Chapter 1

 

It happened on my ever first morning in my first ever parish. I had always known and been prepared for the fact that one day I would come face-to-face with a woman who would test my vow of chastity to the limits, but not this soon. Not before I even had the chance to unpack my blessed suitcase.

Her name was Bridget McOnneky and she was Father Declan's live in housekeeper. Now in my experience, catholic priests' housekeepers are deliberately selected by the diocese for plainness, dullness and chastity, and those are the good ones. But on this occasion the bishop had screwed up big time. Although, to be very honest about it, Bridget did not appear at first sight, to be any sort of salacious temptress lying in wait for a hapless young curate fresh out of the seminary.

Bridget was in her mid to late thirties I guess, with unremarkable brown eyes and dark brown hair pulled fiercely back into a tight bun. She was dressed in the ubiquitous garments of women in her lowly profession: A drab cotton frock that descended well past her knees, augmented by a somewhat tasteless nylon tabard bearing a farmhouse kitchen scene. What little bit of leg she did display was sheathed in thick, American tan tights. Her feet were shod with flat black shoes, the sensible, comfortable sort that a policewoman might wear for pounding the beat.

All this I had briefly noted the previous evening when I arrived at the manse, fresh off the last train from the capitol. I was soaking wet and dog tired after travelling all day and battling with the irregularities of the broken down rail network. Bridget had appeared in the comfortable, fire lit lounge only long enough to hand me a thoroughly welcome cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches, before discreetly retiring to her bed.

Father Declan, the grizzled old parish priest, had patted me on the shoulder in a fatherly sort of way and said how glad he was to have some help at-long-last. St. Valentines was a busy country parish and he expected that I would find plenty to keep me busy - what with today's youth the way it was. I let that somewhat ominous comment pass unchallenged and crammed in another mouthful of food.

Once I had wolfed down my supper, Father Declan apologised for not being able to stay up for a longer chat, but his good friend, Father Aiden, from the neighbouring diocese, had taken a stroke and he was setting off very early the next morning to visit his friend in the hospital. So, without further ado, Declan, as he insisted I call him, led me up the wide, curving staircase to my room.

The manse was a large, rambling old pile, built at the turn of the nineteenth century. It was no doubt hugely expensive for the Church to heat and maintain in this day and age, but on the bright side, it was blessed with a huge amount of space for just two priests and one housekeeper.

When we arrived at what was to be my bedroom, Declan cleared his throat and gestured to another door at the far end of the darkened landing.

"That would be Bridget's room," he confided, his tone was carefully moderated, but a minute furrowing of his brow transmitted the unspoken warning. Bridget's room was strictly off-limits.

After a second or two's embarrassed silence, I quickly nodded my understanding and groping for something sensible to say, assured Declan that I would 'hold the fort' for the day whilst he was away visiting his friend.

Unlike my old bed space at the seminary, this room was large, in keeping with the rest of the house and well fitted out with old, but good quality furniture, including, to my surprise and delight, a huge four-poster bed. The old mattress looked so well stuffed and inviting that I simply pulled off my damp clothing and crawled naked beneath the several layers of blankets and quilts.

Strangely, and as if by some bizarre sort of prescience, my last thought before I fell off to sleep was to wonder if Bridget would also be sleeping nude tonight.

 

***

 

The next morning I awoke at about ten o'clock. Declan had not disturbed me before he had left and I was grateful to him for that. I stretched languidly and listened for a few moments. There was not a sound in the house and so I supposed Bridget had gone out shopping, as it was Saturday morning.

The four-poster was phenomenally comfortable and the many blankets and quilts had me relaxed and dozy with warmth. My fist went automatically to grip my cock. I always awaken with a ferocious hard-on, regardless of where I am or what is going on. Masturbation, it was an affliction I had been battling with ever since entering the seminary five years ago.

Like most kids, I had discovered the joys of wanking at the age of about ten and had done it three or four times a day ever since. It had only become a problem for me when I enrolled in the priesthood. Masturbation, or self-abuse as the Church euphemistically called it, was strictly taboo. It led to all sorts of problems for a celibate priest, notably, getting all hot and bothered and soon not being celibate any more.

Being both young and naive, I had immediately confessed my 'sin' of self-abuse to my tutor, more in hope of getting some kind of help than anything else, but my wizened, old confessor had simply advocated prayer and more prayer, together with an ever-increasing burden of penance.

After a while, I wised up and told the miserable old bastard the extra prayers were working. They were not of course and I continued to wank merrily away three or four times a day. I rationalised my aberrant behaviour to myself easily enough. I was a young fit guy with a powerful hormonal system and tossing off was better than walking around with a bulge in my pants, or heaven forbid, chasing after the choirboys.

There was another problem and an embarrassing one. I was a leaker. If I didn't beat it off regularly and just tried to ignore it in the hope it would simply go away, my bell-end throbbed and dribbled until I could no longer think straight. My black pants would soon develop a big, wet, shiny stain on the crotch and people were quick to notice that sort of thing - especially women.

I wrapped my fingers around the waiting shaft and pumped my wrist a few times. I had only been able to relieve myself once yesterday, standing swaying over the train's small toilet bowl and as a result, my balls were uncomfortably overloaded.

I stretched out and spread my thighs, pulling on the rock hard shaft, enjoying the familiar feel of the red-hot flesh in my hand as the orgasm quickly boiled up out of the tight knot of my scrotum. I gritted my teeth and resisted the urge to groan out-loud in case Bridget had not gone out, and let the powerful sensations rip through my groin and upper thighs.

That was another reason why I couldn't stop wanking - I really enjoyed it.