The sun was beginning to fry the back of his balding head, and sweat shimmered lightly against his neck and skin as he mowed the lawns of the church yard. He wiped his brow, taking pleasure in the heat from the long-coming Summer. He took pleasure from the idea that the natural warmth of the sun came from God. The heat, though too often an abomination, reminded him of the Universal dance of the seasons. Everything was unified in some delightful way, everything worked like a well-oiled machine. The sunburn on his fingers and neck - the only parts of his body that were exposed - tingled and stung, and he yearned to get into the cool dark stone church and relieve the burning with some cream.
The lawns were overgrown and untouched for nearly a full year. Father Lorrie had dismissed the gardener only three weeks earlier, and was now forced to do much of the maintenance himself until he found another yardsman. It had been unfortunate and dramatic circumstances, finding the young brute in a compromising position with one of the older female parishiners. Father Lorrie had walked in on them in the garden shed, the boy's grimy trousers down around his ankles, his grunting form working the single mother up against the galvanized shed wall. The sight had jarred Father Lorrie's senses, leaving him stammering and stuttering, blushing madly. He'd growled at them both to stop what they had been doing, and leave immediately. The middle-aged woman had given the Father a look of apology. She fled the sweatbox with her shirt still unbuttoned and her raw, red-rock nipples piercing the Father's righteous gaze. The barely-legal boy's cock shone in the darkness, wet from her innards, and he quickly hid it from the Father, breathless and terrified as he did.
Father Lorrie had been a priest for the clergy for nearly thirteen years. He was six months from celebrating his 40th birthday, and the realisation was beginning to hit him that the human world was a pool of depraivety, perversion and filth. It disgusted him when he considered the spurts of jism that still lingered as a stain on the floor in the garden shed. It disgusted him that one of his flock had, in all her human weakness, descended into the writhing hell of sexuality with a boy barely nineteen years of age, and that they both had allowed him to witness their copulation. All this ran through his mind as he ripped the lawn up with the lawnmower. The fury drove him on - the fury, and the jealousy.
He'd been single and masturbatory for nearly twelve years. Single, alone, solitary, unmarried, untouched and unfucked for twelve years. The tightness in his balls had become something he could rely upon, and though he was getting older, less interested in the physicality of man and womankind, he still craved some kind of affection. Instead he pushed himself against the lawnmower, riding it down the gentle slope to the garden shed where the scent of someone else's desire lingered in the musky air.
Rushing through the motions, he turned the engine off, locked the shed door, and raced back up to the church. The coolness hit him like a sweet embrace, melting the sting of the sun from his bones and reducing him back to a familiar sense of normality, which he needed so desperately to quell the inner heat.
.....
Hannah clutched the bible to her breast, staring up at the statue of Jesus as he hung over the altar. She could hear Father Lorrie returning, but she did not turn around to face him lest he see the blush in her cheeks and the wild, glazed look in her eye. Hannah was young enough to hate church, old enough to know the man who ran the church was easily manipulated and malleable. She had dreams about him often. Father Lorrie would come to her dreams at night and tell her what to do to him, and she would obediently comply, whimpering little noises as he did things to her she'd only read about in books.
Her freshly combed curls barely touched her shoulders, her long eyelashes fluttered as she blinked and sighed loudly, praying to God to help her get through whatever it was that was tormenting her. The bible in her hand was musty and clammy from overuse. She held it tighter to her chest, feeling her nipples harden under the weight of the sacred book. In her mind's eye, she saw herself hiding the book between her legs. She saw herself using the book to masturbate to, wondering if her sticky pussy fluids would taint its words.
'God, I'm such a little slut,' She thought silently, her mind flashing with more visions. She saw herself laying on the alter, naked, her thighs spread open, a man in a dark robe kneeling between her legs, feasting from her, his knees sore on the cold, stone stairs.
"Hello Hannah," came a gentle, deep, throaty voice behind her. She jumped. Father Lorrie smiled as he walked by her, placing his large hand on her shoulder. She smiled, blushing under the weight of his strong blue eyes, and the proximity of his reverential presence.
"Hello Father Lorrie," She chirped.
"How are you today?"
"Oh. Hot," She smiled.
He nodded seriously, his eyes involuntarily darting down toward the bible in her hands. The smile on his face disappeared when he noticed the hard nubs of her nipples through her thin cotton dress. He noticed the book pressed against her breasts. He wondered what she was doing. She looked like a sweet little angel, sitting on the pew, a tangible aura glowing around her curls, her luminous skin reeking of roses, her bare knees almost shiny in the light from the stained glass windows.
"Well, pray to God for some cool weather, and we may receive a respite from the heat," He said bravely, and began to move away.
"I will, Father," She replied, noticing him noticing her hard, sore tits. She looked down at his crotch, hoping to catch a glimpse of a bulge but there was nothing. He wore dark trousers and a loose, thin black shirt with the white collar on it. She could smell the sweat in the air from him, and she longed to lick it from his chest.
Father Lorrie moved up toward the statue of Jesus, and began fussing around the foot of the icon. He moved some of the unlit candles, wiping some dust from the toes of the Lord. He was aware that the young Hannah was the only person in the church - apart from himself, and his ever-present God. When he glanced at her from the corner of his eye, she was watching him and it made his heart race. He continued cleaning. When he looked back, she had gone.
He saw the confessional box door close, and he made his way over to hear the confession. Inside it was cool, and even darker than out in the main area of the church. He sat, opening the wooden slide in order to hear the confession better.
"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned," Came the sweet trinket voice from the other side of the confessional box.
"Hannah?"
"Yes, Father," She sounded pleased that he had recognised her voice.
"What are your sins, sweetheart?"
She giggled, "Father, I have so many, I don't know where to start."
He frowned, and remained silent.
"Okay, perhaps I should start from the beginning. Father."
.....
Her voice was like a demon, pulsing in the air between them. She spoke and spoke, telling him her deepest and darkest realities, her fantasies, her dreams. He sat in silence on the other side of the screen, his body burning, his mind burning with the visions she implanted there. Her voice trailed in and out of his consciousness, the words she used were unbelievable, the context in which she used them was like poetry to his ears.
