Cock of Ages Ch. 12

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Creamer
Creamer
1,644 Followers

It was a short prayer, and to the point, and I kept my head bowed reverently through it. She was good. In my limited experience with professional religious folk, she more than held her own in intensity and sincerity. "—Amen," she said, finally.

"Amen," I echoed.

"Are you a cop?" she asked, directly.

"A what? A . . . cop?" I asked, genuinely surprised. "Um, no. I'm a gentleman of leisure. Why?"

"I've had some . . . encounters with the minions of Satan in the uniform of the police," she said. "Nothing to worry about. My faith was stronger than their law. I just like to ask," she shrugged. She got on her knees, and I half expected her to pray again. And she did . . . at the altar of Priapus.

She stared me in the eyes, enchanted, as her fingers nimbly worked the zipper and reached inside. Instead of working my rapidly-hardening dick out of my pants, she felt it, massaged it, took in every bit of it by touch. Her eyes closed and she hissed slightly as she settled in on her knees. Then with an air of expectation she unbuttoned my pants with one hand and hauled my cock and balls out over the waistband with the other. My dick stood rigidly in front of her, like a fleshy microphone, and she eyed it with wonder.

"It's . . . very big," she said, finally, her fingers touching it gently. "It's as big as . . ." she trailed off. Her eyes shot to mine. "What did you say your name was, brother?"

I cleared my throat. "Mikey. Michael. Michael Winslow. Why? You aren't going to tell—"

"No, no, Brother Michael," she soothed, still stroking my cock between both hands. "I'm ordained. What is said here -- and done here -- is legally as discreet as a Catholic priest's confessional. So fear not, my brother, and let Sister Shelly take away your pain," she pronounced, and swooped down on my cockhead with her lips before I could say another word.

It was as if she were drinking nectar. The beatific expression on her face, the noises of hungry lust and admiration in her throat, all of it made her look enraptured as she sucked my cock. Most women can at least fake enthusiasm when they give head, but sweet Shelly had taken her enthusiasm to religious heights.

She moved slowly and deliberately, making quite a show out of it as she devoured my preseminal fluids. Her fingers slowly and exquisitely massaged my scrotum -- my boys were pretty happy to be in church -- while her tongue darted like a busy bee over the shaft.

As Shelly built up speed, she began humming (always a good feeling in a blowjob) a hymn, keeping time by the rhythm of her bobbing blonde locks. Her hand joined her lips on my shaft and she began a stroking counterpoint. As I neared my ejaculation, though, she suddenly left me high and dry, only a slow stroking to keep me interested.

"Michael Winslow, cast out thy pains and frustrations," she intoned, her eyes closed. "Cast from thee the bitterness of earthly life, the taint of petty sins, and welcome the wholesome virtue of the Lord!"

"Amen!" I gasped, her hand twisting the base of my cock expertly.

"Cast from thee the wickedness of lust, the destruction of rage, the craving for gluttony! Cast it out, Michael, and let Sister Shelly heal thee!" She plunged her head back down on my dick, her mouth sucking furiously, her tongue flailing away as she did her best to blow my mind out of the back of my head. I filled her mouth to overflowing with my seed, and she struggled to take every drop. But she did, her nimble tongue chasing after a stray spurt across her cheek, and I felt a lurch in her throat as she swallowed it all down.

Sister Shelly was doing the Lord's work, after all.

"Oh . . . my . . . dear . . . sweet . . . Lord!" I gasped, as she delicately licked the residue of my load from my cock. "Oh, God! That was . . . healing," I said, choosing my words carefully.

"Are you sure your last name is 'Winslow', Brother?" she asked, between licks, never taking her eyes off of me.

"What? Of course it is. I was born in Rhode Island. My parents are— hey, what is this?"

"Nothing, Brother, nothing at all," she soothed, her voice liquid love. "You just . . . remind me of someone."

"Look, I'm grateful, I really am," I said. "I . . . that did a world of good. Thank you, Sister," I said, as I zipped up my fly. "Thank you kindly. Uh, I'll just be going now," I said, guiltily. It was all an act, but I had to be credible, didn't I?

"Sunday service is tomorrow morning! Come on by!" she sang after me as I headed for the door. I was about to drop a ten in the offering box when the door chimes rang, startling me.

In ran a little girl in a clean(ish) pink dress, carrying a paper sack full of groceries. She looked up at me with big, beautiful eyes, and smiled. Hell of a smile on that kid. She looked kind of familiar, and then I realized where I had seen those eyes before.

In my mirror.

This had to be my kid. I did the math quickly, and confirmed it. She was probably eleven years old, now. Blonde hair like her mom, slightly chubby, and gorgeous eyes.

"Hi, darling!" Shelly called out to her. It was a decidedly "mom" voice, cheerful and happy and utterly unlike the voice of someone who had just sucked off a stranger in the back room of her church.

"Hi, Mommy! Hi, Mister!" the precious little tyke said, beaming.

"Mr. Winslow, this is my daughter, Angela," Shelly said, pulling her shawl around her. "Mr. Winslow was just getting some spiritual counseling, honey. Did you go by the store like I asked?"

"Yes ma'am, they had lots on the day-old shelf, so I stocked up!" she said, excitedly. "God bless, Mister!"

"Uh, yeah, yeah, kid, God bless you," I muttered. I looked back at Shelly and raised my eyebrows. Then I threw three hundred dollar bills in the love offering box and got the hell out of there.

That was the first time I had ever run into one of the products of my assigned liaisons, and it was eerie. I mean, I had just knocked up her mother a few weeks before, and here was a fully formed, perfect little girl. A little girl with my eyes.

I have to admit, it kind of haunted me.

Look, I don't have a deep moral center. Far from it. You have to be a particular kind of sociopath to get off on what I do. I take the baser nature of man's lustful longings and blatantly exploit the weaknesses in the feminine reproductive defense. The only reason I'm not in prison is because my government had a need for my particular brand of sociopathy. I can fuck a hundred women a month and don't give a rat's ass, usually, if they got hit by a bus the next day or not. Even my desire to bring as many kids into the future as possible is due to a perverse need to compete, to excel at my art, to be the best.

But for the first time I got a glimmer of what my carefree attitude with my augmented DNA did to the real world. Yes, I knocked up hot chicks . . . but that meant I had kids. Lots of kids. Kids with my eyes.

I went out and had a few too many drinks with my lonely steak dinner that evening. I talked to my waiter, found a brief haven in a dark bar, and ended up stumbling back to my hotel room unlaid and none the wiser, about eleven o'clock. Early, for me.

But Lori and her mark were already there, waiting for me. Lori was sitting on the couch, when I got in, as attractively dressed and made up as she had been in the Tiki Club. She had a nervous smile on her face, and a drink waiting. Nice. I gave her a peck on the cheek and looked around.

"I thought . . ."

"She's in the other room," she assured me. "She's . . . well, she's my cousin, Monica. She kind of looks like me . . . I hope you don't mind . . ."

"Why would I?" I asked, taking the drink. "You're gorgeous."

The compliment took her by surprise. "You-you really think so?" she asked, blushing just a bit.

"Hell, yes, I think so," I said, my buzz lubricating my inhibitions. "I don't hire ugly women, Lori. You're very beautiful. And if your cousin looks like you, I'm in great shape."

"Thanks, Boss," she said, smiling. "She does. And she's . . . experienced. She'll do anything you want. Anything I tell her to."

"I take it that you told her about the marriage thing?" I asked, allowing a subdued tone to infect my voice.

"No, actually," she said, looking away. "I . . . she'll do what I want. Trust me. Anything I want. She owes me."

"She . . . owes you?" I asked, intrigued.

"Yes," Lori said firmly. "And I'm cashing in. For your benefit. Monica, why don't you come out here?" she called. From the dim bedroom a buxom blonde in a long flowing off-white satin gown floated into the picture, and I was impressed. She did look like Lori -- a little taller, a little less topheavy, a year younger, and her face was slightly different, but you'd have to see them side by side to tell. Otherwise, they could have been sisters.

"Hi, I'm Monica," she said, smiling nervously. "Lori has told me a lot about you, Mr. Winslow."

"But not everything, apparently. Just as well. You ready to get fucked, little girl?" I asked, crudely. She took it like a trooper, saucily swinging her hips forward as she took a step closer.

"I wanna get fucked," she agreed. "I wanna get fucked, and fucked hard."

I glanced at Lori. "I like her!" I said. "Let's go to bed and forget about the consequences of our actions for a while, shall we?"

An hour later I was riding Monica doggie style over the edge of my bed as her face was buried in her cousin's furry blonde twat, busily licking her from one powerful orgasm to another. She wasn't thrilled with it, but she performed with the familiarity that told me she'd been nose-deep in bush before now.

Apparently Monica really would do anything Lori told her to.

Creamer
Creamer
1,644 Followers
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4 Comments
AnonymousAnonymousover 15 years ago
still here

Was out of town for a few weeks, glad to see the series picking back up.

AnonymousAnonymousover 15 years ago
Good Fantasy!

Good writing, will keep reading, Thanks.

MalkorMalkorover 15 years ago
still...

...greatly enjoying this series...hope to see more.

AnonymousAnonymousover 15 years ago
Excellent

I love this series, and thanks for bringing the episodes in so promptly of late.

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