OK -- here's a super short one-off. Been rattling around my brain for a while.
I have to warn you, I am not Catholic. And even though I do have this odd obsession with priests (or just men willing to dress up as one), I have very little knowledge of Catholic mass and rituals. So any errors are due to my own lack of research. I hope they do not detract too much from the story.
-W
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I got to the church a little late. The small parking lot was already packed with the town Catholics; the devout followers of the faith and those who came to mass 'just in case'. They'd gotten used to seeing me at mass. I know they wanted to ask why I -- the town's only admitted atheist -- suddenly had an interest in mass. They didn't, but I know they wanted to.
I was glad I was late, I wanted to make sure mass had started before I arrived. I parked towards the back of the small church, close to the parsonage. I got out of the car and stood for a moment, looking at the small clapboard house.
He
lived there.
He
showered there.
He
took off his collar and his clothes there. The thought of him naked, the way his skin tasted, the soft hair of his chest leading down to his delicious cock started my mouth watering and my cunt aching to be filled by him.
I sighed, turning to make my way to the church. The day was bright and brisk; the first real sign of fall since September gave way to October. The wind swirled around my legs as I crossed the parking lot, lifting the hem of my dress a little. I put my hands to my sides, holding my dress down to preserve my modesty, laughing when the absurdity of that thought hit me.
Modesty,
I thought as I walked through the doors of the church, closing them silently behind me.
Pretty sure I left that at home this morning.
I entered the sanctuary silently, taking a seat in the last pew, keeping my eyes cut towards the dais, where he stood. His back was to the congregation and I had a few moments to study his form. His beautiful, heartbreakingly familiar form. Even hidden under the heavy black cassock I could see the strength in his arms, the round globes of his ass, the length and musculature of his legs. Or maybe I just knew it was there.
He turned around, beginning the first liturgy, his gaze sweeping the congregation. I sat in the shadows, barely visible, but I could tell he saw me when his mouth twitched as if he was suppressing a smile. I smiled back, broadly, and barely kept myself from licking my lips at the sight of his hands grasping the edge of the podium.
Those hands...
I thought, my mind floating back to the time after college, back to when I knew him as Jack. Jonathon Banion. The psychology graduate with the deep brown eyes, light brown hair streaked with gold and soft lips. The broad shouldered man with the large, calloused hands.
My eyes followed him while my mind wandered back almost twenty years. Memories swarmed behind my eyes, memories of what we had, what we were, what we did. A sudden and clear vision of me kneeling, my elbows bound to my knees, a bar keeping my legs apart and pillows propping me up on the bed.
He made the sign of the cross and my eyes followed his hand, my mind remembering other times he used that hand. Remembering how it felt when it would slap my ass, slap my pussy. I closed my eyes for a moment, sucking in my breath against a moan. The image of those long, skilled fingers fucking my ass as Jack fucked my pussy suddenly popped into my head and I nearly came.
I shifted in the pew, the increasing wetness of my pussy reminding me I decided to forgo underwear this morning. I shook myself out of my reverie and focused my attention back to the front. The choir -- children and adolescents -- were standing to the side in their white satin robes, singing songs in Latin I didn't understand. They sounded beautiful, but my gaze was drawn back to him.
Jack.
I was shocked, shocked to my soul, when I walked in to the small diner and found him there. Older, slightly thicker, graying hair -- but it was him. It was him and even after twenty years my nipples hardened at the sound of his deep voice. He was making the rounds, moving from booth to booth and stool to stool, talking with the townsfolk. Someone called me over to meet the new parish priest -- priest! -- Father Banion.
Jack.
Somehow he landed in the same small town I did.
We tried to stay separate. Longing glances. Stolen moments of conversations. Chaste hugs and kisses on the cheek. His sincere hope we could be friends. I would have settled for that. I would have forced myself to settle for that. If it wasn't for that one Thursday afternoon when I found him watching my ass at the library, a tent in his pants as I straightened up from retrieving a book off the bottom shelf.
Thus, the stalking began. Showing up for mass. Bingo. Anywhere I thought I might see him. Waiting to be the last one into the confessional and threading my fingertips through the wicker screen between us as I confessed to him. Confessed to never feeling as good with anyone else as I did with him. Confessed to thinking of him as I lay in my lonely bed. Confessed to wanting him still.
He resisted. He cited his faith and stood solid. He thwarted my every overtly sexual advance and pushed me to meet someone else, to date someone else. I did. I met a man, a nice man, and we went out last Tuesday afternoon. Roller skating and afterwards dinner and pie at the diner. He was there. Watching us, the smile on his face never reaching his eyes.
He grabbed me in the confessional that week and kissed me. Hard. His hand fisted in my hair and murdering my mouth.
