The Nature of Faeries

Leaning on her hands, she began rocking. The full glory of her ass was bouncing in front of me. Brushing my hands lightly over the delicate skin, I admired the full curves of her bottom. The cleft was irresistible, and I traced a single finger along the hollow from her spine to just above the purplish crinkle.

"Do it!" Clara said.

What? Did she really want me to...?

"Do it, Jack. Touch it!" she said.

Cautiously, my finger grazed the ridged circle. She surprised me when she tossed her head back, with a "Fuck!" and my finger jerked away.

"Again, Jack!" she said. "Harder."

Although it was something I'd never even considered, I touched her again, this time with more confidence. Again, she seemed delighted.

"Yes! Push, Jack. Push it in."

When I pressed my fingertip more firmly, her sphincter surrendered.

Clara's head dropped to her chest and her motions became slower, more focused. Her body was beginning its wind up to another climax.

"Fuck it," she whispered between ragged breaths. "Fuck it, Jack...with your...with your finger..."

Pushing harder, I watched the thrilling decadence of my finger disappearing into her ass. I jabbed in sync with the rise and fall of her delicious butt.

"Yes! Oh, fuck, yes!" she whimpered, rocking faster and faster with her pussy pumping my cock like a milking machine on each upstroke. I knew how the heifers felt. It was a religious experience unlike anything I'd experienced.

"Oh, God, Clara," I whimpered breathlessly. Then she fondled my balls. I felt myself tighten and thrust upward as electric sensations rocketed up my spine.

Clara gave in to her pleasure at the same moment, and we were frozen in time, two statues joined in shuddering, coital bliss.

Rational thought gradually returned. I slowly withdrew my appendages from my cousin's two orifices, and we both fell back on the bed. One look at each other, and we both began laughing.

~~ 8 ~~ SUNDAY SCHOOL LESSON ~~~~

Clara reminded me it was Sunday. We both had been subjected to Gramma's lectures about the Lord's Day. But like she always said, the dumb animals of the earth don't know the Lord's Day from Thursday, and there were still chores to be done. We snatched on our work clothes and hurried out to the barn. I noticed that Momma was not on the porch this morning, but Gramma was alone at the table with her coffee.

"You chillen best get movin'," she grumbled as we rushed through. "Lookit! The sun's already up and the cows is lowin' at the gate. I'll be waitin' at St. Peter's gate before you get your chores done."

"Yes, Gramma'," we answered in unison.

Even as we scampered across the yard, hand-in-hand, we heard her yelling, "Don't you dawdle around, neither!"

We droned the next words along with her, as we had so many times before. "The Lord's Day is His'n. It ain't your'n." We laughed.

We made short work of the morning chores and were back in the house by the time Aunt Carol finished breakfast. That gave us a few minutes to grab a quick bath together. No time for hanky-panky. The Lord was watching and waiting, as Gramma' was sure to remind us.

After breakfast, I dressed in my best khakis and a brown and red plaid shirt. Aunt Carol produced one of Grampa's old thin red ties, and gave me his ragged, old hand-Bible—here in the upcountry, it was the height of gauche to walk through the door of the Lord's House without a bible to thump.

Clara appeared in a demure, lace-collared, button-down dress with a blue flower print that ended only halfway down her calves. She had put on lip gloss and a scant of eyeshadow, as well as some makeup that partially hid the blue marks I'd made. Compared to her usual, frumpy 19th century attire, she was a veritable harlot. I didn't mind, of course. She looked like a lovely 1950's woman, pure and simple—a breath of fresh air. The slim lie of the fabric suggested that she had dispensed with the usual frilly petticoat, and the bosom looked full—I suspected that she had given up the makeshift bra as well. I felt a fresh tightness in my shorts, sure that underneath that virtuous exterior, her naughty, naughty puss was bare and available for my exploration.

Momma handed me the keys to Gramma's old Ford sedan. As we were going out the door, Gramma yelled at us to wait. She told Clara to bend down, and she fastened a single strand of pearls around her granddaughter's neck. Clara beamed. Her face turned rosy pink and she looked like she was about to explode with pure joy. After she admired herself in the mirror, we set off for church.

When we got in the car, she snuggled next to me We had no sooner cleared Gramma's gate when she began undoing the bottom buttons on her skirt, laying it open.

"We're late," she said. "We'll have our Sunday School lesson in the car." Peeling my hand from the steering wheel, she used it to caress the inside of her tender thigh.

"These are the stairs to heaven." She spoke in a small voice with the careful diction of a kindergarten teacher while she gently raked my fingertips along the pale flesh again and again, first one leg, then the other.

Curling my fingers except the pointer, she pushed my hand further under her dress and let him stroke each side of her swollen pudenda. "At the top of the stairs are the pearly gates. St. Peter wants you to help him keep the pearly gates clean. Can you help St. Peter wipe the gates clean?" she asked, sounding like a little girl as she drew light circles over her hairy pussy.

"Oh, look!" she said delightedly. "The pearly gates are opening, and there are the angel's wings."

Clara guided my finger delicately up and down the ridges of her dewy petals. Gently pinching my fingers around the flimsy lips, she explained, "Angels like to have their wings rubbed, too, you know. You can even pull a little bit on their wings and stretch them out."

My mouth was watering, my dick was hard as an oak, and I was having a hard time focusing on the road. Clara's shallow breathing and soft moans suggested she was having her own difficulties.

"Right above the angels is Jesus in his manger," she said. She drew my finger up her crease and flinched with a gasp when it touched the small bump. "Yes..." She clutched her breast and squeezed. "Jesus is inside his blanket, but you can rub his tiny head just like you were petting a butterfly."

I had heard of a clitoris, of course, but my experiences had been mostly in the dark. I was thrilled by this tour through the terra incognita of the female anatomy. I nuzzled Jesus' head carefully, watching my cousin's sultry reactions from the corner of my eye. A subdued moan rolled behind her open lips, and her now-familiar fragrance filled the car.

In a raspy voice, she reminded, "Don't—don't forget the angels."

I fondled the moist labia, tugged at them.

"Mmmm...that's perfect, Jack." Taking hold of my hand again, she said, "When the Holy water starts seeping out, it's time to enter the Pearly Gates." She pushed my finger up into her liquid warmth, her breath catching in her throat. "When you first get there, it's a good idea to talk a stroll on the Streets of Gold." She pressed my finger down against the taut sinew at the threshold as she pushed inward then drew it back. She repeated until I caught on. Her legs spread wide on the seat, her hips rocking against my palm as I finger-fucked her.

She laid a hand on my thigh, sighing, "Slow down, Jack. We're almost there."

I wasn't sure which 'there' she meant until I saw the church steeple over the trees. I pulled into a deserted gas station. Her hand cuddled my crotch.

Clara turned my wrist over. "The Holy Ghost sits above heaven, looking down. If you curl your finger up, you can reach him...higher...ow!" she cried out.

"What? What?" I asked, pulling my hand.

She held it in place "It's okay. The Holy Ghost prefers boys who trim their nails."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Try again. Higher...toward the front...Yes!" Her eyes went wide. "Right there! Rub his soft back...little circles...yes...harder! Yes, oh, fucking..." Clara's eyes drifted half-closed, and her hips went into automatic washing machine mode. Her breath grew tremulous, her pussy oozing and dripping all over my hand.

"Jesus!" she whimpered. "Baby Jesus...his head..."

I used my thumb to soothe little Jesus' head, which seemed to have grown, and was peeking out from under his blanket.

Clara clutched feverishly at her tits with one hand, grinding her the heel of her other on my painfully erect dick. Suddenly, she arched off the seat, calling my name repeatedly while her cunt twitched and spasmed around my fingers.

I didn't remember Sunday School lessons ever being that much fun.

When she returned to earth from her rapture, she took my fingers from herself and sucked them clean, then wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me.

"You never told me—where is God?" I asked, curious.

"God is in the deepest part of heaven, where nobody should ever touch Him. After church, we'll make sure that the Apostle John gets baptized in the Holy Water," she said, her fingers toying with my shaft. "He'll be so close that he can spit in God's face."

Her irreverence was hilarious. But I knew my Gospels. "What about the rest of the Apostles?"

Coddling my balls, she promised, "Matthew and Mark down here will be happy, and that silver-tongued saint Paul will get a taste of heaven, too." She wiggled her tongue and winked.

Then she touched the patch of skin between my balls and my anus.

"Saint Luke is hiding inside, right here. Maybe you'll let me rub his head later."

Was she serious? I knew of only one way to get there, and as far as I was concerned, that was exit-only.

~~ 9 ~~ THE PREACHER'S DAUGHTER ~~~~

The church service was mostly as I remembered, except more of it. Preacher Allen, a lean, tense man with piercing blue eyes, bellowed about the awesome power of his vengeful God. He perspired heavily as he chastised the congregation about our mortal sins and damnation, then offered to pimp out the services of Jesus Christ to wash away our natural ugliness.

Clara had coated her fingers with her 'Holy Water' and kept finding ways to pass the scent under my nose, with the pretense of pushing a lock of hair out of my face or wiping something from the corner of my mouth. That kept me in a constant state of erection. The church was well attended, and I couldn't imagine that the folks around us didn't smell it, too.

The choir seemed better than the old church. The director was a tall young man with a rich baritone and a face like a movie star. His powerful voice was countered by a small, exceedingly pretty, soaring soprano in the front row with well-coiffed blonde hair. I caught myself staring at her several times during the sermon, and thought I saw her glance at me a couple of times.

Clara mostly ignored the choir, but I spied one nasty look in that direction. It was filled with a venom like I'd never seen from my sweet cousin.

Waiting in the receiving line, we chatted with other churchgoers, most of them old women who greeted Clara fondly. My cousin introduced me to each of them without offering much detail. If I began to say something about our relationship, she butted in to change the subject. Although the deception was trivial, it seemed so out of character for Clara.

When I mentioned to her that I didn't see any of the people from when we came here years ago, she explained in hushed tones, "A lot of people left because of that thing with Preacher Rickert. When Preacher Allen started making changes, you know, taking more money, building a big house with church funds, well, most everybody else who still believed in Preacher Rickert followed him to a different church."

"What thing happened with old Preacher Rickert?" I asked. "I liked him. He was always great with us kids."

She glanced around nervously.

"The congregation asked him to leave." At my puzzled expression, she said, "They caught him giving Sunday School lessons to some of the older girls."

My jaw dropped. Clara turned away, pursing her lips. The embarrassed rosy flush in her face answered my question before I could ask. Oh, shit...

When we finally got to Preacher Allen, he said, "So good to see you again, Clara. How long has it been since you visited the Lord's House?" His crusade of guilt seemed to never stop.

"A couple of weeks, Preacher Allen," she said, sheepishly.

"I think it's been more like a month, Clara," he corrected, eyeing her suspiciously. "You mustn't give sin a place to drop its evil seed. The Lord wants you to stay close to Him, under His watchful eye, so you don't backslide into Satan's pit of darkness."

I chuckled inward, tempted to tell him about the sins we'd committed, and where I'd been dropping my seed the last few days.

With her head bowed, my cousin said, "Yes, Preacher Allen."

He held Clara's hand between his and asked about Gramma. His tone seemed unusually grave, but Clara assured him she was doing well, and would be back in church soon.

"And who is this stout young gentleman?" Preacher Allen asked.

She turned to introduce me, but I stepped forward to shake his hand. "I'm Jack." A quick side-ward glance and a wink assured Clara that her secret was safe, for whatever reason she had. "I'm really glad to meet you, Preacher Allen. Clara talks about you all the time. She admires you a lot."

She grinned happily at my concession and the way I made her look in the preacher's eyes.

After a few more pleasantries with the preacher, we headed across the gravel lot toward the car. She peered around anxiously, then her face took on a much different expression when she saw the two people who were approaching.

"Clara!" came a booming voice from behind me. I turned around to see the movie-star choir director coming toward us. He was even taller up close. His razor-sharp suit showed off his big arms and broad chest. His sleek, black hair was perfect, and bushy brows hung over intense brown eyes. Against the dark, Mediterranean features of his face, his teeth beamed like searchlights.

At his side was the little soprano from the front row. The choir robes had hidden an oversized chest, a wispy waist, and slim, perfectly tanned legs. I instantly wanted to lick my way from her toes to wherever it was that those legs met. And her tits, each one a proud, ripe melon jutting out from her dainty frame and begging to be squeezed. As much as anything, I couldn't tear myself away from her sparkling, sapphire eyes.

"Hello, Brother Dodd," Clara said hooking her arm through mine. Her tone was icy and she didn't even acknowledge the little soprano's friendly greeting nor the compliment about Clara's pearls. With an uncharacteristically haughty air, my cousin told Brother Dodd, "This is my boyfriend, Jack."

In the instant that our eyes met, she begged me to go along.

She added with clear pride, "He's a senior at State. He's going to be an engineer."

Brother Dodd stuck out his hand, "Glad to meet you, Jack. Clara's a fine woman." His handshake was firm—a little too firm. He turned his head toward her and with a smirk, repeated expressively, "A fine woman."

Oh-kay... Things were starting to fall into place.

I turned to the sweet young thing next to him. "And what is your name?" I asked, offering my hand while my eyes floated up and down, mentally undressing her delectable frame.

She seemed to bask in the attention and batted her lashes with a teasing, come-hither look. "Ashley," she said, as I held her hand warmly. "Ashley Allen."

Brother Dodd quickly sidled up to her, the lion guarding his pride. His arm had a firm grip around her shoulders.

"Allen...Ashley Allen..." I pondered. "Oh, those enchanting blue eyes should have given it away. You must be the Preacher's daughter." When she nodded, I added, "Your voice is so lovely and sweet, he must be proud of you. Where did you study? Carolina? Or maybe Juilliard?"

She giggled and nibbled on her lower lip. Her coy eyes dropped, then flashed back up at me. "No, I haven't been to college."

"You mean that amazing voice is natural?" I exclaimed with an over-the-top, awe-filled expression.

She nodded bashfully.

Brother Dodd piped in, "I've been training her myself, working with her every day. She's my sweet little canary, aren't you, Ash?" He squeezed her shoulders tight, and she scrunched up.

Little Ashley nodded and replied, "Yes, sweetie." She wasn't looking at him, though. If her sultry blue eyes didn't fully express her desire for me, the way her tongue slid across her lips certainly did.

"Jack," Clara said. She was tugging on my arm.

It took only a brief glance to see the pain in her eyes

She nodded toward the car. "Gramma's got lunch waiting, honey."

"Right." I gave a nod to Brother Dodd. "It's been a pleasure meeting you. Both of you." I winked at Ashley.

The little sexpot bit her lip again and surreptitiously winked back before Brother Dodd led her to a solid white, late-model Cadillac sedan.

As I opened the door to Mom's old Ford for Clara, Brother Dodd and his sexy little canary spun out of the church parking lot in a cloud of dust and a clatter of gravel.

The drive home was stone quiet. As we turned onto Cowan Mt. Rd., Clara finally spoke.

"Did you think she was pretty?"

"Who?" I asked.

Yeah, it sounded stupid, and she glared at me.

"She was pretty," I said. "I liked her singing."

"Sure. 'Singing'," Clara said. "You want her, don't you?"

"Clara, I don't think any man alive could look at that woman without some lecherous fantasy popping into his head."

"Two months ago, she was my best friend," she said.

A lump rose in my throat. Everything was becoming clear.

Then she told me, "Her daddy—Preacher Allen—he bought her an expensive set of sterling silverware from England. It has everything, all the forks and serving spoons. She keeps it locked up in a hand-carved mahogany box, lined with purple velvet."

I slowed for the turn into Gramma's drive.

"Those silver spoons are truly beautiful," she said, "but a man could starve to death waiting for her to unlock that box."

Oh...

We pulled up in front of the house. I turned off the motor but made no move to get out. I turned to Clara.

"Tell me about Brother Dodd."

Her head dropped, setting her chin on her chest. "I told him you were my boyfriend."

It sounded like an apology, but before I could say anything, she looked up at me.

"When red dirt and water mix together in just the right way, they make clay. Then, if we mold that clay into a block and bake it until it's blazing hot, it becomes a brick, and bricks can build strong houses. You and me, Jack—we're not just dirt and water any more, are we?" Her voice was plaintive.

"No, Clara. We're not." I leaned in and kissed her.

"Some people don't use bricks to make houses," she said. Her lip quivered. "Some people throw bricks through windows and shatter them. Then they run away, laughing."

Tears began rolling down her cheeks.

I pulled her to me, stroking her hair while her shudders and sobs unraveled on my shoulder.

Only one other time had I witnessed my spunky cousin's defenses crumble. We were only ten or eleven. Gramma had bought a new washing machine, and the huge cardboard box was in the yard. We were playing around in it like kids do. I asked Clara if she wanted to play house.

"I can't," she mumbled.

"Sure, you can," I said. "I'll be the daddy, and you can be the mommy..."

"I can't," she repeated angrily.

Innocently, I asked, "Do you want to be the daddy?"

"I can't!" she screamed, and thrust her mangled left hand at me as if I understood.

Years before, a rattlesnake bit her. To save her life, they cut off half her hand, leaving only her thumb and the first two fingers. A rounded, tight-skinned scar ran from her second finger to her wrist.