The Irreverent Reverend

The Reverend took her hand and stopped her. He pressed her against the bed and rose to his knees, leaned forward and kissed her. It was a deep kiss and the force of it pushed her head into the pillow. He did not kiss her with unbridled passion, there was no frenzy to his tongue; it was long, slow, and deep, a kiss that came not from his penis but from his heart. She needed attention, the loving ministrations of his hands, the caresses of his heart. It was her body that was striped from the whip and he wondered what wounds bled in her soul.

He took the baby oil and the strong yet gentle touch of his fingers touched her. He kissed her face and cheeks, blotting up the tears that had dried there. His hands stroked her neck and under her chin. He moved to her shoulders, her breasts, and across her stomach. His hands ran along her sides and he stroked her body with an intentness that flowed from his heart to his hands. She cooed and gurgled as the air escaped from her lungs. He returned to those spots that elicited sounds, touching and massaging her, listening for the moans and sighs. He was thrilled at how sensitive she was. He had massaged cold lumps of flesh far too often, but she, under his fingers, danced.

His hand now moved towards her pelvis and she arched her back as it approached. He marveled at her belly button ring and flicked it back and forth with his forefinger and wondered that he had not noticed it before. It was a strange place for a piercing and he pressed his fingers into the tight knot and twirled the ring with his finger. He had never studied one before, at least in person, and after a few moments of teasing and toying with it and listening to her moans, he decided that it was sexy after all.

Into his hand, he squirted a large puddle of oil and held it for a moment to warm it. He placed his palm below her piercing and began to rub her solar plexus. He massaged her in a circular movement, slowly moving lower and onto her hips. She instinctively spread her legs and opened herself to him. Closer and closer his fingers approached and the Reverend stared intently at her vagina. She was completely shaved and he took in her beauty. "It is really a delightful body part," the Reverend thought to himself and he looked at the overlapping folds and to the spot where her clitoris was hiding.

She began writhing on the bed, and started to scoot herself forward. If his hand would not go any lower, then she would go higher. He spread the oil evenly and began the trek down her thighs, trailing his fingers across her tender inner thighs. He dipped his finger into the reservoir of oil that had pooled in her belly button and retraced his movements. Again and again his hand traveled down, deeper and deeper between her thighs. He traced the crevice where her inner thigh met her vagina. His fingers pushed deeply along this line, pressing the contours. She opened her legs wider; she wanted to feel his fingers inside her, her clitoris, still hidden beneath the folds, flared in passion.

He wavered, unsure whether to proceed. She was ready, of this there was no doubt. She lay flopping like a fish in a boat, her skin glistened with the oils and moisture gathered at her entrance. He waited. Then he moved lower on the bed and kneeled between her legs. He lowered his head just inches from her vagina, drew in a deep breath of air and pursing his lips he blew a stream of warm air at her opening. She gurgled as his breath struck her and she involuntarily clenched her vaginal muscles. Her lips opened and closed like a clam searching for food on the ocean floor. He drew in another breath and shot another stream of air. Her lips began to drool and his warm air sent shock waves through her body. The sensation was so subtle and yet so powerful, like the blowing of air against your flesh in a sauna.

She arched her pelvis again and her hands flew to his head, pushing him down. Again and again he blew the air, harder, faster, touching her only with his wind, fucking her with his breath. He took her hands off his head where they tussled and pulled his hair and stretched them out above her head. He moved forward quickly and kissed her again, pulling her arms forward, stretching her taut.

He was not sure why he did this, but her reaction was quite favorable. It felt right and there was passion in their kiss. Maybe it was the way she pushed his head towards her waiting pussy that made him react so. He was going to touch her there, he was going to lick her, he was going to fuck her; of this there was no doubt. But, damn it, he was going to do it on his own terms and he stretched her arms further, pinching her wrists in his grasp and kissed her deeper. Her body was on fire and she struggled for air amidst his kiss.

She could not breathe and he opened his mouth and with a powerful movement of his diaphragm, sucked her air out of her lungs and into his mouth. Her body grew limp and he pushed his air back into her mouth. His mouth completely encircled hers, there was no opening, no escape and he mashed his mouth on hers. She fought this strange invasion but his air, their combined breath stood at the opening to her esophagus like an army. Her walls caved and into her lungs he poured himself. Again, he sucked deeply and drew the air out and filled himself until there was nothing left and exhaled deeply until her chest was ready to explode. It was the strangest sensation, the man was fucking her with his breath, he was inside of her like no man has ever been.

Breaking the kiss, he reached his hand between her legs and grasped her pussy. In his palm he cradled her vagina and squeezed. She thrashed, he squeezed and then slipped his middle finger between the folds. It went in. He plunged deep. She was so wet, in an instant he was inside her and with a force that lifted her hips, he pushed up and in as far as his finger reached. He kissed her again, a wild and savage kiss and she reacted the same. With his palm, he pressed against her clitoris, and mashed his hand into her sex. He fingered her roughly, and shook his hand on her pussy with the quiver of a vibrator. Pulling out, he traced along her clitoris and slammed his finger back in. He was thrilled with her reactions, she was a sexual dynamo and quivered and flopped as if each movement of his hand had struck her with a cattle prod.

With his other hand he twirled her nipples. They were erect and firm and squeezing them gave him pleasure. She reacted positively to this and he twisted them and tugged them. He moaned and he was delighted with her response. Her breathing was ragged. He had one hand on her breast and the other in her pussy when she gasped, "I wish it was you back in the garage."

He stopped. His finger slipped out. "What did you say?" he asked, her nipple slipped from his finger. "I wish it was you back there, in the garage." Her words shocked him. He did not comprehend. He reached for her nipple, absentmindedly twirled it and thought.

The scene from the maintenance garage played back in his mind. There she was, tied to a table, whipped, almost raped, and she endured a savage punishment to protect him from the officer. She had submitted to the stinging whip and the cruel words admirably, like a hero; but he wondered, who had really saved who? He thought that he had saved her, but had he really? In his mind's eye he watched her, he saw the whip as it bit into her flesh, he saw it strike her legs and he watched, in surprise as she opened them wider, how she did not hide from the pain but readied herself for more. He saw the look of lust and ecstasy on her face. "Had he really saved her?" He felt a twinge in his cock and saw himself there in the garage, looking at that screen, like an old blue movie, and he realized that she was not really being raped and abused but that she was thriving on being taken by the officer. Down deep, he knew this to be the case and yet he had refused to believe it.

He looked at her now. She lay beneath him and there was a longing and a pleading to her face. In her eyes, eyes that were once clenched closed; he saw a plea, a vulnerability, a desire. "What did she say?" he said to himself and he looked at himself. His arms strained as he held her wrists taut above her head, his kiss did not stop at her lips but forced himself deep into her lungs. He could feel his desire to pleasure her on his own terms, not hers.

In the deep dark hours of this morning an awakening occurred. A change took place inside the Reverend. He was not discovering something new about himself, for this thing already resided within him. Crouching, dormant and waiting, like Pamela under the table, it lived in darkness, thrived in the dank video booths and in moments of weakness it broke free of the Reverend's cloistered life and reared its head. "Was it really weakness?" he wondered as he threw open the door that so many times he tried to slam shut.

The shyness he usually felt around women vanquished and a power surged inside. A confidence took over his body, and the thunder of hoofs from a victorious army filled his ears and he saw himself, although weary and bruised, on the lead horse.

She looked into his eyes and waited. A transformation had taken place in her as well. Her words had led him to the edge of an enormous precipice. Now, they both teetered on the brink, ready to leap, ready to shred the final shards of and shackles of convention. She trembled and waited. He was a different man then the shy man who sent her sweet emails looking for a thrill. He words dangled him over the cliff; she held his eyes and waited. In the darkness of this long night, she too had learned something. The secret she struggled to hide and fought to expose revealed itself tonight. There, in the garage, on that coarse wooden table, she had become the object of her deepest fantasy. So often she craved this vulnerability, this desire to be taken, to be used, to be fouled with the seed of men, to become an empty vessel that could not be filled and whose shell cracked when held in their rough hands. When this happened she felt free; when the binds of her body were cut, her heart would soar and she would find peace. Her sexual prowess and independence was a cover-up for what she really desired. She felt her life to be a charade, an endless Halloween of deceit, a mask contorted against her face so when she left her room, she would blend into the crowd.

The officer had stripped the mask with the first lash of his whip. His power was complete. There was no cajoling or flirtation as the hard metal of his squad car closed in around her. There was no teasing or playfulness as he stripped off her clothes. She submitted. She had no choice. She allowed him access to her body. She received his punishment and felt the wetness between her legs. But she did not give in completely. There was more to her fantasy. It was a last chapter, one more door, the final gate that she did not think a man could ever reach. Here, the last door remained closed; a savage and selfish man like the officer was powerless to open it. It was against this door that she threw her body and with her eyes clenched closed. Now, with open eyes, she looked up at the Reverend, his body loomed above her and she waited. Would he be the one? Does he have the strength to open the door?

The seconds turned to hours and looked into his eyes and saw his hesitation, his confusion. Her words were simple and they held the key. "I wish it was you back at the garage." She uttered to him like a prayer. Now, she felt herself falling, dropping with abandon and fright; each lingering second propelled her further into a hopeless abyss. He stood above her, staring, questioning, and wondering; his mind ran the string of words over and over as if to test it for strength or seek out any hidden flaw. The words were all that linked them now.

In her heart, she believed him to be ready. She had felt his power explode outside the restroom and witnessed him confront the officer. He had brought her home, victorious, and now she offered herself completely to him. Desperately she wished he would grasp the rope, her life line and pull her up. Still, she fell. A great battle went on in their brains; it was fought on foreign territory and if the contest had been waged in their hearts, there would be no fight, no equivocation, no doubt, no shame. He looked at her and she looked at him. The instant turned to hours. Still she plummeted, only he could save her now. If only he would take her words, hold them fast to his heart, and then she would return to his arms, to safety, and rebound like a bungee.