Chapter 1: The Players
Pastor Gabe (actually Gabriel, but he did not want to appear sanctimonious) felt his mission in life was to save souls. Especially female souls, because men didn't worry about saving their asses, only their assets. He had a family -- a puritanical wife, and a high-spirited 19 year-old daughter, Carole.
His congregation was smaller than it used to be. There were now about thirty mixed couples, all over 30, and two seniors who were widows. It wasn't his usual Sunday sermon that drew his parishioners because screaming about eternal damnation and hellfire and brimstone scared people away. He spoke about God's love and how God loves you even if you're worthless and good-for-nothing. He spoke about Mary Magdalene and how she was a whore and how much Jesus loved her. This provided some insight about his own hedonistic life style. Preachers, as you know, are not exactly Christ figures.
His congregation wasn't always small. It was one Sunday that Pastor Gabe took the plunge, when he actually had hundreds of people who attended church services. He preached from the writings of Paul, especially about love. Paul didn't have much to say about free love, per se, but Pastor Gabe felt you can't have too much of a good thing. At this point in time he was named as co-respondent in three divorce cases, as well as two husband out gunning for him. This resulted in his congregation shrinking. The two widows have decided to become Buddhists.
Marge and Ingrid each had one son, and were active church members. People thought the two women were lesbians because they never seemed to date men. They were in their sexual prime, and both were Vassar graduates. Marge, a Libra, majored in history which qualified her for becoming a waitress. That is, until she decided to become a writer and got a job with a local paper writing obituaries.
Ingrid was a Virgo and possessed a sharp mind. She was very clean, and was a lot of fun at parties -- emptying ash trays. She taught herself how to program, and found work as a tech writer. They met at church because both of them sang in the choir. Singing gospel music doesn't require much voice training, having a good pair of lungs being most important. Ingrid sang soprano, but Marge had a husky lower voice; she was a contralto.
Marge was a busty, size 12. For you men, this means she was on the voluptuous side, with a curvy figure, and certainly not fat. To say her breasts attracted attention is an understatement. She was still married but never saw much of her husband. He was good with languages so he got himself a promotion -- to Tokyo. She hadn't seen him in two years.
She had a son, Henry, a 27 year-old musician who didn't work much since he never joined the musicians' union. He played the violin, and spent hours every day practicing caprices by Paganini. These were compositions written for a virtuoso violinist. For some reason, Paganini's music made him horny so he'd end up masturbating in his bedroom. He had fantasies about his mother, Marge, because Marge never closed her bedroom door when she dressed. Her son was just her son.
Chapter 2: Ingrid
Ingrid's being a tech writer required some knowledge of programming languages, along with translating tech speak into everyday English. Ingrid cursed herself for not majoring in computer science, where she could have earned a 6-figure salary. She married right out of college, marrying a mathematician with the smallest penis she'd ever seen. His name was Peter, a cruel play on words.
Saving herself for marriage was a horrible mistake. She spent most of her time giving mini-handjobs to her husband until one day the UPS driver fucked her senseless, taking her virginity, and leaving her pregnant. Peter divorced her, deciding that solving differential equations for NASA was more cost effective than hiring a private detective to keep track of Ingrid. Her son, Jonathan, grew up fast, and decided to become an electrician. He loved schematics but didn't have Peter's math aptitude required to be an engineer. Because he became an electrician, he made much more money than an engineer.
Jonathan, almost 30, was a well built man, tall and muscular like his UPS driver father. He had a winning smile and a horse cock. His work as an electrician provided him the opportunity to service housewives in more ways than one.
Ingrid was now 52 years old, and she hadn't been fucked since the UPS driver knocked her up. All that had passed her pussylips in all these years had been her own finger, and, once, a stalk of celery when she'd been half drunk and out of her mind with horniness.
She was still beautiful, she told herself, standing before her mirror. Lush lips, a slightly pug nose, and thick, red hair with golden highlights. But it was her figure that men noticed first. She didn't bother to work out at the gym or engage in yoga because she had good genes.
Everyone knew she was divorced. She sighed, cupping her jugs through the transparent nighty. They'd really developed after giving birth. Now they were so big she had to order a special bra. Her nipples were as thick as thumbs and always itchy, which was why Ingrid paid special attention to them prior to finger-fucking herself.
She usually diddled her pussy twice a day -- right after breakfast, when Jonathan left for work, and at night when he was at home. She had a long standing bath tradition: she'd been letting her son wash her back for years, and it was a habit she just didn't have the heart to break. How would she be able to explain it to her son?
She was becoming concerned, for lately it had become less of a habit in her mind and more of a thrilling prelude to her night time masturbation. She'd been careful to keep her back to him, but her tits were so big that she knew he probably saw a lot of her breasts, over her shoulder or past her arms. She was ashamed to admit that this bit of exhibitionism helped turn her on and made her nightly masturbation that much more fun. Her frigging herself was her greatest pleasure in life, of course.
Ingrid made sure that Jonathan knew better than to mention their bath activities to anyone. Right now, bedtime, was the hardest part of her day. She was super horny, and her bath routine made her horny to the point of screaming. Ingrid thought of her big empty bed and how long it took her to fall asleep after fingering her big mature cunt. She sighed and was about to climb into the tub when she noticed a faint, rhythmic squeaking somewhere in the house. It bothered her so she put on her red robe and stepped into the hall.
"Aha ..." Ingrid whispered to herself when she saw a light shining under Jon's door. Realization shot through her. Of course! he was jerking off! Well, why not? All guys jerk off, right? She knew Jon jacked off a lot, because his sheets were caked with cum. The thought of her son's fist wrapped around his stiff prick, tugging it to orgasm, sent lewd thoughts and salacious urgings coursing through her sex-starved body. It had been a long time since she'd seen him naked.
Tiptoeing down the dark hallway, the horny woman's solid, jutting jugs bounced and swayed beneath her robe. The scraping of her big nipples against the satin material increased her excitement. She knelt at his keyhole and gasped in shock. Jon was gripping his stiff, dripping cock with both hands, one above the other, and there was more knob still exposed.
"Ohmygod!" Ingrid gasped. Where had he inherited such a monster cock? Her ex-husband's penis had been almost invisible. This monster with its flared, crimson head resembled a thick, pale water moccasin, squirming as he whacked away.
Without even thinking, the aroused mother dropped her hand to her thickly haired crotch and cupped her pussy flaps. She held her breath as her soft fingers peeled the spongy pink labia apart, giving her access to her stiffening clit. "Ahhhh-h-h-h-h," Ingrid sighed softly, keeping her eyes on Jon's double-gripped prick. Beneath it, his fat, hairy ball sac hung lewdly as he pumped his weapon. She could see that his eyes were glued to his erection, obviously fascinated by the size and fleshiness of his joint. She wondered how long he'd been pulling at himself, and how long he'd last.
Her cunt was throbbing now, dribbling hot juice into her palm. The slippery stuff dripped between her fingers and splattered on the floor like rain, but she didn't care. She was fighting back an almost irresistible urge to rush in and help her handsome son pump out his fresh, manly sap.
