The warm, muggy evening wrapped around me as I climbed out of my car. The neighborhood was nice, with rows of well-manicured lawns and small, but easy-on-the-eyes houses. I swallowed hard, trying to push aside my intense discomfort as the blue plaid and pleated skirt I wore swirled around my upper thighs. I glanced around. Fortunately the street looked quiet and all I really had to fear was that someone would glance out their front window and wonder what the hooker in the street was doing.
That’s sort of how I felt because it was how I was dressed. The white blouse was actually sort of modest, since it at least covered my top half. No bared midriff which drives me absolutely nuts. Exposed bellies is for teenage girls, not grown women. The tie I was wearing matched the skirt exactly, which was sort of the point because it was a uniform. Except I’m pretty sure no Catholic Schoolgirl ever wore a pair of white, thigh high stockings that didn’t make it up to the hem of her skirt, much less black stilettos with six inch heels.
Like I said, the resemblance to a local street hooker seemed more probable than me looking like some teenage girl skipping home after the final bell and that had my stomach roiling with humiliation. What if someone saw me dressed like this? What would they think? I pushed those thoughts firmly out of my head and hurried down the sidewalk. Thirty seconds right? That’s all it would take to walk from where my car was parked to the nice, little porch?
I headed up to the house, glad that the porch light was off. It wasn’t as welcoming I suppose, but it made things less obvious to the neighbors. I climbed the steps, my short little skirt’s hem dancing around the lower curves of my bottom, and with a huge step, rang the bell. It took no longer than five seconds before a man, dressed all in black, complete with shoes and belt, answered the door. He was in his upper fifties, his hairline receding and going a sterling gray. But the most notable thing about him was the white clerical collar that he wore. His eyes were bright with enthusiasm as he saw me and he stepped back.
“Come in, my child.”
So I stepped into the devil’s playground.
Ever since I’d moved out of my parent’s farmhouse I’d been what some might call “religiously lost.” I’d grown up Catholic, as had my daughter Rachel and while I admired much of what the Roman Catholic Church stood for, there were a few things, perhaps political, perhaps not, that I wasn’t too enamored with. This tale isn’t supposed to be Breanne’s Encyclical on all Things Bad and Good with Catholicism, but those personal issues led me to try a few other Christian places of worship. From Anglican to Episcopalian to Lutheran, to even a few non-denominational spots. I even went to a Unitarian Church. Wow… was THAT an experience. But one of the non-denominational churches I liked a lot and went back to multiple times, was one with an amazing preacher named Father Bob.
Father Bob was in his late fifties and looked wise. His homilies or whatever you call them if you’re not Catholic were amazing, riveting, filled with humor and grace. He was a gifted speaker. After my face became a repeat feature some of the other parishioners greeted me and filled me in. Single, educated, and wonderful, Father Bob was something of a saint in their eyes. I could see it. I really could.
I want to state for the record that when I went to church you probably wouldn’t have recognized me. Oh sure, my hair was still fire engine red, long loose curls that immediately attract the eye like moths to a flame. But there the normal nympho humiliation pain slut you’re so familiar with was gone. I dressed conservatively, usually in a nice dress with a hem around my calves, with no tight curves or dipping cleavage. It was… me. The side of me that isn’t a needy fuckslut. The one that would normally control things if I weren’t constantly being pressured by desires that drive me into what some might call sin.
I’m not sure when I came to Father Bob’s attention. Probably the first day, considering I must have looked like a beacon of flame in his otherwise blond and brunette congregation. But it was on the fifth Sunday that he approached me after the service, his warm smile welcoming, his hand extended as we had a brief moment of privacy in an otherwise packed room. The other parishioners were giving the leader of their flock a moment to greet the new sheep. Baa baaaa.
“Good morning,” he said, holding out his hand. I took it and he shook it softly, with almost a caress. “I’m Father Bob.”
I couldn’t help smiling, a warm glow spreading inside me. And it wasn’t a sexual one either. “I know sir,” I replied. “You are such a great speaker. I love listening to you.”
He grinned, nodding happily. “Thank you. I appreciate that. I do have a question to ask you though.”
I smiled eagerly. Was he going to ask me to join his church? A personal entreaty to join his flock? Was he going to ask about the state of my soul? Would he ask about my daughter? He leaned in close and I saw the twinkle in his eye.
“Your name wouldn’t happen to be ‘Breanne Erickson’, would it?”
I blinked, totally shocked. My mouth fell open as I stared up at the man and he laughed. “I guess I was right,” Father Bob said quietly. I stood stock still, wondering if I were about to be condemned and cast publicly out of his church or whether he’d quietly plead with me to put aside my harlotry. He took my arm and put his hand on my back. It wasn’t improper, just very familiar. “I’ve been a fan of your work for some time and when I saw you and Rachel, I knew immediately that between the red hair and your daughter, there was a high probability that I was right.” He glanced around. “Where is Rachel?”
I swallowed hard, still more than a little stunned. “Getting a donut,” I confessed. My daughter had a sweet tooth and she loved going to the Family Hall to get a morning snack.
“Ahh. The hunger of youth,” he said, making it sound like innuendo. “But as I was saying. I love your writing. I have to ask though, is it real?”
I stared up at him, just a flurry of agitation in my expression. “Of course it’s real,” I protested, feeling a touch of anger. I saw his eyebrows go up and I flinched slightly. “To an extent. It’s based upon memory. Sometimes I don’t exactly remember the specific details. I have to be creative with my descriptions so that I express the appropriate tension and it doesn’t come out sounding like a crazy person wrote it.” It came out sounding just a little arrogant, like I was lecturing him. “And I sometimes skip or minimize the boring parts.”
Father Bob continued to smile. “I can’t imagine anything involving a woman as lovely as you having boring parts.”
I froze, just a little stunned and blinked again. “Father, are you hitting on me?”
He turned me, again with his hand on my back and we walked along the last row of the church. “Breanne, might I ask why you’ve told some of the other parishioners a different name?”
Now I blushed, embarrassed. “Father, Breanne is my middle name. I thought…” my voice trailed off.
He nodded in sudden understanding. “Of course. Your warring sides. Innocent farm girl on one hand, nympho humiliation pain slut on the other.”
I grimaced. The words coming from a priest’s mouth just sounded dirty, even if he was a fan.
“Yes. I do understand. It could be socially difficult to explain your profession, for both you and your daughter, were anyone to discover your alternate identity.” He put his hand on his heart. “Your secret is safe with me,” he said. “But I do have one more question to ask you.”
I stood there as the implications of his words swirled through my mind. “Yes, Father?”
“In your tales you say that Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Rule #2 requires you to follow any order given to you that doesn’t break your limits. Is that true?”
My stomach tightened up into a dark, heavy knot. Slowly I nodded. Father Bob’s smile didn’t change a whit. He put a hand on my cheek, caressing it downward to cup my chin, but it was his other hand that concerned me. It slid downward, through the small of my back and then even lower. Dangerously lower.
“Excellent. Then here are my orders…”
The inside of Father Bob’s house was quaint. The furniture was old but serviceable and the place was kept clean. The living room also served as Father Bob’s library and office, with a leather couch against one wall, big enough for two or three, and a single, heavy leather chair obviously meant for him on the other side of a worn oak coffee table. A Bible rested on the table, black, ominous and judgmental.
The desk was also made of wood and looked like it had come from another age, when the construction of furniture had been as much an art as a livelihood. A silver lamp sat at one end while a laptop computer gave the whole thing a surreal look. The shelves behind the desk were crammed full of books. I didn’t get the opportunity to peruse his collection, but I’m betting most of them were religious treatises of one kind or another.
The curtains were drawn and the moment the door closed we were in private. I stood there nervously, acting just like a schoolgirl. As he came around me his hand touched my back, lingering there much longer than appropriate, his fingers swirling. I thought for a moment that he was going to slide his palm down to my bottom, but he didn’t. Instead he turned me slightly and gestured for me to sit down on the couch.
Of course. Right where he’d be able to look up my skirt.
I moved to the couch and wondered how to play this. I’d been basically blackmailed into coming in the first place, not that I minded terribly. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been a force of corruption amongst the clergy before and clearly I’d corrupted this one without evening knowing it. I had a long and disgusting history of seducing authority figures, including a few men of the cloth. I can say that while I’d been a little young, especially in some people's’ eyes, I hadn’t been a child. Seventeen is legal in Texas, so don’t go screaming pedophilia. Father Joe’s fall from grace was purely at my hands. I feel bad about it too.
And that brought me back to Father Bob. The Catholic Schoolgirl fantasy can go one of two ways. Either the girl is an innocent, the sweet but totally corruptible bit of flesh, or she’s a devil, a temptress seeking to bring down the holy servant of God with one of the seven deadly sins: lust. As I sat down the hem of my skirt rode up my ass and I could feel the material of the couch on my bare bottom. Father Bob seated himself opposite me and stared. I could feel his eyes roaming over my body, seeming to touch me. I’d done the seductress thing before and this time I thought I’d play it straight. Maybe it was time for the conservative, saintly side of me to get what was coming to her. Still, it would depend on Father Bob. I pressed my knees together and shifted back and forth, blushing. One of us would be dancing with the devil.
It just hadn’t been decided who got to wear the horns and tail.
“I’ve heard child, that you’ve been a naughty, disobedient little girl,” he said leaning forward hungrily, angrily. I gave him a half terrified expression, bit my lip and looked away.
“I didn’t mean to be,” I whispered, playing into the roles established. Clearly Father Bob was going to be the villain in this story.
Father Bob’s eyes narrowed and he loomed above me. “But you have sinned. A great deal. And now it is time for your penitence.” His hands reached out and yanked me to my feet. “You’ve been a naughty girl and now you will suffer for your sins.” His hands slid across my chest, touching my breasts and I felt goosebumps rise on my arms as I quivered under his touch.
“Yes, a filthy, unclean spirit,” he whispered in my ear.
I heard a poem once, or maybe it was a Bible quote.
She’s a dwelling place for demons
Of lust and sin bestirred
She’s a cage for unclean spirits
And of every filthy bird.
She makes us drink the poisoned wines
Of fornicating kings
Breast and loin and sultry lips
Host for evil wings.