Church Whores

By Boyd Agate

When newly ordained priest, Rory O'Toole arrived at the sleepy country parish of St. Valentines, he expected nothing more that a gentle introduction into church life. But the handsome young curate was destined to spend most of his time attending, not to the pastoral needs of his flock, but to the massively repressed sexual appetites of his lady parishioners. Ladies who thought nothing of baring all, both in the vicarage and the confessional, as Rory got to grips with all his many Church Whores.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fiction4All
• Release date: Dec 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005993276

Book preview

Church Whores

2022 Edition

Boyd Agate

Published by Fiction4All (Silver Moon Books imprint) at Smashwords

Copyright 2004 Boyd Agate

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Author's note: All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.

Chapter 1

It happened on my ever first morning in my first ever parish. I had always known and been prepared for the fact that one day I would come face-to-face with a woman who would test my vow of chastity to the limits, but not this soon. Not before I even had the chance to unpack my blessed suitcase.

Her name was Bridget McOnneky and she was Father Declan’s live in housekeeper. Now in my experience, catholic priests’ housekeepers are deliberately selected by the diocese for plainness, dullness and chastity, and those are the good ones. But on this occasion the bishop had screwed up big time. Although, to be very honest about it, Bridget did not appear at first sight, to be any sort of salacious temptress lying in wait for a hapless young curate fresh out of the seminary.

Bridget was in her mid to late thirties I guess, with unremarkable brown eyes and dark brown hair pulled fiercely back into a tight bun. She was dressed in the ubiquitous garments of women in her lowly profession: A drab cotton frock that descended well past her knees, augmented by a somewhat tasteless nylon tabard bearing a farmhouse kitchen scene. What little bit of leg she did display was sheathed in thick, American tan tights. Her feet were shod with flat black shoes, the sensible, comfortable sort that a policewoman might wear for pounding the beat.

All this I had briefly noted the previous evening when I arrived at the manse, fresh off the last train from the capitol. I was soaking wet and dog tired after travelling all day and battling with the irregularities of the broken down rail network. Bridget had appeared in the comfortable, fire lit lounge only long enough to hand me a thoroughly welcome cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches, before discreetly retiring to her bed.

Father Declan, the grizzled old parish priest, had patted me on the shoulder in a fatherly sort of way and said how glad he was to have some help at-long-last. St. Valentines was a busy country parish and he expected that I would find plenty to keep me busy - what with today’s youth the way it was. I let that somewhat ominous comment pass unchallenged and crammed in another mouthful of food.

Once I had wolfed down my supper, Father Declan apologised for not being able to stay up for a longer chat, but his good friend, Father Aiden, from the neighbouring diocese, had taken a stroke