"Juicy piece" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brown Heather)

CHAPTER THREE

The weekend flew by after my intoxicating encounter with the nameless teen in the alley. Fucking that clean, innocent teen had made me clean and innocent inside. I felt the grime that had accumulated on my soul from being Madame Fellatio five days a week starting to fade, replaced by the sparkling memory of the teen's graceful, shining prick inside my cunt and mouth, and the remembrance of his endlessly spurting sperm that bathed my insides with its stickiness. His cum had been like a detergent that had scrubbed me clean, making me temporarily feel that life wasn't such a bad deal after all. And if I could be as happy as this just from sucking and fucking a teenager, then there was hope for the miserable souls who wrote in to Madame Fellatio.

But my new-found euphoria evaporated the instant I walked into my dingy office. Shark was too cheap to hire a regular janitorial service, and trash dating all the way back to the middle of last week was littered and crumpled around my office, a half a cup of coffee having started to turn a poisonous shade of green on top of my desk. Roaches feasted on the crumbs from my last Friday's lunch, totally unconcerned when I came into the room as they continued their munching.

I sat down, and instead of brushing a path of cleanliness across the top of my desk, I flopped back in my chair, already exhausted at nine in the morning, and watched the roaches feast. I was just getting to the point where I could recognize one roach from another when I was suddenly startled upright in my chair. When I glanced over to the roaches on my blotter, I saw that for the first time they were frightened and were scurrying away.

"Well, well," Shark smirked, "if it isn't the Dear Abby of the crotch-set, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and rarin' to go. Got the sunshine machine ready, poopsie?"

I felt like joining the roaches, but instead I managed a weak and hypocritical smile and mumbled, "Yeah, sure… I left it out in the hall."

"Ho, ho," he laughed, which I knew was a put-on, because when something really amused Shark he went "Heh, heh."

"Listen, Shark," I said, suddenly feeling testy, "the only time you play the part of jolly good fellow is when you have some ulterior motive in the back of your mind… some new thing you want to get away with."

"Madame F," he said with a phony wail, putting his arms out and his palms upward in a stagey gesture of innocence. "Would I do something like that, boobie?"

"You would and have," I snapped.

"Well, now that you mention it," he said quickly, the, hail-fellow-well-met facade dropping like a trapdoor, the lines of his face suddenly slanting down instead of up, the thin slit of his mouth closing like a steel trap, "there is something I want to talk to you about… Ah, let me amend that, something I want to tell you."

"Yes," I sighed, weary before he actually told me what it was, feeling certain in advance that it would be some atrocity and I would have to put my brains and guts in a turmoil while I decided which was more important to me – my integrity or my paycheck. So far I'd been weak enough to always pick the latter. But the new insight I'd felt about Christ on Friday, which came back to me now fully as I sat in the chair and office where it was conceived, suddenly gave me the courage to hope that this time I could survive Shark with my integrity intact.

"Frankly, little lady," he said with the oily glibness he always adopted whenever he was certain he had the upper hand, "the freaks are getting tired of the stuff in your column."

"How can that be?" I replied, struggling to hold my own, praying for Christ to back me up. "They're the ones who write the damn letters. If they don't like reading them, they should stop sending them."

"And we'd be in the used-corduroy business," Shark snapped. "The freaks are what makes us go…"

"You, Shark, you," I interrupted. "I think I'm stalled."

"Listen," he hissed, "the letters stay as they are. It's the answers that have to change."

"How do you mean?" I asked defensively. "Well, you have to make them different. The fact is we're dealing with space-age letters and we're using Jewish-mother answers," he rambled. "We're still giving him that old crap about anything two consenting adults do. That's for liberals during the '50's, not his generation of weirdos. These people are strange. They don't want to be patted on the head and brushed off with an Ann Landers one-liner when they write you about the guilt they feel from fucking the family cocker spaniel in the ass."

"Well, what do they want?" I asked impatiently, knowing that as far as I was concerned I had the answer, Christ, although I despaired over the lack of hope of getting across the message of Him to a heathen like Shark.

"I dunno," he said in a rare moment of naturalness and fallibility, although for all I know it was just a clever ruse designed to nudge me toward going along with whatever he had up his sleeve.

"Sure, Shark," I challenged him.

"No, I kid you not," he said.

"Then how can we change if you don't know the answer?" I asked.

"I didn't say I was completely baffled," he said. "It's not that I don't know all of the answer, because part of it is obvious. We have to come up with a new, more startling response to these letters… something that will really grab the reader in counterpoint with what the freaks write."

Suddenly I saw an opportunity being presented to me on a silver platter that I wouldn't have thought possible a few moments before. "Don't worry, Shark," I said, practically saluting him in my sudden enthusiasm. "I can handle it for you. I've got something great in mind."

"No kidding?" he said, obviously surprised. "What is it?"

"No, I won't tell you."

"Why not, afraid I won't like it?" he leered.

"Maybe," I admitted in the understatement of the year. "You said yourself you don't know what'll work, it just needs to be different. So you admit you're no expert on specifics, so what you think isn't important. If you let me just go ahead on my own, I'll be able to develop my idea without feeling you're looking over my shoulder."

"Okay," he said, kicking the leg of the desk like a child reluctantly conceding a point, "I guess you can do it. But I'm warning you, boobie, don't fuck up."

"Total control?" I asked expectantly.

"You better believe it… and total responsibility," he said, pronouncing the last word like it was a death sentence. "I'm going on a vacation for a week or so. Before I leave, I'll tell the printer to pull off the column we already have scheduled, and if you get a new column into him by Thursday morning, he'll be able to substitute it in the next issue."

"You mean the first time you'll read it is when the magazine hits the stands?" I asked, straining to hide my amazement.

"Right on, Madame F," he said. "But just remember, I can afford a month of fucked-up Madame Fellatio, but you can't… See you sometime next week."

His warning sailed harmlessly over my head as he stalked out of my office to his vacation. The instant he was out of sight I turned and opened the drawer in my desk containing the stored letters, terribly anxious to begin my mission to save the readers of Honey Pot for Jesus Christ.

No sooner had I transferred the letters from the drawer to the desk-top and arranged them into a workable pile than a new shipment was rained over me by the careless mail boy, who just dumped the bag over me without looking. After I'd retrieved the letters from the floor and put them on the desk with the others, their enormous pile blocked my view of the door. I was totally sealed off from the sleazy environment of the rest of the offices of Shark's magazines, completely absorbed in the crusade that I was sure was going to turn my life around.

I spent the next three days poring over the letters, searching for ones suitable to answer. I wanted to pick letters that seemed to have been written by people who actually appeared to want to change. I wanted my answers to do some good, for the call to Christ to be genuine. But so far, in my desire to do exactly the right thing, I had only been able to handle one letter in a manner which I thought was acceptable. I had put everything I felt into my answer to the first letter, and now I felt I was drained. Obviously, I was too inexperienced at doing the Lord's work to take on such a big job at once entirely on my own. I needed guidance from someplace, but I was at a loss to ascertain where. Working over the puzzle in my mind I re-read the only letter I'd been able to satisfactorily answer, searching for clues which would point me toward further knowledge.

"Dear Madame Fellatio: I'm not a regular reader of your magazine, but I feel like it's the only place where I can tell somebody my problem and maybe they will try and understand it."

"To begin with, part of the reason I'm not a regular reader of your magazine shows up part of my problem. I'd like to be, but I'm afraid if I was, every time I bought a copy, the newsstand attendant would suspect the reason why I was purchasing it. The fact of the matter is, although I try and help it, I'm hopelessly aroused by the pictures of naked women your magazine features."

"You're probably saying: there's nothing the matter with liking pictures of naked girls with their legs spread showing their open pussies, that's what the magazine's for. Well, maybe it is if you're a guy. But I'm a girl, and I know there must be something dreadfully wrong with how my mouth waters whenever I see a picture of another girls open pussy and bare tits. If I'm alone with a copy of your magazine, before a half an hour has passed I'm completely in the nude and spreading my thighs in front of a mirror so I can gaze excitedly at my own cunt, watching myself masturbate as I manipulate the juicy folds of my pussy, comparing my frothing slit the whole time with the glossy cunts I've just been drooling over in the magazine."

"I know it's wrong to be turned on by another woman, but I don't seem to have any control over my feelings. I guess I could use that as an excuse, but it just makes me more disturbed. I've tried and tried to get interested in cocks, but they seem brutal and slimy to me, like huge, spitting snakes that are trying to tear me in two. Truthfully, I can't imagine one of those monsters ripping up my cunt. I'm sure it would shred me to pieces."

"Up until recently I'd managed to keep some of my self-respect by never having actually engaged in a lesbian act despite all my explicit fantasies and the temptation in everyday life. But then I met Margo, and even that last vestige of decency was lost to me through her firm tits, rapidly darting tongue, and sizzlingly pliant pussy. When she propositioned me after we had only been introduced ten minutes before, and then backed up her offer by abruptly unbuttoning her blouse and thrusting her honey-colored tits in my face, there was no way my achingly aroused body would let me resist her. We were quickly at my apartment in bed, totally naked, our tits and cunts squeezing and squishing against each other in sexual frenzy, fucking and sucking like there was no tomorrow."

"But there was a tomorrow, of course. There always is, unless you commit suicide or something (and I'm so depressed I'm thinking about it, Madame Fellatio). After meeting Margo, my 'tomorrow' told me that I'd broken down the last baffler of decency and that I was a hopeless pervert. I didn't know what to do. My body was drawn magnetically to Margo's charms. My mind kept picturing the split lips and ripe gash of Margo's pussy, the glistening thrust of her cunt through the frame of her dark, curly pussy hair resembling a peach in a bucket of meat. But my conscience begged my body to recoil from the thrill of lesbian delights. My cunt, stronger than nay brain, won out. My 'tomorrow' found me a hopeless lesbian."

"To make it worse, Margo turned out to be nothing but a cheap hustler. She used her body to lure me to her cunt, and then when I sucked her juicy gash, programmed me to do her bidding. After two weeks of our mouths constantly being at each other's cunts, tits and asses, I got out of bed long enough to discover that Margo had been robbing me blind. When I openly accused her of taking advantage of me, she gave me the finger, put on her clothes, and split. Logically, I should have been happy to get rid of such a leech, but all I could feel was a dead sensation in my breasts and a throbbing in my cunt as she walked out the door, characteristically wigging her ass in a way that drove me wild."

"After a while, I psyched myself into believing that Margo leaving was all for the best. With temptation out of the way, I could go back to being normal. But, Madame Fellatio, I haven't been able to make it, and that's what's driving me crazy. Am I really queer?"

"Every day I make a vow to go straight. But then I find myself out on the street, knowing that because the weather's warm the women will be dressed in light clothes and I can get a better look at their bodies. I've stopped wearing panties because I've ruined every pair I have creaming in them in the street while I undress with my eyes every woman who passes me by."

"By afternoon I'm crazy, dying for any kind of cunt. I'm not like Margo, I can't proposition anybody. What if they turned out to be a policewoman and arrested me? Or worse, a male officer in drag on a stake-out? Lately, I've been hanging around in residential neighborhoods after school lets out and getting the only kind of pussy that can't say no, young pussy, so desperate am I to have the sweet taste of cunt in my mouth. I'm degenerating by the minute, I'm afraid. Right now I'm sitting here typing this with only one hand; that's because I've got the other one between my legs, finger-fucking my horny cunt into another frenzy, but soothing it at the same time for not having another pussy to rub against."

"If somebody doesn't help me soon, I'm afraid I'd end up with short hair and a tattoo, with a leather jacket, and wearing bus-driver's pants and driving a taxi. And now, if all this isn't enough, effeminate men are starting to be attracted to me. A man wearing a dress leaped out at me from the corridor yesterday and said he'd been watching me in my apartment at night from across the way with high-power binoculars. He begged me to go out with him. He says he knows what I want. How could he? I'm not even sure myself. What should I do about this man? He's waiting for an answer. T.P. California."

"Do not fear," I had answered. "Christ is looking over your shoulder. If you continue to look back at your past sins, you will finally see Him, waiting for you to accept Him. Then your sins will be washed away and you can start afresh."

"Look upon the invitation from the man in the dress as an opportunity. Get him to acknowledge that neither of you are perfect, and then persuade him that you can both do something better by attending the church of your choice. Get to know the Lord together, feeling His grace wash the sins from your bodies. Then, after you're saved, it may very well turn out that this man is essentially decent, and might make a good provider for you and any family you might care to raise together."

"God bless you, child."

"Yours in Christ, Madame Fellatio."

There was no doubt about it, I was on the right track, but I was also like the girl who had written the letter. I wanted to do the right thing, but I was still too shaky to be on my own. I needed guidance. Divine guidance.

Without stopping to get my coat, I dashed from my office, stumbling down the stairs because I was too impatient to wait for an elevator. In the street I called for a taxi and directed the driver to take me across town to the neighborhood where I was raised, and the Catholic church I used to go to.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" a priest with a beard obscuring his face asked me when I burst into the rectory, panting in anticipation.

"Is Father Coughlin here?" I said, asking for the priest to whom I had given a thousand and maybe more confessions during my youth.

The expression on the priest's face seemed to change, although I couldn't really be sure because of his beard. He remained silent.

"Is Father Coughlin… is he still here?" I asked shrilly, sensing something was wrong.

"I'm sorry," the bearded priest said, looking sadly downward. "He passed away a year ago. We all loved him so."

"Oh," I said sadly, sounding like a balloon someone had let the air out of in my disappointment.

"But life must go on," the bearded priest said.

"I'm surprised to hear you say that, Father," I remarked. "That sounds more like something a Protestant would say."

"Well, I mean it goes on before we reach the Kingdom of Heaven, and we must do our best during our short stay on earth in order to prove our worthiness to enter the Lord's Kingdom."

"Oh, right, check," I said, relieved that he wasn't one of those young, modern priests, despite his shaggy beard, who wants to turn the Church into a haven for homosexuals and the like.

"Have a seat," he offered. "I certainly can't bring the experience to your problem that Father Coughlin could have, but I'll do my best. And, besides, we have the same boss, if you, heh, heh, know what I mean."

Hmmm, he laughed just like Shark, but I put it out of my mind.

"My name is Father Marmelstein, and before you raise your eyebrows too high, I had a Jewish father but a Cuban mother, who returned to her faith and became a devout Catholic after my father died when I was very young," he explained rapidly. "Now what is the problem you wish to share with me?"

Suddenly it occurred to me that I had never actually told Father Marmelstein that I had a problem. For all he knew, I was looking for the bathroom when I came into the rectory. It must have been something about my pinched face and my searchingly desperate eyes that tipped him off. But, anyway, he hit it right on the head, and I abruptly became putty in his hands.

All my resistance to confiding in a stranger vanishing in the face of his masculine authority, I blurted, "It's like this, Father Marmelstein…" and proceeded to rapidly tell him the story of my predicament, trying to go easy on the details of the magazine I worked for.

However, Father Marmelstein, who insisted I call him Rick, seemed to sense that Honey Pot was all about, and teasingly insisted, "Tell me more about this magazine you work for. These letters you mentioned wouldn't be about sex, would they?"

"Yes," I admitted, my head downcast, afraid that he would take offense and refuse to advise me.

"Really?" he said with obvious interest. "Tell me. In these letters do they use the vernacular?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You know, those words for the private parts of the body. Four-letter words they call them. Cunt for the place between the woman's legs, and cock for what a man has. You know."

I nodded my head. "I know, and I must confess, Father, that the letters contain such words."

"And your answers," he said. "Do you use these words in your answers? Prick, pussy, tits, ass, and the like. Fuck, blow."

Silently, I nodded my head in abject confession, as he continued to recite a litany of filthy terms, all of which I had shamefacedly used at one time or another.

"Screw, twat, box, snatch, dick," he droned, filling the air with one filthy term after another until the room echoed with them and sounded like a children's chorus singing some obscene round.

Finally he ran out of words and started to repeat himself, coming back over and over again to cock, cunt and fuck, eventually slipping into a canticle of those words only, endlessly chanting them as though he were reciting some obscene mass. Something told me to leave the rectory, but when I tried to move, I found myself nailed to my chair, my pelvis involuntarily thrusting towards the seat, my cunt directing my body to stay put. I pressed my thighs together and felt them squish as I realized for the first time that my pussy was absolutely frothing with a thick lather of cunt-juice. I instinctively put my hand on my lap to feel the radiating warmth of my steaming cunt, and closed my eyes and took a deep breath to be able to endure the torment between my legs.

I noticed Father Marmelstein's eyes dart to where my hand rested over my crotch, and wondered if he knew what I was going through. When he finally stopped looking at my cuntmound, he rose from his chair and walked towards me, still droning his arousing chant, "Cock, cunt, fuck, cock, cunt, fuck…"

The closer he got to me the more I noticed the shocking bulge distending his cheap, shiny, black priest's trousers. I was alarmed, sure that I was seeing things, for I knew it was against the laws of man and God for a priest to have a hard-on. But then my overwhelming curiosity got the best of me, and I could not resist reaching out and touching to see if the bulge was real or just some cruel figment of my imagination.

My God, it was real! A thick, swollen cock pulsing throbbingly just under the threadbare fabric of his pants. I winced in shame as I uncontrollably conjured a mental image of his glisteningly erect prick thrusting pinkly out of his trousers, contrasting shockingly with his shiny black priest's clothing.

"Cock, cunt, fuck, cock, cunt, fuck," he continued to say, changing the drone into a seductive croon as he seemed to be telling me something, almost as though God were speaking through his lips. At least that's what I told myself I wanted it to be as I obeyed the implicit command that seemed to be filling the room and undid Father Marmelstein's zipper.

His cock burst free instantly, making me wonder if a priest's vow of poverty meant he couldn't afford underwear. It was a magnificent dick, long and swooping, with an exceptionally purple, heart-shaped head and a throbbing cum-tube that ran down the underside of the shaft like a pipeline. Immediately I thought of the old joke, "As worthless as tits on a nun," and wondered about this ten-inch priest-cock.

There was only one way to find out. I threw my mouth around his twitching prick, slurping my lips hungrily over it as I pushed its knotty cock-head all the way into my constricting throat while I tasted its salty shaft with my lapping tongue. The instant I swallowed his prick, Father Marmelstein began bucking his hips, rhythmically undulating his pelvis towards my face as he expertly fucked my mouth, showing that he knew exactly what to do with his heavy-duty dick.

Down below I could feel my cunt foaming with hot desire, pleading to be stimulated and not be neglected for the sake of my sucking mouth. I instinctively dropped my hand to my waist and started to slip my fingers under the top of my skirt towards the juicy mouth of my horny pussy. But as I felt my fingertips at my navel, Father Marmelstein reached out and stopped me. I thought I was finally in trouble, until he said, "Let me do it, my child."

With abject willingness I spread my legs for him, feeling my skirt ride up around my hips as I thrust my pussy towards him, the soggy fabric of my panties stuffed wetly inside my sopping gash. While his stiff prick remained imbedded in my mouth, he threw his hand between my thighs, slipping his fingers under my panties and crushed them against the puffy folds of my cunt and my throbbingly aroused spine of a clit.

Wanting his balls, I reached inside his fly and easily pulled them free, one at a time, and marveling at their hairy bigness. I wanted to taste them, but was reluctant to give up an inch of the sweet-flavored cock I had buried all the way down my throat.

Seizing upon the only solution possible, I drove down even harder on his prick, cramming at least half of it down my throat as I swallowed all of it, leaving just enough room for my lips to grasp one slippery ball and then the other and just get them inside my mouth, stuffing them warmly and wetly in along with his stiff cock.

His crotch hair scratched into my eyes as I drove my face as deeply as possible into his groin, his pronged cock and pulsing balls wonderfully trapped in my grasping mouth. I drove into him like a football lineman making a tackle with the face, bending back his pelvis so that his prick and hairy balls thrust even deeper into my mouth, his swollen cock skidding farther down my throat.

Down below, my beaver provided a nest for Father Marmelstein's five wriggling fingers as they diddled in my swollen, juicy cunt. My clit, my pussy-lips, the mouth of my fuck-hole, all of them were stimulated into a peak of frenzy as his greedy hand devoured my cunt. Repeatedly, I drenched his hand to the wrist with gushes of pussy-juice, creaming uncontrollably in my sexually insane state.

Suddenly I realized that I wanted more of him than I was getting with, my mouth and his hand. I wanted to fuck. I wanted to feel his stiff prick imbedded to the balls in my steaming cunt. I wanted him to come inside of me in the natural Christian way, bathing my pussy-walls with a halo of shimmering sperm. I wanted to lean back on my chair and prop my ankles up on his desk, spreading my legs so far apart that my cunt was an open red wound, a foaming whirlpool frothing to suck in his long, hard dick. I wanted him caught in the trap of my legs, all his attention focused on the crimson gash of my slobbering cunt. Then my legs would wrap around him, squashing his crotch against mine, the tangle of our pubic bushes mingling as his broad, swift prick tore into my fuck-hole like a sword, searing the walls of my spasming cunt.

I quickly dislodged his enormous cock from my mouth, momentarily dizzy as fresh oxygen blasted into me once I had that monster prick out of my throat. I hunched my cunt-mound up at his hand, gesturing with a vertical wink of the hairy eye of my pussy for him to move back against the desk as I shoved my chair closer. I abruptly shot my legs straight out, trapping the helpless Father Marmelstein with them, creating a fleshy V that stretched the skin on the insides of my thighs taut.

But the look of bewilderment on Father Marmelstein's face suddenly turned to rapture as his eyes bugged out at the ripe, pared melon of my juicy cunt, oozing sensuously at him in the nest of glistening hair between my open thighs. As he moved in closer towards me, I could see the vertical slit at the end of his cock flare in anticipation, his twitching prick and pulsing balls seeming to be electronically endowed, his cock and balls part of a robot programmed only for sex.

In an instant, so fast there was only a pink blur, his cock was inside my cunt, sliding easily up the pussy-juiced walls of my fuck-canal, surging all the way into my cunt and nudging against the puckered entrance to my womb.

I wrapped my legs around him as I had planned, crushing his waist so that he would have no choice but to cram his cock inside my hole deeper and deeper, my cunt-lips already lapping greedily against the firm spheres of his bloated, straining balls.

As his prick plowed into my cunt, he pressed his hairy face to mine and darted his tongue between my lips, brutally soul-kissing me. As his tongue shot down my throat just as his cock had done, I could smell the sacramental wine on his breath. Its essence enchanted me, making me sure that what I was doing was right. That I was involved in a truly religious experience.

Suddenly I realized that I wanted to be baptized, truly baptized in the natural sense by the divine fluid from his balls, his prick shooting inside my cunt and ridding me of my sinfulness as his cum slid down my pussy-walls. I wiggled my ass for all I was worth, desperately striving to get his rocks off, aching so much to feel the explosion of his holy sperm inside my cunt that I didn't care whether I came myself or not.

Deeper and deeper the barb at the end of his prick probed, reaching depths within my cunt that I hadn't known existed, touching new points of carnal stimulation that made my body quiver. And then, just when I thought his cock was going to penetrate my womb at last and fill my cunt like a sacred vessel with his jizz, I astonishingly felt his prick abruptly pulling out of my hole as he broke the wall of my legs, the inside of my pussy and my cunt-lips reluctantly yielding their pulsing prize.

My senses reeled and I shuddered when I looked up and saw that I was suddenly face to face with Father Marmelstein's twitching, leering cock, his hand pumping the bowing prick-shaft furiously. I opened my mouth in shock, but before I could make a noise the bomb at the end of his prick exploded, splattering a payload of scalding jizz into my gaping mouth and all over my face. I could feel gobs of sperm dribbling gloppily onto my blouse, their thick wetness quickly saturating the fabric and sticking to my skin as he continued to get his rocks off, his dick spitting and spurting all over my face.

I felt cheated, robbed by his sudden maneuver, my pussy still stunned by the surprise removal of his cock. In a fit of ruefulness I angrily thrust my hand between my legs, literally grabbing ahold of my clit like it was a miniature switch and fucking myself to an automatic orgasm, a flush starting between my legs and completely enveloping the rest of my body by rapid degrees, relieving me of the sexual tension I would have felt for weeks if I had not done something about it.

When I was finished coming, I opened my eyes and saw Father Marmelstein trying to stuff his wilting cock inside his pants. A ball and a curve in his rubbery shaft still wouldn't go in as he hurriedly pressed at his crotch.

"Wait a minute, Father Marmelstein," I found myself blurting out at the sight of his spent prick. "What's going on here?"

"Going to make trouble, huh?" he said crisply, still stuffing at his fly.

"Uh, well, no… it's not that…" I stammered, instantly intimidated by the return of his priestly manner.

"I should hope not," he bit into his words. "This is a severe sin, a mortal sin that will cause more than several dark splotches on the linen of your soul. No, it's more than dark splotches, it's a cancer that will eat at the moral fiber of your soul after what you've done."

Seeing that he had finally managed to stuff his cock and balls back into his pants and zip up his fly, I reached down and hurriedly pulled down my skirt, closing my knees and smoothing down the fabric over my thighs. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," I said primly.

"How about tempting a man of God?" he hissed, and then shouted it again, emphasizing each word as if he were reading holy scripture.

"But… you… you…" I fumbled, straining for the moral courage to tell my side of the story, but just producing repeated stuttering gasps.

"Thank God He intervened just in time to have me pull my… pull out of wicked temptation at the last moment so I wouldn't complete the vile act to which you so wantonly tempted me," he declared self-righteously.

"Complete the vile ad!" I suddenly shouted, out of control of myself. "A Catholic is bound by God to only have an ejaculation inside a woman's vagina for the purpose of procreation!"

"That's if you're not a priest!" he yelled back. "Priests aren't supposed to come anywhere. And if they do, certainly not in a woman's pussy. Case closed… Now get your ass out of here, or I'll have you run in on a moral's charge, heh, heh."

When I heard that last speech and that smug little laugh, it occurred to me how much Father Marmelstein reminded me of Shark. They were both heathens. I'd come to the wrong place for advice. I'd have to take a crash course on studying the Bible tonight and answer the rest of the letters on my own. Good or bad, the answers would be entirely my own.

I got up and left wordlessly as Father Marmelstein picked up the phone and asked for St. Vincent de Paul as though nothing had happened. I made a silent vow never to return to the Catholic church. I'd find my inspiration elsewhere. Perhaps in my own soul.