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His name was Father Fillipo Gianelli and it was the Christmas season. He was hearing confessions. He'd been hearing confessions for hours. He was twenty-nine-years-old.

It had been like this every Christmas and Easter since he'd been assigned to his childhood parish in Arenzano, near Genoa, Italy five years ago. Yes, it had been five years since he'd been ordained.

"Bless me Father for I have sinned . . ." the woman said softly.

He heard her confession, offered her absolution, gave her penance and was already preparing himself for the next sinner. "One other thing, Father. It's my husband. He's suggesting that we do things in our marital bed that have nothing to do with procreation. I want to be a good wife, but I don't want to sin either."

He knew the woman. She was a member of the Woman's Auxiliary providing desperately needed support to the church, the priests and the parishioners.

He peeked out the heavy curtains of the confessional. The lines were still long at each of the four stations. "Signora, I know you are in need of counseling, but look for yourself, today I do not have the time for such a discussion. Perhaps, after the Christmas season we can arrange to meet and discuss your dilemma."

"Yes, Father, I understand. Thank you, Father. Buon Natale."

Later that night, he retired to his small, sparsely furnished room, exhausted. He'd lost count of how many confessions he'd heard, but he couldn't sleep. He couldn't get the woman with the marital problem out of his head.

Her name was Bettina DeMarco. It wasn't just her marital problem that caused Father Gianelli to think of her. He shouldn't have, but he thought of her beauty. Tall, slim and unlike most Italian women, she was blonde. Although, she always dressed modestly; of course she did, he only saw her in church; her full breasts could not be hidden, nor could her perfectly formed ass. At thirty-four-years-old, she still retained the beauty and fresh-faced look of a teenager.

Father Fillipo shook his head; he shouldn't be having these thoughts. He couldn't help himself. He knew exactly what Mrs. DeMarco was talking about it when she said, "things that have nothing to do with procreation."

The priesthood didn't call when he was eighteen. What or actually who did call were girls; not just girls, women, too. He was a handsome young man, and did not want for female companionship. Females interested in more than just holding hands. It was experienced women, not girls who discovered that what young Fillipo had in his pants was worth spreading their legs for.

It was long and fat, and when it filled them up, there was no quit in it. Just as impressive was when those women insisted on making love to his impressive manhood with their mouths. Only a few could make it disappear; all of it; but for those who couldn't, it wasn't for lack of trying.

As for girls, not women, they endured the pain as it stretched them out and then there was only ecstasy. "Lucia, I don't want to hurt you; perhaps if you kissed it. "Yes, Fillipo, I'd like to try, but be patient, I've never done that." Sometimes, there was the pain of teeth, but sometimes there was joy. With older, more mature, more experienced women, there was always joy. Joy whether he was filling their vaginas or their mouths.

It should go without saying that at this time in his life, he didn't use the word vagina. Nor did those women use the word penis. "Fillipo, your cock, your cock is so good to my pussy. When you're ready, fuck me again," said more than one woman, some of whom were married.

The married ones insisted on teaching him to use his tongue. "Fillipo, my husband won't do me like that, please. I promise my mouth will take care of your cock."

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