Secret Sins Ch. 01

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Ameaner
Ameaner
1,248 Followers

So far, considering the exterior of the house, I was mildly pleased with what I'd found inside. For the most part, it seemed clean enough and would only require some paint, curtains and blinds, a case of air fresheners to battle the underlying smell of must, and some other hopefully easy touch-ups to make the place look half decent.

The wooden stairs, painted dark brown at some point in the distant past, creaked under foot as I ascended to the second level, the space where I was to live for the unforeseeable future. The bannister seemed solid and safely guided me to a space that, while smaller than the downstairs living room, was lit much better by the two frontal windows that I'd noticed earlier from down in the street. The floors were hardwood and, though they also needed to be refinished, were in much better condition than downstairs. The walls and gabled ceiling were painted a darker green than the walls of the horrid kitchen, something close to a den green and, with the hardwood floors, actually looked pretty good. In the middle of the floor was clustered a dark blue, high backed sectional set, a wooden coffee table with minimal scratching, a pair of matching end tables and a cheap entertainment unit, its style different from the coffee and end tables, but the colour of its finish a close approximation. All of this was clearly second hand, likely donated to the Army by someone, but it appeared to be in good shape and hopefully free of bedbugs.

At the back of the room was a small kitchenette, a long eating counter separating it from the rest of the room, which created an open concept that the colour of the walls and the dark hardwood floor made cozy. There was a small refrigerator, newer than the one downstairs, a range top and a single stainless steel sink with almost modern taps. The cabinets were dark wood stained, as was all the trim, and the only thing that really took away from this area was the unfortunate Formica that topped the eating counter. Oh, well. At least it had green flecks.

A short hallway to the rear with a window at the end separated the bathroom from the bedroom. On the left, the bathroom had no window, but did have the obligatory linoleum. (Yes, the same white with gold marbling) This, however, was in very good shape, though it was curled up at the edges where it should have been tucked under the baseboards. The walls were white and fairly clean, but still needed a fresh coat of paint. There was a porcelain sink set into a wooden vanity, the expected toilet and, best of all, a huge, old fashioned claw foot tub. There was no shower, but I didn't care. Who needs a shower when they have a nice, big, claw foot tub?

Across the hall, the floor of the small bedroom was of the same hardwood, but in such good shape that it didn't even need refinishing. The walls were white and, like the bathroom, clean, but in need of a fresh coat of paint. The gabled ceiling was also white and the window in the rear, south facing wall would let afternoon sun in through the thickly leaved trees in the backyard. The large, double doored closet was already equipped with multicoloured, plastic hangars and was directly opposite the window, so I'd be able to actually see my clothes in there.

Finally, Major Hurdle had managed to get me a bed. Obviously used like the other furniture, it was already assembled and positioned with its broad, high posted, maple headboard pushed up against the north wall. The footboard was almost as tall as the head and, instead of the usual, cheap angle iron rails to connect them, it had matching wooden planks to support the mattress and box spring, a brand new set that leaned against the wall beside the headboard. I smiled about this as I peered through the milky plastic at the thick, compressed foam sleeping surface. Like anyone else, I prefer my mattress to be new. Spying a cardboard box beside the mattress and box spring, I peeked inside to find bed linens, two pillows, a blanket, bedspread and matching curtains, all new and still in their packaging.

Pervert or not, now I definitely liked Major Hurdle.

As suspected, the door under the stairs lead to the basement. It was pitch black down there, but a light switch by the door fixed that problem before I began making my way down the unpainted wooden steps to this final, unexplored area of the old house. The two naked incandescent bulbs that hung from the ceiling barely illuminated an unfinished space which was obviously the source of the musty smell in the rest of the house. There were no windows and less than six feet of standing room between the exposed stringers of the upper floor and the rough cement floor of the basement. Aside from four screw-jack posts, the only other things down there were an ancient oil furnace and its five hundred gallon supply tank in one of the shadowy corners. Since unfinished basements have always given me the creeps, and since there wasn't much anything to see down there anyway, I made my way back up the stairs with only one irrationally fearful glance over my shoulder.

I expected the backyard to be littered like the side lot, but it was surprisingly clean of refuse. Here, the only problem I could see from the large pallet that somebody had turned into a rear stoop, was how Mother Nature had been allowed to almost completely take over. Amidst the tall grass and wild shrubbery, some of them pink rose bushes, a few huge trees effectively shaded the rear of the lot, crowding in upon a narrow footpath that led a slightly winding course away from the back of the house. Through the foliage, I could barely make out an old fence that attached to the corner of the house and appeared to run out towards the rear. Its tall, vertical planks were of a dark, peeling green and looked as though the only thing holding them to the substructure was the thick shrubbery. The same type fence extended from the opposite corner and, as I stepped off the stoop to set out on the footpath, any trace of the fences disappeared amidst the flora.

The end of the path presented me with a narrow laneway. Up and down this passage of grayed, dirt covered pavement, were old garages, some small parking areas and tan and blue coloured refuse bins sitting near the edges of the laneway where the city's refuse truck could access them. There was a set beside me, the house's address on each, and each one full. Turning back, I smiled, taking my time as I began my short journey through the wilds of the rear lot to the back door of the house. I liked this area, liked that it was grown up and so private. It was an unlikely secret garden of peace and purity amidst turmoil, the unavoidable by-product of society.

I was still smiling by the time I'd returned to my upstairs bedroom with the luggage I'd detoured to the car for. It wasn't much; the Army was seeing to the rest and, according to Marilyn, that would show up in the next day or two. But even that wasn't much. Growing up on the move, one learns to live with few personal possessions, and besides, the Army provides most everything else its officers need anyway, including the brown Impala I'd parked out front.

Without a knife, getting the mattress and box spring out of their heavy plastic wrappers proved surprisingly difficult, so a trip to the nearest Dollar Store became the first necessary step. According to my phone, there was one in a strip mall on the corner of Albert Street and Fourth Avenue, only two blocks away, so I was able to return quickly with one of those multitools and a sub from a Subway location in the same strip mall.

After eating half my sub at the kitchenette counter, I discovered that compressed foam mattresses are heavy. Really heavy. I'd already removed my smart little bowler hat and jacket during a previous battle with the box spring in the non-air-conditioned house, but I was still overheating. I did have other clean blouses in the suitcase I'd brought, but I saw no point in advancing my need to do laundry under my current circumstances, so I began unbuttoning my blouse. Pulling the front open, then hauling the tails out of my skirt, I slipped it off and hung it on the bedpost where it could stay clean. Looking down at myself, at the white, lacy little quarter cup bra that held my full breasts, I couldn't help but remember Major Hurdle, shamefully wondering how much he'd appreciate the view now.

I set back to work, becoming aroused by being so underdressed in a strange place. Despite being alone in the house with the doors locked, it seemed so daring, almost exhibitionist and, the more I thought about it, the more turned on I became until I had to stop working. I was out of breath, still struggling with the behemoth that was my mattress and, by then, perspiring heavily in the prairie summer heat. Looking at my heaving breasts as I panted, the rivulets of perspiration that ran down my cleavage, I reached around to lower the zipper at the back of my skirt. Seconds later, I was stepping out of it, carefully hanging it over my blouse, now standing there in smallish panties with a narrow garter belt riding my hips. They, along with the sheer white stockings I wore, were a matching set with the bra, a set that I'd bought at La Senza while attending CFOT in Winnipeg the year before.

You're probably wondering what a Salvation Army Officer, an ordained pastor and bastion of human decency is doing buying and wearing sexy lingerie and, at this point, you may also have been wondering about the 'shameful little secret sin' I mentioned earlier. Well, this is it. At least part of it. You see, many Christians, if not all, have some 'secret sin', as it's called. It's rarely spoken of in Christian circles, but it's something that we inflicted struggle with, and could be anything from pride, anger, or jealousy to maybe some addiction such as alcoholism, tobacco or, in my case, pornography. Yes, that's the other part of my own 'secret sin'. In fact, it's the secret sin and it's what drives me to buy lingerie.

It started a few years ago. One evening, shortly before I graduated from high school, I was doing homework at a friend's house and, while the two of us were in her room, she logged on to a porn site. Of course, I'd heard of these sites and I knew better, but she was my only friend at school and I didn't want to come off like the prudish, uncool little 'God-girl' that everyone else at school saw me as, so I went along with it, laughing with her at the lurid picture galleries of forbidden images.

I laughed because it was expected, but my true reaction was far different. Something within me, something new and entirely unexpected, was born then, a consuming passion that would overwhelm any other interest I've ever had, other than one day being an Officer in the Salvation Army. When I got home, tummy cramping with excitement, I went to bed, taking my own laptop under the covers with me so that I could again delve into this forbiddingly exhilarating new world. In private, my wide eyes roamed and lingered where they willed as my hungry mind and heated body were allowed to react without the encumbrance of another person in the room. Needless to say, it was a sexual education that blew the severely limited, largely cautionary information that my parents gave me right out of the water and, since then, my unwholesome love for porn has never waned.

With that said, I should state here and now that this is something I'm deeply ashamed of. I pray about it often and have since the beginning. I used to beg The Lord to lift this carnality from my mind but, after a time, I surmised that His inaction in this matter was His way of telling me that it's my problem to defeat. I'd invited it in, and now I had to kick it out. So I worked at that until I found out the hard way that defeating such a problem, at least for me, isn't any more possible than an alcoholic ever really defeating his alcoholism. I've had the thought that getting married, and therefore having access to a man, would take it away but, as I've mentioned, Salvation Army officers can only marry within the ranks. So far, I haven't met anyone who wears the uniform that I'd particularly want to spend the rest of my life with and I doubt I ever will. Besides, thanks to my hundreds of hours of watching porn, I'm pretty sure that the type of man I'd want and the things I'd expect from him in a sexual relationship will never, ever be found within the ranks of the Salvation Army.

So, I'm stuck. I've even accidently taken my own virginity with my finger during a particularly hot masturbation session. It was just before I went to CFOT, and I was worried that I'd not get another chance at getting off for a long, long time, so I was trying to make my last personal session as exciting as possible with one of my favourite videos when the unthinkable happened. So, now I'm not even a virgin. Not technically. Even if I were to settle for a fellow Officer, what would I ever tell him that could explain that? Even worse, this has only weakened my resistance to porn because it now seems like my only outlet. I mean, what else can I do? Go out and start screwing indiscriminately? I couldn't possibly have done that, and it's not exactly the best way to further my career either, so I'm left with masturbation, the porn that fuels it and the wickedly filthy imagination that it's produced within me.

And that's exactly what it is about porn that I so love, the way it plays with my imagination, the unlikely and even sometimes implausible situations that the characters get into that lead to such excitingly sexual outcomes. I don't like videos that have no story, where the action starts with everybody already unclothed and screwing. I like- no, love- the workup, the lead in, the background and reason as to why the characters do what they're going to do. It has to have storyline and, where it doesn't, I'll sometimes make up my own if the scene is good enough, watching the video with the sound muted while I play out the premise in my mind. In some ways, I get off more on that than the actual sex acts, sometimes not only climaxing while the actors' clothes are still on, but reversing the video so that I can.

I'm into most everything except scat, bestiality, torture and a few other extreme forms of porn, but my favourite types of porn feature the undoing of innocence, the spoiling of purity, the slow defeat of a person's morals that starts with reluctance or outright refusal, but ends with complete, uninhibited surrender. It's the situational aspect of it that turns me on, and this kink, this sexual preoccupation that porn has created with the side effect of being horny almost all the time, was never far from my mind. It was my version of sex, and that was why I didn't mind Major Hurdle ogling my body the way he did, why it really didn't bother me that he was a pervert, and why I wriggled out of my jacket and out the door ahead of him. I wasn't only putting on a show for him, but for myself as well, and it happened so naturally because that part of my mind is now so used to going there that I sometimes forget what's socially acceptable and what isn't.

And I really need to watch that.

So, now you know my secret sin. Now you know why one of CFOT's best and brightest would be wearing sexy lingerie under her uniform, why almost one quarter of the contents of her suitcase consisted of such undergarments and, maybe, why I'd be so turned on by the simple act of wrestling a heavy mattress down to the top of a box spring while wearing only my underwear and shoes. I know what a hypocrite it makes me, the gulf it opens up between myself and my uniform, but at least it's something I can manage. It's a very private addiction, unlike alcohol or drug abuse, and one that can be much easier hidden.

Were it not for the trees in front of the window, I'd have covered up while hanging the curtains but, as it was, the only way anybody could have seen me was if they were standing right beneath the bedroom window in the rear lot. This, however, didn't make any difference to my hormones. The act of standing in front of a window like that escalated my arousal all the more and, by the time I was finished dressing the bed, my hands were trembling with anticipation as I removed my laptop from the side pocket of my suitcase.

Taking it to the bed with me, I kicked off my shoes before hopping up on the soft mattress with it. I felt like a junkie as I opened and started it, by then so horny and excited that I could barely wait for the programs to spin up before clicking my way to my special file, the one with the passcode protection.

"MaKeMeCuMsOhArD!69" (Enter)

My viewing selection was quickly arrived at, a recent favourite entitled, 'Hypnotized Sex Slaves'. The video quality isn't that good, but I love the premise. Parting my legs, I adjusted the sound so that I could barely hear it before something occurred to me.

For the first time in my life, I was truly on my own. While under my parent's roof, it went without saying that I had to be careful with the volume. Even while in my private room at the CFOT dorm, I'd had to keep it way down because sound travels through cinderblock walls a lot easier than what most people realize, and I was nervous about how vulnerable headphones could leave me. But now that had all changed. Now I had my own place with complete privacy, and I no longer had to worry about others hearing the soundtracks to my porn. So I turned the sound up and leaned back against the headboard, thighs spread, knees sticking up with the laptop on the mattress between them to watch through the beginning of the video with an excited little smile.

A detective named Raven sits on a couch with another woman named Chelsea, who's lodged a complaint about Rene, her neighbour from across the street. They're both built very well, as porn queens usually are, and wearing short skirts. Also, they both have dark hair, an attribute I like in porn because it usually comes with a darker complexion, which presents so much better when a man squirts cum all over their faces and in their hair. Unfortunately, there aren't any men in this particular video, but it's still good despite that, and I'd already fantasized a later scene where the complainant's husband is involved anyway. Besides, I love lesbian scenes for the reason that same sex encounters are so wrong and forbidden. They always get me so hot.

So anyway, Chelsea is telling Raven that Rene has somehow hypnotized her and her husband and often comes over, right into the house, and makes them have sex with her. Not surprisingly, the detective is somewhat sceptical until blonde Rene shows up, snaps her fingers and takes Chelsea under her hypnotic control. She tells her to restrain Raven, which she does, and Rene soon has her under her control as well.

This is where things get good.

Rene soon has the two women taking off her boots, sucking and licking her toes through her black stockings. On command, Chelsea starts slowly licking her way up one of Rene's legs as Rene hikes her skirt further and further until the viewer can see that Rene isn't wearing panties. When Chelsea began licking her hairy pussy, I softly moaned, already caressing my boobs through my bra with both hands as my own pussy got wetter and wetter.

Then Rene stands and turns her back to the camera to have them remove her skirt so they can both start licking and kissing her tush. I moaned again as the detail of Rene's thong tan line got me even hotter, tweaking my nipples through the lacy cups of my bra. She has such a nice tush, and the way Raven's fingers are so close to her pussy, mindlessly compromising herself as she grips her upper thighs drives me even wilder as they tease her. Rene turns around again, taking a seat on the couch and spreading her legs so they can both start licking her pussy, and I couldn't hold back any longer. Without taking my eyes from the screen, I slipped one hand down between my legs, caressing my crotch through my panties. As light as my touch was, my pelvis jerked and I softly cried out as I watched, slowly, lightly caressing myself up and down... up and down, teasing my erected clit to madness while Rene hiked her top.

Ameaner
Ameaner
1,248 Followers