Ch. 3: Preacher's Son
b y Jimi Linden ©
The story you are about to read is true. All events and behavior are faithful accounts of past occurrences, although names have been altered to protect my ass and keep me out of court. Writer's license and humble discretion have been utilized where and when I felt it necessary to avoid embarrassment or legal action.
The land of fruit and nuts surrounded me as far as my eyes could focus. To the west I could barely make out the ocean through the murky smog. North, South and East offered only short vistas before the ever confining Los Angeles haze descended to roof top level creating a forlorn horizon of gray on gray. Having arrived in the city of the angels only three days past, I had been fortunate enough to find a church and a few new friends who knew the area. They enthusiastically told of the wonderful views available from the top of Griffith Park. They forgot to mention that those views were only available on the rare days the L.A. basin was free of overhanging weather inversions (whatever the hell that meant). To the Northeast (I think) I could faintly see the famous "HOLLYWOOD" letters plastered upon a hillside. They were almost as disappointing as had been Niagara Falls when I had viewed that famous nothing several years previous.
I suppose living in the truly beautiful and majestic parts of our great land have spoiled me to the subtle beauties of other localities. No amount of water dribbling over a little precipice can compare with the grandeur of the Royal Gorge, the Black Canyon Of The Gunnison or that boring big hole in the ground known as the Grand Canyon. How could any collection of man-made lettering, spelling out the name of a decaying city, compare with our own Sandia Crest, with its majestic mile high upward sweep dominating the whole Eastern skyline of Albuquerque. Thank the gods I'm open minded and not biased.
I'd settled into a small apartment in Culver City and had only a short drive to my pre-nursing classes at Santa Monica City College. My scholarship barely paid enough to cover my basic living expenses for the first two years of my education. If I succeeded in graduating from junior college, then all my expenses would be covered till I received my degree. The Fraternal Order of Eagles, to which my deceased father had belonged, was generous to a fault, but demanded results.
Being a young girl, alone in a truly monstrous city, was more than a bit intimidating. I had located a Methodist church close to my apartment the first Sunday I was in town in the hopes of finding "safe" friends. Though not a "country bumpkin", Albuquerque was still not large enough for me to feel "cosmopolitan" or secure in the sea of people that constantly bustled and boiled about the Los Angeles basin.
After our parents' fatal automobile accident, my brother Frank and his wife had taken me into their home when I was twelve. I missed their security and I definitely yearned for my fiancé Leo. He probably would have felt just as lost as I, but his arm around me would have given me strength and made me feel safer. But, he was back home at UNM so I was stuck with making new acquaintances where I was. And, I was horny!
The second week I attended services at my new found church home I got up early enough to go to Sunday school as well as the regular eleven o'clock worship service. I discovered a whole bevy of new and exciting people my age. Several young ladies my age were willing to befriend a lost soul from the Rocky Mountains. Much more importantly though, there were a number of unattached young studs just looking for a new challenge. I was more than willing to fill that role and we would see who challenged whom.
That evening I attended a meeting of the young adults and discovered Brad. He looked amazingly like my Leo though I didn't realize it at the time.
Leo had kidded me for years that there was no sexier place than a church. Of course his hypothesis was that no where else could a man find so many women in skirts, hose and heels. My personal observation, with which I loved to tease him, noted the number of male figures not hidden by casual clothing. Men dressed in well fitting suits with nicely tailored pants drawn tight across their taut buttocks and with obvious bulges in the front of their crotch areas did wonders for me.
Brad was blessed with a very noticeable bulge.
The other young ladies of my newfound group seemed quite oblivious to his attributes. His shyness and his parentage overshadowed any charms he might possess. For you see, Brad was the minister's son. Any and every time anyone saw him he was totally involved in some type of religious endeavor, usually at the instigation of his father.
I'd known a few ministers' kids and usually they tend to be a bit wild if anything. I had never met one who was truly pious. I decided right then and there to find just how pure our preacher's son really was. When I wrote Leo of my mission, he asked for all the dirty details. He wanted pictures, or videos if possible, but definitely an explicit synopsis of my adventures. There are times when I can't believe my good fortune of his love for me. Not only is he not a jealous asshole, but he truly enjoys hearing about and vicariously sharing anything or anyone that brings me pleasure.
The first step in my campaign was to get Brad to notice me. He was polite and quite helpful, as he would be to any new member of his father's congregation, but he paid me no greater heed than anyone else. He was also almost impossible to isolate from the rest of the group. Every time he and I had even a short moment alone someone would interrupt us or Brad would have to rush off to take care of some church task.
I broadly hinted for him to ask me out but he needed more than just a hint. He needed a two by four across the nose just to catch his attention. With that in mind I twice showed up sans bra making sure he had ample opportunity to peek inside my blouse. A pointless move for I had forgotten that one of the worst paying occupations in L.A. is probably bra sales. Allowing him several beaver shots of my pantyless crotch had no better results. He had been in the Southern California school system far too long for a bit of open skirt to even cause him to raise his head.
Finally, taking the bull by the horns (not what I had in mind to grab), I appealed to his vanity and regional knowledge by asking him if he would show me around the city. The first thing he did was to bring a whole briefcase full of maps and brochures from his dorm room to the next church meeting and set me down as if I were a zealous disciple of the city's lore.
I was reminded of the old quip about asking a computer nerd the time of day. By the time he finishes teaching you how to build a clock, you will no longer give a damn what time it is.
The following Thursday was a school holiday so we began our tour with a trip to Griffith Park. I bit my tongue and listened attentively as he pointed to various points of gray, viscous air and told me what was hidden in the smog. I even managed a bit of awe at the "HOLLYWOOD" sign. We then toured the Live Steamer's railroad system and the Griffith Park Zoo next door. After that he took me somewhere (East I think) to some beautiful botanical gardens. Then we hurried back across downtown rush hour traffic (that's a joke, son) to the Santa Monica cliffs to watch the sun settle into the ocean.
We grabbed a quick sandwich at the Sonic on Sepulveda and before I was anywhere near ready to call it a day, Brad dropped me at my apartment. With a quick wave of his hand and a happy "See you about seven tomorrow morning", he roared into the evening dusk and left me to my television and vibrator.
Seven o'clock the next morning he was ringing my doorbell. I groggily followed him to his wheels and curled up on the passenger's bucket seat. Have you ever tried to nap comfortably on the front bucket seat of a classic Mustang? Don't!
This day, Friday, we headed for Knot's Berry Farm. All I knew about the place was they sold excellent though expensive jam and jelly products. My excitement knew no bounds.
As a matter of fact I found the day quite interesting. The whole complex is set up similar to an amusement park. They have rides, concessions and many antique displays. We walked, gawked, nibbled and ate until after sundown. By the time we finally nosed the car toward my little apartment I felt my legs had shortened by at least two inches. This time though I was not planning on letting him feed me a sandwich and then dump me.
Before he could ask the inevitable "What sounds good to eat?" I short-circuited his strategy by telling him I had dinner ready for him at my place. To answer his apprehensive perplexity I explained I had put a roast in the crock-pot that morning because I didn't know how late we might be. I also insisted he had to help me eat it, as it was too much for me to consume alone.
Once inside my apartment I plied him with a bit of apple wine which, though he insisted he didn't drink I convinced him was not much different than cider. Not having any proper wineglasses, I was forced to serve his wine in a regular ten ounce drinking glass (I say forced because you see, I didn't have anything bigger). While I set the table, fixed a salad, slipped out of my bra and began putting the meal on the table Brad sat on the divan and examined the picture album I had "accidentally" left on the coffee table. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him flip quickly past a couple of pages about halfway through the book. When he surreptitiously kept a finger at their location I knew he would examine my nude photos just as soon as I stepped back into the kitchen out of sight. I not only exited out of sight but also slipped out the other side of the kitchen and watched him in the bedroom's vanity mirror, which reflected the full-length hall door mirror, which was focused on the couch. He seemed to enjoy the pictures so I remained out of sight as long as I possibly could. I also kept up a running conversation from the kitchen so he would know I wasn't about to suddenly step back into the dining room.
As he sat down for supper, I refilled his wineglass without asking and began to tell him how nice it was to have company. We finished our meal making normal small talk and then retired to the living room where I served him cherries jubilee. He had never previously seen burning ice cream and was suitably impressed. Our legs and hips brushed as we balanced the desert dishes on my narrow sagging couch and I managed to lean far enough forward for my blouse to expose my naked chest. Brad was again thumbing through my photo album, being careful not to open to the compromising middle pages and discussing scenic background shots of Albuquerque rather than the subject matter of the pictures. Peeking carefully between the binder and his slacks I also realized he was covering a suspicious lump in his lap. I knew then that my blouse was exactly where I wanted it to be. That was all the encouragement I needed.
"Brad, I noticed earlier you found those photos I had taken of me without my clothes on. I'm sorry if that embarrassed you because I'm certainly not ashamed of my body", I said. "I don't think my figure is anything out of the ordinary, but I do think it's acceptable and not badly proportioned. Don't you agree?"
Blushing a brilliant red he tried to stutter something but couldn't get his tongue to work and only managed an incoherent, "Uh ..."
"Wait, that's not fair. No matter how you answer that you're doomed, aren't you? How about if I ask you a different question?"
"You've lived in California all you life so far, haven't you?"
"Yeah", he mumbled
"O.K. then. You've been looking at girls boobs for years then, right?"
Quickly I stood, lifted my blouse over my head and stood proud, straight and topless before him. "Are my breasts alright? I mean, they're not too small are they? Obviously they're not too large, but are they good enough to pass as California Beach Girl material?"
Brad stuttered from his blazing red cheeks, "Oh WOW! Yeah! You're fabulous!"
you don't act like you like me", I said with a fake pout. "I'd
really like to for you to kiss me, but I don't want to force myself on
you. And I don't want you thinking I'm some sort of really bad girl, just
because I'm from a small town.
|Another top quality story by Jimi Linden.|
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