Defying Customs, Chapter 4 -- Easter Day

Elizabeth goes to a country church with her young lover. She's then invited for luncheon in the presbytery, where she finds herself in a bit of a jam.

When Elizabeth covers her raven hair with a fancy scarf on a Sunday, she becomes more than glamorous; she becomes like an icon and a white-gloved witch.

When Elizabeth tells me, “Today is our spring and I don’t want to share it with anyone else but you... This is our own April!” I perceive a diffuse sense of desperation in her voice. Maybe her beauty is deceiving her into thinking she’s still a maiden and she desperately wants to believe it.

This must be why she picked such a young lover as me. Another car zooms past the building, on its way toward Montreal on Route 2. The motor quickly dies out in the distance.

She looks at me tenderly, her pajamas still open and I can't help but enjoy the view and forbidden beauty. Her boobs look surreal in the daylight, at a time when people are normally fully clothed; they offer a lovely merry-go-round to my eyes as she gently moves about.

“Come here, lover boy...” she softly whispers. We kiss. We try to stop time with as our lips try to erase our age difference so we would both stay young forever, but it’s no good. The clocks are ticking. Cars are passing by.

“I’m hungry,” she says.

“Yeah, me too.”

We quickly get washed and dressed. This is the first time I see a woman putting on her stockings. She often smiles at me as she does so. I could watch her for hours on end.

She then puts on a lovely dress, forest green with a galaxy of tiny polka dots. The long sleeves will allow her to remove her greatcoat during the mass without being cold. She smiles at me as she puts on a narrow belt of brown leather that highlights her slim waist and emphasizes her hourglass figure.

She lithely spins round and smiles at me... “What do I look like now, lover?” she playfully asks, giggling like a girl of my age.

I answer by kissing her and tenderly caressing her breasts through her dress, taking advantage of the fact she has yet to put her lipstick on. She giggles in my kiss, playfully runs her hand through my hair and breaks free... “I’m hungry, darlin'! And we need to drive on today...”

This reminds me of my worried mother and the possibility that the police might already be after us. I feel bad from doing this to my folks, but this woman... I can’t picture myself without her!

I quickly put on my white shirt from yesterday and find my tweed trousers. If our little adventure is to last several days, I’ll need at least another change of clothes and we’ll certainly need a laundromat. She gives me her candy-store look and smiles as she watches me putting on my necktie—chocolate brown with three pearl-beige diamond shapes—with my usual half Windsor knot. I smile back at her as I put on my light-brown jacket, ready for that sunny spring day.

Since no restaurant would be open on Easter, we eat a makeshift breakfast made out of corned beef, cheddar cheese and sliced bread with some fruit. She even has a small electric coffee pot in her luggage. We don’t have milk, but it’s good to have steaming black coffee.

Elizabeth then puts on her dark rouge and adds the finishing touch to her outfit. She throws a scarf over her head—a wonderfully fancy piece of light cashmere, cream white adorned with warm patterns of browns, yellows and sapphire blue; its bright paleness enhances the blackness of her hair as she makes a simple knot of it under her chin while smiling at me.

She now looks like a Madonna—a head-covered icon, her face looking pure and pristine with her contrasting rouge, and the neat shadow of her hair that gives her the part of a Sunday witch.

As we pack up and get ready to hit the road again, I’m getting worried.

“I think we should forget about the mass and keep driving on all the way to Montreal. I’m afraid that the police will be looking for us now,” I say as she puts on her day gloves and sits behind the wheel of her rental Chevy.

“I’m sorry, lover, but hearing the mass on Easter Day is not something I can skip. I'm Scottish and Catholic. Besides, when I checked out at the counter over there, I asked about a nearby church and the old landlady told me about a lovely country church about eight miles after Sainte-Anne-de-la-Pérade. It will be there or nowhere!”

“But it’s only fifteen miles from here! It’s only nine thirty A.M... We ought to drive on! The police...”

“It’s Easter Day, handsome. Everything’s closed. Nobody works. Even if the police get notified by your parents, it will take them a while to get in touch with Château Frontenac and go from there. Nobody even knows we left town! And I rent that car beforehand through my agent, and under an alias. I think we can breathe easy for today and take the time to stop for the mass,” she says as she turns on the ignition and we hear the nice, comforting sound from the straight-six-cylinder motor coming alive for the next leg of our journey on Route 2.

“And besides,” she adds as she flattens my soul with a killer smile, “that Catholic priest will probably be a very lonely man... Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

She then gracefully pulls back the three-on-the-tree gearshift lever and pushes it up to put the car into reverse, while I contemplate her stockinged lower legs and her shoed foot as she pushes the clutch, giggling as if she were a teenage girl on her way to the malt shop.

The sunny landscape offers a nice get-away of shimmering blue that reflects the sky as we get glimpses of the St. Lawrence River beyond the leafless trees bordering the road. I see a red-and-black cargo ship from afar. It’s making headway toward Quebec City, where my parents must be out of their minds with worries over me. I ought to call them and tell them that I’m fine and I’ve gone of my own free will.

“Eliza, there’s a cargo ship on the St. Lawrence River. There are several crewmen on its board—six, perhaps seven men who feel lonely. Would you enjoy picturing yourself alone with them on that ship?”

“Lover! Don’t distract me like this while I’m driving! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! I’m sure you would love to be there and watch!”

“More than that—I would hold you for them and watch. Then, I would partake!”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Aren't you ashamed, saying such dirty things on Easter Day? And aren't you a shy adolescent boy?”

Indeed, I'm surprised to be so bold in my words. It's as if losing my virginity made me into a man.

As I turn on the A.M. radio, I soon learn that I won my two-dollar wager with the neighbour's son. Boston won the game, four goals against two, and the series against Detroit. They will play the Montreal Canadiens for the Stanley Cup.

We are reaching Sainte-Anne-de-la-Pérade. On the radio, they are speaking about the song Jezebel that aired in Quebec City yesterday evening. The radio host and his guests are shocked at such an immoral display of sinful lust on Easter Eve! Again, the dirty city, full of sins, is corrupting the pure minds of country folks. The priests are our shepherds and they would guide us away from sin and to salvation.

“You hear this, handsome lover? I’m the Jezebel corrupting a pure, virtuous Catholic boy like you. I should be burned at the stake!” she playfully comments while driving on and slowing down as we enter the small town. She presently stops at a flashing red light suspended by cables above a crossroads.

“If they catch you, I’m certain that the priests will want to strip you naked and see what you look and feel like before they carry out the sentence,” I reply.

Smiling subtly like a new Mona Lisa, she makes headway again on the town’s main street, pushing the three-on-the-column lever up into second gear with delightful grace; her white-gloved hands are a dream to watch as she brings it down into third gear; we’re cruising through the sunny village at 25 mph.

“Hmm! I would very much enjoy this... provided that you are there to watch it all. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! I can be their Jezebel too. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

She keeps giggling with her bewitching voice and laughter as she once more slows down and downshifts into second gear before making a full stop and pushing the gas again. She gracefully works back up from first to third gear while I can’t get enough of watching her stockinged legs, her shoed foot playing the clutch and pedals and her lovely hands on the chrome-and-black wheel, so bewitching in her white gloves!

“I love so much watching you drive, Eliza. You’re quite a gal!”

“Hhmm... Does it give you ideas for later, handsome?”

“Perhaps. Yes. Once we’re far enough, perhaps we can...”

“Perhaps we can, what?” she replies, giggling while keeping her eyes on the street ahead of us.

“Well, I don’t know... Well, I do, but I’m a bit shy to tell you about it...”

“Oohh... Now, that sounds like some interesting, dirty stuff! Tell me, handsome! What are you planning to do with your old girl?”

“I’ll... I’ll tell you after the mass...”

There are very few people on the street on that Sunday morning. People will only head out a bit later when all the church bells will chime to celebrate the Christ’s Resurrection.

She looks beyond glamorous as she drives on with her head under that wonderful cashmere scarf. The idea of watching her getting gang-fucked by some dirty sailors on a squalid cargo ship is the most delightful sacrilege I can possibly think of.

We soon leave Sainte-Anne-de-la-Pérade, now cruising on the highway at 45-50 mph.

“We’ll be an hour early when we get there.”

“I know, lover, but I’m certain we can pass the time between ourselves in a fun way. Do you like kissing inside an American car? Will the sight of my tits be too adverse to you? Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

As she speaks, the radio is playing a song that will be green-lighted by the Catholic Church since it glorifies the simple life in a forest shack, where squirrels are to be seen on the doorstep, although the idea of an old Indian paying a visit sounds to me like a clear sexual innuendo. Line Renaud sings Ma cabane au Canada, filling the Chevy with the charming sounds of that music that speaks of my country's traditions and vast woodlands, and the clear undertones implied by that old Indian being neighbourly enough to pay her a visit.

***

We spot the white church at our left upon passing the crest of a hill. It is one of these picturesque churches from the past century that adorn the shores of St. Lawrence River like a rosary of little houses of God all the way from Montreal to Quebec City and some more to Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré and far beyond, reaching out to scattered gulf-shore hamlets as far as Rimouski and Gaspé, in these easternmost parts of the Belle Province, where the Easter church bells mingle with the roaring surf and find their echoes against Rocher Percé.

Gulls are flying around the church’s belfry; white birds gliding into the wind around a white tower under fair heavens. They are paying a social call.

“Oohh! This is lovely! Lovely!” Elizabeth ejaculates as she admires the site and the wonderful setting—the white church on a small hill overlooking a wide forest of spruces and birches with the shimmering waters of St. Lawrence River as a grandiose backdrop.

Elizabeth parks the black Chevrolet in the empty gravel lot. She steps out of the car and dances with joy while looking up at the church’s belfry, the gulls and the sky. She’s laughing and giggling like a teen girl, yet again. I love to see her in her greatcoat with that fancy brooch. Now that I know what's beneath it, I'm eager to enjoy those mysteries revealed again. I then realize that I will never look at girls the same way again. I'm not the same lad as I was yesterday.

I take her hand and lead her toward the spruce woods, and off we go for a nice stroll on a ridge, where we find a breathtaking view on the tranquil St. Lawrence River, where another cargo ship is making its seemingly snail-pace headway out in the distance.

“This one is headed for Montreal,” I say.

“Hmm, and it’s run by sailors who would love to have me onboard. Tell me, handsome, what would you do with me if you were them?” she asks, turning her brown eyes on me and taking my hands while the April breeze rustles leafless maple branches above us as we stand at the edge of a small forest.

“Well... I’m not them. They are sex-starved while I just got my fill with you... Twice this morning. I... Don’t get me wrong, Eliza, I love undressing you and all this, but right now... Right now I feel like just kissing you and enjoying the bright day. You can ask me that question later today and you may get a very different answer!”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ooh, you’re so mature! So romantic! You know exactly what to tell a girl and when... Yes, I’m tired myself too. Let’s just be like teenage lovers. Let’s kiss and hold hands and enjoy the landscape under that bright sun and blue skies with scattered clouds! Isn’t it fabulous?”

“They don’t call it the Belle Province for nothing. I’ll tell you this, Eliza. This country is my home. There are spruces and firs standing in the horizon, and this is home to me. I was born here and I will be buried here.”

“So, you won’t be coming to Scotland? Don’t you want to meet my friends and family over there?”

“I don’t think your family will approve of us, but I’m curious to see what Glasgow is like. And besides, I said I’d like to be buried here in Quebec. I never said I didn’t want to travel. Please, tell me about your Scotland. Is it as fiercely romantic as I read in Rob Roy?”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! No, not exactly, but I’m sure you’ll love my apartment in Glasgow, but I’m not sure I’ll introduce you to Margaret Lockwood; she would try to keep you for herself! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! And I want to keep you for myself! Now kiss me, silly boy and make my girly head spin round!”

“It’s already spinning round!”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Very true. Now, please, kiss me and make your girl happy!”

She laughs and giggles, her high-cheeks face and moving toward me with her sensual brown eyes and her straight eyebrows. She smears her dark rouge on my lips and cheeks as we share French kisses. I love how my nose is gently meeting her straight, delicate nose. Each time we kiss, we violate social customs, which makes the peachy softness of her lips even more delightful. Each kiss is a new discovery of her charms. I wish this would last forever. The day is warmer than yesterday. It does feel like paradise; like an eternal spring. The breeze and Elizabeth's kissing, a perfect Easter Day.

We sit on a flat rock and I hold her gloved hands, tenderly stroking them as we keep French kissing. At times, the delicate tip of her nose gently strikes my own nose and she giggles, yet again. Gulls are making their usual cries while other birds are chirping in the trees. Squirrels are running nearby.

The quietness of the breeze and the delicate, porcelain-like clouds set a wonderful mood that imprints that moment for ever in my mind.

“Eliza. As I kiss you now, I know that no matter what happens, I will never forget you. I love you.”

She looks back at me with tears welling in her eyes and a smile fraught with joy and mystery, with a note of tragic despair.

“Je t’aime à la folie, mon amour!” (I’m crazy with love for you, my love!) She finally replies with her wonderful accent, and our kisses start a new merry-go-round.

A merry-go-round is never meant to last forever.

I’m caressing her face as we keep kissing, now with a fiery passion; she looks both solemn and glamorous with her pale headscarf. We keep trying to make time stop so we’ll remain here on that day for eternity. The gulls keep gliding around the belfry; another cargo ship is gently passing by on the St. Lawrence River.

By the time we get back, people are showing up for the high mass. There are a lot of red or black Chevy pick-up trucks in these rural parts, along with cars that are mostly between five and fifteen years old. These God-fearing farmers are especially fond of black as a sober colour for their cars. Their wives and daughters are all wearing hats; some have a scarf or shawl on their head. Many wives are leading a toddler by the hand.

In spite of the solemn proximity to the house of God, most of the local men and boys feel the need to keep staring at Elizabeth, making us as conspicuous as can be. It needs to be said that we kept holding hands a bit too long and people probably have noticed her hastily redone rouge. They also see that we are walking back from the woods, and for all teenagers and grown-ups, there is little doubt as to what we were doing over there.

These good people are shocked. I see it in their faces as clear as day. Some old women even sign themselves. I have to say I'm a bit surprised. I stand a full six feet tall and her scarf-covered hair barely reaches my chin. Do I look this young compared to her? Well yes, I didn't shave this morning and my chin is still as soft as an angel! My features still retain some of that choir boy look I had when I was 12.

After we enter the church and wet our foreheads with holy water, we quietly take our seats on the fourth row from the back, rather far from the altar. We sign ourselves and start to pray. I ask God to give me the happiness of spending the next years with Elizabeth, of seeing Glasgow. And Margaret Lockwood too. My prayers quickly take a pagan turn. I end up daydreaming, picturing Elizabeth and Margaret as high priestesses, ready to be fucked in their temple.

The mass is quite long. The priest is wearing his full Easter regalia, a white gown with gold bands and patterns along with a gold-band white stole over his large shoulders. He turns his back on us. He faces the crucifix and signs hymns in Latin along with a choir of young boys. It is beautiful to hear in this small church that smells of fresh pine wood; it clearly has undergone some renovations as of late.

Toward the end of the mass, the priest addresses the congregation for his Easter sermon. He looks quite old, perhaps sixty-five years old, if not seventy. He stands tall at the pulpit. His silver beard gives him an authoritarian look. There are still hints of dark hair; this man must have been quite intimidating back in his day.

As he talks, his powerful voice resonates throughout the church, reaching the two hundred-odd people crowding the high-ceilinged nave.

After some time speaking about the Resurrection and the mystery of life, he suddenly starts talking about yesterday evening and the song Jezebel that aired on the radio...

“My dear brothers and sisters, the fellow who put this evil song in the air is a poor wretch whom the Devil has seduced. Thankfully, we are good Catholic people who don’t speak English, so the words of this Protestant singer could not be understood and poison our souls with their lascivious message, which can only come from Satan.

“But we all heard the name, Jezebel. Jezebel, she who seduces men and leads them astray into temptation. I shall not say more here in the presence of children. Beware, my brothers! Beware, my sisters! Beware of the dark-haired woman who strikes you with her beauty and mystery. Beware of that woman you have never seen before, for her beauty will be your downfall! Beware!

“If you find yourself involved with such a woman, leave her at once! Leave her and go back to your true loved ones. You will only find salvation with your kin and your loved ones in the realm of the Church.

“We will now celebrate the high mysteries and the communion. As you receive the Host, think about what I just said. Stay with the ones who truly love you and do not let Satan’s deceptive charms lead you away from the path to salvation.”

Needless to say, everybody is staring at my lovely companion, who uncomfortably fits the description given by that old priest. As he gives his sermon, I keep thinking of the wonderful time we just spent together, kissing and holding hands under fair heavens, watching the tranquil flow of St. Lawrence River. I wonder what evil there could be in this.

With her fresh rouge and her wine-red greatcoat adorned with that fancy brooch of hers, Elizabeth looks indeed like a femme fatale. Her Madonna headscarf intensifies her pure-face beauty and glamour. Her visible hair frames her in black.

I could cut with a knife and take slices of jealousy from the stares I get from the men—and some teen girls. I suddenly realize that we are holding hands. People are shocked as they see her comparatively mature features next to my apple-cheeked youth.

“Do not stir one inch,” she whispers as she holds my hand. “We do not need to fear these people, for we are in the house of God. Just don’t pay attention to them. I’ve seen this in Ireland too. Just don’t pay attention.”

After receiving the Host and concluding the high mass in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, we leave church while ignoring all these good people staring at us. I’m already starting to get used to have people staring at me.

I want to lead Elizabeth to her parked Chevy and be off right away, but the priest greets us outside where he’s shaking hands with churchgoers and wishes them a happy Easter. I wonder how he could be outside so soon after being seen standing by the altar. How could such a heavyset man move so swiftly. Could he be an un-dead? I suddenly recall words from Bram Stoker... "Denn die Todten reiten schnell. For the Dead travel fast."

He makes eye contact with us, especially Elizabeth. Something tells me that he’s already spotted us and he was waiting for us. He greets us with a benevolent-looking smile...

“Hello! I see that you are new here. Do not worry about what I said in there and do not pay attention to these stares you’re getting. These folks wouldn’t hurt a fly. I know them well.”

“You seem to have been here for a long while, Father. I’m El... Elsie, I’m on my way to Montreal to visit family with my nephew,” she says, politely extending her gloved hand.

“I’m honoured! You may call me Father Sam,” answers our venerable host as he gently kisses the back of her hand, with a style I have never seen before. Given his age, he must have learned that style as a boy before 1900.

He has steel-blue eyes and there’s a definite intensity in the way he looks at Elizabeth alias Elsie. I am thrilled to be with an alias. It adds to her glamour. It feels like I’m in some film noir, running away from something. Sooner or later, fate is going to catch up with us. Let it be later...

“Uh, auntie,” I say, “I think we must get going; you said yourself that you wanted to...”

“Oh, but won’t you be our honoured guests for Easter? I civilly insist! You, my son, you will love my niece when you see her! She’s about your age, and you, Miss, I hear from your accented French that you are perhaps Scottish. I was myself born in Scotland. If I may, where are you from?”

“I’m from Glasgow. Our family is a large one.”

“I see. I grew up in Inverness, in the Highlands, a stone throw from Loch Ness Lake, and no, I haven’t seen the fabled monster, but I do believe it exists. I haven’t been in Scotland for more than thirty years. I migrated to Canada after the Great War, but I pray thee, Milady, I’m sure you and I would have a lot of things to say to each other, two Scots in Canada, and we won’t be alone. There will be my niece, my deacon and the bishop himself, who is honouring us with his Episcopal visit.”

“Your bishop? Why wasn’t he giving the mass?”

“He was a bit indisposed, Milady. His Excellency is even older than I am. He will be delighted to see such a nice and fascinating lady as you. Pray, be our guests! You’ll see that my niece Sophie is a wonderful cook. She brings much joy in my humble presbytery. We only have her for this weekend, alas; her mother will be with us for dinner tonight.”

Elizabeth leans close to me. Her eyes bright with excitement, she whispers... “What do you think, lover?”

I nod and she smiles radiantly.

There’s something I don’t like about this whole thing. What kind of mother allows her teenage daughter to spend a weekend by herself with grown men? But he’s her uncle and he must be a good, virtuous man. He must be, yet, my gut tells me that something is off.

I remember that Elizabeth carries a snub-nosed .38 Special revolver in her purse. I commit this vital information to my mind. That purse will be near me at all times. I whisper this to her ear.

“Oh, Gaston, don’t be such a child! It’s fine!” she replies.

“Does that mean you’re coming over for lunch?” our host says, staring at Elizabeth with an intensity that arouses me in a weird, preposterous way.

Elizabeth nods and smiles.

The presbytery is a white, rustic house built in the Canadian style with dormers letting the daylight flood the bedrooms on the upper floor. The black roof tiles remind me that all is not white and pure in this world. I keep my guard up as we pass the threshold.

Standing in the kitchen, I see the prettiest teenage girl who ever met my eyes.

Sophie stands at the sink and greets me with a warm country girl’s smile. She looks like a petite girl straight out of my dreams, except her hair isn’t midnight black; it’s a warm chestnut that wonderfully highlights the luminous whiteness of her innocent-looking face. She wears it in a teenage-style, a simple ponytail. She looks really cute with her thin eyebrows that make me daydream of a nice strip of dark hair adorning that treasure which is hidden under her skirt. Again, here's a thought I would never have had when I was a virgin boy.

Looking down her figure, I see a typical plaid shirt, mostly green and gold, with a simple, mud-brown skirt that lets the daylight fall on her bare lower legs; then my heart pulse goes up a bit as I notice that she is barefoot. She follows my gaze and grins at me while making a playful curtsey.

“I see that you like Sophie, my young friend... Ah, blessed days of my youth!” says my expressive, thick-bearded host, who looks a bit like Santa Claus wearing a Catholic soutane.

Sophie turns back to the wood-burning cookstove and attends to her cooking, while I can’t help but notice how her thin belt highlights her supple waist and the appeal of her youthful curves.

An old man wearing a soutane with a purple stole laughs and comments about the way I’m gazing at their teenage cook. I look at Elizabeth as she takes off her headscarf, and what I see is something I have never seen in her face—jealousy. But it lasts only a fleeting moment.

“Oh, of course, my nephew doesn’t get to see girls his age very often. He’s attending a boarding school for boys,” Elizabeth suddenly says, very casually.

I want to kiss and reassure her, and I mean it, but I must play my part as her nephew. Elizabeth is acting wonderfully; she’s in her natural element. Finding a girl pretty doesn’t mean I’m going to cheat on her, although I would definitely love to fuck that girl in front of Elizabeth and include her in a hot threesome.

Father Sam makes the introductions.

Bishop Clairmont—the one wearing the soutane and the purple stole over his shoulders—looks very old indeed; he must be seventy-five, at least. It suddenly strikes me that he was my age around 1890, when all streets resonated with horse hoofs and rolling carriages, just like in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

Robert, the deacon, is perhaps forty years old. He’s rather thin and not-so-good looking. He strikes me as someone who could play the role of a fearsome-looking brigand, but at present, the dark-haired man wears the soutane of a Catholic churchman and looks rather dignified, but this seems to be a thin veneer. He's looking at Elizabeth with a longing that a veneer of civility can't fully hide.

When Sophie shakes my hand, I do my best attempt at kissing the back of her hand; she’s so graceful! Her white skin is heavenly silk and touching her electrifies me. I just can’t help it. To me, a whole new world opens when my eyes meet hers from up close. I barely register the colour of her blue eyes; I feel weightless on my feet and no longer know where I am.

Sophie... Her husband will be a lucky fellow. But... What am I thinking?! I’m with Elizabeth. We just met yesterday! I’m so confused.

When we all sit to eat, Elizabeth closes her eyes as we listen to the bishop’s prayer.

“Gratias Tibi agimus, Domine, quod cibus ad essendum et vinum ad bibendum nobis est. In nomine Patri et Filii et Spiritus sancti. Amen,” says the venerable bishop.

“Amen!” we all answer. The cuckoo clock is the only thing breaking the silence. It's a heavy silence. Not entirely cheerful, but one of those silences that carry something ominous. I can't take my eyes off Sophie.

Elizabeth sits next to me, near the old bishop who presides the table opposite our guest. Sophie is facing me, beside the deacon, who sits quite close to her. I can tell that the two of them are probably intimate, and who am I to judge a girl for liking a man twice her age? I’m presently holding hands with a woman twice my own age under the table, while she kicked off her shoe and her stockinged foot is gently pressed on my lower leg.

Father Sam is grinning at us. The old man sees things.

At the wooden wall above us, near a deer head, the cuckoo clock breaks the silence with its steady ticking.

Everything in that house offers the warmth of wood. There are heavy rugs on the floor, all of them of a dark wine red with faded patterns. I also notice a black cat sleeping in a corner of the dining room where we all sit at a large colonial-style table.

Sophie has got up. She presently brings the pea soup and serves us all. Elizabeth wants to help, but Father Sam wouldn't hear of it. We're his honoured guests.

Father Sam is very entertaining in his speech. He tells Elizabeth that she’s now going to have her very first authentic Canadian springtime luncheon, which always features maple syrup.

“Plenty of sap in the trees, this year!” Robert the deacon observes, looking straight down at Elizabeth’s bosom.

"Yes, so I can see," Elizabeth answers while barely looking back at the deacon. She takes more interest in getting the salt.

Elizabeth greatly enjoys the food. After the pea soup, which is house-cooked and tastes amazing, comes a large omelette with a generous piece of ham and slabs of bacon, with beans on the side. There’s also fresh country bread and some dill pickles. Nothing of these fine dishes would be truly Canadian without maple syrup.

This one is amber. I tell Elizabeth that amber syrup is the one that tastes strongest.

“Well, it is fitting to be having strong-tasting syrup while being the guests of such a warm-hearted priest!” the Scottish actress replies, smiling at our broad-shouldered guest, who now wears his usual cassock after taking off his white and gold Easter gown.

“This is indeed the syrup with the strongest taste. Do you like it, Milady?” says Father Sam, smiling a mile wide while Elizabeth keeps eating.

As she eats, Elizabeth clings to me. The touch of her foot gets very sensual against my lower leg, under my tweed trousers. She smiles at me and gives me some more of her girl-in-candy-store look, uncaring about whatever our dignified guests may find odd in this. We already know that everybody sitting at that dignified table has secrets, and everybody knows that there is a lot more than meets the eyes.

Sophie is soon gone.

“Sophie isn’t very hungry,” says Father Sam with a playful grin. The bishop lets out a short burst of laughter. Sophie shyly smiles at me, then looks down to the floor and blushes as she leaves the room and goes upstairs, with the house cat trailing her.

I get curious about her and start asking questions. I get the same story over again. She’s seventeen and lives in Three Rivers and her mother will take her back with her tonight. I’m sure they aren’t telling all, not after seeing Robert sitting so close to her.

The conversation gets quieter. Something more serious hangs in the air. Sam begins to talk about his younger days. When he was just a teenage boy, he enlisted in the British Army by lying about his age. He was only fifteen.

He wound up in South Africa where he was part of the small garrison in Mafeking when the Second Boer War broke out in 1899.

He speaks very highly of Colonel Baden-Powell, under whose orders he had the honour to fight. They were only a battalion of about 1,200 men plus some irregulars from the civilian population of Mafeking, a town of capital strategic importance.

They held out the town in a dreadful siege against 9,000 Boers who had heavy artillery, while they had only their regimental light cannons.

“We basically starved for the last hundred days. Do you know what it’s like to be really hungry, Milady? So hungry that you start eating your own leather belt. We ate all the horses in the town; after that, we started eating dogs. Our Colonel played amazing tricks and ruses to make the enemy believe there were more of us, to make us look strong while we were so few in numbers and starving.

“Any other commander wouldn’t have lasted more than fifty days, being very generous. He would have retreated and left the town and its white and African population to their fate at the hands of the Boers...

“What do you think the Boers would have done with the civilians in Mafeking, Elsie?”

He looks at her in earnest as he asks this loaded question. Bishop Clairmont and Robert watch her intensely as she gathers the loaded meaning and slightly blushes under their collective gaze; their stares are suddenly loaded with lust bordering on the predatory.

“Father Sam...” she blurts out.

She’s breathing hard and deep as she speaks.

“The question is a very simple one, Milady. Would you have enjoyed being one of the English women in Mafeking if the Boers had captured the town?”

“Well, Father, we’re all adults here and none of us are stupid. They would have done what no history book ever mentions...”

Elizabeth clings to my hand under the table; she’s panting hard, sweating too. She must be afraid! Now I need to get my hand on our insurance policy, but this would be only used at the very last resort, since we're guests and a host would normally never harm his guests.

I check inside her purse and I’m in for a surprise—Elizabeth’s revolver is gone!

Who could have taken it?

This is serious, very serious. We are in grave danger! Pearls of sweat are rolling down my forehead and I feel the sudden urge to loosen up my tie and take off my jacket.

Before I have time to whisper anything to her ear, she grabs her purse and excuses herself to the loo. The three men are intensely watching her, like hawks!

After ten or fifteen seconds, I want to follow suit, but Father Sam puts a hand on my forearm; it's a gentle touch, but I can still feel immense strength behind it.

"Look, sonny, there's only one washroom. You need to wait until Eliz... until Elsie is back."

I'm shocked and remain seated. How could he know Elizabeth's actual first name? I must have made a slip of the tongue without realizing it. Yes, that must be it.

The cuckoo clock's ticking audibly in this ominous atmosphere. No one speaks.

Elizabeth's half-heel shoes make steps that sharply break the silence in this wooden house that looks very homely, yet turns into something disturbing. Nobody's eating anymore. I feel crushed under this silence.

Elizabeth takes back her seat, sending a whiff of her scent to me. I gently caress her thigh under the table, and she takes my hand. She's trembling! She must know that we're unarmed now.

"My dear Elizabeth, I know who you are! And I know that this young man isn't your nephew."

Father Sam's words hit me like a whip. What is he driving at? At least, his knowing Elizabeth's true identity isn't all surprising since he's from Scotland too.

"I think we must leave! Come on, Gaston!" Elizabeth replies, grabbing her purse.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Only one phone call is all it takes and the police will be here within minutes! This young fellow here is your lover, and you've taken him away from his folks, on Easter Day! Think of the scandal! Think about what this would mean for your acting career once folks in England get wind of this!"

"Wh, what do you want? I can write you a cheque..."

"Oh, no, my dear Miss S***! I was never a materialistic man. I, we want something else. I think you get my drift, don't you sweatheart?"

Father Sam, the gaunt-looking deacon and even the venerable bishop, they're all staring at Elizabeth and her bosom.

"I think we would all be pleased if you took off your clothes, Miss," he adds, licking his lips and looking like a grotesquely lewd version of some Scottish Santa Claus who wouldn't do for a Coca-Cola ad.

Father Sam's enjoying a three-quarter profile view on Elizabeth from where he presides the table. His gaze is boring through her forest-green dress, through the galaxy of white polka dots as she sits motionless, just panting hard and making the glamorous shapes of her torso stand out more while clasping my hand, trembling, under the table. The deacon is even worse! He's positively leering at her.

This whole situation, in spite of the danger, makes me intensely horny. The idea of Elizabeth taking her clothes off for those men makes me hard beyond belief! I now have a monstrous erection that gets in the way of peeing.

Silently, solemnly, Elizabeth gets up, doing her best to remain calm and composed. She makes an incredibly glamorous figure with her jet-black hair, long and regal. We would all believe her if she says she's royalty. Something tells me that she's never done such a thing before, at least not in such close quarters and most likely not with three men.

"Come on, Miss. Take your clothes off. You're the dessert," Father Sam bellows, breaking the heavy silence and clearly enjoying his position of power.

"Shame on you, Father," I snarl, surprised at getting so brave. I can't falter in front of Elizabeth.

"Oh, hush up lad. You want this too. I see it in your eyes..." the dignified-looking priest replies, his steel-blue gaze and face filled with much amusement. And anticipation.

Shame on me! He's right.

***

Like in a dream, her fingers are floating toward her bosom. She takes hold of her upper button, and gently begins to undo her dress top.

Father Sam has nodded at his deacon, and both men get up from their seat. Both men are much taller than Elizabeth, who looks very vulnerable as she reluctantly undoes her thin belt where her hourglass figure gives men so much to hope for.

They all stare at her. Robert the deacon licks his lips as he visually devours Elizabeth from head to toe. Father Sam is clearly aroused; one of his hands is inching toward his groin. Bishop Clairmont has risen from his seat as well, stating that he needs to stretch his old legs a bit. He literally eats her up with his own lustful gaze. I had no idea such an old man could be such a pervert! He must be eighty!

Then, I suddenly think of Sophie and my erection becomes painfully hard as I picture her in a willing foursome with all these three men.

“Father Sam,” Elizabeth says in a strangely cheerful voice while giving her femme-fatale smile to her blackmailer, “Father Sam, about the women in Mafeking falling into Boer hands, I’ll tell you a little something...

“You know that there are wives who get little affection from their husbands. Well, I think that many of these English wives would have freely given themselves to the Boer soldiers. With all this post-battle passion flowing, these women would have melted in their arms and gladly taken their semen in a gigantic, town-sized orgy!”

As she speaks, Elizabeth opens some of her dark-green dress, revealing her statuesque cleavage along with her plain-white bra.

The eighty-year-old bishop, his eyes nearly pulled out of their sockets, holds onto the table to remain standing as he starts to breathe harder. Something is clearly cooking and simmering under his black cassock.

Robert, grinning with pure joy in his eyes, his face hawkish, walks to Elizabeth, while Sam observes her with calculated resolve. Father Sam is the most cunning one of the three, and he’s still very strong physically. He’s probably the one with the gun. And yet I have a hunch that something escaped me.

“Father Sam,” Elizabeth says with the most seductive voice I ever heard, “Oh, Father Sam, your tale has greatly excited me! You know exactly what to say to a girl to get her in the mood! What I’m going to tell you may surprise you, but I... I feel like... Yes, Robert, you may come and kiss me. I’d like this very much!”

Robert immediately rushes at Elizabeth and kisses her as he literally screams his lust into her gaping mouth. It's so gross! How is she able to take this? I see her tense, arching her back under the strain as she clearly loathes his touch, but then, Father Sam smiles a mile wide and also rushes at Elizabeth and grabs her buttocks, very crudely, while the venerable bishop sits down on a chair and watches the unreal scene unfolding in front of his porcelain-blue eyes.

The tension and danger make my senses inordinately keen. I hear the cuckoo’s ticking. It's deafening! I want out of this! But I can't leave! I sense the men’s off-the-chart lust. They grab Elizabeth with just as much hunger as brigands!

I must do something, but I remain frozen with dread and yes, I do want to see her getting stripped naked by those awfully gross men.

"St, stay where you are, darlin'! It's... it's all right. Just watch! Please, Gaston, watch!" she bellows upon freeing her face from the deacon's ravenous kissing. And now he's avidly licking her face and telling her how he's going to fuck her so hard she won't be able to walk right for a week.

The tall, gaunt man has his hands inside her open dress top and he's cupping her breasts through her bra as he keeps covering her face with wet kisses.

Elizabeth purrs and starts to moan under his assaults, and I know she's aroused mostly because I'm watching. Even I can tell she hates having his slobber on her face. She's acting, and she's doing this for me!

Then, Robert fills the room with a resounding grunt as he brutally pulls her unbuttoned dress all the way down her shoulders and arms; he starts avidly kissing her breasts through her white bra, which father Sam grabs from behind and sharply pulls up, causing her breasts to fall and offer their unwilling charms. I see the gaunt-faced deacon engulf one of her nipples inside his wide-open mouth, with disbelief screaming out of his eyes.

"Look, boy! Look! This is how real men do it!" the old bishop tells me while clearly masturbating under his cassock. I need no telling. The scene has turned me into stone with a granite cock. I'm no longer a kid playing with marbles.

Elizabeth now stands topless, sandwiched between Robert and Sam, who towers above her as he impatiently takes off her thin leather belt before hurrying her dress down along her legs, all the way down to her ankles and feet and revealing her fishnet stockings, while the thinner man, Robert, feverishly sucks and kneads her breasts as she moans and calls his name. She keeps her half-heel shoes and her worshippers make no effort to take them off.

Father Sam then violently rips her panties off and goes down on his knees, where he finds himself face to face with Elizabeth’s luminous derriere; he growls with the release of his pent-up lust as he licks the soft vastness of her butt while running his sacrilege hands all over those lovely contours, going nuts upon hand-feeling how thin and supple her waist is relative to the sensual expanse of her hourglass figure.

Her dark stockings and suspenders greatly magnify the superb whiteness of her Scottish complexion.

“Let’s have her between the two of us, Robert! I’ll go first, since I’m the elder.”

“What about the bishop, Sam?”

“Oh, I know him. It will take him an eternity to get it up, and besides, I’m pretty sure that Sophie gave him a wonderful mouth job this morning like she loves to do. You know how she is; she’s so fond of old men!”

“Ooh... Yes! Shag me!” Elizabeth moans, reverting to her native English. “I’ve always wanted to make love with a Catholic priest! Oohh, I know this will be so very good... And the more men, the merrier! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“Don’t worry, Milady! You’ll be our very special Milady! All right, Robert, help me, we’re going to lay her down on the table...”

Elizabeth is a brilliant actress. I have no idea whether she’s faking her arousal or not. I heard her coming in my arms and her sounds seem pretty genuine to me now. She keeps looking at me as they lift her up her feet and lay her down on the cleared table, in the nude except for her black fishnet stockings and her matching half-heel shoes.

I have to confess. I'm shamefully and selfishly loving this. My erection is pushing hard against my trousers and I’m sweating under my suit and tie. I have to make a violent effort to keep my mind clear and keep my focus. I’m always closely watching Father Sam, well, trying hard to. He gives no signs of taking off his cassock. Where's that revolver?

Robert holds Elizabeth’s wrists and her dainty hands make lovely-looking fists as all men contemplate her naked charms. They were clearly daydreaming of this moment the whole time we ate. No doubt, Father Sam had this in mind all along. It's written in capital letters on his wide Santa Claus face.

The bishop is now standing and masturbating. The wrinkled and bald man has stripped himself naked surprisingly fast, and now he’s doing his best to get some life into his old prick and he's no young Lancelot anymore. Robert has saucer eyes that look hypnotized by Elizabeth’s breasts. Stooping down, he kisses them, feverishly as if she were the first woman he'd had in years, while keeping his hold on her arms as she responds with soft whimpers to his ministrations.

Father Sam now quickly disrobes himself and presently stands stark naked between Elizabeth’s legs with his large cock resting on the triangular blackness of her Scottish rug. You have to see this to believe it! It's so preposterous! The man is more than twice her age; this is loudly proclaimed by the silver hair that surrounds his loaded balls.

“Now, Milady, now! This is what I wanted to do since the very first time I saw you during my sermon! Now, my sweet little Jezebel, you are caught and will be properly punished... Yaarrrhh!”

And with that wild grunt, Father Sam punches a forceful thrust inside Elizabeth, who intensely jerks under Robert’s grasp while Sam takes firmly hold of her waist and starts pounding her on the massive, colonial-style table with vocal delight.

"Aaahhrrr, yes! Yes! I knew the little tramp would be wet! Hold her tight, Robert. Aaahrrrr! Yes! You'll see, she's a aahrrrrr! She's tight! Aahhrrr! Aaahrrr, aaaahhrrr, aahhh, so satisfying! Yyaahhrrr aaaahhh! The little tramp's got caught! Yyaaarrrhhh! Jezebel!"

Elizabeth’s moaning and groaning responds to Father Sam's victorious grunting as he finds a steady rhythm and fucks her with intense bliss on the creaking table. I’m having an urgent need to masturbate, but Elizabeth must be able to rely on me. Where's that gun? But where is it? But ooohh... My hand's already into my trousers, holding my swollen cock. It's jutting out. I must partake. I must!

“Ah, yes! At last! At last... I can mount her... Ahrr... Aahrr... Ahhrr... At last... Jezebel! The little tramp-aaahrrrr! Jezeb--el aaahhrrrr...” Father Sam keeps uttering between his teeth as he enjoys the animalistic coitus and keeps grunting like a horny baboon. And it's now very hard to believe I'm standing in a presbytery in my God-fearing Belle Province.

I spot the pot of maple syrup on a corner of that long table and feel like pouring some on her Scottish-white tits. She tastes just as good as she looks! I know it.

Elizabeth keeps moaning, her beautiful head of raven hair now bobbing on the table under that steady, forceful rhythm, along with her jiggling breasts under Robert’s domination, while Father Sam keeps avidly punching himself inside her with the unbridled intensity of a man lost on a desert island for years before finding a shipwreck and a young female survivor.

Elizabeth’s eyes never leave me. She's now kicked off her shiny shoes and wraps her fishnet-stockinged legs around Father Sam’s overweight ugliness while he accelerates his pace into a frenzied fest, making his fat roll in waves as he keeps grunting and uttering, "Aaahrrr, aahrr aahrr, aahh Jezebel! I got you, Jezeb-aahrrr, aahhrr, yes! The little tramp! Just a dirty little tramp-nnghhh!"

She suddenly yelps with what sounds like a genuine climax, letting out a high-pitched flurry of moans in just one hot breath, just as he detonates with a loud growl and shoots what’s clearly an epic load!

"Aaahhhrrrrrr! Jezebel the bloody little tramp--AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHRRR TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE! THANK YOU GOD-NNNNNNHH!!!"

Just as he shoots his load inside her, the cuckoo clock comes alive and strikes two o’clock...

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

Then, the wooden bird sinks back into its nest while the little doors close upon him and the nice wooden work of rustic art reverts to its quiet ticking. The deer head nearby is positively unmoved in its casing of pine.

“Oh, good Lord! Oh, Good old, mighty Lord and fiddlesticks!” the old Scottish Father says, suddenly reverting to his native English as he holds himself onto a side table.

Robert now takes his turn. His rat face and brigand-like ugliness make him look like the very last man a glamorous actress would pick. His eyes are burning with anticipation as he rushes his dark soutane overhead and hurriedly drops his boxers.

He displays a surprisingly athletic nakedness, similar to some lightweight prizefighters, as he urgently penetrates my girlfriend.

Grunting like an orangutan, he shakes Elizabeth on the creaking table and surpasses Father Sam in intensity. He's younger and it shows. He gives Elizabeth a real hard shaking!

The sight of Elizabeth’s dancing nipples under Robert’s vile-looking face makes me mad with the desire to take my own turn. No matter what I did not so long ago, my balls seem to be full of hot seed!

“Ooh... yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Keep... going! Oh! Robert! Robert! You’re the man! You’re so much better than the other one! So m-much better... Ooh, yes! Yes! Ooh my God! Oh yes! This is it! This is it! Robert... Robert! Aaahh... aahh, aah, aah... Aaah, my God! Robert!”

As she hits her jackpot, or so it seems, Robert feverishly holds her waist and frantically bangs her as hard and fast as he can, until he finally relieves himself and lets out a series of inarticulate groans, his entire frame shivering with bliss as he erupts inside the Scottish actress.

"Didn't I tell you, Sam? The girls like me better because I'm younger!"

"Shut up, Bob! Shut up or I'll break your little neck!"

Those hot words from Sam have their instant effect on the deacon, who suddenly looks humble and just as harmless as a choirboy, gazing at the floor like some child caught red-handed while doing some petty mischief.

The venerable bishop presently walks on Elizabeth. He stands above her bosom while holding his half-erect cock above her sweaty breasts. He frantically masturbates and soon utters a growling series of bass notes as he explodes with a surprisingly big load that splatters the silky-soft hills of her breasts, putting a scandalous coat of glistening cream over them as she remains panting. Gazing at me with her brown eyes glowing in a surreal light out of her sweaty face, her straight eyebrows and high cheekbones confirming it's truly her who just took an old bishop's cum on her tits.

This is too much!

I lose control and charge at her! I grab her legs and prop them up, where I kiss her black-stockinged feet and let them rest on my fully clothed chest; she lost her shoes during her previous fucks and feeling the little balls of her feet on me is priceless; the scent from them adds another layer of pleasure.

Like in a heated dream, I punch myself inside her and I fuck her hard and strong, just as if my very life depended on it! Elizabeth gets some more good and hearty shaking. She seems to be taken with a flurry of electric shocks as I bang her on that table and whoop with unrestrained joy... Like a monkey!

Roughly shaken under this new poker hand of rough table sex, her light-brown nipples now filling my gaze with a blur, Elizabeth moans like a mad-house case...

“Oohh... Ooh, ooh! Ooh! Ooh... Aaah... He’s only a lad! Only a lad... Sixteen! Just sixteen-aaaaah aaaaah yes! Yes! I'm Jezebel! Yes! It's me! Aaaah aaaaah aaaaaah yes! My young buck! Jezebel, that's me punished. AAAAAA AAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA A MY GOD! MY GOD!!!"

I soon scream my detonating bliss and spew all my young ammo!

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYEEEAAH! ALL INSIDE HER!!! hhhnnnnnnnnnnghggh..."

I’m panting and speechless with my legs turning to Jell-O. I suddenly skid and slip to the floor, finding that it was a piece of bacon that made me slip.

When I stand up, I am presented with another unreal scene.

Elizabeth is kneeling in front of Father Sam, Eve-naked, and she’s avidly licking his balls while massaging his half-flaccid dick. The old man keeps uttering, “Ohh, good mighty Lord! Jezebel! Jezebel...”

Robert kneels behind her and makes her purr in approval by caressing her perky breasts and the white fullness of her buttocks where they rest on her heels; and I can contemplate the dainy soles of her lovely-girly feet. He also gives some attention to those little feet; she keeps purring as she starts to suck Father Sam’s size. She makes the naked priest grow back into the young lad he was when he fought the Boers at Mafeking.

Soon enough, she’s got Sam hard and going. He then gently persuades her to position herself on all fours, where her beauty blasts all men present with intense wonder. You don't see a naked Scottish actress in a Canadian presbytery every day.

Father Sam gets lucky again. He gleefully penetrates her, his sturdy hands resting on her pristine waist. He then spends the next ten minutes in complete ecstasy, holding and stroking now her waist, now her buttocks, now the crease of her hips, enjoying her maddening nakedness while he remains prisoner of the eternal back-and-forth dance to which mankind owes its very survival.

I masturbate hard as I watch, waiting impatiently for my turn while holding my hardening wood. I think of my sister, then Sophie. My thoughts return to my sister and I daydream of her with her suddenly naked breasts that just leap out of her open pajamas and into sight! I think of my sister getting fucked by Father Sam and now I'm hard!

At last, Father Sam erupts inside Elizabeth. He rams himself as deep as he can while he fills her up, his growling a bit more subdued than the first time.

***

Robert now rolls her around on the wine-red rug, and he lays himself on top of her and begins to savagely fuck her.

She keeps uttering his name, panting and sweating and moaning under him as he pounds her, his expanding pleasure and the coital pressure pushing loud grunts out of him,, and she wraps her legs around him while gazing at me. He raises and spoons himself so he can cup and kiss her moving and flowing breasts, but he plops out of her. Unphased, he begins fingering her while gently kissing her sweet face as she moans out loud and keeps looking into my eyes. Surreal!

I can tell that this deacon is an experienced lover. He must be giving a lot of pleasure to Sophie.

Now back inside her, he goes wild and fishishes the unbridled round of sex on top of her. Elizabeth now whimpers and asks him to go a bit easier as her recent meal threatens to make her a much less desirable girl. The brigand-looking deacon soon growls as he dumps his load of Catholic semen inside the British actress. This is how theology is discussed in this humble abode.

Then, I take my own turn. I give Elizabeth the command of getting herself back on her hands and knees, since I want to slam her from behind, and before long, I do get my magic moment, but it ends all too soon, as I watch the wide curves of her derriere getting flattened repeatedly in a bliss of white skin, so mind boggling, so fascinating! They keep colliding against me while I keep driving her, a crazy-moaning Jezebel. All her vaginal contractions are for me and the pressure becomes unbearable...

She jerks under my hands, and I get the full brim of her loss of control as she arches her back and lets me feel her primal contractions while letting fly her high-pitched flurry of moans. Then, Sophie suddenly gets in my confused mind, with her nubile butt as I imagine her bent over the table and getting rear-fucked by Father Sam, who keeps calling her a little tramp with frothing slobber on his Santa Claus beard.

“Aaarrrhhg! Sophie!” I scream as I blissfully explode inside Elizabeth, whose alias I forgot.

The room is suddenly silent.

What’s going on?

There’s only the cuckoo’s ticking...

I turn around, following everyone else’s gaze.

Sophie is standing by the door leading to the living room.

She has a gun. I know that gun.

It's Elizabeth’s snub-nosed revolver and she’s pointing it at the three naked men of God. The black cat is purring at her feet.

“Sophie, give me that gun!” utters Father Sam with a gruff, authoritarian voice. Something tells me that this is perhaps the usual, everyday Father Sam speaking.

“Father Sam, I would be very sorry to shoot you. You’ve always been kind to me, you and Robert. You’re strange men, you have your men's weaknesses, but deep down, you’re kind-hearted and I love you; you know I do. I also know you and I wouldn’t want these good people to be kept here for longer than they meant to stay. I gather that they have to get back on the road. We all understood that this young man isn’t really her nephew, not any more than I’m your niece.

“I’m here with this gun to make sure that you and Robert won’t compel this woman and her lover to overstay their welcome under your roof!”

Sophie was the one who took the gun! She must have taken it while she was serving our food, and she did so like a truly skilled pickpocket artist.

The three naked priests are all looking at her white-faced as if she were a ghost. With a slightly trembling hand, she holds them at gunpoint while Elizabeth quickly gets dressed again.

Elizabeth kindly asks for her revolver, and after hesitating a second or two, Sophie gives it back to its rightful owner, letting out a sigh of relief.

With our assistance, Sophie herds them to the basement, where she lights up a lone light bulb.

“Are you good with knots, Gaston?”

I nod. She hands me three bundles of rope. I have to thank Baden-Powell for this. I can’t resist the pleasure to taunt my naked prisoners with a zest of irony...

“Father Sam, I learned these knots when I was a Boy Scout... and you served under Baden-Powell. There’s a definite touch of irony in this, wouldn’t you say?”

“You won’t get away with this! I know who that actress is! I’ll phone the police and give her identity with your description, and your car's description too. You ain't gonna get far!”

“Don’t listen to him, he’s bluffing," Sophie cuts in. "As long as I stay with you, he will absolutely not say anything. If the police catch you, they’ll identify me and they’ll be asking him a lot of difficult questions; he’ll be on his way to jail. I’ve been living here of my own free will, I’ll explain this to you later, but I may tell the police otherwise. I liked it here, Father Sam, I really did. And you Robert, you were the first true lover I ever had. I will never forget you. But it's time for me to live free and see the world!”

“Sophie! Don’t leave me! I love you! Please, stay!” Robert cries, before breaking down in tears. I pity the man, for he’s clearly in love with this girl. But he's so disturbingly older, yet who am I to judge him?

“You have nothing on us!” Father Sam cuts in.

“I wouldn’t bet on this. I’ve kept a detailed journal, hidden from you, a journal where I wrote down every detail; every penny you stole from your parishioners; the names of every wife you copulated with over these last three years. You didn’t do any crime against me, and I swear to God that I will never lie about this unless you force me to, but you did commit robbery and you did lead honest wives into adultery.

“Yes, you’ve given me so much pleasure in the bedroom, especially you, Robert. I love to swallow an old man’s cum; I learned this, among many other dirty things. I thank you from the bottom of my heart, but now, I need to see what life is like out there! I won’t tell anyone about the money you stole, as long as you leave us alone, and I’m taking Lancelot with me; that cat is one with me ever since you gave it to me last year for my sixteenth birthday... Deal? Deal?!”

“Deal”, Father Sam exhales with reluctance. Then he adds, “I’m defeated by a girl with a revolver! I fought 9,000 Boers and kept them at bay, and in the end, I get this...”

“You brought this on yourself, Father Sam. There’s still time for you to make amends and give back what you stole to all these good people. So long, Father Sam! So long, Your Excellency, and by the way, your episcopal semen tastes wonderful! So long, my dear, sweet Robert!”

Having said this, Sophie tenderly kisses Robert, who is freely weeping and having a fit of sobs in his bondages.

“Carole Barnabé likes you, Robert. You should go see her. She's just about my age. I'm sur you’ll make her happy. Please take my advice; unfrock and marry her! You don't have what it takes to be a honest priest, and I'm positive on this! So long, Robert...”

“Sophie... Sophie... Don’t leave me! Sophie-ee-hee-ee-eeeeee...”

Fifteen minutes later, Elizabeth is driving her rental Chevy again, westbound. Her white-gloved hands are slightly trembling as she drives on at 55 or 60 mph whenever we aren’t crossing a town or a village.

She remains silent as she drives on, now stopping at the red lights at Boulevard des Récollets, in Three Rivers, then resuming the journey on Route number 2. We all keep silent. Sophie is quietly stroking her cat in the backseat. I keep looking at Elizabeth. She's angry. I can tell.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Note: I sincerely hope you're enjoying this erotic trip back in time. Along with a trip in Quebec before the quiet revolution, back when it was governed by Duplessis and the clergy.