I have a priest fetish. A big, throbbing hard on for hot men of the cloth. Oh they exist. Trust me. It all started when I was a wee lass. See, in Spanish families, traditionally the second or third son would often go into the priesthood. While the inheritance laws that started that tradition no longer apply, many younger sons still go into seminary. So growing up going to Puerto Rico all the time I saw a lot of beautiful young Latino men from the Jesus boot camps running around in their tight black trousers and tight white collars. All this while the first stirrings of estrogen were beginning to percolate through my adolescent body.
But this, fascination, shall we say, didn’t bloom into a full on fetish till I encountered…Father Tasty.

If you recall the first episode of Tales, I mentioned changing some names to protect identities, including those of clergy members. Well he’s the one I was referring to. Father Tasty (not what we really called him you understand) is a real live Catholic priest. Don’t ask me how in the world he makes going to a pro all right with the Jesus but he was a regular.
Father Tasty has an odd problem. He feels the need for purification through mortification, but can’t bear to hit himself because he’s afraid he won’t do it with the appropriate amount of gusto required by god (I’m guessing), thereby cheating himself out of some divine cookie or whatever it is you’re supposed to get by fucking yourself up for religion. Also? The Vatican has frowned on flagellants for some time now and I imagine getting caught doing such a thing would not go well with his superiors. So he hired a dom to do it for him at a location far from his normal haunts. There really is a service industry for everything, isn’t there. You see children, this is what happens when you mix religion and masochism.

There I am, having a nice cup of coffee in the house part of the House one day, when Madame comes in and asks me for a favor. I wasn’t working that day, just hanging out and helping to hang a wall (the House is a converted warehouse so walls had to be made and she wanted a bigger living room that day, so my assistance was requested). The favor in question involved taking over a certain client for a spell. She tells me he requires a great deal of vigorous flogging and she damaged her shoulder (playing twister while drunk, I shit you not) so didn’t feel up to it. No problem.

I figure it’s going to be the usual. You know, tie ‘em to something, smack ‘em around a bit and call them names. The bread and butter of BD/SM. Not exactly, this guy’s a special case. She hands me my outfit for the session. I look at it. It’s a nun’s habit. And not a naughty nun either. No PVC, no latex. An honest to shit nun’s habit. And a single tail flogger. Ouch. Those fuckers hurt.
“So, what’s his deal? Interesting time at Catholic school?”
She smirks. “Nope. He’s a priest.”
Bullshit.
“Nope, no bullshit. He’s a Catholic priest.”
Jaw. Floor.
The deal is I have to do this dressed as a nun, because he wants it to not be a sex thing because he’s a priest and if I’m dressed like a nun he won’t think of sex. Maybe *he* won’t, but I’ve known a few guys...
I’m not to say anything, especially none of the dirty talk we use with our normal customers. I’m just to whip the shit out of him while he meditates or whatever till he tells me to stop.
I am overwhelmed by the certainty that I’m gonna die. Right there in front of a customer, suffocation due to laughing my ass off. I’m picturing this stodgy old priest who in my head looks like John Cleese, and is like, super god man by day but when god’s not watching is secretly a dirty dirty kinkster getting his ya yas out being abused by a hot chick dressed as a nun. Dude, how am I going to keep from cracking up?
“I can’t do this with a straight face” I inform Madame. I can’t tarnish her reputation by asploding with laughter while disciplining a priest for fuck sakes. No matter how rightly funny it is.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine” she tells me. She always tells me that. She’d been right up till that point but I was afraid her record was about to be broken.
Whatever. She’s the boss.

So I get up into this habit thing. I don’t know how they do it. Nuns I mean. That thing sucked stale communion wafers dipped in yak pee. It was binding, itchy and hot. This from the girl who was regularly wearing rubber corsets. Right? So you can imagine!

Anyways, I drag myself and 600 lbs of god’s polyester down to dungeon number 5. It’s the all purpose room. Looks a bit like a semi posh English study. We’ve found no one really objects to staging anything in a semi posh English study so we use it for almost everyone who doesn’t require heavy equipment like a cross, pony, maiden or whatever other large piece of furniture we may need to tie them to.

Deep breaths. No laughing. No snorting. No smirking. No indications that I notice what simply MUST be a stunning resemblance to John Cleese, I’m psychically sure of it. No Fish Called Wanda quotes. I am a professional. Om, om, om.

Composure firmly in place, I enter.
The first thing that pops into my head is, “Where’s the priest?”
The second is the realization that that *is* the priest.
Kneeling in the middle of the floor wearing his tight black pants but no shirt (because it is folded neatly, collar up, on a chair) is just about the most delicious slab of man candy I’ve laid eyes on since the first time I saw Brad Pitt with his shirt off. Some flavor of Brown person (he could have been Arab, Indian, Hispanic. I couldn’t tell), hair and eye lashes you’d cut a bitch for and a body only 20 year olds have without trying (which is about how old he looked). And he’s kneeling on the floor, eyes closed, muttering to himself and clutching a bible. Waiting. For me. Like a naughty present wrapped in layers of piety.

Nono! Om, om, om. I’m a professional…
Nnnn-om nom nom. Tasty little...
Shit!

I looked up at the CTV camera because I knew my sadistic whore of a boss lady was watching and gave her the finger. And I got to work.

I was told not to say anything, just get started. So I did. I laid into his shoulders with the flogger. No warm up, no chit chat. I tried to work up a rhythm so I could sort of zone out rather than stare at that finger lickin’ Jesus twinkie because that line of thought was counter productive in the extreme, when his muttering starts to pick up the volume.
I can tell he’s really starting to feel it. He’s shaking, all his muscles are standing at attention, he’s broken a sweat and his skin is turning Barbie pink. Then I start to make out the muttering.
He’s PRAYING.
In *Latin*.

::dies::

So here I am in a nun’s habit flogging this gasping, caramel colored dirty thought who is praying non stop in Latin (::whimper!::) and all I could think was that if he didn’t yell ‘safeword’ soon I was going to get fired for knocking a client down and fucking him during a session. Not to mention the special hell I’m sure Satan has for sex workers who force themselves on unsuspecting clergy that I’ve got juuuust enough Catholic upbringing left in me to believe I will go to.
I had just about decided I didn’t give a crap when he raises one arm, signaling me to stop. Not our usual signal, but I’d been told he wouldn’t say anything much and to just watch for him to gesture when he was ready to quit.

He’s a wreak. I’m no slouch when it comes to my flogging and single tails are nasty business . His back looks like a stop light. He’s covered in sweat, shaking and gasping for air on his hands and knees.
Having been told I was just supposed to make my way out when it was over and leave him to his ruminations, I stepped around him and got ready to leave.

One of the things Madame is psychotic about is not leaving anyone in what’s commonly known as “sub-space” (basically a mega endorphin high) alone without making sure they’re on their way back. Some folks like their quiet time after though and that’s ok. And someone is always watching on the CTV so no one is ever really alone. But still.
So the last thing I do before I leave any recently beaten up person to collect themselves, is do a quick check to make sure they’re not in shock or about to pass out or something. I wasn’t supposed to touch him, so I checked him out visually. Watched the pulse in his neck was strong and steady, listened to his breathing to make sure it was beginning to slow down and he wasn’t starting to hyperventilate or anything, checked his color (going pale is baaaad), and just made sure he looked like he was coming around.

Satisfied he was gonna live, I straighten up. That’s when he looks up at me with these huge, I mean *huge* chocolate eyes and whispers, “thank you” in that tone only a well fucked (or flogged) male speaks in. I blushed. Hard. For one of two times in my life, I fucking blushed.
Then I died. Right there. No really.

Ok not really. I was however, fast on my way to beginning to drool in front of a stranger, but my partially psychic Madame buzzed me (all the rooms had intercom for emergencies) at that moment. Good thing too. I was like, rendered utterly retarded. Erogenous zones I didn’t know I had were ringing bells and no one had touched me. Come on guys, Latin? How can I be expected to maintain my composure? I bloody can’t that’s what.
So I remember to remember myself and leave the room with some degree of dignity intact. I didn’t start licking him so I consider that a win.

And there’s Madame, grinning like a jack-o-lantern, waiting in the hall so she could catch my expression before I put a face on to avoid embarrassing myself.
Cocking that ironic eyebrow of hers, “Tasty, no?”
Going to hell going to hell going to hell going to hell.
“Fucking tasty.”

During the entire month of April, I am blogging for RAINN (Rape And Incest National Network) in support of National Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month.
At least once a week all month long I’ll be blogging about sex and sexual violence as part of a contest through the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign.
While reading these posts, you should think about donating to RAINN so they can do what they need to do to keep more women from falling prey to sexual violence. When you donate, if you could mention "GBBMC:08" and “captain_snarky" in the "In Honour Of" box, it will allow them to track my posts and the donations that those posts generate. If you want to donate but think I'm an obnoxious cow who shouldn't be allowed to win prizes, fuck you, but thanks for donating and feel free not to mention me if it offends you.