Les Autres Ch. 04

All Sexual Activity In This Story Is Between Characters Who Are 18+ Years Old

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September 20, 1940

Mary Trotter sat behind the wheel of her mint-green 1930 Cadillac 16 four-door sedan. Like everything else, it was part of the vast estate she had inherited, upon Eli Farragut's passing, the previous May. Unlike anything else, it stirred special feelings in her, every time she got in the car. She ran her right hand over the upholstery beside her hip and smiled. The memory of her first fuck with Eli, in the back seat, flooded her mind as she felt the friction of her bone suede glove rubbing the plush velvet. Her peach juiced and her heart ached.

Drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, Mary agonized aloud into the empty cabin, "What am I to DO, Eli? Freddy's off to college... I won't see HIM before Christmas. Can I REALLY forgive Ted... or Papa... for impregnating young Cynthia Hart?" She stewed as she realized, that for all her fine words to the Harts, just ten minutes ago, before they boarded the 8:20 Farragut Flyer, she resented them and was glad they were leaving town.

Suddenly, the sedan's rag-top rippled with an audible series of small pops. Mary felt an inexplicable draft. Looking around, she saw all the windows were up and the vents were closed. Facing front again, gooseflesh stiffened the fine hairs on her nape and a chill chased down her spine as her deceased paramour's face filled the rear-view mirror. She gasped with surprise, but felt fearlessly at ease.

Eli's bass voice rumbled, "Va visiter le prêtre. Il entendra ta dilemme. Tu te sentiras mieux, ma chérie d'amour." In an instant, the apparition disappeared and the skin on Mary's neck returned to its normal smooth texture. She shook her flaxen hair and involuntarily shuddered.

Staring into the mirror, which now reflected only the F & C Depot's parking lot, Mary spoke into the air, as if Farragut were still with her. "I was on my way to the parish to work in the Women's Auxiliary Office, Eli. If you think it will help, I'll see if Father Logan can spare me some time."

Five blocks later, on SE Knight Street between 5th and 6th Avenues, another vision appeared in Mary's rear-view mirror: Bright red lights glowed in front of the handlebars of a police motorcycle. Its rider was signalling her to pull over to the curb. When the Caddy was stopped, Officer Steve Janssen swung his leg over his Harley-Davidson, dropped the kickstand and sauntered up to the gleaming luxury car.

"Good morning, Officer," Mary greeted him politely, after rolling down her window. "What's the matter?"

"Good morning, ma'am," Janssen replied, neutrally. "May I see your operator's license please?" He never gave an immediate response to the first question that virtually every driver asked him at any traffic stop. While Mary hunted in her matching suede handbag, he scanned the sedan's interior, not expecting anything extraordinary, but exercising due diligence all the same.

When Janssen's eyes came to rest on Mary's upturned face, he took particular note of her gold-flecked hazel eyes and smiling dark cherry lips. Immediately, he recalled seeing her, that spring, on the porch at 46 SE Garvey Street, when he and Officer Sean O'Rourke discovered Old Man Farragut dead in his bed. He remembered, too, seeing a pair of silk stockings strewn on the big pillow beside the deceased's head, a cut chocolate cake in the kitchen, and remarking to his partner, "It looks like the old geezer went out having had a good time..."

On that day, Janssen remembered, Mary wore a simple, but flimsy, blue cotton dress. He remembered, because he and Sean had later discussed, over coffee, how it clung to her body in such a way as to prove she wore few, if any, underclothes. They had speculated, with lascivious dark humor, that Farragut had, in fact, been fucked to death by his back-door renter.

Detective Howard had dismissed the same notion, as well as foul play, when he determined that Mrs. Trotter was provably at home with her husband in the early morning hours when the gentleman passed, and upon the medical examiner's findings, citing natural causes for the death. "Still," Janssen thought again, as Mary's sweet face jogged his memory, "What could be more 'natural' than too much of a good thing?"

Suppressing a sardonic laugh, the policeman received the paper rectangle Mary handed him. Their gloves precluded any static electricity discharge, but Janssen's brow furrowed infinitesimally as he imagined some sort of spark racing from her fingers to his during the transfer. He coughed and studied the license. "Well, Mrs... Trotter," Janssen said after a moment. "There's a 'STOP' sign back there, at Knight Street and Eason Avenue. You went through without even slowing down... and it took you three MORE blocks to notice me behind you." He decided a friendly grin would not hurt as he said, "I thought I'd have to use my SIREN... Is everything OK?"

Mary put on her most sincerely chagrined look as she answered, "Yes, Officer, everything is fine. I'm sorry... I guess I was a little distracted." Widening her eyes, Mary, who truly had been in a daze since Eli's phantasmal appearance, exclaimed, "I hope I didn't cause an accident!"

Janssen replied, "No... that was fortunate. No one else was in the intersection and you were moving under the limit, too." He lowered his voice and added with a serious tone, "I still need to write a citation, though."

Mary's face fell. "Really? I'm VERY sorry," she pouted. "Do you HAVE to? I'd be ever so grateful if you could... FORGET about it... just ONCE?"

The musical notes in Mary's earnest begging voice made Janssen's cock as hard as his nightstick as he imagined how grateful she could be if he only could forget her transgression. Once. He was grateful the tall metal panel of the Cadillac's front door prevented anyone seeing the instant growth he felt in his uniform pants. He coughed again.

Smiling weakly, Janssen handed Mary back her paperwork. "Well, I can't 'FORGET' what I know, Mrs. Trotter," he answered. "But I AM allowed discretion in my duties. I'll remember this incident if YOU will. I won't cite you today, but I don't want to you to hurt yourself or others. So, please... drive more carefully in the future."

"Oh, THANK you, Officer..." Mary began, then paused and stared hard at the policeman's name tag, above the pocket opposite the shiny silver plate badge on his broad chest, before continuing, "...Janssen. I promise to remember. And I MEANT what I said. I own the old Farragut mansion... on Garvey... stop by sometime when you're off-duty... Please say you'll COME!"

The twenty-nine-year-old policeman blushed at the blatant proposition, but recovered quickly. "That's alright, Mrs. Trotter," he said through his constricted throat, hoping she would not notice the strain in his voice. "Watch the road, now!" He pivoted sharply to his right while lowering his ticket-book and hiding his boner. Walking carefully, to avoid an obvious hobble, he returned to his bike, turned off its flasher and remounted the saddle. Settling onto the leather, he shifted his ass until his dick and nuts no longer hurt, then raised up again and kicked the starter.

As the police Harley pulled into the traffic lane and passed her parked car, Mary sank back in her seat. Lolling her head onto the seatback, she took in and let out several deep breaths, relaxing more with each long exhalation. Her deep 37-inch bust swelled within her bronze taupe silk blouse beneath the tailored bolero jacket of her bone linen suit.

Gradually her rude thoughts of Officer Janssen, writing ticket after ticket, as he stood naked, but for a jockstrap, while she lay helplessly spread-eagled, handcuffed to her huge brass bed, wearing only lingerie and hose, melted away. Heaving a final sigh, she restarted the Cadillac and continued the final four blocks to St. Luke's parish administrative building at 9th Street.

With all the delays, it was just past nine o'clock when Mary walked into the building. She poked her head in the door of the W.A.O. and called to the new staffer, there, "I'm not actually here, yet, Greta! Going to see if the Father is in his study. Do you know, by chance, is he there?"

Greta Van Der Molen, a twenty-year-old displaced person recently arrived from Holland, looked up from the donated clothes she was folding for the upcoming weekend rummage sale. Cheerfully, she answered, "Ja, Father Logan came early this morning."

Returning to her task, Greta smiled with inner satisfaction. She flexed her pussy and remembered milking the priest's prick; drawing the delicious spunk from his deep well; watering her brilliant yellow tulip garden. "Bedankt Tante Betty dat je me hebt vergeven," she thought, once again acknowledging Elizabeth Doherty's gracious acceptance of her apology, and appreciating her aunt's help at securing her a new job with the church.

Professionally speaking, Father Bryce Logan was in a downward spiral. Randy throughout his youth, the discipline of clerical celibacy was challenging for the twenty-nine-year-old priest. When he looked upon women, he was hard pressed not to imagine them naked. In seminary he had rationalized that his fanciful thoughts were not deliberate, but rather, natural physical urges, and therefore, in and of themselves, were not sinful. His oath of abstinence was sincere, as were his commendable efforts to honor it.

On arrival at St. Luke's, in the midst of Lent, 1939, Father Logan sought to immerse himself in external stimulation and, thereby, to numb himself to the effects the fair gender had upon his body. The parish Women's Auxiliary Office seemed a perfect foil for his purpose and he decided to wield it zestily.

For several months, while coordinating his female flock's charitable work, he was tormented: By visually inspired desires; by inadvertent close contacts; by soft voices, kind words and sweet fragrances. Latterly, he excused himself for masturbating, late at night in the rectory, while dwelling on the various diverse and appealing assets of particular W.A.O. members. This allowance was between him and God and he always begged forgiveness afterward.

The following year, on the eve of Ash Wednesday, after jerking off to a retained memory of Mary Trotter, bending over and sorting a pile of rag scraps for a quilting party, Father Logan heroically swore off touching himself. At least, that is, any more than was necessary for bathing and urination. By Maundy Thursday, he felt he was going mad and, on Easter Monday morning, early, he repeatedly stroked his denied dick until it cowered in fear of his touch and his wrist ached.

By May, the priest was routinely gratifying himself, behind his screen, as women confessed their sundry weekly sins. He especially looked forward to the confessions of Isabel McGuinness, regarding her illicit sexual relations with her son-in-law, Ted Trotter. Poorly camouflaged as dream acts, these were nonetheless potent influences upon Father Logan. And now, with the season changing again, the errant padre was not merely by the wayside, but off the road entirely; happily breaking new trails in his wilderness.

Sitting in his personal library, with its doors open, both to the ambulatory, leading to the main church areas, and to his private office, Bryce Logan reflected on the swift progress he had made grooming Greta. Her daily morning fucks were now an integral part of his routine. He remembered well her introduction, by Mrs. Doherty, on August 20th and how he had agreed with the veteran W.A.O. volunteer's strong recommendation that the Dutch girl's employment, in a permanent full-time capacity in the office, would be beneficial to the works of the church.

The priest had salivated as he appraised Greta's uncommonly good looks. From her sweet clear face, framed by long rope-braids, to her finely formed 37DD-26-38 figure, to her trim ankles, 5' 8" away from the crown of her bright yellow hair, she was stunningly statuesque. He barely heard Mrs. Doherty recount the details of the poor refugee's travails as he silently planned his conquest. Greta's words, however, were branded into his brain. Burning his cheek with an impulsive innocent kiss, she had said breathlessly, "Danke, Father Logan. This is the nicest birthday present for me. I promise you... no matter how HARD... or how LONG... I will enjoy your every task."

Logan grinned into space, rocked back in his leather chair and thought of their first encounter, which occurred after only two weeks of slowly escalating familiarity and gentle words. It had been so easy. It was almost as if Miss Van Der Molen had her own designs on him. Early Labor Day morning, walking into the administration building's kitchen to make his coffee, he had discovered Greta. Standing alone at the stove, she was stirring water in a great pot. He had paused and watched.

Even in low-heeled flat shoes, her firm calves were sculpted beauties disappearing beneath the hem of her muted gray wool circle skirt, which swirled slowly as she stirred. Her hips moved in one direction while her mid-back, behind a horizontally patterned blue-gray-and-beige knit Fair Isle cardigan, undulated oppositely. He was mesmerized while she seemed unaware of him.

Father Logan stepped up close behind her. Closer than was necessary, but not as close as he would have liked, he stood and peered over the girl's right shoulder, past her unignorable outcropping. The kettle was half-full of whole eggs and Greta studiously spun the water in a constant slow eddy as it came to a boil. The spicy honeyed scent of her tulip perfume hung in the tendrils of steam. His sense and senses were devastated. His cock throbbed.

Risking startling the young woman, Logan asked quietly, "Why do you stir the water? Won't the eggs boil anyway?"

Clearly not surprised by his presence, Greta turned her face profile and moved backward a quarter-inch. Her sweater grazed the priest's cassock. "Ja, this is true," she answered with a musical lilt in her Dutch accent. "But, I start with them all covered in cold. It is not good if they are left alone... eggs MOVE. They sometimes crack." She smiled and added, "At home, in Holland, girls learn early... it is important to be careful with eggs."

Automatically, reflexively, unconsciously, Father Logan's hands moved forward and rested lightly on Greta's swaying hips. She did not pause any of her motions, but inhaled deeply. Her breasts rose within the folded V-neck of her three-button French blue cotton shirt. Her décolletage, accented by darted pleats, deepened dramatically. The priest's prick proudly poked through his boxers' vent and brushed his robe against her wool-clad bottom.

Logan raised his hands to the wide four-inch waistband of Greta's skirt and curled his fingertips, pressing them lightly through the wool into her abdomen. Huskily, he asked, "And do you have any other eggs to be 'careful with' this morning?"

Greta made a small noise, then sighed. Her bust sank as her spirit soared. "No, Father," she answered softly. "These are the only ones." She removed the wooden spoon from the pot, set it aside and turned about-face. Firmly gripping Logan's shoulder points, she moved forward, propelling them both to the middle of the kitchen, without dislodging his hands.

Greta compressed her bosom against Logan's chest as she slowly stroked her hands over the priest's strong cloaked biceps to his elbows. Then, inserting her right hand between their bodies, while placing her curved left palm on his taut buttocks, she simultaneously pulled him into her and palped his balls. Lapsing into Dutch, before continuing in English, she spoke carefully. Her separated upturned lips hovered beneath his chin. "Maar hoe zit het met jou? Do YOU know of 'other eggs'... I can heat up for you?"

At his library desk, Bryce crushed his thickening cock with his fist and tugged its length, still within his cassock's folds, through the fly of his drawers. He rubbed his robe across his engorged circumcised glans, flinching as the sensitive head responded to the friction. His mind floated away as he recalled Greta's warm firm coaxing hand. Unnoticed in the doorway of the ambulatory, Mary Trotter stood silently observing the rapt padre.

Father Logan slid his hands under the hem of Greta's unbuttoned sweater and along her ribs to her armpits. His wrists graded the sides of her bulging breasts. Reaching behind her, he pulled her tight to him while his fingers released the hooks-and-eyes securing her bra beneath her blouse. At the same time, he bowed his neck and met her mouth with a deep active kiss. She moaned, flattened her still protected, but unsupported, boobs to his hard hidden pecs and sucked on his probing tongue.

Groaning with desparate need, Logan broke the kiss and rasped, "Yesss! But, HURRY!" Together they lifted their impediments above their waists. Greta pinned her wool circle skirt and rayon half-slip to her ribs with her elbows as she held the priest's soutane high above his heaving gut and rampant rod. Logan swiftly, violently, pushed her white cotton panties down her thighs to his arms' length. She danced her legs until the underwear dropped to the floor where she kicked it free of her left foot.

In a trice, the priest gored Greta's golden gash with his hard horn. She leapt and locked her legs around Logan. Lunging her loins, she fully impaled herself on his spike. He bounced her ass in his hands while he retreated and then thrust firmly forward again. Greta squealed, "Ja! Meer! Dieper... HARDER... Sneller!" He was no linguist, but he did not need to be. Grinning, he pounded away.

Gasping and whimpering, Greta came a gusher. She convulsed as she clung to Logan's chest. Her creaming cunt gripped and released his charging cock; matching the rhythm of his incandescent strokes. When she screeched, "Ik KOM nu!" he unloaded and froze.

Their fury passed even more quickly than it had arrived, leaving the girl clinging limply to Logan's weakening trunk. He bent his knees and she pulled herself free. As they stood, their clothes fell roughly back into place. Greta stooped and retrieved her panties. Her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled. Quickly kissing Logan's nose, she fled the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "Dank u, Vader!"

Still stunned by the significance of the event, the priest watched the girl rush down the hall to the lavatories. "No, my child," he said softly. "Thank YOU!"

Just then, missing the action but hearing his final words, Elizabeth Doherty walked into the kitchen. "Oh, you're welcome, Father," she said cheerfully. "I promised Greta I would help her make the deviled eggs for the picnic." Looking at the kettle on the burner, she said, "GOOD! She's already put the eggs in hot water!" Father Logan forgot about his coffee and left the kitchen for his office, glad he had not been discovered.

Not being as fortunate as he had been eighteen days earlier, Bryce Logan nearly fell out of his chair when Mary coughed lightly and called his name. "Ahem. Father... I'm sorry to... INTERRUPT." She advanced into the room. Shutting the door behind her, she said, as the bolt lock snicked securely, "It WAS open. Should I... come to you... another time?"

Swiveling his chair quickly and hiding his disappearing unrequited erection in the knee-hole of his desk, Logan stammered, "N-no... N-not at ALL, my child." He hated, above all else, the discomfort he felt using paternal language with peers, or older parishioners. Somehow, however, the formality helped him recover his equilibrium. Continuing, as if nothing were wrong, he asked, "How may I help you, Mrs. Trotter?"

Mary smiled enigmatically. "I have a problem to sort out. I hoped you might have... some TIME for me. But, I notice that even priests are not... without their own problems." Moving to his desk, Mary sat on the edge of its far right corner and crossed her right leg over her left, leaving her left foot, in its bone suede two-inch high-heeled mule, flat on the floor. Twisting a quarter-turn and leaning toward Logan, she ate up his personal space with her bust.