Everyone involved in this story is over the age of 18. It’s a fantasy. Unless it’s a true story.
I used the land-line to call the Manor after Parish Mass the next day; my call answered by a suave Rupert, now once again calm, collected and just slightly supercilious. Yes, George was alive and apparently suffering no lasting effects from his coshing; he had been into the Manor and had apologised for the previous night. Yes Beth was OK; seemingly none the worse for her terrible experience, though “her do seem to have an unique pastoral way with her, Father!” So they’d guessed – or Beth had told them – about our bedroom sports whilst waiting for the key to her restraints to be released. I could only hope they had no cameras in the cottage. No, they’d not seen my phone, but had I tried ringing it? They promised to ask George, who’d gone back to the cottage, to check there.
An hour later Rupert rang back. “Well, still no sign of her phone, Jimbo. But Abby’s going to cycle round to the presbytery after lunch for her one-on-one French lesson. She’ll bring it with her if we came across it.” Abby was the freckle faced redhead who looked younger than her eighteen years and whose shy demeanour, girlish ponytail and small neat breasts had drawn my attention both times I had met her. My cock stirred as I wondered what her would look like stripped naked for my pleasure: very tasty indeed was my guess. The one-on-one French lesson was news to me – I wondered how literally Rupert meant “one on one”, and whether he wanted her taught French language or perhaps French kissing … and more. His next words confirmed he meant just that.
“Beth had a chat with her about the benefits of … shall we say your pastoral skills and personal tuition? Anyway, Abby’s a volunteer: said her’d like to be next.” Well, that was a turn up — maybe the sexy little thing wasn’t as innocent as she looked? Still, Rupert had said the girls were all virgins. Interesting.
I’d only just put the phone down when it rang again. It was Father Sean, the obnoxious little shit who enjoys the power that being Bishop’s chaplain gives him, with the news that the Bishop would like to see me straight away, and by the way, why wasn’t I answering my mobile?
I ignored that last question. “And what does our Paddy want with me today?” I asked. He gave his supercilious laugh, “The sooner you get here, the sooner you’ll know. Don’t dawdle: he’s in an impatient mood.”
In other words, ‘Ops Normal’. Straight away meant half an hour’s drive, so I put on a clean collar and got in the car. When I arrived at the palace – a decaying detached redbrick house which had once been home to a Catholic factory owner, so I guessed was built on the tears of child labour, Father Sean looked at me as if I was something the cat had dragged in; looked at his watch, sniffed loudly, and gestured to a chair in the anteroom. “Wait,” he said. I waited, entertaining myself by looking through the Clerical Outfitters’ catalogues which ecclesiastical offices put in their waiting rooms instead of porn magazines – though the camp looking men modelling chasubles and mitres could well have been moonlighting from Gay Times.
After only a quarter of an hour I was admitted to the Bishop’s office. Contrary to Fr Sean’s warnings, it seemed Bishop Patrick, was in a good mood. “Father James! How goes the task? Such a star! Rupert called me this morning and he’s very grateful for her help. He was raving about the benefits of … shall we say your pastoral skills and personal tuition?”
Shit. Those were the exact same words Rupert has used to me on the phone. How much had he really told the Bishop?
The Bishop waved to a plate of sandwiches on a side table. “Have a bite to eat, Father,” he said, then continued, waving at a copy of The Tablet, “What do you make of the Holy Father’s latest proclamation? Will it help turn the tide? Those damnedevangelicals building congregations all over: can we stop them? Would a Folk Mass help? Guitars, that sort of thing?” Without waiting for an answer he proceeded to pontificate on church politics. I ate the sandwiches — they were very good; prepared by the nuns from the next-door convent. He rambled on, seemingly aimlessly, but it was obvious the crafty old bastard was working up to something, and as I polished off the last fairy cake — I’d pay for it later in the gym – he got round to it.
“Anyway, I have a job for you. I promised to lend the Manor one of the paintings from the diocesan archive. You will take it up to them with you Father Sean has it.”
Adn that was that. He held out his hand and I dutifully knelt and kissed his episcopal ring. I was dismissed. Back in the outer office his Chaplain waved to a large and frightful picture of the cathedral, painted, I guessed, by a well-meaning (if utterly talentless) amateur, but mounted in a heavy antique frame, undoubtedly worth far more than the painting. I’d never seen the picture before, and there was no signature. “It’s quite ghastly,” said Father Sean, and I bursa escort bayan started to revise my opinion of the man: still a shit, but with enough taste in art to know a turd when he saw one. And I could understand his final words to me: “Do take it away, I’m sick of the sight of it.” He found some large sheets of heavy paper and wrapped it, tying it up, badly, with string. Clearly he’d never been a Boy Scout. He handed it to me with a condescending smile. “Don’t go stealing it now!” he said. As if I’d want to give the monstrosity house room. As I walked out he turned to me: “Oh Father: we like you. You’re useful. And no trouble. Keep it that way and you’ll be fine.”
What that meant I had no idea. Puzzled as to why I had been summonsed just to collect a picture which any of the office staff could have brought up to me, or indeed taken direct to the Manor, I got back in my car to drive home. When I got there Abby was just arriving. She could hardly take the painting back with her on her bicycle; it would have to wait.
Taking the thing with me — it’s a safe area but there was no point leaving temptation anyone’s way — I went to the front door, let Abby into the house, and turned to the serious business of her defloration.
She was wearing a short sleeve white top and a sky-blue knee-length skirt. The outline of a lacy bra, in the lightest of pinks, could be seen through the top, and her long ponytail was flicked forward to hang down over her right shoulder. I love redheads.
“Rupert tells me you wanted a French lesson this afternoon?” I said. “What did he mean?”
She spoke for the first time; the lilting accent of the Scottish highlands. “I know it’s about sex, Father,” she said. “Mandy told us; she said she had to do it, and we have to do it. And … well I want to know what it’s about. But I don’t want you to hurt me, and so – I want to … to set the pace. I want to be in control. But today’s the day: I’m ready.”
I grinned at her: “I don’t want to hurt you either,” I said, “Ypure right – we have to do this. But we’ve got all afternoon, so we can relax and have fun. I promise. And we’ll go as fast or as slow as you like. You’ll have a great time – but honestly; it may hurt a tiny bit.”
She looked at at me shyly, but with a mischievous sparkle in her eye, “Just a little prick?”
I laughted out loud; realising that this was a clever, confident, fun young woman, and that there was every prospect of a happy, sex-filled and fun afternoon ahead of us.
I took her by the hand — her skin was cool to the touch — and she squeezed back, trustingly. “Please be gentle. I’ve done my homework. I’ll do everything you want. But let me say when.”
I led her up the stairs to the guest bedroom. I could see that she was actually – and understandably – still nervous so I took over to the sofa which stood against one wall. I sat her down next to me, took her head in my hands and held her so that we looked in each other’s eyes. “Abby, you are a beautiful innocent girl. This is the day you become a beautiful sexually fulfilled woman.” I’m such a romantic.
She giggled. She actually giggled at me! “You are funny,” she said. Whatever makes you think an eighteen year old girl is innocent, just because she’s a virgin? And, there’s more to sexual activity than just cock-fucking. I have my fingers … and maybe I have some special toys … and I may never have had a boyfriend, but I do have girlfriends!”
She leaned towards me and to my surprise kissed me on the lips, whispering, “But I’ve never had sex before. My virgin cunt hasn’t ever had a cock in it. And I’m happy to become a beautiful slut for you!” I drew her back to me and we kissed again our tongues entwining like snakes.
Her mouth was small and she tasted fresh. I allowed my right hand to move down her back and into the curve of her waist. I felt her tense up, and then relax, knowing that I had promised to let her set the pace for what would happen now.
Suddenly she pulled away and stood up. For a second I thought she was going to run, but instead she looked down towards me and slowly began to undo the buttons of her top. “Touch me,” she said “Stroke me the way you stroked Mandy. Make me feel good, just like her did for her.”
I was quick to oblige, as her top came off (she folded it neatly and put it on the side). The pink lacy bra I had seen outlined under it was low cut; a perfect fit for the swell of her small breasts. I stood and turned her around so my hardness nestled in the small of her back. She was so young, so delicate. “Are her quite sure you’re eighteen?” I asked, caressing her and cupping her small mounds in my two hands. I could feel the bump of hard nipples, and as I did, she shivered in pleasure. Her voice was barely audible, “Yes daddy, I’m an eighteen year old virgin, innocent and unspoiled … waiting for you; wanting you, to pop my little cherry. To fuck me, daddy!” Honestly, young women today; such language! But what an intriguing girl. Reflecting afterwards I wasn’t nilüfer escort entirely sure if she was teasing me or not. Now of course I’ll never know.
I pulled the thin bra straps down over her shoulders and her tits spilled out into my hands. They were soft to my touch and over her shoulder I gained my first proper view of the tight hard dark pink nipples setting off the pale freckled skin of her boobs. Abby gasped as I began rolling the nipples between my fingertips. She nestled back against me, causing my cock to twitch against her.
She moved away and turned to face me. Locking her eyes in mine she reached behind her and undid the catch on her bra – it dropped away from her neat, slim frame. She made to put it with her top, but I stepped forwards, took it from her, then picked her up bodily and threw her, on her back, on the big double bed. She whimpered just once, then I was on top of her, silencing her moans as I kissed her passionately; first her mouth; then those delicious tits and hard nipples. She wriggled and squirmed beneath me, rapidly becoming overwhelmed by her awakening sexual passion, and I felt her pubic mound moving against my belly and chest. She was breathing heavily. I bit against her nipple gently, trapping it against my teeth, then lifted my head to look into her eyes, allowing the breast to be dragged free. She gave a short scream and convulsed under me; tears welling in her eyes. The scream turned into a groan, and for one moment I thought I’d hurt her. Then I realised the kid had had an orgasm.
She was finally able to speak. “Mmmmmm! Oh daddy, thank you! What happened? Was that an orgasm? Did I come?” The little minx! Again I was unsure if she was teasing, or genuinely naive.
She pushed me away: “You smell of old books and incense!” she said, “and I’m all sweaty from the cycle ride.” This last was a total lie, but I let it pass.
With a single motion she wriggled out of her skirt, and I saw she had either ridden over commando, or lost the panties in the same movement. I’m sorry to say I never found out for sure. I checked her bike saddle later and it was dry … still a man can dream. A fuzz of downy red hair did nothing to protect her modesty; her neat and clean pussy lips offering a promise of a tight vagina.
Abby looked straight at me. “Now you,” she said, “I want you to strip for me.” I was astonished – I’m usually the dominant one, and by heck I’d not let this chit of a girl tell me what to do! But then I thought about it. I took charge of myself: I had a willing and virginal pussy laid out on a plate for me: it was no sacrifice to play along. So I looked straight back at her pretty face as I slipped out of my clerical shirt,lost shoes and socks, and loosened my belt.
Abby spoke again: “Let me!”
She pulled the belt from its loops and undid the fly. She knelt down to remove my trousers, and gasped as she saw the size of my erection straining against my slip — to be fair, I had a willing and sexy eighteen year old virgin naked in front me, so no surprise that my hard-on was pretty impressive. She pulled down on the slip; then looked up at me helplessly as it got caught up on my cock. I thought she was going to get my cock clear and give her first ever blow job … but I was wrong.
Abby was clearly a gymnast — she rolled backwards, then was on her feed, sprinting through to the bathroom she had seen earlier as we came upstairs. I was momentarily hampered by my kecks — though I had them off in seconds — and caught up with her only as her stepped into the rainfall shower. She had already pulled out her ponytail and was luxuriating in the water cascading over her. OK, I could wait to fuck her, but I wasn’t going to wait to caress that delicious slim body.
I grabbed the shower gel and dropped a good squirt on her hair, gesturing her to lather it up. She did so — deliberately raising her arms so that her small tits lifted beautifully. “Hello, we have an exhibitionist here!” I thought, as she displayed her body for my pleasure. I took another blob of gel and began to wash her body all over. She quivered as I caressed her breasts; shivered as I moved around her flanks and stroked her muscled, fit, bottom (benefits of George’s PT sessions), then gave a little shriek as I began to wash her groin; my hand caressing her pubic mound and fingers brushing around and between her outer lips. I moved one hand back to her breast and played with her nipple again: to my astonishment her breath became ragged, then she went rigid as she came again, mewing in pleasure and delight. And I hadn’t touched her clit yet!
Her hair and body clean (though not, it appeared, her mind), and conditioner in her hair (what is it with women and conditioner?), it was her turn to wash me. I almost came right then and there when she rubbed her delectable breasts against me as she washed my hair. With a supreme effort of will I held back, as she cleaned, in an effective and businesslike way, my chest and back. She knelt in front of türbanlı escort me to wash my legs and bottom, then found herself staring at my erection.
Given that the girl had never handled a live cock before, I can only guess that she had watched a lot of highly unsuitable videos and practised with a variety of expensive and detailed anatomically correct dildos. From the moment she caressed my ball sack and stared lasciviously into my eyes as she licked the sensitive underside of my cock from root to tip, before taking the entire head into her mouth and drawing me in while her tongue continued its rhythmic ministrations, it was clear she was a blowjob queen. As she worked, and as much for a distraction from my throbbing penis as anything else, I rinsed the conditioner out of her hair. I was close; so close, and I laced my fingers behind her head. Firmly she took hold of my forearms and, still staring right at me, she held my hands away. This was one confident young woman: she continued sucking and licking; our breathing becoming synchronised as I accelerated rapidly to my peak. She’d done her homework, but none of her toys or videos had prepared her for an injection of hot cum into her young mouth. When I came — hard — she coughed and spluttered; swallowing some of my ejaculate, spitting the rest into the base of the shower.
I let her recover her poise, then lifted her to her feet, wiping a few stray beads of cum from her lips and chin. She looked in dismay at my softening cock. “Come on,” I said, “let’s get dried off and then we can go again.” I grabbed some towels from the rail and watched as she wound a smaller one round her wet hair and donned a large bath sheet, covering her tits and pussy. As if she owned the place, she walked through to the bedroom and sat down on the bed, unwinding the towel from her head and beginning to dry her hair. I quickly towelled dry, put on a dressing gown, and joined her.
It took half an hour to get her hair dry (I found a hair dryer, and a comb, but I had no hair brush) and she sat in my lap, wriggling seductively, as I dried and combed her ginger locks. I have always had a reasonably short refractory period, and sitting with a teenage virgin, freshly showered, wearing only a towel, smelling delicious, and primed ready to be fucked for the first time didn’t seem to delay the process any. By the time her hair was dry I was hard again.
Her attitude had changed — as had mine. The orgasms had taken the edge off her urgency, and even to an extent of mine, though I was still keen to deflower that nubile teenage body. But the afternoon was still young; there was no rush, and we were comfortable together. I lifted her and removed the towel from her; taken aback afresh by her unsullied sexuality. She really was a very pretty little thing.
“Now,” she said, “let’s try this bed. I want you to make love to me.” I was more keen to fuck the girl’s brains out than anything to do with love, but if she wanted some fantasy, who was I to disillusion her? To this day I’m glad I didn’t.
She lay on her back, naked, nipples hardening in the coolness of the room, legs spread wantonly apart. I knelt between her feet and gazed on her breasts. She saw where I was looking. “They’re not too small?” She asked. “They’re perfect,” I replied, “a perfect handful each.”
“What about me?” She asked. “Am I a perfect handful?”
She must have noticed my eyes move lower to focus on her sex. “Please!” she begged. I looked up at her face and our eyes met. With an almost imperceptible nod she invited me to take her virginity. It would be my pleasure … but not quite yet. I leaned forward, placing the tip of my tongue onto the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, before tracing from there to lick and kiss around her outer lips. I could see her swollen clit, and knew she was aching for my tongue’s caress. She pleaded with me: “Bastard: kiss me there! Kiss me daddy!”
Again, I made her wait before I would gratify her; and as I delayed, her hips begin to writhe as she tried to position her sensitive nub below my lips’ gentle caresses.
For one last, delicious, moment of anticipation I paused … then I gave her her wish. My tongue found her little button; I licked and caressed that warm and tender pleasure bean, making her tremble in ecstasy.
Still using my tongue I began to make slow lazy circles, so she could feel the warmth of my breath and hear my soft regular breathing. Her own breathing became ragged and shallow as the tension built inside her. Then suddenly, just as the tension was becoming unbearable for her, I kissed her clit hard and full, then my tongue licked up, down, up, down. I moved my right hand up to grasp her breast, the thumb and forefinger pinching her hard nipple, and I felt her go rigid in the sexual ecstasy of yet another orgasm.
“Stop, stop!” she said, then, “Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Never stop!” Her hands were holding my head into her sweet pussy as the waves of pleasure crashed into her, and through her, and slowly receded. Finally she let her hands drop, and for a moment all was still. Then her voice was speaking, softly at first, then rising to a crescendo, “Fuck me daddy. Take me now. Put your cock in me. Fuck me. I need your cock now. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me!”