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Auditors come in many forms. An archdeacon can be worse than an IRS representative, and Divine Intervention can be all that saves your ass.
A pair of luscious breasts with a huge crucifix swinging between them transfixed me. Candlelight gave them a lustrous, warm glow, and cut red glass stones embedded in the crucifix threw sparkling lights before me. Up and down it bounced, twirling, spinning, rebounding as the pendant ricocheted from mound to mound. It skimmed light brown nipples, bringing sighs and gyrations, as a voracious vagina clenched my John Thomas and milked it greedily. My eyes locked on the crucifix as my senses built to a delicious culmination.
Barbara insisted on wearing her veil and crucifix as we made love naked in Plato’s Cave the first Monday of every month. She was growing her hair out, and I saw it more frequently as it reached a respectable length, but here she wanted to retain these two pieces from her other role as Mother Mary Rufus of St. George’s Convent. Her eyes were closed as she rode my erection, her hands resting on my six pack abdominal muscles and her strong thighs bulging with effort. My hands was kneading her nicely rounded buttocks, and I could tell she would be ascending her mountain of delight soon.
We came within seconds of each other, and she fell exhausted on top of me, twitching. Over the six months after we became intimate she was a fairly silent lover, doubtless trained by years of convent restraint, but afterward she would want to talk about my recent adventures with my hierarchy. The space heater made up the difference between the body heat we could provide and the frosty January air in this hidden room; she lay slick with sweat and panting on me as we came back down to earth, still connected at the loins. The corpus of the crucifix pressed into my chest, but not painfully, so I held her on top of me in the afterglow.
After a while, she sat up a little, and her lips creased into a wicked smile. “That was wonderful, Beloved, as usual.” Bending over for a long kiss, she tousled my hair and sat back. “You owe me the beginning of a story.”
My wits were floating on a calm sea of being: I doubt if I could have told her my name right then. “Which one?”
“The one from last week with Archdeacon Tommy Hughes. I was in the last act, but you need to fill me in about the first scenes.”
“Oh yes,” I murmured as the logical portion of my brain booted up again. “Why didn’t I tell you on Friday?”
“I had to leave before you were done with Tommy, and it’s been a long weekend for both of us. Time for the rest of the story, Father Alfred.”
Artie and I were in his sitting room on Thursday morning, sipping steaming cups of coffee. The air was brisk that day as I walked over to St. Edmund the Confessor. He was in his mid thirties, short, dark, thin, dressed in a dark trousers and a jumper. The jerkiness of his manner told me he was nervous about something: “What’s up Artie?”
“Lunch at a parishioner’s today. Hortense Bayless.”
“Mike’s wife, Fred’s sister-in-law?”
“The same.” He took another nervous sip of coffee. “She’s finally got me locked into coming by for lunch today; I’ve been putting it off for months.”
“Damn straight, pardon the pun. One of the pushiest, rudest, most intrusive busybodies I’ve ever known, and thinks she’s Madonna as well.”
‘I’m afraid that Mike’s going to be away somewhere and she’s going to put the moves on me.”
“Really? Doesn’t she realize that she’s trying to run a Mac program on Windows?”
“Oh, yes, quite probably, but she’s convinced that she’s the one who could set me straight. I’ve run into several women like that, who think they can do a reverse Anne Heche.”
“And you think she’s after your bod?”
“Oh yes. Little suggestions, little innuendos, suggestions that are banter on the surface, but underneath, ooo. . .”
“Think she’d mind if you brought along a buddy?”
Artie’s face brightened. “What a splendid idea! Would you? God that’d be glorious. Let me ring her up and see if it’s all right.” He left the room and had a murmured conversation in the next room, then returned.
“You’re on, mate,” he said as he settled back into his chair considerably more relaxed. “She had a time saying no, because she likes to suck up to clergy so much, and a time saying yes, because she wants me alone to herself. You being from Fred and Doris’ parish tipped the scales. I owe you one, mate.”
“Happy to help. Repayment starts now. Tommy Hughes is coming round on Monday for the big audit. . .”
“I’ll pray for you.”
“. . .and I was wondering what I need to be careful about.”
Artie looked right and left conspiratorially, and leaned over to speak in softer tones. “Tommy’s almost a lock for next bishop. You know him: he’s damned bright and damned cunning. On your menu tomorrow: little things to gripe about how the Church was redone a year ago, nothing strictly outside the bounds. Wonders why you don’t have Üçyol travesti a Curate and why you spend so much on sweet Niall the Choirmaster and lovely young Agnes the assistant. Questions about little improvements like your recreation room and the housekeeper’s apartment refurbishment. The roof repair.”
“Christ, the damn thing fell in.”
“I know. Wants to know why your lot hasn’t given the Bishop more money. . .”
“Really, Artie! I saw the numbers for the parishes in the deanery and the diocese and we’re the top contributors per capita to the Bishop’s causes. We can prove it.”
“Nicely put. The main questions will be the rumors about your love life. . .”
“Of which he can prove nothing.”
“Agreed, of which he can prove nothing, and your dealings with Lucinda Parkhurst-Frazelton. Thinks you may have pushed her too much, taken advantage of her old age to squeeze more than you should have from her.”
“God, the woman’s richer than Richard Branson, and it’s old money. She could rebuild the whole damn parish, endow us forever, and not notice the loss.”
“I know, but it would be better if someone could back you up about her contribution history. I take it she’s indisposed.”
“She back in hospital, and sedated again. It’s been a long haul for her the past year, and we haven’t asked her for anything since she’s been ill. I can prove that from her daughter.”
“Daughter? I thought all her children lived abroad.”
“Mother Mary Rufus, of St. George’s. She’s Lucinda’s caretaker and Mary Sterns is her solicitor.”
“You should have one of them handy when you talk with Tommy. Be on your best game, Alfie, Tommy is a major leaguer and if you fuck up, he literally will have your ass, take my word for it. Or rather, take Jimmy Wilson’s word for it, over at St. John’s. Screwed up his books and word on the street is that Tommy actually had him bent over a chair.”
“Eeek!” While clenching my buttocks, I took a big gulp of my coffee and wished it were something stronger. “Thanks, Artie, forewarned is forearmed. The books are immaculate and the choir is ready to sing together. Just a couple of calls to make, and we’ll be ready for Tommy.”
“Excellent.” He looked at his watch, and beckoned me to rise. “It’s time to go over to Hortense’s house. She’s excited enough to have two vicars instead of one, probably can barely keep herself from peeing, so be ready to get fawned over.”
Barbara was lying with her head on my chest as I told her the first part of the story. I was still half-erect inside her, and she twitched her hips from time to time to keep herself lubricated. She looked at me and said: “Artie is pretty queer, isn’t he?”
“Rather. Or so I thought until Thursday when we went to Hortense’s house.”
“Oh? I vaguely remember hearing about her, pushy broad. Wouldn’t think she could turn anyone’s head, much less a gay man.”
“Agreed. I’ve seen few as pushy as her; thank God nobody around St. Dunstan’s is that bad.” I cupped her cheek and gave her a kiss. “But what happened Thursday. . .”
We walked over to our destination. The sky was dark, heavy with threatening clouds, but not ready to burst quite yet at midday. The wind was gusty, but not too bad, and the temperature was moderate for January. As usual, Artie chattered about various events around his parish and around the Chancery. We approached the Bayless house, and Artie brought up a surprising tidbit. “I had dinner with Percival Clyde-Walker last night. Says his lady is with child.”
“Really. That’s a surprise.”
“Rather. Seems the rabbit just died: she must have gotten knocked up around the end of October/first of November. Just after Perce fell off his horse playing Polo.”
“Surely you’re not saying Clarissa’s having the second Virgin birth in history.”
Artie snickered. “You’re wicked, Alfie. Perce tells this story about one morning: he comes out of his sedation with Clarissa’s hand on his John Thomas and a dollop of creamy whiteness in a small basin. He can’t move yet, so he can’t stop her from doing anything. Going into a corner, she sucks up the lot in a turkey baster and inserts it down in her birth canal with a shit eating grin on her face. Next morning the same, and the morning after.”
“How did Percival accomplish this? Wasn’t he under medication for pain then?”
“Yes, indeedy. I was on the same stuff after an operation, and couldn’t pop a boner until I’d been off it for three weeks.”
“Medicine works differently on different people.”
“That’s what Perce’s doctor told him. And there are many ways to–collect the dew from the peaches, so to speak.”
“Of course, of course. So how did Clarissa get pregnant? Was it the baster, or did another breeding stud jump the fence? I guess when the baby is born, there’s DNA testing. . .”
“Not in this case, Alfie, my boy. Old Mother Clyde-Walker is just aglow with the prospect of a new generation. Percival is an only, and given his bent and Clarissa’s previous lack Alanya Travesti of interest in reproduction, she gave up on an heir to the family name. Now that Clarissa’s got a bun in her oven, Old Mother C-W’s in Nirvana, and Perce doesn’t want to screw that up..”
“So a gay man, in a marriage of convenience, gets his wife pregnant while on pain medication for a concussion by ejaculating in his sleep and his wife putting his seed in her vagina via a turkey baster.”
“Yes, Alfie, that’s it. You wouldn’t know more, would ya?”
“No, absolutely not. Only conjecture, Artie. I guess it doesn’t matter if it were a prince or a street cleaner that actually did the deed.”
“Probably. Knowing Clarissa though, she probably was very picky about her sperm donor.”
And how much fun she could have collecting the donation, I thought to myself. We came to an ordinary house with a small yard. “Is this our destination?”
Artie nodded, and we ascended the stairway. “Vicar, so wonderful so see you,” a gravelly voice fluted raspily from the door that opened before we could knock. “At last you grace my humble abode with your illustrious presence. And you brought the Vicar of St. Dunstan’s with you, honor upon honor! Fred and Doris have so many lovely things to say about you. Come in, come in. I’m sorry that Mike can’t be here with us, but he’s up visiting our body in the Lake Country. Please give me your coats, boys and be at home.”
Barbara rolled off me and got a blanket to cover us. Snuggled together, she looked at me with confusion. “I’ll come back to Clarissa. What does Hortense look like?”
“Short, plump, five one, yard wide hips, floppy breasts, mousy hair. Carries herself like Madonna or Janice Dickenson.”
“Okay, looks aren’t everything. So how was lunch?”
“She had a table full of stuff, three different entreés, six side dishes and two desserts. Fussed over us and chatted the entire time about silly trivia; we hardly got a word in edgewise. Almost has Mavis Hazelton’s reservoir of energy. I can see why Artie gets worn out by her.”
“Doesn’t she do a lot around that parish?”
“Yes and no. She’s always around, but she pushes people around and tries to push Artie when she can get away with it. Not really helpful in actually doing stuff, but supervises a lot.”
“Ugh. We’ve got a couple of sisters like that.”
“What, you all don’t love each other to pieces, work together without asking and live in peace and harmony?”
She punched me hard on the shoulder. “You know better than that. There’s ways to cope with them. What happened after lunch?”
“We got a tour of her house, complete with a display of her commemorative collections. It went on forever. She even took us to the basement, and when we passed through the family room, things got interesting. . .”
“Now this is an ordinary English basement, complete with wash on the line. Oh my goodness, I even have my unmentionables here, what an embarrassment. I hope Vicars, that you’ve seen delicates like these before, although perhaps not as nice as these are.” They were rather large and sturdy, yet frilly and suggestive in a bizarre way. I’d never seen a thong that big before, and shuddered to imagine Hortense wearing it. The lady of the house was trying to play coy over the revelation, but Artie pushed on to a door beyond the clothesline that was standing ajar. Hortense shifted from coquette to panic in milliseconds: “No, Vicar, don’t go in there, it’s just, just, just a mechanical room, nothing to see here.”
Artie ignored her and entered, coming back out with a broad grin on his face. “Hey Alfie, you’ve got to get a look at this, mate,” he beckoned as Hortense toddled desperately after him.
I was amazed to see a dungeon in this ordinary English home. My Recreation Room was set up primarily for exercise and was occasionally used for other purposes; this room was for erotic punishment only. There was a set of stocks, hooks and chains hung from the ceiling and walls, a pair of restraints set into one wall. Artie whistled and said, “Who did this?”
Hortense lost all her energy. “Mike did this,” she said in a small voice, “we like to, to, to, play–dress up, from time to time.”
“Really,” Artie observed, his features animated. I stayed in the doorway, and Artie went over to the wrist restraints by the near wall that hung from the ceiling. Grabbing one and holding over to Hortense, he smiled broadly. “These look nice. How do they feel?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, “Mike likes them.”
She was close to Artie, so he grabbed a wrist and locked it into the leather bond. Maneuvering her to the wall before she could object, he locked her other wrist up and she stood with her hands by her head. Her lower lip quivered as Artie stepped back to look at her.
“So Mike likes them,” he began. “I’ll bet you have a lovely bustier in your drawer upstairs to wear for him when you tie him up down here.” She hung her head, and said nothing. He went over to a small cabinet and started rummaging through Konyaaltı travesti it. “Nice, nice. Ball gags, whips, clamps, dildos. Everything an ordinary housewife would need to keep her husband happy. You naughty, naughty girl.” He took out a large pair of shears; her eyes grew large as she regarded them.
Artie brought them over and traced up and down the front of her blouse. “I guess this is the first time you’ve been. . .the submissive, isn’t it?” He had an evil gleam on his face that I could barely stand to look at. With a quick motion, he clipped the buttons off her blouse and tore it off her body. “I’ve seen how you look at me, Hortense. How you flirt, how you tease. You really want me to see your bra like this, don’t you?” Her eyes rose a little. He snipped the shears again, “You want to see me without your bra, quite probably, quite probably.” A few more snips and she was naked from the waist up, her breasts tumbling down as they were released.
My vantage point was to the side through this. Artie put the shears down and approached Hortense, teasing her with his hands just off her tits, moving within millimeters of her nipples. He licked a finger and traced wet circles on her left nipple; it erected and she let out a sigh. “Look at these jugs, Alfie. Ever seen anything like these?” He picked them up with his hands and palmed them up and down, letting them bounce. She struggled between embarrassment at her exposure, outrage at her arbitrary treatment, and rapture that her beloved Vicar and lust object was finally touching her.
Artie spent several minutes playing with her breasts asexually, like a child would play with a couple of balloons. He mashed them together, squeezed them, slapped them, pulled the nipples, without regard to Hortense’s desires or responses. Finally, he slapped the sides so they would bounce together for several moments before stepping back. Her head hung down. “Well, Horty, we’ve had a lovely time today, thanks for lunch. Let’s do this again, real soon. C’mon, Alfie.” He turned on his heel and marched out the door.
Hortense was still bound to the wall, topless, tears streaming down her face. I went over and unbound her, whispering, “Sorry, sorry,” before I left her fumbling to cover herself.
“That was rather cold of Artie, don’t you think?” Barbara asked.
“Absolutely. If I knew something like this could have happened, I would have let him go there alone. Mary Bayless was telling her friends after Evensong yesterday that her sister-in-law was in the dumps lately. I knew Artie could be wicked, but I never knew he could be as cruel as this.”
“It takes all kinds. There are Catholic priests with attitudes that wreak such havoc, I wish they had wives to take them down a peg or two. Problem is, these guys are such jackasses, no self respecting woman would have them, even if they were free.”
“Well, I don’t think I’ll go visiting with Artie anytime soon.”
Barbara pondered for a moment. “Shouldn’t Artie be afraid of Mrs. Bayless causing him trouble for this?”
“Artie was crowing about how he didn’t have to worry all the way home. Hortense wouldn’t want it known she has a dungeon in her basement; it would destroy her image around St. Edmund’s as the pious matron. She also wouldn’t want it known she took her Vicar to her basement with her laundry hanging out so Artie could see her bras and panties. Artie being famously gay doesn’t help her either; who would believe that he’d play with her tits?”
We lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. She put her arm on my chest and laid her head on it. “So tell me about your interview with Tommy. What’s his position again?”
“Archdeacon is a close subordinate to the Bishop in our system. Don’t know what your equivalent would be.”
“Probably a Vicar General or something like that.”
“Probably. He does whatever Horace tells him to do. Anyway. . .”
I sat across my own desk from Archdeacon Tommy Hughes, who was ensconced in my place in my chair. He was a distinguished man in his 50’s: salt and pepper hair, fair skin completely smooth shaven, blue eyes just developing crow’s feet, slender with delicate hands. The parish ledger was open in front of him, the Baptismal Register, Marriage Register and Vestry Minutes underneath, and his half lens reading glasses were perched at the end of his nose. “Now, Vicar, about the tuckpointing you had done earlier last year, why didn’t you accept the lowest bid you received for the work?”
I pulled a file from my cabinet across the room, and opened it in front of him. “As you can see by these reports, the two companies with the lowest bids have an unfortunate track record in customer satisfaction. The low bidder has several complaints with the local Building commission, and the next bidder has just been shuttered due to fraud and negligence of the higher ups. The firm we awarded the contract has an excellent reputation, so fine that the primary donor, Mr. Frederick Titterington, O.B.E., was happy not only to contribute but to make a further donation of cement at cost. The Vestry voted unanimously to approve the contract. So the overall expense to St. Dunstan’s ended up with an expense equivalent to the lowest bid submitted, with the best guarantee that the work would not have to be repeated in the near future.”
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