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After that afternoon with Signora Concetta Damiano, Father Gianelli continued his priestly duties. Baptisms, communion, Last Rites, counseling grieving widows and widowers like Concetta, weddings and advising young people about to marry about their responsibilities as husband and wife.

He'd see Bettina, Azzurra, Concetta, and other women he'd known at Mass, but never went out of his way to talk to them. He feared that he'd succumb to any suggestions they might make. He spent hours every day in prayer; praying for the strength to fight off the sexual demons that haunted him.

It wasn't to be. It wasn't a woman until it was a woman.

For the past few years, he'd heard the confessions of men who admitted to cheating on their wives or single, widowed or divorced men engaged in sinful sexual conduct.

Don't think this is going to be about gay sex. It's not.

When these men confessed their sins, "Father, I could not help myself. This woman was the sweetest woman you could imagine. She was as sweet as the most delicious wine."

More than one, more than two, perhaps a half dozen men told the same or similar stories in the confessional. They didn't reveal the name of the women, but given his history, Father Gianelli was certain he knew what they meant by ‘delicious.'

He couldn't get the thought out of his mind. He dreamed of his face in Bettina's golden bush and her luscious, no delicious pussy. When he wasn't dreaming of her, he was fantasizing about tasty pussy. He'd wake up in a sweat, shaking his head. Then he'd kneel on the floor and pray for forgiveness and for the strength to push those thoughts away.

It couldn't have been an accident; there had to be forces beyond his control. Perhaps it was God testing him.

It happened like this. In Arenzano, even in a confessional, Father Gianelli knew everyone. So, when those men who'd confessed to having relations with women who were delicious, he knew who they were.

And when accidently they slipped and mentioned the women by name, he knew who they were talking about. And it wasn't women; it was one woman. Her name was Cornelia Migliore. He stopped in her cheese shop once or twice a month. Her shop sold the best cheese in the entire region. The cheeses came from a dairy her family owned.

She was named after Julius Caesar's first wife and was in her mid-forties. Her husband, Enrico Quattromani, left her five years ago for America and promised to send her money and eventually send for her. She hadn't heard from him, not a phone call, not a letter and no money, in over four years.

Father Gianelli prayed and prayed for strength; prayed not to be tempted. It was no use; he night dreamed and day dreamed about Cornelia; about Cornelia's taste.

The next time he stopped in her shop, for the first time he noticed that she had a very pretty face, laughed easily and had a very pleasant personality. He did notice that her bottom was wide and that her blouse was over-sized, hiding her breasts.

He surprised himself; he approached her and it wasn't about her cheeses. "Signora Cornelia, is there anything in your shop tastier than your parmesan?"

Since she was eighteen, men had told her, "Signora, I have never tasted anything sweeter than your pussy; I hope the next time we're together; you allow me the pleasure again."

"Signore, I've never felt like your tongue makes me feel."

She married Enrico because no one ate her pussy like Enrico and Enrico who'd eaten lots of pussy never ate a pussy as yummy as Cornelia's.

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