallowed hard and his face began to perspire. He yearned to touch me again. I was enough of a woman to know that.