textfiles/sex/EROTICA/T/trinit05.txt

                        Chapter Five

     Years earlier, Calvary Hill Tabernacle had built an apartment
complex close to Pyramid Lake, beautifully laid out and well
maintained.  It served as temporary housing for the homeless,
lodging for visiting dignitaries and their families, and quarters
for folks attending conferences at the church and the Jonathan
Barrett Bible College.
     One suite of rooms, now unused, had been set aside and fully
equipped for a counseling center.  I arranged for my mother, whom I
still called Darlene, and Christina to live in those unused rooms.
Two rooms in that section were separated by a small room designed to
allow students to view counseling sessions through one-way mirrors.
These two rooms became bedrooms for Darlene and Christina.
     Phase One.  Phase Two was to start fucking everybody in Daddy's
church and college and to do it on church property. We had planned
to start small, maybe just a bus driver or an unknown Sunday School
teacher, but we got lucky right away. Darlene showed up at church
one Sunday, anonymous among thousands, and the man who greeted her
at the door and struck up a conversation was none other than the
head deacon, Freddy Moreland.  Friendly little name, friendly big
Christian cock. Nice and clean.  Non-smoker.
     She had him in three Sundays.  Men are men no matter who they
are or what they do or what they believe.  The purest souls can be
dragged through life by their cocks if the right woman comes along
who knows how.

     Christina and I watched them through the one-way mirror in our
sound-proof little room.  Darlene wrapped her legs around Freddy's
and hooked her ankles behind his knees.  She was sure the missionary
position was the only one he was used to.  Why he'd pay to do
exactly the same thing he probably did with Edna, his wife, was
beyond me.  Darlene said most men came to her for that, though, and
that it really was the best of all positions.  I agreed.  It
provided full body contact, kissing, fucking, hugging.  Great
position.  I'm just glad it's not the only one possible for humans.
     "Give it to me good," Darlene coaxed Freddy.  "Run that big
powerful cock in and out of me.  I want to feel your cum washing my
insides.  Oh, I need it so bad."
     Freddy wasn't a talker.  He was a listener who needed the words
from her to make his sin nastier than it was.  Someday when he
confessed his transgression -- not too soon, we hoped -- he would not
have to exaggerate it to match someone else's story of how the devil
got him through a harlot.  Stupid turd. He didn't know the half of
nastiness he would engage in by the time we had him fully addicted.
     Darlene loved the feel of a man on her.  Two naked bodies,
fucking organisms, holding flesh against flesh and kissing each
other lasciviously at the same time he power-fucked her cunt was
unmatched by any other position.  Darlene said she had seldom found
it necessary to fake anything in sex.  She loved it all, and she
would do it all.  If it also paid the bills and advanced her
purpose, so much the better, but she would do it just for sex.
     "When the mood strikes her, she'll do it with women too,"
Christina whispered to me.  "Funny how the mood always strikes when
the money is right, but it also strikes when the woman is right."
     Women too.  The only woman I had ever had was sitting right
beside me drinking a beer, and I shuddered at what Daddy's church
and school were in for.  This was going to be a ministry that went
down in history.  The news media would have a blast.  We would make
sure there was a heavy cover-up to be exposed, too; for some reason
cover-ups are always found to be more reprehensible than immorality,
especially when money and sex are both involved.
     Yeah, we would do the women too.  Get them all addicted. Turn
the Christian girls into cunt suckers.
     "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," Darlene whispered coarsely to
Freddy.
     Silence from the head deacon except for his heavy breathing and
little grunts and moans.
     "Oh, fuck me good.  I love it, I love it.  You're so big, so
good, so good, so powerful.  Ohhhhh, fuck me."  Her voice was low
and velvety textured.  Too much would turn him off, and too little
would not be dirty enough for him.  He would need lots of guilt and
an overwhelming conflict with lust -- and lust would win as always
and intensify itself and his shame.
     "Use me, use me."
     That did it.  Properly timed and expertly executed, it
petitions every attribute of maleness.  Freddy gasped and his body
lurched involuntarily.  He shot a big load up into her, and she
gasped and hunched involuntarily herself.  Jesus, he really was
good!  Most guys in their forties don't cum that much.  Poor man
must have gone without pussy for a while.  He must not even jack
off.  Onanism, one of those esoteric words for flonging your dong,
is thought by some fundamentalists to be a sin; the word comes from
the Biblical story of Onan who was required by Mosaic law to fuck
his dead brother's wife. Instead, he "spilled his seed upon the
ground," and God struck him dead.  Wow.  And little boys today are
just afraid they'll go blind or grow a hair in their palm.
     "Oh, God, it's good.  Fuck me, use me, screw me, screw me,
screw me."  Darlene wasn't faking anything.  She tightened her grip
at the point of orgasm, and it hit her before she had time to
prepare for it.  Her scream started at low pitch and volume and rose
to what would have been siren strength if Freddy had not cupped his
hand over her mouth.  He kept cumming in her and cumming in her and
fucking her, and she kept jerking and cumming and gasping and
moaning.
     He was spent before she was, but his cock stayed hard long
enough for her to get all she needed.  She coasted down, jerking
spastically under him until he could not hold his weight up any
longer and buried her beneath him.  Still she jerked, even when his
cock began to soften and slide slowly out of her.  She gripped him
with her legs and arms and buried her face in his neck for one last
lurching hunch or two, finally eased of her need and satisfied.
     "Oh, God forgive me," he whined.
     Turd.  Why do guilt and remorse always wait until after orgasm?
He was anything but paralyzed by it before, why now? Fuck first, pay
for it in guilt later.  The cock's religion. For the Freddies of
this world, it takes precedence over everything but getting caught.
     "Preachers are all alike," Christina observed contemptuously.
     No.  I knew better.  Daddy wasn't like that.  He wasn't like
that with me.  We always had healthy sex with no undercurrent of
shame and no guilty recriminations afterward. In an entirely
different way, apparently Daddy had had no shame after fucking and
degrading Darlene, either.


     "No matter," Christina continued.  "It's only the deacon's
first time with her.  He'll overcome his guilt and be back again.
And again and again.  When I get in on the action, I'll have him
begging to eat cunt.  Christians like to beg.  They need humiliation
and punishment.  No problem. We'll satisfy their every need and
longing, as the old song goes."
     She was right -- except for Daddy.  Were those pictures really
of him?  It could have been any tall blond man.  And the videotape
was too scratched up and dark for me to be really sure it was Daddy.
This is a helluva time to start doubting, I thought.  Why would they
go to all this trouble if what they said were not true?  Nonsense,
little girl.  You're just still in love with your daddy.
     I bolted from my doubts by forcing a statement reconfirming my
dedication.  "We ought to start on the choir next.  Christ, the
whole world of Christendom will lie prostrate before us.  Go through
the deacons, the preacher-boy students, the administrators, the
faculty, their wives and daughters and sons."
     "Let them sacrifice their firstborn to your crotch," Christina
said with the evil smile of a leering demon.
     Freddy's face was buried in Darlene's neck.  She looked at the
mirror behind which she knew we were watching, and waved at us with
a big smile.  She couldn't restrain chuckling.  Freddy thought she
was crying and begged her forgiveness.
     Stupid turd.

                             * * * * *

     Freddy Moreland, Jr., the deacon's kid everybody called Junior,
was the Youth Pastor at Calvary Hill Tabernacle.  He showed up at
our little whorehouse door one day a few minutes after his father
had left.  He asked to see Darlene, but Christina told him Darlene
was resting and took him into her chambers.  I retired to my cubby
hole behind the mirrors, this time with a video camera we had taken
from the counseling lab and set up permanently in the mirror room.
     Junior was a very sincere and straightforward young man, but
obviously out of his depth in dealing with the situation. He
introduced himself and asked when Darlene would be available.  I had
already told Christina who he was and had said I didn't think he was
susceptible to corruption.  She took it, naturally, as a challenge.
     After she explained that she knew all about his father and her
mother, he frankly stated his purpose to her.  His mother was
worried about his father.  She was afraid he was seeing another
woman.
     "So you followed him here, and sure enough."
     "He's hurt her before like this, Miss Maynard.  I don't want to
see her go through that again.  Dad has this weakness, and the Devil
uses women like you against him."
     "I'm honored."
     "I want to appeal to you to stop it.  If you need help, I'll
pray with you.  Jesus can deliver you."
     "Apparently, Jesus is too busy to deliver his own saints, let
alone one of the Devil's helpers."
     "Miss Maynard ------"
     "Call me Christina.  It's cozier . . . Junior."
     "Miss Maynard, what can I say that will appeal to your innate
sense of decency and goodness?  What will it take to get you to
leave my father alone?"
     "Give us money and get us somebody else to use."
     Junior was visibly shaken.  "Dad's having sex with you, too?
Your mother and you both?  He paying you?"
     "Dad's not only paying me, he's satisfying me sexually. You'll
have to come up with something better than salvation to beat that."
     "I'm afraid I don't know many whoremongers, Miss Maynard."
     "Sure you do.  Your church is full of them.  As Youth Pastor,
you know a lot of secrets of a lot of people who have sex problems
only a safe woman can solve.  That's why people come to women like
me.  No complications, complete confidentiality, and no necessary
guilt.  It's an obvious solution for most of your problem people.
You might even want to sample it yourself."
     They looked at each other.  His eyes searched hers as though
trying to read beyond them.
     "There's no catch, Junior.  It's just service for a fee. Just
like your job only more effective and more to the point."
     "Are you really that hard, Miss Maynard?"
     "Oh, I assure you I'm nowhere near as hard as you Christians.
I just don't have the elaborate system of self-justification you
people have.  I state it simply without all the pretense at some
other motivation for my business."
     "You're very intelligent . . . and very beautiful."  His eyes
widened in alarm at his own remark.  He took a deep breath and
looked away.  "For my own sake and for the sake of my soul, Miss
Maynard, I'm afraid I'll have to leave now."

     And he did.  That same week, the elder Freddy Moreland was
introduced to three-way sex with Darlene and Christina. They fucked
him four times that week, leaving his lips blue the last time from
Christina's facefucking session.
     Junior called one afternoon and asked to see her.  He came in
without a word and sat on the sofa.  Christina sat at the other end,
wearing a grass-green chiffon robe that barely did the job of
concealing her.  She lounged back against the arm of the sofa with
her feet on the coffee table.  Her previous client, the kinky choir
director with the nice buns, had given her a pedicure, and she was
pleased to show her pretty feet.
     He held out a handful of twenties.  She looked at them, then at
him, coquettishly, nodding to the coffee table.  He laid the money
at her feet.
     "I saw what you did to Dad."
     "I thought you might.  He loved it."
     "That's three hundred dollars.  Leave my father alone."
     "Three hundred dollars is only half the amount, Sweetheart, and
money is only half the price."
     "You don't know what I had to do to get that money."
     "I don't care what you have to do.  And like I said, money by
itself isn't enough."
     It was better than we had dared hope; Junior must have shuffled
church funds to pay her, and there was a lot more where that came
from.
     "You want me to pimp for you."
     "Think of yourself as a broker for services.  You'd simply be
making referrals to a professional.  You send people for
professional help, don't you?  Psychiatrists, counselors? I'll solve
more problems than they will."


     I watched his mind work the proposition over, a mind used to
turning concepts around to justify his actions.  I've never had
trouble seducing wordsmiths.  They can always come up with a logic
that lets them do what they want, even lying and stealing church
money to pay a whore.  Lawyers and Christians are the easiest.
     Christina decided to sweeten the offer, for him and for
herself.  "Tell you what:  You can avail yourself of my services at
no extra cost."  She took a long drag off her cigarette and blew the
smoke toward his face.  "It'll relieve you of bodily anxieties and
free your cluttered mind."
     He searched her face, then dropped his gaze to her long,
shapely legs stretched out before him.  He seemed to sag a little
and bowed his head with his eyes shut.  I realized I was about to
lose a ten-dollar bet that Christina couldn't seduce him.
     "Junior.  Isn't there something you've always wanted to do but
couldn't?  Something you fantasize in secret?"  She opened her silky
robe to reveal the irresistible delights of her exquisitely lewd
body.  She wore no underwear.
     I saw his eyes squeeze tighter shut.  He wasn't praying, he was
fighting his natural impulses.
     "Do it," she said.  "Do it, Junior."
     His resistance left with a little whimper.  What he wanted was
the simplest thing in the world to ordinary folk, but he had let it
build up to something sinister in his mind. He slumped in abject
surrender and melted face-first into her lap.  The poor young man
just wanted to suck her off.
     Christina let him nuzzle between her legs and assisted him in
his lust with her hand in his standard evangelist's coiffure.  He
ran his hands gently over her legs and body and breasts, moaning and
breathing and wallowing in her glorious flesh.  He kissed her
crossed legs where he could reach between them, he kissed her
thighs, he moved to the side of her leg, kissing and swooning and
surrendering to his lifelong fantasy.  She raised her leg over his
head and draped it on the back of the sofa, giving him a clear shot
of his heart's lust, her sweet-smelling crotch and cunt, the Canaan
land of his best dreams, flowing with milk and honey through which
he now crawled face first.
     His mouth found its target and he opened wide to suck it.
Christina obviously felt her juices starting.  He sucked oh-
so-gently in spite of his driving craving, savoring the taste and
lost in the sight and feel of woman crotch.  She undulated sensually
in his face, her entire body responding to his loving caresses, her
hands slow in pulling and moving his nodding head, touching his face
tenderly, fucking him in the mouth.
     The young preacher slid his face down into her juicy cunt and
rubbed his eyes in sex, sighing the release of pent up passion and
living a dream come true.  He smeared his face in the slime, back
and forth, up and down, pushing and wiping his face and mouth and
tongue in Christina's sexed-up cunt.  I heard him moan submissively
when he placed his salivating mouth on the brand of the cross burned
there so many years before by another young preacher he was
unknowingly helping her destroy.

     What?  Wait a fucking minute!  Where did Christina get a
cross?!  Hadn't Darlene said Daddy never knew about Christina? I
must have misunderstood.

     Christina took young Moreland by the hair and growled as she
forced his face into her soaking cunt and slop-fucked his open mouth
and wallowing tongue.  His face was already a mess of woman goo,
slick and nasty with pussy juice and saliva, his eyes pasted with
her warm ooze.  She wrapped her divine legs around his face, and he
slid off the sofa to his knees for better leverage and to keep her
from breaking his neck.  She mashed and squished his face in fuck
juice, and he sucked and swallowed and gasped and sucked,
relinquishing any right to resist or even to survive the rampaging
thrusts of the uncontrollable female lustquake ravaging him.
     Her strength multiplied by inflamed pussy greed, she rolled off
the couch with him still sucking mindlessly, knocking the coffee
table over and landing hard on the floor with her riding his face
like there was no tomorrow.
     "Eat my fuck, Preacher!  Suck it up!  Eat it, eat it! Swallow
my fuck!  Suck!"
     She raped his face without mercy, her entire being concentrated
in her gluttonous loins, the insanity of lust pervading her body and
brain and soul.  She was oblivious to the jerking thing beneath her.
She used it.  She raped it. Its tremors and thrashing were no match
for her own seizure, and she could not have cared if she were
killing it.
     The dying throes of her orgasm left her hunched and lurching on
his face, grunting with each spasm as she coasted uncertainly toward
normalcy.  At last she was sane enough to be aware that the thing
under her was human, and she smiled triumphantly at the mess she had
made of his face.  She fucked him in the mouth for a few more
seconds and then just sat there on him looking down on him from her
perch.  His vacant eyes still feasted on her sweating nakedness, and
he looked up at her with a mixture of wonderment and gratitude.
     She dismounted slowly and eased her spent body and relieved
soul onto the sofa.  It was then she saw the mass of wet stickiness
that had come through his thin summer pants.
     She had a convert.  He would be back again and again, and he
would do absolutely anything necessary to keep from losing what he
now had to have.
     "You'll pimp for me," she said.
     He nodded his head submissively, too weak to do else, his
allegiance subverted, his will subordinate to hers.  I remembered
she had done the same thing to me; she was very good at it.  She had
given him what he had longed for all his life, and all she wanted in
return was his soul.  It was hers by right of benevolent conquest.
     Whatever story he had to concoct to explain his damaged face
was nothing compared to the lies he'd have to tell and the lie he
would have to live.  Christina did not care.  She had a more urgent
goal, one driven by seething anger at a life of foster homes and
state agencies and fed to the point of bursting by the vengeful
passions of our mother.

     I was worked up into a lather by watching Christina and
associating her dominant violence with my adopted purpose.  I would
cum all over Daddy's ministry, fuck the hell out of the saints, and
slime the church with a gooey substance that seeps into every pore
and cannot be washed away.  I was the ultimate power and my
onslaught would obliterate all that dared resist me.  I was woman!
The most destructive force on earth.
     I had my hand up in my cunt and was going out of my mind in a
fit of lust and power.  My fantasies jumped back to James, my first
victim, and I imagined with hallucinatory vividness that I was
stomping on his face with my bare feet and beating him senseless,
brutalizing him and punishing him. I fell clear off my chair in the
grand mal seizure of a savage orgasm which swallowed me up and
tossed me all over the floor in a hurricane of orgiastic convulsion.

--end Chapter 5--