A new parish priest was coming

It took Abigail and all but the most senior sisters by surprise when it was announced that Father Corcoran would soon be leaving the parish where he had led services for nearly twenty years. For "undisclosed reasons", he was to be transferred to another parish in the same state, presumably because the demands and business of a city church had worn him down over the years. Fresh blood was needed to invigorate this staid old church and grow the waning congregation by engaging more with the needs of the community. The neighborhood, a mix of working class blacks and Irish, had been suffering from the effects of de-industrialization, but was kept alive by the continued relative success of the local meat-packing plant. Now, as new and wealthier young tenants began to move into the area and gentrify it, working class families struggled to pay the rising cost of rent. To the new incoming parish priest, this made the social mission of the church all the more vital.

Father Bradley was tall man in his early thirties who had just finished his term as a priest on a mission abroad to Malawi. Kind, persuasive, and undeniably handsome to boot (he had dirty blonde hair, a closely-cropped beard, and strong, angular features), he was exactly the face that the church wanted to put forward to lead their renewed social mission - a real Vatican II kind of guy. The first few months after he arrived at the parish church were electrifying. He showed that a priest could be more than a man of words, but of action, revitalizing the programs to help the poor and needy. His sermons were passionate and personal, invigorating the congregation to action in a way that Father Corcoran never managed. Young parishioners in particular found him compelling - he spoke to their struggles and issues with a sense of compassion and understanding that wasn't often associated with the Catholic Church these days. Many boys and girls looked up to him as a role model, but a few girls looked over him with something else in mind.

Sister Abigail could see them giggling at the back pews during service, the little Catholic-in-name-only tramps. They were just like the girls back in high school who relentlessly mocked her, who made her life a hell from which the only refuge was study and worship. She hated that they saw this wonderful man, this servant of God, as an object for their sinful fantasies and gossip. What she hated even more, and what she couldn't admit to herself, was that she saw him in a similar light. He was the first real man she had ever really had the privilege to know who was under the age of 45 or so - he was young, but mature and thoughtful. She would catch herself staring at him longingly as he articulated the wonder of God's love from the pulpit or when he rolled up his sleeves to serve hot soup for the homeless and families who struggled to keep their homes. His arms were surprisingly muscular and his hands calloused from labor, evidently from when he helped to build a new mission church in Malawi.

Abigail tried to shut out the impure thoughts she had when she quietly watched him conduct his services, but they crept into her dreams instead. Three times in a week she dreamt of feeling his strong but gentle body embracing hers. She dreamt that his manhood pulsed within her. The pain of longing was too great, but she there had to be something that could unchain her spirit from these earthly desires.