The Cursed Cunt Ch 01

"Oh yeah, cunt!" he muttered under his breath.

"Yeah, hot fucking cunt!" he continued, ogling the juicy specimen of beauty displaying herself to his lustful eyes. Her pussy was indeed beautiful -- pink and delicate, with a finely-crafted blond landing-strip, held open by a pair of painted fingers, so that he could gaze into its hot, wet, steamy depths. He stroked his cock in anticipation, feeling his shaft stiffen and grow, and feeling that exquisite yearning sensation spread outwards, filling his body with testosterone-fuelled bliss.

The owner of said cunt looked at him seductively, the tip of her tongue gently tracing the outline of her lips, her eyes cheekily inviting, one hand kneading her huge, perfect, surgically-enhanced breasts, as the other continued to hold her fuck-lips wide.

"Oh, yeah, baby, I'm gonna fuck that cunt so hard," he continued. "I'm gonna ram my fucking cock deep in your hot pussy, I'm gonna feel your juicy cunt around my cock, and then I'm gonna fucking come inside you, I'm gonna spurt all my fucking cum deep in your hot fuck-hole till you scream in pleasure. You want that, baby, you want that?"

But there was no answer from the buxom blonde beauty. For she was but a centrefold in a magazine, lying open before him on his bed. One picture among many, actually, for his eiderdown was covered with a selection of his collected periodicals, open to his favourite pages, featuring a variety of nude beauties, all displaying themselves -- he liked to think -- purely for his pleasure.

His cock throbbed as he stroked it, thumb and two fingers gently rubbing the glans while the palm of his hand wrapped itself around the shaft. He admired his carefully-ordered "cunt collage" -- as he liked to call it. The buxom blond ("Jenny", according to the caption) occupied pride of place in the centre of his bed. Surrounding her were half a dozen other centrefolds: "Sabrina" -- dark-haired, with huge natural flowing boobs, left hand holding her pussy open whilst one delicate finger of the right curled knuckle-deep into her arsehole; "Brea" -- blonde and skinny, with pert breasts, irresistibly smouldering eyes, and a shaven pussy; "Elsa" -- bleached blond hair, sweet "next-door-girl" smile, hairy blonde cunt with -- "oh fuck!" he muttered, as he felt his cock twitch and jerk in delight -- gorgeous flappy cunt-lips which dangled, glistening with little beads of pussy-juice...

He paused his cock-stroking, looking away and upwards at the ceiling, in order to calm himself down: he didn't want to come too soon. Not yet.

Just in time, the phone rang. Nervously he scrabbled for the receiver.

"Hi Jimmyyy!" came the sultry voice he was expecting. "It's Bea here, wiv yer fantasy call."

"Bea, how are you?"

"Oh, Jimmy, I'm feeling so fuckin' horny this evening, I'm been so looking forward to our call."

"Talk to me, Bea," said Jimmy, as he resumed slowly massaging his dick.

"Oh, you know me, Jimmy, I just can't get enough fuckin'. I'm sitting here on my bed, and I'm wearin' this skimpy negligee, and I've shaved my pussy just for you -- and it's so fuckin' wet, Jimmy, I just can't wait for you to ram yer big cock in there. D'ya wanna do that, Jimmyyy?" Bea's voice was warm and breathy -- something she had practised and honed over the months she had been calling him. Jimmy knew that, these days, he could instead be watching a video online, or a camgirl -- but he was a man of habit and tradition, and he loved the way things used to be when he was younger, when porn was always magazines, and audio invariably meant the telephone. And so he sat at the head of his bed, stroking his cock, listening to Bea's breathy seductive personalised filth, whilst he continued to ogle his favourite magazine nudes.

As Bea spoke, his eyes continued to roam the pages spread open on the bed: "Codi" -- a ridiculously slender blonde with big fake tits, pouting lips drooling slightly at the sight of her own shaven cunt, spread wide with two delicate hands; "Emma" -- on all fours, so her pussy peeped cheekily out from between her buttocks, crowned by a tight puckered arsehole...

Bea was very good too: she knew, after some six months of weekly Friday evening calls to Jimmy, just how he liked it. Jimmy wasn't interested in toys, or blowjobs, or titfucks, or anal, or any other kinks. He liked cunt. He loved cunt. And he adored it when Bea talked cunt: "Jimmyyy..." she breathed, "my pussy's feelin' so hot tonight. Will ya put yer dick in there, Jimmyyy?"

"It's all for you, Bea," muttered Jimmy, in a half-hearted attempt to play along with the fantasy. Actually, he wasn't much interested in the role-play aspect of things: it was, after all, pure fakery -- but he liked hearing Bea talk dirty, and so he said the minimum required to let her know that she was on the right track, and then revelled in the glorious obscenity of her wall-to-wall aural filth.

"Oh yeah, that feels so fucking good!" she lied. "Your cock's so fuckin' hard, Jimmy -- I can feel it deep in my cunt, fillin' me up. Go on, Jimmy, slide that huge fuckin' cock in and out of my wet cunt; can ya feel my pussy all hot and juicy for ya?" Jimmy listened, his eyes roving across the collage spread out on the bed before him, imagining what Bea's cunt might be like. Deliberately, he had never asked her, preferring to make it a new cunt each week: last week's choice had been "Cecilia" -- black, shaven, lips teased apart just enough to reveal her juicy pink haven inside; this week, it would be "Jenny".

Jimmy loved Bea's voice -- "chavvy South London", he called it, oozing squalor; in his more lucid moments he imagined her as a single mum on the dole in some squalid high-rise council flat in Tooting -- a ne'er-do-well scraping together a living using the only pathetic skill she had. But now she was his tart, his whore, his plaything, his fantasy: she could be anything and everything he imagined. He liked playing this game, as he continued to stroke his dick to ecstasy whilst revelling in Bea's increasingly filthy ongoing monologue. Bea, for her part, was the consummate professional, sensing from Jimmy's pants and grunts just how far he was on his journey to release. And when Jimmy muttered, "Say my favourite things, Bea," she knew just what he meant.

"You know, Jimmy, I'm a dir'y, filfy, cuntfuckin' whore... That's what I am, Jimmy -- just a cuntfuckin' whore." Jimmy loved those words, and Bea's grimy accent was the icing on the cake: his cock jerked and bucked in response, stiffening even further. "I'm a whore, Jimmyyy. And you like dir'y fuckin' whores, don'tcha? You wanna fuck my filfy cunt wiv 'at big cock?" Jimmy was in ecstasy.

Soon Bea had progressed to "My cunt's so fuckin' wet, Jimmy: that's what you do to me, babe. You're gonna make me fuckin' come, Jimmy, 'coz I'm a dir'y, filfy, cuntfuckin' whore, and I'm gonna fuckin' come all over your big cock!" Jimmy took the cue, fixing his eyes on "Jenny's" pussy -- still, of course, reliably wide open and glistening for him -- drinking in its beauty, and gradually ramping up the rhythm of his stroking so as to time his own orgasm to match Bea's ersatz one. And when Bea got to "I'm gonna fuckin' come, Jimmy, here it is baby, come all over ya dir'y filfy cuntfuckin' whore -- oh yeah oh FUUUUUCK!!!" Jimmy did exactly that. He felt the tell-tale boiling sensation in his balls, felt his cum surge and rise through his shaft and explode from his bucking, twitching cockhead.

"Jenny" was the chosen recipient of Jimmy's cum this evening, six or seven thick ropes of semen splattering over her picture. Jimmy aimed at her cunt, and watched as the likeness of her vulva disappeared under a gloopy coating of semen. Bea was continuing to moan and squeal down the telephone line: "Oh yeah, Jimmy, are ya comin' for me? Does 'at feel good, babe?" as the last few dribbles of sperm landed on "Jenny's" tits and face.

"Was 'at nice, Jimmyyy?" breathed Bea in her customary breathy tones. "D'ya like comin' in my dir'y hot cunt, Jimmyyy?"

Jimmy panted incoherently in reply, his imagination desperately clinging on as long as he could to the illusion of sexual fulfillment. But it was always too short-lived. Even before his cock was flaccid, the illusion was fading and Bea was in business mode: "Same time next week still good for ya, babe? Take it off yer card, yeah?"

Jimmy muttered a "Yeah, thanks, Bea," before hanging up and surveying the mess. It never looked as good afterwards as he hoped it would before. Sperm-soiled magazine "Jenny" looked, frankly, ridiculous and tawdry now -- a far cry from the seductive perfection she had exuded when pristine on the page. And wrapping up and disposing of semen-soaked magazine pages was anything but sexy. But Jimmy did so with his customary goal-oriented efficiency, trying to -- and largely succeeding in -- staunching his creeping feeling of shame, until the job was done, his penis was wiped clean, and he had put on his clothes again.

Then his collar.

And then his cassock.

And then Father James Wright knelt on the floor of his bedroom and wept bitterly.

~~~~~

"

Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do Thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host -- by the Divine Power of God -- cast into Hell Satan and all the evil spirits, who roam throughout the world seeking the ruin of...

oh fuck..."

Father Jim's voice tailed off. He had performed his morning ablutions, had his breakfast, and said his Office, and was preparing himself by examination of conscience for his weekly two-birds-with-one-stone excursion to the Cathedral -- first to confession, followed by his weekly exorcism training seminar. He usually dressed in civvies for these visits, not wanting to draw attention to himself on public transport -- but he never missed his hebdomadal chance to unburden his soul, and timing it for Saturday mornings made sense. Apart from anything else, this way, he felt less guilty saying the Eucharist over the weekend than if he were to have his Friday evening sins hanging on his conscience.

But this morning Father Jim's voice gave up mid-supplication, as the thought impinged upon his intercessions:

Am I a hypocrite?

Actually, this was a thought which frequently went through his mind. The answer, of course, was yes: regularly, deliberately, and with full foreknowledge, every Friday night -- and he knew it. For hypocrite though he was, he was neither stupid nor deluded. He had learnt to corral his fleshly weakness into one weekly episode, and it would soon be,

gratias Deo

, effaced from his soul by the Sacrament of Reconciliation -- after which he could continue to pursue his presbyterial vocation with confidence. Until next Friday.

Today, though, he felt somewhat less confident than normal, less spiritually bullish, more vulnerable than usual. Perhaps it was the weather -- dull and grey like many an English spring morning -- but it was almost as if he felt that the hosts of Satan were genuinely massing on the horizon, and that he might truly need the intercession of an archangel to forestall the ruin of his soul. In short, Father Jim's carefully calibrated balancing act between spiritual propriety and sexual concupiscence was feeling unaccountably precarious this morning.

He was just letting himself out of the presbytery when a young woman came dashing round the corner, her heels clicking unevenly on the pavement. "Father Jim! Father Jim! Oh, I'm

so

glad I caught you. Please would you hear my confession?" Behind the urgency of her request Jim descried a pleasingly upper middle-class voice ("so" came out a bit like "say") -- but ever so slightly Estuary ("t" in "caught" barely noticeable), as was common with the younger generation.

Father Jim thought, but did not say:

Oh fuck.

He tried not to think swear words between Saturday morning confession and the end of mass on Sunday evening. But he had not been to confession yet, and therefore made the split-second judgment that he may as well, for now, think obscenities. After all, he liked them; he liked the sound of them: "fuck" -- beautiful, he thought. And this young lady was, he thought to himself,

"fucking hot"

. She was slender and small, almost a waif -- and yet her pencil skirt was just a touch too tight, and her blouse ever so slightly translucent, so that the shape of her nipples, puffy and rounded but not huge, made two soft tents in the front of her top.

Oops

-- he thought, as he felt his penis begin to stir inside his rather ill-fitting trousers. No, it would not do to be groping his cock out of the way in front of a parishioner, so he banished "fucking hot" from his brain with a quick piece of well-practiced spiritual legerdemain, and switched into concerned parish priest mode. He vaguely recognised the girl -- from the back row of the 10:30, perhaps? -- but wasn't sure if they had ever exchanged words. He felt within his rights to say, "I'm actually on my way out now, er..." as he looked at her quizzically with that I've-forgotten-your-name look customarily used by parish priests.

"Bernadette -- call me Bernie," said the woman, pronouncing the "r" softly but clearly.

OK,

thought Father Jim.

Typical second-generation immigrant. Tries to keep up the religious traditions of the home country, but talks like a Sloane except when asserting her identity. Clearly done well for herself, been to uni.

But -- Jim groaned inwardly -- she wasn't taking the hint.

"Oh please, Father, I really need you to hear my confession, I... I..." Father Jim looked into her eyes for the first time -- and there was that look of moral desperation he was used to seeing in some people. Some could live in their sins for long periods of time before emotional need drove them back to the Church; others, like this girl, presumably, were made of less stern stuff. Her eyes glistened with barely held-back tears, as she continued: "I think I may be under a curse, or a hex, and I... I know you are training to be an exorcist, aren't you?" Her lower lip trembled, as her damp eyes pleaded with him.

In the silence of his heart, Father Jim thought to himself:

Oh fuck.

But he took no pleasure in this particular iteration of his favourite obscenity. He had met this kind of woman before: excessively impressionable, with an inclination to see spiritual warfare lurking under every pebble, when her only problem might a temporary imbalance of hormones.

Exorcism? Bullshit.

But Jim was, despite his cynicism, a kind man, and so he said, "All right, Bernie. Of course. Let's go in," as he ushered her through his front door. "Face-to-face, or in the box?"

"Oh, I prefer the old-fashioned way, if that's all right, Father?" she replied sheepishly.

He gestured her down the corridor towards the church, and then up the long nave -- pleasantly illumined by the shifting colours which filtered dully through the great east window. As she walked ahead of him, he watched her bottom jiggle gently from side to side, red heels clicking on the stone floor, her medium-length ponytail of light brown hair swishing behind her. Fuck, he thought -- and this time revelled in the thought.

Fuck yeah...

he muttered silently, his mind's eye briefly, secretly, undressing her from behind.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," said the girl, once they had both settled into their respective halves of the confessional.

"How long has --"

"Oh, over a year, Father." interrupted Bernie. "I've got a lot of catching up to do."

Fuck,

thought Father Jim. But, because he was basically a kind-hearted man, he instead said: "Well, take your time. It is good that God has called you back to the Sacrament now."

"Thank you, Father." He heard Bernie take a deep breath. "I... I'm married..." she ventured cautiously. "But I've not been strictly... faithful..." There was a long pause.

Ho ho, I knew it,

thought Jim.

Another pretty young slut, got hitched too soon, screwing around behind her husband's back. Two a penny. Had one just last week, didn't I?

But instead he said, "And how long have you been having this affair?"

"Oh, it's not an affair, Father," said the girl. "It's kind of a weird binge, a bit... perverted, if you know what I mean. On the rebound, I guess, because I walked in on my husband, you know -- with someone else..."

Oh shit,

thought Father Jim.

This'll take all morning. Web of adultery -- seen it all before. One fucks around, the other goes off the rails, and soon they're all crotch-deep in moral turpitude. Why do they even bother to get married if they've got no continence? Should try and be celibate -- then they'll learn how lucky they are...

All that passed through his mind in an instant, but of course he voiced none of it.

"You see," continued Bernie, "we were married a year ago -- here, before you came: Father Peter married us -- and, well, I thought it was going so well. We... we were really good in bed, you know... I mean, we really liked the sex and everything."

Too much information!

thought Jim to himself. But he did not say that either.

"You know, I was a virgin when we got married. I'd saved myself up for this. And the first time, it was wonderful. You know, for some girls it hurts? But for me it was bliss. He just slid in, and I loved it. And we loved it -- just like that, in and out, you know?"

Father Jim felt his cock begin to stir. It was the inevitable involuntary reaction to a sexual confession which was becoming just a touch too detailed.

Fuck, girl, why are you telling me all this?

he thought. But Bernie continued to jabber, exuding, though unseen, an air of wide-eyed innocence from behind her latticed screen.

"But then Giles started wanting me to do things I didn't want to -- you know, oral, and anal, and stuff -- and I really wasn't comfortable with it, so we had a few arguments about that. "I mean, when he wanted me to give him a blowjob, you know, he'd just pull down his trousers and waggle the thing in front of my face..."

Too much fucking information!

Jim screeched in the silence of his own heart. But he couldn't stop himself imagining the husband's cock, stiff and huge, waggling back and forth in front of Bernie's pretty face, her narrow mouth opening wider, wider, her tongue extending to lick pre-cum off the frenulum before her lips softly enclosed the...

Fuck, Jim, pull yourself together, man!

he thought, as he felt his cock begin to make an uncomfortable tent in his trousers. He stammered out loud, "Er... sister, you don't need to tell me all that, you know, just stick to..."

"Oh, but it's important, Father," came Bernie's voice. "Because that's what led to it. I told him I didn't like sucking him off, but he kept trying to persuade me, and I kept saying no..." Father Jim imagined he detected the faintest hint of a smirk in her tone -- but of course it was impossible to tell...

"And then," continued Bernie, "there was the anal. Sometimes when we were making love he'd wet his finger with... well, you know... and then he'd reach round and try to stick it in there. I really didn't like it -- and of course he never forced me; I mean, he's a kind man, he'd never do anything nasty -- but it was clear he was disappointed..."

Oh Jesus motherfucking Christ,

thought Father Jim. His cock was stiff now, and he could feel his own pre-cum beginning to leak slowly from his glans. He reached down to adjust his cock inside his trousers, and inevitably his hand lingered just a bit too long, grasping his own erect shaft through the fabric and squeezing it gently. That familiar thrill of pleasure surged through him -- but he made himself let go, telling himself:

Later, Jim, later. Just get this girl through her confession for now...