Parish Sluts

It happened on my ever first morning in my first ever parish. I had always known and been prepared for the fact that one day I would come face-to-face with a woman who would test my vow of chastity to the limits, but not this soon. Not before I even had the chance to unpack my blessed suitcase.

Her name was Bridget McOnneky and she was Father Declan's live in housekeeper. Now in my experience, catholic priests' housekeepers are deliberately selected by the diocese for plainness, dullness and chastity, and those are the good ones. But on this occasion the bishop had screwed up big time. Although, to be very honest about it, Bridget did not appear at first sight, to be any sort of salacious temptress lying in wait for a hapless young curate fresh out of the seminary.

Bridget would in her mid to late thirties I guess, with unremarkable brown eyes and dark brown hair pulled fiercely back into a tight bun. She was dressed in the ubiquitous garments of women in her lowly profession: A drab cotton frock that descended well past her knees, augmented by a somewhat tasteless nylon tabard bearing a farmhouse kitchen scene. What little bit of leg she did display was sheathed in thick, American tan tights. Her feet were shod with flat black shoes, the sensible, comfortable sort that a policewoman might wear for pounding the beat.

All this I had briefly noted the previous evening when I arrived at the manse, fresh off the last train from the capitol. I was soaking wet and dog tired after travelling all day and battling with the irregularities of the broken down rail network. Bridget had appeared in the comfortable, fire lit lounge only long enough to hand me a thoroughly welcome cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches, before discreetly retiring to her bed.

Father Declan, the grizzled old parish priest, had patted me on the shoulder in a fatherly sort of way and said how glad he was to have some help at-long-last. St. Valentines was a busy country parish and he expected that I would find plenty to keep me busy - what with today's youth the way it was. I let that somewhat ominous comment pass unchallenged and crammed in another mouthful of food.

Once I had wolfed down my supper, Father Declan apologised for not being able to stay up for a longer chat, but his good friend, Father Aiden, from the neighbouring diocese, had taken a stroke and he was setting off very early the next morning to visit his friend in the hospital. So, without further ado, Declan, as he insisted I call him, led me up the wide, curving staircase to my room.

The manse was a large, rambling old pile, built at the turn of the nineteenth century. It was no doubt hugely expensive for the Church to heat and maintain in this day and age, but on the bright side, it was blessed with a huge amount of space for just two priests and one housekeeper.

When we arrived at what was to be my bedroom, Declan cleared his throat and gestured to another door at the far end of the darkened landing.

"That would be Bridget's room," he confided, his tone was carefully moderated, but a minute furrowing of his brow transmitted the unspoken warning. Bridget's room was strictly off-limits.

After a second or two's embarrassed silence, I quickly nodded my understanding and groping for something sensible to say, assured Declan that I would 'hold the fort' for the day whilst he was away visiting his friend.

Unlike my old bed space at the seminary, this room was large, in keeping with the rest of the house and well fitted out with old, but good quality furniture, including, to my surprise and delight, a huge four-poster bed. The old mattress looked so well stuffed and inviting that I simply pulled off my damp clothing and crawled naked beneath the several layers of blankets and quilts.

Strangely, and as if by some bizarre sort of prescience, my last thought before I fell off to sleep was to wonder if Bridget would also be sleeping nude tonight.

* * * * *

The next morning I awoke at about ten o'clock. Declan had not disturbed me before he had left and I was grateful to him for that. I stretched languidly and listened for a few moments. There was not a sound in the house and so I supposed Bridget had gone out shopping, as it was Saturday morning.

The four-poster was phenomenally comfortable and the many blankets and quilts had me relaxed and dozy with warmth. My fist went automatically to grip my cock. I always awaken with a ferocious hard-on, regardless of where I am or what is going on. Masturbation, it was an affliction I had been battling with ever since entering the seminary five years ago.

Like most kids, I had discovered the joys of wanking at the age of about ten and had done it three or four times a day ever since. It had only become a problem for me when I enrolled in the priesthood. Masturbation, or self-abuse as the Church euphemistically called it, was strictly taboo. It led to all sorts of problems for a celibate priest, notably, getting all hot and bothered and soon not being celibate any more.

Being both young and naive, I had immediately confessed my 'sin' of self-abuse to my tutor, more in hope of getting some kind of help than anything else, but my wizened, old confessor had simply advocated prayer and more prayer, together with an ever-increasing burden of penance.

After a while, I wised up and told the miserable old bastard the extra prayers were working. They were not of course and I continued to wank merrily away three or four times a day. I rationalised my aberrant behaviour to myself easily enough. I was a young fit guy with a powerful hormonal system and tossing off was better than walking around with a bulge in my pants, or heaven forbid, chasing after the choirboys.

There was another problem and an embarrassing one. I was a leaker. If I didn't beat it off regularly and just tried to ignore it in the hope it would simply go away, my bell-end throbbed and dribbled until I could no longer think straight. My black pants would soon develop a big, wet, shiny stain on the crotch and people were quick to notice that sort of thing - especially women.

I wrapped my fingers around the waiting shaft and pumped my wrist a few times. I had only been able to relieve myself once yesterday, standing swaying over the train's small toilet bowl and as a result, my balls were uncomfortably overloaded.

I stretched out and spread my thighs, pulling on the rock hard shaft, enjoying the familiar feel of the red-hot flesh in my hand as the orgasm quickly boiled up out of the tight knot of my scrotum. I gritted my teeth and resisted the urge to groan out-loud in case Bridget had not gone out, and let the powerful sensations rip through my groin and upper thighs.

That was another reason why I couldn't stop wanking - I really enjoyed it. The spunk, felt hot and thick as I cupped my left hand over the bulging glans in an effort to collect the steaming load. I had no wish to leave any telltale stains on Bridget's clean sheets, at least not on my first day. I made a mental note to buy a box of tissues for my bedside table as I staggered out of bed and picked up one of my socks, which I used to soak up the big pool of jism cooling in my palm.

Having attended to my most pressing need, I decided that next on my short list of priorities were a shower and a cup of tea. I opened my suitcase and pulled on the pyjamas I could not be bothered with last night and also my long terry towelling dressing gown, before heading downstairs to find the kitchen.

As I had suspected, the house was deserted and so I rooted around in the cupboards until I found what I needed.

Bridget's kitchen was very orderly and well stocked and I was soon sipping from a steaming mug of tea and gazing out of the window at the pale winter sky. It had been very cold over night and the trees and bushes of the large garden were all covered in a thick coating of hoar frost.

As I stood ruminating on the wonders of Mother Nature, the outside door suddenly burst open and Bridget bustled in carrying a brace of heavy shopping bags in each hand. I set down my tea on the drainer and hurried to take the bags from her frozen fingers.

Bridget gasped out her thanks and I was instantly struck by the chilled redness of her lips and the evenness of her teeth as she smiled her gratitude. Her eyes held mine for a couple of seconds as I lifted the bags from her and set them down on the table.

In the daylight, Bridget's deep brown irises were warm and bright and I felt the hairs begin to prickle on the back of my neck as she turned away and slipped off her coat, reaching up to hang it on a hook beside the door. I wondered how I could ever have seen her as dowdy and plain last night. Perhaps it had been my tiredness, or the poor lamplight I thought absently, as my eyes swept over her surprisingly shapely frame.

Bridget was not wearing the usual domestic apron under her coat and the dress she wore seemed unduly tight around her unexpectedly large bosom as she reached up to pull off her fur hat. She ran her fingers through her hair. She had not bothered to put it up into a bun this morning and as she shook the soft curls out, her heavy, chestnut mane spilled down to well past her shoulders.

To my surprise, I felt my cock begin to thicken once more and my heavy balls writhe together as I watched the housekeeper move around the kitchen putting her shopping away.

For some strange reason, I just could not seem to take my eyes off her. I followed her every move over the rim of my cup as she stretched firstly up to the top cupboards, giving me a perfect side view of her thrusting breasts and then of her full, wide hips and ample rump from behind, as she bent over to put a plastic flagon of cleaning fluid away under the sink.

My heart skipped a beat as her movements pulled the material of her dress tight across her back and I saw the clear impression of her wide bra strap running below her shoulder blades. I counted the four heavy hooks and eyes securing the thickly stitched material together and groaned inwardly, beneath her shapeless smock Bridget' breasts must be really large to require such strong support.

I had always been awkward around attractive, older women, be Jesus! all women for that matter, especially in one-to-one situations like this. As Bridget turned to me and began to speak, I realised with sudden horror that my cock was making a tent out of the front of my dressing gown.

"Did you sleep well father," she asked solicitously, her voice had a soft, northern tone that I found strangely alluring.

"Ah, y-yes," I stammered weakly, "the bed was very comfortable, I, ah, slept like a log."

Without seeming to appear rude, I turned away from her and pretended to be interested in the garden once again beyond the kitchen window. My prick was standing straight out from my groin and I was petrified in case it forced its way through my open pyjama fly and into the air.

"I put extra blankets and a second duvet on your bed so that you would be nice and cosy," she said, and then somewhat apologetically, "Father Declan never runs the heating over night and the old house can get bitter cold in the winter."

"Y-yes, thank you, I was warm as toast," I stammered over my shoulder. Bridget walked over and stood very close to me. We looked awkwardly at each other for a moment.

"I need to be in the cupboard father," she said softly, indicating the unit I was busily ramming my crotch up against, with a small nod of her head.

"Oh, sorry," I spluttered stupidly, quickly turning away from her, but I found my escape blocked by a big old fridge and was forced to turn back just as Bridget stooped down to open the cupboard. I saw her gaze flicker quickly over the huge bulge in the front of my dressing gown, her eyes not six inches away from my crotch and then she was closing the door and moving away with a small smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

"I had better be getting a shower," I mumbled wretchedly, after an excruciating silence that seemed to last an age.

"The bathroom is at the far end of the upstairs landing father," Bridget said without turning around, "the door next to my bedroom." Was it my suddenly febrile imagination, or had she put some particular intonation into the words 'my bedroom'?

In a daze, I slammed the empty mug down on the tabletop and hastened from the kitchen, cursing myself bitterly for my pathetic lack of control and for getting myself caught with my bloody dick out on the first bloody morning. I quickly collected my wash bag and fled to the bathroom, where I spent the next twenty minutes standing under a steaming hot shower, trying to work out what the fuck to say to Father Declan when Bridget told him about the incident in the kitchen.

Despite the recent acute embarrassment I had suffered, my shaft remained stubbornly solid and as the water played over my naked body, I could not help but run my mind's eye over the painfully vivid memory of Bridget's incredibly firm knockers. The housekeeper was pale skinned and dark haired and would likely have large, dark nipples I thought to myself. My mouth watered as I imagined sucking on them and running my hands down over her shapely rump. I was aching to masturbate again and obtain the relief I so desperately needed, but somehow the shame I had felt earlier in the kitchen made me strive to bring my base urges under control for once.

I berated myself desperately. If I was going to be living under the same roof as Bridget for the next few years, then my powers of self-control had better improve dramatically and fast! However, I knew there was no way I could stay in the shower ruminating all day, so I took a deep breath and turned the temperature control abruptly to cold. The freezing steam soon had me gasping and shivering like an Eskimo and by the time I had leapt out of the old enamelled tub and towelled myself dry, I was more or less back under control.

Dawdling, I shaved slowly, twice, in the washbasin until my face was as smooth as the proverbial baby's bottom. Thereafter, I could find no further excuse to stay in the bathroom and decided to get dressed and go out for a long walk. Perhaps the crisp morning air might help me figure out what to say to Bridget by the time I got back, I told myself hopefully.

I pulled on my dressing gown and headed back along the landing to my room. When I arrived, the door was slightly ajar and I could see some of my clothes neatly folded and spread out on the dresser top beside the bed, which had been neatly remade. I slowly pushed open the door and stopped dead in my tracks. Bridget was standing over my suitcase, holding up one of the two, porno mags I had brought with me from the seminary. I had hidden them at the very bottom of my case under my clothes and thought them safe from discovery until I could find a more suitable hiding place later on.

I cleared my throat with difficulty; it suddenly felt like I was being garrotted.

"What are you doing?" I had meant to put some steel into my voice, perhaps make a point about the unwarranted invasion of my privacy and so forth, but the question just came out as a hollow squeak. I felt the blood rush up to flood my face and ears as I realised the utter hopelessness of trying to appear outraged.

Bridget looked up from the magazine, her expression giving nothing away as she said, "I came in to make up your bed and put away your clothes, father."

"Oh, yes," I temporised desperately, "that was very good of you Bridget, I, er..."

The housekeeper slowly put down the magazine on the corner of the bed. I knew every page of it back-to-front of course, I had read it so many times, but I tried to look at it as if I had never seen it before. The title banner seemed to scream out at me, 'Lactating Babes'. Bridget picked the other glossy out of the case and it seemed to spill open in her hands at the centre fold as if with a prurient will of its own. My humiliation was complete as I stared across at the overblown figure of the nude model sprawled across the centre pages.

"Is this the kind of women you like to look at father," asked Bridget quietly, she turned to the front page and read the title aloud in her soft country brogue, 'Mature Breast Queens'.

There was something almost reassuring in the calm tone of her voice that made me answer truthfully, albeit after a long pause during which time I could not think of anything better to say, "yes."

Bridget flicked slowly through a few pages, " I think my boobs are bigger than all these girls, father," she said at last, "what do you think?"

I simply could not believe what I was hearing. I had not been in the house more than twelve hours and already I was discussing the size of the housekeeper's tits with her.

"I'm sure I wouldn't know Bridget," I managed at last, trying to swallow the coconut lodged in my throat.

Well you ought to know father," Bridget contradicted quietly, "you had a good enough look at them in the kitchen."

I felt my scrotum begin to tighten and my cock slowly uncurl between my thighs as the temperature in the room seemed to suddenly zoom to thermo-nuclear proportions. Bridget had not reacted as I would have expected after finding the porn. No protestations of feminine outrage, no threats to tell, no name-calling, or any of the hundred other reactions I might have expected had I had time to think about it.

The next words Bridget spoke almost floored me.

"Would you like to see my breasts, father?"

The suffocating garrotte was back around my throat and I could only look on mutely as she dropped the magazine back into the suitcase and walked toward me.

Bridget took the rolled up wad of my forgotten pyjamas from my hand and dropped them on to the chair beside the door. Then she reached over my shoulder and pushed the door shut with a solid thunk.

Then she slipped her other hand into my robe and curled her fingers around my shaft, which was now stiff and throbbing like a cattle prod. The sensation of her handling me was almost painful in its intensity and made me gasp out-loud as she began to pump me ever so gently.

"I said, would you like to see my breasts, father," she repeated. Bridget's mouth not three inches away from mine. I inhaled deeply, suddenly realising that I had stopped breathing as soon as she had started to come toward me. The smell of her was heavy in my nostrils, she did not wear any perfume, but the clean well-washed redolence of her body was almost overpowering this close.

"Well, would you, father?"

I nodded slowly, not trusting myself to form the words in case I ruined the incredible moment with some stumbling inanity.

Bridget smiled a slow, wide smile that showed all of her teeth. She was so close to me I could hear the sound of the saliva in her mouth as her lips slid over her teeth and her tongue moved wetly.

She turned slowly, but was careful never let go of my straining cock as she did so. She looked back over her shoulder at me, "unzip me, father," she murmured.

With feverishly quivering hands, I sought to unhitch the tiny hook and eye above the zipper. The tiny pieces of jiggling metal evaded my shaking fingers for a few desperate moments, during which time Bridget stood patiently, her free hand holding the heavy fall of her hair up from her shoulders so that I could feast my eyes on the long, pale nape of her neck. Her other hand remained locked around my cock, squeezing at me in a steady milking motion that had me up on my tiptoes and thrusting my pelvis forward, almost brushing the once more bursting glans against the soft cotton material covering her buttocks.

At last, I was able to fasten my shaking finger tips around the small, uncooperative tag and pull the zip all the way down to where the tops of her buttocks began to flare outward. The dress fell away from Bridget's shoulders and slid down her arms, almost to her waist as she shrugged her upper body to help it on its way. Bridget deftly swapped hands on my cock as she let the dress slip over her hips and down to the floor, to stand in only her bra and knickers.