Levi and the Preacher's Wife

A 'Levi' story: there may well be more of them; if you like this one. There are scores of them in the memory bank.

God, that woman did love to fuck!

She, the preacher's wife, was sitting on my cock; cum running out of her cunt, down onto my semi-hard member, it still inside her. Down the crack of my ass, down onto the tangled sheets.

Sarah Vaughn was coming out of the speakers:

Oh, oh -- oh, do it again

She, the wife, reached down, touched her clit, her wet pussy. Moved her hand up, sucked the juices into her mouth, Repeated the motion; gave me the next coated finger, the taste of our combined emissions.

I may say no, no -- no

But, oh, -- do it again

Sarah Vaughn, the legendary black jazz vocalist, sang. The wife moved her ass, her pussy slowly forward and back, rolling her clit on the hardness of my pelvic bone.

Jesus, that woman loved to fuck!

It had started a week earlier. She often did solos in her husband's church choir, had one coming up the following Sunday; needed a guitarist to play back-up.

Somebody recommended me. We met behind the church, in the parking lot. I was there first; standing, cigarette between my lips, leaning against the front fender of the black and silver pick-up when she pulled into the parking lot. It had been my grandpa's: 1941 Chevy -- the year he was born. I claimed it when he died: rebuilt it. Not 'show quality', mind you; just to drive around town.

"That's Mr. Clyde's old truck," folk would say; me driving by. Men and boys always stopped and looked I drove by.

The woman pulled into the spot marked Reserved for Rev. O'Toole. She opened the door, got out of her Mustang, started toward the back door of the building. Stopped, turned and looked at me; I mean she looked at me. She took a step in my direction.... Head to toe, top to bottom, hat to boots... my belt buckle, down to my cock: she looked at me.

"You got somewhere we can go?" Ms. O'Toole asked. "Practice?... I don't want 'a go in here."

I looked at her, at first not understanding; asked, "We're not practicing here? But this is where you are singing."

Her outfit, if it could be called that, wasn't anything to write home about; but, lord, she was: something to write home about!

She took the cigarette from my mouth; took a puff, gave it back to me.

Then: "Skinny's," I said. "I've got the keys to Skinny's.... We can practice there."

It, Skinny's, was a one-cut above a chicken wire juke joint type bar. Everybody locally knew about Skinny's. I played there on weekends, along with a piano player and a drummer. We were a better than average white guys band: up-beat country, southern fried rock, a little bit of jazz.

She looked at my pickup. "We'll have to take your truck.... Wouldn't do for church ladies to see my car over there."

The woman walked around the front of my Chevy. 'About forty,' I guessed; except that she didn't look it. Just the crow-foot lines at the corners of her eyes give it away. Silhouetted against the mid-morning sun in her light weight summer dress she might as well have been naked. She stood waiting for me to open the door; her legs a little apart, the light cutting right through that sand-colored linen dress. The flat at the top of her thighs, between her legs, where her sex was, showing like a photograph.

'She might not have panties on... ' I thought.

Ms. O'Toole, once inside the truck, sitting hard against the 'shotgun' side door we drove through town; on out of town. Pulled into the gravel parking lot at the 'joint'; parked around in the back, out of sight of the two lane asphalt road. Went in the rear entrance.

She wanted to do a medley in church the next Sunday morning: Amazing Grace, In the Sweet By and By, Down to the River to Pray. It was an old fashioned small town church; I knew them all, those songs. My grandma was always singing those come-to-Jesus songs in the kitchen, me growing up in her house. We worked on the music for an hour; how she wanted to transition from one song to the next. Me picking up the nuisances of her style.

We had put her up on the two step high stage; on a stool, or standing. Half way through the hour I turned on the mike, the speakers; the stage lights behind her. Fact is, I wanted another look at her legs, that summer dress, the light behind her.

She put the stool aside, just stood there. Knew I was looking, seeing her body lit up inside that bit of a dress.

We went down to the river to pray...

Thinking about them good old days...

The glow coming from the background. Red hair on fire out at the ends; warm soft flesh showing up, high lighted at the top of her legs, her thighs closing in like the bottom of an hour glass. She had, I noticed, undone the top button of that dress.... Her legs, thighs weren't the only assets she had! I played guitar like I had never played before.

She looked straight at me, into my eyes, all the while. I stood close to her, pointed the neck of that Martin N-20 directly at her; held her gaze through it all.

Then I shifted to a slow sexy jazz riff.

All of me, just take all of me...

She plucked the cigarette that I had stuck underneath the top string of the fret board; sucked in a healthy puff, blew out a perfect smoke ring.

"You have to fuck me," she said. Straight out, just like that. "... you have to fuck me."

I picked her up, carried her behind the bar, set her on the bar keep's stool. She undid that summer dress all the way down the front; opened herself up to me....

She was wearing panties. They sure as hell weren't 'church lady' panties, 'preacher's wife' panties: little boy panties they were. Cut straight across the top of her legs, straight across below her belly button, and not really hiding the barely covered tuff of red hair above her pussy. She raised her ass up off the stool; I divested her of those panties; draped them over the handle of a beer tap.

Holding open those lush putty lips, I started down to taste her, lick her.

"Fuck me!" she said, reaching to grab my jeans; open them up. "Eat later!... You can eat me later. Right now Fuck Me!"

So, I did. I fucked her.

Slammed my cock into her. Pushed aside the dress that hung off her shoulder; reached around, held one ass check in my hand -- touched her nether hole. She screamed like a banshee; tore at my hair, left nail marks under my shirt, across my back.

An hour later the woman rode piggy-back out the back door of Skinny's, out to my truck. She sat her back hard against the passenger side door; left foot in my lap -- me driving -- right foot pulled up tight against her ass, knee leaned over against the dashboard. That summer dress open all the way down the front. She rolled a finger, lazy like, on her clit.

"Ms. O'Toole," I said, "you one mighty fine fuck. We gonna do that again sometime."

"Lucy Ann," she said. "We gonna fuck, you have to call me Lucy Ann." Inhaled a deep pull on my cigarette, blew out a smoke ring.

I laughed, "Maybe call you Miss Lucy Ann," I said. "Show some respect, you being the preacher's wife and all."

She just grinned; stuck that pussy-juice covered finger in my mouth: gave me a taste. "Fuck you," she said.

"Yes, mam."

"How is it you a preacher's wife, and you out here getting it on with long haired guitar pickers?... Maybe some other guys?"

" I need another smoke," she said. "Drive around a while.... I'll tell you a story."

Growing up, I lived on a pig farm. My daddy butchered hogs.... Intended me to, when I got older, to marry a boy just down the road; his family had an even bigger hog farm than ours. I didn't want to marry another pig farmer; had had it with pig farming.

Mr. O'Toole, was still in school; studying to be a preacher.... Came to our church on weekends; our old preacher had died. Preacher O'Toole was cute, I thought -- maybe even sexy. I flirted with him outrageously. He 'courted' me, came to our house for Sunday dinner.... My friend told me, "... He get you with a baby, he have to married you."

But he wouldn't fuck me! Him being a preacher and all, it would be a 'go straight to hell' sin to do that before he was married!... So, him being 'blue-balls' horny, he just up and married me. My ticket off that pig farm, so to speak!

Now, I didn't get pregnant right off; in fact never did get pregnant. Go so, after a couple of years, he wanted sex only a certain time of the month, so he could get me with a baby.

Hell, I was horny all the time! Wanted to fuck all the time.... At first is was just once in while. A deputy sheriff from the next town over, a football coach -- older fellow, a banker. The banker was pretty to look at, otherwise wasn't worth the effort; I just gave up on him.

Now, that football coach, he was something else; showed me all kinds of shit. Stuff a farm girl, a preacher's wife didn't know! Maybe didn't things I didn't have any business knowing! First man to lick me, he was; made me suck him. Had me walking around naked, my tits and ass showing. Talked dirty to me. God, that man could talk dirty!... Had to stop seeing him; wanted to leave his wife, wanted me to move in with him.

Now, I got 'standards'; I don't do it with just anybody. Number one rule: never screw a 'church member'. We were starting to move up in the world; the preacher and me. Don't do anything to upset the apple cart.... 'White guys' only, in case I was to get pregnant we could claim the little one was a 'real' O'Toole.

Not that I was prejudiced, you understand. There was a doctor at the health clinic, almond colored black man. I wanted him desperately. If his hands, his fingers, were any measure, that cock of his would have been something to behold!... Had to just walk on by him; put him out of mind.

I delivered her back to her car. I just kept those 'little boy' panties,l left them draped over the rear view mirror. She had to hurry on home, get a shower; all that stuff. Be sure supper was ready when the reverend got home.

We practiced some more that week, worked on that music of hers. Had 7.6 plus level body collisions three of those times: another session at Skinny's, once in the bed of the '41 Chevy, another day on the truck hood -- in the rain no less! She loved it: fucking in the rain. Made me get on the bottom; didn't want to be Little Miss Rain-in-the-Face! Had those bodily collisions been real earth quakes the whole Great American Southland would have been in ruins.

Sunday morning her vocal renditions, my picking, were a success. Got all kinds of compliments after the invitation hymn was over; folks were leaving. They, the congregation, or preacher O'Toole, didn't know, I was the only one who knew, that she wasn't wearing any panties underneath that choir robe! I had taken them off her in the choir room just before she went 'on stage'. Eased them down her legs, put them in my pocket.

Three hours later we were in my own bed, me leaning back against the head board. Miss Lucy Ann sitting on my cock; cum running out of her cunt, down onto my semi-hard member, it still inside her. Down the crack of my ass, down onto the tangled sheets. Grandma was gone for the weekend, off visiting her youngest son: my uncle. First time the preacher's wife had been in my space.

When she came out of the back of the church, earlier, walked over toward the open door of the truck Miss Lucy Ann was still donned in that choir robe. She climbed in, took her customary spot again the 'shotgun' door, turned her body so that she was facing me. Already, immediately, I was thinking, '... this is gonna be special.'

It was! She was naked underneath!

The congregation hadn't know that, Miss Lucy Ann singing those church songs, she been panty-less the whole time; them being in my pocket!

Those glorious legs, spread open thighs, that landing strip tuff of auburn colored pubic hair, practically opened pussy lips right there on display. There wasn't anything modest, shy, about this woman. She knew what she wanted; made her needs known.

"Show me your tits," I said. "... wantta see your tits." Rear tires slinging gravel. pulling out of that a parking lot.

"Drive fast," she said. "... hurry; God, I'm horny!" At the same time lifting the folds of that royal blue robe up above her tits. "I need you in me... NOW!"

What a picture she was; I wanted a picture of her... just like that. Robe bunched up above her perfect tits.

I reached over, pinched a nipple. She screeched, clamped her legs together, quick like, opened them up again. She grabbed my hand, took it to her mouth; bit me!

Then she held it, licked the spot she had bitten; stared at me with those bit, wide open, eyes

Once we were in my bed she guided my face, my mouth, to the spot between her legs. "Eat me, make me cum," she said. "... take the edge off. Fuck me later."

I worked my 'stanch' on her openness; she held the those sweet lips apart with her fingers. Me working from bottom to top, stroking her with that hedge of facial hair above my lip; sucking on her magic button, nipping with my teeth. She screamed, clamped her thighs tight, trapping me snug against her willing, eager pussy.... "Ah-h-h! Oh. shit, oh shit.... Keep doing that, oh god, keep doing that! She filled her hands with my hair.

First time I had had time to eat her at my leisure, time to do it right.

She screamed. I wondered if the folks out on the street heard. She collapsed forward, down onto me, she lower body covering my face with her nakedness.

A bit later she sucked me; covered my cock with her mouth; held me in her hand, took my hardness into her warm wet mouth. Held my balls with one set of her fingers: licked the shaft with the tip with her tongue, sucked me. My eruptions came in spurts; three with force; then a fourth, it longer, slower. Only a single drop escaped her mouth; she caught it with the tip on one finger, took it between her lips. Smiled at me.

"Waste not, want not," she said. Went back to my turgid member with her mouth.

"I have to fuck you now," I told her. "... your turn."

Later, it going on dark, I was on my back, head and shoulders up against the headboard. Miss Lucy Ann was on her knees, astraddle my thighs, fondling my cock; making it hard yet again. She had my shirt on, unbuttoned; boobs exposed; she had been to the kitchen, come back with two glasses of a really good Malbec. I had the Martin N-20 in hand, laying across my upper torso; picking, lazy like, sexy and risqué old blues songs.

"Play that Ma Rainey song," she said.

I stroked the guitar strings, Miss Lucy Ann sang the words. Lyrics I had taught her earlier.

I got nipples on my titties

Big as the end of my thumb

She lifted her body up, moved her knees forward; settled herself down onto my (almost) hardness; rocked her pelvic back and forth on me.

Got something between my legs

Make a dead men come...

The woman started moving with more intensity; I moved to put the guitar down.

"No!" she sounded, her breathing becoming ragged; "... you just play. I'll do the fucking!"

I fucked all night,

And the night before.

Feel like I want'a fuck some more.

Oh, grind me, baby.

Shave me dry!

I slipped the Martin over to one side; she didn't stop me this time. Moved my hands to her hips; a finger tip touching the rosebud of her ass, a thumb on her 'button.

"I'm gonna cum," she gasped. "... Aa-a-ah! Oh, shit!" She screamed like a banshee in the night. As if she wanted the whole neighborhood to know that she was being well fucked.

Across the street a woman listened, said to her adult daughter, "Levi's fuckin' lucky woman." They both moved to the window, turned their heads a bit, the better to hear. "Wish it was me," they said in unison, laughed.

Miss Lucy Ann leaned forward, her perfect tits moving, almost in my face, between the two halves of my unbuttoned shirt. Then I felt the warm wetness flow out of her, down over my cock, down between the tightly clasped ass cheeks. She fell forward. I lay perfectly still, feeling the walls of her pussy rheumatically squeezing around my hardness.

"Give me a minute," she said. "God, I love to fuck. -- You so good! -- God, I love to fuck."

An hours later she said, "I gotta get home. Preacher O'Toole 'ill be home by 10:30 - 11:00."

I gave her a look.

"He's been over in Denham Springs, preaching a revival.... Most likely 'gettin' it on' with some deacon's wife."

"Oh," I said.

She laughed. "Like to 'share his glory'. Spread it all around.... Has become a real 'back slider' in his advancing years."

Then: I told her, her out of the shower, getting dressed, "I got a gig in Nashville; playing 'sessions' backup for a talent agent.... My be gone a while."

She was quiet, then said, "I never been to Nashville. May have to make a trip up there."

Miss Lucy Ann kissed me, went out the door.

Three months later the weekly letter from Grandma said, down near the end.... "lPreacher O'Toole and his wife are expecting a baby. After all these years of waiting. The whole church is celebrating."