Some Of That Old Time Religion

My dad had passed on six months earlier and left me a little over five grand and his 1968 BMW R1000 motorcycle. He'd loved this bike, more than my mother and me. That was obvious. He left us when I was eight, moved to LA to open a repair shop and to live in an area where he could "ride my bloody bike year round." Year round wasn't in Chicago where he'd ended up with my mother, forced to live in her hometown.

Dad was from London and never let anyone he came across not be aware of that fact. "Crystal Palace district mate," he'd say when asked. "South London, to be exact." He'd knocked up my mother when she was visiting "Old Blimey." Turned a one-night-stand into me, and parlayed my appearance on Earth into a trip to the states twelve months later. "Got to see my son." That was a six-week visa that he extended into a 21-year stay, through marriage to my mom that tidied up the illegal alien status that he'd acquired by neglecting to go back home. Marriage and me, and an accommodating official made him a permanent resident. One thing I have to say for the old man is that he always seemed to come out on top, until his heart attack that is. He lived life with nary a care always assuming that whatever shit he'd gotten himself into would work out on it's own, and it always did.

Well, dad's heart went pop, I got the call to the bereaved, phoned my mom whose response when I mentioned dad, was "who's that," and I inherited his current ride, the 68 Beemer and five grand, two thousand of which was left after paying off his debt, the storage fees that had accumulated on the bike, as well as the cost for my ticket on the "hound" to L.A. and the start of my journey.

This was 1975 and two grand would go a long way. My journey was to ride dad's bike, now mine, around the country until I ran out of cash. While I thought the old man to be a self-absorbed prick, begrudgingly I had an odd sort of respect for his "screw ya all" attitude. I figured this bike ride a fitting tribute to that, and that was good enough rationale to blow the cash and ride the bike.

I don't know, maybe two weeks and 100 bucks into the trip I was in New Mexico, south of Santa Fe. The area was dry and hot and saw little rain, but given the eroded gullies and washes, it was apparent that when the rain came, all hell could break loose. Today was going to be one of those days, but I didn't know it. I was from the windy city.

The day was hot, probably 95 to 100 F, but that was typical and you didn't feel it riding at 70 miles per hour. The heat bubbled up out of you and around you when you stopped, but on these narrow winding roads in the middle of nowhere, there wasn't much reason to stop.

It was one cloud, but a big mother that decided to crash down on top of me. It went from sunshine, to dark, to blinding rain and hail in less than five minutes and it was during those five minutes that I seriously took notice of the flash flood warnings posted in each and every ravine and dried up creek I rode over. The rain came down like a wall and the next one-lane bridge I crossed had water roaring less than a foot below the road surface. I looked for high ground.

A gravel drive, rushing with water like its own little river wound up a hill, bordered by scrub on both sides. I turned and headed for the top, parting the water with my tires and creating a wake behind me. Positioned at the summit was a house trailer, old but well kept and in good condition, flowerpots at the stoop and maintained with a look of pride. Off to the side was an empty carport and I rode under that for protection. It sounded like the corrugated steel roof was being pelted by rocks, and looking out the rain had turned to marble sized hail and then, as quickly as it started, it was over, the sun reemerging in full strength.

I was soaking wet and parked on somebody's property in the middle of nowhere. What's next, buckshot in the ass? I didn't want to find out. I was pushing the bike backwards to leave when I heard a woman's voice.

"Where you going all wet like that?"

I looked at the trailer, and standing in the door was a woman who appeared to be in her mid 50s, a bit plump, but by no means fat, although it was hard to tell from the shapeless housedress she was wearing. Her hair was grey and tied back and she wasn't wearing any make-up. This sounds odd, but that's something I noticed. I guess I was used to most women having some make-up on, but out here, in the middle of scrubland . . . but as I say that's something that I noticed.

She stepped out and motioned me off the bike and forward. She really wasn't bad looking in a rural, natural, housedress kind of way, and for a woman more than twice my age, but I've always been a dog, and she was obviously unencumbered under that dress and swinging loose. Tits. They do it to me every time. Christ, this old lady was making me hard.

"You a city boy I take it. No one else be stupid enough to get caught in that storm . . . could see it for miles. You lucky the lord didn't take you and that motorcycle of yours in his hand and send you to your destiny in one of them washouts . . . do it just because you stupid enough to be riding about in the middle of his storm . . ."

Her sentence dangled as did her breasts beneath her dress as she turned towards her open door. "Well, you coming in to dry off or you gonna stand there like a soaked dog, to dumb to know what's good for his-self?

What would dad do, I thought? He'd follow the old lady inside, listen to her crap, charm her with the accent, get his clothes dried, eat a free meal, try and shag her, and then bum a day or two at no cost. I'm not my dad, didn't inherit the charm, but dry clothes and possibly a meal were two things I could work towards.

I stood in the entryway, what there is of an entry in a trailer home, as she walked into her bedroom.

"Name's Sarah," she said as she disappeared into the darkness of the room.

"I'm John," I responded. She grunted in reply and emerged from the room carrying a plastic laundry basket.

"Take off those wet clothes and put em in here and put these on." Sarah dropped the basket on the floor beside me and offered a rather large pair of men's boxer shorts in plain white cotton. My waist was about a 33 at the time and these had to be at least a 38. I hadn't a clue whose they were other than they were well worn and clean. I glanced up and down the length of her trailer looking for the bathroom.

"You take em off right where you're at," Sarah replied reading my mind. "Don't need you drippin' all cross my clean floor . . . and don't get all fussed up, you got nothing in them drawers I ain't seen before."

Sarah sat down on the couch at the far end of the living space, ten feet at best from where I was standing. I sat on the floor and pulled off my boots. They were the only things I was wearing that weren't completely soaked. My socks came off next. It was disconcerting because I had expected Sarah to make a point of averting her eyes, or at the least display feigned disinterest. Instead, she was watching me openly, overtly, and intently. At twenty-two years of age I was by no means a virgin. I had a few experiences with women . . . well they were really girls, however none of these "experiences" included undressing in front of a woman old enough to be my grandmother who was staring with analytical interest.

I pulled off my wet tee shirt and tossed it into the basket. I stood up and unbuckled my belt. I had my back turned to Sarah, but I could see from her reflection in the television that she was staring directly at my ass. At that point I found out that there's a bit of the exhibitionist in me. This was strangely exciting and I felt my cock respond. I tried to divert my thoughts. Christ, all I needed now was a raging hard on.

I pulled my jeans and underwear down around my ankles and stepped out of them. I was stark naked and from her reflection she had leaned forward to get a better look. My cock was extended but not fully hard. I have to say that it made a pretty impressive sight hanging between my legs. Sarah got up out of the sofa and walked directly in front of me. As I said, I'm a dog, even in her mid 50s, the sight of her unencumbered tits swaying under that house dress, and the fact that she was unabashedly taking in the view, was enough make my cock balloon even further, to full length.

I quickly pulled on the boxers she'd given me, which immediately slid half way down, held up by my hardening member. Sarah sat back down on the couch and motioned for me to sit in the easy chair across from her. I guess that afforded her the best view.

"See that photo on top the TV?" I turned and looked at a photo of a smooth looking man in a fancy suit, smoking a cigarette, from the looks, taken at least ten to fifteen years ago.

"That's James. He's my husband, or was, even though we never actually got married in a church or in a legal sense. But he and I lived as husband and wife for close to twenty years before he never came back. He's a preacher and be gone for a couple or three months at a time, out on the road, in the country, preachin' his religion."

Sarah was still looking me over and I still had a formidable tent in my boxers. I found it hard to believe that James, or whoever the slick bastard in the photo was could actually be a preacher. He never married Sarah and was smoking a cigarette, looking more like a petty hoodlum than a man of the cloth.

"James wasn't no normal preacher, but what he said was true. He believed in good and evil and felt it was the job of everyone to try and keep the evil side of things held back and under control by fightin' it with the good each of us has in them. He felt than men had more inherent evil than women and that a women, by bein' a woman had the gift of goodness, and it was a woman's duty to use that gift to thwart evil, keep it at bay . . . and I believe what he said, yes I truly do, because I seen it. I could see it was the truth. When we first was together, he could be mean and nasty just as simple as he could be sweet and nice, but that meanness was the evil that was in him, not his real self, and if that evil was not dealt with and dealt with quick, and extracted, it could rear up at any time. It was there all right, night and day, it just had to be kept at bay and not let to grow on itself and feed on itself." Sarah kept her eyes on my crotch as she continued.

"He never hit me or nothing, but when the evil was in him he weren't nice. He scared me with his voice and eyes. I knew he could be real bad, I could see it, but then other times he'd be as nice . . . the nicest, gentlest, most caring man you'd ever get to know. When he was all nice one time I asked him how one man could be so different and he told me the truth about it, he did, and it was the truth . . . knew it the first time I heard it."

"He said a man be born with the rod of Satan between his legs, and that rod, as a tool of the Devil, controls him and much of what he does, and controls him most all the time. He can fight it, but fightin' the Devil is a loser's game, and that's what he'd be doing by fightin' that stiff rod, fightin' the Devil. His pecker become Satan's staff for casting evil and his nut-sack the Devil's garden, growing hell's seed day in and day out, non-stop, no let up. Empty that nut-sack and it start fillin' right up again. When that sack's full, overflowing, which it can be most of the time with some powerful men, the pressure builds, his balls become a repository of evil, and the man has no choice but to let that pressure off in some how. Most times they end up taking it out on their wives or such, or go to a bar and get in all sort of trouble. James felt that most the men who were in prison and who'd done evils things like rob, rape and murder, had done so because their balls was overloaded and full of pent up evil. If that evil had been released, released by a woman put on Earth as the good to balance out that evil, they'd never a gotten in the trouble they was in." Sarah looked at my crotch again.

"See your balls is in the same bad way. The Devil's got a hold a your pecker making it angry and hard. James told me that there're many ways of releasing the seed, but only a woman can release the evil. Just releasing the seed don't necessarily release the evil."

"A man doing it himself with his hand can release the pressure, but it builds back up fast and worsen that if he didn't, cuz the man has the evil and evil don't negate evil, it just perpetuates itself and comes back on a bigger tempest. Now women are good. They're born with the goodness so only they can set that evil back. But almost all women have fallen into the Devil's plan, cuz the Devil's job is to warp good, make good bad, and the Devils' good at his job . . . that's one thing for sure . . . the Devil's good at what he does. Satan twists these women's goodness, changing them from bein' a man's salvation to bein' the source of his problem. They walk around displaying their titties and their asses and have skirts on up so short that you can almost see their cunnies. These women make men get all wound up, tight like a spring about to pop, and so full of the Devil that they get themselves in nasty trouble . . . and these women take pleasure in this taunting and teasing, doing it only for that false pleasure . . . the pleasure of the temptress. She-Devils they is. Then those men go out full of the Devil's seed, pent up and evil, and do the Devils work, causing mayhem and mischief. That's why I wear the modest dress I do. I don't want to arouse the Devil in a man more than happens naturally. Yet I don't falsely deny that arousal when it happens."

My cock had now reached its full length and I was doing nothing to hide it. Sarah continued to stare.

"As I was saying," Sarah went on, "James also said that Satan had gotten his talons into most religions, preaching that the act of fornication, a natural act created by God, was the Devils work when it was really the other ways around. Those church women who dress with modesty to avoid unnecessary temptation are foolin' themselves and playing into the Devil's hand cuz they ain't doin' what they should be doing when a man, by just living in the presence of the Devil, gets himself into the hardened state. They ain't usin' their good, they denying it and they denying their men the release they need from the Satan's grasp.

It ain't his fault he's filled with seed and harder than old hickory, but she needs to address the situation before Satan's control takes him over. A woman can get pleasure from the act as much as a man and this ain't bad nor any sin. God has made this pleasure in a woman to reward her for the good she's doing. In some ways by not doin' their God given job, them church-women are just as bad as the temptress's and the whore who do it for money, their hearts right, but the Devil and the church been lying to em."

"That evil seed must be released by goodness, otherwise it's remains evil. Depositing it in a whore don't release the bad. While she may let a man put that rod inside her, just like a good woman do, the sheath that was given to her by the lord is not being offered to the man out of goodness, but only for money. The man knows it and while she lets him release his sperm in her, it don't satisfy and he becomes worsen off for it, and like I said, a man using his own hand don't work in the long run of things. The worst is the bunghole of another man. That goes against all things natural. It don't take away the evil, it multiplies it, cuz it's evil itself."

I listened to her story with amazement and with the evil in me growing to a fever pitch between my legs. I wasn't about to go out and rob a bank, but the Devil had sure gotten a hold of my dick, and my staff of Satan was in need of some serious goodness.

Sarah stared openly at my now rock hard cock and continued. "From that time on I used my pussy to make James as good a man as he could be. I wore a dress, like the ones I still wear to lessen temptation but also to let him get at what he needed easy when he felt the pressure in his groin. Some days it could be three or four times, others maybe only one time. I could be fryin' up bacon at the stove and I'd feel him lift up the dress and his hard rod press between my legs. I'd bend over and let him slide it in and work it in and out till he had his release, and he'd remained a nice and gentle man. Some times he wanted to play with my titties and do all those things to me. I let him because I understood the good of what I was doing and those times I was rewarded with the release that a woman feels when she's done what's right."

I figured that she was looking to do some more good and I was not to deny her that reward. I got up out of my chair and walked over to the couch. I stood in front of her and slid the oversized boxers down all the way. My cock stood straight out, pointing directly at her face. Sarah reached out and wrapped her hand around the shaft.

"The Devil's in you, that's for sure. You's as hard as I ever felt." She slid forward and positioned her ass on the front edge of the couch and spread her legs wide open, pulling her housedress up over her waist. Her bare pussy was exposed in all its glory, and glorious it was. Her thighs were milky white, soft and smooth, and topped by a dark mound of hair, divided just slightly by a thin slit of pink. She was slightly open, the pink gave her away and I knew she was aroused. Her vagina was already starting to anticipate my invasion.

"Bring that trouble to me and I'll take care of it. It's best taken care of before that seed backs up makes you act all stupid. Best to get it done when it's fresh and lustful, not gotten violent or criminal."

I got on my knees between her legs. I placed my hands on her thighs, holding her legs open, and buried my face in her pussy. I opened my mouth and pressed the length of my tongue against her. I drew it up until the tip barely probed the pink gap, and dragged it up until I found her hard clitoris. I felt her shake and she closed her legs around my head, holding my head in place. Her vagina pushed out and opened and I knew she had climaxed with that one simple act. I pushed my hands up over her hips, across her smooth, rounded belly, up under her dress, and up over her large, round soft breasts. Her nipples were hard and large and I lightly traced their contours with my thumbs. She shuddered and gasped again, another orgasm, two in less than a minute. She spread her legs wide open and I penetrated her with my tongue, pushing it in as deep as I could, my upper lip on her clitoris, my hands kneading her breasts. She moaned and came again. Her cunt was wet with my saliva and her juices. I was gentle yet firm and commanding. I wanted to be good for her because she believed in goodness. She believed in a man's lust, but she wanted the release to be in the name of goodness. She could have it any way she pleased.

I kissed my way up her belly, my face slick, wet from her vagina. She smelled of sex. Intense sex. I was the hardest I'd ever been. So hard it felt numb. I took her left breast in my mouth, sucking as much of the large, soft tit in as possible, while encompassing it with both hands. I lay on top of her, the length of my cock pressed against her opening. Her breasts enveloped my face and I squeezed them against me.

Sarah reached down and I lifted my hips. She took my cock in her hand and placed its head against her wet slit and I slid inside her warm, wet cunt. She put her arms around me and squeezed me tight, holding me in place. I felt her vagina clutch me and I knew she had come again.

"Now do your job," she said. "Do your duty and squirt your seed inside me. Let me feel the bad become good." I started to fuck her in a slow deliberate rhythm. I knew it wouldn't take much. It'd been months since I'd gotten laid and the evil I was full of couldn't be contained.