The town slut (3)

The parking lot is full of shiny trucks and women in pastel dresses clutching their Bibles like life rafts. I roll in wearing the same white sundress I had on under the bleachers two nights ago.

No bra, no panties, cowboy boots clicking on asphalt still warm from yesterday’s double-header of football players and PTA daddy fantasies.

My pussy is sore in the way I like it, swollen, tender, every step a delicious reminder of five teenage cocks and one married monster stretching me stupid. I walk like I’m smuggling secrets between my thighs, because I am.

Daddy’s at the pulpit already, voice booming about the prodigal son while his eyes flick to me sliding into the back pew. Mama pretends she doesn’t see me. The congregation pretends they don’t smell sex and tequila on my skin.

I cross my legs slow, let the dress ride high enough for Brother Harlan two rows up to choke on his hymnal. He’s sixty-eight and still jerks off in the choir loft thinking about me. I know because he leaves the tissues in the trash like love notes.

Sermon drags. I mouth the words to every song, but my fingers are under my dress, tracing the slick seam of my cunt, remembering how Mr. Whitmore’s wedding ring felt cold against my clit when he finger-banged me over his desk yesterday morning before the secretary arrived. I came so hard I left a puddle on the PTA budget reports.

Communion comes. I take the wafer, let it dissolve on my tongue like a promise I never intend to keep, then chase it with a swallow of grape juice that tastes like the cum I swallowed in the baptismal prep room last Christmas.

Daddy ends with the benediction while everyone stands. I slip out the side door before the organ finishes.

The choir’s upstairs warming up for second service, loud enough to keep things secret.

Youth pastor Luke is waiting in the hallway outside the sanctuary, tie already loose. Twenty-seven, corn-fed, looks like Chris Hemsworth if Jesus got a gym membership. He’s been eye-fucking me since I was fifteen. Today I’m collecting.

“Kaylee,” he whispers, voice cracking, “we shouldn’t…”

I grab his tie and yank him into the baptismal room, lock the door, shove him against the mural of John dunking Jesus. The water’s already warm from the early service.

I hike my dress, hop up on the edge, spread wide. “You baptized me when I was twelve, Luke. Time to drown me again.”

He drops to his knees like my pussy is holy ground. His first lick and I’m already arching, my fingers raked in his perfect hair, moaning loud enough for the choir to hear if they ever shut up.

He eats me like a starving man, his tongue flat and filthy, sucking my clit until my thighs shake. I come once just from his mouth, squirting into the baptismal pool like I’m blessing it myself.

Then I slide into the water, pull him with me. His slacks are gone, his thick angry and curved cock out. I wrap my legs around his waist and slide down slow, letting the water lap at my tits while he fills me.

“Fuck, Kaylee,” he groans, “you’re so tight.”

I laugh, bite his neck. “Five football players Friday night, your tongue just now, and I still feel virgin tight for you, baby.”

We be gan to fuck each other, him slamming and me pushing back against him with the water splashing over the edge, my back scraping against the painted Jordan River, his hands bruising my ass. Every thrust sends waves through me and the water splashes.

Suddenly the door opens as he drives into me, we turned and it was sister Rebecca. Her mouth was wide open but she couldn’t stop look at where I and her husband were joined together. He tries to pulls but I hold him back.

She looks like a P*******t mom who secretly reads mommy p**n, she stands there in her modest floral dress. Luke freezes, his balls still buried deep inside me.

I crook a finger. “Close the door, Bec. You’re letting the Holy Spirit out.”

I half expect her to scream or call out for help but instead she locks the door, leans against it, and asks him to continue as she watches her husband fuck the town whore in the baptismal pool like it’s the hottest thing she’s ever seen.

I beckon again. “Come here, pretty girl. Let me show you what your husband’s tongue feels like on someone who says thank you.”

Rebecca walks forward like she’s in a trance, dress unzipped before she reaches the steps. Underneath was a red lace bra, no panties, pussy waxed bare and already glistening. She’s been wet since she saw us.

Luke’s eyes go wide. “Baby, I…”

“Shut up and fuck me,” I tell him, then pull Rebecca down onto the altar carpet in front of the pool.

I push her dress up and spread her thighs, and dive in. She tastes sweet, like vanilla and holiness. I lick her slow, spelling out every filthy word her husband’s never said to her.

She quakes and comes in thirty seconds, thighs clamped around my head as she pushes herself into my mouth moaning loud enough to bring down a roof.

Luke’s stroking himself now, watching his wife get eaten out by the girl he just fucked. I look up, chin slick, and say, “Offering plate’s right there, baby. Make it rain.”

He stumbles over, cock in hand, jerking hard and fast while Rebecca and I sixtynine on the altar. She’s surprisingly good, her tongue was shy at first, then desperate, sucking my clit like she’s trying to save my soul one orgasm at a time.

I come again, screaming into her pussy. Luke groans, aims, and unloads into the velvet offering bag his thick ropes of cum soaking the tithe envelopes like he’s paying extra for absolution.

Rebecca comes again, shaking so hard she nearly bucks me off. We collapse in a heap, water dripping, carpet soaked, air thick with sex and incense.

I sit up first, hair plastered to my tits, and fish the offering bag out of Luke’s limp hand. Feels like about three grand, mostly twenties and hundreds.

“Souvenir,” I say, kissing them both on the mouth. Rebecca tastes herself on my tongue and whimpers.

I climb out, wring my dress, slip my boots back on. “Y’all should try marriage counseling. Works wonders.”

I’m halfway down the hall, cash stuffed in my bra, when Rebecca catches up barefoot, dress half-zipped.

“Kaylee, wait.”

I turn. She blushes crimson, then whispers, “Next Sunday? Same time?”

I grin, tuck a hundred-dollar bill into her cleavage like a promise. “Bring toys.”

Outside, the second service is letting out. I walk through the crowd barefoot, dress clinging wet, nipples hard enough to cut glass, smelling like baptismal water and adultery.

Daddy sees me from the steps, face going purple. I wave the offering bag like a pageant queen. “Found this in the lost and found, Preacher. Figured I’d donate it to a good cause.”

Then I hop into my mama’s old Civic, peel out, and head straight to the QuickMart for a Plan B and a fifth of Cuervo. I’ve got tequila money for a month.