“Oh yeah, cunt!” he muttered under his breath.

“Yeah, hot fucking cunt!” he continued, ogling the juicy specimen of beauty displaying herself to his lustful eyes. Her pussy was indeed beautiful – pink and delicate, with a finely-crafted blond landing-strip, held open by a pair of painted fingers, so that he could gaze into its hot, wet, steamy depths. He stroked his cock in anticipation, feeling his shaft stiffen and grow, and feeling that exquisite yearning sensation spread outwards, filling his body with testosterone-fuelled bliss.

The owner of said cunt looked at him seductively, the tip of her tongue gently tracing the outline of her lips, her eyes cheekily inviting, one hand kneading her huge, perfect, surgically-enhanced breasts, as the other continued to hold her fuck-lips wide.

“Oh, yeah, baby, I’m gonna fuck that cunt so hard,” he continued. “I’m gonna ram my fucking cock deep in your hot pussy, I’m gonna feel your juicy cunt around my cock, and then I’m gonna fucking come inside you, I’m gonna spurt all my fucking cum deep in your hot fuck-hole till you scream in pleasure. You want that, baby, you want that?”

But there was no answer from the buxom blonde beauty. For she was but a centrefold in a magazine, lying open before him on his bed. One picture among many, actually, for his eiderdown was covered with a selection of his collected periodicals, open to his favourite pages, featuring a variety of nude beauties, all displaying themselves – he liked to think – purely for his pleasure.

His cock throbbed as he stroked it, thumb and two fingers gently rubbing the glans while the palm of his hand wrapped itself around the shaft. He admired his carefully-ordered “cunt collage” – as he liked to call it. The buxom blond (“Jenny”, according to the caption) occupied pride of place in the centre of his bed. Surrounding her were half a dozen other centrefolds: “Sabrina” – dark-haired, with huge natural flowing boobs, left hand holding her pussy open whilst one delicate finger of the right curled knuckle-deep into her arsehole; “Brea” – blonde and skinny, with pert breasts, irresistibly smouldering eyes, and a shaven pussy; “Elsa” – bleached blond hair, sweet “next-door-girl” smile, hairy blonde cunt with – “oh fuck!” he muttered, as he felt his cock twitch and jerk in delight – gorgeous flappy cunt-lips which dangled, glistening with little beads of pussy-juice…

He paused his cock-stroking, looking away and upwards at the ceiling, in order to calm himself down: he didn’t want to come too soon. Not yet.

Just in time, the phone rang. Nervously he scrabbled for the receiver.

“Hi Jimmyyy!” came the sultry voice he was expecting. “It’s Bea here, wiv yer fantasy call.”

“Bea, how are you?”

“Oh, Jimmy, I’m feeling so fuckin’ horny this evening, I’m been so looking forward to our call.”

“Talk to me, Bea,” said Jimmy, as he resumed slowly massaging his dick.

“Oh, you know me, Jimmy, I just can’t get enough fuckin’. I’m sitting here on my bed, and I’m wearin’ this skimpy negligee, and I’ve shaved my pussy just for you – and it’s so fuckin’ wet, Jimmy, I just can’t wait for you to ram yer big cock in there. D’ya wanna do that, Jimmyyy?” Bea’s voice was warm and breathy – something she had practised and honed over the months she had been calling him. Jimmy knew that, these days, he could instead be watching a video online, or a camgirl – but he was a man of habit and tradition, and he loved the way things used to be when he was younger, when porn was always magazines, and audio invariably meant the telephone. And so he sat at the head of his bed, stroking his cock, listening to Bea’s breathy seductive personalised filth, whilst he continued to ogle his favourite magazine nudes.

As Bea spoke, his eyes continued to roam the pages spread open on the bed: “Codi” – a ridiculously slender blonde with big fake tits, pouting lips drooling slightly at the sight of her own shaven cunt, spread wide with two delicate hands; “Emma” – on all fours, so her pussy peeped cheekily out from between her buttocks, crowned by a tight puckered arsehole…

Bea was very good too: she knew, after some six months of weekly Friday evening calls to Jimmy, just how he liked it. Jimmy wasn’t interested in toys, or blowjobs, or titfucks, or anal, or any other kinks. He liked cunt. He loved cunt. And he adored it when Bea talked cunt: “Jimmyyy…” she breathed, “my pussy’s feelin’ so hot tonight. Will ya put yer dick in there, Jimmyyy?”

“It’s all for you, Bea,” muttered Jimmy, in a half-hearted attempt to play along with the fantasy. Actually, he wasn’t much interested in the role-play aspect of things: it was, after all, pure fakery – but he liked hearing Bea talk dirty, and so he said the minimum required to let her know that she was on the right track, and then revelled in the glorious obscenity of her wall-to-wall aural filth.

“Oh yeah, that feels so fucking good!” she lied. “Your cock’s so fuckin’ hard, Jimmy – I can feel it deep in my cunt, fillin’ me up. Go on, Jimmy, slide that huge fuckin’ cock in and out of my wet cunt; can ya feel my pussy all hot and juicy for ya?” Jimmy listened, his eyes roving across the collage spread out on the bed before him, imagining what Bea’s cunt might be like. Deliberately, he had never asked her, preferring to make it a new cunt each week: last week’s choice had been “Cecilia” – black, shaven, lips teased apart just enough to reveal her juicy pink haven inside; this week, it would be “Jenny”.

Jimmy loved Bea’s voice – “chavvy South London”, he called it, oozing squalor; in his more lucid moments he imagined her as a single mum on the dole in some squalid high-rise council flat in Tooting – a ne’er-do-well scraping together a living using the only pathetic skill she had. But now she was his tart, his whore, his plaything, his fantasy: she could be anything and everything he imagined. He liked playing this game, as he continued to stroke his dick to ecstasy whilst revelling in Bea’s increasingly filthy ongoing monologue. Bea, for her part, was the consummate professional, sensing from Jimmy’s pants and grunts just how far he was on his journey to release. And when Jimmy muttered, “Say my favourite things, Bea,” she knew just what he meant.

“You know, Jimmy, I’m a dir’y, filfy, cuntfuckin’ whore… That’s what I am, Jimmy – just a cuntfuckin’ whore.” Jimmy loved those words, and Bea’s grimy accent was the icing on the cake: his cock jerked and bucked in response, stiffening even further. “I’m a whore, Jimmyyy. And you like dir’y fuckin’ whores, don’tcha? You wanna fuck my filfy cunt wiv ‘at big cock?” Jimmy was in ecstasy.

Soon Bea had progressed to “My cunt’s so fuckin’ wet, Jimmy: that’s what you do to me, babe. You’re gonna make me fuckin’ come, Jimmy, ‘coz I’m a dir’y, filfy, cuntfuckin’ whore, and I’m gonna fuckin’ come all over your big cock!” Jimmy took the cue, fixing his eyes on “Jenny’s” pussy – still, of course, reliably wide open and glistening for him – drinking in its beauty, and gradually ramping up the rhythm of his stroking so as to time his own orgasm to match Bea’s ersatz one. And when Bea got to “I’m gonna fuckin’ come, Jimmy, here it is baby, come all over ya dir’y filfy cuntfuckin’ whore – oh yeah oh FUUUUUCK!!!” Jimmy did exactly that. He felt the tell-tale boiling sensation in his balls, felt his cum surge and rise through his shaft and explode from his bucking, twitching cockhead.

“Jenny” was the chosen recipient of Jimmy’s cum this evening, six or seven thick ropes of semen splattering over her picture. Jimmy aimed at her cunt, and watched as the likeness of her vulva disappeared under a gloopy coating of semen. Bea was continuing to moan and squeal down the telephone line: “Oh yeah, Jimmy, are ya comin’ for me? Does ‘at feel good, babe?” as the last few dribbles of sperm landed on “Jenny’s” tits and face.

“Was ‘at nice, Jimmyyy?” breathed Bea in her customary breathy tones. “D’ya like comin’ in my dir’y hot cunt, Jimmyyy?”

Jimmy panted incoherently in reply, his imagination desperately clinging on as long as he could to the illusion of sexual fulfillment. But it was always too short-lived. Even before his cock was flaccid, the illusion was fading and Bea was in business mode: “Same time next week still good for ya, babe? Take it off yer card, yeah?”

Jimmy muttered a “Yeah, thanks, Bea,” before hanging up and surveying the mess. It never looked as good afterwards as he hoped it would before. Sperm-soiled magazine “Jenny” looked, frankly, ridiculous and tawdry now – a far cry from the seductive perfection she had exuded when pristine on the page. And wrapping up and disposing of semen-soaked magazine pages was anything but sexy. But Jimmy did so with his customary goal-oriented efficiency, trying to – and largely succeeding in – staunching his creeping feeling of shame, until the job was done, his penis was wiped clean, and he had put on his clothes again.

Then his collar.

And then his cassock.

And then Father James Wright knelt on the floor of his bedroom and wept bitterly.

~

“Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do Thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host – by the Divine Power of God – cast into Hell Satan and all the evil spirits, who roam throughout the world seeking the ruin of… oh fuck…”

Father Jim’s voice tailed off. He had performed his morning ablutions, had his breakfast, and said his Office, and was preparing himself by examination of conscience for his weekly two-birds-with-one-stone excursion to the Cathedral – first to confession, followed by his weekly exorcism training seminar. He usually dressed in civvies for these visits, not wanting to draw attention to himself on public transport – but he never missed his hebdomadal chance to unburden his soul, and timing it for Saturday mornings made sense. Apart from anything else, this way, he felt less guilty saying the Eucharist over the weekend than if he were to have his Friday evening sins hanging on his conscience.

But this morning Father Jim’s voice gave up mid-supplication, as the thought impinged upon his intercessions: Am I a hypocrite? Actually, this was a thought which frequently went through his mind. The answer, of course, was yes: regularly, deliberately, and with full foreknowledge, every Friday night – and he knew it. For hypocrite though he was, he was neither stupid nor deluded. He had learnt to corral his fleshly weakness into one weekly episode, and it would soon be, gratias Deo, effaced from his soul by the Sacrament of Reconciliation – after which he could continue to pursue his presbyterial vocation with confidence. Until next Friday.

Today, though, he felt somewhat less confident than normal, less spiritually bullish, more vulnerable than usual. Perhaps it was the weather – dull and grey like many an English spring morning – but it was almost as if he felt that the hosts of Satan were genuinely massing on the horizon, and that he might truly need the intercession of an archangel to forestall the ruin of his soul. In short, Father Jim’s carefully calibrated balancing act between spiritual propriety and sexual concupiscence was feeling unaccountably precarious this morning.

He was just letting himself out of the presbytery when a young woman came dashing round the corner, her heels clicking unevenly on the pavement. “Father Jim! Father Jim! Oh, I’m so glad I caught you. Please would you hear my confession?” Behind the urgency of her request Jim descried a pleasingly upper middle-class voice (“so” came out a bit like “say”) – but ever so slightly Estuary (“t” in “caught” barely noticeable), as was common with the younger generation.

Father Jim thought, but did not say: Oh fuck. He tried not to think swear words between Saturday morning confession and the end of mass on Sunday evening. But he had not been to confession yet, and therefore made the split-second judgment that he may as well, for now, think obscenities. After all, he liked them; he liked the sound of them: “fuck” – beautiful, he thought. And this young lady was, he thought to himself, “fucking hot”. She was slender and small, almost a waif – and yet her pencil skirt was just a touch too tight, and her blouse ever so slightly translucent, so that the shape of her nipples, puffy and rounded but not huge, made two soft tents in the front of her top.

Oops – he thought, as he felt his penis begin to stir inside his rather ill-fitting trousers. No, it would not do to be groping his cock out of the way in front of a parishioner, so he banished “fucking hot” from his brain with a quick piece of well-practiced spiritual legerdemain, and switched into concerned parish priest mode. He vaguely recognised the girl – from the back row of the 10:30, perhaps? – but wasn’t sure if they had ever exchanged words. He felt within his rights to say, “I’m actually on my way out now, er…” as he looked at her quizzically with that I’ve-forgotten-your-name look customarily used by parish priests.

“Bernadette – call me Bernie,” said the woman, pronouncing the “r” softly but clearly.

OK, thought Father Jim. Typical second-generation immigrant. Tries to keep up the religious traditions of the home country, but talks like a Sloane except when asserting her identity. Clearly done well for herself, been to uni. But – Jim groaned inwardly – she wasn’t taking the hint.

“Oh please, Father, I really need you to hear my confession, I… I…” Father Jim looked into her eyes for the first time – and there was that look of moral desperation he was used to seeing in some people. Some could live in their sins for long periods of time before emotional need drove them back to the Church; others, like this girl, presumably, were made of less stern stuff. Her eyes glistened with barely held-back tears, as she continued: “I think I may be under a curse, or a hex, and I… I know you are training to be an exorcist, aren’t you?” Her lower lip trembled, as her damp eyes pleaded with him.

In the silence of his heart, Father Jim thought to himself: Oh fuck. But he took no pleasure in this particular iteration of his favourite obscenity. He had met this kind of woman before: excessively impressionable, with an inclination to see spiritual warfare lurking under every pebble, when her only problem might a temporary imbalance of hormones. Exorcism? Bullshit. But Jim was, despite his cynicism, a kind man, and so he said, “All right, Bernie. Of course. Let’s go in,” as he ushered her through his front door. “Face-to-face, or in the box?”

“Oh, I prefer the old-fashioned way, if that’s all right, Father?” she replied sheepishly.

He gestured her down the corridor towards the church, and then up the long nave – pleasantly illumined by the shifting colours which filtered dully through the great east window. As she walked ahead of him, he watched her bottom jiggle gently from side to side, red heels clicking on the stone floor, her medium-length ponytail of light brown hair swishing behind her. Fuck, he thought – and this time revelled in the thought. Fuck yeah… he muttered silently, his mind’s eye briefly, secretly, undressing her from behind.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” said the girl, once they had both settled into their respective halves of the confessional.

“How long has –”

“Oh, over a year, Father.” interrupted Bernie. “I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

Fuck, thought Father Jim. But, because he was basically a kind-hearted man, he instead said: “Well, take your time. It is good that God has called you back to the Sacrament now.”

“Thank you, Father.” He heard Bernie take a deep breath. “I… I’m married…” she ventured cautiously. “But I’ve not been strictly… faithful…” There was a long pause.

Ho ho, I knew it, thought Jim. Another pretty young slut, got hitched too soon, screwing around behind her husband’s back. Two a penny. Had one just last week, didn’t I? But instead he said, “And how long have you been having this affair?”

“Oh, it’s not an affair, Father,” said the girl. “It’s kind of a weird binge, a bit... perverted, if you know what I mean. On the rebound, I guess, because I walked in on my husband, you know – with someone else…”

Oh shit, thought Father Jim. This’ll take all morning. Web of adultery – seen it all before. One fucks around, the other goes off the rails, and soon they’re all crotch-deep in moral turpitude. Why do they even bother to get married if they’ve got no continence? Should try and be celibate – then they’ll learn how lucky they are… All that passed through his mind in an instant, but of course he voiced none of it.

“You see,” continued Bernie, “we were married a year ago – here, before you came: Father Peter married us – and, well, I thought it was going so well. We… we were really good in bed, you know… I mean, we really liked the sex and everything.”

Too much information! thought Jim to himself. But he did not say that either.

“You know, I was a virgin when we got married. I’d saved myself up for this. And the first time, it was wonderful. You know, for some girls it hurts? But for me it was bliss. He just slid in, and I loved it. And we loved it – just like that, in and out, you know?”

Father Jim felt his cock begin to stir. It was the inevitable involuntary reaction to a sexual confession which was becoming just a touch too detailed. Fuck, girl, why are you telling me all this? he thought. But Bernie continued to jabber, exuding, though unseen, an air of wide-eyed innocence from behind her latticed screen.

“But then Giles started wanting me to do things I didn’t want to – you know, oral, and anal, and stuff – and I really wasn’t comfortable with it, so we had a few arguments about that. “I mean, when he wanted me to give him a blowjob, you know, he’d just pull down his trousers and waggle the thing in front of my face...”

Too much fucking information! Jim screeched in the silence of his own heart. But he couldn’t stop himself imagining the husband’s cock, stiff and huge, waggling back and forth in front of Bernie’s pretty face, her narrow mouth opening wider, wider, her tongue extending to lick pre-cum off the frenulum before her lips softly enclosed the... Fuck, Jim, pull yourself together, man! he thought, as he felt his cock begin to make an uncomfortable tent in his trousers. He stammered out loud, “Er... sister, you don’t need to tell me all that, you know, just stick to...”

“Oh, but it’s important, Father,” came Bernie’s voice. “Because that’s what led to it. I told him I didn’t like sucking him off, but he kept trying to persuade me, and I kept saying no...” Father Jim imagined he detected the faintest hint of a smirk in her tone – but of course it was impossible to tell...

“And then,” continued Bernie, “there was the anal. Sometimes when we were making love he’d wet his finger with... well, you know... and then he’d reach round and try to stick it in there. I really didn’t like it – and of course he never forced me; I mean, he’s a kind man, he’d never do anything nasty – but it was clear he was disappointed...”

Oh Jesus motherfucking Christ, thought Father Jim. His cock was stiff now, and he could feel his own pre-cum beginning to leak slowly from his glans. He reached down to adjust his cock inside his trousers, and inevitably his hand lingered just a bit too long, grasping his own erect shaft through the fabric and squeezing it gently. That familiar thrill of pleasure surged through him – but he made himself let go, telling himself: Later, Jim, later. Just get this girl through her confession for now...

“But the strangest thing of all, Father,” Bernie continued unabated, “was when he’d want me to talk dirty to him, you know?”

Are you kidding? thought Jim incredulously. Do you think that just because I’m a priest I don't have male blood boiling in my veins? What are you on about, girl?!

Bernie seemed oblivious to her confessor’s discomfort. Either that, or she was deliberately winding him up – he couldn’t tell for sure. “See, Father,” she continued, “he’d ask me to say dirty words, like… ‘tits’… and ‘pussy’... and…” – her voice lingered a while on the first consonant – “‘ffffuck’.”

In an instant, Father Jim’s resistance crumbled. That word was his favourite, a glorious fillip to all that was unholy and self-indulgent in the deepest recesses of his mind, and it banished all his residual will-power to the four winds. He quietly but swiftly unzipped his fly, removed his stiff sweaty cock from its prison, pulled back the damp pre-cum-lubricated foreskin, and began to slowly wank his shaft up and down, his lips trembling, his breath coming in ragged bursts. This was wrong. This was so wrong – he knew it, of course. But he was going to do it anyway. This girl could not possibly be for real. This was no sacrament, this was an ambush. The Evil One was tempting him, and he was succumbing. And he fucking loved it...

“See, Father Jim, it must be something about men, they all like those dirty words so much. My husband did: he wanted me to say things like” – Bernie lowered her voice conspiratorially – “‘Ram your fucking cock in my pussy, baby!’ and ‘Fuck my hot cunt with that big dick!’ Things like that... Do you like hearing things like that, Father?” Bernie’s voice was hot and breathy now. Her prey was in her grasp, and she was playing with him: Jim knew it – but, though he had no idea why this woman had chosen to ambush him in this manner, he knew it was too late. He groaned, as he felt his cock stiffen further in his sweaty palm, felt his heart pound faster with excitement.

“I’m sure we could have worked things out, Father. You know, I got quite used to the dirty talk – that was quite fun actually. But the oral, and the anal – no way. He’d show me videos on the internet, you know – porn? Girls getting fucked in the arse, and taking cocks down their throats – and it just looked so horrible and painful and disgusting. And then he’d show me videos of group sex, and asked if I’d ever like to do stuff like that – and I said no! And then, to show him I really loved him, I’d let him fuck me. I mean, I really loved it when he fucked me: when his cock was all huge and stiff, and then he’d lie me on my back and fuck me all deep and squelchy. Sometimes he’d lie flat on me and grind the base of his cock against my clit to make me come. Sometimes he’d shift down, so his cockhead found my G-spot. Sometimes he’d flip me over and do me doggy. Sometimes I’d go on top and drive him wild, teasing him with my wet pussy lips before plunging down onto this cock. And I loved all that, Father, I did, truly. Cock in cunt – that’s the way it’s meant to be, isn’t it? I mean, that’s the way God made us, isn’t it?”

Father Jim groaned at the absurdity of his situation. Here was a young girl giving him lessons in Saint John Paul’s Theology of the Body, while he stroked his cock in the confessional – what the fuck was going on?! But he couldn’t stop now. His cock was raging, his balls were aching, and his thoughts were in mindfuck mode. Here was a girl after his own heart, one who loved being fucked in the cunt, and who loved to talk filthy. “Oh yeah, oh fuck, oh God…” he muttered incoherently in his ecstasy.

“You OK in there, Father Jim?” giggled the girl. “I’m sorry for being so explicit, but – I kind of have to, you’ll see why soon, I’ll explain…”

You don’t have to explain, thought Father Jim – as far as he was capable of thinking anything at all, for he was past thinking now. His mind was now fixed firmly on cunt, on fucking cunt, just like this girl was saying: cock slip-sliding in and out, grinding against engorged clit-flesh. It didn’t matter whose cunt: his years of fake fantasy sex, week after week of dirty pictures – “Jenny” or “Codi” or “Elsa” or whoever the fuck they were; or of listening to “Bea” recycling her mind-banked fuck-fantasies for his delectation – all this had inured him to the sheer fakery of being a sex-obsessed celibate. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered now, except the filth-filled moment.

“But then,” Bernie continued, “one day, about six months ago, I came home early from work, and… and I heard voices from the bedroom upstairs. I was about to walk in, but then, through the door, I heard things like, ‘Oh yeah, suck that cock, baby. I’m gonna fuck your pretty slut-face with my big dick…’ – you know, things like that?” Jim heard a nervous giggle from behind the lattice. “And there was the sound of squealing and gagging, like some girl was getting their throat fucked… So then I thought maybe he was watching porn…? But this was too real – and when I realised what must be going on… Oh God, Father, it hurt so much…”

For the first time, Father Jim paused stroking his cock. The girl was sobbing softly now. Father Jim felt sorry – and guilty. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly, as his cock began to soften, and he began to recognise the reality of his own situation. And so his “I’m so sorry” became, retrospectively, not just an expression of sympathy for Bernie, but also an admission of his own culpability. What was he doing sitting in the half-light, pre-cum smeared over his hand, jerking off while listening to a vulnerable, disturbed young woman telling him about the moment she found her husband cheating on her? Shame on you, Jim, he told himself silently.

But Bernie had not finished. “And so I opened the door,” she whispered sharply, “and there they were: Giles standing there shirtless, his big cock stuck out through his fly, ropes of spit dangling from the shaft and dribbling all over the face and tits of my best friend Vicky – you know Vicky: Victoria Berry, she runs the First Holy Communion programme here…? Anyway, she was saying, ‘Oh yeah, babe, I fucking love it when you choke me with that big cock, go on, ram that cock down my throat again…’

“And then she saw me, before he did. At first she paused in shock. Then she screamed. And then she retreated to the corner of the bedroom, desperately trying to cover up her big tits and wipe the spit off her face. ‘Oh God, Bernie, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!’ But she wasn’t sorry – and I knew it.

“Giles didn’t even pretend. He just stood there, spit dribbling from his cock, smirking. He even said, ‘Wanna join us, Dette? Come here and I’ll fuck your cunt just the way you like it, while Vicky licks my balls…’

“And I… well, I had no idea what to say. So I just screamed at him, ‘“Just the way I like it” – sorry?! You’re nothing but a fucking pervert, with all your porn, and your anal and your throatfucking. And now this?! How dare you treat me this way – your wife?! What’s wrong with you?!!’ And then… I didn’t know what to do: I wanted so much to hurt him, to make him suffer, standing there all smug with his dick dribbling all over our carpet. But more than that, I wanted to protect myself, to purify myself of the horror and degradation of it all. I wanted to show him I was better than all his filth, to save myself from where he was wanting to take me. So I shouted, ‘You’ll never fuck me again, you bastard! No man will ever fuck me again. I swear, as God is my witness’ – and I know I shouldn’t have sworn, Father: I shouldn’t have said anything like that, but, God forgive me, I did – ‘I swear that no man will ever fuck this cunt again – or may God strike me dead!’ And then I ran out. And I never went back.

“So now what do I do, Father? I mean, I’ve called a curse down on myself. May God strike me dead if I break my vow – that’s what I said! And, you know, I’ve stuck with it, Father. I’ve kept my vow. Ever since then, I’ve not been fucked. And that was six months ago – probably just before you came to this parish, wasn’t it?”

Bernie paused. And Father Jim sat in the half-light, bewildered, confused, and scared. This woman must be unstable, he thought. Stark raving mad, actually. Why else would she come to the confessional to tell him, in the filthiest language imaginable – what exactly? – that she had caught her husband in flagrante delicto and had now, on the rebound, forsworn sex?

“Bernie… Bernie…” Jim fumbled for the right words. “What can I do for you? You have committed no mortal sin. You don’t need exorcism – or even confession. But do you want help? Counselling? We have a wonderful ministry here for separated and divorced Catholics: let me put you in touch with the leader, she could help you…”

“No, Father,” interrupted Bernie firmly, “you don’t understand. I swore that I if am ever fucked again, God must strike me dead. I am under a curse, Father – and I need to be released. And you are an exorcist, are you not?”

Father Jim sat in the semi-darkness, his flaccid cock stil dangling out of his fly, a little droplet of pre-cum glimmering on his glans, and he took a deep breath. “I have been receiving training, yes – but you don’t need exorcism. Your words were spoken in haste, in an understandable excess of emotion: God will not hold that against you. You need to rebuild your life, not live in fear of an imagined curse that…”

“Father,” Bernie interrupted again, even more firmly that before, “Pray over me now: release me from my curse. The Evil One has my cunt in his grasp. After all…” – Bea paused, then spoke very slowly and clearly – “I am a dirty, filthy, cuntfucking whore.”

Father Jim’s heart skipped a beat. “What did you say?” he gasped.

“I said, ‘I am dirty, filthy, cuntfucking whore.’ Or, would you prefer it like this: ‘I’m a dir’y, filfy, cuntfuckin’ whore – Jimmyyy…’” Bernie’s voice had changed: gone was her slightly Chelsea accent with the barely-noticeable residual Irish lilt; replaced suddenly, brutally, by the chavvy South London drawl he recognised so well.

Father Jim leapt up – terrified. Now he knew he was in trouble. Who was this girl? Who was she pretending to be? Who was pretending to be whom? And what was she after? And why was she playing with him like this? What it a trap? All these thoughts raced through his mind, but he did not have time to voice any of them before Bernie’s voice (or was it Bea’s?), cold as steel despite the muffling effect of the latticed confessional screen, said: “Don’t put yer cock away, Jimmyyy. Leave it danglin’ like the good li’l wanker you are, and join me in front of the Sacrament.” He heard the door on Bernie’s side of the confessional open, and her heels click-clicking across the stone floor in the direction of the altar.

Obediently, though trembling in terror, Father Jim opened his door – and gasped. For Bernie’s tiny waif-like figure was naked now, apart from her red high heels, her tight bottom wiggling and swaying as she walked ahead of him, the wispy outline of her pubic hair just visible between her soft buttocks. “D’ya like it, Jimmyyy?” smirked Bernie, as she looked back over her shoulder to watch his cock, still dangling awkwardly out of his fly, begin to stiffen again. “This is whatcha wanted ta see when you followed me in here, wasn’t it? Because ya like cunt, don’t ya, Jimmyyy? Nuffink better than the sight of a hot cunt peeping out from between Bea’s arse-cheeks, eh? Ya wanna fuck my cunt, Jimmy? ‘Coz you can…” – she reached the sanctuary steps, and turned to point one accusing finger at Jim as she bellowed – “AFTER YOU FUCKIN’ EXORCISE IT!!!”

Bea’s demented scream echoed off the stone walls of the church, as she backed up the three steps to the sanctuary and lifted her bottom onto the altar, carelessly scattering crucifix, sacramentary and candle-stands onto the floor. She spread her legs wide and leant back on her elbows, pert puffy tits and lightly thatched pussy-gape shamelessly displayed. Father Jim stood, horrified and transfixed in equal measure. The detritus of Bea’s blasphemy lay scattered on the floor – but he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Oh yeah, cunt! he thought, despite himself. Yeah, hot fucking cunt!

Bea knew what he was thinking. “D’ya like it, Jimmyyy?” she breathed. “If ya wanna fuck it, get yer prayer book, and fuckin’ remove my curse!” Bea began to slide one finger into her pussy, wetting it with her fuck-slime and gently rubbing her clit. Father Jim hesitated, rooted to the spot in terror, until Bea screamed again, “GET YER FUCKIN’ PRAYER BOOK AND PRAY MY CURSE AWAY, JIMMYYYYYYYY!!!”

Father Jim scrabbled through a pile of books on the front pew, retrieved a copy of Prayers Against the Powers of Darkness, and raised his right palm towards Bea, who was now panting in ecstasy as she rubbed her clit with one hand, two fingers of the other plunging in and out of her sodden pussy.

“L… Lo… Lord Jesus Christ,” stammered the priest, “I place my sister at the foot of Your cross and ask You to cover her with Your Precious Blood which pours forth from Your Most Sacred Heart and Your Most Holy Wounds. Cleanse her, my Jesus, in the living water that flows from Your Heart. I ask You to surround her, Lord Jesus, with Your Holy Light.”

“OH YEAH, AMEN!” screamed Bea, as a spasm went through her body – whether of spiritual battle or sexual pleasure Father did not know, but no longer cared. His words were those of prayer – but his mind was fixed on cunt.

Cunt… oh yeah, cunt! he moaned in the silence of his heart, even as he continued to stammer: “In… in… in the… Holy Name of Jesus, I break and dissolve any and all curses, spiritual influences, evil wishes, evil desires, and every dysfunction and disease from any source including your mistakes and sins. In Jesus’ Name, I sever the transmission of any and all vows, pacts, spiritual bonds and satanic works.”

“FUCK YEAAAAHHH!” screamed the girl, as another spasm passed through her body. Three slimy fingers were now pounding in and out of her cunt, as the other hand rubbed frantically at her clit.

Father Jim’s cock was stiff and throbbing again – but with one hand holding his prayer book and the other extended towards Bernie, he could not touch it, but continued to read with a trembling voice: “In the Name of Jesus, I lift this curse. I thank You, Jesus, for setting my sister free. Fill her with charity, compassion, faith, gentleness, hope, humility, modesty, tranquillity, truth, understanding, and wisdom. Help her to walk in Your Light and Truth, illuminated by the Holy Spirit so that she may praise, honour, and glorify Our Father in time and in eternity.”

“FUCK YEAH JESUS!” screamed Bernie, as her whole body shook from head to toe, four fingers now forming a blur as they pounded in and out of her cunt. “FREE ME JESUS! FREE MY FUCKIN’ CUNT! OH FUUUUUUCK!!!”

Father Jim’s cock was sticking horizontally out of his fly, throbbing with wild desperation. Pre-cum dribbled down his shaft – but still he did not touch, as he continued to stretch out his right hand in prayer: “For You, Lord Jesus, are the Way, and the Truth, and the Life, and You have come that we might have life, and have it to the full.”

Bernie’s whole fist was now pounding in and out of her cunt, her fuck-lips stretched wide in agony and ecstasy as she screamed, “DEPART FROM ME SATAN! I’M COMING! OH FUCK YEAAAAAH!!!” Juice squirted from her cunt, across the floor and down the stone altar steps, splattering Father Jim’s shoes and trouser-legs.

“Surely God is my salvation,” intoned the priest, lips and hands trembling but his cock throbbing nevertheless. “I will trust and not be afraid. The Lord, the Lord himself, is my strength and my defense; he is my salvation.”

“Amen… Amen…” whispered Bernie as she slowly withdrew her slimy hand from her cunt, her fuck-lips stretching wide, leaving her pussy gaping, her pink flesh glistening in front of Father Jim’s face. The priest lowered his right hand, then stood, staring, bewildered, drained – but his cock still stiff and dribbling.

“I’m free, Father,” said Bernie, a wild deranged smile spreading across her face. “Jesus has set me free from my curse!”

Jim stared in horror. Bernie’s face was luminescent, demented. But her cunt shone with a different kind of gleam – and Jim could not tear his eyes away from it.

“I can fuck again, Father,” said Bernie. “My cunt is free again: look!” She spread her pussy-lips wide, so that Jim could stare into her pink gloopy bubbling depths. And then she said the inevitable: “Now ffffuck me, Jimmyyyy…”

Father Jim gripped his cock with his right hand, even as his left held his prayer book tight. He was scared – terrified of what he had just done, and of what this deranged troubled girl was now telling him to do. He knew this was all wrong. But the scent of frigged-out cunt, the sight of that glistening pink fuck-flesh, and the sound of her sultry voice breathing at him, were too much to withstand. “Fuck me, Jimmyyy,” she said again, “Fuck my hot cunt. ‘Coz I’m a dir’y, filfy, cuntfuckin’ whore. And you like dir’y fuckin’ whores, don’tcha? You wanna fuck my filfy cunt wiv yer big cock?”

Father Jim nodded, mutely, his right hand gripping his shaft. His prayer book slipped subconsciously from his left hand, landing in a little puddle of pussy-squirt on the stone floor. “Come on Jimmyyy,” breathed Bea. “Don’t be scared. My cunt’s all safe now. No curse no more. And I’ve been waitin’ for this for so long, Jimmy. Every fuckin’ Friday night I’ve had my fingers up my cunt, rubbing myself off for ya, listening to ya spurt your hot cum all over yer wank-mags. Now it’s time for you to fuck my cunt for real, Jimmy!”

“Wh… who are you?” stammered Father Jim. “Why me?”

“Later, Jimmy, later,” said Bea, spreading her cunt-lips again. “Now fuck me.”

Trembling, Father Jim walked up the three stone steps to the edge of the altar, where Bea sat, her legs spread wide, still adorned by her red high heels, her cunt pungent, oozing, inviting. He nudged his bulging cockhead against her cunt-lips, and pushed.

“OH GOD!” He could not resist calling out – for here, now, for the first time ever, was something he had fantasised about all his life. He felt Bea’s soft moist velvety depths yield and engulf him, felt her juices gently coat the length of his shaft, felt her inner cunt muscles squeezing, caressing. And then he started to fuck – slowly at first, relishing the heavenly-hellish feeling of her slip-slimy walls stroking the full length of his shaft as it slid all the way out, then in, and then again, and again, each new thrust taking his cock to a new level of pleasure, and his mind closer and closer to ecstasy.

“Is ‘at good for ya, Jimmy?” Bea eyes gleamed. “You lifted my curse, Jimmy. I knew you could, Mister Father James Wright! From the first time I saw yer card details I knew you were the one to save me. Giles and Vicky can go fuck themselves: ‘coz I got a priest to set my cunt free!”

Jimmy knew deep down that this girl was mad, that he had been trapped, and that this meant the end of everything he had ever truly valued: his vocation, his career, his friendships, his reputation. But… cunt. Cunt. This was not like jerking off over his magazines on Friday night. This cunt was real – and truly, he saw that it was good. Bea was now talking to him the way he could never resist: “Feel how fuckin’ wet my cunt is, Jimmy? That’s what you do to me, babe. You’re gonna make me come, Jimmy, ‘coz I’m a dir’y, filfy, cuntfuckin’ whore, and I’m gonna fuckin’ come all over your big cock!”

“OH GOD!” cried Father Jim again, his voice echoing to the rafters. He felt the cum rise in his shaft – but this was different from any time before, for now his sperm was being caressed out of his cock by hot wet pussy. And when Bea got to her customary “Here it is baby, come deep inside yer dir’y filfy cuntfuckin’ whore – oh FUUUUUCK!!!” Father Jim did just that, ramming his cock deep, so he felt his dickhead hard against her cervix. Spurt after spurt of hot jizz exploded from his cock, deep inside this beautiful, sexy, demented, diabolical creature. Here in this moment were met good and evil, beauty and filth, Heaven and Hell. His vocation was forgotten, his reputation abandoned: all that mattered was cunt.

“Oh yeah, Jimmy, does ‘at feel good, babe, comin’ in my fuckin’ pussy?” moaned Bea. “Was ‘at good, Jimmyyy? D’ya like comin’ in my dir’y hot cunt, Jimmyyy? Better than all those fuck-mags, eh?”

Father Jim groaned and nodded incoherently, as he slowly pulled out, leaving a thin gloopy strand of semen dribbling across the edge of the altar. Bea lay back, grinning naughtily, as she dipped two fingers into her fuck-hole, withdrew a blob of warm cum, and proceeded to savour the taste.

Father Jim felt like kneeling in thanksgiving and adoration – but of course he knew that would be wrong, so instead he stood awkwardly, panting, feeling the ecstasy slowly ebb away. This time, he gradually realised, was different from before: instead of the habitual tawdriness of watching his semen congeal on magazine pages, instead of the creeping feeling of guilt he was so used to, he felt free. Liberated from decades of hypocrisy, elated by his shamelessness, he turned away from Bea, penis still dribbling, to face the nave, raised his arms heavenwards, and cried out towards the great east window: “Blessed be the Lord God of Israel; for he hath visited and redeemed his people, and hath raised up a horn of salvation for us in the house of his servant David! Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!”

And then Father James Wright laughed – a great and glorious roar of laughter such as he could not remember ever having laughed for decades. And he danced, like David before the Ark, spinning round and round, skipping down the aisle, vaulting over the baptismal font, leaping skywards in a semi-naked paean to his new-found liberation. “If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed! Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery!”

“Bea!” Jim shouted, turning back to face the altar. “You mad, sexy, dirty, beautiful girl! We have both set each other free! Never mind your silly little curse, never mind your adulterous husband and his First-Communion bimbo, never mind my half-baked hypocrisy of a priesthood – you and I, Bea, are free! We have prayed and fucked, and fucked and prayed each other’s curses and burdens away – alleluia! Bea, up you get – come and join me in praising God!”

But there was no answer from the waif, who lay still and silent on the altar, cum slowly oozing from her cunt.

“Bea? … Bernie?”

There was silence.

Father Jim ran back up the aisle and up the sanctuary steps, approached the altar, and reached out his hand… He touched hers – and withdrew immediately in shock.

“Oh God, no… no…”

Outside, the clouds must have been clearing, for a ray of sunlight pierced the great east window, suddenly casting a bright red glow on Bea’s fucked-out, lifeless cunt.

“GOD, NOOOOOOO!!!” screamed Father James Wright, as he clutched his chest, then tore at his hair.

And then he turned, and ran.

To be continued…