A Troubled Mind

The morning brought with it a sense of foreboding wondering just how would Pastor Michael receive my further confessions of allowing strange men to implicate me in wicked goings on. I reflected on what had followed that day when they had first manhandled me.

It is surprising that I attended work as normal and though nervous and fearful I tried to get on with organising the files. At first the men kept away but I heard their banter and coarse laughter.

About an hour had passed before a voice behind me said, "We didn't expect you in today – you seemed upset about something. There's some fresh coffee in the pot if you'd like some."

I didn't answer, just merely glanced up and carried on working. They were being very crafty, pretending nothing had happened. Perhaps they felt scared and expected a visit from the police.

"Quite happy – to come back here, alone!" he said quietly but his observation also sounded as though it implied something further.

For a while I was conscious of his presence, making me jittery and clumsy, my hands shaky, then I found the courage to look up and face him but he was already gone. The tension then was unbearable as everywhere I went, every room every nook and cranny I expected to find the bearded man or one of his friends.

Lowering the loft ladder was never done quietly but with files to go back up and others to sort out it had to be done. The first two trips went well and confident now I descended the ladder holding a box which contents needed sorting. Just four steps from the bottom – I stepped down but my skirt didn't. I felt the hot breath of a man on the back of my neck as hands ran up the outside of my thighs taking my clothing with them. A kiss was planted where leg meets buttock.

"What a lovely arse you have!"

I froze and stayed silent while his hands touched every inch of my thigh and bottom and I knew his eyes would be staring taking in the sight of pantyhose covering white brief knickers. He instructed me to step down another rung; I did as he asked.

Taking the box from me he cast it aside holding me against the ladder facing away from him. The panting of his breathing gave away his rising feelings of lust and sexual excitement. His hands explored, touching me in ever more private places; one hand came up to unfasten the front of my shirt.

"Let's have a feel of those tits!" he grunted in a quiet whisper.

I objected as he found what he was looking for, his touch making me jump and rear back toward him, unfortunately pushing my bottom back into his groin.

"Good girl!" he said, "Keep doing that!"

When I refused his other hand came round to my front, I yelped, astonished that he was seeking a way to touch me between my legs.

As though it would make a difference I pleaded with him that he would ladder my tights by being so rough.

"I will have to walk about with torn clothing and people will wonder how I got holes in my pantyhose!" I reasoned hopelessly.

He whispered in my ear, "You ought to wear stockings. Wear stockings in future then it won't be a problem! Keep still and I will be careful."

I cried out as his hands found their way down under the waistband of my pantyhose and then felt his cold hand slip inside my panties. I stood open mouthed and unbelieving as his fingers touched the outer lips of my vagina and tried to gain access. I wriggled and squeezed but he misunderstood my actions – as I think did my subconscious and the part of my brain that controlled baser animal urges; I became damp, nay, wet, and it made him more determined to take liberties!

Moving my hips had let in his fingers making me gasp and yell. He moved like a rampant dog jerking his midriff against my backside making me feel the stiffness of his manhood. His probing fingers and cruel treatment of my nipples made me jerk back and forth against him.

I was going weak and giving up attempts at resistance, I had to stop struggling because of the strange (and unintentional) effect it was having! My vagina was very wet and a tingle was moving through my very bones. The movement was doing something to my head, dirty feelings, evil feelings – but curiously pleasurable feelings. I gasped when I felt his hands move to pull down my pantyhose and underwear. He left them below my knees, bunched up and he grumbled again that I ought to wear stockings, dismissing my complaint that he would tear or damage my clothes.

My hands gripped the sides of the ladder tightly and I managed to lower a foot down another rung enabling my abusers fingers to penetrate and apply pressure and friction to a certain spot that appeared to be responsible for my strange reaction. Now my hips were almost covertly helping my assault, wriggling hardly noticeably but in a wanton manner. At the back the hotness of his hard penis poked at me then slid up and down against my bottom crack. Never before had I felt anything like this; it was dirty wrong, but left me no desire to want to make it cease; I decided that this was beyond my control – not my fault. I now felt weak and was giving in to the strange emotions, letting them take their course.

The man suddenly stopped thrusting his manhood against my bottom. Giving my breasts a very hard squeeze I felt his hot breathe on my neck; he growled at me to 'Get up the ladder, into the attic'. Now I shook and trembled alarmed and fearfully apprehensive at the thought of what was to follow. I begged the man to allow me to pull up my underwear otherwise I could not obey his request. He nibbled my ear at the same time mumbling to me.

"Remember – from tomorrow stockings!"

I slowly scrambled up into the attic, ashamed, vulnerable but helpless, conscious that the man saw up my skirt and would see the telltale dampness between my legs. Gathering me against his body, holding me in a tight grip he carefully uncovered my breasts while I whimpered and sobbed, trying to avoid the wet kisses. The cry I let loose when he guided my hand to feel his hard organ could have raised the roof.

"No, I will not look at it!" I screamed at him, "No, I will not hold it, I will not play with it!" I insisted.

I thought I had won the battle when he stopped making forceful attempts for me to surrender to his wishes. Instead my attention had to centre on his hands that once again heaved up my clothing enabling him to thrust down into my underwear, his fingers finding that same wet spot which made me go weak and send unwelcome urges of perverted and wicked pleasure surging through my body. It was difficult to do, hold my head down to avoid his sloppy lips and tongue without catching sight of the angry looking sex organ that was erect and waving about, poking out of his fly hole. I swear it was only a curiosity having not seen such a sight before that compelled my eyes to keep gazing at the thing and my brain to take note of the finer details, the big purple head, how the foreskin had creased and folded back, seeing the swollen blue veins – and having that smell, that musky odour, permeate my nostrils.

There was a moment of bravery on my part when I remonstrated with the bearded man for clumsily tearing a hole in my tights but I took fright at his angry tones when he reminded me that I should have the sense to don stockings then commanded me to take off my tights and knickers altogether. So upset was I that I failed to realise what a major step I was taking by baring my lower half, undressing in front of him, helping him to sexually molest my body. I was shocked only when I bent to peel off the clinging nylon from my feet and saw, close to my face, the stiff weapon, swaying around, the little eye already weeping; I was sure that I saw the big purple head throb and for a second, just a second mind, a depraved urge ran through me as the shaft bobbed in front my face and I felt a need to rescue the drop of thick juice that looked in danger of spilling to the ground by taking it in my mouth. What would it taste like?

No sooner was I upright that the man held my face and kissed me while his fingers went to work in my hole. Such was the wriggling and fidgeting by both of us as his (not my) excitement grew that I forgot which parts of his anatomy I thought permissible to touch enabling me to balance myself that to my utter horror I realised that my right hand was wrapped around his hard penis – not only that but quite subconsciously (it must have been the devious work of the devil) I felt my forearm going to and fro, drawing the wrinkled skin over the big head then pushing it back only to repeat the movement.

I dared not stop the action, as it would have been embarrassing to draw attention to the act and given the man further excuse to humiliate and ridicule me. Perhaps I would withdraw my hand shortly and nothing would be said or noticed. How hot the penis felt, and I was forced to compare it with my husbands' smaller organ though I had never pulled it in this way and let my fingers measure the girth and I know I would have not had the room, the length, to slide my hand along to the belly then out toward the purple head.

The bearded man wanted to adjust our posture but he did it very carefully and slowly, gently turning me to face him more square on and guiding me backwards to lean against the wooden roof support and he allowed me to spread my legs a little to steady myself. Now his fingers seemed to be more efficient in their effort to force me to abandon all sense of decency and submit to baser sexual instincts as my hips had begun a lascivious movement and my right forearm moved with a more pronounced determination.

Concentrating on the why's and wherefores I didn't immediately understand the reason why the bearded man took hold of my right wrist and pinned both my arms against the wooden beam and it was far too late to spoil his plan when seeing him bending his knees spelled out his evil intentions. As he straightened up he stared defiantly into my now wide-open eyes and took great pleasure in watching my expressions as his weapon bored up into my vagina and he entered me with his penis.

Struck dumb I stared back at his grinning face, my whole body lifting from the floor and impaled on his organ I rose and fell like a piece of flotsam on the tide. He was fucking me! I use that term because this was neither lovemaking nor an act done for the purpose of breeding, to procreate; it was sex, basic animal sex – I was being fucked! Against my will this was happening, forced and humiliated into taking a 'cock' (that's what common people call the penis isn't it?) inside my twat.

The filthy man was panting for breath but that didn't stop him from being greedy, licking and sucking my breasts and nipples – he was sucking my tits dear reader – and fucking me!

It was uncomfortable, but so much better when he released my wrists and allowed me to support myself by holding him around his shoulders and cradling his head in my bosom though a casual onlooker might have misunderstood the scene and accused me of enjoying the sexual contact encouraging the man give maximum thrust while pressing his face onto my paps. It felt silly to hear us both grunting and panting, almost in unison, so much so that due to my confusion and desperation I actually laughed and giggled. The man now changed tack and kissed my lips though now it seemed pointless to resist and having my arms around his neck meant that I it was having the absurd effect of pressing his mouth closer to mine. Catching my breath was easier if I cooperated and exchanged tongues, opening my mouth wider for him.

There was a suddenly a tremendous surge of power resonating through my body, my very soul. A power very evil and wicked, disguised as joy and pleasure convincing me that there was no need for shame or guilt. I know I uttered something really filthy as I kissed the man back, hard and squeezed my vaginal lips around his shaft at the same time crying out loud followed by a lewd grunt and obscene loud grin.

I moaned as I experienced his hot spurting fluid squirt up inside me wriggling around on his cock, wanting more. In my head I wished that I could have watched this fluid, this sperm, ejecting from that thick hosepipe, that little drop I had seen earlier was just a dribble from the whole bowlful that was waiting to ejaculate. Now it was spurting up inside me!

Why did I, five minutes later, on returning to normal, have such a feeling of disappointment? Should I not have been glad that those wicked influences had left me – glad that the devil was letting me be? The bearded man lost no time in making himself decent and returning to his work, leaving me in a state of mental limbo to do the best I could before descending the ladder, confused and traumatized.

I was halfway down the rungs when I heard the muffled giggles and comments. All the other men were there, sneaking peeps up my skirt and noting my unfortunate state. I stood before them and I, like they, stayed silent save for their loud intakes of breath and the occasional guttural noise. A partial reflection of myself in the window plus, how I felt, let me know just what the men were able to view. Pantyhose not pulled up properly, holed and soiled, skirt too was stained, while blouse had buttons missing in the middle showing my bra and making it obvious the entire garment had been undone. My hair was ruffled and my eyes tired and half-closed must have made me look like a common slut.

"Fucking Hell!" exclaimed one man with surprise.

I stood there, once again, humiliated and shamed in front of these strangers, letting them feast their eyes on me, thinking their dirty thoughts – seeing how their trousers bulged, inflamed by their decadent sexual desires, knowing that each and every one of them wanted to copy what their friend had done – sample the sexual delights of my body – fuck me – they all wanted the chance to fuck me!

The men drifted away back to their work; I felt it was time for me to go home, reflect on the evil temptations that had trapped my soul.

Pastor Michael came round to my house several times. From his second visit I began to notice how annoyed he became when I expressed some of my thoughts. Sometimes he would get angry if I didn't admit to holding certain desires. He would demand that I allow him to illustrate how easy it was for me to give in to temptation. Grabbing me he would endeavour to 'excite' me, and it shames me to say, more often that not, our evening would end with him inside my clothes copying the actions of the bearded man.

"See how wet you have become!" he would bellow, "How easily you become wanton and respond to the devils wishes!"

I tried to resist but then he said it was Satan being crafty knowing he was a man of God, giving him a false impression, pretending the evil did not live inside me. I ventured the theory that it was the men whom were wicked not I but he pulled me down on the couch and proved me wrong by making me wet until I went very weak. When those powerful sexual eruptions came and I lost control he delighted in making me admit what a dirty sexually obsessed fallen woman I was. He forced me to vocally admit to my pleasures and said it would be therapeutic if I uttered loudly the bad words I had admitted to using.

"Did you like having cock?" he would demand while he stimulated me, "Say it! Admitting it in my presence will take away the power the devil has over you. Say it!"

By this time I would be upset and confused, "I liked having cock – I liked being fucked by a stiff cock!" I would scream.

Pastor Michael would always wait while I was at my weakest before he made me answer his more extreme questions.

"See how aroused you are – even by me – a man of religion – a man of good character? You do know that I only bring myself down to this level in order to help you and allow you to purge your soul?"

His hand would go faster, fingers in my vagina, and he would seem to enjoy re-enacting the scenes, biting and sucking my bare breasts. I would be left shamed and humiliated, half-undressed, on the couch, cursing my emotions and wishing I had not displayed such an obvious joy and willingness.

Another day he hit the roof when I told him of my shame at admiring the largeness of the bearded man's penis.

"Nonsense!" he claimed angrily, "You are merely exaggerating the man's size pretending you felt fear – or maybe so to increase your sense of sexual pleasure when you recall the event."

The pastor insisted he prove his point and pushing up close to me on the couch made me feel his erect cock.

"See, even mine is such a size – quite common and normal! Move your hands along from tip to belly and squeeze it to measure the circumference."

Whispering in my ear he suggested also that it was quite normal for most men to give out large amounts of seed. He bid me to move my hand faster and he drew away to let me watch its ejection. I dared not tell him that his penis was merely comparable only to my husbands in girth though a little longer then I began to wonder if perhaps he maybe jealous of men better endowed than he; a thought that in spite of my dilemma offered some amusement to me. I did get the chance to examine the little eye and true enough it did feel 'nice' to have the hot sperm run over the soft skin of my belly and breasts.

Though I must right away emphasise that at the time the pastor had inflamed me and I was in that state of helpless abandon. The very same state he was supposed to be preventing me from being influenced by! I decided that Pastor Michael was of no help and indeed was doing this for his own ends. That evening, when I masturbated him, it became apparent that he only wanted an excuse to 'have me'; Pastor Michael I told myself, just wanted to fuck me!