Everyone involved in this story is over the age of 18. It's a fantasy. Unless it's a true story.
I used the land-line to call the Manor after Parish Mass the next day; my call answered by a suave Rupert, now once again calm, collected and just slightly supercilious. Yes, George was alive and apparently suffering no lasting effects from his coshing; he had been into the Manor and had apologised for the previous night. Yes Beth was OK; seemingly none the worse for her terrible experience, though "her do seem to have an unique pastoral way with her, Father!" So they'd guessed - or Beth had told them - about our bedroom sports whilst waiting for the key to her restraints to be released. I could only hope they had no cameras in the cottage. No, they'd not seen my phone, but had I tried ringing it? They promised to ask George, who'd gone back to the cottage, to check there.
An hour later Rupert rang back. "Well, still no sign of her phone, Jimbo. But Abby's going to cycle round to the presbytery after lunch for her one-on-one French lesson. She'll bring it with her if we came across it." Abby was the freckle faced redhead who looked younger than her eighteen years and whose shy demeanour, girlish ponytail and small neat breasts had drawn my attention both times I had met her. My cock stirred as I wondered what her would look like stripped naked for my pleasure: very tasty indeed was my guess. The one-on-one French lesson was news to me - I wondered how literally Rupert meant "one on one", and whether he wanted her taught French language or perhaps French kissing ... and more. His next words confirmed he meant just that.
"Beth had a chat with her about the benefits of ... shall we say your pastoral skills and personal tuition? Anyway, Abby's a volunteer: said her'd like to be next." Well, that was a turn up -- maybe the sexy little thing wasn't as innocent as she looked? Still, Rupert had said the girls were all virgins. Interesting.
I'd only just put the phone down when it rang again. It was Father Sean, the obnoxious little shit who enjoys the power that being Bishop's chaplain gives him, with the news that the Bishop would like to see me straight away, and by the way, why wasn't I answering my mobile?
I ignored that last question. "And what does our Paddy want with me today?" I asked. He gave his supercilious laugh, "The sooner you get here, the sooner you'll know. Don't dawdle: he's in an impatient mood."
In other words, 'Ops Normal'. Straight away meant half an hour's drive, so I put on a clean collar and got in the car. When I arrived at the palace - a decaying detached redbrick house which had once been home to a Catholic factory owner, so I guessed was built on the tears of child labour, Father Sean looked at me as if I was something the cat had dragged in; looked at his watch, sniffed loudly, and gestured to a chair in the anteroom. "Wait," he said. I waited, entertaining myself by looking through the Clerical Outfitters' catalogues which ecclesiastical offices put in their waiting rooms instead of porn magazines - though the camp looking men modelling chasubles and mitres could well have been moonlighting from Gay Times.
After only a quarter of an hour I was admitted to the Bishop's office. Contrary to Fr Sean's warnings, it seemed Bishop Patrick, was in a good mood. "Father James! How goes the task? Such a star! Rupert called me this morning and he's very grateful for her help. He was raving about the benefits of ... shall we say your pastoral skills and personal tuition?"
Shit. Those were the exact same words Rupert has used to me on the phone. How much had he really told the Bishop?
The Bishop waved to a plate of sandwiches on a side table. "Have a bite to eat, Father," he said, then continued, waving at a copy of The Tablet, "What do you make of the Holy Father's latest proclamation? Will it help turn the tide? Those damnedevangelicals building congregations all over: can we stop them? Would a Folk Mass help? Guitars, that sort of thing?" Without waiting for an answer he proceeded to pontificate on church politics. I ate the sandwiches -- they were very good; prepared by the nuns from the next-door convent. He rambled on, seemingly aimlessly, but it was obvious the crafty old bastard was working up to something, and as I polished off the last fairy cake -- I'd pay for it later in the gym - he got round to it.
"Anyway, I have a job for you. I promised to lend the Manor one of the paintings from the diocesan archive. You will take it up to them with you Father Sean has it."
Adn that was that. He held out his hand and I dutifully knelt and kissed his episcopal ring. I was dismissed. Back in the outer office his Chaplain waved to a large and frightful picture of the cathedral, painted, I guessed, by a well-meaning (if utterly talentless) amateur, but mounted in a heavy antique frame, undoubtedly worth far more than the painting. I'd never seen the picture before, and there was no signature. "It's quite ghastly," said Father Sean, and I started to revise my opinion of the man: still a shit, but with enough taste in art to know a turd when he saw one. And I could understand his final words to me: "Do take it away, I'm sick of the sight of it." He found some large sheets of heavy paper and wrapped it, tying it up, badly, with string. Clearly he'd never been a Boy Scout. He handed it to me with a condescending smile. "Don't go stealing it now!" he said. As if I'd want to give the monstrosity house room. As I walked out he turned to me: "Oh Father: we like you. You're useful. And no trouble. Keep it that way and you'll be fine."
What that meant I had no idea. Puzzled as to why I had been summonsed just to collect a picture which any of the office staff could have brought up to me, or indeed taken direct to the Manor, I got back in my car to drive home. When I got there Abby was just arriving. She could hardly take the painting back with her on her bicycle; it would have to wait.
Taking the thing with me -- it's a safe area but there was no point leaving temptation anyone's way -- I went to the front door, let Abby into the house, and turned to the serious business of her defloration.
She was wearing a short sleeve white top and a sky-blue knee-length skirt. The outline of a lacy bra, in the lightest of pinks, could be seen through the top, and her long ponytail was flicked forward to hang down over her right shoulder. I love redheads.
"Rupert tells me you wanted a French lesson this afternoon?" I said. "What did he mean?"
