The Preachers Wife 10

Four fucking years of college and here I am pounding on some dumb preacher's door in the rain, waiting to be let in to work as a minimum-wage handyman. The American Dream, my ass!

Am I in a good mood, or what? My first appointment canceled without warning, my truck had a flat tire on the way here, my student loan is due this coming Monday and I don't have enough money in the bank to cover it. Not to say anything about being soaking wet from changing the tire and standing here waiting for the damn door to open. Could it get any worse?

The door opened slightly, the woman peeking out suspiciously. I fish in my pocket and hand her a damp and crumpled business card. "I'm Jeff, the handyman your husband hired," I blurt out. "Sorry I didn't call to tell you I'd be early—my cell phone died. Hope it's alright."

The woman moves back hesitantly, indicating it might be okay if I come in out of the rain. (Jeeze, thanks, lady, hope I haven't ruined your day.)

I step in, banging my toolbox painfully against my leg and stand dripping on her carpet. She still hasn't said a word as I try to shrug off my soaked jacket and look around for a place to hang it. Pushing my wet hair back on my forehead and out of my eyes I take a good look at her for the first time. She's looking slightly flustered and I quickly notice why.

She's wearing only soft, shapeless pajama bottoms with a thin, white tee-shirt and it's obvious that she hasn't gotten around to putting on a bra. I'm not sure, but I'd bet there's nothing beneath the pjs either. I look at her face and see that she's blushing and I quickly realize I've been staring at her breasts. I smile apologetically and hold out my hand. "Like I said, my name's Jeff. I assume it's your husband that I talked to yesterday about doing some work for you."

"Oh yes, he told me you'd be coming by later today, but I was expecting you in the afternoon. My name's Cyndi, by the way—that's Cyndi with a 'y' and 'i'. Here, let me take your coat." She still looked a bit embarrassed but she smiled warmly as she took it to the entry closet. As she was hanging it up I looked her over more carefully. She looked even nicer this time . . . very, very nice indeed. She had long, slender legs and the way the material hung on her I could tell she had a really sweet ass. Love that static cling, baby! Her hair was still damp and shiny from her shower, the soft curls hanging nicely half-way down her back, and a light, fruity perfume lingering from her shampoo.

She turned around and caught me looking again, only this time it doesn't seem to bother her as much. "You look drowned; can I get you a cup of coffee to warm you up before you get started? I was just getting ready to pour myself another cup."

"That'd be great!" I follow her into the kitchen and watch as she takes down a mug for me and fills it and then hers. I sit my damp ass on the barstool and watch as she nervously wipes the counter, even though it looks spotless. She reaches for the sugar bowl and silently pushes it toward me then opens the refrigerator and takes out a carton of half-and-half.

"Cream?" she asks.

I rarely take cream but I quickly nod, enjoying the slight jiggling movement of her breasts as she walks toward me, holding the cream out before her. She notices me staring at her again and flushes slightly, but not unhappy at being looked at. This is one really attractive woman!

"I haven't cleaned out my closet where I want you to build the shelves," she says so softly I can hardly hear her. "I was going to do that this morning. My husband has really been nagging me to get it better organized."

"No problem," I answer, "We gotta keep the boss happy. I'll give you a hand." I smile and wink at her. "No extra charge." My wink is spontaneous and playful and she smiles back, not seeming to be offended in the least.

We finish our coffee, making small talk and getting a little better acquainted with each other. I learn her real name is Cynthia, not Cyndi and she has only been married for a year.

"May I call you 'Cyn??" I tease, leaving it up to her to guess at my spelling. "Only seems appropriate for a preacher's wife to be known as Sin."

She chuckles good humoredly with my attempt at humor, obviously enjoying our light banter.

"I'm afraid there's not much 'sin' in this marriage," she says softly. "I'm a preacher's wife, remember . . . "perfect" just like I'm supposed to be."

She looks down at her cup and for a moment it seems like she's going to say something more, but instead jumps up and grabs the coffee cups and puts them in the sink. With her back to me I can't tell for sure, but I think she looks sad, and definitely lonely.

"I think we'd better get started, don't you?" It sounds a little forced, but she tries to be chipper again and quickly rinses the cups and leaves them on the drain board. "I'll go get changed and make myself presentable, and then I'll show you what I need."

"Please don't change on my account," I tell her. I jump up quickly and start to follow her, hoping to distract her from changing. "I think you look perfect just the way you're dressed—and I love the fact that you don't look like a preacher's wife."

She hesitates a moment, then turns toward the bedroom.

"Definitely not like a preacher's wife," I murmur.

This time there's no doubt she blushes, but she looks pleased, too.

"Thanks, it's kinda nice to be appreciated again," she whispers.

She leads me into the bedroom to the closet that needs the work. It's big, but seriously overflowing, with clothes hanging crammed together so tightly the sliding doors are unable to close, boxes piled along both ends and shoes lining the entire floor.

"Wow," I whistle. "I detect we might have a clothes-horse problem here."

"My one vice," she giggles good-naturedly. "Now you can see why I need it re-modeled."

"I'll get to the 'one-vice' crack later," I teased, "but meantime let's see what we have to work with when this is all emptied out."

I start moving the boxes to the other side of the room while she gathers up the shoes, not seeming to notice the way my eyes are roaming all over her body as she works. Every time she bends over I'm treated to a delightful view of her bottom, the soft material drawing deeply into the crack of her ass. And naturally, I position myself close enough so that when she turns around I'm also afforded a quick glance down the loose neck of her tee-shirt, her cleavage visible almost to the edge of her nipples. I can't tell if she notices what I'm doing and I try to not make my peeking too obvious.

We move all the clothes on hangers to the bed and dump them in two loose piles, a few business suits, jackets and robes in one and dresses in another. I can't help but notice how short the skirts and dresses seem to be, and the obvious 'party' look that most have. We return to the empty closet to discuss how she wants it re-modeled and it's obvious that even if I build shelves the full length above the rod; she'll still have too much stuff for the space.

I sit down on the floor and begin to sketch out a rough drawing of how making it as efficient as possible would look, but it's obvious it still wouldn't hold all her clothes. I glance up as I'm sketching and catch her looking at me, a strange look in her eyes. "Something's gotta give, Cyn. As the old saying goes, you're trying to put 10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound bag."

She laughs good-naturedly when I quickly try to apologize for my profanity. She walks over and sits down beside me on the floor, her arm brushing softly against mine as she takes the drawing from my hand to study it carefully. She is so close I can smell her hair again, it's fruity perfume almost intoxicating me. I can feel an erection begin to pulse rhythmically to life and look down to see if she can notice it growing under my snug jeans. I shift slightly toward her to point out something on the drawing, my leg 'innocently' coming into contact against hers. I'm acutely aware that she does not pull away.

"Do you really need all this stuff?" I ask her. "You know, they say if you don't wear something in a year you'll probably never wear it again."

"I suppose I really should get rid of some," she says softly. My husband doesn't want me to wear a lot of them anyway. When we first met he liked me to dress pretty hot, but now he thinks some are a bit too risqué for a preacher's wife." She got a naughty look on her face and grinned. "And I guess he's right—most of the dresses I had before we married aren't exactly what you'd call conservative."

I smiled back at her and winked again. "Actually, I'd call some of them pretty damn sexy, especially that little blue lace dress there we just put on the bed."

Cyn blushed again but looked pleased that I'd noticed. She slowly nodded her head. "I haven't been a preacher's wife all my life, you know." She took a deep breath like she was reminiscing. "I used to enjoy dressing sexy but he doesn't approve now that we're married." She looked sad as she continued. "He's gotten so puritanical lately. Hell, he hardly even looks at me anymore. Guess I just have to learn to swallow my instincts and play out his role."

"Clothes don't make the woman, Cyn. You still look hot, whatever role he wants you to play and whatever clothes you wear" I let my eyes roam over her, deliberately focusing on how puckered up and noticeable her nipples have become. "I can hardly keep my eyes off you, even in an old tee-shirt like this."

When she doesn't respond, I increase the pressure against her leg slightly. She seems to meet my pressure slightly with her own, her breathing becoming a bit ragged. Her face is more flushed when she glances down at her breasts and realizes just how obvious they've become. I lean closer, our arms warm and intimate between us.

"I . . . I guess I should probably put on something more modest," she whispers.

"Don't you dare," I respond. "You're absolutely beautiful." I reach toward her, very slowly and very deliberately. Her eyes follow my hands intently and she watches without moving away as I let the backs of my fingers brush ever-so-softly over her nipple.

A sharp intake of breath greets my fingers, but she doesn't pull away.

"I . . . you . . . we . . . we shouldn't," she whispers.

I gently turn my hand over and ever-so-lightly cup her breast. I can feel her heartbeat as it rises rhythmically into my palm with each breath. She reaches up and covers my hand with hers as though to remove it, but instead she slowly entwines her fingers through mine and increases the pressure slightly.

I begin to gently caress her breast, feeling the nipple jutting into my palm. She squeezes it between her fingers and mine, rolling and pulling it firmly, increasing the pressure until a low, guttural moan escapes her throat. She turns her body toward mine and lifts her face expectantly, her eyes closed and her mouth dropping slightly open.

There's no doubt either of her arousal or any hesitation left on my part. She wants this to continue as much as I do. I lean down and place my lips over hers, slipping my tongue tentatively into her mouth without so much as a preliminary kiss. She responds by hungrily sucking it in and moving hers against it as she begins to moan again. She tastes divine. Our tongues lock into a delightful battle to see which can explore deeper in the other's mouth.

We kiss for what seems like hours, both still kneading her breast, still pulling and squeezing her nipple. I move our hands down her stomach and slip them under the hem of her tee shirt to make contact for the first time with her bare skin. It's warm and inviting and feels like silk as I slide our still entwined fingers back up to caress her firm breasts. She obviously loves the feel of herself as her fingers hungrily lead mine in a frenzied dance back and forth from one to the other.

As much as I love caressing her breasts I can wait no longer. I lock our hands together again and slide them down and under her pajama waistband. When I meet the soft curls of her pubic hair, her legs fall open automatically and leave no doubt as to how welcome they are. I release the pressure of our locked fingers to see if she will pull away or stop my intended course. I can immediately tell there's no reason to hesitate—she squeezes my hand and rides it lower, pressing my palm firmly against her pubic bone and guiding my fingers over her damp slit.

I can't believe how warm and wet she is and how easily my middle finger slides inside her swollen lips. "Oh fuck," she moans softly. With two of her own fingers she pushes mine deeper, obviously no strangers to the craving of her body. Her hips begin to rock and thrust wildly up against our hands, fucking herself in a hungry search for release.

With my other hand I quickly undo my belt buckle and jerk the metal buttons of my 501's open, glad I'm not wearing underwear so that my engorged cock can spring up freely. I hold my fingers stiffly inside her as she begins to circle and press her clit, her hips rocking harder and faster. Still kissing me, she reaches blindly over with her other hand and grabs my cock, squeezing and pumping it in perfect time with her rocking hips.

Her orgasm building, she suddenly lurches away to franticly jerk her pajamas off and climb over to straddle my legs. She holds my cock at the mouth of her cunt for a brief moment rubbing it back and forth to spread her juices over me before taking a deep breath and lowering herself, and I sink deep inside her in one smooth motion. She wraps her arms around my neck and buries her face in my chest, suddenly freezing the motion of her ass and pinning down my attempt to thrust up into her.

"Wait . . . " she gasps. "Just a moment." She sits motionless, her full weight balanced between our crotches. She stays frozen on me for what seems like hours and then slowly, almost imperceptibly, she begins to move her hips. My cock remains locked inside her, our pubic bones grinding against each other. She rocks back and forth, her speed gradually increasing until I can stand it no more and grab her ass cheeks and lift her enough so I can thrust in and out of her slippery cunt. She sighs deeply, her voice guttural and strained. "Yes, yes," she moans and abandons any attempt to control the tempo, her grasping, pumping motion meeting my every thrust. We start to fuck wildly, no longer making love.

We hump like animals, our breath coming in tortured gasps. Our sweat flies off in every direction and loud, unrecognizable noises nearly drown out the sloppy, slapping sounds of our bodies pounding against each other. There is no longer any pretense of niceties, no attempt to cum at the same time— just wild, selfish, lust-filled and uncontrolled fucking.

She cries out and collapses on me, totally spent from her orgasm. I hold her tightly against me, our breathing slowly returning to normal. I can feel my cum drip out and flow over my balls as my cock remains buried inside her, still hard enough to start again but so painfully sensitive I secretly hope she doesn't want to. I reach up and grasp her hair, gently pulling to tilt her head back until I can see her. Her eyes are closed, a look of total satisfaction on her face. I lean forward and kiss both of her eyelids, her nose, and the corners of her mouth.

She smiles dreamily and kisses me lightly on my mouth, her lips moist and soft. She reaches around my back and hugs me to her, flattening her breasts against my chest. Her nipples are soft now, as relaxed and fulfilled as the rest of her.

"That was awesome, Cyn," I whispered into her ear. "You are absolutely, unbelievably fantastic. Where the hell did you learn to fuck like that?"

She hesitated a long time before answering, but joy was evident in her voice. "I told you I wasn't always a preacher's wife," she giggled.