Author's note: This totally fictional tale includes righteous infidelity and mature multiracial sex. All sexual activity involves conscious humans age 18+. Views expressed are not necessarily the author's. Your constructive feedback is welcome.
***** Substitute Pussy *****
Fuck Me, Not My Daughter
SUBSTITUTE.
Elle's parents had played that old song by THE WHO so often when she was young. It rang through her now, but with her own new substitutions for Pete Townsend's sardonic lyrics:
Now I'm a substitute for another gal
I look pretty young but my tits are small
The simple tricks I pull are all complicated
I feel kinda old but I'm just backdated, yeah
The music swirling in her head followed the rhythm of the muscular young stud behind her, pounding hard, his long, lean cock pistoning machine-like into her pussy. On elbows and knees; butt up, head down; eyes closed; woof. Beads of sweat ran from her forehead to the pillow cushioning her face. His hands gripped her hips. No fingers tweaked her clit or nipples. This was not about her pleasure, not now.
Substitute me for her
Substitute my coke for beer
Substitute me for your mum
At least I'll get my fucking done
Yes, she was fucking out of wedlock, and not for the first or last time. She was deliberately breaking her ordained-by-heaven wedding vows. She repudiated her sacred promise to allow none but her husband to touch her intimately. But she had made other vows, too. Some promises were more important than wedding vows.
*****
SUBSTITUTE.
Elle's parents had played that old song before they turned to Jesus and shed their sinful secular life. OUT with the old, worldly California culture; IN with the new, holy Oklahoma order. Oh, they did not turn away totally from rock-n'roll; they merely listened to different takes. Elle remembered an anti-Satanic version of that song:
Now I'm a prostitute for another god
I turned away from Aaron's rod
I'll burn in Hell for eternity
Won't you come and burn with me, oh yeah
Of course, the young folk had to sneak listening to that one, and could only speak of it in whispers.
"But I tell you, the implication, it's... obvious. If 'other' gods have prostitutes, then the Lord Jehovah must have prostitutes, too. There's no 'other' unless there's an original, right? This or that, one or the other. Without the one, there is no other. And Aaron's rod of power, it's so masculine... it should just all be so obvious, right?"
The young people huddled in a storm cellar listening to a forbidden cassette player and chattering nervously.
"You better not let anyone hear you say that! You'll be on punishment for a month! Umm, I'm going to prayer meeting now. You better pray a lot too!"
"But if the Lord Jehovah uses all tools to save souls, and holy whores would bring new people to the Truth, then-"
"Shhh! Stop! Oh Lord Jehovah, protect me from evil thoughts..."
Raven-haired eagle-eyed Elle kept her mouth shut and behaved modestly. Her mind stewed but did not boil over with useless questions.
Elle's parents counted quite a coup when they affianced her to Benjamin Briary, a ministry student at a local evangelical college. Ben's eyes were grey; his hair was like wheatstraw. He was lean, thoughtful in an abstracted biblical way, and not unkind. Their wedding night proved he liked sex.
Elle vowed to be a faithful marriage partner, a loving mother and wife, a good housekeeper and helpmeet, a pastor's partner. And she vowed to protect her family in all ways, no matter the cost or pain, so help me Lord Jehovah.
Her matrimonial vows marked the single high point of her life. Ah, but she renewed her family vows daily.
Here is a metaphor: think of strategy versus tactics.
A strategy is an overall plan leading to a goal. Tactics are the nitty-gritty mechanics of how to reach that goal. Wedding vows announced the matrimonial strategy; their marriage certificate hung on the wall like a motto, to glance at in passing. But Elle's family-building tactics were more like a recipe or rule book, constantly referenced and annotated.
Family building is based on love, and trust, and work - and sex.
Ben liked sex. He spent a sinful year between high school and bible college, a
wanderjahr
in the unholy world, a time of working odd jobs and experiencing odd sex. Not
too
odd, now; no sheep or whips or young boys (or girls), no stripper-hooker-dominatrix obsessions, nothing like that. But he learned all about orifices and protuberances and how to interface anatomy for pleasure and glory.
"There's nothing in The Bible about 'no blowjobs', is there?" was one of Brother Ben's guidelines. Ben liked guidelines.
"Nothing about pussyeating, butt-fucking, nor simple toys, neither. Husband and wife must cleave together and raise a family for the greater glory of the Lord Jehovah, but nothing says they can't enjoy it." His thin grin expressed more than piety.
Elle was a virgin until her wedding night. She was still an anal virgin the next night; she only accepted that gradually and occasionally. But the new bride quickly learned the techniques and enjoyment of oral and genital sex, from 69ing to the old-in-out-in-out and a slew of interesting positions.
Their marriage was productive. First beautiful Tyra, then clever Trey, then the twins Timmy and Tammy - and that was enough.
"Ben, honey, I've got to put my foot down on this. I'm a helpmeet, not an assembly-line. Yes, the Lord Jehovah did command Man and Woman to go forth and replenish the Earth. Well, there's nine or ten billion people alive now and I think that qualifies as 'replenished'. And I'll be a much better helpmeet if I don't have to birth and raise a football team." Ben reluctantly agreed.
Before Tyra's birth, Ben was ordained a minister and engaged by a suburban congregation outside Albuquerque. Ben rose within the church over the years, eventually becoming senior pastor. And, inevitably, time loaded pastoral duties on his shoulders, and eroded their lively sex life from thrice daily to maybe monthly, and ground Elle into a prim mother-hen.
She adulterously fucked the young stud precisely because she
was
a mother hen.
*****
SUBSTITUTE.
Her rewritten lyrics washed through Elle's motherly mind while Kazoumi's cum filled the condom inside her.
Substitute my cunt for hers
Substitute the bad for worse
Substitute me for your lust
I'm only doing what I must
His softening cock fell from her. She rolled over and pulled the filled condom off, tied it neatly, and tossed it into the bedside trash tin.
"That one was for you," she whispered, and fingered his cock. Kaz was twenty four years old. His refractory period stretched a bit from his adolescent prime, but he still re-inflated quickly. "I'll get you happy again," and she gave his stiffening cock a lick. "But after that, it's me, and don't forget it." She filled her mouth with his member and sucked vigorously, expertly.
"Oh yeah, you'll get yours, don't worry," Kaz grunted.
"Right about now," she said. She moved on top of the younger Asian man in a 69 position. "You know the deal. You get yours, and I get mine, and everyone goes home happy."
She worked his cock carefully. She felt his lips nibbling at her clit and his tongue circling and probing. She
would
get satisfaction. Kaz owed her a good rogering after their mutual oral explosions.
It started after Tyra grew tits. Big, lovely tits. Tits that drew male (and even some female) eyeballs and lust. Tits that pumped her full of hormones and drained away her I.Q. Her legs, hips, and face were also quite enticing.
The prey was drawn to the predator.
"But Mom, Kaz just wants to take me out skating!"
"I said NO! He's nearly half again as old as you, and he has a reputation."
"They're just jealous and they're spreading lies! He's not bad!"
"No means no. You will NOT have anything to do with him, do you understand?"
"I hate you! I hate you!" Tyra flounced away in a fiery fit of drama. Elle sighed.
Kazuomi Murai indeed sported a reputation. He inherited handsome genes and good money. He was decently educated, and sly and smooth. And he was fixated, focused on fresh pussy. Like Tyra.
Kaz earned his reputation. He was clever enough to always wrap himself in a condom. He left no trail of Asiatic babies in the vicinity, no DNA traces to convict him of moral crimes, only a string of dazed, deflowered girls.
Nubile Tyra was a walking wet-dream. Proper pastoral parents Ben and Elle certainly did not permit her to wear revealing clothes. But she managed to open her collar and roll up her skirt and boost her shoe heels when she was between home and the Christian academy. She knew how good she looked.
Kaz targeted Tyra and her amazing body. He plied her with compliments and attention and small gifts. She ate it up.
Prim and proper Elle was the prototypical pastor's wife. She was linked into more social networks than a Twitterized octopus. She talked to the mothers of those very same dazed, deflowered girls and heard Kaz's name. She saw Kaz for what he was: a predator stalking her oldest daughter.
Kaz's parents were members of Ben's congregation. Kaz occasionally attended Sunday services. Elle drew him aside as he left his pew one morning.
"Mister Murai, may I speak with you a moment? In my office, please."
Kaz saw no chance for graceful escape. He shrugged and followed her down a hallway to her cozy space. His eyes followed her form as she walked. Just-wide-enough hips swayed nicely between a slim waist and athletic thighs scissoring a long peach skirt showing trim ankles. When she turned, her bra-imprisoned breasts bounced slightly inside her cream turtleneck. Elle previewed Tyra twenty years on. Kaz inhaled her faint jasmine scent and licked his lips.
Elle pinned a COUNSELING: DO NOT DISTURB card to the soundproof office door.
Her 'desk' was a classic walnut
secretaire
shoved against a wall hung with bright pastoral watercolors. The room was mostly a conversation nook with a long couch and a few stuffed chairs arrayed around a low table. She gestured Kaz to the couch and took a chair herself.
"Mister Murai, I shall be blunt. Stay away from my daughter."
