BLESS ME FATHER 1 by Laplappapillon

The church was designed in 1959 … and the nameless Catholic Architect, inspired by Rennie Mackintosh and the Arts and Crafts movement has slipped to obscurity; but his legacy is a fine and noble structure, genuflecting to C.R.M’s prodigious talent.

Sculpted into the hillside, on the outskirts of the city, this faux whitestone masterpiece of the modern movement sits so comfortably in its camo-tinted bracken cushion. The verdigris of its copper clad roof melting gently into the hillside.

A visitor is drawn by virtue of the clever landscape geometry, between softly nodding, silver birches, thick undergrowth with orange berried buckthorn and sprawling cotoneasters into the portico of a tall, Brazilian mahogany, Art-Deco doorway.

Smacking his (or her) lips, the discerning and curious traveller enters a theatre of delicious volume.

The focal point is the Baptismal font … a slender column of white granite, topped by a matching dish some two metres in circumference. The chalky white ceiling of the Baptistery soars fifteen metres above, with tiny, intruding, square pockets of coloured glass, shedding their rays in slivers to the chasm below.

Entering the Nave, the vast body of the church quietly brims with the deafening silence of sleep.

The walls punctuated either side by the twelve Stations of the Cross. Organically carved tableaux portray the passion of Christ in pristine, white Carrera marble; each station backlit by a different slab of stained glass…twelve hues dramatically tinting betrayal, political justice and execution.

Architecturally the space is a masterpiece; from weakest winter dawn to flaming summer sunset, the Nave is pierced by the shards of an angular rainbow. Errant atheists retreat in awe of its beauty.

The modest white cylinder of the Pulpit, demands the rhetorical skill of the Priest to declare its presence. In counterpoint, the raised island of book-matched marble forms an island Altar, which dominates the Sanctuary, bathed in the stained glass Reredos glow of St. Martin.

The entire space is an essay in peace.

A potential congregation of thousands demands wisdom and experience of its Parish priest. Father Patrick O’Flynn presides as Alpha male.

Four acolytes provide unswerving loyalty and support. Michael Ward – the studious and narrow minded student, Kevin O’Halloran – policeman and organiser, Alex Carmichael the intellectual religious mentor and … Father Vincent.

All these pastors reside in the cloistered Rectory, a haven of peace and tranquillity burrowed into the brae of the hill, cleverly protected from the elements by virtue of its position. Sister Mary (a Carmelite nun) the secretary and housekeeper tends to their daily needs, ably assisted by Christine, the Portuguese chambermaid.

Sister Mary loves her position, an old school English girl, sharp as a razor blade; she deals with the political expedients of the priests within the Parish. She is also fund raiser in chief, accountant, soothsayer, shoulder to cry on and diplomat extraordinaire. Unqualified, barely paid, put upon, but kind and loveable … she is also a rather attractive woman.

Christine, her live-in assistant, a poverty migrant from Chamusca near Lisbon, helps with the meals, gathers the laundry and makes the beds … often the fathers would rise at 4.30 AM. Or come home from a hospital at 11.00 PM. so her bed-making and snack-making skills are round the clock.

With her dusky olive complexion and mane of dark chocolate hair, this girl is capable of snapping the necks of men as she sashays to the shops on a Saturday morning. More handsome than pretty of countenance, Christine is blessed with upward tilting little cannonball breasts and an exquisitely firm and bubble bottom.

Father Vincent had easily earned the love and respect of his parishioners. Generous hearted and patient, he offered his social skills wherever they were needed. Union of Catholic Mothers, St. Vincent de Paul Society, exorcisms and school meetings … the gentle, cavalier priest would harness all the available energy to make the event a success.

The unsolicited generosity of this peaceful man did not escape the attention of the female parishioners. Father Vincent’s rugged structure, reckless indifference to establishment and raffish charm had earned him many admirers.

Vows of modesty, chastity and celibacy were tested with a constancy which tried his virtues to the limit.

Each Friday of the year, a High Mass would be held, attended by the local schools, to pray for their success in education and spiritual enlightenment. The good father easily side -stepped flirtatious schoolgirls … and their teachers, eager for his attention. The schoolgirls annoyed him slightly … frequently vacuous and shallow — all style and no substance.

The drama of this theatre did not escape him … adorned in the beautifully embroidered robes, coloured in the flavour of the feast or religious season … emerald green for Epiphany, purple for Advent and black for Requiem, he would hold aloft the solid gold monstrance containing the body of Christ, flanked by altar boys waving chasubles of incense in scarlet Surplus and pure white Stole.

Uniformed little temptresses would vie for his eye, charmed and disarmed by his humour and skilful rhetoric. He would smell their perfume as he placed the sacred host in their pouting, carmine mouths and watch in sublime detachment, the blatancy of their naive seduction as they crossed and uncrossed their legs in the front pews.

Vincent was well versed in the ways of women, his pastoral care encompassed home visits to all of his parishioners and he was fully aware of their frequent domestic inadequacies and clumsy social skills, but he was also completely tuned to their genuine warmth and generosity of spirit.

His diary was always full..hastily scribbled and often illegible notes in sharp contrast to the neatly tailored graphic of Sister Mary’s entries. If she could decipher his scrawl, she would often neatly score through his scribble and provide translation nearby, enabling Vincent to read his own writing.

Each Thursday of the year, the Choir would gather with Father Vincent as choral guide, constantly in preparation for Easter or Lent or Advent celebrations … Baptisms, Funerals, Marriages, Catechism or Confirmations, Father Vincent was a cast-iron guarantee of the Churches’ commitment to its flock.

Wednesdays were set aside for both hospice and hospital visits. More than anything in life, these would claw at Vincent’s emotions.

Tuesdays and Saturdays were confessional days, shared equally with the other priests; they contributed massively to his education in the human condition and its frailties.

Positive in outlook and forgiving in nature, Father Vincent would dispense absolution with candour and generosity … in truth, most of the transgressors were skilfully economic with the truth…the salient fact was that Vincent always heard both sides of any story … hearing confession from husband, wife, cuckold, mistress, harlot and virgin.

Unbleached by dogma, Vincent was a man of the world. He enjoyed climbing and abseiling, skiing and orienteering as leisure pursuits, he also had bright red blood flowing through his veins and innumerable situations would send him scurrying to the Rectory for an icy cold shower.

Vincent would stand in his nakedness singing “Immaculate Mary, my heart is on fire” as he blissfully ignored the solid and fully erect muscle pulsing between his legs.

Two parishioners in particular had stretched the Father’s chastity vow to extremes. He had baptised and confirmed them, given them their first Communion in pristine and virginal white dresses, listened to their economic confessions and ultimately married them to their current spouses.

Jennifer and Marilyn had history … Father Vincent in moments of weakness would reflect on their influence to his vows during his tenure as a Priest. The priest is very fond of them both, they are warm, friendly and generous spirits, full of fun and mischief but always prepared to pitch in whenever he needs a volunteer or two. He didn’t exactly see them as envoys of Satan determined to tempt him into sin, more sort of faintly disillusioned victims of modern society.

The girls had grown up together, their friendship and love for each other enduring and unbreakable. Cynical tongues would wag and whisper at their “closeness” but these young women were suitably intelligent and socially equipped to ignore the gossiping harridans. They had an ally to some extent in the Parish secretary and housekeeper.

Sister Mary recognized and acknowledged their relationship. She too had nurtured and educated them, spent time in their company and watched with interest and affection as they blossomed into women. Mary was no shrinking violet herself. Mature and handsome, she had frequently attracted the attention of many male parishioners who would attempt in so many feeble ways to charm or seduce this clever and resourceful Nun.

Despite her comely appearance, Mary can fell a bull at twenty paces with her glare. Her Vandyke brown and white habit becomes a suit of armour as she lays waste the charms of blustering men and their wiles. The boldest of them are easily cowed as she draws upon her wisdom and experience.

“Mr. Macdonald, have you got something in your eye?” is her stock response to flirtation, “Why don’t you ask Mrs. Macdonald for some eye drops?”

They fall like skittles in her wake.

All the Fathers adore her in this respect, her compassion and dispassion are awe inspiring and easily attributed to her faith and her limitless humanity.

Mary is absolutely comfortable in their company, particularly Father Vincent who is her confidante and friend. They have known each other for a long time and that friendship is completely unsullied by sexual politics. Besides …. Father Vincent has always known and indulged Mary’s penchant for the fairer sex.

Over the years he had witnessed many tiny instances when Mary would appear to soften visibly in the company of young women. Christine the chambermaid, Jennifer and Marilyn and a couple of the flirty young female liberals would often leave Mary in a giggling and fluttering state.

Vincent would not intrude. Mary’s strengths far outweighed her weakness; a completely reliable friendship is not something to be tinkered with. God knows that a disproportionate number of his peers, many lifelong friends and colleagues are gay men.

Sister Mary rarely indulges her thoughts in physical terms, but when she does, she does it with relish and passion. On rare occasions she will have a lie-in on a Saturday morning. Mary enjoys few things more outside of her vocation than stretching luxuriously on her ageing feather mattress and stroking her God given body. Still pliant and supple despite her middle years, she is modestly proud of its condition. Both her room and Christine’s are situated well away from the Fathers, so no risk of them overhearing her excitement, and if Christine just happens to be listening … who knows, she may even share the passion in some way.

Her thoughts drift easily to the past as her fingers trace purposefully from throat and neck … particularly dear Christine … she will stand as close to her as she dares, risking any suspicion, just to grasp the scent of her body.

Mary’s hands roll onto her breasts, the lightest touch as they reach the tightening, slowly swelling nipples. Her hands will surely be drawn by the electric tingling between her legs. Christine is her focus today …. Watching her and being with her is enough for Mary.

Christine is no fool … acutely aware of Sister Mary’s attraction … blessed with bisexual inclinations, she employs her physical assets, her genuine good nature and hard working persuasions in equal measure to please both men and women. Always aware of her status as a migrant worker, she has no intention of compromising herself with reckless sexual overtures; she allows only the subtlest teasing exposure to maintain Mary’s arousal.

When the opportunity arrives, she “accidentally” permits a carelessly buttoned blouse to reveal a peek at her perfectly formed breasts or a squat in the kitchen when preparing a meal to allow Mary a glimpse at her thighs … and if the good Sister just happens to be around when she is making a bed…plenty of bending and stooping to emphasise her gorgeous and beautifully sculptured bottom.

Mary’s languor dwells in these moments as her hands caress her belly. Hitching up the plain cotton nightdress, she explores the milky white hips, thighs and mound of Venus … all unblemished … no stretch marks on this virgin territory … a snapshot view of Christine’s tight bottom hovers in her mind as her fingers spread her oily lips. Her imagination allows her the freedom to stroke the outline of the girl’s panties through her nylon overall … She can slowly raise the hem … the vigour of her flickering fingers quickens as the fantasy continues.

Dwelling for a moment to wallow in the curves and contours, barely resisting the unbearable urge to slap, Mary hears the acceleration of her own breath as she reaches the waistband of Christine’s pretty blue undies. Slowly she draws them down exposing the perfect olive-hued rump.

Lost in her ardour, the squelching fingers of her left hand gently hold open the hood of her budlet and she pinches, rubs and squeezes the tiny organ as her imagination runs riot. She has barely enough time to gently spank those heavenly orbs before her orgasm rushes through her body.

Deliberately infrequent, Mary’s sexual indulgence is rewarded with bone-jarring climaxes….She does know that the trade-off of her venial sin would not be quite so spectacular if she did it more often.

Mary begins to relax her still quivering body…a smile plays warmly round her elegant mouth. Still stroking the warm and sticky folds of her lips, her mind drifts from Christine to her dear and private thoughts of Jennifer and Marilyn…on the cusp of sleep, she recalls their first precocious encounter.

It was during a rather boring 10am service officiated by Father Michael Ward, a rather plain and frankly boring character from Donegal; the rustles of impatience from the congregation did not penetrate his thinking … oblivious to fidgeting children and whispering parents, he would drone on for ages with his theories and speculations. The pause for communion was a heaven-sent blessing and the release of energy when he announced this stage of the Holy Mass was palpable.

Mary’s fingers became more agitated as she recalled what happened next. Jennifer was sitting tight against the wall in the rear pew, with Marilyn next to her, then Sister Mary, then a handful of comatose pensioners …. Sister Mary had taken communion at the 6am so stayed in place as first Marilyn, then Jennifer squeezed past.

For just a few seconds, Mary was suddenly acutely aware of Marilyn’s legs opening as she side-stepped past her knees…she felt a warm draught of air on her folded hands and looked slightly spellbound as Marilyn’s bottom passed within inches of her face. Jennifer smiled at Mary and side-stepped in Jen’s shadow with exactly the same effect.

Sister Mary almost swooned on the spot, her eyes followed the young women in their “just modestly above the knee” summer dresses as they queued at the communion rail. She could barely contain her excitement at their return and rapidly polished her nonchalance in anticipation.

Jennifer was first to wriggle past, smiling and apologizing as she passed along the row of sublimely indifferent pensioners. As she reached Sister Mary, she imperceptibly slowed … how could she possibly know …? … Mary took an apparently huge gamble as Jennifer’s legs spread over her lap…she reached underneath Jennifer’s dress and lightly touched her thigh.

Electricity began to hum.

The touch registered in Jennifer’s brain. It could be passed off as an accident but for one thing…she turned to smile coquettishly at Mary and Mary looked squarely back…no hint of apology or bluster or anything else. Marilyn followed seconds later in carbon copy fashion.

Protected by high pews and day-dreaming pensioners, Mary reached out her hand (in partial view of Jennifer) and once again reached up inside the skirt and softly touched the inside of her thigh. Jennifer paused … perhaps for three seconds then exhaled an audible little moan which she swiftly stifled with a cough.

Marilyn settled herself next to Jennifer, waited a minute or so, then under cover of her cardigan, slipped her hand into Jen’s, turned to glance at her and smiled as only she could to her dearest friend.

Mary remained motionless, her eyes tightly closed, muttering in Latin.

The girls sat in peace and silence for the remainder of the service. Mary took the earliest opportunity, turned to smile and excused herself to head for the Vestry and the inevitable post-Mass debate with Father Ward. Marilyn and Jennifer sat together until the church was almost empty… Marilyn was first to speak…she leaned into Jen and whispered

“Did that really happen? … Sister Mary’s hand? It has left me with such a tingle down below….”

“Yes, Mar’ she did it to me too … I can feel a flush right through me just thinking about it.”

The girls stood as one, had a final hand squeeze, then made their way to the Sacristy and the beckoning sunshine, smiling and nodding politely to anyone who caught their eye.

Father Vincent just happened to be there, seated on a low whitestone wall, floppy hair curled into his eye as he shook the hands of the tardier worshippers, kissed the chocolate-smudged babies and generally dispensing goodwill and good fortune at every turn. The girls paused politely, waiting for a moment to approach their old friend and Pastor.

“Hello girls,” he beamed at them, “God bless you for coming.”

The irony of his words was lost as they both giggled and reached their hands out to their favourite priest. He took them and pressed them to his cheeks, blessing them and squeezing them with genuine warmth and affection.

“Will either of you be able to help me dress the flowers tomorrow?”

Vincent knew they both had the skills and energy and smiled with pleasure at their consent.

Jennifer spoke for both of them, “No problem, Father, we can call round in the morning, we don’t start work until about 2 pm.”

“Thank you, ladies, that would be a great help … I’ve got the wire and snips, vases and water, just need your guidance and flair.”

He stood to head for the Vestry, smiling his disarming smile and made his exit. Marilyn curled her arm into Jennifer’s and drew her down the sloping path to the Church gate, leaned her head into Jen’s and whispered once again.

“I don’t know what it is about that man, Jen, but I find him impossibly attractive…remember when we were girls and we would tease him on badminton nights? Well I have a bit of a plan…are you game?”

Jennifer sighed, thought for half a second, then with a dirty giggle …

“Course I am…you know me, girlfriend, all for one and one for all!”

The pair trooped home, arm in arm, conspiring and plotting in the noonday sun.

THE END OF CHAPTER ONE