It was late as Father John crossed the yard to what had been the early 19th century school, under the watchful eye of Mary, who stood in her darkened bedroom. What on earth went on in there? Why was he suddenly spending so much time there?
She had oftenwondered to what use it was put, but had never been able to see inside. The heavy curtains at the windows were always closed and it was the one door to which she did not have a key.

Father John let himself in and switched on the light. At one end of the room was a low altar, with the painted icons of his faith, and of course the large gold cross. At he other, to the left, just inside the door, was the result of all his efforts over the past few days. A confessional surrounded by heavy maroon curtains.

There had always been a confessional there, but it had been in a temporary room and that didn't suit his purpose. He hoped that he was right, and that Diane was ready to receivce the holy unction, but he wanted to see her first, not through the mesh of the confessional screen, but in full, before he sent her to the altar. He also wanted her to see his manhood. To this end he had designed the curtains to open swiftly when he wished it, and placed a mirror on the wall opposite.

This room had been use for the unction ritual for years, but now for some reason, the number of eligible girls and women had fallen. When he had re-opened it it had smelt musty and damp, and he was glad now that the incense masked it even though it had been some hours since he had sprayed it round. He would make sure that the smell was all pervading when SHE came.

As he wondered what she would be wearing he felt his arousal. Would she let him administer to her, as he so strongly desired.

Going to a cupboard, against the side wall, he withdrew the ledgers, and, taking them into the confession booth put them on the small table therein. These were the logs of the ritual which his conscienscious predecessors had started and that he still kept up-to-date.

In the old days, there had been 2 or 3, or sometimes even 5, entries per week, the recipients of the unction seeming to return regularly, for times varying for a month to a year or so. Then it seemed they came to terms with there sexuality. Looking back thirty years, one name stuck out to him like a sore thumb.

Theresa Foster!!!!!!!

Turning to the ledger for the present day, he looked at the entry of three weeks ago. There in his own neat hand was the entry:-

'Visited Theresa Foster to hear her confession and administered the rites.'

Returning the ledgers to the cupboard, he locked it, swiched off the lights, and securing the little chapel once again made his way to his bed, fully aroused in anticipation of Diane's visit and, once in bed, wrestled with the problem as to whether he should tell her of her mother's hypocrisy.