Encountering The Parishs Saint

[This is a continuation of the Mrs. Tupa stories. These stories are absolutely not for everyone, so please look elsewhere if you do not enjoy reading about bodily fluids and matter, oral-anal contact, strong smells, prurient priests and nuns, and elderly widows. I humbly request that you do not down-vote this story, just because you may have issues with it. This could have also been placed in the anal, mature, or even romance categories, but fetish seems the most broadly-inclusive for this story's fixations. All characters in this story are over 18. This is purely a fantasy, and bears very little resemblance to reality. Please enjoy.]

Jack's willpower and limits are immediately tested

Just a few days after I had been accepted as a catachumen serving Father Viktor's parish, I had moved from my family home into my new quarters in the Church Rectory. Perhaps "quarters" is too grand a description. It was a garret really, on the third floor, with a simple desk and chair, a prayer kneeler, a study lamp, a modest dresser, a small sink in the corner, and one touch of luxury, a single plus half bed, which I took to be a tacit admission that my nights would not always be spent alone.

I was given a tour of the Church complex by the novitiate, whose name I now learned was Brother Dougal. I was intrigued to discover that for "reasons of security", there were underground tunnels between the Church, the Rectory, and the Nunnery, allowing clergy free passage out of sight of prying eyes.

Each building had communal toilets, starkly set in rows of white porcelain commodes, without stalls or other impediments to the blessing of shared urination and defecation. The Rectory and Nunnery also had communal showers to better facilitate the banishment of shame, though I would discover that these were mostly just used weekly, as clerical discipline encouraged the acceptance of sweatiness and other natural body odors. The Bohemian custom of celebrating the body, its functions, and its natural hairy state was present at all levels.

As soon as I was settled in, Father Viktor began a daily hour's instruction and orientation in the traditions and customs of the Bohemian Church. These I found so fascinating that he let me borrow a privately printed history of the Church, whose pages were in both Czech and English. This would furnish me with new insights into the unique folkways that the Church preserved.

The announcement of my acceptance to the parish as a catechumen and new congregational server was delayed for a week, to allow me to better accustom myself to the often eccentric practices that I would be required to undertake. These included visiting the homes of the old Czech widows who made up the majority of church members.

To begin with, the good Father had me scheduled for only one such visit a day, to allow me time to build up my stamina and willpower, which he warned me would be sorely tested. A case in point was my very first home visit after moving into the Rectory.

* * *

Dame Katerina Taborova, who Father Viktor described only partly in jest as the parish's "patron saint", was descended from a long line of Bohemian nobility. Her husband, who had been a leading industrialist, had left her with a considerable fortune, much of which she had been quite generous in donating to the parish. The recent upgrading of the wiring and plumbing in the Nunnery, for instance, was entirely due to Dame Taborova's patronage.

Father Viktor cautioned me that the good Dame had quite "advanced needs" that I was to fulfill without hesitation. Without going into detail, he described her as a devotee of "mortification of the flesh", following a strict regimen that rendered her almost saintly in her constant state of grace. The only hint that the good Father would share of what was to come, was that she was "a spreader," apparently one of the "old ways" preserved by the Bohemian community. I was puzzled and intrigued and more than a little anxious as to what my house call would entail.

* * *

At Father Viktor's insistence, I dressed in my best trousers, shirt, and shoes and set off for Dame Taborova's on the Rectory's bicycle, an ancient device with peeling paint, fat tires, and old-fashioned foot brakes. The good Dame's mansion was perhaps a two-mile ride from the Rectory, set upon the shoreline boulevard with a view of Lake Erie. I parked the bike near the steps to the front porch, but when the front door was answered by the housekeeper, she directed me to take the bike and meet her at the side door, through which she hustled me and the bike, noting that "one never be too careful, with riff-raff all around."

The housekeeper, a certain Mrs. Lada Capekova, had me wait in the hallway, while she went to announce my arrival to Dame Taborova.

"Madame, new server from Church has arrived. He certainly look an upgrade over swarthy priest who has been coming by forever."

"Now, Lada, I'll not have you speak of Father Viktor that way. He has been very kind to me all these years. But please bring in the new lad, so that I can take measure of him. I do hope he is good looking."

Mrs. Capekova came back and had me follow her down the hall to the sitting room, into which she ushered me, immediately withdrawing and shutting the doors behind her. I bowed my head in respect, but not before I got a quick glance at Dame Katerina Taborova. Unlike almost every other Czech Widow I had met, the good Dame was close to my own height and had a regal dignified air about her, underscored by a layered gray silk dress that reached to her ankles and was of a style harking back to Edwardian times. Her lavish silver hair was carefully upswept into a large bun atop her striking slavic head. She reminded me of the Charles Dana Gibson drawings of society women in the Gilded Age.

"Well, welcome young man, Jack isn't it? You can address me as "My Dame," to keep things simple. I've been looking forward to your visit, ever since Viktor informed me of your decision to serve our congregation."

Dame Taborova's English, like that of Father Viktor, was impeccable, though hers was spoken with a slight British accent, indicating that she may have learned English while still on the continent. She gestured for me to come closer and held out her hand to be kissed. She did it in a relaxed manner, but with a poise that indicated that she was used to being obeyed.

I leaned over and pressed my lips against her knuckle, giving it a quiet smooch, and smelling what must have been very expensive French perfume. No doubt about it, Dame Taborova was a class act. I did wonder what these "advanced needs" were, that I had been warned about. I was having a little trouble imagining this elegant and poised matron in any disheveled state whatsoever. I was about to be set straight on that matter, in no uncertain terms.

* * *

"Jack, come here and sit beside me, while I explain what I wish to happen today."

She walked over to the settee, sat down, and patted the cushion beside her. I sat to her right and felt a spark of energy shoot up my nerves to my crotch, as she softly stroked my thigh.

"Like every widow in our congregation, I suffer from unmet needs. But mine are more extreme than most. As my dear late Mother used to tell me, 'We who have the good fortune to have risen so high in life, must descend all the lower to meet our fellow souls as equals in communion before the Almighty'".

She reached over and gave my package a feel, making a humming sound of satisfaction as she felt the shape of my growing tumescence.

"So, what I wish for today is quite in line with Bohemian traditions, just stronger, more intense, and even more intimate. If you are able to just do as I say, with all your heart and soul, I believe we will both feel the loving blessing of the Most High. Do you understand?"

"Yes, My Dame."

"Good, then let us disrobe and proceed. I do hope that you will not mind the presence of Mrs. Capekova, from time to time, as she helps facilitate matters and enables our rituals together to run smoothly. Sometimes, I even allow her to join in, as she is a kind and giving soul with needs of her own that intersect with mine at times."

Dame Taborova, reached over and pulled a cord attached to a bell, which tinkled brightly. Shortly, the housekeeper let herself in and stood in a relaxed but attentive manner before us.

"Yes, Madame?"

"Lada, can you help me disrobe? I think we can trust Jack to take care of himself, but, as you well know, my undergarments present certain complications. You know what to do."

Dame Taborova stood up and made herself available to her housekeeper. I quickly shed my clothes and placed them on a nearby chair, with my shoes and socks tucked below. This allowed me to take in the good Dame's disrobing procedure. Unzipping and removing her dress and then her slip were the easy parts.

Then things got more complicated. The good Dame was encased in a custom corset of sorts that both tightened her waist and pulled her enormous teats down nearly to her hips. That had to be extremely uncomfortable, if not excruciatingly painful. This must have been the Mortification of the Flesh that Father Viktor had spoken of.

As Lada methodically labored away, loosening stays and lacing, the good Dame visibly relaxed and an expression of peace overtook her facial features. Tears of relief and joy ran down her face, as she was freed from her self-imposed torture. My heart went out to the poor woman. What sins must she have committed or guilt must she have felt to deserve such penance? I couldn't imagine Father Viktor imposing it upon her, as he seemed to have a rather liberal view of what constituted grave sins.

As Lada finally removed the corset, leaving Dame Taborova standing there in her silk knickers, massaging her drastically stretched breasts, the good Dame looked over at me and spoke.

"Please, Jack, do not feel sorry for me. I know that God does not require this of me. I do it freely, for the sake of the world. I do it in excess, to share my grace with others. Wait and see, you'll understand."

Mrs. Capekova now left and came back with an armful of pillows. She dropped two on the settee and two on the floor in front of it. I stood up, not sure what was coming next. Traditionally, the sharing of pee and poop would precede the Kiss of Peace, but I looked around and saw no chamberpots in sight.

The good Dame noticed my confusion and explained.

"I prefer that we do our opening rituals in reverse order, for reasons that should become clear as we proceed. Will you perform the Kiss of Peace upon me, Jack? I have so looked forward to this."

Dame Taborova dropped her large knickers to the floor and stepped out of them. Even at her advanced age, her buttocks were still firm and her long legs very shapely, albeit sporting a few varicose veins beneath her flesh with its fine surface hair. Her crotch was a cloud of soft brown and silver hairs going every which way. She held out her hand to me to steady her as she lowered her knees onto the pillows on the floor and lay her long stretched-out mammaries onto the pillows on the settee, pushing her trunk forward so that I would have optimal access to her sphincter.

As I write this account, many years later, I have never lost the excitement of kissing and tonguing a new and unfamiliar anus. But in the first weeks of my discovery of such Bohemian customs, the Kiss of Peace had an especially hypnotic effect upon me. The scent and delicate taste of the good Dame's hairy anal crack and hole were altogether different than those of Mrs. Tupa and Mrs. Gavenda. I imagined that a lifetime of a more sophisticated cuisine, with far fewer sausages with cabbage, rendered Dame Taborova's rear exit a relative delicacy.

I was also drawn in by the elegant way that she groaned and hummed as she squirmed beneath my tongue, moving her bum in such a way as to drive my probing tongue ever deeper. And then, unexpectedly, I found my buried tongue pressed against a womanly turd pushed to nearly the end of her rectum. I froze and whispered, "My Dame?"

Dame Taborova paused and gave a sigh of satisfaction.

"Yes, my dear lad, it is time for us to switch positions. We should both enjoy the Kiss of Peace, before we share the sacraments of expelling our sacred waste together. Please help me up, that I may return the favor."

Throughout this ritual so far, Dame Taborova had maintained her poise, although with certain concessions to Bohemian exuberance. Now it was my turn to experience the Kiss of Peace from the lips and tongue of a devotee of "advanced needs".

From the perspective of many years, I must confess that Katerina Taborova was the finest rimming and ass-loving matron of my entire life. She had an intensity, perhaps due to her constant practice of Mortification of the Flesh, that left all my other backdoor soul kissers in the dust. Most of my beloved Czech widows, of peasant and working class stock, were utterly sincere in their rear-end devotions. And I would not trade that for anything in the world. But Dame Taborova was in a whole 'nother league. If I had any qualms or doubts about the natural virtues of Bohemian rituals, a visit with her put them solidly to rest.

The good Dame simply radiated a field of love that was irresistible. She gave the impression, both through her grunts of deep satisfaction and her lack of shame in savoring the deep stench of feces that her tongue was stirring up, of adoring my butt as the dwelling of my soul. By the time that her ministrations to my own sphincter were at their zenith I sensed that this was just the beginning.

It was now time, by Dame Taborova's reckoning, for us to share our sacraments of excretion. She pulled the ribbon for her summoning bell, and Mrs. Capekova reappeared, ready to do her bidding.

"Lada, would you fit out the floor with our protective pads and coverings? Jack and I are now going to share our communion of excretions. Please stay present to assist."

Mrs. Capekova nodded obediently, then hustled off to gather together the requested supplies and bring them back, spreading the pads and coverings all over the sitting room carpets. The only thing that seemed clear, was that a giant mess might ensue.

* * *

The sharing of peeing and pooping with which I was recently familiar, had occurred within the humble context of Mrs. Tupas's bathroom or the Rectory's parlor. I would soon discover that Dame Taborova's style was far more intense and, dare I say, depraved?

"Now, Jack, we are ready to share our Bohemian sacrament of love. Most congregants do this through shared pees in the toilet and shared poops in chamberpots. I take a much more intimate approach. Are you willing?"

Of course I was. I really had no other choice. Father Viktor had insisted that I satisfy and agree to all of Dame Taborova's needs. She was the parish's wealthiest patron and there was no way I was going to refuse her requests. Besides, I was mesmerized by her insistent needs. If I obeyed her commands, there was the promise of forgiveness and redemption for all my sins.

"Please, My Dame, just tell me what you wish."

Dame Taborova gave me a look of holy love. She was enfolding me in the field of her sacred embrace. I was bound to her wishes and needs.

"Alright, then, Jack. Please lie down on the mat and let me pee directly into your mouth. This is the direct transmission of our sacraments. To receive the full effect, you must swallow it all."

I was now at the mercy of Dame Taborova's orders. As hesitant as I was to follow her demands, I saw no way out. I opened my mouth, as she squatted over me, and let her empty her bladder into my oral cavern. I struggled to take it all without choking or having it overflow my mouth. Dear God, we were partners in consuming each others' waste. How had we arrived at this conjuncture?

"Now it's your turn to fill my mouth with your urine. The direct transmission of your sacramental discharge is a holy blessing, I swear to you."

I stood up and helped Dame Taborova seat herself on the pads, with her back to the settee. Her lovely mouth was yawning before me, eagerly awaiting my transmission of warm piss. I parked my cock upon her lower lip, feeling her engulf its red crown. Then I let go and just peed my heart out. I was afraid that my elegant spiritual partner might be unable to handle my blast, but my worries were a waste of energy.

She had long since mastered the practiced art of swallowing fully and often, handling my warm liquid sacrament as it coursed down her throat. She gazed up at my face the whole time, her limpid eyes imparting her total surrender to the moment. I felt electrified and my whole body was tingling as my flow finally came to an end. She gave my cock's head a parting lick, and I withdrew my member and stepped aside.

"And now for the sharing of our shit." It felt disorienting to hear such a crude expression spoken by the good Dame, but that was the least of it.

"We are now going to apply our sacramental waste directly on each other and coat ourselves with it. This is the most ancient and sacred practice of the 'old ways'. Once we are both coated, though leaving our sexual organs clean, we will embrace and engage in the Sacrament of the Bridal Chamber. It is both a holy rite and the gravest sin of all, as it risks bringing another soul into this world of suffering. This is why I must mortify my flesh continually, as my whole being craves the joining of our organs. It is my greatest joy, and with my constant penance, we can enjoy it in a state of grace."

I felt as if my entire body was covered in goosebumps. This was both the most shocking proposition I had ever heard, and perversely, the most thrilling. I felt both a sense of pity and of awe that Father Viktor had had to satisfy the primal cravings of the church's greatest benefactor for years on end. No wonder he was eager to pass the torch on to me and lighten his own load.

I was pulled out of my musings by the unexpected sensation of Dame Taborova gently licking and sucking upon my hairy balls. Some mischievous sprite within her had commanded a quick snack before we were to shit upon each other. I petted her head gently, letting her release her lewd cravings, secure in the knowledge that we were in a state of grace. Presently, her little fit of hunger was sated and we returned to the ritual at hand.

* * *

The deeper we grew in intimacy, the more a feeling of tender all-encompassing love spread in the room. Dame Taborova lay herself down on the padding, pillows beneath her head, and had me come over and squat above her chest, with my arse in clear view of her loving gaze. She reached up and spread my cheeks apart, unveiling the sacred aperture through which the sacrament would reveal itself. As the good Father had explained previously, the emergence of the turd symbolized the opening of the heart, and its fall upon the heart of the beloved, united their open hearts in mystical union.

I realize that for any readers of my story, who have not themselves experienced this primordial worship, this must sound like the most elaborate explanation and justification for a debased orgy of human degradation. I quite understand. But please listen with an open mind as I describe our perceptions as participants.

As I squatted with my anus bared for the good Dame's loving gaze, I grunted and worked my peristaltic muscles within my bowels, moving the sacrament towards its escape from concealment and its downward fall onto the good Dame's chest. The smell was strong, some might say foul, but we were each so used to it from previous sharings of pee and poop with others, as well as a lifetime of daily defecation, that it was like the scent of an old friend.

My feces pushed forth in three extrusions, each one a bit less than the one before. The sum total was a generous steaming pile upon Dame Taborova's freckled sternum. The elegant lady's heart was visibly beating heavily, and her eyes had rolled up into her sockets, with only the small white eggs of her eyeballs in view. As I got up from my squat, Mrs. Capekova came over with some toilet tissues and wiped my ass clean. Then she quickly disrobed and the two of us knelt on either side of the good Dame's trunk and began to spread my dung all over her upper trunk, including her elongated breasts, though the housekeeper insisted that we not coat their nipples or areolas. Then we moved the viscous mud to her neck and face, leaving clear ovals of clean skin around her eyes, mouth and nostrils. She looked uncannily like a patron of an expensive spa receiving a mud pack. We left it at that for now, depositing any unused shit upon a silver platter that the housekeeper had positioned nearby. She wiped both our hands clean with a damp washcloth.