Tuesday, 16 December 2014

The Priest

The Priest

He had promised himself he would change, that the chasuble would restrain him, but as soon as he saw Miss Wilcox in his congregation, he had serious doubts. He had put so much hope in his new vocation, one he truly believed in, despite his inclinations. He was well aware that for him it had to be all or nothing. He would either need to be celibate or he would try to seduce every woman he met. If he allowed himself even one little bite, he would need to finish all the cake, no matter what. When he was training, he had envisaged himself as a priest as curmudgeonly, too devoted to even notice women as men are expected to. He now realised that this was too idealistic.

Since his move here he had done admirably, he had been here nearly a year and even the glittering Mrs Jenkins with her hand job red nails and probing hands, hadn’t tempted him enough. He hadn’t even allowed himself to fantasise about her, though occasionally the thought of her as a geisha flashed into his mind. Each time he would rush to his desk to write, or re-write his sermon.

He had been lucky that as far as he knew (and he was confident that he would) his reputation from Eggington hadn’t followed him at all. That had been his first job since qualifying and he had started badly. His housekeeper had been disappointingly pert and eager, and he had unintentionally make it his mission to bed her as soon as, and as often as, possible. It had escalated from there. Whenever a parishioner had come to see him on her own, he had made a subtle pass at her to assess her receptiveness, and if he saw potential there, he would proceed to pursue them with gentle, patient determination. Out of respect for his housekeeper, he had made sure none of the encounters were in his house, let along his bed. And out of respect for his vocation, none had been inside the church. Instead, they had been in their homes, their gardens, in the churchyard, anywhere really. One particular grave stone in the churchyard was at the perfect height and was now wobbly from so much use.

He had been surprised that he had managed to get away with it for so long, but finally the husbands became suspicious and he had been called to see the archdeacon. His indiscretions were never referred to directly, instead phrases like “a change will do you good” and “it could change everything if….” were floated around, like tinsel on a Christmas tree. Then the usual comment that priests should be “unexpected, foreign, feared and revered”. He hung his head in genuine shame and vowed to always remember that he was accepted through kindness. In that moment he had really meant it.

But now she was sat in front of him and he felt upside down, inside out, left footed. If he hadn’t known the words so well, he might have faltered. She looked up at him with doeful eyes, filled with admiration for a priest; but he could read the hiding passion in them. Despite her long skirt and buttoned up blouse, he could sense that she could be truly dirty if she wanted to. An image of her on her knees giving him a blow job made him nearly forget the words. It had felt incredibly real; he could almost feel her tongue on him still. And when she had finished he would ask her to “take off those mucky clothes” and do things with her that would definitely get him excommunicated. The change would do him good.

The copyright of this post belongs to Jenni Romero

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