Fr. Davy's head was spinning as he walked down the stairs to the parish basement. There was so much to do as he prepared to move: personal effects to pack, licenses and registrations to change, mail to re-direct, action lists to make of his first objectives in the new church, lists of things he had to do before he left, outgoing appointments with staff and his replacement, incoming appointments with his predecessor and his new staff at the new parish. It was ten years since he'd arrived, and the detritus of the long stay made his move more difficult.
It was a hot June Thursday outside, and underneath his cassock he wore nothing but his boxers. The sandals on his feet would have made some think he was a Franciscan, but his cassock was black, which was the wrong color.
The Altar Society Farewell luncheon was something he looked forward to with mixed emotions. They were always nice to him, treating him like a favored son, but there were times he was frustrated with their inability to try new things he suggested to them. For a while he considered saying no to this idea, but his mentor reminded him to be gracious to all as he left, for his sake and theirs, so after putting it off as long as he could, he let them schedule it two days before the Friday he left.
Mamie was the president of the group, and met him at the door. "We'll have a nice lunch, Father, you can say a few words if you want, there's be a little contest we want you to judge, and then we'll have a nice piece of the farewell cake." A large cake with the legend "Farewell, Father Davy" filled most of a side table, with a picture of him in his cassock emblazoned on it.
After saying grace, the lunch of finger food and salad progressed as usual, with the buzz of conversation filling the reverberant basement hall. At the head table, there was no one across from him, and during the meal the ladies were too busy talking to each other to pay much attention to him. He looked around the room, taking in the face of every 40, 50, 60 and 70 something woman for his mental scrapbook, feeling happy to be with them this last time.
When the meal was over, Mamie tapped a glass with a spoon and spoke. "All right ladies, now we have the program portion of our meeting, and there's a contest Father Davy will judge for us. The winner will get this wonderful collection of Tupperware, worth over a hundred dollars, that will come in very handy for summer picnics. And thanks to Charlene for providing today's prize for us." Charlene stood up for a brief round of applause, nodding and waving to the ladies before sitting down again. "And now, Father Davy, we need to go into the next room for you to judge our little contest."
"Do I have to?" He said with a mock whine.
"Yes, you have to," she said, imitating his tone of voice. "It's going to be in the sewing room, so if you'll lead the way."
He got up and made his way across the room, bathed in the adoring smiles of the ladies. There was a gleam in several faces he couldn't figure out: were they glad to see him, glad to see him go, or imagining already what life without him would be like? The sewing room was on the opposite side of the hall, and one of them opened the door for him. Mamie and a couple of ladies were right behind him. The room was rather empty except for a white chaise lounge sitting in the middle. Cabinets filled two walls, as well as a high window with opaque glass: the floor was carpeted with scraps and florescent lights made the room harsh. "Sit down on the lounger, Father, and we'll get started."
He sat down, and a blindfold was placed over his eyes. "We want you to judge us fairly, Father, so no peeking" Mamie said. "Just lean back and we'll get started. Please Father, it'll be over soon."
For a moment he pondered, but decided to slide back into the lounger and put his legs up. Quicker than he could react, he found his hands bound irresistibly to the arms of the lounger and the bottom buttons of his cassock being undone. "What the hell. . .?" he began, before a sock entered his mouth and made speech almost impossible.
After his buttons were undone to his waist, his boxers were pulled down and his cock was on display for everyone present. He tried to wiggle out of it, but hands held him down. "All right, ladies, it seems we have a bigger prize than we ever hoped for. You know the agreement: the one who makes him blow his load wins the prize. Time limit is 30 seconds per contestant."
"That's not long enough." A voice objected.
"Well, I don't care, Martha. If you're good enough, he'll do it."
"But I'm too far back in the line."
"Luck of the draw, Henrietta. Just so we don't have to work from a flaccid start, I'm going to get him going so the first lady has as much chance as anybody else." A soft hand grasped Fr. Davy's sumptuous member and began to tease the head. Two more hand joined it: one went up and down and around the shaft while the other began to tickle the wrinkled skin of his scrotum. He writhed and wiggled, but the bounds and the restraining hands kept him in place and shortly he began to erect in spite of his fear and confusion.
"All right, Rosie, you get first crack. Ready, set, go!"
