Now, in honor of Father Ted and Frank Kelly, here is some “dirty priest” erotic fan fiction inspired by Father Jack, the rest of the cast, and all their shenanigans.
(Into taboo erotica? Pick up As the Bishop Said to the Actress FREE from August 22nd to August 27th from the Go Deeper Press store. And if you’ve never seen Father Ted (or indeed Father Jack), then halt! Go buy the DVDs.)
Morna O’Boyle should have hated the sound of old Father Leary’s footsteps in her wake! It meant, after all, that he was crossing the kitchen in his leather-soled slippers, his cheeks ruddy, his pinching fingers ready, the sight of her gracefully heart-shaped rear causing his eyes to bug. As she’d told her neighbor Patty Millet just the other day, whenever she was busy rolling out pastry—or, God be blessed, brewing much-needed tea—the last thing she should have to deal with was a tickly beard in her ear, the groan of “Feck! Yes!” and the ensuing pinch of her cushiony behind.
But Morna did not hate it. She pretended to hate it, just as she faked disdain at yesterday’s toad-in-the-hole with its strange, porky, deliberate stench, which she actually couldn’t wait to snaffle at midnight while all three priests were snoring in their beds. Yes, much like cold sausage, Father Leary was attractive in a stuff-your-face sort of way, so Morna invested in shapely skirts, and glossed her lips with ruby red, and stuck out her buttocks whenever she could, feigning outrage at the slaps and tickles that aroused her. Yes, beneath those skirts, above the flesh-colored stockings, inside the new knickers that hugged her curves, Morna’s “lady parts” as she’d always called them were ripe and bumptious, thanks to Father Leary’s hungry fingers.
Her favorite moments often came when she bent over to place a cup of tea next to the dirty priest as he sat in his comfy chair. Her breasts all but poured from the valley of her new, floral dress. Oh, how the old goat frothed at the mouth and stared joyfully at her abundant cleavage! How he reached up and grasped her bosoms as if they were the ripest of fruits! If the other priests were in the room at the time, she’d fake disapproval, when really the flush on her pale cheeks was the sign of a palpitating heart and groin—not the blush of shame. Even her nipples, which she’d always rather loathed, kept hardening these days with lustful excitement.
But given her husband was just three months in his grave, wasn’t it surely a foulness when at night she’d wake from dreams of a rutting Father Leary, his body smothering hers, his hand plastered over her drooling mouth, his priestly buttocks rising and falling as he ploughed her lady parts with doglike joy? Oh, even in her most shameful moments, she’d never imagined a man’s hard lad filling her as completely as this, or stretching her to such giddy extremes! And so, three months after her husband’s death, Morna had her first knee-quivering climax, her own fingers working herself to pleasure while that dirty old priest inhabited her head. And the following day, there wasn’t a neighbor in the village that didn’t comment on Morna O’Boyle’s suspiciously buoyant, roseate glow, of which she should be careful now, thank you very much.
Then came the annual event that the other fathers dreaded: Father Leary’s Bath Day. “If you’ll hold on a minute, Father,” a stunned Morna told Father Kelly the day before, “are you saying I must prepare Father Leary for his annual bath?”
Father Kelly gave an apologetic sigh, placed his hand lightly on her wrist and said he hoped this wouldn’t mean she’d be leaving them now. “Sadly,” he lamented, while Morna’s heart thumped with glee, “you must both undress and bathe him. He simply refuses, you see. Only the vision of a lovely girl can coax him into a washroom.”
Morna even felt her pulse beating between her thighs where she’d replaced her cotton knickers with cream-colored satin. “For sure,” she told Father Kelly with a flap of her hand, “how hard can a bathtime really be?”
Only later, when she pulled down the old priest’s stripy pajamas, did she see that Father Leary was very, very hard. So hard that the priestly member of his sprang back against his ample belly with the kind of elasticity you only expect from youth. With this, he gave a great, goatly groan as he watched her with hungry, bloated eyes, a string of saliva spilling from the corner of his mouth. “Girl!” he announced, reaching out and grasping the back of her head. “Feck!” he announced, nodding down at his big, hard, shining lad—the kind of lad that could fill you absolutely; the lad dear Morna had always dreamed he’d possess! Then, with the kind of come-and-get attitude old Father Leary had always espoused, he tried to get her down on her knees so that she might taste of the fruit.
Morna sniggered to cover up her lust and peeled his hands from the back of her head. “Now now, Father! That’s enough of that!” In truth, she was quivering, desperate to be used, groped, taken…but it was against everything she believed. Sordid, extra-marital sausage-play with a man of the cloth was worse by far than snaffling cold cuts from the parochial fridge.
A woman could go to hell for this!
She could burn like a badly-timed flapjack!
But oh, if Father Leary knew how she pulsed between her thighs as she led him to the bathroom, his dressing down flapping open at the front, his free hand grasping one of her satin-clad cheeks. Oh the pleasure! Oh to be groped with such mindless lust! She’d worn washing up gloves for the occasion, just to convince herself that bathtime was a chore…but something about the yellow rubber that now encased her hands made her all the more lascivious.
Truth be told, old Father Leary’s ruddy, naked body, with its looseness and folds attracted dear Morna all the more. In fact, in the bathroom when he dropped his dressing gown and had her help him step into the hot, foamy water, she found herself looking him up and down, biting her freshly-salved lip. As he reached out as if about to wobble over, and grasped hold of her left breast through her cotton dress, the bright, bulging glee in his eyes made something burn in her undies.
Instead of fighting, however, as she usually would, and pulling his hand away, Morna pressed her big breast into his hand, rubbed her nipple against his palm, and said, “I think, Father, we both need a thorough cleaning.”
The old man groaned out, eyes bugging, grin toothy with excitement, twisted towards her in the ankle-high water and grabbed both of her breasts with unabashed elation. “Feck!” he cried out. “Oh feck! Yes! Girl!” And with that, he ripped open the front of her dress so her cream satin bra with its Venetian Lace Trim burst into its own. Thrusting his face towards her, stare burning happily on the breasts held by those satin cups, Father Leary’s eyeballs reared back in their sockets and the corner of his mouth gleefully foamed. He was as scarlet as Morna was aroused, so how could she not take a big step towards him, thrusting her breasts into his grip, before reaching behind her and shedding the bra that kept her nipples from him? “Forgive me, Father,” cried a delirious Morna, “for I am sinning!”
Oh, how Father Leary was smothered in her breasts, drooling and foaming and growling like a beast, making Morna’s lady parts even slicker with excitement! Thank the Lord Father Leary had such vehement mouthwork that he forgot his balance and tumbled into the bath with an almighty splash.
Amazingly, he landed entirely unscathed, so Morna fell to her knees and began to wash his body with a rather lengthy loofah. It was a challenge, of course, because as she soaped his arms and chest, he continued to grope her, and she couldn’t take her eyes from that big lad of his, so pink at the tip, so much larger than her husband’s had been. (For Morna, given her ample size, Father Leary’s would lad would be a far tighter fit.) “Alas, Father,” she gasped as he grabbed a bare breast with his wet, soapy hand and rubbed it to shine. “S. E. X. is a dirty, rotten thing! You should be a better example to your flock.”
“To my feck?” asked the Father, confused only for a moment before returning to his breastly duties.
“I mean look at how hard you are,” said Morna, pushing a tendril of loose hair behind her ear. She was panting now as she stared at his cock, her nipple hard beneath Father Leary’s wandering hands, so is it any wonder she decided to get the most difficult job over with? She dropped her loofah, shed her Marigold gloves, soaped her hands to a lather, and reached right down to give his lad a good, hard cleaning. What she’d forgotten however was how good this would feel—handling the very part she longed to thrust inside herself. As her bare breasts lolled over Father Leary, soaped up and slick, the nipples hard with exultation, she took hold of that big churchly manhood and started to rub it up and down. “I’ll get it clean for you, Father. That’s what a housekeeper does, you see.”
Father Leary’s face took on the deep serenity of one who’s been ignited by heaven’s light, and, as his eyes rolled back in his head, he began to grunt out and buck his fatherly hips. Five thrusts was all it took, along with five great sweeping grunts, before he cried out through an ecstatic grin, “Oh Yes! Yes! Yes…ecumenical!” and let out three long shots of creamy liquid that blasted all over dear Morna’s ample breasts. Meanwhile, she was so overcome at seeing this priestly manhood explode, and feeling warm liquid dripping down her bosom, that Morna pressed her thighs together with one almighty squeeze, and, staring down at her messy breasts and the wicked manhood that protruded from the water, came with a glorious force.
She squealed with triumph!
She whimpered with exuberance!
She quivered as she held the joyous ecstasy in place!
Then, entirely spent, she fell over the bath, catching herself on the enamel edge before exclaiming, “God forgive me, but I’d kill for a cup of tea!”
Now, before you mistakenly assume this was the end of Morna’s dignified conversion, imagine, if you will, the carnage that occurred later that day. Because let us not forget that old Father Leary, the greedy goat with the wandering hands, now had the power of a wandering libido and a taste for the bosoms of the housekeeper herself.
So it came to pass, while Morna was dusting the sofa by the living room window, which looked out on Ireland’s green and pleasant land, not to mention the cross that signaled the parochial house, Father Leary came up behind her. Oh, she’d heard his shuffling gait moments before, which is why she’d mounted said sofa, pretending to clean the back with her favorite feather duster. She heard Father Leary grunt, “Wo-man!” before launching himself onto her, grasping her breasts from behind, bursting his flies without malice, and ripping off her pale blue, silk knickers with the fancy Chantilly lace trim. In moments, he was pushing himself inside her as the feather duster shook in her hand, grunting, “What the feck is this? Wait! Feck! Arse! Yes!”
Oh my, this man of the cloth could certainly go at it! He stretched her open, sliding in with veritable aplomb, filling her completely, just as she’d dreamed. And when he started to lunge, drooling and growling, shouting flamboyantly that she’d burn in hell for this, Morna cried out to several saints and opened up to pleasure. The feeling of fullness! Of being truly taken! Of being lustfully, desperately horny! Of returning his beastly pressure with her own and taking lascivious pleasure in his girth! He wasn’t the only one to brim with ecstasy, go scarlet in the face, and cry out, “Feck!” No, Morna was with him all the way, screaming with gratitude, welcoming the highs like an old friend. Oh, how the ecstasy plundered her womb, stuffed her to fullness, then set her free so she was erupting so hotly into the sky like a…
GIANT CUP OF TEA!
Yes! thought Morna as the beautiful storm began to quell. Perhaps I’m a bit of an old dog too! Because the calm she felt after this tea-masterly surge was something she’d never felt in her life. In that calm, she found herself. She found she was a woman who loved rumpy-pumpy—a woman who saw there was nothing wrong with that. Because if the Good Lord meant us not to do the deed, then why would Himself give us the deed to do?
Sadly, after the event on the sofa, Father Leary only lasted one more time. After bending Morna over the breakfast table the following morning, the old goat cried out one last “Feck!” and keeled over, his eyes euphorically buglike, a big grin on his happy face. To make things even worse, the other priests suddenly entered the room only to catch poor panting Morna, still bent over, her shapely buttocks aloft, plus, thanks to her new, risqué, plaid pinafore, a view of her freshly slathered lady parts.
What Morna didn’t realize until after she was sacked for this was that Father Leary had been fond of her for several weeks, and, had hired a swanky lawyer—a lovely girl who had something to do with coal—in order to leave her a great deal of dosh, which he’d gotten from some insurance scam. This, of course, explains how Morna decided to reform the community by organizing pilgrimages for sex-loving, catholic women. The slogan was, We’ll climb the mountain, be rid of our sin, then take our lovers’ lads in our hands!
And though some of these pilgrims didn’t want a good time, that’s exactly what Morna gave them.
If you enjoyed this story, please share it and check out our erotic books!