Michael Malone - Weebly

allowed to recur. He vowed again to get on top of life
and ride it.
Meanwhile, in Saar's tasteful bathroom, his guest,
Father Jonathan Fields (who had indeed forgotten
about his eye appointment), was masturbating as
quickly as he possibly could, so as not to keep his host
waiting. Without seeing his own face (a face like a
Raphael, the rector had told him) reflected in its amber
glass, Jonathan gazed at the beautiful carved oak
mirror. Whatever had possessed him? What had forced
this urgent visit to the toilet before he simply came all
over his clerical pants while sitting in the headmaster's
Chippendale chair with his Royal Doulton teacup
jingling in its saucer on his lap? Either Walter Saar, or
Saar's exquisite furnishings (each piece of which he
longed to own himself—awful, awful envy), had
unignorably raised the curate to a turgid height of desire.
Visualizing the Holbein over the Queen Anne lowboy in
the study, Father Fields ejaculated into the toilet bowl,
returned his still twitching member to his shorts, and,
having washed his hands, pulled the chain on his
passion.