In the winter of 1999, in my last year at school, I was on a school ski trip with my three friends when we witnessed a teacher, Mrs Craig, being fucked by her three colleagues at the end of a drunken evening – as they left her passed out in her room, the four of us entered and continued where her colleagues had left off. During this session I clicked away with my new digital camera.
I had spent a terrible night. I slept only fitfully, and every time I woke I sported an enormous boner. Distressingly, the luscious Mrs Craig wasn’t the cause of this. I couldn’t deny it; it was the sight of my mum having been stripped, bound, abused, teased, dominated, beaten and fucked by my dad that was to blame. I was torn: the images that had been burned into my mind’s-eye were so lewd and sexually graphic that my balls felt near to bursting – but I just couldn’t consummate my urge while visualising my mum!
He had transformed into a manipulative sadist over the last twenty-four hours – and I feared that I was the catalyst.
But it wasn’t just him – she, too, had become a slavering, perverted, and obsessive nymphomaniac, wallowing in orgasmic delight at the prospect of being degraded and abused by others – instigated by, and with the full knowledge and control of my dad. They had both participated in such a monstrous series of role-plays, with such fervour and conviction that if I had seen it happening anywhere else, to anyone else, I’d have called the police.
But I knew he was the puppet-master. I had seen him subdue Mrs Craig, beating her into sexual compliance just as brutally, a mere couple of hours before his violation of my mum.
I went down for breakfast, planning to nip out to a public phone as quickly as I could, to check up on the teacher.
My parents were up before me, and I paused at the foot of the stairs to eavesdrop before going into the kitchen. They had obviously been discussing the night before.
‘Well, I hope that means I can get back into the locked side of our wardrobe, at last?’ my mum said with a giggle. ‘You know, the clergy like the deviant stuff, darling – just like me!’
‘Yes, Eve,’ he said, ‘you were such an obedient girl last night, you deserve the key. It’s taped to the back of the left hand bottom drawer of the computer desk. We should probably keep it there – it’ll prevent any prying eyes. Oh, by the way I’ve bought some new batteries – those old ones will be flat.’
I tiptoed back up to the landing, and came back down making more noise; mum was sitting at the kitchen table finishing her tea and toast looking as normal and mumsy in her oversize dressing gown, as she used to. She smiled at me as I boiled the kettle – I knew I just hadn’t had a bad dream – I knew what I’d seen, but the two images, the two personas; I just couldn’t get them to merge..
Dad was in the television room making calls before going out to work, and I was just finishing breakfast as he walked back in; he cheerily greeted me, and addressed my mum.
‘Eve, as Christmas is this Saturday, they’ve asked me to go down to Head Office for a meeting on Wednesday – there’s no problem about that is there?
Dad usually went down once a month, staying away the night before, there was nothing unusual about this.
‘No, all I have planned for this week is shopping, and more shopping,’ she laughed. ‘I suppose you’ll be driving down tomorrow afternoon then?’
‘Yes, I’ll take an overnight bag with me in the morning – it’ll mean I won’t have to pop home to pick it up.’
Mum had no plans, so I borrowed her car and drove to a quiet call box, where I was unlikely to be seen by dad. It was still before ten; I dialled Mrs Craig’s number, and when she answered I plunged into my Matt Thompson role.
‘Hello, Mrs Craig, it’s Matt. I was a bit disappointed with your performance last night. You were supposed to be manipulating him – not the other way around!’
‘You shouldn’t have been spying on me!’ she sounded forceful. ‘What a sad fucking life you must have!’
‘Watch your tone, bitch – you’re on thin ice!’
‘I think you’ll find I’m not, Mr Thompson. I was speaking to last night’s visitor on the phone earlier. He’s going to sort it all out for me. So, fuck off, Matt, or whatever your name is!’
I was flabbergasted. This was the last thing I expected. I tried to reassert myself.
‘Mrs Craig, I warned you before – I’m in the clear – I’m not in the photographs – it’s you who will end up being burned at the stake like the witch you are!’
‘No, but the gentleman knows who the students are – he won’t say, of course, but he knows that at least one of them knows who you are, and he assures me that if you don’t disappear back into the woodwork forever he’ll get your name and you will be pursued for everything you inflicted on me.
Now, that’s not to say I’m happy with this. I’d love to see you rot in prison, but he feels that the least damaging situation for all concerned – and that includes you – is for you to hang up, go away, and never contact me again!’
Then a suspicion entered my head.
‘I suppose next thing is that you and he will be going off for a couple of days together?’ I injected as much fake confidence and sarcasm as I could into my comment.
Her reply shot back, thick with annoyance. ‘Who told you that? How did you find out? Are you tapping my phone?’
‘You just did Mrs Craig – I was just being sarcastic! Bye!’ and I hung up.
I was furious. He had well and truly turned her – and now he was taking her away for a fuckathon, no doubt. The bastard! There was nothing I could do; I felt nauseous – she was gone from me, I knew. It was too dangerous to ever contact her again.
Depressed, I knew that I was going to have to tell the others at some stage, so I dialled each in turn, explaining that I’d something important to tell them and arranged to pick each of them up. This way, I wouldn’t have to repeat the whole sad tale on three separate occasions and endure the inevitable brickbats each time.
We drove to a quiet car park on the edge of town, and I made my confession. Predictably they were all initially mad at my unilateral action, but despite their jealousy, they warmed to the story as I told them about manipulating Mrs Craig and fucking her in the forest in my dad’s car.
But when they heard my dad had found the photos they went quiet with fear – this was serious. I told them my solution to try to keep my dad from going to my mum and the school with it – well, they were simply speechless. And when they heard how he become aroused by the photos, had entered into the spirit of meeting Mrs Craig, then whisked my mum off to bed and fucked her loudly all night – they rubbed their hands with glee.
‘I told you your mum was a real fox,’ Robin said.
‘Yeah,’ Nigel agreed, ‘she’s got great legs and better tits than Mrs Craig.’
‘Well, you don’t actually know that, Nigel. You’ve groped and sucked Mrs Craig’s but you’ve only seen John’s mum’s when she’s dressed!’ Charles argued.
‘Hold on! That’s my mum we’re talking about!’ I said, ‘anyway, that’s not all!’
Then I told them about last night. I told them I watched my dad fuck Mrs Craig royally – and took photos for insurance, and how it turned out to be a pointless exercise. I told them how she reacted to him and my conversation with her earlier this morning, and I told them he was taking her away for a couple of days.
Again they were dismayed: that was it all over, their adventure with Mrs Crag was finished before they had the opportunity I had.
But none of them felt the burning anger and desire for revenge that I did. I was determined to get my own back on him somehow, to undermine him as best I could.
So, I told them the full story of dad’s humiliation and beating of my submissive mother last night, explaining that he had punished her by withdrawing, for the past five years, all of the sexual activity she craved, especially the one that was her signature fetish – being fucked by clerics in vestments! They all sat silent throughout, eyes wide, mouths opening and closing like fish.
Their amazement was topped when I explained that now her period of ‘purdah’ was over he planned to arrange a surprise caller for her – and she would recognise him as such, for he would address her as ‘Chrissie’ rather than her real name ‘Eve’!
Nigel was the first to speak.
‘That’s fucking unbelievable!’ he said. ‘But I’ve got a hard-on hearing about it!’
Charles butted in, ‘Do you think we could all sneak around to your back garden the next time they have a session?’
‘Or, maybe you could let us know when the priest calls?’ Robin said.
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ I said, when they all quietened down, ‘and it will allow me to get revenge on that bastard of a father of mine.’
I went on to outline my plan, which they embraced with enthusiasm from the outset, and over the next hour we put flesh on my bare-bones of an idea.
We all went to Robin’s house, as there was no-one at home. We knew that by now my mum would be showered and dressed – and we knew she was at home, since I had her car. Robin was the obvious choice to make the call, he was a gifted mimic, and had a flair for accents, and as a bonus his outgoing telephone calls always had the number withheld. We went over the scenario once more, and then he dialled my home while holding the earpiece at an angle so we could all overhear the conversation. My mum answered.
‘Hello,’ Robin said, in the Irish brogue not uncommon among priests. ‘This is Father Neill Delaney, could I possibly speak to Chrissie, please?’
‘Cc..hrissie?’ my mum replied, choking with surprise. She coughed to recover. ‘Sorry, Father, this is Chrissie speaking.’
‘Chrissie,’ Robin said, adopting a friendly personal tone, ‘Is this a good time for you to have a little chat about your problem? I know the bishop is very interested in your case.’
‘The bishop?’ she said in respectful amazement. ‘It would be my honour, Father, I’m flattered at his interest.’
‘Not at all, Chrissie. It’s our duty as clergy; I’ll put you through to him now?’
‘What’s his name, Father?’
‘It’s Bishop Godin, my dear, it’s a French name – spelled GOD plus IN. It’s a little joke in our community that the bishop clears little sins out by putting God in.’ He laughed. ‘Yes, Chrissie, you might say his mission in life is putting God in as deeply as he can, especially in cases like yours.’
‘Oh, Father, I can’t wait to speak to him… I can’t wait to meet him.’
‘Hold, while I put you through…’
Robin hit the silent button on the phone, while they all quietly congratulated him on his impromptu performance. He hit the button again.
‘Allo, Chrissie, I’m happy to be speaking to you. I believe you have been dealing for some time with certain dark urges?’ His French accent lilted with a hypnotic intimacy.
‘Yes, Bishop. I struggled with them for some years with the help of a local priest, but they have recently returned, with a vibrancy and power I have never experienced before.’
‘Very good, Chrissie, you are speaking to the right person now. I manage a small department that specialises in dealing with these little nuisances, that we won’t flatter as demons, but which can become major disruptions in our lives. I have a small expert team who will travel, with total discretion, to your home and perform a series of sacred rituals to heal you, to overwhelm you with our force, with healing holiness.’
‘You’ll be bringing a team?’ Her voice sounded breathless. ‘How many priests?’
‘There will be four of us. Would that be a distraction, Chrissie, is it too many?’
‘Oh, no, Bishop. And would they all be working with me – purging the evil from my body?
‘Yes, my child, they would all be massaging the evil out of you – absorbing it themselves like a spiritual poultice. This, of course, often involves them calling out and acting in non-priestly ways as they wrestle with the evil, laying their hands onto you, beating the demons from you - so you needn’t be alarmed. Do you understand this, Chrissie?’
‘Oh, yes, Bishop. Oh, yes.’ Her voice had coarsened with lust – we could all hear the change. Her breathing was quickening as though she was exerting herself, and we all had our suspicions as to how. ‘Bishop, I need you all to come as soon as possible. I need all your hands on me. I need your God inside me! Oh, myGod! Oooh! Ooooooh!’ she moaned as she came to orgasm.
We all gripped our erections unconsciously as she continued coming.
Eventually, she spoke again.
‘Oh, Bishop, those little imps were interfering with me again.’
‘Yes, Chrissie, I heard them, and I felt their power vibrating in my loins even at this distance. Can you accommodate us tomorrow evening?’
‘Yes, your Grace. My husband is away on business, and my son is staying with friends.’
Charles dug me in the ribs, with a smile on his face.
‘We must be sure that we don’t frighten them away tomorrow, so it’s important for us to construct the optimum conditions for them, do you understand, Chrissie?’
‘You just tell me what to do, Bishop. I am your obedient servant.’
‘The first thing at this early stage, Chrissie, is to protect you. These imps have the power to deceive, to take on familiar shapes and familiar faces, to confuse their victims. To combat that, it will be safer if you bind your eyes – this will help thwart their glamorising.’
‘Yes, Bishop, I have a device that will serve that purpose. Is there anything else?’
‘Keep the home warm, and dress yourself appropriately. You know how they want you to dress – you will feel them guiding you. You know how they want you to behave. Remember, we want them to feel safe and powerful, that’s how we will strip them from you, beat them out of you, and overpower them.’
‘Oh, thank you, Bishop… even now I feel them tempting me, trying to consume me.’
‘You know how to deal with them until tomorrow, Chrissie. We will arrive at eight o’clock; be ready and leave your front door unlocked.’
Even though the subject was my mother, the erotic charge I felt was immense. The others were completely unembarrassed, they were ecstatic – Robin had gone so far, played her along saying all the right things, pressing all the right psychological buttons as she masturbated herself to climax on the wave of fantasy he created. They all agreed – if only we had been there to see it. By way of consolation for me, whom they suspected wasn’t getting just as much out of it, they assured me that this was an apt poetic revenge for my father stealing Mrs Craig from us.
I had the car back home in time for lunch. She wasn’t around downstairs, so I tiptoed up to see if she was at home. By the time I was at my bedroom door, I could hear the subdued buzz of an electric shaver – muffled, as if it were under bedclothes. How stupid! She’s under the covers with a vibrator, finishing herself off! And from what I’d seen last evening – that could take some time.
I crept back downstairs and made myself a sandwich and turned on the television. Forty-five minutes later she appeared, wearing the dress she wore the evening dad found the photos. Sexy but restrained, not at all outrageous like the outfit from last night.
‘John, where are you staying tomorrow night?’ she asked.
‘A few of us are staying over at Nigel’s. His folks are going to do some Christmas shopping down south, so we’ll just chill out there.’
‘Well, don’t be wrecking the place, or making too much noise. I don’t want my evening disturbed with complaints about you.’
‘Why, are you going somewhere?’
‘No, I’m just having a few friends around here – and I don’t want to be annoyed.’
‘Don’t worry, Mum. If you don’t have a wonderful evening it won’t be my fault.’
She lifted her car keys and drove off.
I made sure she was well out of sight before I went to fetch the key. In her bedroom there was a large Victorian wardrobe that had been there all my life – with a door that had been locked all my life. As an adolescent I had always wondered what it held, and now I was about to find out. The door opened smoothly; the top half was hanging space with a crushed collection of what I realised was erotic clothing and costumes: rubberised skirts and tops, a selection of bondage gear from the erotic to the obscene, and gear too varied to take in.
The bottom half was tiered with drawers, full of vibrators, dildos, chromed butt plugs, strange harnesses with and without hooks, and a plethora of smaller garments and accessories.
I fingered through them, examining them, even smelling them, for about half an hour before locking the door to an accompanying erection.
That evening we all met to rehearse the plan. Nigel had already sourced clerical vestments from a nearby Fancy-Dress outlet – an easy task as we were nearing the ‘tarts n’ vicars’ season and Robin had bought a large garish costume ring for his role as bishop.
They cross-examined me about her demeanour when I’d arrived home and were almost orgasmic at the news that she’d still been masturbating over tomorrow’s prospect almost an hour later. Their excitement was so palpable they were only a whisker away from having a group wank themselves.
Although aroused, I couldn’t quite share their enthusiasm; my father’s treachery was uppermost in my mind. Tomorrow night he’ll be pounding into Mrs Craig – feeling her and fucking her at will, and no doubt flaunting her around the city. I was seething with jealousy – in fact, for all I knew, he could even be with her now as he’d left home after our meal, telling my mum that he had some business to do and that he wouldn’t be long. At least he would discover that his planned scenario for my mother had been undermined when she attempted to titillate him with the story of her ‘exorcism’ when he came back from his tryst. He’d be apoplectic with rage – Fuck him, anyway!
I grew irritated with my friends’ excitement – they were talking about my mum like she was a porn star, launching into obscene flights of fancy about her body, what they were going to do to her, and how many times they were going to do it. I was finding it disturbing; they hadn’t even seen the reality of her wantonness yet – I had, and knew it surpassed their imaginings. But I couldn’t complain; it was my entire fault. I was the instigator, I originated the plan to take revenge on my dad – mum was just a pawn. I told them I was tired from my lack of sleep last night, and Robin volunteered to run me home.
The next morning I slept late, wakening with the usual erection. Today, I somehow didn’t have the quite the same reservations about giving it a few strokes in anticipation of this evening. The images of my mum’s Sunday night lewdness seemed more disassociated from her previous role as mother – like it wasn’t her, just someone who was an extreme sexual parody of her. Plus, I had been so screwed up about her, and my erotic reaction to her behaviour, that I hadn’t had an emission since fucking Mrs Craig – the night my dad discovered the photos.
So I went to the bathroom, rummaged through the laundry basket till I found a pair of her skimpy black knickers, wrapped them around my quivering member and wanked until I filled them with three days worth of pent-up semen. Boy, there was a lot of it! Another time, I’d have rinsed the damning evidence off in the washbasin, but this morning the dirtiness of it was exciting. I tossed her soaking knickers back in the basket – the whore could make of it what she wanted. I no longer cared.
Dad had already left by the time I was having breakfast, and my mum was buzzing about carrying out her normal household chores. I was starting to look at her with new eyes. The boys were right – she was a stunning looking woman with toned long legs and fine ankles, a neat but shapely bottom, and fantastic tits. As I drank my coffee and watched her work, I began to anticipate this evening’s assignation, and reflexively, my lust began to build as my erection began to grow.
As I sipped the coffee, I wondered what she would do if I just upended her onto the couch now, ripped her blouse open, pushed her skirt up, pinioned her down, and rammed my already hard cock up her?
What could she do? She’s been doing worse, fucking geriatric parish priests – and revelling in it! I stood up, carried my empty mug over to the sink while riveting my gaze on her tantalizing stance, bent over arranging pots in one of the low cupboards with her short skirt stretched tight across her ass. I couldn’t resist – and swung my open palm sharply against her behind – and walked on!
She made a startled noise, and looked at me with wide open eyes. I began to laugh, and after a brief pause, she joined me. But for a moment, that look in her eyes was disturbingly familiar; I’d seen it on Sunday night.
By seven thirty that evening Nigel’s house resembled a seminary – cassocks and clerical collars prevailed. The exception was Bishop Robin Godin who was dressed in a purple Episcopal shirt with clerical collar, and a pair of black trousers.
When challenged, he responded, ‘Yes, I know she’s going to be blindfolded, but we’ve got to get into character – forget who you really are – just immerse yourselves in your new roles. Remember, I’m Bishop Godin. Nigel can be Father Neill, Charles, you are Father Charles – and you, John, we’ll call Father Damien! The others all laughed at the reference to the old movie.
We parked in my parents’ drive at eight o’clock precisely; I led the way. Yes, the front door was unlocked – we entered quietly, and locked it behind us. I passed though into the kitchen, where I noticed the table had been covered with a thick padded cloth, then, using hand signals, warned them to adopt their personas. We could hear classical music playing in the next room where the television was – so we filed in there.
She was lying on the fully extended La-Z-boy reclining chair, wearing more clothes than I’d ever seen her wear. She was dressed in nun’s garb. Under her black veil, she wore a white starched coif – like a scuba diver’s headgear – except that it had an integral white band covering the eyes, blindfolding her. The only incongruity was a pair of black patent high heeled shoes and black stockings, which peeped out below her habit.
The ‘Bishop’ walked over to her right side, making just enough noise to let her know she wasn’t alone, and announced in his French accent, ‘Chrissie, sister, we have come to aid you – we are here. Open your soul to us.’
Her hands moved like lightning and ripped the Velcro fastenings of her habit open exhibiting the zenith of our lewdest expectations.
Her body looked buffed and glowing: upwards from the sheen of her black stockinged legs, past her black suspender belt which was crossed horizontally by a fine black elasticized belt encircling her lower hips and which divided on each side into three long threaded fasteners. Each of these fasteners hooked onto her labial gold stud piercings, holding her cunt open on display like a glistening segmented fruit. At the apex of these luscious lips her erect clitoris poked out like a stubby mushroom stalk.
Above that, her torso was encased in a tight fitting black leather quarter cup bustier which cradled her now black-tipped breasts; a thin black rein was hooked to each gold nipple ring and threaded through a three inch black leather collar around her neck, the reins disappearing over her shoulders. At the top, below her blindfolded white casque, her lips were heavily waxed with black lipstick.
My friends were all standing agape in front of me – I knew the reality would surpass their fantasy. I could see Charles with his hand out, eager to get touching her – his arm trembling. ‘Bishop’ Robin spoke again, his voice quavering, ‘Chrissie, you have done well. I can feel the evil influences flowing towards us already – so have no fear. As they infest us with evil, our language and behaviour will change, grow lustful and depraved – they are devious these imps. They may even try to fool you by making us sound like people you know or love – but fear not, I, Bishop Godin, am here by your side.’ He put his hand on hers.
She grabbed it, caressed the ring, and thanked him, then asked about the others. Nigel, ‘Father Neill’ came forward first, bent down and cupped a breast, then nibbled at a nipple; he was followed swiftly by ‘Father Charles’ mirroring his actions on the other side. I held back.
‘Where is the fourth?’ she cried, ‘let me feel your cassock between my legs!’ She spread her thighs wider, as the ‘Bishop’ pushed me down onto my knees between them.
Her hands felt our faces, stroking down to our clerical collars and cassocks. The feel of the collars and vestments had her in raptures. Increasingly excited, she pulled Charles’ and Nigel’s heads towards her and urged, ‘Heal me, Fathers – hesitate no further, give me some of your spiritual healing fluids.’ She pushed her hands against their cassocks at groin height, grabbing their erections through the cloth. I looked at her wet vagina gleaming in front of my face and dived at it. I slowly ran my tongue up either side of her labial lips, flicking her piercings – she began to moan. I increased the tempo, alternating sinking my tongue into her sweet wetness, and then slipping upwards; from there I addressed her magnificent clitoris.
The moment my tongue began circling the fleshy stalk she began to buck into my face; the movement threw my head up enough for me to see her holding the two boys’ rigid cocks in her hands, wanking them furiously. She was begging them to cum over her, to rub their healing semen into her tits. Robin, to my right side, had his cock out as well, rubbing it – but there was nowhere for him to go. I gripped her clitoris between my teeth and vibrated my tongue rapidly across it as she continued jabbing her cunt hard into my face. Then, suddenly, my head was gripped between her thighs as she went into a massive orgasm.
Reflexively, I prised her legs apart and pressed harder, as all the while she was yelling, ‘No! Don’t stop, don’t stop!’ Then something I’d never encountered before occurred: my face was being sprayed as her hips gyrated madly! Soaked, as if I was a garden being watered! What was happening?
Robin, who was watching, yelled (without a trace of a French accent), ‘Fuck me! She’s a squirter! She’s a squirter! Fantastic! Get her out of that chair and onto the kitchen table quick! I’m bursting to get fucking her!’
He pulled me back from between her legs and the three of them lifted her from the chair, stripped the remnants of the nun’s habit from her and led her into the kitchen. They stopped in front of the table, when she pleaded, pointing ceiling-ward, ‘Hook me there, please, Fathers!’
She couldn’t see them, so there was some misdirection – but I knew what she wanted. Like with my dad on Sunday evening, she wished to be bound and beaten. From the metal pot rack she had suspended two three foot ribbons, each with a hook – intended to fit onto the black straps around each of her wrists. Lying on the table covering there were also a selection of flexible leather paddles and straps.
Robin obliged her at once, hooking her up, bending her forward, and sticking his cock up her without further ceremony. ‘Come on, you horny cunt, suck my bishop’s cum up you. Yes! Ride my big cock and drain me dry!’ He continued ranting in the same vein, interspersing his pumping with whipping her arse till it was red. Simultaneously, Nigel had jumped onto the table top and had stuffed his cock into her mouth and was raging at her in similar terms. Charles, also on the table, was wanking thick strings of cum all over her breasts.
I began to feel detached, and then uncomfortable. I had performed oral sex upon my mother, brought her to a raging climax, and had facilitated this entire situation which was now beginning to disgust me! My mum meant nothing to these guys – they were simply using her as a cum bucket, and physically abusing her as well. I couldn’t go on with it. They were all so busy chewing, twisting, thrusting or beating every carnal bit of her that none of them noticed me leave.
A couple of hours afterwards they joined me back at Nigel’s; they understood my dilemma and commiserated with me – but they had just passed the most erotic night of their lives – and possibly one they could never equal. They were on such a high they couldn’t stop talking of how, no matter how much, or where, she was fucked, she kept begging for more.
The next morning I packed my overnight bag, and my cassock, and went off to work overtime at the supermarket, having made no reference to them about the possibility of a repeat performance
At about seven, I was just arriving home from my day’s work, only about fifty yards from our house, when a car I didn’t recognise entered our drive ahead of me. Visitors? – My mum had phoned me at work earlier and I knew dad wasn’t returning tonight. I felt hollow and depressed, as I knew the reason why. But who could this be?
Entering though the front door, I walked towards the kitchen and saw a small middle-aged, pot-bellied man, in the final stages of baldness standing in front of me. He was wearing a worn and creased black suit that may have fitted him better years ago, a black shirt, and a gleaming white dog collar. He was looking uncomfortable. Was this the priest dad had promised to organise? Was this the best he could do?
Now, I saw my mother coming from the fridge with a glass of wine for him. She looked stunned and embarrassed to see me – and no wonder! She was wearing the same tight revealing red top as she sported on Sunday evening – but this time without a bra! Her nipples jutted out above the circular shape of her nipple rings giving the impression of an upside down Q. She was wearing red stockings, her high red peep-toe shoes that made her six inches taller than her guest, and a red microskirt so short that the suspender ends and the stocking tops were quite exposed. No wonder this priest looked uncomfortable – he’d probably never seen anything like this before.
‘Oh, John, you surprised me! I thought you’d be staying at Nigel’s again tonight.’ She introduced me to her visitor. ‘This is Father Murray, he’s new to this area and has just called on a little church business.’
Father Murray shook my hand and gripped it as if it were a lifebelt; he was out of his depth here. We exchanged pleasantries.
‘I’m just going to get changed mum, and then I’m going out,’ I said, then looked her up and down. ‘You must be going out yourself, you look hotter than hell!’
Her eyes widened at my inappropriate comment – I’d never spoken to her in that fashion in my life before. But I ignored it, waved casually at them and left the room pulling the door behind me.
I went straight outside and around to the back of the house, just in time to hear her request the priest to hear her private confession. There was now a desperation in her voice that made him more comfortable. He took her hand, and patted it.
‘Relax Chrissie, we’ll just take a seat here, and you can tell me anything you need to. That’s what I’m here for; your husband said you were in distress and needed spiritual guidance.’
Mum stood up and locked the door before returning to the table and pulled up a chair to face the seated priest. Only a blind man could have ignored her breasts which were almost in his face. I could see he was having difficulty dragging his eyes from what was on offer. She was clasping one of his hands.
‘How long is it since you confessed, my dear?’
‘Over five years, father. And I’ve been very bad since then,’ she said, surprising him by sliding off the chair onto her knees. Her breasts now rested on his knees, her hands on his thighs.
‘Bless me, father, for I have sinned. I have missed my old confessor so much – he used to absolve me weekly. I want so much to have the same feeling again – for deep down you know my heart is pure, don’t you, Father? Can you make me feel the same again, Father, can you?’
Pleading, she turned her face up to his. He moved his hand to her head as if to bless her, when she grabbed it and placed it inside her top.
‘Feel my heart, Father! Feel the blood pumping madly, can you? I can feel the pumping in your loins as well, Father!’
Before the old priest knew what was happening, she straightened up, his hand trapped down her top, and unzipped his trousers. He was dumbstruck! She fumbled his mildly tumescent penis into the light, and engulfed it with her mouth, starting to bob up and down as she sucked him. He capitulated, leant back against the chair and eased her two big globes out of the top.
‘That’s right father,’ she said, switching to wanking his now rigid cock. ‘Rub your holy hands all over me!’
She sprung upright, and as his hands dropped, she pulled her microskirt to her waist, thrusting her cunt towards his face. He looked astounded.
‘What is all that?’ he cried.
‘Just decoration, father! Like candelabra in the church – just decoration! Have you ever seen one like this, Father; have you ever felt one? Have you?’
He was shaking his head.
‘Stick your holy fingers up there, Father, and heal me! Do it!’ she ordered. And he did.
She bent down, tits rubbing against his suit, and kissed him deeply on his virgin mouth, half lifting him by his cock which she had gone back to wanking. She leaned against the table, half sitting on it – her legs wide open as he edged between them. She looked fantastic, and I found myself rubbing at my cock through my trousers.
Father Murray’s enthusiasm was building as his cock grew, and when she begged him to lick her clitoris, he went at it like a man demented, as she reclined back onto the table – ready to get a holy cock up her. He was wanking himself as he licked; then she started to orgasm, grabbing his head, burying it against her cunt, gripping it between her thighs.
The excitement was too much for him. As she was squirting and soaking his face in her cunt, he started to cum onto the floor. I was surprised at how little ejaculate there was – he must’ve had a wank not long before he came here, I thought to myself, as he collapsed on top of it from between her thighs.
He stood up, spluttering and apologising, stuffed his dick away and zipped himself up. My mum still lay like a fucked wanton, legs apart, on the kitchen table when Father Murray, began to say his goodbyes.
‘No, no, you can’t leave me like this,’ she pleaded. ‘I need a holy penis up me, flooding me with forgiveness!’ She grabbed at his suit sleeve. ‘Please, please, Flood me with forgiveness like Father McCurry used to!’
I’m sure the old priest must’ve thought she was mad, for he pulled his sleeve from her grasp, unlocked the kitchen door, and ran out. As he went out the door, I clambered up the pipe and into my room.
I quickly changed out of my clothes, and into my cassock. I wore no trousers underneath, and my cock was tenting it out. This was it – time to take the cow by the horns, so to speak. I listened to her move about downstairs – and then I called.
‘Mum! Come up here quickly!’ It was an order.
As she rounded the stairs I could see her reflection in the mirror – she looked used, fucked, but I knew she wasn’t.
‘Where are you?’ she called.
‘In my room, come in, now!’ My tone had grown more commanding.
As she entered, her hand automatically went to the light switch, but I grabbed it and spun her round. Her eyes widened at the clerical vestments… I held both of her wrists firmly now.
‘No, Chrissie! I am not your son! I’m Father Damien, and I’m here to fulfil your desires and flood your filthy cunt with holy forgiveness. Get on your knees, and start your worship now! I split my cassock open as she fell in front of me. I gripped her by the hair, tilted her head back, and stuck my cock into her mouth. I ripped her tits from her top, and ordered, ‘Now suck sinner, suck and you will be forgiven!’
She sucked, and licked, my cock, balls and shaft – whimpering with ecstasy and gratitude. As my urgency grew, I grasped her head and pushed it into my groin till she was gagging. Whatever she was doing was phenomenal, and as I started to spurt she sucked with renewed enthusiasm. My knees buckled beneath me as I crumpled to the ground.
Even then, on her hands and knees, as her tits swung, she licked the seepage from my cock, muttering, ‘Thank you, Father, thank you.’
I stripped her skirt and top off, removed my cassock, and moved her to my bed. She lay on her back with her legs wide open, and, on my hands and knees, I climbed over her in the sixty-nine position. ‘Now, Chrissie, suck me till I’m hard again – you know how, you dirty whore!’ She did as she was ordered, beginning gently, stroking, and circling my anus with her finger. Her massaging increased in intensity as I licked around her cunt lips and massaged her clitoris with my tongue.
With rising excitation, she ground her cunt against my mouth. Her passion fuelled my recovery; I felt my cock harden as she sucked, and as she inserted her finger into my anus and began massaging my prostate I experienced a flooding ecstasy I’d never before encountered. Despite her pelvic thrusting her touch was smooth and gentle as she also stroked around the base of my balls and sucked my cock simultaneously. Then, taking me by surprise, she began to orgasm herself, showering my face with spurts of her vaginal fluids. It was almost too much for me – and I didn’t want to ejaculate into her mouth again.
I moved over onto my side and pulled her on top of me. Intuitively, she straddled my now rampant cock and began milking me with her cunt. Her rising and falling coordinated with my pumping. The sight was magnificent: her big breasts bounced in time, her hair cascaded around her face which was inflamed with lust. She was calling out, yelling to be fucked, yelling to be beaten, yelling to be abused. ‘Chrissie,’ I ordered, ‘get on your fucking knees!’
This was what she wanted, so I swivelled out from under her and came at her from behind. Her ass was a perfect inverted heart shape, her anal sphincter was already gleaming with oil. She must have prepared herself beforehand for her earlier visitor. My cock was so hard it was difficult to manoeuvre, but once its head was on her well-lubed anus a slight push buried me in her. She took off like a rodeo pony – Christ, it was amazing! I slapped and beat her ass as I held on, fucking her. But I couldn’t last much longer and leant back while grabbing her stocking tops like reins, rending them to shreds as I came.
And what an orgasm! I came in a full-body frenzy, biting her neck and shoulders as I clutched her massive udders and collapsed on top of her, forcing her into the bed. While I lay there, still recovering, she slid out from below me, slipped on her skirt and top before lifting my cassock and draping it over me. She leaned down and planted a kiss on my shoulders, saying, ‘Thank you, Father. Please come to absolve me again, soon. I’ll always be waiting for you.’
As I lay there cold reality washed over me: was this all play-acting? I’d just fucked my mum every-which-way, or had I just fucked Chrissie? Confused, I decided to go with the least confrontational option and got up, dressed in my regular clothing, opened the window and climbed down the pipe. Fifteen minutes later I went in the front door to see my mum, showered and sitting in her dressing gown watching TV. When I called a greeting to her she matter-of-factly called me and asked if I wanted some supper? I said no, and that I was just going up to bed – she called, ‘Good-night!’ – That was it!
Within twenty-four hours our home was in turmoil, a turmoil that rocketed my mum into the real world. My dad wasn’t coming home. He was moving in with the luscious Mrs Craig and leaving us. I didn’t care – by that time I despised him. He had no doubt entranced and manipulated Mrs Craig just as he’d done my mum. We remain estranged to this day; my mum deals with it through further appeals to Devine intervention. Though she may still be on her knees, she now does it fully dressed at the altar rails of the Church.