Father Briar and The Angel

by Rita Saladano

  “You didn’t need to be Burt Lancaster in From Here to Eternity to impress me, but that you ended up being even sexier is a surprise!”

  Julianna could compare almost all the great moments in her life to great movies, in this case, last year’s Academy Award winning romantic masterpiece.

  “I don’t want you to hold back, Cedric. Do it harder, harder, please!” She focused her rhythm, on keeping them together. Finally he pulled down her stockings, doing so without removing himself from her, a little bit of skill she found amazing.

  “You are sexier than Deborah Kerr ever could be,” he said, upping her movie reference.

  “Hey!” she cried, in mock and funny horror, “she was an adulteress. You aren’t married.”

  “No,” he said, “and thank God for that. Literally!”

  The laughed, they made love, they laughed again, they made more love.

  Julianna ran her hands over his broad, fine, pale chest. By Golly Gosha had done her nails in a gaudy, cherry red that she loved in spite of its flashiness. She used the newly painted and filed ends of them to sharply trace the outline of his pecs, his abs, his ass, as he went in and out of her. She nibbled at his ears, enjoying the taste of sweat, salty and full of passion. She followed the thin line of hair that started at the center of his ribcage and left a trail down to his belly button, down to his cock, that magnificent thing.

  Then she locked her gaze to his as she wrapped her hand around it, taking it from her, putting it back in. She did this with great care and deliberation, enjoying every move. After all the hot roughness, she wanted a little cool delicacy.

  Cedric tore open the package of a condom. Where he’d bought it, she had no idea; birth control was hard to come by in northern Minnesota in the 1950’s, and probably impossible to buy if you were a known priest. Truth was, he hadn’t bought it; like his well-used Playboys, the condoms had been confiscated by concerned parents and given to him for proper disposal. What did parish parents think he did with these things, these sexual things they didn’t want in their houses? Perform exorcisms upon them before burning them with Holy Kerosene?

  This was a weird little ritual they had to do. He liked to climax inside of her, which was obviously impossible without birth control. Were Julianna to get pregnant as a single woman… he couldn’t even bear to think of it, lest he lose his erection. So they did it without for a while, to better enjoy the feeling and because both of them, in their deepest hearts, thought of birth control as a sin.

  So she always knew he was ready to climax when he ripped open the package and rolled the bulky thing over his bulky thing. Task accomplished, he crawled across the mattress, chasing her.

  Julianna was crawling away to tease him; she knew he loved the sight of her breasts swinging and her ass bouncing as she scurried away on all fours. The further waiting, the further anticipation, made her squeal. Finally he caught her and wrestled her about at bit and then parted her thighs. Father Briar pinned her arms to the bed, holding them down above her head, kissing the soft insides of her porcelain arms as he entered her. She arched her back, making her body an S shape, a series of curves and hidden spots that he wanted to map and explore and treasure.

  With great care, he slowly lowered himself over and then into her. Plunging himself all the way into the bottom, he cried out on pleasure and she dug those newly manicured nails into the muscular flesh of his butt. He pressed his hips to hers, still inside, still exploring. He wanted to coil their bodies together, but he didn’t want to use that word; it had serpentine and therefore devilish connotations.

  She wanted to look into his eyes, to drink him in with her mouth, to devour him with her vagina. By bucking her hips, she could control his strokes, making them longer and shorter, sensuous or pounding, sweet or nasty. They stayed in that magical, chemical connection of bodies touching all the way from their heads to their toes, all the tips, for long, hot minutes.

  “You’re so sexy, so perfect, so mine, so Julianna.” He kissed her. She kissed him back. They both knew they had to quit soon, that doing it back here in the tool shed, next to the blessed shovels and the holy hoes, was dangerous and silly.

  Now he was close enough to be frantic. There were no passionate pauses, no loving lingering, only strong, solid thrusting. He felt like he’d grown to twice or three times his normal size inside her! There was athleticism in his sexuality; he had, after all, been a star quarterback in high school and a lot of that youthful vigor remained in this still-young man. All they could do was gasp for breath, hoping there was still enough oxygen left in the little shed to fuel them.

  Julianna’s buttocks were taut and firm from all of the arching and thrusting. That was where her sexual power came from; those lean and elegant muscles in her backside. She squeezed, then released, squeezed, the released, matching his rhythm. She did that same clenching and unclenching movement with the inner walls of her pussy, driving him wild with the sensation of her around his cock.

  Cedric kissed a path from the delicious spot at the nape of her neck, then down around her breasts. He kissed and stroked faster and faster and she arched her back and came for the first time that night and only the fifth time in her life, then for the sixth, and finally the seventh.

  He was sure the whole town could hear her passionate screaming. It sounded like she was changing into a werewolf. Cedric wasn’t sure he’d mind. Her pussy was on him like a vice grip. Her strong pulses and contractions and tiny circular hip movements astounded him as she rode out her orgasms. He was thrilled to have the power to make her feel so good.

  It was this rush of power that made him come, hard and loud and long. He didn’t quite pass out, didn’t quite fall asleep, but drifted into a spot near those two things, in an inexplicable state of love and release.

  Julianna’s delicate and considerate kisses brought him back around.

  “Sweetheart, we’ve got to get up and get dressed. As much as I’d love to lie here all day…”

  He bolted upright, suddenly clearheaded, as though he was a hockey player who’d been checked into the boards and needed revival by smelling salts.

  “Oh my God! We’ve got to get out of here,” he shouted, suddenly panicked. “Bishop Mueller will be here shortly.”

  The Bishop of the Diocese, Dale Mueller was indeed to arrive within a few moments; and he was already inclined to be displeased with Cedric. He had received word from Gosha that he was not fulfilling his religious duties.

  “This man is not a priest, he is a fornicator. I am convinced of it. We cannot have such a man as one of Christ’s disciples,” were the words he had heard from the old Pole. Armed with such a scandalous, serious and sexy piece of information, Bishop Mueller had made plans to visit him and inquire after the spiritual health of the congregation.

  His suspicions were almost confirmed, had he arrived thirty seconds earlier, Cedric’s world would have come crashing down. He would have been defrocked, for he was engaged in a prolonged, post-coital, goodbye kiss with Julianna in a confessional booth.

  Yes, they had chosen it for the exciting, kinky thrill of making out in the confessional. Some may call it sacrilegious, and that is fine. It was also wicked hot.

  Julianna heard the huge engine of Mueller’s Lincoln Coupe pull up outside, so she made for the back entrance. Cedric tidied up his appearance, for his hair was ruffled and he had lipstick on his face. He’d had a member of his flock, a sweet and gentle farmer named Ernest who lived a couple of miles north of town, who liked to lounge about his house in lipstick and a slip; he hoped the Bishop thought nothing like that was going on with him! So he wiped his already chapped and winter-dry lips repeatedly until he was sure all traces of Julianna’s love were gone.

  “What on God’s Earth could he be doing here? I can deal with Gosha’s incessant whining about matters of liturgy but this, oh my, this is a most unexpected visit.”

  Cedric opened the door not knowing quite what to expect.

  The Bishop looked more stern t
han usual. This was something serious.

  “Bishop Mueller!” Cedric forced a smile. “This is a most unexpected and welcome visit. Please inform me. What brings you to these parts?”

  “Matters of faith, our church and,” Bishop Dale paused, “…personal inquiries,” he looked at Cedric, who pretended that he didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “By all means, Bishop.”

  The men convened at a table at Bjorn’s cafe, Cedric had driven the Bishop there in haste after he’d professed hunger for the Norwegian cook’s blueberry flapjacks.

  Cedric poured tea into his superior’s mug as they ordered. Father Briar thought the older man’s fondness for whipped cream (he always ordered extra on his pancakes) comical but said nothing, of course.

  “Why are you here? Other than the delicious griddle cakes, of course.”

  “Father Briar, as you are no doubt aware there has been much scandal in the church of late. I however am not here to discuss about such things, no, the purpose of my visit is much more personal.”

  “Please continue,” said Cedric. The Bishop sighed in between sipping his brew before he continued.

  “This little town seems consumed with sex and who is and isn’t having it.”

  “People are prurient by nature,” Father Briar said, non-committal, blowing on his coffee and fogging up his glasses.

  “That I well know. Decades in this job have taught me that it is often less about theology and more about keeping discipline within the congregation.”

  “The parish here in Brannaska isn’t lacking in discipline, spiritual or otherwise,” Cedric said, frost creeping in around the edges of his voice.

  “Some of the members doesn’t seem to think so.”

  “Some of the members, or just one?” Father Briar pressed.

  “Well, there has been a single critic who is most vocal.”

  “Surely you don’t put too much stock in one woman’s complaints?”

  “What makes you so sure it’s a woman?” The bishop was surprised that Father Briar had figured him out so quickly.

  “Most of my flock is quite fond of me,” Cedric said, although he was careful not to let on just how fond.

  “I know that to be true, as well. You have been an excellent servant of the Lord and…”

  He was cut off by Bjorn sliding steaming plates of pancakes in front of them. The frothy whipped cream dripped over the edge and onto the counter.

  The stacks were so tall and smelled so good that all conversation was tabled and by the time he was finished eating, Bishop Mueller had long forgotten the reason for his visit.

  Love was saved, yet again, by pancakes.

  Chapter Eighteen: Francisco Makes a New Friend.

  Francisco had come down to Bjorn’s after he’d finished his chores around the farm. Now, on route to polishing off his second plate of fried pork chops, boiled potatoes, and honey carrots, he wanted someone to chat with.

  Usually, Bjorn was behind the counter and a reliable source of unreliable gossip. Such was true today. “Have you heard about Trigger Olsen?” he asked.

  Mr. Montana had, in fact, heard about Trigger. He’d heard so many things that he didn’t know which rumor the coffee pouring proprietor was referring to.

  “No,” he lied, “I haven’t.”

  “He might skip college altogether, go to the pros. Maybe junior hockey up in Winnipeg, first, before trying to make it in the National Hockey League.” He pronounced ‘hockey’ without the ‘h’ so it sounded like ‘ah-key.’

  “They say he has a shot at being the next Rocket Richard.” Despite his accent, Bjorn pronounced the legendary player’s last name properly, Ree-shard, like a real French Canadian. These were people who took their puck seriously.

  “Why might he be skipping college?” Mr. Montana asked, always looking for a bit of juicy insider information.

  “Something to do with a girl, I’ve heard.”

  “He is quite serious with young Ramona Herbertson.”

  “You wanna shake for coffee?”

  “You betcha,” Bjorn said, using a bit of local slang that was particularly on the nose for this occasion. Minnesotans, however, said “you bet you” as only two words and as an affirmative to something they wanted to do.

  As in “would you like to go ice fishing tomorrow if I bring a bottle of brandy?”

  “You betcha!”

  The cook stopped in her tracks, convinced she’d heard him wrong.

  Bjorn rarely “shook” for coffee. Why was he humoring Francisco today?

  He was humoring Francisco because he wanted the man around. Julianna was coming in for her shift soon, and, ever the meddler, he was going to try to “set them up.” If he didn’t shake he feared the man might get bored and set off.

  That was unlikely. Mr. Montana knew she was set to work that night as well and had put on his finest blue jeans and even ironed his flannel. His usual hip flask was gone, replaced with Tic Tacs. He loved those little buggers. They were so cute! He cherished every one he sucked until it disappeared.

  He was not a man without his charms, Francisco Montana. In his outgoing and gregarious way, he’d tried to get everybody in town to call him “Frank” but it hadn’t stuck. He was always Francisco or worse, Mr. Montana. Frank had never even been anywhere near that vast, lonely, and empty state. He’d never been further west than Fargo. And he’d hated that.

  Mr. Montana’s hair was thick and black and wavy; strong and a little too much, like Bjorn’s coffee. It was only now being streaked with flashes of gray in his fifty third year. Although he possessed a big belly now, it matched the rest of him; a thick fellow with legs like telephone poles and forearms like Armor brand canned hams, he carried his weight well.

  Unlike some of the fellows, he was careful with his hygiene and usually showered before coming to the café from the barn or the pigsty. He rarely cleaned his fingernails at the table with his pocketknife, which was always kept in the top front pocket of his denim overalls. The amount of stuff that he kept up there always amused Bjorn, who’d once seen a picture of a kangaroo in National Geographic Magazine and couldn’t help but compare the marsupial with Mr. Montana.

  “Their pouches sag in the same way,” he’d laugh and tell his wife, the cook.

  Mr. Montana considered himself lucky. His unusual name had given him an exotic air even though he hadn’t earned it. So ladies were interested in him, even if he was just another bachelor farmer, if a slightly wealthier than average one. The local single ladies speculated about his sexual prowess and the advanced and foreign techniques he might use.

  “Quite frankly, I find such speculation filthy,” the cook had remarked, “people everywhere do it the same way.”

  Bjorn found that unlikely but didn’t dare contradict her.

  Frankly, he didn’t know why he felt the compulsive need to fix Julianna up. She was a nice girl and all, but it was more than altruistic kindness at work, it was something deeper within him. He didn’t like loose ends, he didn’t like odd numbers, he didn’t like issues unresolved. Single women were a problem to be solved, an opportunity to demonstrate his knowledge of the community and its residents, and to show off a little.

  It is interesting, then, that he didn’t feel the same obsessive desire to fix up the single men in town, and there were many of those. He’d never really considering firing her after last Sunday’s smorgasbord disaster; heck, he blamed Mr. Olsen and Mr. Montana for that. And a little trouble and controversy never hurt business. The more people talking about Bjorn’s, Bjorn figured, the better.

  The doorframe rattled and an assault of cold air stormed through, followed by Julianna. Barely recognizable under multiple layers of sweaters, coats and hats, she was ten minutes early, which pleased both Bjorn and the cook to no end. She’d had to catch a ride into town with Gosha, whose truck was warm and always easy to start. The number of work-hours the café lost due to engines not firing up in the cold weather was enormous. Gosha’s truck a
nd the skill with which she trove it seemed almost magical to Julianna and she’d gotten into town and to work much faster than she’d anticipated. This made her happy.

  Seeing Mr. Olsen there made her sad. Was he going to torment her the same way tonight that he had last week? Would Francisco Montana flirt with her again?

  She wondered if she’d mind. She was still irritated with Cedric. He’d been both lusty and indifferent lately, a combination she found almost impossible to deal with. Julianna felt he was being overly paranoid about the locals finding out, and if they did, what was the big deal? He’d have to stop being a priest, sure, but then they could get married and live together in public, out at her cute little house. Was that so horrible, was that so immoral, was that too much to ask? No, it certainly wasn’t.

  “Heck,” she thought, “maybe I’ll even do a little flirting myself. Would do a girl good, to have people in town know I’m sexy and desirable and that men want me.”

  But that was a bridge too far. And this was back in an era where that phrase had literal and not just metaphorical meaning. The Allied defeat in Holland in 1944, where Major General Robert Urquhart had literally gone a bridge too far and the good guys had suffered a terrible defeat and humiliating withdrawal. She couldn’t flirt with Mr. Montana, that would be like cheating on and being unfaithful to Cedric.

  So she put her head down and went to work. This smorgasbord, unlike last week’s, was much easier on her; there was no relentless teasing from Ty Olsen, no overt sexuality from Francisco. There was just food, piles and piles of hot and steaming meats and vegetables, served in the coldest depths of winter.

  The frightening temperature had done nothing to lower turnout to the weekly buffet (“although, remember, never call it that,” Cedric had reminded Julianna before her shift, “as she will lose her mind.”) and there was still a wait at the door. When that became too crowded, families would wait in their pickup trucks, heaters running but windows cracked to avoid carbon monoxide poisoning, for up to an hour, listening to the radio, gossiping about By Golly Gosha and their neighbors, and enjoying each other’s company.