Free The Translation of Father Torturo by Brendan Connell Page A

an appointment which he was eager to keep. He moved rapidly along the Calle Sagresita, in three sweeping steps crossed the Rio di San Giovanni Novo, turned up Ruga Giuffa, and, after negotiating a few minute back lanes, strode down an alley that came to a dead end at the Rio di San Formosa, the dark water splashing against the stone embankment where a small motor boat was moored. There was an undersized wooden door to his left, worn and patched, with a few flakes of green paint still adhering to it, the original coat of which must have been added to the antique portal at least fifty years previous. One of his long bony fingers stretched out and pressed against an electric bell with the name ‘Sig. C. Della Casa’ written beneath it. Taking a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, he wiped his forehead and waited, gently stroking a mouse that crawled out from the cave of his sleeve.
    Twenty minutes later the man was stripped to his socks and underwear, on his hands and knees in the interior of the apartment. A woman, Signora Clara Della Casa, stood over him, wearing knee-high leather boots, red lace panties, and a black latex top, which was cut low enough to reveal the majority of a swelling balcony. The windowless room was lit by a single phosphorescent bulb enwrapped in a red Chinese lantern which hung overhead. The steady surge of house music, a four-on-the-floor beat, pulsed from the stereo, adding a sense of youthful urgency to the scene.
    Clara cracked a three-tasselled whip over his buttocks.
    “Now,” she said, standing hip shot, arms akimbo, her large cellulose thighs swelling majestically; “will you be obedient, slave?”
    “Yes, yes,” he whimpered gleefully.
    She cracked the whip dangerously near his left ear.
    “Yes, what?” she cried.
    “Yes Mistress. I will do anything you say Mistress.”
    “Kneel! You hear me doggy; – kneel!”
    He sat back on his haunches, revealing a thin, bird-like chest thickly covered with grey hair. He posed his hands like a puppy and looked up at her, his eyes glassy with subservient lust.
    “Stick out your tongue.”
    He complied, letting the wet red organ hang from his mouth. His head was hot and glands well stoked. He crawled forward.
    “Lick me; – Lick me here!” she demanded.
    ***
    “I think we have enough now Clara, thank you.”
    “What the hell,” the cardinal cried, wheeling around.
    “You were magnificent,” Bishop Vivan smiled, capping the lense on the video camera.
    Both himself and Father Torturo were dressed in civilian clothes, Vivan looking particularly spry in close-fitting black pants and shirt by Max Mara, and a pair of brown leather loafers which he wore without socks.
    “Vivan, is that you? My God—”
    “With Father Torturo. You remember him, right?”
    The cardinal rose to his feet, his face beginning to take on the colours of an egg plant. “I . . . I . . . I am,” he stuttered incoherently. And then, his lips quivering: “I am confessing her,” he gasped.
    “Yes,” Torturo said suavely. “I can see you are dressed appropriately for the occasion. Do you like his vestments?” he asked, turning to Vivan.
    “Oh, very much! Very much indeed! And really, for his age, his figure is not half bad.”
    “ Fava della Madonna !” the cardinal screamed, white with rage, and clenched his fists. “Vivan, what the devil are you doing here?”
    “I might just as easily ask you the same question,” the bishop replied coolly with one hand on his hip.
    “And, so I would guess, your answer would be less than satisfactory,” Torturo added, taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
    “May I have one?” Clara asked, setting down her whip and stepping towards the priest.
    “Certainly; but please put something on over those hips and latex. They are liable to distract the cardinal and we have business to discuss.”
    “Would you rather I leave for a while?”
    “That might be better,” he said, handing her a cigarette and a hundred euro