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The parish is before me, prepared for the sermon. They sit, awaiting the weekly lesson. Last night, I was inspired to write about lust. As I sat in bed, leafing through my notes from prior Sundays, I found my mind—wandering… wandering in a way that I can usually suppress. Last night, however, the most tempting of sins was heavy in my heart and other more worldly places. I have agreed to God’s will, which asks for demonstration of my faithfulness in the form of my celibacy, but I am still a man. I have urges, certainly, and while they can generally be pushed back—last night, they all came crowding in on me. I found myself thinking about a girl I’d gone to high school with, back before I’d made my vows and when I was allowed to touch, kiss, explore… She and I spent more than one night in the backseat of my car. She was Catholic (of course), so she insisted on remaining pure. Her definition of purity, however, was distinctly more flexible than most I’ve encountered since. Last night, I found myself thinking about how she would take my cock deep in her throat, how she would put it between her soft, round breasts and rub my shaft until I came. I found myself remembering the first time I convinced her to remove her underwear and touched her, discovered how wet she could be. I remembered her explaining that I could make her feel good, too, if I used my tongue on her as well, how she moved her hips under my mouth to teach me what to do—and how obvious it was when I had learned. For whatever reason, all of this was on my mind as I was supposed to be writing a sermon and instead, I found myself rubbing my cock, slowly at first, then intensely, reaching for the oil I keep in my nightstand for my dry skin. The oil sliding over my head, remembering the way it had felt when it was someone else doing the rubbing—I came fiercely, abruptly, groaning with the force of it. Then, once my breathing had slowed and I had cleaned myself off a bit, I remembered the sermon and knew that I had no real choice in selecting the topic. It had come to me, if you will.
Now, today, I remember that my parish is my flock, and I must guide them with a pure heart. As I begin, I look about the crowd. The Dudleys are here today, which means Tracy Dudley brought her brownies for the coffee after the service. I will allow myself one. I run every day and my body is still pretty close to what it was when I ran cross-country in high school. The pound of my feet hitting the ground, the rhythm of my breathing with my pace—it’s not lost on me that this exertion is one that resembles others, yet this is what I am still allowed. I discipline my body the same way I discipline my mind; of course, I am sinful enough to be vain: I know that my discipline of the body also means that my muscles are still tight, my shoulders broad, my stomach hard. Not that I have anyone to enjoy it, but every so often, if I’m being honest, I do stand in front of the mirror and wonder…
Now is hardly the time for that, however. I force myself back into the here and now, checking to see who is present and accounted for. The Stevens family sits in the fourth pew. They’ve brought all six children with them. Good God. Fruitful and multiply and all that, yes, but as the three-year old climbs over his father’s shoulders and almost drops to the floor skull first, I wish, for John Stevens’s sake, that the Vatican would reverse itself on birth control. I love all my parishioners, but I watch John struggle to control his mob and I’m almost glad I’m celibate.
The Houghs, David and Nancy, are in the second pew. They are the pillars of our community: she is the sweet and caring wife; he is the strong and supportive husband. He’s– an accountant? Lawyer? I can’t remember, despite knowing him for five years. She is always on her way to a meeting: PTA, community associations, and of course, our fundraising. They must have the most boring sex ever. Missionary, maybe twice a year? His birthday? Valentine’s? They are a happy couple, but I doubt she’s worn anything but big cotton underwear since college. Nevertheless, the thought of even that causes a fleeting stirring under my cassock that is anything but appropriate.
Then I notice the young woman with them. I’ve never seen her before, but based küçükçekmece escort on the blonde hair and similar features, probably her sister. Something about her is dissimilar though; where Nancy is entirely vanilla, this is different: a spark, a smolder that hints at a little sex behind the sweetness. Nancy has mentioned her at coffee a few times, and in confession once. Yes, that’s right, she lost her temper one night when she and David came home early and found her sister entertaining her boyfriend.
I clear my throat and shift, suddenly uncomfortable, yet I can’t keep myself from continuing to watch her out of the corner of my eye, appraising her in a way that is entirely out of line. Her warm blonde hair is swept up in a way that invites unpinning—take out that clip, it says, and all that thick, satiny hair will come cascading down. Her dress is simple, cotton, a bit low-cut for church. I try not to stare at the cleavage on display, try not to think about the bra that I think I can see outlined underneath the thin fabric.
I smile at her, not sure why. I’m supposed to be starting my sermon, but I can’t take my eyes off her. She smiles back. My heart skips a beat — What would I do if she was flirting? I hear a cough from the front. I look down to the first pew. Mrs. Tennison is scowling at me. She looks pointedly at her watch, then raises her eyebrow at me. Mrs. Tennison is not one of my biggest fans; she really wanted an old-school priest brought in to take over, when Father Philip retired. Mrs. Tennison disapproves of my sermons (“Too many modern references!”) and of me in general (“Too young and too full of himself!”) Truth is, Mrs. Tennison hasn’t been happy with anything in the Church since Vatican II allowed the change to conducting services in English. She’s generally recognized as a huge pain in the ass. As I stand there, admiring Nancy Hough’s sister, I think, Mrs. Tennison could probably use a good fuck.
What? Where did that come from? I draw a deep breath, smile at the congregation, welcome them, begin my sermon. As I speak, though, my mind continues to drift elsewhere. I have my notes, thankfully, a roadmap to decency—however, my lascivious thoughts of the night before seem to have unleashed something in me; I discover that I am unable to focus for more than a line or two before this new (or old) lustful self redirects me.
Nora Stevens bends over to pick up the sippy cup dropped by one of her children. It’s suddenly clear to me just why John might put up with the insanity of a brood of six. I can see down the front of her super-conservative dress, admire her full breasts from here, the soft tops, the deep cleavage between them. I am wondering what her nipples look like when I remember where I am, what I am doing. I check quickly—no one seems to have noticed. Damn it, I tell myself, keep it together.
Not meaning to, I look toward the Houghs again. I can’t remember Nancy’s sister’s name, but that might be due to the amount of my brain that is concentrated on the image of her full, red lips. Her eyes are fixed on me as I speak; is my sermon so exhilarating as to keep her attention rapt? She smiles again, and I notice that she’s sitting uncomfortably straight in the pew. Her back is slightly arched, I think. She’s trying to get me to notice that low-cut dress, showing her cleavage to me, like an offering. I look away quickly.
I think of Mrs. Dudley’s brownies. They’ll still be warm at the coffee. Never been sure how she can keep those brownies warm all through the service, but, indeed they will be. The warm chocolate chips will tease my tongue before melting into a hot, moist bit of heaven that will slip down my throat. Good God, am I seriously getting turned on by brownies? I shake my head a little, trying to clear the crazy out. It doesn’t work, just draws my eyes back to Nancy’s sister. The tension between us is palpable. She can’t keep her eyes off me. I can’t help but imagine what those firm, beautiful tits look like bare. Then, just like that, I see her, fully naked in the pew. Her smile suggests that she knows I’m thinking these impure thoughts and likes it. She adjusts in her seat. Is she too hot? I’ll bet you are, I think.
I try to focus kurtköy escort somewhere else and notice Jackie Truly is in the fifth pew. Jackie has been campaigning to sit on the church council. Attractive woman, in her fifties. Still very shapely figure and kind of a Joan Collins thing going on. What would she sit on in order to get my endorsement?
I notice Ron and Carmen Peretti; Ron can use this sermon on lust, he’s confessed to me far too often that he’s been at the strip club, watching the women slide up and down the pole, watching them touch themselves, sometimes even letting them touch him; I’m slightly ashamed to admit how often I revisit Ron’s confessions in my own mind. Now, I picture Nancy’s sister stalking toward me in stiletto heels, a thong, and a button-down shirt. Standing before me, she unpins her hair, shakes it out, starts undoing buttons…
I glance down at my notes, smile at my congregation, keep going.
I don’t know her name, but she needs this lesson on lust. She shifts in her seat, somehow awkward and uncomfortable as I speak of temptations of the flesh. Do you know something about that? Is that why you are here, have you begun to give in to your temptations and you want spiritual guidance?
I would love to guide you on the path of the righteous. Just come to the pulpit. I see her sauntering down the aisle, the curves of her sundress showing me her ripe body. She licks her full lip, lowers herself to my waistline; my cock is pressing against the inside of my pants, already bursting to be set free. Just like my high school girlfriend, she unzips my fly and my cock springs towards her lips.
She did lick her lips from her seat. I saw it, why did she lick her lips? Why? IS that a sign, does she want me as badly as I…
My mind slips back to the girls Ron watches at the club, how they work their poles, sliding up and down serving their roles as objects of lust. Simply watching their naked bodies writhe on the poles can’t be too sinful, can it? I think of her, working that pole, maybe dressed as a school girl? I picture myself, sitting before her, reverent, with a fistful of twenties. She’s going to show me all of herself, simply for my viewing pleasure. I watch her slowly unbutton her white blouse, unveiling her black lace bra; next comes the black thong she reveals as her tiny plaid skirt falls off her round, tight ass.
I’m so incredibly, uncontrollably hard. Temptation has led me beyond the point my physical body can resist. While my mouth continues to speak, to deliver earnest and meaningful messages of piety, fidelity, faith, my only thoughts can go to her. All I can think of is pushing that flimsy sundress up around her hips, bending her over the pew, releasing the beast in front of everyone; letting the horrified and aroused parish watch as I show them once and for all that I am a man beneath these robes, as these horrible black trousers that leave me sexless most of the time fall around my ankles. That façade is laid as bare as her ass and we are both exposed as I plow into her.
I can’t give in to temptation; I am above this, I am a man of God; I will not submit to the desires of the flesh. I can’t degrade this member of my flock either. She comes to me for spiritual guidance, and little does she know that my thoughts turn to lust. To sin. Her body is my greatest temptation, sent from Satan himself, to lure me off the path of the righteous. The sultry, road of temptation is a long, curving, seductive road to hell. The pleasures of the flesh are forbidden for me, and I cannot give in. I made that choice. I must adhere to it. Resisting temptation, being the example for my congregation is the mission of a priest. These were the vows I took. I am sweating a little. I wonder if anyone notices. The church is always far too air-conditioned for the cause to be environmental. Even on holidays, when the pews are always most filled, the air is always a cool 75 degrees. Even at Lent, when so many crowd in to confess their sins, to seek penance…
I wonder what she would confess? A drunken night at a frat party? Trading favors at work with her boss? Giving in to her boyfriend’s fantasy of a three-way with her roommate? I imagine maltepe escort the two of them waking up on a weekend morning. Nancy mentioned that her sister lives in Manhattan, a studio apartment—a shared bedroom. The roommate sleeps naked over her sheets, and Nancy’s sister wakes up to see her boyfriend looking at her, pressing his stiff cock against her ass. She tracks the serpent tattoo, winding its way from under the red hair that lies over her shoulder, down between her tanned breasts, over her smooth stomach. My girl touches herself, titillated by the sight. I slide into her as her roommate awakes, smiles slyly, stretches and approaches our bed. “Room for one more?” she asks. Her voice is smoky, seductive.
Her roommate, this harlot of temptation, would not be ashamed of her nudity. She’d stand there, letting us admire her body. My girl, however, would remember her church’s teachings, and look away from the apple that hangs before her eyes. She would follow the teachings that I gave her. Resisting the temptation. Unless I gave her permission. Unless I encouraged her to reach out and take the fruit.
The redhead leans in to kiss her; my girl hesitates, then pushes forward, taking her large, full breasts in her hands, introducing her pronounced nipples into her inexperienced mouth, quickly learning what is good and what is better as her roommate moans, puts her hand behind her head, slides her other hand around to start jerking me off…
I am suddenly aware that it is very quiet in the church. Dear God, did I actually stop talking in order to indulge this fantasy? Then I realize that heads are bowed. They are praying. They are diligently attempting to follow the advice I have given, every word of which I have, even now, ignored completely. Nancy is a pious, dedicated member of this congregation, and I have thanked her by casting her sister in my own mental porn movie! Resist the desire. Look to the rest of the congregation, the ones who inspire no impure thoughts.
I look around desperately. All I can see anywhere is sex.
Now it’s more than just Nancy’s sister, who sits there, not knowing the thoughts I possess (she couldn’t possibly— could she?), yet every bit the temptation. I can still feel her, my dream girl, her full lips pushing up and down my shaft, imagine the fantasy redhead’s bare pussy in front of me as she pumps my cock with her hand, as Nancy’s sister sucks and licks her tits.
I see Tracy Dudley shift in her seat; her husband puts his on her knee. Now I’m certain that under that light summer sundress lies a woman of outrageous sexual appetites. Her husband is too pleased, too satisfied. I wonder if they had sex this morning. I bet that he woke as men often do, aroused and ready to go. I bet she smiled as she felt him start to rub her clit, then told him to wait a moment. She got up and went to the kitchen for one of her brownies, brought it back to bed. She rubbed the warm chocolate over the head of his cock, then licked it clean.
Nancy’s sister as the stripper, removing her skirt, unveiling her ass…
Tori, my secretary, stripped naked, her clothes all over my office, her body laid out on my desk, spread open for me to take and use as I wish. I push all of my papers and books to the floor and shove myself into her, rubbing her clit with my fingers, getting her wet. I turn her around; if I’m going to sin… I slide my cock into her beckoning ass. She squeals, first with resistance and then with delight as I fuck her.
This is completely insane. I’ve turned my parish into my own personal Sodom… I must stop. I must–
Nancy’s sister releases the redhead’s breasts, so that she may her push her down in front of us both. She looks at me, then moves fiercely toward her roommate’s pussy, looking like a soft peach in front of us, splitting it open to taste. She hesitates a moment, then her mouth goes to work, completely dedicated to making her come. I slide my fingers along that tattoo, taking my place alongside my girl…
Help me, Father… my temptation is so great. My mind and body are full of lust and all I can imagine is…
That snake tattoo bouncing before me as I slide in and out of her tight hole, hearing the upward spiral of her moans and cries. Showing her that I control her pleasure. Setting her in her place for denying her lust, her appetites. Pulling out of her to take Nancy’s sister, master of her body. Take this, take my cock, feel me use you for pleasure and nothing more.
I see her looking at me. I cannot look away.
It is time for communion.
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