The Vicar of St. Dunstan's Ep. 11

Mother Mary Rufus took my arm, and said: "I believe it's time for a tour of the property. You can see the current state of the Chapel, try out the organ, and see the grounds."

"I don't want to take up much of your valuable time. Surely you have better things to do."

She seemed to bat her eyes for an instant. "Other things to do, yes; better things to do, no. Anything on my desk right now can wait. After all, isn't hospitality to a guest our first priority as people of faith?"

"Lead on, Mother."

"First, I have to check my mail." She went to a bank of open mailboxes, looked at a stack of envelopes in her box, and tossed them back. Then she picked up a small doll beside the boxes on a table: it was a grotesque gnome with wrinkled skin and ridiculously long red hair. Standing it erect in her mailbox, she came back over to lead me from the room and out the door to the grounds.

As we toured the Chapel, buildings, and grounds, she touched me surreptitiously when no one was looking. From time to time my eyes met hers; their magnetic spell pulled at me and it took a big effort to break free each time. We didn't go through the Dormitory or any of the rest of the enclosure (although we had broken that restriction when I shared lunch with them in the Refectory), but we went everywhere else. The grounds were lovely, and I took several photos of the lake, the forest and the angelic woman who cared for them.

We were walking down a trail through some woods; it was a giant outdoor Rosary. As we moved through the trees, I had to ask: "I noticed that the book for lunch wasn't exactly spiritual reading in the strictest sense of the word. Who chooses the table readings?"

"I do," she said with a sly smile on her face.

I did a double take. "Interesting. WhySophie's Choice?"

"We finishedCity of God a week ago, and needed something different in tone.Sophie's Choice is a wonderful exploration of mental illness, survivor guilt and frustrated young love. Besides, it has a sad ending, and the girls like a good cry from time to time."

"Interesting. But what about the sex scenes?"

"I don't believe in shielding my women from any aspect of life. Even though they've given up lasting relationships with men, they should be aware of the feelings and motivations involved, as well as the experiences others have had. It makes them better people and helps them relate to ordinary people better outside the Convent walls."

"And isJustine next?"

Mother Mary Rufus chuckled. "No, we're doing The Seven Storey Mountain by Merton next. We'll doJustine right before our next abuse seminar." I had to laugh at that, and she joined me.

Each stopping point had set of three illustrations on a pillar in the midst of the woods, one for each of classic sets of Joyful, Sorrowful, and Glorious Mysteries. She guided me down a small path that departed from the trail from the Third Mystery that wound a significant distance through the woods before coming to a grotto. We moved into its shade as the heat of the day began to set in; I mopped my brow with a handkerchief. The Mother Superior sat lightly on the slab and beckoned me to do likewise.

"This grotto is a old pilgrimage spot, going back to the days of the founding of the convent."

"How long was that ago?"

"1257. The Earl of Kent returned from a Holy Land Pilgrimage with leprosy. A pilgrimage to the small shrine of Our Lady that occupied this spot cured him, and he endowed a convent here in gratitude. The convent served the pilgrims until Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries and put these pilgrimage sites out of business.."

"And when was this convent re-established?"

"It was never closed. The Prioress of that time made an agreement with the local Baron, and it survived the days of Persecution until the Enlightenment brought about official tolerance."

I shook my head and looked at her. Her eyes were electric, she was leaning toward me, her hand was on my thigh and her face glowed so intensely I thought smoke was about to appear. All day long I had been fantasizing about the taste of her lips, and now they were inches away. My voice came from a great distance: "How did they survive Henry's Persecution?"

The distance was no longer. Her lips tasted of cinnamon, sweet and hot; she must have been sucking Cinnamon Altoids as we walked. My hands embraced her veil and hers roved freely up and down the back of my clerical blazer. After a long, electric moment, we came up for air and she took my hand, pulling me to my feet. Inside the grotto opening, there was a recess: pressing in there opened a door behind the slab, also out of sight of the opening.

Around the corner lay a room about fifteen by fifteen feet. My companion began lighting several candles on ledges around the room; a double bed rested in the middle. There were several screened small openings around the room, none looked directly into the woods and all could be closed. There was also a small space heater in one corner, and several vases of bright flowers made it a hidden garden.

The last candle was glowing; she lit a stick of gentle incense and turned to face me, taking off her glasses. "Welcome to Plato's Cave, the most secret part of our establishment." She undid her belt and laid it over the headboard. "The Sisters of the Persecution Era survived as they could: with protection by the local Baron, bribing the odd traveling Church of England official, scattering temporarily if things got too intense, and occasionally, by taking off their habits." At this, she removed her veil, crown band and coif. Her blond hair was jaggedly cropped under her headdress, but it was still lustrous in its rough captivity, reflecting the candlelight. Her wimple came next, then her scapular, and finally her long sleeved tunic.

I was amazed as she stood before me in just a light blue slip, transparent for all practical purposes. Her breasts stood out perfectly, with two inch nipples reacting to their freedom by hardening. Not a thin body, nor a chubby one, but just the right weight. Her hips swelled subtly, with nice, rounded cheeks behind her. A web of curly blond hair nestled between her legs above her sex. Her eyes held mine captive; I could not look away. "I hardly know you," I murmured.

Her left eyebrow went up quizzically. "You don't? I know you. We're both shepherds of our flocks, both committed to a life for others. For me, celibacy means I do not bind my life to one man but to a community of sisters to serve a greater purpose. I'm not ready to give up celibacy, but a short, discreet break from time to time hurts no one if we don't allow false expectations to develop. You have a similar arrangement, I believe."

My God, how secret is my secret, I thought to myself. "There probably aren't a lot of people whom you could trust with this secret."

"Absolutely not. I've only had one lover since I took final vows, and that was ten years ago. A Latin American Bishop who spent a month on retreat here. Of course, I wasn't a virgin when I arrived."

"Oh. Tell me about it."

Her eyes stayed fixed on mine. "I grew up in St. Dunstan's parish, a child of extreme privilege. Spoiled rotten by my parents, I had everything I wanted right away. I had fine clothes and expert beauty care; I was a knockout every day of the week. Boys I collected and discarded at whim. There isn't anything I didn't try: I've done every position, explored every possibility and sampled every perversion. One day my confirmation class came here for a retreat and my life changed. The serenity and purpose of the nuns spoke to me, and my vanity suddenly didn't mean much to me anymore. My family was livid at first, but they accepted my desire to become a Catholic nun, and we've been at peace since then."

Standing there, she looked so vulnerable, hunger radiating from her body. My eyes wandered to her hair and she flinched. I looked at her breasts and their stiff nipples, and she swayed in invitation. Her sandals had come off, and her tender bare feet gripped the floor, eager to propel herself toward me. Coming over, I took her in my arms; she melted and met my lips in a passionate kiss, grinding her hips forward. Breaking the embrace, I pulled her slip over her head, and she stood unclad before me.

I sensed her unease and said to her: "You seem to be self conscious about your hair. Would you like to put your veil back on?"

She nodded, putting her silver crucifix around her neck before putting on the bandeau, stiff headband and dark veil that reached down between her shoulder blades. The red stones of the crucifix sparkled in the mix of candlelight and indirect sunlight against the backdrop of her bare skin. Her nervousness melted as her head was covered again. A realization struck me: "You don't wear panties, do you?" I asked.

Shaking her head and smiling, she confessed: "I like the sensation of being bare underneath my slip. It's kind of kinky, I admit, but it thrills me to no end that I'm dressed three layers deep and I'm missing the bottom layer. I wasn't wearing underwear when I met the Pope last year, and the rush was unbelievable: it was like I was standing naked in front of him and everyone else at St. Peter's."

"You are wicked in your own way."

"Now I think that you're a bit overdressed." She knelt before me and began undoing my trousers. Freeing my member quickly, she began to kiss it softly all over, gently stroking me with her soft hands. The sight of her on her knees, her veil at my waist level, was a surprising turn-on. Her mouth engulfed me, and I felt the tingle of Cinnamon Altoids once again, sending my senses into orbit.

"Oh, Mother Mary Rufus," I warbled as I was nearing the boundary of my self control.

She backed away suddenly and sat back on her heels. "This is Plato's Cave, Alfred," she said in a measured voice. "The realities outside Plato's Cave are just shadows on the wall in here; they do not affect us. We see them indistinctly, but this is a different reality, this room. Call me by my birth name here: I am Barbara."

"Barbara. Barbara? I think I've heard that name before."

"When you remember, we can talk about it. In the meantime, Barbara wants to suck your cock and swallow your spunk." From a hidden source, she put another Cinnamon Altoid into her mouth and began stroking my nine inch erection very gently and very quickly with her super soft hands. Her eyes were fixed on my damp cockhead just before her eyes and her jaw moved as she sucked her candy hard to milk the maximum amount of essence from it. She leaned forward to tease my oysters, first gently then more aggressively, the cinnamon fire making my dick jump on its own. Just when I thought I couldn't take anymore, she lurched forward, licking and sucking me like a famished infant. I lasted through two minutes of roller coaster thrills before blasting a load that seemed to last for hours. Barbara tried to take it all in, but it leaked out the sides of her mouth. She swallowed as much as she could, then licked all around my groin and down my legs, questing every drop including a dollop that landed on top of my right foot.

I sat heavily on the floor and pulled her to me, her head on my shoulder, my mouth kissing a soft white shoulder in front of me. She trembled at my touch, and soon my finger was tracing feathery patterns on her skin. Sighing, she leaned back to give me more room, and I lifted her onto the bed, spreading her legs for comfort. Kissing and licking her chest, I began working my way down her body, pausing to savor her teardrop breast and sweet nipple. She sighed and caressed my head as I worshiped her perfect orb and nibbled her soft bud. Working my way over, a bitter, metallic taste crossed my mouth; I must have kissed the corpus of her crucifix in passing, but I didn't mind. After pausing at her other breast, I went my slimy way to her navel, teasing her belly button before approaching the golden carpet below. She sighed and spread her legs as my mouth found her folds and probed her slit; my tongue swirled and teased her clitoris as her breathing increased rapidly. Turning so I could see her, I buried my mouth in her vagina, coming up to lick her clit from time to time, searching for her G-spot. Her veiled head started bouncing back and forth, the crucifix doing a frog dance on her chest between her orbs. Soon it was her turn: it began with a low, intense wail that built in volume and timber until she was screaming my name as her orgasm hit her.

By the time she recovered, lying clasped in my arms and breathing heavily, she looked down to see my erection had returned. "Barbara," I whispered, "how would you like to make love? Standard Missionary position, doggy style, standing up, spooning?"

"I want to sit on your rod, Alfred," she said in a steady voice, her eyes shining in determination. "I want to ride this pony like a wild woman." We got on the bed, kissed and groped each other until she laid me back, pulling my knees into the air, before raising up and lowering herself on my manhood. Her slick vagina welcomed me with a tight embrace, sucking me in as deliciously as her mouth did not long before. Rocking, and swaying, it took her a while to work my nine inches into her very tight canal, but she reached bottom and began grinding her hips. Soon we were bucking hard.

I looked up and saw the crucifix swaying crazily back and forth, grazing her nipples and thumping her breasts vigorously. Afraid a sharp edge may hurt her, I reached up to fondle her breasts and keep them from the sacred pendulum, but she pushed them away. Smiling serenely and fondly, she looked down and said in a bare whisper: "But I like it this way. A little mortification never hurt anybody." It was a scene that lasted a long time; she rode me like a bucking bronco, the crucifix bouncing between her breasts like a ball attached to a paddle, leaving marks and drawing a tiny bit of blood. All this turned me on as nothing had before: the veiled head above me, the heavy bouncing pendant, the hungry cunt that massaged my dick expertly. Something stirred in my balls, and I bucked up against her hard in anticipation. "I'm going to let go soon," I warned her. "Where do you want me to shoot my load?"

"Yes, yes, yes, Alfred, give me every drop right in my pussy. It will be all right. I want your spunk." She hit the Promised. Land just before I did, but her wildly contracting orgasm put me over the edge withing seconds and I was sending my seed up into her hungry orifice. She rode me until I was limp, then plopped down into my arms.

I looked at my watch after we lay still for several minutes. "Is there anybody who will be looking for you right now?"

She looked up at me. "No. I gave them a signal, and my immediate subordinate will take care of anything urgent that may arise."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember when I put that ugly, red-headed doll in my mailbox?"

"Yes. It was so ugly it was kind of cute."

"We call him St. Schlomo. . ."

"Hebrew for Solomon, King of Israel. The wise man who built the Temple."

". . .the horny little bugger who had a thousand wives and three hundred concubines. There are five of us who know about Plato's Cave and have use of it. The Prioress always knows, even if she doesn't take advantage of it. It was created during the Persecutions: you may have heard of Priests' Holes?" I nodded my head. "This was one, a hiding place for Jesuits who came through in common dress.. After the persecution ended, it became a tradition that senior nuns who wanted to entertain in aspecial way would have use of it without the others finding out."

"So when you put St Schlomo in your mailbox. . ."

"I was saying that I'd be here and didn't want to be disturbed. Marty uses this place too, and she's my second in command."

"Marty?"

"Sister Mary Martha, as she's known outside of Plato's Cave. Jeannie's the other one who entertains here, and Cheryl and Susie come up here together for private time pretty regularly."

That took a moment to sink in, then I asked: "They're the only lesbians in your community?"

"The only active ones here now. Anyone caught having sex in the Dormitory is disciplined and not in a fun way, but in a legal way. Nuns have been expelled for breaking that rule. So any lesbian couples have to get access to this place. . ."

"Which isn't easy, I take it."

"Which is only given to those over forty and at least fifteen years in final vows."

"Oh." I stroked her chest absent mindedly as we lay snuggled for a few moments. "There's something that doesn't click yet, Barbara."

"Yes, Alfred?"

"I've been getting resonances from you that I didn't realize until now and I'd like to know more about them."

"Yes?"

"I just realized that your perfume is familiar and where I've encountered it before. It's Lucinda's perfume, isn't it?"

"Yes. What else?'

"Cinnamon Altoids. Granted you're not a normal nun. . ."

She tweaked my member and smiled. "So you've figuredthat out?"

". . .how would you know about the Altoids? Yes, you read books and articles that surprise me, and I wouldn't put is past you to find that tidbit on the Internet, but how would you know how to use this without some direct experience?"

"I'm not the adventurous type?"

"Oh, that's for certain, but you're very smart, very self-controlled and very discreet. You know the theory, but you don't practice often, admit it."

"I admit it."

"And you know Percy and Stan. You grew up in the neighborhood, you knew then since you were children, I would guess, but you left there long before I arrived. Your parents may still be alive, and you've probably known Lucinda since childhood."

"Right there. My father is dead, but my mother isn't yet."

"I can't figure out how you found out about me and my–adventures. Who do you know that well? Mavis Hazelton?"

"I know her, but not that well. Her oldest daughter is a year older than I, and was a chum growing up."

"Sheila Button?"

"Also the parent of a friend. You know how much teenagers confide in their friends' parents."

"Not much at all, if I remember correctly. You must know Mary if she's Lucinda's solicitor; she might have. . ."

"Only after I knew everything already. By the way, Mary Sterns is St. George's solicitor as well, but you're not quite there yet."

I gazed into her eyes, and my eyes traveled around her face. She was exceptionally tall for a woman, and had to be taller than her mother, so that wasn't a clue. The brown eyes, the nose and cheekbones, blonde hair, oval face. Who was I thinking of?

Then it hit me. Her mother was older that my other friends and lovers. The youngest child gets spoiled frequently, and those of wealthy parents more so. But the name Barbara was mentioned only once at St. Dunstan's in passing during my six years there, a story of transformation, but an old story.

I took a guess: "Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazelton is your mother."

Barbara smiled broadly. "Right on the first guess."

"But I thought all of Lucinda's children were in their fifties."

"They are, except for me. I was an oops; thirteen years younger than my next oldest sibling. Mother was forty three when I was born; I am forty two right now. She must have needed a break from giving Dad blow jobs one night, so here I am."

"But nobody talks about you around the parish. Your mother doesn't talk about you."

Barbara shrugged and burrowed into my armpit. "Growing up I was a complete brat, and a slut. They wouldn't like to remember what I was; I was an ugly, self-centered bitch. I ran away, reformed, left the Church of England and became a Catholic nun. When I took my vows, I told my mother that for the purposes of the estate, she had to consider me dead. She's stayed with that in talking with people: she's proud of me, but her usual social circles would never understand my story, so she's gotten used to leaving me off the list. That's one reason she's been so generous: she's been giving away my part of the family fortune."