A 'Levi' story: there may well be more of them; if you like this one. There are scores of them in the memory bank.
God, that woman did love to fuck!
She, the preacher's wife, was sitting on my cock; cum running out of her cunt, down onto my semi-hard member, it still inside her. Down the crack of my ass, down onto the tangled sheets.
Sarah Vaughn was coming out of the speakers:
Oh, oh -- oh, do it again
She, the wife, reached down, touched her clit, her wet pussy. Moved her hand up, sucked the juices into her mouth, Repeated the motion; gave me the next coated finger, the taste of our combined emissions.
I may say no, no -- no
But, oh, -- do it again
Sarah Vaughn, the legendary black jazz vocalist, sang. The wife moved her ass, her pussy slowly forward and back, rolling her clit on the hardness of my pelvic bone.
Jesus, that woman loved to fuck!
It had started a week earlier. She often did solos in her husband's church choir, had one coming up the following Sunday; needed a guitarist to play back-up.
Somebody recommended me. We met behind the church, in the parking lot. I was there first; standing, cigarette between my lips, leaning against the front fender of the black and silver pick-up when she pulled into the parking lot. It had been my grandpa's: 1941 Chevy -- the year he was born. I claimed it when he died: rebuilt it. Not 'show quality', mind you; just to drive around town.
"That's Mr. Clyde's old truck," folk would say; me driving by. Men and boys always stopped and looked I drove by.
The woman pulled into the spot marked Reserved for Rev. O'Toole. She opened the door, got out of her Mustang, started toward the back door of the building. Stopped, turned and looked at me; I mean she looked at me. She took a step in my direction.... Head to toe, top to bottom, hat to boots... my belt buckle, down to my cock: she looked at me.
"You got somewhere we can go?" Ms. O'Toole asked. "Practice?... I don't want 'a go in here."
I looked at her, at first not understanding; asked, "We're not practicing here? But this is where you are singing."
Her outfit, if it could be called that, wasn't anything to write home about; but, lord, she was: something to write home about!
She took the cigarette from my mouth; took a puff, gave it back to me.
Then: "Skinny's," I said. "I've got the keys to Skinny's.... We can practice there."
It, Skinny's, was a one-cut above a chicken wire juke joint type bar. Everybody locally knew about Skinny's. I played there on weekends, along with a piano player and a drummer. We were a better than average white guys band: up-beat country, southern fried rock, a little bit of jazz.
She looked at my pickup. "We'll have to take your truck.... Wouldn't do for church ladies to see my car over there."
The woman walked around the front of my Chevy. 'About forty,' I guessed; except that she didn't look it. Just the crow-foot lines at the corners of her eyes give it away. Silhouetted against the mid-morning sun in her light weight summer dress she might as well have been naked. She stood waiting for me to open the door; her legs a little apart, the light cutting right through that sand-colored linen dress. The flat at the top of her thighs, between her legs, where her sex was, showing like a photograph.
'She might not have panties on... ' I thought.
Ms. O'Toole, once inside the truck, sitting hard against the 'shotgun' side door we drove through town; on out of town. Pulled into the gravel parking lot at the 'joint'; parked around in the back, out of sight of the two lane asphalt road. Went in the rear entrance.
She wanted to do a medley in church the next Sunday morning: Amazing Grace, In the Sweet By and By, Down to the River to Pray. It was an old fashioned small town church; I knew them all, those songs. My grandma was always singing those come-to-Jesus songs in the kitchen, me growing up in her house. We worked on the music for an hour; how she wanted to transition from one song to the next. Me picking up the nuisances of her style.
We had put her up on the two step high stage; on a stool, or standing. Half way through the hour I turned on the mike, the speakers; the stage lights behind her. Fact is, I wanted another look at her legs, that summer dress, the light behind her.
She put the stool aside, just stood there. Knew I was looking, seeing her body lit up inside that bit of a dress.
We went down to the river to pray...
Thinking about them good old days...
The glow coming from the background. Red hair on fire out at the ends; warm soft flesh showing up, high lighted at the top of her legs, her thighs closing in like the bottom of an hour glass. She had, I noticed, undone the top button of that dress.... Her legs, thighs weren't the only assets she had! I played guitar like I had never played before.
She looked straight at me, into my eyes, all the while. I stood close to her, pointed the neck of that Martin N-20 directly at her; held her gaze through it all.
Then I shifted to a slow sexy jazz riff.
All of me, just take all of me...
She plucked the cigarette that I had stuck underneath the top string of the fret board; sucked in a healthy puff, blew out a perfect smoke ring.
"You have to fuck me," she said. Straight out, just like that. "... you have to fuck me."
I picked her up, carried her behind the bar, set her on the bar keep's stool. She undid that summer dress all the way down the front; opened herself up to me....
She was wearing panties. They sure as hell weren't 'church lady' panties, 'preacher's wife' panties: little boy panties they were. Cut straight across the top of her legs, straight across below her belly button, and not really hiding the barely covered tuff of red hair above her pussy. She raised her ass up off the stool; I divested her of those panties; draped them over the handle of a beer tap.
Holding open those lush putty lips, I started down to taste her, lick her.
"Fuck me!" she said, reaching to grab my jeans; open them up. "Eat later!... You can eat me later. Right now Fuck Me!"
So, I did. I fucked her.
Slammed my cock into her. Pushed aside the dress that hung off her shoulder; reached around, held one ass check in my hand -- touched her nether hole. She screamed like a banshee; tore at my hair, left nail marks under my shirt, across my back.
An hour later the woman rode piggy-back out the back door of Skinny's, out to my truck. She sat her back hard against the passenger side door; left foot in my lap -- me driving -- right foot pulled up tight against her ass, knee leaned over against the dashboard. That summer dress open all the way down the front. She rolled a finger, lazy like, on her clit.
"Ms. O'Toole," I said, "you one mighty fine fuck. We gonna do that again sometime."
"Lucy Ann," she said. "We gonna fuck, you have to call me Lucy Ann." Inhaled a deep pull on my cigarette, blew out a smoke ring.
I laughed, "Maybe call you Miss Lucy Ann," I said. "Show some respect, you being the preacher's wife and all."
She just grinned; stuck that pussy-juice covered finger in my mouth: gave me a taste. "Fuck you," she said.
"Yes, mam."
"How is it you a preacher's wife, and you out here getting it on with long haired guitar pickers?... Maybe some other guys?"
" I need another smoke," she said. "Drive around a while.... I'll tell you a story."
Growing up, I lived on a pig farm. My daddy butchered hogs.... Intended me to, when I got older, to marry a boy just down the road; his family had an even bigger hog farm than ours. I didn't want to marry another pig farmer; had had it with pig farming.
Mr. O'Toole, was still in school; studying to be a preacher.... Came to our church on weekends; our old preacher had died. Preacher O'Toole was cute, I thought -- maybe even sexy. I flirted with him outrageously. He 'courted' me, came to our house for Sunday dinner.... My friend told me, "... He get you with a baby, he have to married you."
But he wouldn't fuck me! Him being a preacher and all, it would be a 'go straight to hell' sin to do that before he was married!... So, him being 'blue-balls' horny, he just up and married me. My ticket off that pig farm, so to speak!
Now, I didn't get pregnant right off; in fact never did get pregnant. Go so, after a couple of years, he wanted sex only a certain time of the month, so he could get me with a baby.
