The Preacher's Wife
How did a preacher's wife learn deep-throat blow jobs?
My name is Ted Ashton and I am twenty-six years old. I am assistant pastor at what some of our detractors have called the richest church in northern Virginia. We are that, of course, but I don't like to describe us that way.
It was a choice job offer that I got right after I received my Doctor of Theology degree. Unlike most assistant positions it paid well and I was looking forward to a good appointment in one of several churches in Virginia or North Carolina where several pastors were well into their sixties.
I had preached sermons by invitation in several of these churches and I thought some were looking me over seriously. In school, Homiletics was my best subject and I took pride in reaching my listeners with a simple, clear message that they understood, remembered, and took to heart.
There was a professor at Chapel Hill who gave a lot of talks about "The Historical Jesus" and every time one of my flock heard him I was faced with questions. I finally developed a sermon titled "The Historical Jesus in a Christian Context" which turned out to be the most popular sermon I had ever given, as well as a popular Sunday school lesson.
I was often asked to give that sermon. Unfortunately it was not popular with some of my friends who were theological scholars. The last time I was in Danville at a theological meeting I took a lot of good-natured kidding from them.
My pastor was Doctor Wade Jiles, from an old southern family. He had been a very successful minister and, like many pastors in our denomination he had received the DD degree, which was an honorary degree. This meant he was addressed as "Doctor."
For reasons lost in the mists of history, our denomination preferred to address their ministers as "Doctor" rather than "Reverend" or "Pastor" like the Lutherans. It was often said, and sometimes it was true, that if a congregation donated enough money to a seminary, their pastor would get a DD.
Dr. Jiles was past his middle fifties and his health was not good. There was talk of his moving to emeritus status. This would open a position for me and I had several enthusiastic supporters in our church.
Dr. Jiles wife, Pam, was a solid rock of support for him and, indeed, she was a key leader in our church. Her education had been in counseling, and she was consulted more often, even, than her husband by parishioners seeking advice. Their daughter, Chris was a senior at Charlottesville, majoring, like her mother, in psychology. She was destined to be a preacher's wife. I had dated Chris on numerous occasions and I think Dr. Jiles saw me as a prospective son-in-law. I agreed.
In short, I felt like I was knowledgeable and on top of things and in control and ready to advance in my chosen profession. Then my safe and cozy world collapsed all around me in an unlikely series of unbelievable events and I found myself in an impossible situation, as difficult to describe, as it is to imagine.
It all began in Dr. Jiles' study just off the sanctuary on a cloudy fall afternoon. Dr. Jiles sat me down in a big, soft leather chair where people consulting him always sat. He was at his desk and he began to speak in a solemn voice.
"Ted, there have been some developments in my medical condition. It's hard for me to discuss this because it is so very personal. Pam and I have talked about it night after night and we have finally reached what we think is a possible solution -- an unusual solution -- you may even think it bizarre. But it all depends upon you. I want you to have a talk with Pam about my condition and then you and I need to talk again."
It was a simple direct statement and when he completed it he rose from his chair and left the room, holding the door open for Pam who entered and sat down. When he was gone and the door was closed, Pam began to talk in the same solemn voice her husband had used.
"It's so painful, that Wade can hardly talk about it, even with me. On his annual physical exam, the blood test for his prostate was elevated. He had a biopsy and they found cancer. After a lot of talk and tests we decided to have surgery. We kept everything very quiet and went to Hopkins where the best guy in the field operates. But even the best guys aren't always perfect. The wrong nerves got cut and he became impotent."
Pam poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the desk and offered me a drink. I declined and she drank half the glass herself. I think she wanted time for me to absorb the gravity of what she had said. I remembered the "vacation" they took six months ago. I had preached a series of sermons on Job while he was gone.
Pam continued. "Our life became a living hell! We have always had a solid sexual relationship and he was frustrated with a desire he couldn't fulfill. I was just as frustrated as he was. And, although I tried to keep that a secret from him, I think he figured it out."
"Then last month his scans and blood tests showed that the tumor had spread. That's when his doctor tried to suppress his male hormones with a drug called leupro-something. I think it might have been leuprolide or leuproside. Anyway he had a very bad allergic reaction -- like a heart attack. They said he couldn't take that drug, or anything like it ever again."
She poured some more water and sipped some before asking me if I understood.
"Do you know what that means? What they have to do now?"
It sounded bad. "Do you mean? He might die?"
"No, not die. There's still a treatment that often controls prostate cancer. Do you know what I'm talking about?"
I shook my head no.
She said it harshly, head down looking at the desk.
"Castration! They're gonna castrate him! If he can't take that drug, that's the only way to shut off the male hormones that are making his cancer grow. "
I didn't know what to say. I sat in silence. Finally Pam looked up at me.
"They said, at least his desire for sex will go away."
I didn't say anything and she continued, again staring at the desk.
"They're gonna cut off his balls. It's actually the best thing for him. He'll be a lot better off with his balls hanging in a bottle of formalin in the hospital path lab than swinging between his legs sending ideas to his head that his dick can't follow up on."
"Jesus!" I said. I was very surprised at her frankness and the language she had used.
Then after a moment of silence she said, "For him, maybe, but not for me! I haven't had sex for six months. It's starting to affect my mind. I told him I couldn't go on like this. I'm fifty-two and a lot of women don't need it at that age but I can't go on this way. I just can't."
She sat there, obviously in severe mental pain. Then she got up without a word and walked out of the room. She held the door open for Dr. Jiles who entered and closed it behind him. He moved to the desk and sat down.
Then began the strangest conversation I had ever engaged in. Sex was not mentioned once. He talked in the most general terms -- almost like a sermon. I tried to ask questions but all I got back were generalities about people and needs and sins and God and right and wrong and casting the first stone. And when he finished he got up and, wordlessly, left me alone in the room.
I felt strange. Very strange. He talked gibberish but somehow I understood. He had not said it! He had never said it! And yet, as I got up and walked out of the church through a silent, empty sanctuary, I knew in my heart what he was asking me to do. He was asking me to fuck his wife!
Alone in my apartment that night I thought again and again about that conversation. I'm a preacher, but not a prude. I'd fucked my share of girls since college. Of course I had to be very careful to avoid even the slightest suspicion. I had always thought of it as a search for "safe pussy." I even had a set of rules: never a gal from the church; never a gal who might get serious; preferably a gal from another town and, best of all, a gal I met while attending a meeting as far away from home as possible.
So far I had a spotless reputation. But fuck the preacher's wife? It was so absurd that no one would ever suspect it, but still? What the hell was I going to do? And Wade, poor Wade! They were gonna castrate Wade Jiles. Castration! What an ugly thing!
I remembered reading about the Barbary pirates capturing Christians from ships in the Mediterranean and holding them for ransom. When they got a young couple they would castrate the husband so he could work in some Algerian brothel where he watched his wife get regularly fucked, her market value declining with each thick Algerian penis she serviced. When she was just a worn-out whore, they would accept the ransom money and send the two back to Europe -- still a couple, but now mismatched -- the wife conditioned for heavy use and the husband without his testicles.
The King James Bible on the table caught my eye. It reminded me that the Barbary pirates were not alone. The English had raised castration to the level of a spectator sport. After capturing the men who conspired to kill King James by blowing up Parliament in 1605, a half-dozen prisoners were led to a scaffold erected in the Old Palace Yard at Westminster.
Before a jeering, laughing crowd of spectators, they were stripped and castrated -- their testicles flung out to the waiting hounds. After this indignity they were executed. It was the women who laughed the loudest and moved up closest for the best view. I could almost hear the shrieks of the struggling prisoners drowned out by the raucous laughter of the street women at the edge of the scaffolding, watching the gleaming little blade do its emasculating work -- again and again and again. Until modern times, Nov 5th has been celebrated as Guy Fawkes Night with bonfires in memory that execution.
My mind recoiled at the thought of castration. The next morning things proceeded apace. Dr. Jiles invited me over to his house that evening for drinks and hors d'œuvres. I had an idea what was supposed to happen. It was a friendly evening, finishing with Dr. Jiles saying he was going to leave to visit a number of sick and home-bound parishioners. When he left there was a prolonged and uncomfortable silence.
Pam and I looked at each other without speaking. I realized I was supposed to fuck her. But, how the hell do you do that to a dignified, middle-aged lady you had always respected as a leader of the church? She was almost thirty years older than I was.
At the moment, however, she was far from dignified. I had seen horny women before and Pam was the perfect image of a horny woman. Her facial expression was slack, her mouth slightly open, and her breathing was heavy. She was almost trembling in anticipation.
After a long, uncomfortable silence, Pam said, "Let's go up to the guest bedroom."
We went upstairs and into the guest room. The house was empty but Pam closed the door anyway. When she turned to face me she was trembling. Clearly she wanted to fuck. She hadn't felt a hard one in six months. She needed to spread her legs and take one deep.
"Do you want the lights on or off?" Pam asked.
"Leave them on," I said.
"I'm fifty-two years old and I'm not skinny," Pam said. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure," I said. If I was gonna fuck this horny bitch I wanted to see what she looked like. I'd never fucked a gal who was over thirty -- or at least admitted she was over thirty. I had no idea what I was in for with a fifty-two year old. I didn't even know if I could get it up.
Pam reached behind her back, unbuttoned her dress, slipped her arms out and the dress fell to the floor. She stepped out of it. She was wearing a bra and half-slip. She hooked her thumbs in the half-slip and took it off, throwing in on the floor with her dress. She stood before me in bra and panties. She did not have hose on and she was wearing what some gals called "granny-heels" -- the two-inch heels that she usually wore to church.
She was about five-six and must have weighed at least a hundred and forty pounds. Her tits sagged, even in a strong matron's bra. Her thighs were a bit heavy, but not really that bad and her legs actually might have looked pretty good in spike heels. Her belly pooched out a little in her panties.
But the thing that I noticed first was her beaver. It was visible through her white panties and the hair grew down on her inner thighs at least an inch. She could never have worn a regular bathing suit with a beaver like that. It was dark brunet and the curly hair was so thick it grew up on her belly in a point, like a man's pubic hair.
She reached behind her and unhooked her bra and when it came off those big tits sagged down and jiggled with every movement. She had huge nipples and they were erect. She hooked her thumbs in her panties and pulled them down, kicking them off into the pile with her other clothes. Then she just stood there stark naked, trembling in anticipation, and let me look at her. That was the hairiest pussy I had ever seen in my life and this lady was obviously very eager to fuck.
I figured I had better undress and I did so. She watched me hungrily as I stripped. When I was naked she walked over to me rapidly and dropped to her knees on the lush carpet. Grabbing my flaccid cock she took it into her mouth and I felt her tongue start to work on it as she lightly massaged my testicles with her fingers. Gals had sucked my dick before but never as skillfully as this. She had me erect before I even realized it.
Then she reached around me and took my butt in both her hands and pulled me forward so my cock went deep into her mouth -- then deeper -- and finally her lips were in my pubic hair. I had seven inches. Jesus! Deep throat! How the hell did a preacher's wife learn to deep throat? I was turning on.
In a single motion she reached up and grabbed my hands and pulled me down on my knees between her legs. She spread her legs as wide as she could, lifted her knees up in the air, and guided my cock into a big, wet, soft, loose, sloppy pussy. I couldn't help myself -- I started to hump. She was panting with excitement. She matched me hump for hump and laid back. I supported my weight on my hands and looked down at those big breasts rolling back and forth on her chest as we fucked.
"Do it! Yes! Yes! Do it!" Pam cried out.
Her eyes were closed, her back was arched, and her head was thrown back on the rug. Her arms were around me with her hands on my ass pulling me hard against her. She was so horny that in less than a minute her orgasm began and she started to scream. My God! She's a screamer! It was a damn good thing the house was empty. She had an orgasm but her pussy was so loose that I hardly felt any contractions.
I kept on fucking her and she lowered her legs enough to change the way my pubic bone pressed into her beaver. She put her hands on my hips and positioned me in a special way. I wondered what the hell she was doing, but I kept on fucking the horny bitch. And then I felt it!
She had the biggest clitoris I had ever seen. It was rock hard like a little penis and was almost the size of my thumb. I had not seen that huge clitoris when she stripped naked, because it had been hidden by her lush pubic hair. What she had done was to position my pubic bone so it massaged that hard clit when we fucked. She moaned and groaned and rubbed against me as hard as she could, working for another orgasm. When it came, she started to scream again and this time I felt her pussy muscles contract.
She dropped her feet to the floor to get better leverage and kept right on fucking as hard as she could -- grunting like an animal now. She was starting to sweat heavily and I could hear wet squishy sounds as I shoved my cock in and out of that loose, dripping pussy. Finally I pumped my load deep and collapsed on her body panting for air.
We rested.
"Thank you," she said. "Thank you very much. I needed that more than you can ever know."
After resting a while she asked softly, "Can you do it to me again?"
"Get me up," I said.
Then that magical mouth went to work on my cock. When I was hard she took me deep-throat for a couple of minutes and I wondered once again how a preacher's wife learned to do this. Then she pulled me on top of her and positioned my pubic bone on her clit, which was as hard as a rock. This time she reached down under her thigh, took hold of my balls, and massaged them while I fucked her. This lady really knew how to fuck!
Pam had two more orgasms -- both after a strong massage of her rock hard clitoris by my pubic bone and both accompanied by loud screams that resonated through the entire house. I showered in the guest bathroom, dressed, and left the house before her husband returned from his rounds.
As I left she thanked me and said, "May I call you when I need it again?"
I told her she could and went on my way. When I got back to my townhouse, I poured a glass of Balvenie and sipped it neat, thinking about that experience.
She had to have the hairiest pussy in all of northern Virginia. I remembered reading somewhere that the hormones that make pussies hairy are the same hormones that are responsible for the female libido. Well, that fits, I thought. This had to be the horniest bitch in northern Virginia as well as the hairiest.
And that clit! It was the biggest clit I had ever seen. And she needed it massaged hard to get her orgasm. I wondered when I would get my next call. This might turn out to be an interesting learning experience.
My next call came three days later. It was much the same experience as the first, except this time we used the bed and the lighting was more subtle. The screams, if anything, were louder than before. Once again I had to work hard on that big clit to bring her off. But I did enjoy her playing with my balls as I fucked her.
I was fucking her twice a week and my relationship with her husband was a bit strained. He was usually there when I arrived and we chatted in a friendly way before he left. I wondered what it must feel like to leave your wife with another man, knowing the guy was gonna fuck her and knowing she wanted to get fucked.
They castrated Wade a month after I started fucking his wife and I agreed with Pam that it was probably for the best. Without sexual desire he would be a lot better off.
The third or fourth week I asked her to blow me. I had never in my life had a deep-throat blowjob. She did it and the sensation of ejaculating deep into her throat was new and a real turn on. She seemed happy that there was something special she could do for me and we changed our routine so that, often, the first thing she did was blow me.
She laughed about me liking it so much and said, "It slows you down! It's like re-setting your thermostat. I like that."
It was not long before I began to enjoy our relationship a lot. It became comfortable and pleasurable. Except, I never let myself forget that I had to be extremely careful. It was good pussy. But it was about as far from "safe pussy" as you could get.
I had never in my life experienced the feeling of my cock in a gal's asshole. I had heard that it was tight -- like a young pussy. One afternoon I asked Pam if I could fuck her in the ass and she laughed. It was a high musical laugh.
"Of course you can fuck me that way," Pam said. "It will be tight -- like a virgin pussy. Wade's never used it. Not even once! So I'm still cherry!"
I took her cherry. She was tight! As tight as any pussy I had ever fucked. I came quickly up her ass. I fucked her missionary and she reached down and fondled my balls as I fucked her. She seemed very happy to be able to provide me with a tight pussy substitute just as she had enjoyed my reaction to the deep throat blowjobs. We were developing a comfortable and mutually rewarding sexual relationship.
After several months, just when I thought my life was settling down a little bit, there came another complication. It involved Pam's daughter Chris. I had been dating Chris when she came home on weekends or short vacations from Charlottesville. She was due to graduate in June and that was six months away and there was a general assumption that Chris and I would be married after she graduated.
Chris was, to say the least, a very outspoken young woman. She'd spent a lot of time studying marriage counseling and we talked about it a lot. Her ideas about a happy marriage seemed to revolve around sex. She summed up her philosophy this way:
"Ninety-nine percent of marriage problems will never arise if hubby comes home from work looking for a user-friendly piece of ass and his wife helps him find it."
One weekend that Chris was in town we had our usual dinner date set for Saturday night. But Chris was acting strangely. I couldn't put my finger on it but she was different. I had a sudden fear that somehow she had discovered that I was fucking her mother.
Chris and I had never slept together. She always stayed with her folks. It would have been dangerous in our small community for us to sleep together. This time when I picked her up at her folks' house she wanted to go back to my townhouse, not to the restaurant where I had made reservations. Something was clearly wrong.
"Have a drink," Chris said when we sat down in my living room. "A big one. I have something important to talk about."
I couldn't think about anything except fucking her mother and I was starting to sweat. We sat in silence for a few minutes sipping our Balvenie before she began to talk.
"We're getting married in June, right?" Chris began.
We had never talked about a specific date, but that had always been what I thought we would do.
I nodded, "Yeah, that's what I thought the plan was."
"You need to know something," she said in a determined tone of voice.
"What do I need to know?" I asked.
There was a long pause. Chris looked at the ceiling, then at the floor, and finally directly at me.
"I'm frigid," she said with determination in her voice. "Ice cold frigid!"
What the hell was this all about I wondered? She's obviously worried about this. I'd better take it seriously.
"In the first place," I began, "I never use the term frigid. It's an old-fashioned and outmoded term. And the concept is outmoded as well. What the hell are they teaching you in those psychology courses?"
"I know as much as you do about that word and I agree it is outmoded. But, that's the only way I can explain my problem to you. You know how important I think sex is in a marriage. Our marriage will need it just like any other. And ... well ... you see I just can't ... well ... I ... "
Chris stopped talking and stared at the floor.
"Say it Chris! What the hell are you trying to tell me?"
There was a long pause. Chris seemed to be gathering up her courage. Finally, with tears in her eyes and determination in her voice she almost shouted at me.
"I can't come! I can't have orgasms! No man wants a woman who can't come! No marriage will work that way!"
I thought about what she had said. She was obviously unhappy and scared. This was serious.
Slowly and softly I asked, "You mean you've never had an orgasm?"
She looked at me in surprise. "You're not making this easy for me."
I repeated my question.
It was almost as if she got angry. She was shouting again. "Of course I've had orgasms with a vibrator or with my fingers, but never ... I mean ... never ... "
"Never with a man?" I completed the sentence for her.
She nodded, then, shook her head in frustration. "Shit! How do you talk to the guy you're gonna marry about fucking other guys?"
"Well, I guess you'd better if you still plan to marry me," I said. "Have you fucked other guys?"
She looked at the floor, then up at me, and nodded. "Several," she said.
"And you've never come?"
"No. Not once!"
"Several?" I asked.
Chris nodded.
"How many is several?"
Chris looked at the floor again and barely audibly she said "Eight."
I was, to say the least, surprised. "You fucked eight guys?"
She just nodded and stared at the floor.
"How many times each?"
"Several times each," Chris mumbled.
"Several as in eight times each?" I was shocked.
Still staring at the floor Chris nodded again. "More or less."
"What the hell were you thinking?" I was starting to shout now.
"I was thinking about you. I had to keep trying for you."
"For me? You were fucking all those guys for me?"
"I didn't want to be frigid when we got married."
"So what do you plan to do? Just keep on fucking till you've done every guy in Charlottesville?"
"No! You and I need to fuck. If I can't come with you then we can't get married."
At least my prospective bride had been well broken in, I thought. But she was right. We did need to fuck. She had a bad problem. It wasn't "frigidity" as she called it but it was in her head and somehow I had to help her get it out.
"Have another Balvenie," I said. "Then we'll go to bed."
"You're not mad at me are you?" Chris asked in a timid voice.
"I'm not mad at you," I said.
I really wasn't mad. I was scared. These kinds of hang-ups could sometimes be very serious. The longer they lasted, the worse they got. Many women had long-term problems due to psychological difficulties such as this. Most people would be surprised at how often women went to their preacher rather than their doctor with this kind of problem. I wasn't sure how serious Chris' problem was but if she was fucking half the male population of Charlottesville it might be very serious.
There was no way to be certain that a roll in the hay would solve her problem or answer any questions -- in fact the odds were that it would take a hell of a lot more than that. In the end, however, the problem turned out to be a lot more easily solved than I had thought it would be when she told me about it.
I had the solution in hand -- literally in my hand -- minutes after I got her naked in bed. The room was dark but as I rubbed her luxuriously thick, hairy beaver I thought of her mother. Like mother like daughter! This was the second hairiest beaver in northern Virginia and as I rubbed it I felt a clit almost as large as her mother's. When it got hard it was bigger than my little finger and felt like a rock.
As I entered her, I positioned myself exactly as her mother had shown me, in order to massage that hard clit with my pubic bone. Then I started to fuck her and in moments she was grunting like an animal. I knew her orgasm was on the way when she started to scream, just like her mother always did. I was glad my townhouse had thick walls.
When I took her home, after several hours (and several fucks), she was a very happy young lady. As we sat in the car in her driveway, before I escorted her to the door, she started to talk about what her Mom had said and what the girls in her sorority had said about fucking.
"Most guys don't know how to fuck! I should have listened to what Mama said. I should have listened to what the gals in my sorority told me. For most guys, fucking is just vaginal masturbation. They're just using a pussy instead of their hand. They couldn't care less about trying to please a girl."
I put my arm around her. "Not all guys are like that."
"You're sure not like that!" She said emphatically. "You knew exactly how to please me. How did you know?"
I certainly wasn't gonna tell her how I learned to fuck a gal with a big clitoris.
"I care about you. I want to please you," I said.
"Yeah, I know, but ... I mean ... do other girls have orgasms with you?"
"Yes they do."
"You're one of those guys!" She said it with emphasis. "The gals talk about those rare guys all the time at the Chi-O house. They're hard as hell to find. I mean, our college class is sixty-forty female, so guys are scarce to start with. And then the number of gay guys you simply would not believe. And most of the few left over, don't know how to fuck! Or don't care! Shit, no wonder the guys who do know how are getting calls from girls all the time. They got first-date pussy standing in line!"
I chuckled. "Do your sorority sisters ever talk about anything except getting laid?"
Chris laughed. She was feeling a lot better than when the night began. "Not very often. But at least I know now what they're talking about. Jesus! It feels good to come with a guy inside you. Really good! Do you get many calls?"
"Calls? What do you mean?"
"Calls from gals who want to fuck," she said.
I thought immediately of her mother who called me a couple of times a week.
"I'm a preacher," I said.
"And I'm gonna be a preacher's wife!"
I kissed her.
Two months later on a Sunday morning I sat with Chris and her mother in church in our regular pew and listened to her father deliver a sermon in his usual, careful, somber manner - good, steady, and not boring. Things had settled down to a routine by now, although in just four months Chris would graduate and then my life would become very complicated, indeed. We were in the process of making wedding plans.
I looked at Dr. Jiles as he delivered his sermon. Cutting off his balls had greatly improved his personality as well as making his cancer better. It was far better for his testicles to be in a bottle in the lab, than swinging between his legs sending naughty thoughts to his head. He was quite comfortable now with me fucking his wife -- he had even thanked me for fucking her on more than one occasion.
The preacher's balls may have been in a bottle, but mine were doing double duty. Chris was coming home every weekend now, expecting to be thoroughly fucked -- Friday night when she got in town, Saturday night, and Sunday afternoon before she drove back to Charlottesville. I had to fuck her mother on weekdays, at least twice a week. I was holding up reasonably well but sometimes Mondays could be difficult if Pam got horny.
I looked over at Pam's face as she sat there, a dignified matron, as befitted a preacher's wife. Since Chris was in town she would not invite me over to fuck her that afternoon, as she used to do every Sunday when Wade made rounds to pray with the sick. But I knew Chris was expecting big league attention before she went back to school.
Sitting there in church I lost the sound of Wade's sermon and, instead, pictured in my head Pam's face as she laid under me grunting obscenely and humping for her orgasm. It played like a porn video in my head. I saw her huge breasts moving around on her chest like two water-filled balloons as she arched her back and her face became a mask of pleasure and lust. The sound of Wade's sermon faded and I heard those wet, squishy sounds that big, loose pussy made as her copious juices flowed out and dripped down on my balls.
Fantasizing about pussy, I realized that I was in the craziest situation you could ever imagine. I was fuckin the preacher's wife as often as she needed it on weekdays. And I was fuckin her daughter when she came home from Charlottesville every weekend. Chris was a screamer just like her mother and enjoyed fuckin just as much. They both had big clits and if you knew how to fuck one you could fuck the other. Except that Chris had a tight, young pussy that grabbed my dick like a strong hand every time she had an orgasm, while her mother's pussy was big and loose and sloppy.
Mom knew I was fuckin her daughter but her daughter sure didn't know I was fuckin her Mom. The preacher knew I was fuckin his wife and suspected I was fuckin his daughter as well. This was big league fuckin, and if any one of several hundred people in this congregation found out about even one tiny, little piece of ass, my career was toast.
Chris and I were gonna get married in June. I was gonna be preaching more and more sermons if Dr. Jiles' health got worse, as it might. He would probably go emeritus in a year or so. If nobody caught me fuckin the two hairiest, horniest women in northern Virginia I would probably become the regular minister.
But how could I get married and still fuck her mother without Chris finding out. There had to be some way out of this. For years I had always looked around for "safe pussy" but there was absolutely nothing safe about either one of these pussies. I still had a few months to figure out something to do but I had not the slightest idea what it would be.
Jesus! What a situation I had gotten myself into! Well, just keep plugging away I told myself.
I had a seminar to attend in Danville the next weekend, and Chris was unable to get away the weekend after that, because of some work with the Chi-O pledges. I talked to Pam about not seeing Chris two weekends in a row.
"Make it three!" Pam said.
"Three?" I asked in surprise.
"Yeah! Schedule something for the third weekend," said Pam.
"What's the deal?" I asked.
Pam explained. "Look, that daughter of mine is getting spoiled. She's getting fucked regularly by a guy who gives her great orgasms, but she's still complaining to me about you wanting blowjobs. I told her that's in her job description, but she says she doesn't come that way and doesn't want to do it. She's acting like a spoiled little bitch. Let her get horny. Let her get so horny she begs for it. It's good for a woman's attitude to beg now and then."
I did what Pam suggested and I was gone the third weekend. When Chris came back from school without us seeing each other for three weeks, I picked her up and took her to a movie. Before we got out of the car in the lot at the theatre complex, Chris reached over and put her hand on my arm.
"I don't want to be in a theatre watching some damn movie," she said. "I want to be back at your townhouse with you."
"It's supposed to be a great film," I said.
Chris looked up at me. "Please. Let's go to your place. I want to be with you now! Please!"
I did what she wanted. Her Mama was right! Her attitude improved a lot when I let that pussy get a little peter-hungry.
Late Monday morning after that wonderful weekend with Chris, Pam invited me over to the preacher's house and fixed me a light breakfast. We had a couple of bloody Marys and Pam was so horny that around noon we went upstairs and had a long and leisurely fuck.
After her second orgasm, we lay in bed naked and I played with those big soft tits and ran my hand down her stomach to thread my fingers through that thick curly haired beaver, occasionally rubbing her flaccid clit. In moments like this I loved her fifty-two year old body.
We talked about our situation. Pam had had a long talk with Chris before Chris left to go back to Charlottesville.
"Chris said her asshole was sore as hell," said Pam, laughing. "I told her you'd loosen it up for her in a month or two."
"Well, she was very cooperative," I said. "Giving her three weeks to get horny had a salutary effect on her attitude."
"You've learned an important lesson about a happy marriage, Ted. Even the most loving wife can get complacent now and then, if her pussy is being properly serviced. But remember, if you let that hairy little thing get so peter-hungry it starts to quiver, she'll be going down on you again like a proper wife - even lick the sweat off your balls if you tell her to."
"Good advice," I chuckled. "Chris was very loving."
"She said you got that blowjob she's been promising but never delivering," said Pam. "Was she any good?"
"Well, she sucked me off, but it took a while. She doesn't deep throat, but I got back almost to her tonsils."
Pam laughed again. "She'll learn. It takes practice. She complained to me about what you made her do. I told her that blowjobs and butt fucking were high on the list in any wife's job description. If she had any doubt, I told her, just think about those great orgasms she was getting. I told her that she had fucked half the guys in Charlottesville and not one was a decent fuck. I told her she was lucky to have you, and she needed to do what you liked if she wanted to keep you."
"Well, I'm not so happy about all those guys she fucked," I said.
"You should be! Now she'll never wonder about other guys and she'll never go off looking. She's found out how bad most guys fuck! That's good for her to know."
"Besides," Pam continued, "I told her she was gonna be a preacher's wife and she'd be the only person a lot of shy wives in the church were gonna feel comfortable talking to. They were gonna have questions about what happened in bed with their husbands and they were gonna think some things they did were sinful. She was gonna have to reassure them that wives making sure husbands got what they needed was not sinful -- and vice versa -- whatever they had to do."
"That's what you meant by a wife's job description," I said.
"Exactly! And a husband's too. Look, you never give me less than four orgasms in an afternoon and sometimes five. I never let you out of bed till those big, low-hanging balls of yours are empty. I just dry 'em out! Wade fucked me like that when he had his balls and I gave him all the pussy he needed for over thirty years. When he couldn't give me what I needed he made sure I got it from you. I learned deep throat for him. I used to watch his face when he tit-fucked me and I took pleasure in his pleasure. That's what wives and husbands do."
"I want Chris and you to be like that," Pam continued. "I didn't raise her to be a selfish little bitch. Use her hard! She'll learn to love it just like I did with Wade. Shove that big dick a little deeper every time she blows you, just like Wade did me. She'll learn to like it before long. I want her to enjoy blowing you. I want her to take pleasure watching your face when you butt fuck her, just like I do. I want you two to be just like me and her father were when he still had his balls."
"Wade is doing a lot better," I said. "He feels good and his cancer is better."
Pam nodded. "Yeah, cutting off his balls helped both his cancer and his attitude. He feels a lot better with no hormones stirring him up."
"He feels a lot better about us too," I added.
"That's for sure. Me fucking you really got to him before he was castrated. He pretended it didn't, but I could tell. But, with no hormones, his jealousy just went away. He's comfortable with it now. Did he thank you? I told him he ought to. I told him you could be fuckin gals your own age, instead of servicing an old broad."
"Yes he thanked me. Several times. And you're not an old broad. You're a really great fuck. And those deep-throats! Jesus!"
"I like pleasing you. I like to look at your face when you're enjoying the tight hole. I like to play with those big, heavy balls of yours as you fuck my butt. They get hard as rocks and lift up high in your scrotum just before you pump your load. Seeing the pleasure on your face gives me pleasure. I don't come that way, but I get pleasure watching you come. I wanted to explain that to Chris ... but ... well ... how could I ... you know."
"Yeah! I know!" I groaned. "What happens after Chris and I get married?"
"I've thought about that a lot," Pam said. "I think I know what we can do."
"All day every Thursday Chris will be at the church for the regular Christian education forum. Thursday is the day that Wade is home writing his sermons. You always help him plan the Sunday service, so you can come over most of the day, and no one will think a thing about it. Wade is comfortable with us fucking upstairs when he's here. We've done it several times now, and it doesn't bother him at all."
"Not even when you scream?" I chuckled.
"You won't believe this, but the first time he heard me have an orgasm I was worried enough to ask him whether us fucking upstairs bothered him. He actually laughed and said he was glad to know I was getting what I needed - glad you were taking care of what he called his 'husbandly chores' for him. No, Wade will be okay with it. The big problem is me."
"You?" I asked. "Why you?"
"One day a week may not be enough for me. I'm gonna be horny as a mountain goat and working you hard. You won't be worth a damn to Chris on Thursday nights."
We lay quietly for a few minutes and I heard Pam's breathing change slightly. I stroked her beaver and felt that huge clit start to get hard. She was turning on again. I kept stroking her clit and took one of her big nipples in my mouth and sucked it till it got rock hard. She spread her legs a little and raised her knees. I kept on stimulating her, but made no move to fuck her. I just waited.
Finally she said, "You bastard! You're gonna make me ask for it! Aren't you!"
I whispered in her ear. "You told me making a woman ask for it was good for her attitude."
"My attitude is in great shape," Pam whispered back. "It's my pussy that needs attention. Shit! If I'm gonna get fucked, I guess I gotta say please. Okay! Please! Please fuck me, you bastard!"
She spread her legs wider and raised her knees higher - showing me that big, loose, hairy pussy with thick, wet lips gaping widely apart, invitingly. A strand of foamy semen from an hour ago glistened in the dull light on one moist lip. I rolled over and climbed into that familiar, eager, user-friendly saddle and started to fuck the preacher's wife. I owed her a couple more orgasms.
I knew that the preacher might come home at any time, but, since they put his balls in a bottle, he was quite happy to sit downstairs and read, listening to his wife have one screaming orgasm after another and feeling grateful that I was performing his husbandly chores for him, as he had asked me to do.