©
2024 Duleigh Lawrence-Townshend. All rights reserved. The author asserts the right to be identified as the author of this story for all portions. All characters are original. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental. This story or any part thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the expressed written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review or commentary.
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The Preacher and the Chocolate Lady
A hot loving wife on a summer afternoon
Dr. John Jarecki was a pastor in a small congregational church in a small town in southern Erie County, NY. The village of Springville had welcomed him with open arms when he took over the Springville Congregational Church. The people of the church were wonderful to him, and John fell in love with the area immediately. The land was beautiful; it was all rolling hills covered with forests and farms. The smell of growing crops and fragrant trees filled the air no matter where you stood. He was a young man, and was recently ordained at the prestigious
École de Théologie Évangélique du Québec
in Montreal. Springville Congregational Church was his first position, and he was in love with his flock.
This day he was busy rebuilding the kitchen of the former parsonage, a beautiful old farmhouse that, after its farming days were over, was donated to the church to house the pastor and his family. It was sold by the church long before John arrived and, having a sense of history like his older brother Paul, John purchased the parsonage and made it his own. Finding that a pastor's paycheck barely makes ends meet, he found employment with August "Gus" Didomissio, a local carpenter and a member of the church. Gus had a great sense of humor and trained John and helped him with the house. Together, they discovered John was a natural carpenter and his attention to detail made him an amazing cabinet maker for a beginner. He was getting so much carpentry work on the side that he was short on time studying and writing his sermons.
John's brother Paul recently moved to Springville and bought a house close to John. Paul was not a carpenter, but he was an incredible cook, and he helped John with ideas about what the kitchen could look like. John and his boss, Gus, drew up plans for the new kitchen using Paul's input and went to work. When John woke on that warm summer morning, the kitchen was going back together. He had the cabinet carcasses hung for the upper cabinets, and the lower carcasses were now in place. It was time to level them up before installing the countertop and cabinet doors.
As John rose, the summer morning called him. His wife was gone. She had plans for the day, so he was alone. Taking a break from putting his dream kitchen together, John stepped out on the back patio and looked out over the valley behind his house. The back end of his yard was wooded and dropped into a gully and, at the bottom, was Spooner's Creek, a beautiful babbling brook that he and his wife often enjoyed making love next to on a morning like this. As he sipped his coffee, he played their last outdoor tryst back in his head. Except for the mosquitos, making love next to the brook with the rising sun lighting up his wife's smile was as close to heaven as he's ever been.
He finished his coffee and considered calling his brother and inviting him over for a cigar to celebrate the day, but Paul was busy today, too. He had work to do in his own house and he had borrowed John's router to finish the new mantel piece shelf he was building for his parlor fireplace. Back to shimming and wedging and checking level in the kitchen. Occasionally, he'd dash off to his study to add a note to his outline for Sunday's sermon.
John worked on his kitchen until his stomach started growling, and he turned to the fridge. They emptied the fridge for a good scrubbing, and now all it contained was ice, diet soda, a head of lettuce, and a few tomatoes. The only other thing in the house was white bread, peanut butter, and microwave popcorn. John turned to the microwave, and it still needed to be wall mounted above the stove. Clearly, there was no lunch available in his house. He might as well go into town and grab a quick bite, then get back to work.
John washed up and strolled into the village. It was a nice day for a walk; the sun was shining down through the tree leaves and the warm summer air was cooled by a refreshing gentle breeze. The village of Springville looked like it was part of a well-crafted model train layout. Beautiful old brick buildings lined Main Street containing stores with inviting windows, while modern hinderances to the aesthetic like gas stations and chain drug stores are out at the edge of town. Where the old lumber yard used to stand is now a farmers' market and the center of Springville commerce on a warm summer day. John found it funny how many people didn't recognize him when he was wearing blue jeans and a work shirt. He always dressed as nicely as possible when he was preaching, and that's how people recognized him.
John was a handsome man. Some people, including his wife, would call him boyishly cute. He had dark black hair and blue eyes, and a slim, athletic build. He looked ten years younger than his actual age of 30, and he didn't look old enough to drink, so many would be surprised to find that he was a Doctor of Theology.
It was a wonderful day for the short walk into town. The Friday farmer's market was in full swing, booth after booth of vegetables, meats, cheeses, baked goods, crafts, and art. Everything looked so good. He needs to get a baguette and maybe some cheese to munch on, and maybe a couple of steaks for dinner. John made his way from booth to booth and found a French sourdough baguette, then got a block of goat's milk cheddar cheese, his favorite. His wife liked brie, so he got some goat's milk brie. Then some nice-looking ribeye steaks, some mushrooms, and a bag of tiny seed potatoes.
Now, what for lunch? That's when he heard a lilting voice with a delightful French accent. He had studied in Montreal, and ever since returning to New York State, he always looked for the chance to speak French whenever possible.
He tried to locate the source of that voice, and it wasn't hard. She was two booths away from him at the farmers' market. Tall, slim, and beautiful. She wore a light yellow sundress that contrasted beautifully with her flawless chocolate brown skin, and she carried a wicker basket that was filled with her purchases. He watched her move through the crowd in admiration; she was a work of art. Her long, flowing black hair cascaded over her shoulders, her huge, joyful smile that she shared easily, her firm breasts pressing against the fabric of her dress, her long, perfectly sculpted legs... his mouth went dry as he admired her beauty. In his mind, he named this Nubian beauty
La Femme au Chocolat,
the chocolate lady.
She must have felt him staring at her as she went from booth to booth, because she would occasionally peek at him over her shoulder as she went. Did she just wink at him? Then, unexpectedly, she turned and smiled at John. "
Bonjour Monsieur
, do you like what you see?" She struck a pose. The sunlight at her back shone through her dress and the shadow of her tight pussy lips left no doubt in John's mind that she wore no underwear.
When he came back to reality, she was talking to him. Her French Canadian accent was utterly delightful, as was her smile. He thought of his older brother, Paul, who was a doctor and was never without female companionship. He tried the line that Paul told him was a "sure fire pussy trap." Nervously, John cleared his throat and said, "I never do this, but I appear to be alone today, and I hate eating alone. Would you like to have lunch with me?" he asked.
The Nubian goddess looked around the crowd and said, "I do not know; my husband is supposed to meet me here..."
"
S'il vous plaît? Parler français me manque
." (Please? I miss speaking French") he said, then added, "
Votre mari pourra nous rejoindre dès son arrivée
." (Your husband can join us when he arrives.)
"Tu parles français?"
(You speak French?) She looked around, peering through the crowd. Was she looking for her husband? She shrugged and turned back to John with a dazzling smile. "
Oui
!
Let us have lunch, I am...
" she said in French, and used the word, "
affamé
." But the word carried much more weight than hungry for lunch. It can mean hungry for sex, too.
"
Famished? So am I
." From that point on, they spoke nothing but French. "
You speak French well
," she said with a dazzling smile.
"
I learned so I could study in Montreal. I ended up staying there for several years
."
John led her to a small café where they sat outside in the shade of a large chestnut tree, enjoying the warm summer breezes and the smell of flowers. "
I'm John, John Jarecki
," and he extended his hand.
She took his hand in hers, and they shook. "
I am Marie-Claude Solange Dagenais, sometimes my friends and lovers call me Macy.
"
John gulped. The way she emphasized
les amoureux
, 'lovers,' hit him in all the wrong places, and he froze. She was beautiful, her dark brown skin was flawless, her long flowing raven hair shined in the sun, and her beautiful brown eyes danced in amusement. "
Voudriez-vous nous commander
?" (Would you order for us?) asked Marie-Claude as the waitress arrived.
John didn't even notice the waitress was standing there waiting for him to address her. John was entranced by Marie-Claude's glistening, dark brown eyes and suddenly realized he was in a dreamworld. Shaking his head, he said, "
Oui. Nous voudrions de la lemonade
... excuse me... I mean, we would like limeade and a finger sandwich assortment."
"I'll be right back," said the waitress with a wink.
