An 'almost' with a priest!

Hmm…let me see now. I suppose I was 17. I was still going to church mainly because we had an Anglican organist and choirmaster. When he converted to Catholicism, he brought with him that strong musical tradition that just isn’t there in the Catholic Church. But it’s not him of whom I wish to speak today. 

Instead, let us turn our attention to Father James. A man of around 40, I’d say, and me, a sexually precocious teenager, completely at home in her body, and, to put it another way, a flirtatious little minx. 

When I wasn’t singing, I would serve at the altar. This involved both prep and putting stuff away at the end of mass. Never let it be said that a priest would lower himself to do any work of that order. (Get to the point, Anna) 

So, I was clearing away after mass in the sacristy. It had been a swelteringly hot day and I was in my usual bra-less state under the thinnest summer dress I possess. Now, I don’t know if I’ve told you this, but I have unusually dark areoles around my nipples. Compared to the rest of me, which is very pale indeed, these are a dark, dark brown, and show through the dress. As, on that day, did my black panties. I am, and always have been a Miss Brain dresser. She directs me to what I shall wear each day because she knows how I am feeling before I do. 

So, I fussed about doing stuff, and Fr. James hung around, long after (I realise now) he would have usually gone. He was a quick change man in the sacristy. Off with the robes, and away out of the door. Yet here he was. Was I being flirty? Well, not verbally I don’t think, but as usual, I knew I was wet, and, as usual, that carries a scent, doesn’t it? Priests might (emphasis on the ‘might) be celebrate now, but not all of them have always been celibate. 

In an of itself, it was nothing really….or maybe it was. There’s a small step leading to a cupboard where the brass candlesticks are kept. I had put them away, stepped back and missed my footing, falling backwards into Fr. James’s arms….and his hands that grasped me firmly on each boob! For a second or two we just froze like that, me leaning back into him, and him holding my breasts. Accidentally? No. Not a chance. He could have caught me without placing his hands there. In any event, the ‘step’ concerned is only an inch or so high. I staggered more than fell. 

Awkward silence reigned. Then I felt his thumbs graze across both nipples before he let me go. That was definitely on purpose. 

There are those who will be reading this and yelling at their computer screens “You were sexually assaulted by a priest. Quick! Sue the church! Get on the #metoo bandwagon!) Except, I wasn’t sexually assaulted at all. At 17 I was desperate for any kind of sexual contact and I wasn’t in the least fussy from whom it came. 

I went to the restroom and did precisely what Fr. James was doing, ie rubbed one out. In his case, his daily fight with a condition no human being should be forced into  had been addressed. In my case, as Emily might say “You got your tits fondled.” It was definitely NOT something I didn’t want. 

In that pokey little restroom, I imagined him rubbing one out, and then Miss Brain got hold of the scenario and changed it to him taking my cherry…..on the altar! Now that really did provoke an explosion between my legs! It’s not as if my black panties weren’t stained enough already! 

Do I regret that a middle-aged priest had a quick grope? Not at all. True, I was a virgin at that particular point in time, but apart from that inconvenience, would I have fucked him? Yes….I’m not and never have been ageist in my sexual desires, in fact one item on my bucket (or should it be fuckit) list is to have sex with a much older, and preferably married man. 

I do remember the feeling of his warm hands and fingers though! Mmmmm. I may have to do something about that memory, if you’ll excuse me…..