The Cursed Cunt Ch. 02

~~~~~

It was twilight. Father James Wright was still driving. And thinking. And he thought: no. He hadn't killed her, had he? He hadn't even hurt her, had he? He had just... Well, it wasn't good: he would lose his priesthood, his vocation. He would retire in disgrace; but maybe they'd give him a little pension, maybe a small stipend to do some administrative work, away from the public eye. That would be all right, wouldn't it?

But... the cunt... and the curse...The cunt. And the horror. Oh God, why? How? "OH GOD!!!" he screamed out loud.

His car screeched to a halt and stalled. Not much of a screech, for he had barely been going at fifteen miles an hour. He pounded his fists on the steering wheel, screwing his eyes shut in existential pain.

"Y' a' reyt, duck?" said a voice. Father Jim looked up. There was a young woman standing by his window, dimly lit by a guttering street-lamp, pouting her lips at him. Her blond hair was piled loosely on her head, her face plastered with far too much make-up -- bright red lips, dark lined eyes, bright blue eyelids, ridiculously long false eyelashes curled and batting.Jezebel, thought Jim, self-righteously,sent to tempt me. He re-started the car and put it into first gear, ready to move off again.

"Want a nice time, luv?" said the girl. "I can mek thi feel better." Despite the chilly evening, all she wore on her top half was a skimpy pink blouse, which she swiftly pulled up to flash one pert tit. Father Jim looked at her, but did not react. "Want a gam?"

"Sorry?" said the priest.

"Blowjob. Ya want a blowjob? I can do 't fer thi in t' car, if tha want." She made a blowjob gesture with her wrist, helpfully jamming her tongue into her cheek to make her offer clearer.

"No, no," muttered the priest distractedly, as he started to pull away from the kerb.

"Or you wannafuck?" called the girl after him. Jim braked again. This time he didn't stall. The girl smiled: she'd got the right trigger this time. "You wannafffffuck, luv?"

Jim paused, breathing heavily as he pondered -- or tried to ponder, his mind swimming with pain and inconsequence. But thinking was hard. He looked straight ahead, trying to ignore the girl, searching through his mental turmoil for a fixed point, a rock he could hold onto.God... Jesus... Truth... Love... Cunt. No no no, not that! "Oh God!" he muttered.

"You wannafuck?" he heard the voice again through the car window, felt it echo in the void of his mind. "Look, this cunt's for you..." Jim turned, and saw that the girl had pulled her already too short skirt up, slid her panties to one side, and was displaying her bald pink slit to him, holding it open with two slender fingers. "Ya like me cunt, luv? Wanna fuck it?"

Jim stared, trembling. Silently he nodded, and slowly, automatically, got out of the car. "Follow me then, luv," said the girl, as she beckoned him down an alleyway.

Father James Wright followed her wiggling bottom into the crepuscular gloom.

~~~~~

Giles was walking fast. In the distance the sun was descending towards the horizon. Behind him the street lamps were beginning to illuminate, but Giles was walking away from them -- out into the Great Park, putting the silhouette of the Castle and the town behind him. Soon it would be dark. But he knew the way in the dark: he had done this before.

He knew where to find her. They used to meet there regularly, in the days before Bernadette left him. A little secluded corner of the Park, in a dip behind a copse, hidden by the large stump of a fallen oak, which few walkers or tourists had yet discovered -- perfect for extra-marital liaisons.

He smelt her before he saw her - the scent of burning tobacco carried on the still evening air. Rounding a corner, he briefly spied her face illuminated by the glow of her nearly-finished cigarette clasped between her full lips; then, a little ball of smoke hung seductively in front of her face, before being snapped back into her open throat. She heard him crackling his way through fallen twigs, stubbed her cigarette butt out in the soil below her bench, and turned to face him. He could not see, but her eyes were red and moist.

She spoke first. "We've killed her, you know."

"Bullshit," was his reply. "The priest killed her."

"He didn't. He fucked her. But he didn't harm her. Sister Mariana told me."

"So how did she die?"

"Well,they don't know. But we do, don't we?"

"Oh fuck, Vic, you're not still going on about that, are you?"

"Dammit, Giles," shouted Vicky as she stood up, her exasperation bursting through the calm briefly afforded her by her last hit of nicotine, "don't you have any heart at all? This is your wife we're talking about. Your fucking wife, and she's dead!" Vicky scrabbled desperately in her handbag for her cigarettes and matches, clamped another cigarette between her lips and lit it, the match flame again lighting up her face -- still beautiful despite her contorted features and the tears now streaming down her cheeks.

"She's not my wife! She left me six months ago," retorted Giles, as Vicky stood up to approach him. He could just make out her features through the semi-darkness, periodically illuminated by the glow of her cigarette as she took drag after desperate drag deep into her lungs, her full breasts heaving up and down. "The only reason we're not divorced is becauseshe wanted to wait to get an annulment or whatever the fuck they call it. And anyway, it's not as if you're totally innocent, are you? Have you forgotten your part in all this?"

"Well, that's over now, Giles," replied Vicky firmly, sputtering smoke from her lips. "I'm not going to be abused by you any longer. Bernie deserves better."

"Oh that's rich, coming from you! What were you saying to me just this morning, for Christ's sake: 'I'm a nasty dirty adulterous fuck-whore. Fucking punish this slut!' Or did I imagine that? 'Not going to be abused any longer'? Bullshit, Vic, nobody's abusing you: you're just a filthy slut who gets off on sucking married dick, that's all!"

"Giles! If it hadn't been for us, she'd still be alive. Maybe not still married to you -- but at least she wouldn't have pronounced that terrible curse!" Vicky paused to take another desperate drag on her cigarette. "I've driven my best friend to her death, Giles, and unlike you I'm not so heartless as to pretend I'm not guilty. You seduced me, and I fell for it, and in the process I've gone against everything I ever believed in -- everything I ever thought was right and good. I've got to make this good again, Giles, I -- OH GOD HELP ME!"

Darkness had fallen completely, apart from a thin crescent moon -- and into that darkness Vicky howled, a cry of pain and anguish and shame such as she had never felt in her life before. Giles, of course, felt none of it -- but spied his opportunity, and put his arms gently around her shoulders to hold her tight, feeling her body convulse in pain as she sobbed her heart out.

Giles knew the right words to say: "There there, it's all right, Vicky, it'll be fine, we'll get through this together. I'll help you, don't worry, darling. I won't abandon you..." He let Vicky sob a bit longer, making indeterminate soothing noises as she blubbed her way through her litany of guilt, before eventually deciding it was safe to croon, "I love you, Vicky," and squeezing her tighter towards him.

He felt her relax, noticed her dropping her half-smoked cigarette on the ground, felt her pressing her soft full breasts against his chest. "Oh God, Giles," she moaned, "I'm so confused, what do I do?"

Giles congratulated himself inwardly, but said nothing. Instead he looked down into Vicky's lovely round face and kissed her gently on the forehead. She looked up. And then their lips found each other's, mashing passionately, desperately together. Giles tasted the foul stench of ash and tar on her breath, but did not follow his instinct to recoil, for he knew what his reward would be. "Oh God," moaned Vicky, as she felt her resolve falter, her resistance crumble. "Oh God..." She felt his erection pressing into her crotch, and she began to grind against him, desperately seeking that internal solace and acceptance which neither profane nor sacred had ever, despite her best efforts, afforded her.

Giles had never felt that kind of love before either, but, unlike Vicky, he didn't care: what he was seeking from her was neither solace nor acceptance. Through her sweater, he cupped and kneaded her breasts, heard her moan in response. He unzipped his fly, released his cock and manoeuvred it under Vicky's skirt, his fingers deftly slipping the gusset of her panties out of the way.

"Oh God," moaned Vicky again, tangling tongues desperately with Giles, feeling his cock nudge against her slick vulva. "Giles, no, this is all wrong, love, no, we mustn't do this," she muttered, more in a vain attempt at self-absolution than genuine resistance, as Giles' glans probed softly at her outer fuck-lips. Giles recognised the guilt-talk: he had heard it all before, and knew he didn't need to say anything, as Vicky continued to moan, "No, this is so bad... I am so bad... bad, God help me, I am so b--... fuuuck..." Giles said nothing, but let Vicky apply the necessary gentle pressure herself, felt her wet cunt engulf his shaft, as she squealed, "Oh God, I need this so bad, Giles -- fuckkkkk..."

If only every conquest were this easy, thought Giles, as he felt his cock touch bottom deep inside her hot guilty First Communion cunt.

~~~~~

D. I. McCann and D. S. Nyman sat in their office back at Headquarters, poring over all the evidence from the day. "Fuck, we've not got anywhere, have we?" shouted Jane, slamming her hand on her desk. "Secrecy, secrecy -- they're all clamming up, protecting Father Jim, protecting their reputations, protecting their fucking Church. The Bishop is having an affair with a married woman -- that's common knowledge -- and so he won't reveal anything about the priest. The nun knows something -- but she won't say anything because the Bishop won't let her. And where the fuck is the priest? One of them must know -- but they're not saying!"

Phil sighed sympathetically. "And the nutter 'best friend', with all this 'curse' rubbish - what the fuck?"

"Well, at least the bimbo was willing to impart some information -- even if it was a total pile of superstitious horseshit."

"She still seemed really upset, though," replied Phil. "Yvonne wasn't able to calm her down at all; she left still blubbing about how it was all her fault that her 'best friend' was dead."

"Her 'best friend' whose husband she'd been fucking behind her back!" exclaimed Jane. "Thing is, until we find the priest, or find out how the girl died, we're not going to get anywhere."

"Nothing more from the lab?"

"No, Harry's been throwing everything at that corpse that he can -- toxicology, radiology, you name it. Still no cause of death. She just died.Avada fuckingkedavra... Shit."

Phil and Jane sat brooding in silence for a while, before Phil suggested tentatively, "Well, shall we call it a day?"

Jane sighed. "Yeah, OK.... You got a date with Bob tonight?"

Phil cracked a coy smile. "Uh, yeah... Why do you ask?"

"Well, fuck his arse good and proper for me, will you? I miss him, since he left us."

Phil cackled sympathetically. "What about you? Dave in town?"

"Nah. Conference in Edinburgh till the end of next week."

"You be all right?"

"Got me rabbit," smirked Jane. "Unless..."

"Unless?"

"Well, it'd be above and beyond the call of duty, of course," she ventured.

Phil shrugged. "Friends, Jane. That's what we're for."

Jane smiled -- a wan, but grateful smile. "My crazy gay friend. I'm so glad you came to work for me," she sighed, pushing her chair back from her desk, kicking off her shoes, peeling her trousers and panties down, and spreading her legs. Phil chuckled, stood up, and then flounced -- in an ostentatiously unprofessional manner -- around to her side of the desk, and knelt on the floor.

"Ooh, recently shaved," he remarked, tittering again, as he admired her narrow dark brown landing strip. "Yummy!" Suddenly his voice, divested of the gravity of his professional guise, sounded ridiculously camp.

"You are incorrigible, Phil!" laughed Jane. "What kind of fucking gay are you, ogling my pussy like that?"

"A very convenient gay, Detective Inspector, who can get you off whenever you need it, without being any threat to Dave. A rabbit on legs, that's me!" he laughed -- a trilling, fey sort of laugh, almost as if to prove his point -- before leaning forward to gently nuzzle her pussy.

"Oh fuck," moaned Jane, as little sparks of pleasure began to course through her. Phil kissed up and down her thighs, before alighting with his tongue on her perineum, then flattening his tongue to draw it softly, slowly up her vulva, the tip of his tongue teasing her lips open as he went. He knew when he had reached the top of her slit, because her flaps would no longer part; and so he found her little bud, which he proceed to gently circumnavigate, slowly closing in until Jane squealed.

"Fuck, Phil, how come you do this so well, but my straight boyfriend just can't get it right?"

"Because this is not about whatI like doing, but about whatyou need," said Phil, before wrapping his lips around Jane's clitoris, tongue lapping generously between her fuck-lips, and sliding two upturned fingers into her slippery hole. Soon his whole attention was devoted to pleasuring his boss, upper lip tickling her clit, tongue probing deep into her pussy, slurping sticky gloop out and smothering it across her flaring vulva, whilst his fingers beckoned "come hither" in her pungent depths, stroking just the right internal spot to bring her towards ecstasy.

Soon Jane was squirming and squealing, "Oh yes, oh yes, my good pussy-licking Detective Sergeant, my fine upstanding cunt-eating queer, you know how to make your boss feel good, don't you? That's how to solve a fucking murder case, how to fucking clear my head, fucking give me head, fucking oh yeah Jesus motherf--"

But Jane's peak never came, for it was then that the phone rang. "FUCK!" roared Jane -- but it was a cry of frustration, not of pleasure.

"Let it go, let it go, Jane" entreated Phil, his lips wrapped firmly around her clit, his tongue lapping efficiently between her cunt-lips, as his two curled fingers continued to stroke her inner front wall.

"No, I can't -- fucking -- not when I've been interrupted. Fuck!" swore the Detective Inspector, as she pushed Phil away from her crotch and reached for the phone. "YES?!" she bellowed into the receiver. "Wha-- what?... Yeah, no, it's all right, Denise, sorry for shouting, yeah, go ahead... Fuck... You... Wha--... WHAT? ANOTHER?! No fucking way, what do you mean?... DNA match?... Cause of death?... Oh motherfuck... Where?... Jesus fucking Christ... OK, I'll just tell Phil, and then we'll get back to you."

Jane slammed the phone down, and thumped her desk hard with her fist. "FUCK!" she screamed. Phil looked up quizzically, his smooth face glistening, his eyebrows raised.

"Another body," she snarled. Neepside, Sheffield. Same MO. Father Wright's cum dripping out of her cunt -- DNA proves it. No discernible cause of death."

"Shit," said Phil, as he sucked his fingers clean.

"Go and wash your face and hands, Phil; we're off to Yorkshire. Fuck..."

"What, 'oop nawth', now?" frowned Phil.

"This can't wait, Phil, sorry. Will Bob be all right? We'll be back tonight, as soon as we can."

Phil paused, grimacing slightly. "Yeah, I'm sure it'll be all right... yeah, sure... okay, come on, then..." He set his jaw, and stood up.

To be continued...