THE TURNING-POINT

Father Kells wrapped the dark-green dressing gown around his naked body, tied its cord tightly about his waist, and, switching off the light, emerged from the bathroom fresh and sweet-smelling into the passageway which led to Room 25 - the single room he had booked into that very evening. With a swift turn of the key he quickly entered the room and, sighing in relief, gently closed its door behind him. Then he went across to the only mirror the room possessed and began to comb his short brown hair into place, taking note of his face to ascertain that everything was more or less as it should be. No, he had little cause to worry about his facial appearance, which now, as previously, was passably handsome. Prolonged celibacy and solitude may have left some ugly marks on it, but, for all that, he was still only thirty and by no means a victim of wrinkles, puffy eyes, double chin, grey hairs, greasy skin, or anything of the like. True, his lips might be a trifle tightly drawn and almost too severe for comfort. But, on the whole, his face still had a certain youthfulness which inspired a degree of confidence, as well as allayed the doubts and fears that had momentarily assailed him.

Having attended to his coiffure, he retired to the room's only armchair and prepared himself for the impending arrival of the person from whom he had earlier booked a professional call. What she would look like for certain, he couldn't of course be sure. But he hoped, anyway, that his approximate specifications would be honoured, and that an agreeably attractive young black woman would knock on the door in due course.

And so he waited, slightly apprehensive lest the experience should turn out to be a disappointment or even an ordeal, but, at the same time, curiously excited by the prospect of what lay in store for him. He couldn't quite slot into any particular mood or feeling about it; for no sooner had a positive thought occurred to him ... than a negative one would take its place, causing him to lose heart slightly and once again question the moral justification of what he was doing. But, really, he had to start somewhere after all, and even if this wasn't quite the best or most honourable of ways, at least it was a way of sorts and, God knows, he needed it! For he was still, to all intents and purposes, technically a virgin, having adhered to the priestly ideal of strict celibacy ever since he came-of-age, so to speak, and entered the Church as a raw youth of eighteen.

Yes, he was still a virgin, though not, alas, a particularly happy one, since the exigencies of clerical chastity had left their psychological marks on him and resulted, over the years, in his becoming progressively more depressive and sexually frustrated. Apart from a few minor aberrations of a petting order with some young women of his parish, he had consistently denied the Old Adam in himself, denied it in deference to his vocation as a spiritual leader, a man of God. Yet such a denial had not brought him the peace he expected but, on the contrary, had led to his becoming increasingly restless and dissatisfied with his lot - indeed, had led to serious doubts as to whether he should have become a priest in the first place. To be sure, he didn't feel he had it in him to remain celibate for ever, as his vocation demanded. No, the going in that respect was indeed tough and becoming steadily tougher! And not simply on account of the sexual abstinence itself, but also, and no less significantly, on account of the seemingly ever-growing number of perversions and temptations by which he was assailed - most of which caused him to shudder with disgust at the mere thought of them! But, of course, there was the depression as well, and that, as he well knew, wasn't becoming any the less painful with the passing of time.

Whether, in fact, it could be wholly ascribed to his celibacy or whether the noisy urban environment in which he lived and worked was responsible for some of it, he didn't know for sure. But he was anxious, all the same, to do what he could to correct it and, if possible, restore himself to a healthier state-of-mind - even if this did mean that a number of radical changes would have to be made in his life, and that he might accordingly find himself obliged to work outside London and adopt friendlier relations towards women than hitherto. After all, he was a man, not a god, and although he might be a priest with certain very idealistic standards to live up to, and consequently be closer to the godly than the majority of men, yet his manhood was still a fact of life which couldn't be entirely denied. He was a man, and therefore he had a body to live with and, in some sense, even to honour.

True, he was not by nature the most sensual of men. But neither was he the most spiritual - at least not in any absolute sense. If he was predominantly spiritual, it was not so to such an extent that he could systematically deny himself sexual gratification without unduly jeopardizing his health and peace of mind. He had certainly discovered that fact! If he was a spiritual leader, he was one who still had to honour the body to some extent and, as regards sex, this he had signally failed to do. Now perhaps, in this small hotel room, he might be able to redress the balance slightly, and thus go some little way towards appeasing the flesh.

No man can properly serve two masters at once, least of all two such exacting and uncompromising ones as God and the Devil. But, then again, no man can wholly serve only one or the other, either. Sooner or later the fact has to be accepted that one's nature demands a compromise of sorts between these two extremes, and that failure to honour such a compromise can lead to the most unpleasant consequences - consequences of which Father Kells was only too aware, as he ambivalently awaited the arrival of the visiting masseuse. As Baudelaire - his favourite French poet - had so truthfully put it: 'There are in every man, always, two simultaneous allegiances, one to God, the other to the Devil', and even a priest was not exempt from this general rule. No, he might strive to honour the spiritual as much as possible, but he was still tied to the sensual and the obligations it imposed. He was still a man.

But what of the injunction to celibacy - was that therefore wrong? Father Kells, tonight divested of his customary frock and posing under the alias Edmund Healy, stared thoughtfully at the dark-blue carpet in front of his feet and ran the forefinger of his right hand across the sharp bridge of his aquiline nose, as he often did when plunged in reflection. In one sense it was, and in another sense it wasn't. To begin with, one was a man, and consequently injunctions that ran contrary to one's basic human nature and its needs were potentially harmful and could only result, in the long-run, in one's nature rebelling against them. Yet though, on the other hand, it might prove impossible to adhere too stringently to it, the injunction to celibacy had the merit of encouraging, if not maintaining, a standard of spiritual leadership compatible with one's priestly vocation. For what right had one to lead the flock and lay claim to spiritual authority if one was as prone to sexual indulgences as the next man? Could one really consider oneself a spiritual exemplar if one was yet guilty of carnal commitments to an average extent? No, of course not! There had to be a standard of celibacy set, even if one was likely, as a human being, to relapse, from time to time, into average or, more likely, above-average sexual habits. Otherwise one had no business considering oneself a worthy example of spiritual guidance to one's parishioners. The standard was there and, as a priest, one had a duty to adhere to it to the extent one could. Too bad if perversions and temptations occasionally got in the way!

He glanced at the small wall clock above the dresser and noted that it was now five-to-eight. It was over an hour ago that he had telephoned the massage bureau. Soon, he hoped, the masseuse would arrive. Quite how he would respond to her he didn't know, but he hoped, anyway, that she would be able to alleviate the burden of his celibacy a little. For if she didn't, he would be no better off than previously - indeed, he would probably be worse off, and not only financially but also, and more seriously, as regards the progressive worsening of his depression, the feeling that, short of leaving the priesthood, all routes for easing it had been blocked to him.

But could he leave the priesthood now? He didn't think so. At least he had no idea what he would alternatively do. After all, he hadn't received any other training and felt that it was a bit late now to embark on something new - another career, that is. Alternatively, he could opt to take a secular clerical job which wouldn't require too much training. But whether he would be able to step down from the rung of his professional status onto the relatively humble one of a drudge-ridden white-collar worker ... was something about which he couldn't be absolutely sure. More than likely he wouldn't be able to, since his pride would rebel against it. More than likely he would have to continue as a priest, irrespective of the psychological and physiological difficulties with which such a vocation presented him. He couldn't see any real alternative at present.

Just as the clock reached eight, there was a gentle rap on the door, followed by a couple of soft coughs intended to clear the throat. "It must be her," he thought, and quickly got up from his armchair and hurried over to the mirror to take a last critical look at his face. His heart had started to beat more rapidly - indeed, so rapidly that he was afraid she might hear it. His hands began to tremble and his legs to grow weak with the apprehension he was feeling. "Oh God," he groaned, as he crossed the carpet, "I hope I don't make a damn fool of myself!" He reached the door, hesitated a moment to swallow a ball of saliva which had welled-up in his mouth, and, with sweaty hand, unlocked and pulled it slowly open.

"Ah hello!... Mr Healy?"

He nodded bravely and stood back to admit her to his room. He couldn't see properly, for the wave of embarrassment that had suddenly surged over him carried all objectivity before it.

"My name's Veda by the way, and I've come as requested," she sweetly and almost gratuitously informed him, entering the room with an air of confidence.

He quickly closed the door and stood for a moment undecided what to do or say. It was as though he had lost the power of speech, so great was his mental confusion. "Ah yes," he at length managed to respond, casting her a hollow smile while simultaneously making a swift attempt at physical appraisal. "Well ..." and he made an involuntary gesture of helplessness "... what should I do first?"

The young masseuse smiled and put the leather bag she was carrying onto a nearby table. "I take it you've had your bath?" she said, extracting a plastic sheet from its interior and walking towards the bed.

"Yes," he nervously admitted.

"Good! Then if you'd like to remove your dressing gown and stretch out on this sheet for me, I'll set about massaging you," she said.

It was only now that Father Kells was able to acquire a better look at her. Bent over the bed, she was dressed in a short fur coat with a dark-green cotton skirt, black stockings, and contrasting white high-heels. Her calf muscles were both firm and well-defined, and, as she stretched farther across the bed to draw the expanse of plastic sheet smoothly into place, the shapely outline of her rump became agreeably apparent, suggesting a certain fleshiness which an upright posture would probably have hidden. Her thick black hair hung down her back and spilled over the side of her face as she bent forwards.

"There!" she exclaimed, turning a bright pair of dark-brown eyes towards him. "If you'd just care to stretch out for me."

He hadn't as yet taken off his dressing gown, but stood with it loosely draped around his nudity, as though afraid to proceed further.

Sensing his embarrassment, she came across to where he was standing and offered to help him out of it.

"You d-don't mind that I'm not w-wearing anything underneath, then?" he pitifully stammered, as she moved to one side to assist him unburden himself.

"Of course not!" she smilingly averred. "That's how I need you to be."

Hardly reassured, he allowed her to take the dressing gown from him and then hurried across to the bed, where he stretched out on his stomach with his face turned away from her, so as to hide his embarrassment. Again, he was conscious of the rapidity of his heartbeat and felt himself breaking into a cold sweat.

"What's your first name, by the way?" Veda asked, as she slipped out of her clothing and began to prepare herself for the task ahead.

Father Kells was just on the point of replying Patrick when he checked himself at the last moment and stuttered "E-Edmond" instead.

"Oh, really? You're the first Edmond I've ever visited," she informed him in an almost gleeful tone-of-voice.

There ensued a painful silence for 'Edmond', as she proceeded to arrange the tools of her trade and make ready her professional appearance, but he didn't have the courage to turn his face towards her in order to see exactly what she was up to, not even when she inquired whether he had ever been massaged before, and he replied in the negative.

"So what d'you do with yourself all day?" she asked, after another painful silence had supervened - one even more difficult for Father Kells to cope with than the previous time.

He felt the blood rush to his face in response to this probing and seemingly intimate question, but managed to stammer "I'm a w-writer," in spite of his shame at being obliged to improvise another lie on the spur-of-the-moment. He could hardly tell her the truth!

"What kind of a writer?" she wanted to know.

"Oh, just a f-fiction writer," he stammered.

"Really?"

The exclamatory nature of her response suggested that she was interested to hear this, but he was relieved when she didn't pursue the inquiry further, either because the subject of fiction-writing didn't particularly intrigue her or because she had other, and possibly more important, things to think about. For she burst into a little bout of absentminded humming which suggested as much. Almost simultaneously he heard the tap running in the washbasin behind him, in indication of the fact that she was washing her hands. Dare he turn his head to see exactly what she looked like at this juncture? But for his being able to remember the fact that the washbasin had the smallest of mirrors high above it, he would have kept his face turned in the opposite direction. With this fact in mind, however, he decided to chance a glance at her and slowly turned his head towards the source of the running water.

What he saw there was enough to make him gulp with surprise! For the masseuse had, in the meantime, changed into a short white overall which barely covered her legs, and, as she bent over the basin, the greater part of her thighs was exposed to view, revealing a seductive fullness it would have been impossible to ignore. An inch or two further in her bending, and the young priest would have been confronted by the lower and fuller half of her bulbous rump! But the masseuse had no intention of bending any further, since she wasn't washing her face, so he had to remain content with what he could see, which, in any case, was considerably more than he had bargained for! Never before had his eyes beheld so much bare flesh in actuality, though he had seen photographs of naked models in a variety of men's magazines on a number of occasions. The sight of it was sufficient to make his heart beat even faster, not to mention louder, and cause his flaccid penis to stiffen slightly beneath him. He couldn't have hoped for a sexier masseuse!

Such tepid voyeurism wasn't to last long, however. For he had hardly been given a chance to focus his sex-starved eyes on her seductive thighs when she straightened up, turned off the tap, and dried her hands, obliging him to turn his face back towards the opposite wall again. He couldn't allow himself to risk being caught staring at her. It would have unduly compromised him, in his own estimation.

"Right, now let's get down to business!" she said, approaching the bed with a small bowl of massage lotion in her hands. "I'll start with your back and gradually work downwards."

He grunted approval and automatically closed his eyes. He was afraid of what he might see out of the corner of the nearest one to her, if he kept them open.

"Now then," she remarked, sitting down on the edge of the bed, "let's rub some grease into this parched hide, shall we?"

He shuddered at the touch of her fingers on his back - as much from the fact of their initial coldness, which was largely due to the massage lotion itself, as from the physical contact their tender femininity had upon him. But as his discomfort subsided and he became more familiar with them, he felt a curiously-reassuring warmth pervade his back which induced him to smile a little, in spite of the effort he was making to keep a straight face. Yes, it was pleasant, this physical contact, and he couldn't disguise the fact. Pleasant to feel the cool lotion enter his skin and set-up little ripples of excitement there. Pleasant, above all, to be treated like this.

Yet it was even more so when, responding to his growing satisfaction with her treatment, Veda climbed onto the bed and, kneeling astride him, proceeded to apply the lotion with greater firmness, stretching up to his shoulder blades and caressing the quite wide expanse of his back with a two-handed ardour. Not only was his back in the firing line of her massaging assault, as it were, but certain other parts of him were, too! For it seemed that he could feel the touch of something other than hands upon him at this moment, like the tickling sensation of pubic hair on his backside and the even more intriguing sensation of pubic flesh there, which suggested the absence of underclothes on the young masseuse. Could it be, then, that she was completely nude under her skimpy white overall? Judging by the tickling sensations on his backside, there seemed to be adequate grounds for such an assumption. Yet before he could arrive at any definite knowledge on that score, the masseuse had changed her position again and begun to rub lotion into his buttocks and even, he could hardly fail to note, between them, causing him to blush anew and almost, though not quite, protest against her. For not only had she rubbed lotion dangerously close to his anus, she was now proceeding to come dangerously close to his flaccid pudenda - in fact, so close as to tickle one or two of his scrotal hairs! The alarm, however, was a false one, and it was with a certain moral relief that he felt her hands moving from his buttocks to the back of his thighs and then on down his legs to the calf muscles, which she proceeded to massage in long, smooth strokes.

"You like it?" she asked.

"Yes," came his answer in a slightly strained tone-of-voice.

"Good! Now let's do your front."

She had stopped rubbing his legs and was waiting for him to turn over. He hesitated on the brink, suddenly overcome with embarrassment at the prospect of being fully exposed to her. Never before had the experience of turning over onto his back proved so daunting! Yet he realized, as the seconds ticked away, that he had no option but to shift his position, and so, overcoming his misgivings, he turned over and bashfully presented a hairy chest to her. Blushing deeply, he couldn't force himself to look her straight in the face, but turned his head to one side. What would she think of him, he wondered? Had she ever dealt with such a recalcitrant client before?

"What a nice dark chest you have!" the masseuse enthused, and, pouring some fresh oil into her palm, she climbed over him again and began to apply a pair of firm though sensitive hands to it, smiling encouragement all the while.

Slowly, he turned his face towards her. It seemed to cost him a great effort but resulted in his feeling reassured and newly interested in her appearance. She didn't look back at him but kept her eyes steadily focused on his chest, and while his gaze slowly encompassed the spectacle of her smiling face and the even more alluring spectacle of her copious breasts, which, like two ripe coconuts, were virtually hanging out of the low-neck overall she was nominally wearing, he was made conscious once more of a tickling sensation about the region of his groin, a sensation brought on, he felt sure, by contact with her pubic hair. And as though to verify it, he found himself sliding his hand up one of her thighs and under her overall, ever so slowly and gently at first but, nevertheless, with calculated intent.

Indeed, the hand seemed to have a life of its own and so, too, did his penis, which, partly in response to what his eyes were beholding higher up and partly in response to what his flesh was experiencing through naked contact with an alien body lower down, had begun to stir gently beneath him. Now as his hand climbed her thigh and, disappearing under the white overall, came into contact with her hip, it became perfectly clear to him that she was in fact naked underneath after all, and that his penis was now responding to nothing less than her pubic self! She was tickling him with the dark hair and warm flesh of her labia, as she knelt astride him and continued to smile whilst applying the massage lotion to his chest.

But that wasn't all she was doing! For now that his chest had been taken care of, she moved herself further down his body and, still kneeling astride him, applied her hands to his abdomen and lower regions, causing him to blush anew. Now the spectacle of his penis growing progressively more inflamed was exposed to full view, and he could hardly fail to take note of it! Neither could he fail to note the fact that she had now begun to massage it, thereby encouraging its expansion. And as she took it in her hands and tenderly applied more lotion to its bulging contours, she shifted her position once more, so that the kneeling became a squat and, for the first time, the cavernous depths of her pubic region were exposed to his avid gaze.

That did it! He could contain himself no longer but immediately reached out to draw her towards himself and, taking hold of her with a firm grip, dragged her down onto the bed and climbed on top of her. He thrust himself upon her in a frenzy of physical passion and sunk his erection deep inside her with a resolve he wouldn't ordinarily have considered himself capable of, much less succumbing to! He sunk his blood-engorged penis inside her with a determination born from years of sexual abstinence, of fidelity to priestly chastity, and he didn't withdraw it again until every last drop of semen had been ejaculated and he had gone some way towards appeasing and even exorcising the demons of his lust. If he was denying himself the benefits of a heavenly salvation, he at least had the consolation of an earthly one, and that, as he now knew, was considerably better than nothing!