She undid the buttons on her shirt, and continued to stand in the doorway. He wondered if he was dreaming.
“I need to feel your hands on me father. I know you want that too.”
Before he could protest, she slid onto bed on top of him, her body cold, but her skin soft. The shirt rode up, revealing the curve of her buttocks, straddling him so her crutch pressed against his penis. She stroked his chest, her touch feather-light, and took the shirt right off.
“No Sarah…” he whispered, his voice ragged.
“Ssh,” she murmured, her hand trailing down his stomach, her fingers caressing his cock. “Do you want to put it inside me, Father? Do you?”
“Oh God...” His voice was a groan, a prayer, a plea.
"Do whatever you want Father. Suck my titties, spank my bottom, fuck me like there's no tomorrow. There's nothing you can do to me that hasn't already been done..."
She guided his cock to her entrance, her body trembling with need. Played with it. Teased herself with the tip of it on her clit.
"You like that Father? You like driving me mad like that? You're beautiful cock so full of cum. Come on, Father. Slip it deep inside me. Let's put you out of your misery.”
“Fuck me, Father,” she begged. “Fuck me hard. Please, I need to feel you come inside me.”
He lost himself in her, his body moving on instinct, his cock swelling, his balls tightening. With a roar, he came, his seed pumping into her, his body shuddering with the force of his release. She cried out, her body convulsing around him, her pussy squeezing his cock.
Father...please go down on me, then fuck me. Please!
I'm getting a glass of water Father. Would you like one?
"Father...I'm not proud of my career choices on the mainland. But I made a bit of money my six months of...sex work." I remember doing a porn shoot with a horrible bloke in a wheelchair. But then he paid me a fortune to wait tables at a business associate's fiftieth birthday. I wore a really brief bikini all night. Sat on his knee and kissed him. Like really tongue kissed him.
"The guy in this photo had been trailing me for days, and had figured out that I was basically homeless. He bought me a bikini and we drove around for a while, him showing me off to his mates. Some of them took pictures. Then he paid me 500 bucks to drive around naked. Sure I said. Later on he paid me another two grand to come back to his place."
“My childhood was a nightmare, Father,” she whispered, the words raw. He didn’t speak, just pulled her closer, his arms tightening around her like he could shield her from the past. His lips brushed the top of her head, but his mind was a storm—was this love? Or just pity for this broken girl who had found her way into his confessional, his bed, his life?
“I ran away at sixteen.” She said it simply, like it was nothing, her cheek pressed against his chest. “My stepfather.” She didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t need to. “My mother knew. She just—” A short exhale through her nose. “I went to the mainland. Refuges. Lied about my age to get work in hospo.” She was quiet for a moment. “There were always men who’d offer a warm bed. I took some of them up on it.”
“When I turned eighteen, I started escorting.” Her voice was flat, a recitation of facts. “The money was incredible. More than I’d ever seen. I did a few porn scenes too. Let them film me. It was cold. The lights were too bright.”
“Six months ago, my mother called. I don’t know how she got the number. I let it ring out—five, six times. But she kept calling. So I answered.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “She said she loved me. Said it was safe. That he was gone. That the house was quiet. I wanted to believe it so badly my chest ached.” Her voice dropped to a raw whisper. “He was never going to leave.”
“And he hadn’t, had he?” Father McGuire said. It wasn’t a question.
She shook her head, and he felt a tear on her cheek.
“He kept me in a room with no light. Him and his friends.” Her voice had gone very still. “He’d seen the films. He wanted his own copies.”
“Your mother—”
“Knew.” The word landed like a door slamming. “She knew every single day.” Sarah pulled back just enough to look at him, and he saw something in her face that was past crying. “She told the priest - the one before you - that I was troubled. That I’d always been difficult.” A short, ugly sound escaped her.
He was the worst offender."
He woke late the next morning. It was daylight, about ten o’clock. The storm had abated, and the sun was shining. Evidence of the night’s sexual adventures - the damp patches on the sheets - were disgraces needing to be shielded from the housekeeper.
He threw on a dressing gown, and wondered where the girl was. No sign of her anywhere. Fortunately, given Mrs Moffat was due to arrive at any moment, she was no longer in his bed.
He stripped the sheets off the bed, bundling them under his arm. He moved through the rectory calling Sarah's name once, quietly.
Mrs Moffat arrived. "You're up and about late this morning Father," she commented.
"Had a late night last night Mrs Moffat," he answered. "Tell me," he hesitatingly asked "do you know a young woman called Sarah Rice?"
Mrs Moffat froze. "What do you want to know about her for?"
"Just something I heard around town, Mrs Moffat. That's all. Who is she?"
"People say she had a hard upbringing. Her mother's dead, her stepfather's in jail. The girl herself...was killed in a hit run the same night as her mother was killed. About six months ago it was."
McGuire sat. Feeling faint. Wanted to cry, but had to hold his feelings in.
"How terrible," he said as blandly as he could. He returned to his bedroom and, on the bedside table, he saw an earring. And out the window, he saw Mrs Moffat's daughter's shirt flapping on the clothesline.
Mrs Moffat's Daughter's Shirt 17-20