Every Sunday morning prior to service I, Father Amaro, must prepare the altar to receive the congregation. Sometimes the ritual is more involved than others, nevertheless it’s as serious a task as it is enjoyable. Because of theoretical differences with the ecclesiastical hierarchy, the details of my ritual have remained a secret between me and the cooperating Sisters’ of our Lady Of Francis Convent.
The ritual began shortly after accepting vows to enter the priesthood. It was an idea that entered my mind during the six-month decon appointment, which was just the time required to plan every detail. While my dream had always been the priesthood, the vow of chastity was much of stumbling stone. Still, I knew that the righteous time to make my peace with God would arrive one way or another. And, this ritual was my mends with the High Lord.
During seminary study sexual interactions were discouraged in preference of friendships; I listened very little. My hypothesis was that if I were to spoil my demons prior to leading my own congregation, I had to bask in the hidden treasures of many-a-woman trousers. I undertook all sides of knowledge by not limiting myself to catechism, but it also engulfing in philandering. If my hypothesis was to be proven a fact, experimentation needed undertaking.
The seminary cemented my desire to become a priest. I finally accepted my fate. I took the vows of chastity relinquishing perdition. At least so I thought until the backsides pressed against the habits of a few of the Sisters of our Lady of Francis Convent’s proved fatal. All I saw from that point forward was the movement of glutes against fabric. I wondered what hid beneath Jehovah forbidden fruits. Nothing more went or came through my mind, only to follow Eve’s path to eat the fruit.
Engaging a few sisters wasn’t a difficult endeavor; of course much of the work was done for me through hearsay. “Seclusion” does a funny thing to a person; I represented as much deliverance to the sisters as they did to me. I would ask for a precise nun to aid in the ritual depending on how I felt Sunday mornings… depending on the sermon, on how I felt after breakfast. Wake up time was at 4AM those days. I’d go for a light jog around the village where many parishioners thought me a holy man chasing away the devil. After the run it was shower time where most of the sermon was conceived, as was the ritual to take place at the chancel. Directly because of the ritual, the nuns and I became responsible for the upkeep of the chancel to ensure “proper” construction.
Breakfast was nothing more than a cup of tea and soda crackers to have on the go. I’d have it up on the bell tower watching sunrise over the hills. A coveted sight it was to watch the morning rays peek through the convent windows. It would reveal undressing bodies, some more appealing than others, nevertheless, it was epiphany to me. I learned what windows to watch every sunrise throughout the year. Some windows I skipped, others I tried to look inside even when the sun wouldn’t allow it. Once the sun was completely uncovered, I’d watch the nuns walk from the convent towards church. Those aware of the ritual walked behind on the line, looking up at the bell-tower in excitement of whom I was to choose, I selfishly hoped.
Today’s ritual is to be carried out with the help of Sister May. She is around my age; I’m a young priest as is a testament of my hormonal mishaps. The nuns prepare for mass in the yard. They pray for about an hour, then ready to welcome parishioners. That’s when the ritual takes place; somewhere between 9:30AM and and 10:30AM. I’ll be waiting at the altar for Sister May to walk in from the rectory. There is nothing under my robe, just as there isn’t under her habit. The chancel is covered in palm leaves, purple candles surround the space where we’ll consummate this holy reunion.
As I watch her walk towards me, I pace around, praying, chanting, flickering holy water around the altar, ignorant of scruples… as this very moment needs no interference from higher morals. She walks towards me undressing, leaving whatever clothing she’s wearing down the aisle. I meet her down at the low step of the chancel, disrobe showing her that our very own mass is about to start. We kneel, look up at Jesus the Christ on the cross, and pray. I stand up, walk up two steps and turn around facing Sister May. She leans forward, grabs my scrota from the bottom with her left hand, and with the right she directs it inside her mouth. She’s become versed with time. She’s made me see angels floating about the nave many a times.
I recall the first time I climaxed in her mouth. She nearly regurgitated on the altar. Oh, what a pretty sight… it was to realize that at her age innocence still resided.
Her saliva lubricates me throughly, preparing me for a world of Catholic consumption. She meets the head with her lips fitting it like a handcrafted fedora. Swiveling her head around to ensure that each part of the head gets to feel the warmth inside her mouth. She massages the scrota while jerking the shaft. Before ceasing the adventure she pushes me in completely, releases him causing it to quickly return to upright position and slap against my lower abdomen. She leans lower and puts the scrota on her mouth, a feeling I never realized I enjoyed prior to meeting her.
Satisfied with the preparation, she walks up to the last step of the chancel, hinges at the waist until both her hands are flat against the floor, and says “Oh, Holy Father, I have sinned. What is my penance?” I look back at the rear windows, the light crafts a hue reminiscence of the descending good upon the earth. I return my stare towards her to admire the gates of heaven. I look, think of Adam, and too taste the forbidden fruit. I trace it with my tongue as if about to call out the Song of Songs. I had always attributed heat to hell, but knowing that his very second I’m about to meet paradise, and it is not only warm but moist, has made me rethink both inferno and paradise. My tongue is covered in her scent.. luring desires I knew not I had.
I walk up the steps to meet her, piercing her just once to appease the deities inside of me. I pull out, grab her by the hair, stand her straight, and lead her towards the palm-tree-leaves bed I’ve made. I lay her face down on the bed of leaves, spread her legs far apart enough where is possible to place both my legs between them. I leave her there, grab one of the purple candles and… I let wax drip down on her glutes. I love the watch their reaction when the hot wax splashes against the skin. The first few times we carried out rituals I only splashed it against her butt, but now I use it to inform her of what part of her body will serve penance. Today, it will be the first time that I will cover the center of her buttocks with wax. We devout Catholics have come to enjoy repenting with a little pain.
I believe any well worth commitment should be carried out with some pain for both parties. It’s more difficult to hand down the punishment of the Lord without proper lubrication in the area, but it’s well worth it despite it. My lips don’t neglect that this woman laying face down with her legs spread apart needs to feel the joy of the lord, just as she will some discomfort. My lips run the length of her inner thighs, up to her crotch where I exercise the recipes of the heavens. I don’t allow her to climax, only desire for her to feel the lure of good throbbing in her.
Not soon enough do my lips undertake an upwards search to remove candle wax from the area it came to rest. I find it, struggle to remove it with my lips and tongue, so I employ the help of my hands. I bite her cheeks, squeeze hard, even slap them both leaving behind reminders of my presence. Sister May talks of the trinity, of the need to ask God to forgive the indiscretions gone unpaid until now. There isn’t a need to be forceful initially; first my tongue pierces her, massaging the idea that something greater was coming. Then my index finger circles around the orifice, pressing in but never penetrating. Her butt sways, her legs tense expecting that I will push in, but I don’t.
The man of God I am, I wait for the signal that she is ready. I kiss, bite, run my tongue alongside my index finger until her signal cues me to resume. I lay on top of her, grab my engorged self with my right hand and trace him up and down her vagina, soaking the head enough to aid in the task of abusing a less moisturized body part. I push her legs wider apart, lean over to her left ear and ask if she is ready to receive forgiveness. Clenching some palm tree leaves, she takes a breath and replies, “Yes, Father Amaro.”
I ask that she grab and position me. She frees her left hand from the leaves… reaches behind her to grab me. Her full hand holds my shaft, positioning me upon the supple area. I feel it against my head and push in. She attempts a disruption of a full penetration by pushing against my pelvis with her hand. I grab the arm, and direct her hand to her butt cheek, grab the second hand and place it on the other butt cheek. I instruct her to pull to the sides to give me a view of where I am to thrust with as much mercy as Christ was demonstrated when crucified.
I withdraw, stand back and watch her glutes spread to the sides pointing to the entrance I am to have. I lean on her again, but this time I don’t need her aid. I push in merciless! The entrance is difficult on me; though, I imagine not as much as it is to her. I haven’t the time to be delicate, this is the ritual to take place today. She must be strong for the work of a greater need. I thrust in hard, feeling skin to skin burn for a split moment. I thrust and thrust, she tells me it is painful. I ask her to tell me how much it hurts. She can only manage to repeatedly say “Oh, Father forgive me, forgive, myself I give to you.”
I’m thrusting so recklessly that the sound of my pelvis hitting her backside echos through the sanctuary. Her praying voice following each echo to every nook. She tells me it hurts, but that she never thought there could be pleasure associated with it. I ask her to be hush; that I want to feel as I climax inside of her. I lose control, lean my torso against her back and bite her left shoulder enough to leave bite marks without drawing blood. I can’t take it much longer. I pull her up to hands and knees by her pelvis; I squat down and watch as I take her ass to my whim.
She goes between cries, prayers, and moans. By this point she no longer tries to hold me back. Now her head is moving about with her mouth opened. She tells me she can not take it any more. I grab her hair, pull her head slightly back to watch as her mouth opens and her deep dark eyes stare back at me, and I ejaculate. I grab both her butt cheeks, squeeze very hard, slap her the hardest I ever had then, meticulously move in and out ensuring to leave all I can inside of her.
I pull out, watch as some of me drips out of her. It falls all the way to the palm tree leaves. I get up, walk around turning the purple candles off. Sister May on the floor still breathes heavily. All the candles are off. I begin to pray, the Sister joins me. I stand over her, grab the base of my semi-erect being and squeeze up the urethra pushing out remnants of my lust. They fall on the low of her back. She smiles, and asks, “Is it going to hurt for much longer?” “I don’t know Sister, please notify me when the pain ceases”, I reply.
We clean the chancel of any sings of our encounter while still naked. I grab my handy receptacle, light frankincense and walk about the church cleansing it from ill spirits that might have come to watch along with the angles. Finally the bells sound announcing that we are 15 minutes from service. By now we are dressed, Sister May walks to the front doors, opens them, and stands outside waiting for her parochial duties to commence.