The Priest & Pleasure:>>Ep1

Priest trains teen for Daddy’s cock

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Sergei stuffed his tape measure into his pocket and moved his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. Ever since he had quit smoking, a toothpick was the only thing that kept him calm. He ran his eyes over his work and let out a huff of satisfaction.

"Good enough." He said.

"I don't get it," His colleague responded. "What's wrong with the one in the chapel?"

Sergei looked down at Mark, the younger man sitting nearby. They both wore the same plain dark blue work clothes, embroidered with a little coat of arms on the pocket.

Sergei shrugged diffidently.

"All I'm sayin'," Mark went on. "Is that there's already a confessional in there, y'know? What's he need one up here for?"

The older man shrugged again.

"Y'know what I reckon," The young man crossed his arms knowingly. "I reckon he wants ta make his mark, y'know? New guy, new rooms, new way of doing things."

Sergei didn't respond.

"I know, I know," Mark went on. "Shouldn't put down the Father. But I reckon, job's a job, really. No different from you or me, really, just diff'rent jobs, y'see?"

The older man grunted.

"What's this new Father's name, anyway?" Mark asked.

"Bland."

"Huh, sounds an exciting bugger," The younger man got to his feet. "Ah well, reckon we got to get down the hall now, hey?"

Sergei huffed and followed him, still musing over the confessional. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why the Father wanted the modifications he'd asked for.

***

Father Lucas Bland finished his reading and looked over the crowd of bright young faces looking up at him. He was a particularly unremarkable looking man, a fact that combined badly with his name. His brown hair was cut short and without style, his frame was slim but not athletic, his face pleasant but not handsome.

He let himself look into the crowd for several moments, noting girls who were particularly attractive, or who smiled with particular ardour. His own face was fixed in the saintly expression he used for such occasions.

"And so," He began to speak again. "We must learn from the example of the Good Samaritan, and be sure to give help to those of us who require it. I am sure that if I found one of you girls lying, bare and unprotected, I would certainly stop and do whatever I could."

Pausing for effect, he found his eyes drawn to a group of girls in the front row. They were obviously older and taller than the majority of the student body, their own bodies looking fit and appealing. He guessed that this must be the Student Council that Sister Marjorie had informed him about.

"Now that I am here at Mrs Strictland's, and a grateful member of your school community, I intend to be the Good Samaritan for all of you girls. Anyone who is feeling vulnerable, or as though they could be led astray, should come to see me whenever they can."

He saw several smiles light up at this offer.

"This is definitely not just junior girls. Older students, especially those over eighteen, I want to see in my rooms regularly. I want to see a lot of you eighteen-year-old girls, I want to really come to grips with what you are dealing with. I'm sure that I will be able to put my love into you. If you are having trouble at home, if you are stressed about, say, being on the Student Council, or about any personal matters -- I want to see you."

Now he saw that the front row girls were looking interested.

"We won't just be talking religion when you visit me, oh no. We can talk about whatever you like. We can even try some exercises to help make you feel more confident at school and at home. I want all you girls -- especially those over eighteen -- to really open themselves up to me. I will certainly do whatever I can, to penetrate your mysteries."

He signed off with the usual little prayer and went back to his seat on the stage, passing Sister Marjorie as she took over the podium. She gave him an encouraging nod of approval. He sat and glanced carefully at the front row, where the girls were still watching him thoughtfully.

It had been a few weeks since his epiphany. Once he had thought that the will of God was something chaste, that it had no room for earthly delights. That had all been changed when he had come across a strange thing in his old parish. Two fathers had been engaging in incestuous sex with their own daughters. He had naively tried to save them, until they showed him that they liked sex. That it was another pathway to God, perhaps the best one. Then they had shown him that path...

Lord, had they shown him. Lucas had to stop his face from becoming hot as the memories slid through his mind again. The tall athletic 18-year-old girls, their perfect forms bare, thrusting firm breasts. Hayley Holloway, blonde and innocent-looking. Miranda Wesley, her skin beautifully dark, her lips full and wet. Oh, those lips. He had felt both girl's lips, up and down his cock. All over his balls. Then Miranda's wet vagina, pounding on his member. The times he had cum, in Hayley's mouth, then Miranda's mouth, then Miranda's cunt.

Would he ever feel such rapture again?

By the grace of God, he thought, I will.

***

"And then Sister Mary said my artwork wasn't creative enough and I don't know how to be an artist and I don't like art anyway and I don't see why we have to do it and -- "

The girl stopped short as she noticed Father Bland's raised palm.

"Chelsea, how old are you?"

"I'm fifteen Father but I'll be sixteen soon and I'm going to have a birthday with cakes and balloons and lots of guests and I'll get a --"

The raised hand again.

"Chelsea, I think you should try to enjoy art now. When you're older there's lots of other things to work on, so enjoy art while you can. Now run along."

"Oh but Father I wanted to tell you -- "

"Run along back to class, Chelsea."

"Okay Father thank you."

He shook his head and got out the sermon he had to write for the next assembly. He wasn't sure where he was going with it, but he was hoping it would go better than his meetings had gone so far. He had not seen a single girl over the age of sixteen yet, all of which he had sent packing with a few wise words. As though a girl that young had any serious problems! Maybe a poster on the noticeboard would encourage older girls, he thought, chewing his pencil.

The sermon was progressing slowly when there was a knock at his door. He put the pencil down and called them in.

"Hello Father, can I talk to you?"

"Of course, of course. Shut the door. Please sit."

This girl was obviously older than the others. She was about as tall as he was, with long brown hair in a ponytail. Her face was bright and attractive, with big brown eyes. She was also very athletic, her legs long and toned as they emerged from her skirt, her waist and arms slim. Her breasts pushed out her shirt without being huge.

"Hello, I'm Father Bland. What's your name?"

"Diana Takchi, Father."

"Diana, well that's a nice name. And how old are you, Diana?"

"I'm eighteen."

"Very good."

He kept her chatting for a while about herself, watching her loosen up and sit more easily. She was really a very attractive girl, her skin flawless, her mouth mobile with pink lips and perfect teeth. She told him about how she was the Captain of the football team now that the previous girl had left to look after her sick father.

"That must be very hard for you."

"Oh, it's okay," Her face reddened. "Actually, I came to talk to you about something else."

"That's alright, we can talk about whatever you like," He leaned forward, keeping his posture open. "Don't hold back, I'm here for you."

"Well, you see, Father, I couldn't find my tennis racquet, and I thought it might be in the garage. So I went and had a look and couldn't see it, so I looked through all the stuff in there. My Dad has some boxes in there and..."

"Yes, Diana?"

""Well, I found some stuff in there. Like magazines, only they were weird."

"How were they weird? You can tell me."

"There were men and women," She went on slowly, her pretty face confused. "And they didn't have any clothes on. Or only little bits of clothes."

"I see. Go on."

"And the men had these things on them." She blurted.

"Things?" He asked, genuinely interested. "What sort of things, Diana?"

"Like, between their legs," She tried to demonstrate on her own lap. "Like they were growing these things down there."

He managed not to laugh. "What did these things look like, my child?"

"They were like a... pole, or sausage, thing. They were different sizes, some men had really big ones. Some... some of them were a bit bent, like a banana."

Oh merciful Lord, Bland thought, thank the Sisters for keeping these girls so innocent.

"In some pictures, well, the women were kissing the things. Or, like, putting them right in their mouth. I saw some pictures, Father, well...."

"Go on, Diana. You can tell me."

"The men's sausages had stuff coming out of them. This white stuff, like yoghurt or something. The women seemed to like it."

"I see."

"One woman was eating it."

"Diana, Diana," He let himself laugh lightly. "I know the sort of thing you mean. And trust me, there's nothing wrong with it."

"Are you sure, Father?" She said slowly. "It felt... sinful."

"Oh no, no no no, not at all. After all, this is your father we're talking about. Surely you don't think your father would do anything sinful?"

"Well, no, I guess not."

"And doesn't the Bible say, 'honor thy father', my child?"