Only the Good Die Young

Lori had been raised Catholic, went to parochial grade school, public high school.

After she married and had a child, she began to tell people she was a "recovering Catholic", for she still remembered the Sisters whacking the kids, the boys mostly, with wooden rulers; she remembered watching a nun force one of her schoolmates to keep his hands still inside the desk while slamming the lid closed on his 6th grade fingers. She never forgot being told she was most likely going to burn in hell no matter how good she was.

One particular story stood out in her mind; a story her brother told she and her mother about a nun making one of his friends drink that God-awful green soap in the dispenser from the lavatory. Lori's Mother, who was non-Catholic, told her son that if a Sister ever tried to make him drink that swill to make sure he threw up on her shoes. It never happened, thankfully. Detention was the order of the day at that school, and it was a long walk home.

The end-of-the-year school picnics were a sight. Rides, games, raffles (can't forget those raffles), and the beer stand were the most popular sites. The priests stumbling from the rectory to the beer stand, back and forth till the picnics closed down for the night was a regular show in itself. After dark, the kids used to hide in the bushes and bet on who would miss the doorway, thereby smacking his head on the frame, as they giggled hysterically.

When Lori was in High School, she went back to the picnics every year, and after she married at 23 and had her son, she took him to them. She wanted to fully return to the Church, but could never bring herself to do it. Something deep down inside always held her back, until her marriage began to crumble.

Desperate, Lori went to see a new priest; one she had met while attending required classes so her son could be baptised. It was an odd feeling, breaking away from the Church and yet unable to completely sever herself from it. But this priest was different; he was younger, he had a better attitude, a more open mind, it seemed.

Father Mike was of Scottish descent, had a slight brogue, wild red hair and sparkling blue eyes. So it was on a hot summer day that Lori found herself sitting in his office, staring at him from across his cluttered desk.

"Lori, tell me," said the priest, "what's wrong? Let me help you."

"Well, it's about my husband...I don't know, Father, I just can't put my finger on any one thing. He's just not there anymore. I don't think I can take it another minute."

Lori swallowed hard, fighting back threatening tears.

Father Mike leaned back in his chair, straining it, causing it to groan in pain, it seemed, for Father Mike was a big man. Easily six-four, probably two hundred twenty or thirty pounds. He crossed his long legs at the ankles, folded his large hands in his lap, relaxing.

"What exactly do you mean he's not there anymore?"

"H...he's...he's...he works long hours. He comes home late and goes straight to bed or sits in front of the T.V holding the remote. He's gone before I wake up in the morning. We never spend any time together anymore."

"Do you have food on your table?"

"Yes."

"Do you have a roof over your head?"

"Yes."

She was getting pissed-off. Obviously this guy had no clue...

"Father," she sighed, "we have a roof and food, but there needs to be MORE. I mean, we've been married for 5 years now. Shouldn't there be...MORE?"

"Does he not come home to you every night? Is he out running around on you?"

Lori knew where this was going and that she was in too deep to back out now. Embarassed, searching for a temporary escape in order to gather her thoughts, sheturned her attention to the art on the walls. On the wall behind him, directly above the young priest's head hung a painting of the obligatory white dove holding an olive branch in it's beak, a dried palm frond from last Palm Sunday tucked behind the frame. On the wall to his right and to Lori's left was a beautiful painting of The Virgin Mary, smiling her Mona Lisa smile with a baby on her lap, framed in intricately carved oak brushed with gold. The wall to his left sported a print of saints and cherubs cavorting with rays of sunlight shining through gaps in the fluffy blue and white clouds promising everlasting salvation. She smiled at that one until her gaze lit on one more piece of art propped up on the bookcase behind Father Mike. This one was dark; bruised angry clouds covered the entire canvas over which was painted what was obviously the artist's rendition of hell. Nude, emaciated men and women struggling, sweating and laboring over bricks and wood, suffering clearly evident on their poor sad faces. A shadow crossed over Lori's eyes. She always remembered being taught that it was good to suffer, that you had to suffer in order to get to heaven. WHY did they teach that? WHY couldn't you just be a good person and get to heaven? WHY did they preach for everyone to live "poor in spirit"? Look at the Vatican! Solid gold everywhere! THEY weren't practicing what they preached! Who do they think they are anyway??? HYPOCRITES! ALL OF THEM!

Feeling the old anger and confusion return, Lori gazed steadily into Father Mike's blue eyes. Let him answer this one! Ha!

"Isn't it a husband's duty to please his wife, Father? Or is that just an option on his part?"

"A-hem! Er..." His eyes twinkled, fairly lit up. His Scottish complexion darkened a shade, and he leaned forward locking his fingers together on the desk.

"In what way, Lori?"

Dammit. He's going to make me say it! Respect that au-thor-ah-tah!

Lifting her head a fraction of an inch higher, trying to maintain some, any, dignity, she croaked "In...ah...in...bed..."

Looking everywhere but at Father Mike, Lori wished, prayed, for the earth to open up and swallow her.

"What experiene have you had, Lori? Were you sexually active before your marriage?"

Was the Pope Catholic?

Was she not a child of the seventies?

Christ! Here goes nothing, or everything, depending on how you look at it.

"I was."

"How many men have you had, Lori?"

"Err...ah..."

"Two, three....more?"

She never did learn the fine art of lying. Burning in Hell was a legitamate dissuasion. But she could fudge a bit.

"Ah..two."

The air conditioning kicked on, for it was 99 degrees outside in the Midwestern summer. Her sundress was drying from her sweat and goosebumps appeared on her sleeveless arms. Looking down in horror, she also noticed that her nipples were standing up. Crossing her bare legs in tandem with her arms, Lori saw Father Mike staring at her nipples as she tried to hide them.

"Father?"

'Oh, yes...two, did you say? And what is different with your husband compared to these other men?"

"Father, he's just not there for me."

Maybe she could get the conversation going in another direction. There was no way she could discuss sex with this man, this priest. What had she been thinking???

"Lori, is he abusive to you in the bedroom?"

No, she thought. A little spanking would actually be nice....

"No, Sir. He's just not interested, I guess."

"So what you're saying is that he won't make love to you as a husband should?"

Biting the inside of her lip in embarassment, Lori refrained from rolling her eyes. Is he deaf???

Nervous laughter erupted from her mouth, causing a lovely shade of rose to rise from her chest all the way up to her hairline. Father Mike was not immune to this turn of events..in fact, he was beginning to enjoy the reaction she was having to his direct questions.

"F...Father..yes, that is what I'm saying. My husband won't make love to me."

Mike rose, walked around to her side of the desk and leaned against it, crossing his huge arms, his feet inches from hers. Lori lowered her eyes, staring at those feet, wondering if the old saying was true...or was that the thumbs? Guiltily, she slid her eyes away from his thumb, looked at his huge feet again, then at the wall.

"Have you spoken of this to him?"

"Well..I tried, but he's always too tired."

"And what would you say to him if he took the time to listen?"

OH. MY. GOD.

"Uh..uh...I guess I'd ask him if he still found me attractive."

"Ok, Lori, tell you what. I've done a bit of marriage counseling in my time. Pretend I am he, and tell me what you'd say to him."

"I...I guess i'd say something like....Oh, God...uh...Honeydon'tyou wantmeanymore?"

"And he'd probably say "Of course I do. You are a beautiful woman, Lori." "

"Well, he's actually only told me that one time."

O God, why am I here? Lori wondered, squirming in her seat. She was not the type to accept complements gracefully. Everyone was always bitching at her about that.

"Lori, you ARE a beautiful woman." Mike reached out to caress the side of her face and it took everything in her not to flinch away from him. "You have beautiful soft wavy hair, reddish, like mine," he winked at that, "Your eyes have changed colors, going from brown to green to almost gold here today, your complexion and features are sweet and smooth, your lips, and..." his eyes traveled down her body boldly, "your figure are delectable."

Shit! Shit, shit, shit. This kind of bullshit happened way too much for her comfort and now a PRIEST was doing it. Lori stood, realized she was almost nose to nose with Mike, and backed up, stumbling over her chair. His big strong arm reached out to steady her effortlessly. "Tell me, Lori. When you were with these other men, let's say...the first one, did he make love to you or did he use you?"

Ut oh. Are there any of those weird sex laws in the Church, she wondered, her mind racing. She took a deep breath and plunged in.

"We lived by the Catholic cemetery until I was nineteen and the year before we moved I made love with my boyfriend in the middle of it, in broad daylight." Her eyes grew soft at the memory. Young firm bodies writhing in the sunlight, glistening with a sheen of perspiration. "It was my first time, and he made love to me." A far off look crossed her face and she smiled.

A gentle squeeze on her arm brought her back to reality, and the precarious situation she found herself in.

"Did he perform cunnilingus on you?"

Her pussy twitched at the word he used...it went from moist to seriously saturated. This is wrong, girl, she told herself, despite the growing attraction she was developing for Father Mike.

He moved closer to her; she could smell his breath. She could smell his after shave.

'Y..yes..." Now her subconscious moved to those long ago sweet sticky summer nights, as she instinctively taught him how to love her with his mouth. He had caught on quickly. He could make her cum several times in almost as many minutes; discovering she was multi-orgasmic was a delight, to both her and the old boyfriend and she wondered where he was now and if he had improved with a few years under his belt. If he had, there was some lucky woman benefitting from her lessons. BITCH...

"Lori..."

She looked at him focusing on his black shirt...Mike never wore a collar unless he was saying Mass. "Did you fellate him?"

Ok, now the lovely shade of rose was turning to an alarmingly obvious shade of violet, she just knew it.

"Was that wrong, Father?"

It was becoming hard to breathe now...Father Mike was way too close for comfort. He was invading her personal space and she was really worried that the little old lady that ran the front desk down the hall would pop in any second, perhaps to tell Father that he was needed to perform Last Rites or something. If he got any closer, he might have to perform something on her...a nervous giggle erupted and she put her hand over her mouth to stifle it.

Mike firmly clasped that hand in his own and brought it to his bulging crotch.

"Is this what you want, Lori?"

She just stood there, shaking like a wet poodle, staring into his eyes, desire flooding through her lions. Loins. Wasen't that a Catholic term? O God. She was terrified that she'd start laughing and never stop.

Maybe the men in the white suits would come, take her away, be her Calgon. Then she could simply escape this torture, live in medicated bliss, numb, no more worries. Lord, I am not worthy to receive You, only say the word and I shall be healed. Help. Someone. Anyone. She had been taught well by the Sisters. Respect the Church. Respect authority. Respect your elders. How old WAS Mike, anyway? He couldn't be more than 15 years her senior.

He was a man first. A very...er...virile man, she thought, his crotch throbbing under her small hand.

This is so wrong. So very wrong, she thought as perversely, she let her hand mold itself to his hard outline prominently dispalyed through his sleek black trousers. Lori's eyes closed, and she almost swayed with desire. O she wanted him inside her, she thought as she leaned close to him, breathing in his scent, her forehead on his massive shoulder.

"Lori," he whispered, "God forgive me."

His hands slipped down her back, all the way to the hem of her short dress; her arms went around his neck and she reveled in the primal thrill of this sensation: a hard male body pressed up against hers, holding her tight.

Lifting the back of her dress up, Father Mike's hands slipped inside her bikini panties, pulling them down partway over her soft smooth ass. He stood there for a moment, enjoying the feel of her supple flesh under his long deprived hands, his eyes tightly closed. Holding her like that, he lifted her, turned around, and with one hand, swept away the folders, church bulletins, hand-written notes, the football scores and schedules, holy cards, and plopped her down on his desk, pulling her panties down her smooth legs, sliding them off, and tossing them in the air, causing them to land on the palm frond behind the picture of the dove, weighing it down, dangling there as if in midair.

Mike opened her legs and gazed at the wonders within, breathing in audibly. He lifted her feet and placed them on the desk, obscenely displaying her glistening pussy to his hungry eyes. Pulling up the chair she was seated in a few minutes ago, he sat right in front of her, staring in wonder. Lori could literally feel the heat radiating from his probing eyes and threw her head back, closing her eyes tightly, curling her toes over the edge of his desk. His back was to the unlocked door.

Reverently, Father Mike reached a single index finger to her saturated pussy, just barely touching her wetness, sliding it from her seeping vagina upwards to her clit slowly, o so very slowly, watching as her inner lips twitched in response to his touch. His finger lingered on her clit and he watched again as her vagina opened and closed involuntarily coaxing him to come closer. He watched as a small stream of wetness trickled from her pussy down to her ass. The scent emanating from her snatch enticed him so that he had no choice but to taste, and slowly, he leaned his head in, as if testing a new perfume, breathing deeply. As he exhaled, his hot breath wafting over her saturated pussy, she moaned. Tenatively, as if of it's own accord, his tongue tested that intoxicating perfume, lightly flicking her opening and he could feel it twitch, offering itself to him. Encouraged by Lori's obvious pleasure, he continued. Reaching up with both hands, he spread her pussy lips wide, exposing all her glorious womanhood to his delight. Going by pure instinct now, he experimented. If he put his tongue here, she squirmed. When he slid his tongue up that pink slit to her swelling clit, she moved forward and this marvelous creation twitched of its own accord. Closing his eyes, he lifted his head toward the heavens in a moment of silent thankfulness. How could this be wrong? Lori lifted her head in frustration, begging him with her eyes not to stop.

Slowly he slid a finger inside her, marvelling at the heat, the slickness surrounding his finger and his cock rose to the occasion, pressing painfully against his zipper. Torn between the pleasure his finger was receiving, the obvious pleasure Lori was receiving as well, and his aching cock, driven solely by instinct, he stood, unzipped his fly freeing his rigid cock and, like a heat seeking missle, guided it home to the Motherland.

A long low moan escaped Lori's wet lips, and she lifted her hips to meet him. A long low moan escaped Father Mike's dry lips and his body moved, his hands roamed, and his eyes watched as he moved in and out of her hot, wet, tight cunt. One...two...three...four strokes...O God, Mike felt the building up deep inside, he knew it was too soon...

Lori felt the building up from deep inside...she knew it was too soon...

Five...six...seven...

Abruptly he stopped and Lori whipped her head up in frustration. "F..Father, I've been sooo bad. Punish me."

SMACK! His had slapped her outer thigh and he watched as if from above the room. SMACK! Again and again he smacked her thigh watching it turn pink under his heavy hand. Lori moaned loudly, trying to squirm down onto his cock. He obliged. He grabbed her hips and fucked the daylights out of her. He couldn't hold back any longer.

And as Mike's hot cum exploded inside her another explosion occured simultaneously in Lori. HIs cock throbbed, shot wad after wad of hot creamy cum inside Lori's contracting pussy as it milked him over and over. Father Mike threw his head back..."Shitttttttt......"

Lori threw her head back..."Mikeeeee..."

Sharp tapping footsteps echoed from the hallway outside, getting louder as they approached the door to Father Mike's office. Lost in a haze of satisfaction, a brand new feeling for the priest, he struggled to regain his composure. Shaking his head as if to clear it while moving solely by intuition, he quickly withdrew, zipped up, grabbed Lori and practically threw her onto the chair he had been sitting in moments ago, gazing into that wondrous pussy. He flew behind the desk as the footsteps stopped outside the door and sat down.

Tap...tap...tap..."Father Mike?" A weak sing-song voice wafted through the heavy door.

Clearing his throat, he looked at Lori who was running her fingers through her hair trying to straighten it as best she could.

"Yes... Come in, Bunny."

Bunny...Lori almost lost it then, covering her mouth again with her hand. Bunny. Why was everyone that age named Bunny? She had a great something-or-other named Bunny who was looney as a tune.

Bunny opened the door, peeking around the corner, blue hair, red wrinkled lips, watery eyes respectfully, lovingly, fixed on Father Mike's.

"Father, Mr. and Mrs. Mayflower are here, for their three o-clock."

"Thank you, Bunny. I'll be right out. Please ask them to have a seat in the parlor."

Bunny's eyes were no longer looking at Father Mike. They were fixed on the print of the dove behind his head, on the pair of pale pink panties dangling from the palm frond. Bunny's face turned pinker than the panties. Her watery eyes widened and her wrinkled red lips pursed up as if she had just eaten a lemon. After a few seconds of shocked silence, she straightened her spine, drew herself up to her full height of what couldn't possibly be even a fraction of an inch over five feet, and turned an accusing gaze towards Lori, who was doing her best to make herself invisible. Even with her back to her, Lori could feel Bunny's eyes burning a hole in the back of her head. O God, thought Lori. I'm gonna burn... I'm gonna burn...

Lori looked at Father Mike in panic. Father Mike looked at Bunny in panic. Bunny looked at both of them, her eyes flicking from one to the other, then swept across the papers strewn on the floor.

"Bunny, could you take this file to Father George?" Mike held out a manilla envelope that was teetering precariously from the edge of his desk. He didn't rise, thereby forcing her to enter the room to take the file from his outstretched hand. Hesitatingly, Bunny entered the room, reached with a shaking hand for the folder.