The Vicar of St. Dunstan’s Ep. 17

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It was a night of tradition. For the past few years, the Anglican priests of my Deanery gathered on Fat Tuesday to enjoy a night of revelry just before the austerity of Lent. This year was my turn to host the occasion. We usually had a business meeting just after lunch, and this year’s meeting was incredibly stressful: Archdeacon Tommy Hughes was there to declaim the latest set of directives from on high and lecture us on the importance of the Bishop’s Lenten Appeal. He also rehashed every critical note he made during his round of visits around the Deanery since the beginning of the year.

“Boys and Girls,” he snarled as he approached his conclusion, “things are not going well in this Deanery. Only one parish out of eight is in the black, and only one parish has met its quota in the Bishop’s Appeal. Within two years there’s going to be new leadership in this Diocese, and these trends must be reversed or there will be significant changes here. None of you are exempt. Be warned.” With that, he filed his papers in his leather briefcase, shrugged on his coat and waddled uncomfortably out the door.

“Haemorrhoids,” Father Arthur Farnsworth said calmly after the Archdeacon left the house. “Tommy’s always had problems with them, and I confess, I made those problems a little worse last night.” His face creased in a self-satisfied smirk “I’m doing you a public service, lads and lassies. At least in this Deanery, he’s getting a royal pain in the arse before he inflicts one.”

His high pitched giggle pierced the quiet for several moments.

“Why don’t I get a pitcher of Hurricanes ready for us?” I proposed after Artie subsided. “There’s also a single malt Scotch for those who prefer English tradition over New Orleans. Drinks in two minutes, maybe less; food in thirty.” I bustled to the kitchen to check my simmering pots and start the rice cooker.

Coming back, I brought some shaved ice and concocted a couple of pitchers of the Louisiana punch. Artie took one with relish, as did the female vicars of the Deanery: Edwina Hall of St. Augustine’s, a thin, tall brunette in her 40’s with sparkling blue eyes; Roberta Okoye of St, Barnabas, a short, skinny Nigerian also around 40’s with a few flecks on white in her short black hair; Beatrice Williams of St. Paul’s, a medium height, pleasingly plump woman not yet 30, whose dark brown skin, dark brown eyes and dark hair betrayed her Indian ancestry; Miriam Hali of St. William’s (St. Will’s as she usually called it), another young thin woman in her 30’s from Nigeria; and Pamela Andrews of St. Helen’s, another 30 something brunette with blue eyes and rounded curves who hailed from Brighton. George Staton, the middle aged Vicar of St. Alban’s, with brown eyes, hair almost completely turned from black to grey, lean with a small paunch, chose to not to deviate from his habitual Scotch.

By dinnertime, those assembled had recovered from their verbal sodomization via alcoholic consolation and were ready for a party. Since the usual chefs were unavailable that evening, I was happy to cook, preparing gumbo, jambalaya, red beans and rice, and other Southern delicacies for our repast. Some nice imported California Beaujolais accompanied the meal, and after a simple dessert, we repaired to my sitting room for our revelry.

Sitting around and listening to Cajun music from my iPod, we were in a gleeful mood. Two sofas and four cozy chairs were drawn into a circle; Roberta and Miriam her protegé took one sofa and George and Artie made an odd couple on the other. Artie had managed to slip out and return with eight bead necklaces around his neck: leave it to him to find a good thing and overdo it. Looking around the room, I was struck with a realization: almost all the female Vicars in the Diocese were here. There were a few female Curates around, but all the Vicars were in this one and the one next to us. I pointed this out to Roberta, who was next to me as I sat between the sofas, and she answered with her head held high in noble, resonant tones with her crisp accent slightly dulled by several Hurricanes:

“Damn straight, Alfie. I am amazed that a poofter like Tommy Hughes can keep us Lady Vicars so thoroughly screwed. He’s been making the pastoral assignments for the past five years, and he keeps us on the poor side of town. I’m not complaining, my needs are simple and my people I would not trade for any price, but for once I’d like to run a parish where keeping the lights on was NOT a day to day soap opera.”

Miriam nodded in agreement. “At St. Will’s, I had a marathon sit in with my Curate to raise funds. We sat on the roof for three days, had reporters from the local telly to publicize it, in order to fix the Church roof. If it wasn’t for your mate, Jim Lefebvre, we won’t have had enough after all that, but fortunately he was willing to give us a break.”

“Jim’s a great guy,” I said, “He redid my Vicarage roof a few months ago.”

“Tell us how you got the money for that roof, Alfie,” Arthur’s voice broke the conversation in the room.

It was an embarrassing moment that left me uncertain, but I decided on simplicity. “A parishioner donated the funds.”

“And who was that, Alfie? Was it Clarissa Clyde-Walker?”

I fixed my gaze calmly on Arthur. “Yes, it was. Ms. Clyde-Walker has helped us before, and was generous in our time of need.”

“I hear she’s as tight with her cash as her legs were open in her youth,” Pamela interjected, “her exploits were legend when I was in school. Teased all the boys, kept only the best athletes and the richest boys. Never understood how she ended up with Percival.”

“Artie probably has that story, don’t you Artie?” I replied. “Why don’t you give us that little tidbit, just between us in this room. Right?” My suggestion was met with nods. “We’re all comfy here, and ready for some juicy stories in honor of Fat Tuesday to pump up the revelry.”

Artie looked uncomfortable for a few moments and gulped down the rest of his drink. Going to the sideboard, he poured another and turned around with a wicked look on his face. “All right, but in exchange I want something special.”

“Special,” George said, “what kind of special?”

“You all have to tell me the story of how you lost it,” he asked with a self satisfied smirk.

“Lost what?” Edwina asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Lost it,” Artie plowed on, “Your innocence. Your cherry, if you haven’t already.”

“This had better be a good one,” George murmured. He took another sip from his glass and glanced at the bottle that rested next to him on the end table. It had started the evening full and was now three quarters empty. “If it is, then you have a deal, but you have to go first.”

“No, no, Georgie, I’m not giving you the product before payment. You tell your stories first.”

There was a stillness in the room that lasted several moments, while the music played. Beatrice William’s dark eyes were shining in interest. “Perhaps we could go on the installment plan, “she suggested. “We can tell a couple of our stories, and when the down payment is sufficient, you tell us yours. If it’s good enough, then we’ll finish you off.”

Artie swayed a little thinking about it, then lurched over to the sofa next to George to spin awkwardly landing, almost spilling his drink. “All right, agreed. As long as Alfie and George start us off, and then you, little Bee.”

“Done,” George said, “And I’ll go first.”


It was a warm evening as Rachel and I strolled down the beach on Samos. Take in the scene with your imagination with my friends, the temperature is perfect, a slight breeze wafts delicious aromas your direction, the moist sand feels refreshing under your bare feet. She was wearing a one piece swimsuit with a wrap around skirt, her figure in those days was stunning; I wore a t-shirt and cutoffs, the lean, young stallion. Strolling hand in hand as the round full moon lit our way almost as brightly as the daylight, a few bright stars peek through the moonlight, we were in paradise. No on else is on the beach: it was just the two of us and the waves.

Up the cliff, we heard a party going on at a private club. They had a live band, and the music was excellent, not the wheezy Greek crap we’d been swimming in for the past week. We swayed involuntarily to the music, our feet embraced the rhythms of the music. I stopped, drew her close, took the oversized bag from her shoulder that contained everything she needed, and said softly, “May I have this dance?”

“But I’m not that good a dancer,” Rachel protested feebly.

“That’s all right, neither am I,” I replied. “What matters is that we have each other, the moon, the stars, the beach, the music, and we have now.”

I held her in my strong arms, and our feet moved in the sand to the music. No, we weren’t good dancers, but you had the universe to ourselves. Our bodies were pressed against each another, and I sensed that she would never let me go. Of course, at that time, it seemed like the best thing. in the world.

The stars started to swirl more rapidly, the music became distant, gravity loosened its grip. All I could see was her eyes, shining like suns before me, feel her tightly pressed body and my manhood bulged against her pelvis. The spinning went faster and faster until we fell to the sand; I landed beside her and covered her with my arm. Our lips blended, our tongues danced for several, infinite, liquid moments. Her eyes are all I saw.

My voice whispered in her ear:

“How beautiful are your feet in sandals,

O prince’s daughter!

Your rounded thighs are like jewels,

the handiwork of an artist.

Your navel is a round bowl

that should never lack for mixed wine.

Your body is a heap of wheat

encircled with lilies.

Your breasts are like twin fawns,

the young of a gazelle.

Your neck is like a tower of ivory.

Your eyes are like the pools in Heshbon

by the gate of Bath-rabbim.

Your nose is like the tower on Lebanon

that looks toward Damascus.

You head rises like Carmel;

your hair is like draperies of purple;

a king is held captive in its tresses.

How beautiful you are, how pleasing,

my love, my delight!

Your very figure is like a palm tree,

your breasts are like clusters.

I said: I will climb the palm tree,

I will take hold of its branches.

Now let your breasts be like clusters of the vine

and the fragrance of your breath like apples,

And your mouth like an excellent wine-

that flows smoothly for my lover,

spreading over the lips and the teeth.

She responded:

“Set me as a seal on your heart,

as a seal on your arm;

For stern as death is love,

relentless as the nether world is devotion;

its flames are a blazing fire.

Deep waters cannot quench love,

nor floods sweep it away.”

Her eyes are shining brighter than the stars twinkling above us. “Amen,” I said, “set me like a seal on your heart as well. Be the sun the rises every day of my life and the moon that charms me to sleep. Now. Always.”

She spread a blanket, our bodies melded, and we spent the night making love until the rosy fingers of dawn touched the East. We returned to England three weeks later, married, and a little over eight months later she gave me my first daughter.


“Oooh, I never knew you were such a romantic, Georgie boy,” Arthur leered, and gave him a peck on the cheek, to which George screwed up his face in reply.

“That was so romantic,” Roberta agreed, nodding her head. “Just like the romance novels I read as a teenager in Nigeria. I wish my first night had been so wonderful. Like most people in my country, my marriage was arranged when I was fifteen, and consummated the next year. A living nightmare until malaria took him, and I was able to leave my children with my family there while I studied for ordination.” Roberta was the mother of four, who now lived with her at St. Augustine’s. She ruled them and her parish wisely and well.

“Yeah, those were the days,” George mused after taking another sip and refilling his half full glass. “Sometimes I look at Rache and see that young nymph on the Greek Island beach. If I was more sober, I’d go home and we’d dance again.”

“You’re next, Alfie,” Arthur leered through his inebriated haze. A look around the room showed interest in my story, so I told them about my stolen first tryst with Janet under the bush at Fort Hays State University. Sure, it was only a fellatio story, but it was the night we crossed the boundary, and we have vaginal penetration on our next date. (Author’s Note: this scene is described in Episode 10: Going Home.)

“How are you dealing with Janet’s memory these days, Alfred?” Roberta asked with concern.

I pondered a moment. “I’m more at peace with it than I’ve been for many years. The visit home last summer helped. But I’m still not ready to find another mate. There’s a hole in my heart that may not close again.”

Arthur sighed and turned on Beatrice. “Okay, lady Bea, lift our spirits with your story. I’ll bet it’s a juicy one.”

“You’re a scamp, Artie,” she said, batting her eyes coquettishly. “I’ll bet it’s better than yours.


My parents were from Mumbai, but I grew up right here, in St. Dunstan’s parish of all places. The pastor then was a wonderful man, Reverend Alastair Donovan. An extremely tall man, huge, with great big hands that could hold me in their palm. He came to St. Dunstan’s when I was fourteen and he was the star of my universe from the start. I could tell he admired me: he spent several years in India, and I could tell that my dark brown skin aroused him by the bulge in his wide fronts he couldn’t hide all the time.

I turned eighteen, and made an appointment with him to talk about becoming a priest. He was very supportive, and started giving me little jobs around the parish to learn what it was like to wear a dog collar. I also became his favorite acolyte, proud to vest with him every week. His charm was working on me too, and I dream that one day he would take my maidenhead.

One Sunday he slipped a note in my pocket, and I was in heaven.

It was a little close in the cabinet, on the feast of Pentecost, but I didn’t mind; I doing what he told me to. Slipping out right after the Recessional, I managed to get into an old vestment cabinet unseen and stripped to my thong as the Postlude sounded from a distance. It was a huge cabinet, I could stand in there easily and the textures of the old garments felt interesting against my skin: textured yet soft, smelling faintly of old incense. The taste of Cinnamon Altoids was strong in my mouth: he asked me to suck on them as I waited for him. I embraced the old robes and made love to them, savoring their silky textured feel against my stomach, breasts, nipples, legs and face.

There were footsteps on the floor outside, and rustling of robes sliding from shoulders. “Vicar, there’s something in there,” a girl’s voice said.

“Don’t worry, Barbara, it’s just mice,” Vicar Alastair’s sonorous voice intoned.

“Mice!!!” A quick, light, frightened staccato of small feet pattered the floor away from your direction.

“It’s all right, they won’t hurt you. Is everything done and put away?”

“Yes, Father,” comes a quavering reply from near the outside door. “Where’s Beatrice?”

“She had to run an errand for me to the Vicarage. It’s time to clean that nasty old Thurible” There was more shuffling, then he began again: “Well then, run on home, Barbara. Thanks for serving today; you did well.”

“Bye, Father,” came the high piping reply. A door closed, and there was some rustling outside. I heard the sounds of drawers and cabinet doors opening and closing. After a few moments, there was a soft knock at your door, and I moved forward past the old robes into the Sacristy. The lights were turned off, it was lit by the EXIT sign, wisps of fading daylight through the opaque windows, and a lone candle burning away from the windows.

Father Alastair stood there before me, still standing in his red vestments just as he was for church. There was a hungry smile on his face as he devoured my brown naked body with his eyes. I was ready to play with the great Teddy Bear and make him as happy as he made me. Gently he pushed me to my knees on the carpeted floor, and lifted his robes over my head.

His pants and underwear were gone; an erect penis feebly slapped my cheek as the garment was draped to cover me. I began worshiping his cock as I’d read about in so many books: running my tongue over the purple head, gently playing with his balls, licking up and down the shaft, engulfing him just as he wanted me to do. His precum oozed into my mouth: I can tell he’d been looking forward to this for quite a while, and it wouldn’t be long. A click and a rustle told me that he’d taken an Altoid out of the box he’d left on the table beside me, maybe two.

I licked and sucked and fondled and worshiped his dear rod, lost in sensation, until his prick swelled preparing for delivery. He thrust into my face, his dick driving deeper and deeper into my mouth and throat; he murmured incoherently with his hand on my ears through the robes he wore. Then the river ran, sending its salty stream down my waiting throat. I drank the river dry, until he softened in my mouth and returned to his normal state.

The air felt cool and refreshing as he whipped his garment off me, my skin slick with sweat and my nipples perking in the sudden chill. With strong arms he lifted me up to sit on the counter, my legs danging in the air far apart, my cherry eagerly waiting for its immolation. He brought over a chair and sat in front of me, began stroking my thighs from knees to crotch in long, slow strokes. His right hand settled at my crotch, tenderly massaging the folds and coaxing the bud out of its hiding place. Butterfly kisses flit from one leg to the other, rising, rising. As they approached my damp pussy, his hands ascended to caress my pert, little breasts. His tongue was questing, circling, teasing, until it found my cunt lips and clit, where it begins its adoration.

He moved so expertly; he was a master. Knew just when to speed up and slow down, when to probe my slick slit and when to caress my clitoris with his tongue. I felt the orgasm building, onward, onward. Relentlessly he pursued his goal, his hands worshiping on my breasts, where they slid over my damp skin, stimulating my nipples with gentle strokes and soft pinches. I never wanted it to end, but I was lifted up by an inexorable force, and I shuddered and shook as I reached the summit, quivering on the counter. It seemed to last a lifetime, that orgasm, and he knew how to stroke and touch me to bring me down easy.

When he was done, he was slick with sweat, the robes drained him. As I lay there unable to move, he took them off and hung them up carefully. His hair was disheveled, he wiped the sweat from his brow, all he left on was his black shirt and white insert. It was a dream come true: he would fuck me wearing his clerics. Taking me to the Moon on gossamer wings got him aroused again, and as he sat down, I knelt between his legs to take him in my mouth again. It was salty and stiff as I explored his corona. At last, I threw your legs over his, sitting on his lap, and impaled myself on his sweet spike; I was in such a land of bliss I didn’t notice the pain of my cherry’s demise.. He nuzzled my chest as we begin pumping together, and time lost itself as we rode together toward our next mountain top.


Arthur was rapt in adoration of Beatrice’s story. The other ladies were licking their lips and pumping their feet with crossed legs, and George’s eyes were more alive then they had been since the afternoon. Sighing, Arthur almost crooned: “Father Alastair was my mentor as well. I hid in his closet naked once after the Sunday Eucharist, and he took my virgin ass so gently I hardly felt the pain. Missed the old buggerer so much after he died six years ago. I’d give anything to have him back”

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