Sexy Erotica
"Salvation" a sex story by Jordan LaRousse
We lived in a small town in Tennessee in a weathered farmhouse with a brick driveway that wound endlessly between rows of dogwood trees. He was the pastor of the Baptist church. Tall, muscular, a shining bald head, and teeth that flashed as white as the southern sun on a hot July day. The youngest pastor our town had ever seen.
I was the daughter of an alcoholic and I needed salvation.
My reputation at the girls’ school all but barred me from stepping foot over the threshold of the Our Mother Mary Catholic church. I was too ashamed, so they assumed, to repent. They were right. I didn’t want to tell Father Ray, confessional screen be damned, about my tryst with his nephew in the bathroom at the diner during our shift break. I didn’t want to worry him with the details of how I took his God-fearing nephew’s God-endowed cock from his trousers and placed it delicately between my rouged lips and indelicately sucked it sucked it sucked it until he cried out the Lord’s name in vain. I would never confess.
Still, I needed salvation; I didn’t want to go to Hell. And it was with this in mind that I found myself in the Baptist church on the east end of town. My skin, the color of fallen snow, my hair, the color of autumn leaves when they are still gripping with life, stood out among the sea of black and brown. My body didn’t fit in. But my soul had found its rightful place. And I could sing, and sing I did.
It was here in this hot, sweaty profusion of almond skinned bodies. It was here in this glorious worshipful place. It was here amidst the clapping of hands, the Hallelujah cries, the Amens that lifted the rooftop to the heavens. It was here that I met him. Him. My savior. His name was Darrel Louis Walsh the Third. We called him Pastor Trey.
Pastor Trey was quick on the uptake. He saw the pretty little thing with the voice of an angel, as he called me, and swept me right up off my feet. Took me up right out of my sins and onto his wide, muscular shoulders, took me toward my salvation.
Although we spent hours upon hours with our tongues upon each other’s lips, our teeth upon each other’s necks, Pastor Trey refused to fuck me under the eyes of his Lord and savior until we were truly and rightfully man and wife. In my quest for salvation, I agreed. In my quest for love, I agreed. In my quest for his cock, which I had only felt through layers of denim, layers of cotton, layers of corduroy and beneath layers of the fine blue suede of his favorite Sunday suit. I agreed.
Oh lord yes how I wanted to undress him, to lay my weary head on his chest and kiss his heated skin, to drink of his fruits, to bask in his love, to wake up with his horny, glorious hard-on pressed up insistently against the crack of my ass.
Despite the hemming and hawing of old Mr. McGee from the general store, despite the piercing glares of several of his admiring parishioners, including the voluptuous Lucy and her slender sister Sue, despite the disgruntled grunts of my father, and the gossiping croons of my coworkers at the diner. Despite it all. We were married.
The ceremony was brief. A cloak and dagger affair. A marriage with few witnesses, despite my husband’s affection for the limelight.
He didn’t marry me for love. He married me because he desperately craved my pussy.
I learned this quickly.
We ate apples dipped in honey beneath the full moon, but there was no real honeymoon. The night we were married he took me to our new home. The weathered farmhouse at the end of the long brick driveway. The air was musky. Wooden. The windows had not been opened for years.
There was a mattress stuffed with straw on the floor. It was here that I first made love to Pastor Trey. It was here that we consecrated our marriage. It was here that I spread my legs before his tongue and let him weep deep and long prayers between the folds of my sex. It was here that he flipped me onto my knees and plunged himself deep into my pink cunt. It was here that I cried out and begged for him to fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me!
He loved me there in that bed night after night, morning after morning, afternoons too. We spent hours pressed together like a hot iron to a strip of fabric, rubbing back and forth heatedly. We spent countless minutes pressed together like two pages in the center of a book, comfortable, still and warm.
Outside the farmhouse though he grew distant. On the streets of our little town he begged for me to pretend not to know him. He said that he’d been getting threats from the Sheriff, threats saying he would lose his pastorship, lose his job, lose his life if he married that white girl. Problem was we were already married. God had consecrated our relationship even if the Sheriff had not.
I made exclamations of my dedication to him. I made provocations of my hatred for our bigoted little town. Saving a month’s worth of tips from the diner, I bought bus tickets to Atlanta where we could walk the streets, my white hand in his black hand, without consequence. But Pastor Trey did not want to leave his congregation. He did not want to leave voluptuous Lucy and her slender sister Sue, he did not want to leave old Mr. McGee from the general store. He told me we had to bide our time and hope that times and sentiments would change.
Between his greedy mouthfuls of my pussy, between my singing his praises, between all of this, but before my orgasm, he told me I could no longer sing. Starting Sunday I would no longer be welcome at his church. It was for my own safety, he said. He breathed his fears between my thighs, said he believed his congregation could read our surreptitious glances, could feel the energy zipping between cock and cunt, could sense the saliva he had left on my left nipple in the moments before the church bells rang. If they knew of our marriage, he fretted, his flock would leave him. They’d flock out of the church’s gate and disappear into the Tennessee hills. He’d be left behind, alone, without purpose.
I smiled at the thought. Let the congregation flock. Let them go so we could go to Atlanta. We could be free to be together. We could raise children. We could buy a proper house with proper neighbors and a proper bed. He could become pastor of a city church, preach tolerance and love, we could fill the chapel like a crayon box, 32 colors of creation.
His eyes grew as dark as a violent southern storm. A glint of lighting shot through. A menacing cloud washed over his smile, turned it upside down.
“We are never leaving this town,” he said.
I sat at home that songless Sunday, wondering. I thought of Pastor Trey preaching in his freshly ironed suit. The one I had laundered after accidentally leaving my fragrant juices on the knee when he had fingered my wetness. The one I laundered after accidentally leaving my lipstick kisses on the collar. The kisses left behind from when he had gripped my face between his palms and professed his undying love for my pussy.
I thought of his praising and healing and preaching and of the huge breasts of voluptuous Lucy and the small pert ones of her slender sister Sue bouncing up and down up and down beneath the taut fabric of their dresses in the front row of the church. Their eyes supposedly raised toward heaven, but surely eyeing the crotch of my beloved husband. If he had married Lucy she would be on stage beside him, singing. If he had married Sue they would kiss in front of the entire congregation if they wanted to. Man and wife showing off their holy matrimony. My green eyes shone with jealousy, my red hair flamed with rage. He was my man I his wife, and our matrimony was holy. I wasn’t going to hide it anymore.
I put on my Sunday best. My green floral dress that showed off the color of my eyes. My wide gray hat. My white gloves and black handbag. It was too hot for a bra and my breasts were small enough to go bare. I rolled on my nude stockings and hitched them to my garter belt. I slipped on the more comfortable pair of pumps because my husband had taken the car and left me out here at the end of a long driveway, at the end of an even longer dirt road. I knew that if I hurried, I could walk that road to town in about an hour and would arrive at the church after the salvation was served but before the lemonade and crumb cake were served.
The Tennessee sun was hot on my skin as I walked. My anger made me hotter. My longing for Pastor Trey’s hot touch made me hottest of all. I damned the dress, damned the nylons, and damned the pumps that rubbed at my feet in all the wrong directions. Yet I walked furiously arriving at the church just in time to see the worshippers stream out from the building, mingling on the lawn in their pretty dresses and sharp suits with lemonade in right hand, crumb cake in left, dropping cinnamon crumbs into their white napkins.
And I saw him, my husband as he embraced woman after woman close and tight, their breasts pressing deep into the muscles of his chest. His hands leaving warm dents in the soft flesh of their backs. His breath close to their ears whispering his encouraging words.
My eyes shone green with envy. My hair coiled in red curls of rage.
I stomped stomped stomped up the sidewalk, stood behind my husband’s back as he embraced yet another woman. Watched her hands scrunch into his suit, the one I had freshly laundered. I tapped on his shoulders and he spun around flashing his hot-sun grin.
His grin toppled, left side down, when he saw me standing before him in my green floral dress, my wide gray hat, my nude stockings my sensible pumps now scuffed with the dirt from the long road in.
His grin toppled, right side down, as I threw my arms around him and kissed him solidly on the cheek, on the chin, on his neck, on his chest and proclaimed him my husband, my beloved, the love of my life.
The sound of crumbs from the crumb cakes falling. The sound of ice clicking against the sides of plastic lemonade cups. The sound of uncomfortable shuffling of feet against grass. Ahems and hahs. Silence but for those sounds.
My exclamations became more brazen. “My husband, let’s go home,” I announced. “Let’s go make babies; this is what man and wife do on a Sunday afternoon. Remember the lovemaking we shared this morning? I want more. I want to take you in my mouth, in my pussy, I want to take your width in the tight space between my ass cheeks.”
These announcements flew from my angry lips like a colony of bats taking flight from a dark cave. Without thought for my dear husband’s reputation, my words flew haphazardly.
Abruptly he took control of the situation. With a smile that cracked deeply at the edges he grabbed my wrists in one large, strong hand and declared me possessed by the devil. He declared me overtaken by demonic rage. He laid his other hand to my forehead and began a prayer even as my rage spewed forth.
A crowd gathered around us, and soon the shouts of Hallelujahs and Amens rang in my ears. I collapsed in the arms of my husband, completely overcome by heat, by emotion, by the compassion of his flock that he refused to leave behind.
The prayer done, and me subdued at last, Pastor Trey saw his escape. He wished his congregation a blessed Sunday, advised them he would call my father to come fetch me home, and he took me over his shoulder and up the steps into the church. He sat me down on a pew and turned to shut the massive doors behind him. I heard the deadbolt slide locked. I heard his ragged breathing, his anger washing up anew. His footsteps echoed in the empty room and he stood before me with dusty stripes of light crisscrossing his massive chest.
I felt weary from my long walk, exhausted from my jealous rage. Yet his gleaming eyes, his fisted fingers stirred me into arousal.
Wordlessly he pulled me to stand before him. He laid my wide gray hat on the pew and encircled his arms around my waist, brought me deep into his embrace. His hand slid to the back of my dress and a long zip, an eternal zip, sounded as he slowly pulled the metal apart. He worked the flat of his hand into the space made by the parted fabric and gripped me harder still. His searing palm on the flesh of my back throbbed with energy.
After a still moment like this, he dropped his arms and pushed me away, took the shoulders of my dress down and let the entirety of its fabric fall to the floor and pool around my sullied shoes.
“You are beautiful,” he whispered. His voice strangely quiet in a room where it usually boomed and rang from floorboard to rafter. “But you have ruined me.”
A familiar sense of shame burned deep in my heart upon hearing his words.
I stood vulnerable in my stockings, my garter, my panties, my shoes, my gloves. Yet my naked nipples poked defiantly at him, like two fingers claiming it was his fault that he was ruined. Not mine. All I had wanted was for him to be my husband, proud for me to be his wife.
He knelt before me, wrapped his arms around me and grabbed my two ass cheeks in his two strong hands. He poked his pink tongue into the fabric of my underwear. Poked and prodded and found the nub of my clit beneath the cotton. I felt the heat of his breath, the moisture of his saliva as it seeped through the cloth. His hands kneaded my behind and spread the cheeks wide.
“You have ruined me.” He looked up at me and I saw his eyes shining with tears. He released my cheeks and brought his hands to my garter. He carefully unsnapped each snap, until all eight had been released. Then he eased the garter down over my hips and pooled it on the floor with my dress. He slowly rolled my panties down my legs and those too, he left pooled about my feet. He took my left hand, set my pocketbook down and took off the white Sunday glove finger by finger. Then just as deliberately he tugged the glove from my right hand too. I now stood before him in my stockings and dirty shoes, my other clothes discarded at my toes.
He pressed his forehead into my stomach and breathed heavily into my crotch. He breathed heavily and repeated, “You have ruined me.” He brought a long finger up and pierced my center. He pushed it in deep and pulled it back out. Pushed it in deeper still and pulled it back out. Pushed it in as deep as he could and pulled it back out. He leaned forward to retrieve the nectar that he had stirred up and lapped, lapped, lapped at it with his tongue. He dipped his tongue into my cunt and eagerly sipped at the juices that came forth.
I grew dizzy at his unexpected tenderness. I felt as if I would fall to the floor. I held tightly to his broad shoulders beneath that suit, pressed the fabric in as I had seen the women of his congregation do.
He took my left foot and then the other and released them from the pile of clothes that bound them. Then, standing up, he led me to the stage. The stage where he stood Sunday after Sunday and sermonized to the masses about love and salvation. He led me naked up the stairs and once there he had me kneel before him in a position of forgiveness. It was here that he unzipped his zipper, an eternal ungrasping of metal from metal and at long last brought forth the heavy flesh of his cock.
I pulled his offering deeply into my mouth and sucked upon it hungrily. I let the tip push at the back of my throat while I ran my tongue up and down its underside. I felt the heaviness of his balls in my hand as I sucked sucked sucked. I felt suddenly ravenous. I wanted to be filled with his seed. I wanted to suck suck suck until his cock exploded its nourishment, its love, its forgiveness into my ravenous body.
I imagined his congregation lining up in the pews behind me. I imagined them watching my bare ass as it bounced on the heels of my dirt worn shoes. My red hair, ridden of its rage, cascading down the white plane of my back. I imagined them clap clap clapping and shouting out their praises as I swallow the preacher’s cock deep into the back of my throat.
As if my husband were overtaken by this imagery too he shouted out an unexpected and triumphant “Amen!” One that began at the root of his sex and exploded from the depths of his abundant lungs. It bounced off the barren pews and back into my ears. My heart leaped with joy, elated to have brought forth such utterances from my heretofore angry lover.
He pushed my face away from his cock leaving me starving, leaving me hungry, leaving me thirsty for more. He shed his clothing, first his shoes, then his pants, he wore no boxers, then his jacket, then his white button-up shirt which he opened button by button as if he had all the time in the world. He carefully folded these garments and laid them atop his pulpit.
He took my hand, helped me to my feet and led me to the piano bench. He sat down, his erection pointing toward the heavens and then he pulled my soaking pussy onto his lap and pierced me deeply. I sat there motionless at first, savoring the way his penis filled me. Savoring the pulse and rhythm of his flowing blood against my walls. Savoring his hands wrapped around my waist, my back pressed to his chest, his lips on my neck, my nipples pointed toward the risers where not long before the choir sang its songs of glory.
And then he began to pump into me. Deep into me. He pumped and dug his fingers into the tops of my thighs and pumped and bit the back of my neck. He pumped and grabbed a fistful of my hair and brought his other hand to my nipple and twisted it as he pumped deep into me.
And I let my body be carried by his ravishments. I let him have his way with me his wayward wife. I relinquished control and let him love me as he knew best.
At the moment I felt my orgasm well up inside me, at the moment that I felt his cock become as hard as it was able, at the moment that my moan overtook the vacant space, at the moment that his grip grew tighter and his breath drew harder. At this moment he crashed backward onto the piano keys and a great discordant tune clattered about the church. And we both cried out discordantly, yet together in a great and final instant of utter satisfaction.
We sat there in stillness for a moment, but then my husband, he pushed me from his lap. My skin unstuck from his skin and I dropped weary and sated to the floor of the stage. My husband stood and slowly pulled on his trousers, slid his shirt up his arms and buttoned it one by one as if he had all the time in the world. Drew on his jacket and pulled on his socks and shoes.
I sat there and watched him as he put himself together. Watched him as he ran a hand over his smooth, bald pate wiping off all evidence of his exertion. Once again he stood as before, a man in control, a man who did not want to leave our little town.
Copyright February 2011
Published
with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or
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