Preacher Man

"Shannon," he began, but I darted my head forward and kissed his mouth shut.

"No. Just stand there." I didn't need to hear what he needed to say; I already knew it. Guilt, surprise, awe maybe? None of that spoke louder than the penis I had in my hand, my fingers running up and down its length through the thin shorts. I'd done this: I'd made him this hard. I'd made him want me. The rest was immaterial. "Stand there and kiss me, Preacher Man," I murmured, a burring sound of triumph in the back of my voice now as I leaned back up, feeling more and more confidence from his lips as I took him back in.

My overheated brain willed his hands downward from their awkward place up by my shoulderblades, down to cup my ass and grip it fiercely, but he was obviously out of practice. I could work with that, though. My lips made little sucking motions over his, pulling at his flesh, laughing in my throat, and then I trailed my tongue along his jawline, feeling the peppered hair there as it dug into my taste buds, groaning at the flavor of his sweat; it amazed me how much my body craved this man, even as I eased my body back from his to make room for my wandering fingers at his crotch.

On a hot, sweltering morning, the space between Mike's stringy thighs as I eased my hand in there was a furnace. I watched his eyes carefully as my face broke back from his, our heads still close, looking for him to flee and growing increasingly bold when he didn't. My fingers reached upward, seeking balls, both of us gasping when I found them through his shorts. He clearly couldn't believe this was happening to him. "That can't be comfortable," I panted.

He swallowed, his throat twitchy. "It's, uh, not."

"Okay," I breathed, squeezing his scrotum once, and then both my hands were on his hips, finding the elastic on his workout shorts, and Mike was looking faintly panicked as he reached too late to keep them up. But I wasn't about to be denied, leaning down, pulling the shorts down his sweaty legs as I fell to my knees before him.

I'd never sucked a cock out in public like this, and that alone had me creaming my underwear even apart from the fact I was going to do it to an old guy who was almost a priest. He had both his hands in front of his junk now, covering up but not stepping back; even after I got his shorts to his calves and then let him go, he didn't try to get away from me. I settled myself on the dirt, staring up past his clasped hands. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed his useless efforts at coverage, the erection far too long to handle; I saw a velvety head, dark and thick, extending past his wrist. "That's quite a secret," I purred, making eye contact, seeing doubt in there.

But, again, I wasn't paying attention to his face or his words. The rest of his body was quite clear about what it wanted me to do, and I was more than game.

I rocked back on my knees, my hands resting lightly on his lower thighs, and looked up into his face with a smile. "Relax, Mike." We stayed that way for a few long seconds, him with his inadequate hands warding off temptation, me making it clear I didn't mind waiting, before he slowly unclenched his fingers and revealed himself. His cock was beautiful: a nicely thick mass of flesh, curved just slightly to the left under a thick nest of silver. It loomed in the morning, moist and twitchy, its veins standing sharply out in the pearly sun with liquid glistening at its smoothly pointed velvet tip. Beneath hung his balls, heavy and tight in their water-balloon scrotum, visibly tensed to give me his cum.

I stared in delight. I'd never seen grey pubes before.

"You're such a sexy man." I said it simply, proudly, letting him know it was not a line, not an empty compliment: this guy deserved to know that for years, as he stood before his parishioners in his swanky robes, that half the pussies in the pews had been creamy for his dick. I was happy, on behalf of all those nameless women, to be the one who got to suck it. I raised my eyes back to his, slowly, and I was still looking into them when I leaned lithely forward and brought my lips to the tip of his penis.

He must have looked down like this, back in his younger days, the crazy days of sticky roadside restaurants and the cheapest of interstate motels, down on a willing bitch with his cock in her mouth. He must have. But it had been awhile, like he said, and I saw in his eyes a breathless wonder as his brows rose toward his hair and my lips tightened just at the base of his head, the mushroom shape solid on my tongue. Goddamn! I sang in my head. This was just as I liked a man to taste, spicy and faintly bitter, all unwashed skin, the flavor I've always associated with lust.

He tasted like I wanted him to. He tasted better than Leon, better than Dylan, better than Todd from my gym or Scott from that AP conference a couple years ago, when I'd kick-started my libido and started craving a full pussy.

My tongue lashed once across his tip, tracing the indentation of the little slit there, savoring the sudden salt of his pre-cum. "Mmm," I hummed gently, watching his eyes narrow as the initial shock wore into mere disbelief, enroute to exultation and, eventually, to bliss, and as his dick spasmed briefly in my mouth I knew that this wouldn't take long.

This dude was going to unload in about half a minute.

So I inched forward, my wet lips spreading, my tongue cradling the base of his shaft, tasting more of him. In my mind I willed his hands to grip my head, twining in my hair, but his brain still hadn't gotten over the wrongness of all this, a man of God giving himself to a sweaty bitch in the middle of the woods. So, as my lips pulsed around him, I thought I'd help him get more comfortable; my hands swept slowly up his thighs, the fingers passing along the insides, all the way up until his ballsack rested hot and sweaty on my thumbs.

He groaned, his penis taut and solid in my mouth, and I sucked hard at it while I dug eagerly at his humid balls, back behind them where the skin was slick and dirty, my fingers playing atop the tendon there. They felt solid on my palm, weighty, the semen of many years boiling inside there, and suddenly it occurred to me to wonder where he'd want me to take it.

I glanced up, searching his face, but by now he was well into that triumphant phase I was used to in men who had their dicks plugged into my mouth, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to understand he could give two shits whether I spat or swallowed. So, all things being equal, I decided I didn't feel like walking out of the forest with a cumstain on my shirt.

I bore down, feeling his thickness nudge at my throat, then began to swallow him whole. Staring up at him unblinking, I shoved my gag reflex brutally down and, feeling him already start to pulsate as his balls drew up in my hand, I wondered with a tiny part of my brain whether I'd get all the way down to those grey pubes before he unloaded. The rest of my brain, though, was about evenly divided between the meat in my mouth and the weepy pussy between my legs.

He will fuck me, I promised myself savagely as his eyes went wide. My throat rippled around his cockhead, his whole body tensing and trying to draw back, and I knew it was time. "Shannon," he managed, his voice a strangled ghost of itself, and I eased off just slightly; I'd had men shoot massive loads deep into my throat before, and it's not always pretty.

I wanted him to love this.

I sent my other hand around to his bony ass, holding him tightly to me as my lips tightened on him, my cheeks hollowing, determined to keep him in my mouth until he came, and after just a few more sweaty, tense seconds he did. "Ughh," he sighed, his body at guitar-string tension as he let go, and at long last his fingers found my scalp.

It felt, like it always did, like finding a sports bottle full of water someone had left in the sun all day, the cum thick and hot and relentless like someone squeezing the whole thing into me. My lips and tongue worked automatically, sucking and swallowing, only gradually losing the battle: I coped easily with the first load, then the larger second, before the third, fourth, and fifth pumps began to overwhelm my desperate mouth, his balls dancing in my hand.

"Oh my god," he blurted out, and once more his guilty eyes found my merry ones as, with a superhuman effort, I forced myself to swallow each chowdery spurt before the next one replaced it. He tasted like salted bell peppers. "Shannon," he breathed, and if I was listening for guilt I didn't catch all that much. I heard lust, relief, maybe even adoration, and I smiled as I backed off a fleshy dick made slick with my spit and his cum.

I let him see my lips purse at the tip into a loud, sucking kiss, then pulled away and glanced at it: he was all trembly, his balls still shuddering in my hand, and I released his ass to bring my other hand around to gently stroke his purple-red shaft. "Thank you, Preacher Man," I husked, the last of his sperm still swimming around my tongue. "You taste good."

"I..." He was breathing hard, the sweat running off his face. "I'm sorry," he began, but I was already shaking my head. Nope. I'd have none of that shit.

"I'm not," I snapped firmly. "I loved it. You loved it. And now?" I smiled wide, the grin turning into another kiss at the tip of his cock, "now we've got a secret, you and I."

"I can't believe this." He was glancing nervously around, now very aware he was bottomless with a cummy dick on a public hiking trail. "This was..." he trailed off, and I gave his nuts a fond squeeze.

"Breathtaking?" I uncoiled to my feet, my knees protesting. "Amazing? Sensual? Incredible? Perfect?" I squeezed him once more, then stepped back to let him reassemble himself. "It was wonderful, Mike," I finished quietly, my face wide open to him, and finally he returned a tentative smile. "Now. Pull your fucking shorts up. You're going to get us arrested."

* * *

"On a trail?"

"Well," I corrected, "just off the trail, really, if you want to get technical about it." I was sipping at a White Claw with Gina after a light dinner of shaved-pork sandwiches on Hawaiian rolls. "It was so hot."

"Must have been." She smirked waspishly. "I'm glad you're getting a little, even if it is only oral."

"Uh, thanks?"

"Well, I mean, I'm just letting you know you're not getting Dylan back, you little slut." She was smiling more broadly now, that crafty look I'd seen from her many times before. "I must say, you trained him fucking perfectly." She raised her white wine. "Nice job."

"Thanks!" It had only been three days since I'd told her she was free to go for the kid, but I wasn't surprised: Gina Torrey was a fast worker. "You didn't have him over to the house, did you?"

"God no. Little Brucie is always underfoot these days; it's summer, after all." I nodded. Her son was a fucking handful. "Nah, I had him take me in a bathroom stall at Cheeks & Co. He's working there, bussing tables."

"Cool." Gina had a history of hooking up at restaurants.

"We'll probably have to get a room next time." She eyed me. "He's much improved."

"Whatever," I sighed, content in my own prospects. I wondered whether Mike would text me tomorrow, then figured he probably would. He'd been friendly enough when I'd left him at the end of the trail, though who knew whether he'd let the guilt creep in later? If he didn't text me, I decided, I'd do it myself.

My pussy needed stuffing.

* * *

"I'm glad you got in touch with me, Mike," I said softly as I got out of my car. I'd pulled into the parking lot in a blaze of The Specials ("Pressure Drop"), which I kept humming even after I hip-checked my door shut. I made sure my smile was broad, warm, and innocent, for we were in public. Quarantine-addled Seaborne was heartbreakingly tentative all around us, the downtown area bustling in fits and starts as furtive groups of masked townies crept around like lepers escaped from the colony. But Harborside Book and Tea had been open (take-out only, though), so I'd bought a couple of iced coffees from Gretchen Barry and brought one to Mike. "I bought you a coffee. Cream and sugar, just like mine." I rattled the ice in the cup. "If deacons are allowed to drink that."

"We're allowed." I wasn't sure what to expect from him. He'd suggested a stroll along High Street, so I'd regretfully thrown aside the crop-top I'd planned on and donned a sensible old John Elway t-shirt instead. It was a little too small, but fuck it; The Girls were in good form these days, and it wasn't like I was keeping any secrets from him now. "Thank you."

I studied him closely as he took his drink. He was being careful not to look at my body. "Good," I muttered, unable to get a good read on him. You never know how a man's going to act once you've had his dick in your mouth, though the other morning after the blowjob we'd parted amicably enough. I decided to take the offensive and see where it went. "Wouldn't want to make you do anything against the rules, Preacher Man," I smirked.

That got a reaction, at least, a startled expression that immediately curdled into something a lot more cynical. Good, I thought; cynical, I could deal with. He sighed after a moment. "I... I don't know what to say, Shannon. About the other day."

There it was. I was ecstatic; I didn't want to be the one broaching the subject. But I tempered myself, nodding, still smiling. "Then don't say anything." I nodded at his cup. "Just drink your coffee and let's walk, hmm?" I didn't wait, starting off, climbing the steep hill up from the parking lot at Estuary Station and falling quickly into a nice, steady rhythm. For once, the humidity was laying off the gas pedal, so I didn't even mind my covered belly.

We talked about things, politics and the like, the everlasting store and restaurant closures, the pain of a shuttered community. "Things are looking up, though," he shrugged at one point. "I just got word from the Diocese that the state finally has a date for live worship." He glanced at me. "Actually, I was thinking of heading into the church on my walk this morning. Just to check on everything."

I thought quickly, even as my feet automatically took me to the other side of the street when I caught sight of an elderly couple coming the other way. "I don't mind tagging along, Preacher Man," I smiled. He was fingering his mask, plainly wondering whether he should put it on. "I am, after all, an experienced teacher of comparative religion." I laughed at myself, mocking how pompous that sounded. "It's only an elective."

Mike looked back over at me as we found the opposite sidewalk. He paused, and when he spoke he was keeping his voice low. "Yes, Shannon," he sighed. "You're very experienced."

"Listen to you!" I laughed, punching his shoulder lightly. "Good looks, and a sense of humor. That's wonderful in any man, especially one of such advanced years."

"See, now that's just mean," he whined, but he was smiling. I felt a pang as we passed the Chambermaid's Purse, now closed and unlikely to survive the shutdown; the place sold tchotchkes and the kind of kitchen gadgets nobody needed. I probably had about $200 in gift certificates there, moldering away in my desk drawer; the Purse was a popular place for students' parents to get teacher gifts. "Sad. The town is so empty. I never really got up here much before the pandemic."

"It's such a sweet little place," I fretted, and it was. I felt a sudden urge to take his hand, but of course not; he was basically a priest. So I looked ahead and behind me, quickly, then grabbed his ass. "It'll come back."

"Yow!" He started, tugging at his cargo pants, and glared at me. "What are you doing?"

"I'm being friendly," I giggled, "making you feel welcome within the community." I went to do it again, but then I caught sight of a wasp-faced pair of Karens down the hill, staring at us for not having masks. I pushed my shades up at them, being careful to use my middle finger. "I'll be good."

"Huh," he grunted, noncommittal, nodding toward the harbor. "Look. Even the boats aren't out at the marinas."

"The employees all got laid off," I explained sadly. A lot of our students worked at the marinas and yacht clubs, but those had all closed down in March. "So much disruption."

"Well, if churches are coming back in person," he said after a pause, "I can't imagine you guys won't be starting school in person too, in September. Right?"

"Don't ask," I snapped, not wanting to talk about this; I'd been turned down for the Reopening Committee at my school, and was still bitter about it. "Grope my ass instead," I suggested with a smirk.

"Shannon," he warned, a low grumble, so I just squeezed his ass again and then behaved myself, keeping the banter light and easy as he led me around the corner onto Mill Street and toward the big, ugly 1970s tower of St Bede's at the end of the block. He looked doubtfully up at it.

"I mean, at least you're in the cool part of town," I ventured.

"Yeah, but Father Ken deferred a lot of maintenance while he was pastor." He nodded toward the belfry, all beige brick and gold tiles, which stuck up in the air like a big square hard-on. "I'll be a busy man."

"You'll manage." I squeezed his arm reassuringly. "I'll hook you up with the president of the Service Club in the fall. Bunch of student who just live to clean gutters and rake leaves, stuff like that."

"Thanks," he sighed, gesturing to a matching brick two-story building across the street from the church. "My Rectory," he said, tightly enough that I decided not to flirt about it. "Not quite an architectural masterpiece."

"Can't beat the rent, though, right?" I was chuckling as I scanned up and down the street, seeing nobody. "The neighborhood's jumpin'."

"Right?" He sighed, plainly uncomfortable, then cocked an eye across to the Rectory. "You really want to come in?" he asked doubtfully.

"Yes please," I beamed, looking greedily at his ass as he took off across the street and disappeared into the Rectory. The sun beat down on me, a hammer on my head, so I passed gratefully into the shadow of the big porch, colonnaded with... more brick. Chintzy gold-colored highlighting was everywhere. I frowned. That anyone had ever felt inspired by such crapulent architecture amazed me, but the Brutalists had destroyed plenty of architecture ideas. I made sure to teach about it during my unit on contemporary history, if only because I like to make sure my students hate the same things I hate.

Mike emerged from the Rectory door a bit later, jingling as he came across the street with a fat wad of keys dangling fro his fist. He forced a smile as he sorted through them. "Hot, huh?"

"Dripping," I smiled, and once he made eye contact I raised my eyebrows suggestively. I laughed when he knit his. "Hopefully there's AC inside."

"Nope," he said grimly. "Other than my office and the boiler in the basement, the place has been unused for months. That's why I check on it every few days." The big paneled door swung wide, and Mike stepped back to gesture me in. "Apres vous," he mocked.

"Why thank you, Pastor Miguel." I winked at him, my shades perched in my hair as I passed in past the big stalklike holy water thingie. "Been awhile since I've been in one of these," I mused, looking around, and I felt a wave of relief; like a lot of shitty-looking newer churches, the place looked a lot better on the inside: blocky modern stained glass windows tinted the light on blonde wood pews arranged in a shallow semicircle, the whole sanctuary oriented widthwise instead of lengthwise. I swallowed. "Beautiful," I said, all hushed like I always was in churches.

"It's a little more impressive inside than out," he nodded wryly. We stood a moment looking around, the dust dancing on the colored air. "Well, here it is."