The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 04

"Say no more. Is £5000 enough?"

"Yes, Mr. Cald–Harry. Yes, Harry, £5000 will be enough."

"I'll write you a check."

The visits were piling up: the next day, late in the morning, I was in the mansion of Mrs. Clarissa Chase-Walker, heiress to a small fortune. Mary warned me to be careful, saying that she had connections that could help us, but she was very erratic and could also give us a lot of trouble. She greeted me at her door in a floral wrap-around dress, a thirty something young woman six feet tall, bleach blond hair, long legs, Kate Moss thin with 33B breasts. Her face was a classic cameo type: broad eyes, slender nose, small thin lips, a pointed chin, porcelain skin. A smarmy grin played on her face as she admitted me, and lead me to a sunroom with small crustless sandwiches and fresh fruit with freshly whipped cream accompanied a tea service on a glass top table She crossed her thin legs, exposing more skin that I thought possible. For a few moments, she scrutinized me without speaking; I sipped my water unperturbed and sampled a couple of finger sandwiches. At last she said, "Violette is right; nothing much bothers you."

"Violette?"

"Yes, Violette Delacroix was my roommate in high school and University. She is a whiny, self centered, spoiled little bitch who needed to be put in her place, and I'm glad you were the one to do it. I talked with her this morning: she just found out she's pregnant." She paused to stare a few moments. "No fear there; you're either an excellent poker player or innocent of causing her condition."

"I think both, perhaps."

"Well, it's hardly a virgin birth for her. Still, she seems to have changed for the better, thanks to you somehow."

"I admit nothing, but I deny nothing. If her life has changed, it was her choice let it be changed."

"Touché, wise Father Alfred. You are entirely right." She helped herself to a sandwich, nibbling it daintily while rubbing her crossed legs together. A sip of coffee and she continued, "Like so many others, I rather like the job you're doing at St. Dunstan's and would be happy to contribute to its betterment. But you're going to have to earn it."

She stood up and turned around, opening her dress and dropping it dramatically to the floor, revealing an hourglass figure before turning to stand before me naked.. On her body were twelve patches of black plastic tape, stuck directly to her skin and numbered. Posing with one black, high heeled foot in front of the other, she said, "On my body are these pull tabs. Each is numbered as you see. There are twelve envelopes on the table with corresponding numbers. I will let you pull four of these off my body. If you pick the right four, you will raise as much as £10.000 for St. Dunstan's; pick the wrong ones and you will have nothing from me. Show me the same ingenuity and ruthlessness you did taming Violette and the money will be yours."

I took a long look around her, and at the envelopes. "There's no way I can talk you into absolute charity?"

"My soul has a long way to go before I can do that. I can be generous, but there's a price to pay. Treat me right,, make the right choices, and I'll give you the whole thing."

I stared at her smirk for a long time, looking for a weakness. Her limpid blue eyes were sharp, bearing into mine in challenge and defiance. Time stood still as we engaged in a stare down; my eyes boring into her to read her ming. If she was anything like Violette, she would expect boldness, strength, and domination. Her breathing grew heavy and she started to tremble a little bit. Walking around behind her, I noticed the strip of heavy tape marked #8 was stuck up her ass, just below numbers #6 and #7. Touching her posterior, she relaxed, parted her legs and sighed at my touch. Grasping the end, I ripped the #8 tape, probably taking some hair with it. She bent over backward and mewled in response to my initiative. I opened envelope #8: it was her check for £2000. "That was wonderful, Father. I am so looking forward to your next choice."

Walking around front, I was glad my evaluation of her character was correct so far. #2 covered her right nipple; a sharp rip brought a full body wince and a check for £1500. Her breast was an ivory white little pyramid, its purity spoiled by a faint, two inch wide, red stripe that covered an inch wide nipple that was hardening in the cool air. Looking deep into her eyes again, I said: "I've got you figured out." #3 on the left breast pulled forth another extreme pain reaction, stronger than the last one, and a second check for £1500. Halfway there, I said to myself. #5 was over her crotch, tightly covering her clitoris. I stared into her eyes knowingly; her eyes showed fear and acknowledgment that the last tape was where I thought it was. My hand went down to massage the tape covered opening, finding the bud and teasing it; she ground her hips into my touch and purred. We stared wordlessly at one another as I tickled the plastic, her eyes smoky with lust. Milking it for all it was worth, I eventually made the last rip, pulling out some pubic hair by the roots. She jerked forward quickly with a tears in her eyes and howled as the electrician's tape tore at her delicate labia, bending over to nurse herself. The envelope contained a check for £5000: my instinct about her was right.

In a couple of moments, she recovered from the last deconstruction and stood up calmly without shame, her breasts pointing relentlessly at me. "Well Father, you deliver as promised; I salute you. It was more than I expected. You have your money, drawn on the same bank your Parish accounts are. Now you need to be able to leave."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, don't worry Father, I'm not going to chain you down or kidnap you. But, if you don't do what I ask before you leave, I'm going to call the bank and stop payment on these checks as you walk about the door."

What? What kind of game was this? "And what you ask is?"

"I'm not like most women, Father. My husband is gay, and uninterested in me in any way other than my money and my social contacts. Some women would find this frustrating; I've found it liberating. Violette Delacroix is a simpering, indulgent, self centered cow whose company most women find excruciating; I rather relish her, she reminds me that money and influence do not make up for lack of intellect, imagination, and insight. Besides, we're old school chums, we go back a long way and as upper class women we're supposed to stay in touch with each other no matter how we feel about one another. Violette sees me as a bosom friend and opens her heart to me, and in the tiny reservoir of Christian charity I have, I listen to her and cheer her when she needs it."

"I think I'm beginning to see."

"No Father, not quite. Violette opens her heart to me, I do not open mine to her. Because unlike her, I'm a successful manipulating self centered bitch."

"And Violette's ineptitude reinforces your superiority and makes you feel warm and fuzzy?."

"Touché. Again, you are very perceptive."

"Thank you."

"However, shedoes have adventures that I find myself envious of."

"Such as?" Alarms went off in the back of my head.

"Many women would not be interested in being handcuffed kneeling at aprie-dieu, with mousetraps on their tits, having their bottoms spanked while being fucked doggy style. I, on the other hand, would positively adore such treatment."

"And that is the price for leaving this house with checks that will not bounce?"

"Exactly. I just purchased a fine oldprie-dieu for my bedroom yesterday."

"I see."

"I am certain that you don't have a virgin nineteen year old boy handy, but I think you can manage on your own. By the way, my very gay butler Simon will be keeping an eye on us, and he has a copy of the script. Embellishments are permitted, but not omissions."

"Protection?"

"Unnecessary. If there is a baby, like Violette I would be unwilling to share it."

"As I would expect. What guarantee is there you wouldn't make a tape to blackmail me with?"

"Really, Father, we have an ongoing relationship as pastor and parishioner. I may need your-- spiritual guidance again sometime, and you may need to seek my generosity in future. There is nothing I want from you other than your special attention this day, and I have no interest in influencing the politics of St. Dunstan's. There are much more interesting games for me to play. Besides, I do not have the documentation fetish that you do: I have no desire to video myself having sex; the embarrassment may work both ways should it come to light."

Her beautiful eyes were both compelling and entreating. After several moments, I took another piece of tape and ripped it off her chest. She sighed. "Since I'm not sunburned like Violette was, there is a riding crop in my bedroom for you to partially duplicate the effect. And I would for like you to retain your clothes: I've always dreamed of being ravished by a man in a dog collar."

The next morning I found myself standing barefoot in a shallow stream with an eight iron in my hand, trying to save a water lie. Mr. Frederick Titterington, O.B.E., a medium height, thin, local industrialist in his sixties, was happy to host me for a round of golf at daybreak. Unfortunately, Mr. Titterington's handicap is 5 and mine is 18. So I found myself hacking desperately to keep up with his progress, holding him back from his normal pace. I pulled my club back and took a swing; the water sprayed up, soaking my golfing outfit and sending sand and rocks several feet away from the bank. The ball flew up over the ridge and out of sight in the general direction of the Sixth hole. Gingerly walking up the hill in barefoot and winching at the random twig and pebble, I reached my wheeled bag where I had a towel to dry off my feet so I could put my socks and golf shoes back on.

Mr. Titterington was waiting for me at the green. His brown eyes danced under grey eyebrows and his thick lips creased in a huge mile, showing tobacco stained teeth.. Taking his pipe out of his mouth, he clapped me on the back and chuckled: "I'll give you this lad, you don't give up. Good for you, Father, God bless you." Using the pipe stem as a pointer, he indicated a bunker to the right of the green. "Your ball ended up there, lad. Get your sand wedge and blast it out. Which stroke are you on for this hole?"

"Seven"

"Grand, you're improving. Never give up; that's how I made my business work, and we're now one of the largest concrete manufacturers in England." I looked over the rim of the bunker, and saw my ball nestled nine feet down at the bottom; I would need a shot almost straight up to get out. Gritting my teeth, I took my club down and made ready to try to get out of yet another bunker. The first shot was dreadful: the ball didn't even clear the lip and fell back down almost to the same place at my feet. The second shot also failed exactly the same way, but the third was a miracle, and I was on the edge of the green. Mr. Titterington generously let me go first, and I four putted. He sank a thirty foot putt with no problems, rejoicing in his good aim and good fortune.

There was a bench just before the Seventh hole, under an old birch tree with wide branches that grandly overlooked the par-3 Seventh hole, and he gestured that we should sit down on it. "There's a group just behind us that wants to play through, so let's have a chat in this beautiful spot as we wait. Have a seat, Father."

"Thank you, Mr. Titterington"

"Frederick, please Father."

"Thank you, Frederick. I hope you had a chance to look over the estimate I gave you."

"Yes, I did, Father, and it looks like this is a fine choice. Is this the cheapest bid?"

"It is the cheapest andbest bid, Frederick."

He gave he a surprised look. "Is there a reason for the distinction?"

"I feel that it is good stewardship to spend a minimum on the physical requirements; after all, we are called to feed the hungry and clothe the poor. However, if we overemphasize economy, cut corners that should not be cut, accept work that is not well done out of a false sense of economy, then before long we should have to spend more money on the same projects time and time again, resulting in the long run in a far greater expenditure than if we could have spent a little more initially for work that is more reliable."

"A laudable sentiment, Father, but. . .."

"I have some experience in this matter. My home parish in Hays, Kansas chose to take the cheapest bid for tuckpointing when I was a child, against expert advice, and three years later had to have the work entirely redone for more than the bid of the better quality company that was in the running. Doing major work like this has should not be done by incompetents, even if they submit the lowest bid."

Mr. Titterington pondered this story for a long moment. He pursed his lips, stroked his thinning grey hair, and came to a decision. "All right, Father. I appreciate that you want to spend St. Dunstan's money wisely, I really do. It shows a great love for the parish, which is quite remarkable considering you're not English. And you're right, the Church deserves our best."

"Thank you, Frederick."

"You also have a good business sense, one that you've gotten through experience rather than any stupid MBA or any useless 'mentoring' program or such. And you don't give up on something, but you hang in there until the job is done. I see a lot of a younger me in you. So I've decided that I'm going to help you out."

"I'm honored, sir."

"No, no, not until the next Honors are announced. Yes, I'm going to give you £10.000 for tuckpointing the church, and to make sure it will be done right, I'll give you the excellent quality cement at cost. How does that suit you, Father?"

"That suits me extremely well. Thank you, Frederick, on behalf of the entire St. Dunstan community."

'You're very welcome, and it's a great blessing for our parish to have such dynamic leadership. Now, it's time to tee off. I know that you'd love to play all 18 holes, but I've got to get back to work in a couple of hours, so we'll cut this short at 9 holes. . ."

The next day, I was wearing my best suit perched on a sofa in an ornate sitting room. The mansion of Mrs. Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazelton was one of the oldest in the area; dating back to the 18^th century. Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton was true aristocracy, she could trace her ancestry on one side back to an illegitimate son of Charles II, and to younger daughter of Queen Victoria on the other. Her husband made a fortune with his father in Indian silks, returning to England to live in opulence, where he met Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton as a young woman. They had four children, three had emigrated to New Zealand and one to America: she lived alone with her servants, supervised by her butler Willikins.

This interview was different: Mary Sterns sat on an exquisite chair wearing a gold business suit with a light yellow blouse with a ruffled collar and a low neckline. We sipped cups of tea as we waited, and Mary was in good spirits. "I can't believe you got £30,000 in donations from my list already,: she said. "The major portions of the work are funded, and now we can work on the debt. You're amazing, Vicar, just amazing. I wish it were possible for you to get something from Clarissa without going as far as you did, but given the situation, I doubt even you could escape those demands. She's been on her own too long, poor thing, and you'll find her seeking another session someday in exchange for something. It's good that she thinks we're out of her league, and pulls her strings elsewhere, at least. Oh, well."

"Anything I should know about Mrs. P-F.?"

"She's a genuinely nice person, and will be happy to help once she's aware of the need. The only problem is that she has times where she thinks she's somewhere else, talking to someone else. Just bear with her if she gets like that, pretend you're who she thinks you are, and she'll come back to the present before long."

The door opened, and Mrs. Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazelton entered. She was a tiny, thin woman of eighty five, with elegant, long white hair, perfect makeup and a white sheath over a white dress. It took a moment for her to cross the room and sit next to me on the couch; I stood as she entered and took her hand as she maneuvered to get comfortable. Willikins brought her a cup of tea and a saucer of biscuits: she nibbled one before taking a sip of tea. "Hello, Father," she said in a high, thin, quiet warble. "It's a pleasure to see you today, you should drop over more often. You brought our dear Mary with you as well, doesn't she look just lovely today? This is a woman who could get one interested in the finer things of life. The boys say she's a real corker, from what I understand."

Mary blushed sweetly, and looked away. Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton smiled at her, and turned back to me. "Now, do you have everything you need, tea, biscuits, toast, marmelade?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton, fine. Just wanted to drop in and fill you in about what's happening around St. Dunstan's"

There was a dish of buttermints on the end table beside her, she took one and put it in her mouth.

"Ah, St. Dunstan's. Such a wonderful parish, a place where everyone can feel at home no matter what their class. You've done a wonderful job, Father Alfred, wonderful. I would be happy to help you any way I can."

"Well, Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton, you know that we have a debt to pay off, in addition to our needed repair projects. I was hoping that you would be able to help us out with some debt reduction."

"How much do you owe, Father?" Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton took another mint; I looked at Mary, who returned my look blankly. My lips moved, should I tell her how much we owe? She mouthed back, yes, of course, you can trust her.

"Our debt with the Diocese is £30.000, and are in the middle of raising funds for multiple projects such as steeplejacking, tuckpointing, refurbishing the organ, restoring the ornamental carvings in the Rood Screen, and a couple of other items as we can get around to them. We're planning a parish festival around All Saints Day to raise some money and build Parish spirit."

"Oh, they had such wonderful carnivals when I was a lass. I rode the Merry Go Round for an hour until I got a bit queasy in the tummy. It was the ten year anniversary of the Armistice, I was eight. There were gigantic balloons, and cotton candy; it was St. Martin's Summer. Oh Henry, please get me some cotton candy now, I don't want to do the Love Tuinnel, yet. Don't worry, you'll get what you want later, you randy devil." Her eyes defocused for a moment; she gave her head a gentle shake and looked at Mary and I without recognition, then nodded and smiled. "Lovely days, Vicar, Mary, just lovely."

"I remember the fairs when I was growing up in Kansas."

"Oh, yes, you're from Kansas. You had Merry Go Rounds there?"

"Yes, Mrs. Parkhurst-Frazelton. I rode them, too."

"How nice?" She took yet another mint. "Mary, can we get you something?"

"No, Lucinda, I'm fine."

She turned back to me. The topic of conversation rambled the next forty five minutes from her childhood, the Blitz, raising children in the '50's, various parties and events at the palace. Periodically, she refreshed herself with nibbles of her biscuit, sips of tea and mints. I had a tough time following it all, but I appreciated the living history she was giving me. I was that Mary was recording it; someday her memories would be preserved. "Well, Father, if I may confess, there's something about the old days I really miss. I can't do much anymore, it's like eating: I can have a taste of many things, maybe two, three, four, five bites but no more."

She took a sip of tea to moisten her throat, and turned to Willikins: "Jeremy, you may leave us for the moment; I will ring when I need you. You may get our tray ready."