Preacher Man 3

If you want to find out more about Shannon Boyle and her many exploits, she and her buddy Gina feature in many of my stories: How to Be A Good Mentor, Chats in the Stairwell, The Norwegian Made Me Do It, Dylan Gets Luckier... just to name a few. Though, of course, this story stands alone.

Enjoy!

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I was still twitching my new bra into shape as I made the turn off Winter Street, just short of the cemetery: fuck. They were so uncomfortable when they were new. Not that I'm the bitch with the biggest tits or anything, but bras matter when you do as many workouts as I do. Gotta keep the Girls perky, especially as you're making the swing from Early Thirties to Mid Thirties.

But new bras, though a necessary evil, always suck. And the fucking quarantine wasn't helping anything. Not that going to stores and trying on bras was ever any fun, but getting everything by mail order was killing me. You've got to touch a bra, feel it, assess it; that's hard to do on a website, but shopping required masks now. And I'd be damned to put on a chin mask just to go shopping for tit-masks. It was bad enough, not being able to do my usual fiendish workouts.

I finally got everything squared up as I reached the corner, the early morning already muggy. I'd been doing daily walks of at least six miles ever since this virus bullshit started in March, but now we were passing into summer and I'd seen my fellow morning walkers balloon. In the beginning it had been me in a hat, nodding at maybe two other walkers in all those miles; we'd all been serious about crossing the streets and facing away from each other as we passed.

But a couple months later? Holy shit. The sidewalks were packed now, thronged with walkers that seemed to completely misunderstand that it's "six feet OR a mask," not "six feet AND a mask." That, or they gave no fucks; they rolled around obliviously coughing out their lung-butter to me and all the other poor bastards that just wanted to stay in shape.

Fuckers.

So I was on the lookout as I eased around the blind Winter Street corner onto North Chester Ave, my head traversing like a battleship's guns, hunting for hostile targets to avoid. I'd started heading off the sidewalks lately just to get away from people, and today I was planning on hiking through the woods on a short trail that connected up with Myrtle Road, before rejoining North Chester farther up.

I was scanning for other pedestrians, of course, and I only saw one: a tall guy in black running shorts and what looked like a Nike workout shirt, the early sun glinting off silver hair. He was far off, but he was really motoring, stalking forward at a determined pace. I smiled to myself; dude might as well be jogging.

But it meant I had a choice to make.

I needed to follow North Chester for a quarter-mile or so, not far, but I had to decide whether I would keep my normal pace and get passed by the guy just as I hit the trailhead, or whether I should pick it up to stay well ahead of him. So I looked the other way, frowned, and made up my mind: I thumbed through my music, then jacked the volume as I launched myself up the broad street to the driving drums of Flesh For Lulu's "I Go Crazy."

Let him look at my ass in my tights, if he could see that far. Because I'd be damned if I let him catch me.

The houses on my side of the street grew farther and farther apart until they gave way to the low wall of the cemetery, its sprinklers already whickering back and forth in the early summer morning. I was starting to breathe hard, but I made an effort to avoid looking back to find out whether the old guy had gained; I have my pride. So I just pumped harder, my feet chopping like a cokehead on a mirror, thinking about his eyes on the surging cheeks of my butt.

The trailhead was nothing but a signpost; you really had to know it was there. I'd come through the other way several times, but this time I planned to skirt the side of the cemetery, up through the woods and then to Myrtle. I was scouting, in part, for places I could come and run in the spring and fall, because this sucked in the summer; I was a sweaty bitch already, less than a mile into my walk, and not even running.

So I slowed a bit once my feet hit dirt, breathing evenly under the cool, humid shade, the song fading out as I glanced sideways to notice with some exhilaration that the tall guy was even farther back than he'd started. I smiled to myself. "Bring it, sucka!" I said under my breath, and then I was straight into a grove of maples, with Myrtle Brook chuckling alongside me, and the morning was fresh and green and fantastic.

I even forgot about my itchy bra.

I stepped carefully over the low fieldstone wall in the middle of the little forest, my trained history-teacher spidey senses telling me this must have been someone's field or pasture once upon a time; now, it was just my haven, a chance to get with nature. I felt like nobody but me knew about this trail, that I could have peeled my tights down and taken a dump right then and there and never seen another soul.

But I didn't. Instead, I walked coolly along, enjoying the tossing leaves and listening to Depeche Mode ("But Not Tonight"). I smiled as I angled up over the little footbridge, then back out into the early sunlight of Myrtle Road. I caught two stragglers, older bitches from the neighborhood up this way, my toned legs driving me past them at Mach Three while I gave my bandana a cursory tug over my nose. "Hi, ladies," I nodded coolly, and then I left them in my dust with no further compunction, the passing traffic on North Chester drawing me on.

And then I scowled, the peace of the morning shattered as some sort of fucked-up hip-hip song emerged. "Goddamn it!" I spluttered, heedless of the two waddling grandmas now far behind me, because once again I'd been bent over and fucked hard: this was Leon's music, some of which he'd loaded on when we'd been dating. It took up a bunch of space and was a shitty genre, but I'm a lazy moron who forgets to delete things like that. So his songs popped up every now and then like guerillas on ambush... like now, as my feet carried me serenely toward the main drag.

I was looking down, thumbing furiously along my playlists, chewing on a strand of my thick, sweaty hair and muttering to myself, when I swung onto the North Chester sidewalk and straight into a hard collision with a shape moving up along the Avenue.

"Oof." A hard, coffee-scented breath blew straight into my face as he stumbled, and I reeled to the side with the force of the impact. Dimly, as I flailed in a most unladylike manner to keep my feet, I caught a flashed snapshot of a surprised expression on olive skin under stylish-looking glasses, all beneath a thick mass of silver hair. Then, next thing I knew, I was blinking on my ass on the sidewalk, looking up at a pair of black running shorts and a Nike shirt, still with that fucked-up song in my ears.

Sampling is a blight on society,

I told myself nonsensically, my brain having a hard time processing what was going on. "Wha-?" I bleated.

"Ohh, ma'am!" The guy was bending over me with his forehead wrinkled over a pair of pale blue eyes, his arms reaching toward me as though he wanted to lift me like a baby. "Oh, I'm so sorry," and I was glaring up at him from behind my Ray-Bans, my mouth already forming into an automatic scowl.

"Ma'am?" I hiked myself up, his hand finding my elbow with surprising strength, helping me up. I batted at where my butt had smacked the sidewalk. "That's rich." I forced a laugh. "You're older than I am." I squinted at him, seeing I was right: his face was all wrinkly around the eyes and mouth, now tugged down in concern. I made myself smile. "I'm okay."

"You sure?" We glanced aside at where the two Myrtle women were hastening to the far side of the street, tugging their masks over their faces like a pair of nuns who've just seen a dick. I thought about flipping them the bird, but the man was standing right there. I nodded.

"Yep. I've smashed into bigger men than you." I watched his eyes carefully. He'd get an eyeful at some point, I knew, and most men would have gone for it right then; not this dude. No, he kept his eyes on my face. I warmed to him, my standards at rock bottom these days. "Really," I went on more softly. "I'm fine." Not that it would have helped him much anyway: this bra was squashing my tits in a most unsexy way under my orange tanktop, and with black tights on there was no way he'd be able to see any meaningful cameltoe.

Too bad,

nagged a corner of my brain. The man was not bad-looking, not at all, so I gave his left hand a quick sweep and pursed my lips in a tiny smile when I saw no ring.

So I let the smile grow. Why not? I never minded a little diversion, and Leon had left me three weeks ago. I'm not usually into older guys, but what the hell. "I'm sorry. I didn't even see you," I purred. "Are you okay?" He'd taken his hand off my elbow, I noticed, so I reached out and touched his shoulder. "We were moving kind of fast there."

He smiled quickly, fumbling with indecisive fingers at a cheap black mask at his neck. "I saw you on North Chester. Where'd you come from?" He was bringing the mask across his mouth, but I just shook my head.

"Dude. If we were going to catch anything from anybody, it would have already happened." His eyes crinkled in a quick smile, and I went back to dusting the sidewalk off my ass. I made a quick decision; I'd been lonely since Leon bailed. "We're going the same way?" I raised my eyebrows over my shades.

"Uh, yeah." He did look down then, just a flicker of a glance toward my chest, like he was reassuring himself I wasn't hurt or anything. I was grinning. He frowned. "But seriously. Where'd you come from? I saw you duck into the woods back there, and then?" He had a slightly goofy look to his mouth when he smiled. "Poof. Here you are."

"Here I am." I started off up North Chester, trusting him to follow after, no doubt, scoping my butt. I glanced back over my shoulder, then slowed a little so he could get going. "There's a trail through the woods. It sort of parallels the street. Gets you away from the traffic and into the fresh air."

"Oh." His voice was quick and pleasant. "Like, a short cut?"

I waited in silence until he looked over at me, because I wanted him to see my contemptuous smile. "If it was a short cut," I pointed out, "I'd be a half-mile ahead. As it is? You barely caught me." We'd already settled into a good, comfortable pace, a bit slower than he'd been doing when I'd first caught sight of him. "You were motoring when I first saw you," I allowed.

"But you were motoring faster." He laughed easily. "I'm Mike."

"Ooh!" I turned the smirk into a warm, wide smile, the kind I make easily. I was already thinking I should pop out my earbuds; this was going well. The guy was nice to look at. "My name's Shannon. I teach history over at the high school. Well, normally I teach. Distance learning these days, they're calling it."

"I can relate," he nodded, deciding not to offer a handshake. So hard to know what to do anymore! "But it's July anyway. You wouldn't be teaching, right? Or do you do summer school?"

"No." I giggled. "I usually spend my summers lurking in the woods, jumping out to scare pedestians." He had a quick laugh, too. And he was handsome. Not quite pussy-dampening handsome, but nice to talk to. Nice to be seen with. I got a sudden urge to take his hand, but resisted.

"I never really walk out this way," he mused, and I felt my back arch slightly when he glanced back over at me. The bra, again, was doing my tits no favors, but it never hurt to preen. "I'm glad I did."

"Why's that, Mike?" I winked, but he ignored the hint; that's okay. I planned to keep walking with him awhile.

"I used to like hiking," he admitted. "It wouldn't have occurred to me that Seaborne would maintain trails and stuff."

"Oh, hell yeah. They're all over." We continued up the road at that comfortable pace, me telling him all about the conservation areas, the City Forest, the salt marshes. "The cross-country team uses the trail network all the time, but until the whole quarantine crap kicked off, I hadn't really explored them much. I used to do all my hiking up at Ray Peaks, the state forest up there." Fuckers had closed down the parking lots at the trailheads, though, because of course nothing spreads a virus like a hike in the mountains...

"That's great." He was breathing deeply through his nose. Dude was in shape; I thought about asking what gym he went to, or at least used to. I could show up, drag him into the bathroom, and have him fuck me over a toilet...

"What?" Shit. He'd been saying something. I found his eyes and made an attentive facial expression.

"I said," he went on patiently, "do you live in this direction? I'm wondering where you're walking to on this sweaty summer morning."

I shook a few strands of hair out of my eyes. Goddamn, I needed a haircut. I decided this Mike and I were now officially having a conversation, so I plucked the buds out of my ears; too bad, too. I was right in the middle of "Power and the Passion" by Midnight Oil. "Well, I'm doing a loop." I jerked a thumb behind me, back toward the marshes. "I come up North Chester to the trail system up at Oak Meadows, then work my way back on the cross-streets." My hair again; fuck. I'd need to redo my ponytail.

"I sort of just moved into this area," he said after a moment, "though I've been working up in the Town Center for years. I used to live down in Southside."

"I get that. Jacked up your rent?" I laughed. Southside was gentrifying rapidly, though this guy looked more like a new tenant than an old one, if you get my drift.

"No," he admitted. "I kind of got a promotion at work, sort of." He seemed not to know how to describe it, which just made me want to know more. I'm that kind of girl.

"Spill, Mike," I urged him. We were crossing Forest, just about half a mile from my trailhead. I was thinking ahead about when I could reasonably ask him for his number. "What do you do?"

"I work at St Bede's," he smiled, and I nearly fell over. St Fucking Bede's? The parochial school there had been poaching our best students for years, or trying to. "I've been there for almost ten years, but... well, they sort of need me to live closer now."

I stumbled a bit, the possibilities chasing themselves through my mind, because suddenly the man's naked ring finger had taken on a significance both mysterious and darkly titillating. Was he a Catholic school teacher? The thought of this guy standing in front of a group of girls in short skirts... well, I'll admit it. That was a turn-on. But it was summer; why would the school be promoting him now?

Unless... "Are you a priest?" I asked bluntly. I was not, as a rule, terribly priest-friendly. I'd grown up in Catholic schools, so long ago I'd sort of gotten over priests in general. Too much of anything gets you bored after awhile. But that was then and this is now, and I idly began to wonder how difficult it would be to get him to fuck me.

In fairness, I teach a Comparative Religions class too, so immediately my mind went toward the thought of bringing him in as a guest speaker next year, perhaps some day that I was hung over.

Sweet,

I told myself.

That's how I'll ask him for his digits!

He shrugged. "A priest? No. I'm a deacon."

"A deacon." I was vaguely aware that a deacon was somewhere south of a priest but north of an altar boy.

"Yes." He nodded. "So, sort of a priest."

"You're 'sort of' a priest?" I nearly had to bite my tongue to keep from bursting out with the immediate

so, are you allowed to fuck?

question. I thought it might be rude, so soon after meeting him. "Like, how much of a priest are you?" I probed.

He gave a chuckle I think I was supposed to think of as "self-deprecating." By now we were nearing the oozing river that marked the boundary of the Oak Meadow when the city was founded in the 18

th

century. Or so said Gretchen Berry's National History Day project from last year; she'd come up here and dug up some arrowheads, though I'd always thought it more likely she ordered them online. I wondered whether I could get him to follow me into the woods. "So, usually a deacon helps out at Mass. Says some prayers. Maybe preaches from time to time, runs parish counseling groups, that kind of thing."

My ears had pricked up. "Usually?"

He smiled and nodded. "I told you I sort of got a promotion. I've been that kind of deacon for ten years, but now? Well, a woman as smart as yourself, you've heard there's a priest shortage in the world these days." I nodded. I had no idea what he was talking about, mostly because I haven't cared about the modern Catholic church since I'd grown tits, but when you're meeting an interesting new man you don't admit ignorance. "The bishop had to rearrange things when Father Winkler retired last year."

"Oh! I've met him." I had, too; he came to graduation most years. I only remembered the name because of

Happy Days

. My friend Gina and I had joked about him, calling him Father Fonzie and wondering where he'd parked his motorcycle, but he'd seemed nice enough. "I didn't know he retired."

"End of February. And the Bishop felt that with the pandemic, you know, that there was a need for more active and energetic leadership at Bede's. For all the digital stuff." He smiled. "I guess that's me. He couldn't find a new priest willing to take the gig, so I told him I'd do it until he could find a real priest."

"No shit." I couldn't stop myself, only afterward turning red because, of course, you're not supposed to swear in front of a... well, a near-priest. But what's done was done, and Mike didn't seem offended, so I plunged on. "So, you've moved into the church now?"

"The rectory."

"Sure," I giggled, remembering Lily Sadler and I laughing on the playground at West Adams Catholic, having just learned what a rectum was and loving the pun.

The priest lives in the rectum-ry!

Now I smirked ironically; if I'd only known.

"Father Winkler still lives there; he comes down once every four or five weeks to preside at Mass, and the Bishop has other priests from the parish fill in when they can. Because what I can't do is the Eucharist. Like I said, it's sort of a new arrangement. We were just getting used to it when the pandemic struck." He shrugged. "We can reopen for services next week."

"Cool." I had no idea what to say, but I very much wanted to keep talking to him. I thought about just continuing on with him down North Chester, but nothing good lay in that direction: the beach was about two miles away, and there was no easy way from there back to my place in the Back Bay. Except to come straight back the same route, and I hated that. "My trailhead's right up ahead, Mike."

"Oh!" He nodded over at me. "Uh, if you don't mind, maybe I could follow you? I'm not all that sure how to get back."

I felt my whole body lift, almost physically, my lip curling mischievously. "Why, Father Mike! Are you saying you need guidance and direction?"

"Deacon Mike," he corrected, grinning, "or maybe Pastor Mike, now that I'm in charge at Bede's. And I guess, if you're offering, I might as well." He seemed genuinely interested, too, but I was wary now. Maybe he was just being nice to me because that's how old clergy guys are. Or, conversely, maybe he wanted to bend me over the altar and fuck me while chanting a Hail Mary; I didn't know what the rules were.

So I resolved not to get my hopes up until I figured out, for sure, whether a deacon was fair game.

But right now, he and I were about to head off into the proverbial wilderness. So I tossed one of my sassier glances over my shoulder and stuck my tongue out. "Follow me then, Preacher Man." I laughed. "Let's see if we can't get you nice and lost."