The Lascivious Monk

CHAPTER I. The Abbot

At the time we are introducing Abbot Pineraide, this worthy man of the cloth is only twenty-five years old. He is in fullest bloom of his young manhood, and very good looking at that. Nature has gifted him with strong muscles and straight, well-tooled limbs and, since we are speaking of tools, this part of his anatomy was one of the good father's best and finest assets. In other words, he was well-hung, and his female penitents outnumbered the men by ten to one easily. The young priest was in perfect health and his penitents gladly helped him enjoy it. Today, he has just started his vicarage in the parish of Motte-sur-Vy, and he has yet to see his first penitent.

He is using the few hours that are left to him before the confessions start to walk around the little town. He wants to get to know it thoroughly. He may have to spend the rest of his life here-the best years of his manhood anyway-and he wants to make sure that these best years are not going to be wasted. He is especially interested in the women, and he is overjoyed to discover that most of them are very pretty, smile at him and are giving him that certain look which makes a man's blood run hot through his body.

They are all standing in front of their homes so that they can take a good look at the new shepherd of their immortal souls, in turn giving said shepherd a marvelous chance to take stock of the charms of his new flock. He walks slowly through the streets, his dark, flowing cassock hinting at a strong, masculine body. But the good father knows how to keep up appearances. He clutches his breviary in his hand, his lips mumbling as he pretends to read it. His dark eyes flash from left to right under bushy eyebrows and now and then he nods his head gracefully when the women murmur their greetings. The best looking women get a friendly smile while he nods his head in blessing…

Under his cassock he can feel his prick growing and stiffening. It quivers with hot desire and joy. Oh, yes, the beautiful cock of our young priest shall not want in this little town, and it keeps right on swelling with ardent desire. The men of Motte-sur-Vy seem to sense the threat that is looming beneath the cloth of the man of God. The glances they throw in his direction are not in the least friendly. The poor suckers feel that this virile looking priest with his large nose, flaring nostrils and sparkling eyes is going to be a threat to the sanctity of their homes. But how are they going to lock up their wives, daughters and fiancees? They know that this man is a veritable Don Juan who is going to cut down their opportunities in the available flock of chickens to the point where it might hurt. Is that a fair way to cut down their chances of sinning?

But what can they do? Nothing! The vicars of the eternal Father in Heaven can do whatever they want and go unpunished. The best thing a husband can do in such a case is to ignore his horns and leave the priest to his designs. And that is exactly what the men in Motte-sur-Vy did.

The young abbot would stop frequently to pet a young girl on the cheek. She would walk up to him, genuflect respectfully and blushingly wish the new priest a good day. He would smile benignly, get his fingers as far below their neckline as possible and watch the reaction. Since they always knelt down, it was always proper for him to reach. Moreover it afforded him a good look into their bodices and he began to catalogue the members of his female flock according to the firmness of their nipples, the amount of gooseflesh he could raise, and the colors of their blushing flesh. It was quite simple, really. All he had to do was to look deep into their eyes, probing their hearts and souls. His vibrant, masculine voice would whisper a loving blessing into their ears. The reactions of the women told him much about the conditions of their souls. When he had finished his breviary for that morning, the priest had a fairly good idea about the needs and wants of the innocent lambs of his flock.