Sister Seraphima gave me directions to the secret plot of cyclamen, and I made my way there the very next morning. Whilst gathering the pretty blooms, I hatched a little plot of my own. The delicate petals of the cyclamen reminded me of my own little petals from the times after vespers when I’d dared examine them in the darkened glass, and that gave me the idea: I’d rub the plump little flower petals against my cunny until the sap flavored my own secret skin. How could Father Baldini resist?

Later that morning, I perched on the sacramental fount, waiting for Father Baldini to amble by. Sure enough, he noticed the colorful bouquet I held innocently above my bare lap and strolled closer, his nose leading the way. Soon he was bent before me, sniffing deeply. “Glorious, child,” he intoned, his eyes feasting on my fattened petals, his lips about to follow. The plan would have worked perfectly, I’m sure, if only there hadn’t been that bee.

The zoom of it startled me, and I dropped the posies, right on Father Baldini’s hairless noggin. The priest jerked back. “What is it, child?” he asked, his eyes deep in mine.

“A bee,” I answered.

“Oh, dear,” said Father. “Did he sting you?”

“I’m not sure,” I confessed, and my eyes cast downward. I didn’t want to lie.

“Oh, goodness,” said the priest. “On your...?”

“It itches, Father,” I mumbled. “It itches something fierce. I think it’s swelling up.”

“Let me have a look,” said Father, and he parted my legs. “Yes, I do see some swelling.” His voice, deep and husky, nearly made me swoon. “Let me look closer.” Obediently, I spread my legs wide and lifted them until my ankles settled on Father’s strong shoulders.

“I do see a little bump,” Father observed.

“It feels so hot and prickly,” I gasped.

“I’ll blow on it,” Father said, and he blew soft, thrilling puffs on my bare clitty.

“Is that better?”

“Oh, it’s hotter than ever,” I said.

“Some soothing moisture might do the trick,” said Father, and a moment later he had my little bud between his lips and trilled me with the tip of his tongue. The tickle made me thrash. I clamped my legs tight about Father Baldini’s neck.

“I’m burning up inside,” I squealed, shivering uncontrollably.

“The bee went in you? That bastard. I’ll get him.” And with that, Father Baldini plunged his juicy tongue deep into the tight cave of my cunny.

“Deeper, deeper,” I exhorted.

Father’s tongue pushed against my gush. I writhed and twisted on the outside, churned and clenched within.

“Deeper, deeper,” I screamed.

“Fear not,” Father said, “I’ll root out the little rascal,” and he stepped back, shucked his robe, hoisted me up, and fucked his prick deep into my cunt.”

“Oh, yes, oh, yes, oh yes!” I chanted, while Father rammed and rammed and rammed, and my cunt clenched and clenched and clenched. “Oh yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes, yes, yes.”

A moment later Father shuddered, and for an instant I thought he himself had been stung, and then I felt the flush of his flood, one forceful jolt after another filling my womb, and I joined him in the ecstasy.

When it was over, Father and I sighed simultaneously, and Father set me down, and smiled down on me, and said, “I guess we baptized that little fucker to heck and back.”