This story is an entry in the Nude Day Contest. Qualifying themes include public nudity and exhibitionism. If you're going to vote, please read clear to the end. It's only a page and a half. Thank you for stopping by.
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My father can be such a prick. His motto? Every man has his price. He's proved it time and again, not just by manipulating others, but by selling his own soul to the highest bidder. I don't know if it was this winner-take-all strategy that turned him into a controlling, bitter tyrant, or if he was just born with the asshole gene, but it does explain why we butted heads our entire lives. Perhaps because I was his firstborn son, he expected too much? Everything I did was wrong, or not good enough for the "family name." In some circles, the family name is a dirty word, but he'd never know it. He's spent his entire adult life surrounded by yes-men and ignorant flunkies catering to his every need. Unfortunately for him, the one thing he needs right now - a cure for metastatic lung cancer - is the one thing his money can't buy.
Of course, when he fell ill, the family rallied in support of the old codger, but I remained on his shit list. I was excommunicated when Crystal and I got married, perhaps because she's so much prettier than Mom? He never did explain his reasoning, but that's not unusual. Dad doesn't need a reason to do what he does, he just does it, which might explain the letter I received from his lawyers.
"Dear Mr Hartman,
Your father Reginald regrets the troubled relationship that has developed between the two of you over the years. He has decided to rewrite his last will and testament to include you as an equal heir to his estate, along with your sister Anne and your brother Gregory. This is contingent upon one condition: you and your wife's baptism into the Church of Saint Elizabeth congregation, located on Main and Fourth. Please contact Father McHenry for further instructions."
Crystal wasn't too excited about joining the Church of Saint Elizabeth. She's always been sort of a free spirit when it comes to that sort of thing. It wasn't until we sat down and did the math that it made sense. $500,000 could go a long way towards getting us through this shit pile of an economy, so we decided to go for it.
It was a Thursday afternoon, muggy, the air hanging like a wet blanket over our town. We were standing at the entrance to the Saint Elizabeth Church rectory, an old brick building attached to what used to be a door factory.
"We're good right?" I asked my wife, straightening my tie in the reflection of a cracked window.
"Don't worry Honey," my wife said, squeezing my hand, "I won't blow the deal." She was wearing a black sleeveless dress borrowed from a friend, with matching black heels. The best thing about that dress was imagining her taking it off when we got back home. It had been too long since we'd made time for some hot sex, and I was hoping maybe this afternoon would be our big chance. Tearing my eyes away from my beautiful wife, I rang the door bell, which reacted with a set of chimes from within.
"Welcome, my children," Father McHenry beamed, flinging the door open and extending his hand. I was a little shocked. I was expecting some old codger with a bald head and a paunch, but this dude was nothing of the kind; more like a younger version of Robert Redford, but draped in a black choir robe with his bare feet sticking out.
"Pleased to meet you sir," I said, "or is it Father, father?"
"Call me Al," he said, his grip firm and warm. "And this must be..."
"My wife Crystal."
"Very good," Father Al smiled, shaking my wife's hand vigorously enough to set her boobs to vibrating. "Come on in and I'll fill you in on what the Church of Saint Elizabeth is all about."
He held the door for us and we entered his darkened chambers, which looked more like a two-bit Las Vegas marriage chapel than a church rectory. Fake stained glass windows illuminated a red naugahyde couch and a massive desk at one end of the room. Sagging shelves overloaded with tattered books gave the place a Goodwill vibe, enhanced by a huge vase of plastic flowers teetering on a spindle-legged end table.
"Take a seat," he said, waving an outstretched hand towards us. I could immediately see why my father would fall for this dude. With his dazzling smile and coiffed hair, he had that unmistakable alpha male charisma that propels men of questionable moral values to success.
Crystal and I took our seats, and suddenly I found her hand in mine. How cute, my conniving wife playing the innocent bride, all for a measly $500k. She grinned, crossing her legs primly, her pantyhose making a strange scraping sound when she did so. Suffice it to say, this was the first time I'd seen her in pantyhose since, or probably five years.
"Well now," Father Al intoned in his ministerial baritone, "I don't know what your father told you about our church, but we are a little unconventional."
"My father told me nothing about your church, sir. We only communicate through his lawyer, which is his idea, not mine."
'I was afraid of that," Father Al said, looking genuinely concerned. "Your father does seem to be a deeply troubled man, but, in the face of death, it looks like he wants to turn over a new leaf. He specifically asked me to go easy on your indoctrination. We normally expect a hundred percent commitment to the Church of Saint Elizabeth, but in your case, we can cut you some slack and let you ease into our special relationship with God at your own pace."
"Sounds good to me," I said, a little surprised by Al's candor. In that moment, it occurred to me that I might have misjudged the Church of Saint Elizabeth. Perhaps they weren't a bunch of ripoff artists like I had assumed. I mean, do ripoff artists level with you right off the bat? Father Al shot me a knowing look, his ocean blue eyes boring into me like a laser, and I decided I could trust him. He continued his spiel.
"Alrighty then," Al intoned, "in order to proceed with the baptism, you and your wife will have to go behind the screen over there and remove your clothes. All of your clothes. Even your underwear. Then you can put on a robe and..."
"What?" I gasped. "What kind of loony bin are you running here?"
Father Al's eyes softened, like a dad when he has to explain to his children why they can't eat any more ice cream. "This is not a loony bin, my son, this is a house of the Lord. We follow the teachings of Jesus Christ, as interpreted by the Wiccan scholar, Elizabeth Morris. Elizabeth determined that in order to be accepted into Heaven, one must first purify the body and the spirit, which are interconnected, just like our lives are interconnected with the earth that sustains us. If the body is encumbered by man-made possessions, this purification is impossible." He paused to let this profound concept sink in, and then continued. "Would you like to think about it and return another time?" He smiled, clasping his hands together on the desk, leaving me sitting there feeling like a jerk.
"What do you think, Hon?" I asked my wife. We had never been naked in front of other people before. She shrugged, a sour look on her face. Then she gave me a little nod. "Oh what the hell," I said, forgetting for a moment where I was, "we'll do it."
"What the heck, my son," Father Al corrected me, his Robert Redford smile still plastered to his face.
"Sorry, Father, Sir, I mean, Al."
"No problem son. Old habits are hard to break, aren't they?"
Nodding in agreement, Crystal and I got up and padded across the thick fake Persian rug to the screen in the corner of the room. It was one of those Japanese looking things, which didn't at all go with the Old World décor that dominated the rest of the room. Looking around at the fake marble busts of long-forgotten saints, and the threadbare velvet curtains and gaudy gold-trimmed furniture, I was reminded more of an old Hollywood B movie set than a house of worship.
"You okay with this?" I whispered as Crystal and I ducked behind the screen.
"No" she hissed, kicking off her high heels.
"Do you want to bail?"
"Do you want to be poor for the rest of your life?"
She turned around so I could unzip her dress, and then she stepped out of it, her white tits straining at her black bra.
"Nice," I said, flicking one of the straps off her shoulder. "You should wear that more often."
"Shut up," she hissed, reaching behind her to unclip it. I settled down on the red naugahyde bench and watched as her perky tits popped out. I swear, her tits are the reason I married her. Well, that and her spaghetti sauce.
Father Al's voiced floated across the room, reminding us that the gowns tied in the back, just like at the hospital.
"Mental hospital" I whispered, as I watched my wife peel her pantyhose off. Why is it that even after five years, I still get turned on watching her undress? Hint: she just recently started trimming again, making it appear as though I'm fucking a brand new woman, instead of the same old woman I've been fucking for the last five years.
"Quit staring" she said, turning her back to me and plucking a robe off the corner of the screen. As she shucked it on, I pulled my shoes and socks off, climbed out of my clothes and did the same thing, each of us taking turns tying the back of our robes.
"All set?" Father Al asked.
"Let's do it," I said, grabbing my wife by the hand. We strolled out from behind the screen, my heart racing. This was going to be a milestone for us. Even though it seemed perverted and sick, it also seemed quite the adventure.
"We're almost ready," Father Al said solemnly, his hands still clasped in front of him. "We're just waiting on the musicians."
"Musicians?" I asked, stopping in my tracks. "Are you sure we need musicians for this?"
"It's a string quartet from the college of music. Saint Elizabeth was a fervent music lover. Trust me, you'll enjoy it."
Trust him? Why'd he have to say that now, when trust was the only thing keeping me and my wife from bolting? Just then, the side door - the one that leads into the abandoned door factory that is now, apparently, a church - swung open.
"Here they are now," he announced. Turning to address the throng: "Ladies? This is Reginald Hartman's son Dan and his wife Crystal."
"Excellent," the short oriental girl said, "It was the Reginald Hartman endowment that paid for our instruments."
Well, that eased my mind. Not the endowment part, but the fact that the musicians were all college girls, and a couple of them appeared to be in possession of a substantial endowment under their matching black choir robes.
"Everyone ready?" Father Al asked, a hint of excitement in his voice. We all nodded, so he proceeded to untie the backs of the musicians robes, one by one. The oriental girl was first, her tits small and round, her black bush hiding whatever treasures nestled between her legs. The next gal, a skinny redhead, was a mass of brown freckles scattered over pure white skin, her wispy red bush revealing a dainty looking slit. The third girl reminded me of my wife; full tits, wide hips, trimmed pubes, and a mischievous smile. The fourth girl, the cello player, was the obvious winner; big-boned, but with big tits to match. She was also closely cropped down there, revealing a chocolate colored cunt that looked like it could handle a baseball bat. But the eeriest part of all this was the looks on their faces. It was almost like they were smirking at us, perhaps in anticipation of our discomfort when it would be our turn to disrobe.
As the ladies got situated on folding chairs, Father Al appeared behind us to untie our robes. It was a little unnerving watching my rapidly expanding dick pop out, and equally unnerving when my wife's tits bobbed up to meet Father Al's gaze, but we were past the point of no return. I just hoped my half hard dick wouldn't expand into a raging hard-on, which it felt like it was going to do at any moment.
Father Al's robe was next, and when it came off, I was shocked to see what looked like a donkey dick dangling between his legs. It didn't look hard, but it was at least eight inches long, and as fat as Crystal's wrist. I glanced over at her and saw the amazed look on her face. After five years of my mini-dick, I could understand her fascination with Father Al's tool, but it was a little humiliating.
