Preacher Man

Thank god Dylan bent down to haul me up to my feet, because there was no way I'd be able to do it on my own, not with my body betraying me like this, not with my brain gone far away, but he was: he was pulling me up and turning me like a puppet, throwing me over the high arm of the sofa with my legs thrashing and my nude ass up in the air. I heard him, his voice tight with glee, snap something in Spanish to Maria, then her excited reply, and then I was seeing his shorts sail toward my kitchen as he kicked them off.

Just how he managed to slide that thick dick of his into my pussy, spastically moving target that it was, I'll never really know. But I was wet enough and orgasmic enough that the moment his smooth velvet head so much as touched my flesh, I essentially vaccuumed him all the way in. "Whore," he chuckled.

"Uhh." He'd been in me a couple dozen times, but I still couldn't keep a moan in when we started fucking. He felt good every time, even apart from the naughtiness of doing a kid I'd once graded. He'd come to me fresh, inexperienced, a probable virgin at eighteen, but this was a year later now. And I'd turned him into a goddamn sexual Mozart. I felt pride in that, a sense of triumph that, in his long future of sliding that thick cock into anonymous cooze, he'd always think of me as his mentor. "Goddamn," I sighed.

"Shut the fuck up, cumbucket." He'd shown a penchant for dirty talk about six months ago, once I'd told him I found it spicy. I shivered now, my orgasm still shattering my brain, taking my sweet time returning to the present. I felt like someone getting high, because that's what sex is to me: it's my drug. So I did what any junkie would do: I backed my ass up and tried to preserve the high. Dylan laughed as his cock churned into me. "That's it, slut, fuck me back."

"Jesus." A glance at Maria showed me a cynical grin now. Whatever that empty-cunt bitch had going through her brain now, it wasn't shyness. "There you go, Dylan. Slam that old whore." My eyes flared at her as I jammed my hips backward against his legs, the two of us fucking furiously with a loud clapping noise. I spat toward her, and she laughed an exhilarated flood of Spanish back at me. "You missed, Ms Boyle," she laughed.

"When he's done with me," I grunted, hearing the strain in my voice as his surging body drove the syllables out, staccato, "I'm going to make you suck his cum out of my cunt," I promised, almost wailing, and I knew I could do it too: Maria had a sweet body all right, but only because she was young. I had mine because I work out like a fiend, and even with the gyms closed down by the fucking virus I knew I could still kick her ass. "Just wait," I groaned, but I said it into the couch cushion as my neck gave out, my whole body easing down from my voracious orgasm.

I really was nothing now but Dylan's fuckhole.

He knew it too, laughing as he took me, his hands pulling back on my hipbones, his rhythm getting slower but harder, more vicious as I felt that sturdy dick skewer me. "Fuck," he groaned, a strangled gasp, and I knew he was pumping deep inside me as he hauled me back against his wiry body.

I didn't feel the hot, wet spurts, but I sure felt his dick jump. I'd watched him shoot before, obviously, after I'd sucked him, on those nights he felt like painting my face: I knew how his head grew, the slit widening, the balls jiggling, and then the breathless rush of salty muck smacking me, never fewer than five ropes creamy and hot: that's what I had deep in my needy cunt right now. He arched against me once more, the last of him dribbling into me, and as always the high came back.

My head was blissfully heavy when I pointed it over at Maria, her face beaming as she watched her boyfriend claim me. "See that?" I crowed. "See how a real woman takes dick?" I didn't even know what I was saying; the girl meant nothing to me. This was supremely fucked up, but I didn't care; this was Dylan's idea. I was just providing the vagina. Well, one of them. He breathed hard above me, his fingers patting fondly at my butt, the robe thrown up along my shoulders. I craned around backward. "Tell her what you want, babe," I murmured, my lips twisting up into a smile, and his eyes rolled lazily over to Maria.

"Come over here, puta." He was already in heaven. "Time for your graduation present."

Things went fine after that, right up until Leon came back around midnight after an early release from the rigs, the folly of me putting my phone on silent making itself very painfully clear to me when I saw the hurt in his eyes. He had a lot to be hurt about, too, because the three of us were up to quite a few shenanigans by then. We'd all frozen, my tits heaving sweaty as I panted, on my back with my legs wrapped around the head of the squirming Maria, her face plastered to my wrecked cunt as Dylan reamed her from behind. "Uh. Leon," I managed weakly, but what could I say?

He'd turned back just once as he left, his skinny silhouette in my doorway for the last time, then he'd sighed. "It's not that you cheated, Shan," he'd said quietly, like a guy reasoning with a schizophrenic. "Hell, I was gone for weeks at a time. Of course you were going to cheat. But, with your students?" A ripple of revulsion skated across his face, and I felt my face go scarlet. "I mean, I'd never do that."

I'd summoned up the last shreds of what passed for logic in my fuck-swept brain, aware of how foolish I looked standing naked in my living room with Dylan and Maria staring open-mouthed from the stairs, and probably livestreaming my spank-reddened ass. "Of course you wouldn't," I bleated. "You're not a teacher. You don't have any students."

He'd just blinked a moment in disbelief, before with a wistful smile he'd stepped out of my life. No lie, too: I'd spent years with him. I'd loved him. He was funny, a good cook, smart. But I knew I'd mostly miss his tongue, because the best pussy-eater I'd ever known was walking off my porch and out of my life.

See? Cringey. At least I'd gotten the house put into my name, though, last year.

The moral of the story, as with so much else in my life, wasn't really moral. Gina's observation on my breakup was typical. She pursed her tiny mouth and looked away a second. "Leon. Yeah," she said finally, "I didn't think you two would last."

"No?"

"No." She shrugged. "I fucked him a couple months ago and he said he didn't think he was enough for you." And that was that.

* * *

"I'm always looking for ways to make the Gospel more accessible," he was explaining to me a couple days later.

"Relatable," I said at once, the two of us moving fast up Cinnamon Hill. "That's what all teaching is: trying to take hard concepts and make them easier." I paused and thought about the example, making sure I had the reference right; that's a good policy, when talking religion with a clergyman. "Like St Patrick? With the clover?"

He laughed, a bit breathlessly, and I was grateful when he didn't answer at once. The hill was steep for me, too. "That's a great example. I'm not very good at that kind of metaphor. My sermons are okay, but I'm not sure I always get the points across."

"I'm great at that." I was, too; it was one of my best skills as a teacher, perhaps my only one. We scrambled out at the top of the hill with the Harbor behind us, the whole panorama of the city spread before us. "I can always come up with good ones." I sucked deeply from my camelback. "Metaphors are easy."

"Show me," he said at once. He was in that same Nike shirt today, now patchy with sweat. I wanted to lick it off. We found seats on a rock, gazing out into the morning; I could see my house, looking tiny as it backed up to the endless sea of Back Bay grass. "Come up with a religious metaphor. Something useful. Something I could use in, say, a youth group."

"Something memorable?" I giggled. "I'm not going to do your work for you, Preacher Man. What do I get in return for devising a sermon for you?"

"You can come to church next Sunday and hear me use it," he said quietly, and I tossed my hair back and laughed. He tapped my shoulder. "Come on. I want to see what you come up with." I was already getting an idea, a lovely and salacious one.

"I'd catch fire if I stepped into a church now. My confession would take about an hour," I grinned. "Maybe two. I'm afraid I haven't been all that godly recently, Mike."

"Oh, come on," he scolded. "You can't be that bad. God loves you anyway."

"Well, he won't after I come up with this," I said, warming to my theme; I leaned back, propped on my elbows with my back arched for him. He didn't even try to hide his interest now, four hikes in with me. We'd met a little over a week ago. "So. The works of Satan are evil and vicious, yada yada, but they're really hard for humans to avoid. Like a hot dog."

He cocked his head. "What?"

"A hot dog." I hadn't eaten one of those fucking things in seven years, but there'd been a time I'd horked them down four at a time. "They're nasty. They're disgusting. They're made out of, you know, cartilage and shit. With me?"

He was nodding uncertainly. "Okay?"

"So. This vile, nasty piece of shit is gross and disgusting and it'll kill you, but it's still fucking irresistible. Right? I mean, those things sell like crack cocaine, especially now. Summer food, block parties, et cetera. They're everywhere, like the evil works of Satan." I smiled. This was fun.

"Go on." He sounded amused now. Let's see how long it would last once I extended the metaphor.

"So, picture sin as that hot dog. A long, hot, glistening penis of Satan." I steamrolled right on as Mike's mouth dropped slowly open, barely able to contain my glee. "And the sinner is a whore, like it says in Revelations! Right?"

He shook his head, incredulous, but he didn't seem pissed. "Uh, Revelation. No 's.'"

"Sure, then. Revelation. So the sinner wants to suck that Satan dick so badly; it's there, everywhere, all around her. And, like any whore, she wants it. She needs it. So she gets on her knees and she sucks it and, viola, she gets what she wants. Satan cums all down the front of her shirt." I was laughing now, and Mike was smiling slightly. Good.

"Um. The condiment," he ventured, and I cackled and laid a hand on his knee.

"Fuck yes! The condiment!" I was having trouble breathing, I was laughing so hard. "Satan cums mustard! Only that bright yellow shit, though, not the nice brown chunky stuff. So now she's all slathered in this goo, but she's a sinner, and just like a housewife at a block party, the next time someone offers her a hotdog, she just can't say no. It's bad for her; she knows this. It makes her sick. It stains her clothes, but she sucks it down regardless." I was squeezing his lower thigh now, and he didn't mind at all. "That? Say something like that in church, and I'll come watch."

"No way." He was shaking his head. "I'd get fired."

"Probably," I agreed, "but nobody would ever forget the lesson. And you can't tell me it's not a perfect metaphor. Right? We know sin is bad for us, but we dive on in anyway?" We were both grinning now. "Give me a few more minutes to think, and I'll refine it some more."

"The ketchup, for example."

"Right. That's when the whore uses her teeth, maybe. And the bun?" I smacked his thigh. "That's Satan, fucking you up the ass."

He was shaking his head. "As he does." He sighed. "You're right, Shannon. You're good at this. But you couldn't say any of that in class, though."

"Meh." I mopped my forehead. "I use sex references all the time. The trick is not to be insulting, and to be self-deprecating; no student wants to tell on a teacher they like." I smiled over at him. "I bet St Bede's really likes you, Mike."

He shrugged. "We'll find out if anyone shows up for services once the state says we can reopen. Another couple weeks." He hesitated, then smiled at me. "I'm not sure about your theology, but that was hilarious."

I arched an eyebrow, and my back. "How hilarious, Preacher Man?"

He sighed and rolled his eyes. "Fine. That was fucking hilarious, Shannon."

I whooped, clapping my hands, and then I sprang up off my rock and held my arms instinctively out, right in front of him. The man had wanted to hold me for days, obviously. High time we got on with this, and apparently he agreed: he got to his feet and, smiling a very soft smile, he wrapped his arms around me.

At once, I knew he was either hard, or getting there; it's the only good reason why he held back, making contact in that upper-body way guys do when they don't want you to know. We were sweaty and he hadn't shaved, his whiskers catching in the fabric of my thin shirt, but goddamn it felt good. We held the hug a few seconds longer than we should, maybe, and then he stepped back. "You know," he told me thoughtfully, with a broad grin, "that's the first hug I've had since March."

"Me too!" I was lying through my teeth, of course, thinking of Dylan that night after I'd met Mike; he and I had done quite a bit more than hug, but I knew that was over now. Dylan was about to move on from me, whether he knew it or not. "You feel good, Preacher Man," I said softly. "I'm glad you came hiking with me."

"I am too," he said, and then his face went red as we heard footsteps down the hill and he backed away, glancing over toward the trail in case the other hikers were his parishioners. I just smiled at him.

"Dude, just put your mask on." I was already whipping my bandana around my face. "That, plus the shades? Nobody will know who you are." I reached out and poked his ribs. "Add a hat, and you could kneel down and suck Satan's hot dog. Nobody would know it was you."

He sighed. "That would not make me popular with the bishop, Shannon."

"Maybe," I winked, "but it'd be super hot. And I'd keep your secret, Preacher Man."

* * *

"Goddamn!" I blurted a couple days later; it was an afternoon hike, the two of us meeting up after lunch to tramp through the Adams Woods. I'd never been there, but my new best friend was game. I looked at him with my head cocked. "I'm soaked, Mike."

"Yeah." He was too, his forehead shining. He shifted uncomfortably, then looked embarrassed as he pulled his shorts up higher. I nodded knowingly.

"Chafe."

"Chafe," he confirmed. It was thrilling to be staring at his dick, outlined in his running shorts.

"Fuck, Mike. Sorry." I gestured toward my vag. "See? Tights, dude. That's the way forward."

"I'm a man, Shannon," he snapped evenly. "We don't wear tights."

I shrugged. "Whatever, Michael. You want to trap yourself in outmoded gender constructs, that's up to you. And your junk," I added pointedly, unable to stop a smirk.

His heat-flushed face got redder, but was used to me by this time. We'd been hiking together for two weeks; if he didn't want to hear my sass, he would have stopped coming long ago. "Can we not talk about my, uh, my junk? I'm a member of God's ordained priesthood, after all." He sniffed. "And it's Miguel."

"Migwhat?"

"Miguel. Not Michael."

"Whatever." I was in no mood, but he was teasing me. I liked it. "If you think God wants peoples' balls to chafe, then maybe that suggests why nobody's really going to church these days." I smiled so he'd know I was kidding, then made a show of looking up and down the trail; I needn't have bothered. It was pushing ninety with a punishing dewpoint, and nobody was out but us. "If you want, just whip 'em off," I cackled. "I promise not to look."

"Thanks," he said primly, "but I think I'm fine."

"I'm not." I had a loose shirt over a favorite bra of mine, one of the older styles from Secret Whispers Actives, and I figured that if it scandalized him at this point, then he hadn't been paying attention to the chick he was strolling with. I shrugged. "Look away, Preacher Man, because I'm fucking soupy." I grasped the damp hem of my shirt, smiled, and then pulled it straight up off the top of my head. Well, I would have if I hadn't forgotten about the goddamn hat, which got all caught in the neckhole. As I struggled, it amused me that he was getting quite an eyeful.

Sure, quarantine had allowed a little flab to creep in. No avoiding it; I hadn't been able to punish myself at the gym like I liked to. But my abs had been rock-hard a couple months ago and I'd been crunching like a fool ever since, so there was still some pretty good definition down there.

I wasn't worried.

Finally I got my head free of the shirt and stood there in nothing but my bra and my orange tights, feeling the sultry wind make its futile attempt at cooling me down; only part of me really wanted to show off for Mike. The other part was fucking hot, as opposed to hawt.

He was staring at me, shaking his head slowly with a little smile while he sipped at his bottle of water. "Nice job, Shannon," he sighed. "You've succeeded in shocking me."

"Have I?" I laughed. "I'm not doing anything wrong, Pastor Mike. Nothing I'd need to confess for, I mean." I felt my grin splitting my face, loving his discomfort and loving, even more, the fact that he couldn't take his eyes off me.

He'd think about this tonight as he pulled on his massive, holy hard-on.

"Not a big deal," he agreed, "except that most people undress in private, you know?"

"Well hell, Mike," I nodded, slinging my shirt over my shoulder. I didn't have to look down; I could feel how hard my nipples were, and it wasn't the breeze. I love showing off. "If it's privacy you want, I could probably think of a few places the two of us could get away from it all." I winked broadly, out of control now, because his eyes hadn't left my body. He wanted me. I reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "Just say the word. We'll go."

He cocked his head, his breathing speeding up. Still, he had that little smile on his lips, but it seemed brittle. Unsure. I wondered how long it had been since he'd cum. When he spoke, he had to clear his throat first. "And do what, Shannon?"

Here we go. "I dunno. Maybe, find the path of unrighteousness? Something along those lines?" I said it quietly, and I could hear the little burr in my voice; I knew what it meant. It meant I didn't feel like being a good girl right now, and it definitely meant poor Dylan was out of the picture. "Maybe, reconnect with that misspent youth you told me about?"

He swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing hard. "And you can keep a secret."

"If there are things worth being secret about," I purred, my hand moving up and down his arm now. Slowly. I felt him tremble just a little, the forest around us completely forgotten. An entire cub scout troop could have come tramping along that trail and I doubt either of us would have noticed. I was watching nothing but him, and he was watching nothing but my chest.

I didn't even need to look down to know I'd see his erection tenting out his shorts.

I smiled slowly, a little deviously, my mouth open. "Just say the word," I repeated, almost whispering now, "and we'll go."

He took a deep breath; I could actually feel, in his arm, the moment that he finally got hold of himself, dry-mouthed. "I can't, Shannon," he said, and I could hear how badly he wanted to. I could see it in his face, too, his mouth set in tight lines, so I nodded.

"Okay, Mike," I told him softly. It was fine. He'd cum tonight, thinking of me, and I'd cum tonight thinking of him; it was all a part of it. Then it would just be easier next time. After all, he wasn't going anywhere. "Then let's finish the hike, hmm?"

He knew. He couldn't pretend anymore. So now, if he agreed to come out hiking again tomorrow, or the next day, or the next week... well. That would tell me everything I needed to know. I could be patient.

* * *

In the event, he texted just the next day. "If you wanted to walk this morning, sorry; I slept late."