Sinning in the Dark
I wonder if there is a moment in every child's life when they realize their father is a hypocrite. While the Reverend Gary Powell preached about the sanctity of marriage and the sins of the flesh, he had no qualms about indulging in them, violating his own marriage vows to my mother by desecrating another holy bond.
Last week, I spied on him and Donna Paxtor, a deacon's wife, engaging in a sin of carnal delight. My eighteen-year-old body was not prepared for the sight of Donna bent naked over my father's desk in his office at Thousand Oaks Methodist, her red hair hiding her face as she gasped and moaned while my equally naked father stood behind her,
fucking
her.
It was such a dirty word. One my mother would wash my mouth out if she even thought I knew it. But there was no other word than
fucking
to describe what he did to Donna Paxtor. Her bottom rippled every time Father slammed into her. It made an obscene, slapping sound, joining her voice.
Yes, yes, yes, fuck me,
the cheating wife had hissed, her breasts pillowed across my father's mahogany desk, a gift from the church only last year.
Watching my father sin with Donna awakened lusts inside my body. I had sexual desires before that day, but they were tiny. My heart would flutter for a cute boy at school, a sinful itch forming between my thighs which I had always resisted at the urging of my mother. I had denied myself like I was taught, like my father had preached.
But watching him, his chest surprisingly muscular for a man in his forties, awakened me to true sexual desires. He was a handsome man, I always knew that, with dark hair touched by wings of gray streaking back from the temples. Strong, authoritative, stern. He made me squirm. I forgot all about working with the flower bed, which is why I came to the church after school.
That heat. That warm itch, blossomed in me. Right then, tight there, behind the church, I shoved my hand down my jeans and into my panties. I brushed through my silken pubic hair and found the lips of my vagina.
No, my pussy, like the boys called it. A filthy, wonderful name for the hot, hungry hole between my thighs. I massaged my lips, shuddering and quivering, my long, blonde hair flowing about my head. I shivered, frigging myself faster and faster, rubbing across my wet lips. Sinful juices coated them as I stared at my father fucking a married woman.
A preacher.
I shuddered, biting my lip to keep from moaning like a wanton whore, screaming like Donna. They violated the church with their affair. It was so wrong. So perverted. I stroked through my flesh faster, wishing I was bent over the table, wondering why I denied Ricky my virginity when we were going steady a few months back.
He broke off our relationship in favor of that slut Carolyn. She didn't mind spreading her legs in the back of his brand-new '61 Plymouth while at the drive-thru. I foolishly believed my father's sermons. He clearly didn't.
I shuddered and then it happened as I rubbed myself watching my father. My first orgasm. I gasped, my fingers clenching, my eyes locked on my father's cock sliding in and out of the whore's pussy. It dripped from her juices. He grunted once, twice, and then buried into her as I shuddered. The pleasure burned through me. It let me swaying, lightheaded.
And then they were done. He pulled out of the whore. Donna Paxtor moaned in delight, clearly satiated like I was. I stepped back from the window, pulling up my jeans and buttoning them. I stared at the juices on my fingers then bolted.
I had to think. Reflect.
And my reflection led me to my current position, kneeling on the floor of the deacon's office before Sunday Service, the door locked, and Deacon Bill Paxtor's slacks around his ankles, his boxers around his knees. His cock thrust at me, hard and angry.
Seducing the cuckold turned out to be quite easy...
He and his wife, Donna, always showed up early to help setup the church along with my family. While my father slipped into his office to ready for his sermon, and my mother and the whore were busy making sure all the printed off sermon guides were on the pews, I headed to seduce Deacon Bill, a coquettish smile on my face.
He was a handsome man, old, in his thirties, tall, handsome, with the roguish good-looks of a James Dean--well, not that roguish, but who is? I slipped into his office where he was going over church documents, a coquettish smile on my face, my hands behind my back as I swayed forward.
He looked up at me, a polite smile on my face as I locked the door behind me. I stood in my Sunday best, a white, sleeveless dress, belted at the waist, with a bell skirt falling down to my knees. I had my black Mary Janes on and white stockings vanished beneath my skirt. My smile turned seductive, hungry as I stopped before his small desk.
"Well, Miss Alexandra," he said, using the polite tone older adults used with us budding adults. "What a surprise? Do you need something?"
"I need guidance, Deacon Bill," I purred, my finger stroking his desk surface--smooth, polished wood. I leaned on it, my fingernails painted with clear lacquer, reflecting the light. Blonde hair fell off my shoulders before me. "It's...
very
personal."
"And not something you want to talk to your father about?"
I shook my head from side-to-side. "I saw something the other day. Something so very naughty and sinful and it has me feeling all...flustered."
He swallowed. "I'm not sure I'm the person to talk to you about this. Maybe your mother?"
"Or your wife?" I asked, licking my lips.
His eyebrows furrowed. "And just what did you see?"
"A man and woman violating their marriage vows with each other. It was obscene. The woman was bent over the desk, almost like I am right now. She was naked, her butt wiggling while the man"--I lowered my voice into a conspiratorial whispered--"fucked her from behind."
"Alexandra Powell, such language for a young woman."
"I don't know how else to describe it," I moaned, leaning farther over, wiggling my hips. "But it made me think...about things."
"Uh-huh. And who did you see?"
"My father."
He lifted an eyebrow. "The Reverend was committing adultery."
"Doesn't that make him just a hypocrite?" I asked, licking my lips. They were full, red, lush lips. Ricky, on the last night I went out with them, called them cock-sucking lips. He had the presumption to want me to blow him--a preacher's daughter.
