Les Autres Ch. 04

Bryce's throat dried up as if he had swallowed alum. Frantic to reclaim the lost buffer, he leaned back and pushed away from the desk. Unfortunately for him, his stiff prick had merely transferred its interest from his reminiscence to the here-and-now. Outside the knee-hole, it stood proudly through his boxers' fly and tented his black cassock. Mary ran the tip of her tongue over her dark cherry lipstick and cooed, "Aren't you sweet to THINK of me like that!"

Standing again, she wagged her finger at Logan, just as she might to her nine-year-old son, Arthur. "Don't you move a MUSCLE," Mary warned sternly, then stepped to the library door leading to the priest's office. Shutting and locking this, like the hall entry, she swiftly returned and knelt between the desk drawers and the bookshelves.

"Now, let me get right to the ROOT of it," Mary said in a strangely low voice which brooked no argument. She turned Father Logan, and his chair, centering his knees, spread within his robe, on her shoulders. Whisking his soutane up to his thighs, she sighed her satisfaction at the sight of his fat red-topped six-inch erection pulling his nuts up through the vent of his shorts. "Yes, you're terribly swollen, Father," she said somberly. "You need immediate direct topical attention."

Delivering on her prescription, Mary kissed the drooling slit in Logan's plum. She raced her tongue around the helmet's rim, dragging his pre-cum, and her saliva, like a bride's train. The priest groaned under her expertise and laid his clasped hands on top of her head. "Bless you, Mary," he intoned as he pressed her face down.

Opening her mouth and relaxing her throat, Mary drew the solid staff through her lips and sealed them halfway down its length. She sucked and teased while her hands pushed through the loose leg hems of Logan's shorts. She drug her thumbnails sharply over his inner thighs' soft sensitive skin as she moved ever higher to her destination.

Father Logan's hands worked back and forth in the flaxen hair at Mary's temples as he muttered his pleasure, in guttural Latin, while she sucked his cock. Her fingers, now burrowed in his groin, grasped his testicles from below and tugged them downward, stretching them against their natural desire to tighten and shrink. Logan agonized as she pressed her thumbs to the base of his stalk while she swallowed the rest of its length.

Sliding. Pulling. Sucking. Pinching. Mary kept her prey on edge, stopping him short of completion so many times that he wanted to scream his ecstatic frustration. In fact, Father Logan opened his mouth and did yell, as loud as he could, "LET me COME! Please, GOD! LET me!" He was very confused why no sound but a tiny pathetic babbling incoherence gave out.

Mary thought to herself, as she drove her long left middle fingertip into Bryce's tight anus, "This is for YOU, Eli!" Logan squeezed her head and pushed as he lunged his hips. Mary released his pressure point and drilled her nail, deeper by a knuckle, into his rectum.

While he fucked her throat, to his own maximum depth, Logan's prayer was answered. He exploded his first salvo and followed immediately with successive powerful bursts. Feeling his seed spout through his nozzle, he wondered, amazed, at his own prolific production so soon after having fully fucked Greta.

Mary, unaware of such limitation, was likewise impressed with the volume she extracted. At last, as always, the storm subsided. She kept Logan lodged, tugging on him sweetly while she enjoyed his natural diminishment from rock to sponge to noodle. When he was fully soft and small again, Mary pulled her head from the priest's lap and looked up at his exhausted countenance. Licking her lips once more, though they were now devoid of her Revlon gloss, she tucked away the tired penis, lowered the robe and stood up.

Bending over Logan, who lay slumped in his tipped back leather chair, Mary kissed him fully on his mouth. He tasted his cum and smelled her sex-scented breath as she buzzed against his lips, "THERE, now, Father. THAT'S done... but what about ME?"

Without waiting for an answer, Mary unbuttoned her bolero suit jacket, removed it and hung it over the back of a nearby straight chair. The priest watched, interested, but helpless. Reaching behind her waist, Mary unhooked her pencil skirt's tab and slid its zipper down. Slowly, she rotated her pelvis in a full circle as she pulled the linen past her hips to her thighs. Stepping out of the skirt, she folded it carefully and draped it over her jacket.

Swaying, like a poplar in a breeze, Mary opened the single hook-and-eye closure at the rear of her sleeveless bronze silk blouse's high oval neckline. Bending forward at her waist, she inverted the flimsy top smoothly over her head and shook it like a handkerchief. Father Logan, incredibly, sensed a tense stirring between his legs.

Mary turned, laid her inside-out blouse on top of her skirt, then, while facing away from the abject priest, slipped her cream silk half-slip down her legs and stepped out of it. Abruptly spinning about-face, she tossed the slip to her awed audience. It fluttered and landed, uncaught, on the startled cleric's face. She laughed a light and friendly lilt, and removed her mules while he cleared the silk from his eyes.

No longer merely stirring, Bryce Logan's dick was again trying to stand on its own inside its prison as he stared at Mary Trotter, now standing before him in bra, panties, suspenders and hose. She was an ivory-and-cream vision of loveliness. Mary stepped forward and turned a slow pirouette, ending faced away. Bending at her waist, she unhooked her garters, front and rear. Her bottom stretched the thin sheer fabric of her rayon panties. Her peach winked around the tight gusset.

Straightening up, Mary turned ninety degrees to her left, lifted her right foot to the chair's seat and rolled her gossamer nylon to her toes. Then, slapping her inner thigh smartly, she winked and turned a hundred and eighty degrees right, pausing in the middle to wriggle and flex her panty-clad sweetheart buns. Raising her near foot to the chair, she slowly removed her left stocking. After laying her hose lightly on her blouse, Mary again closed the gap between her and Logan.

"NOW, Father," she said decisively, "the tricky stuff has been dealt with." Straddling his knees, she danced forward until her shins bumped the chair's padded leading edge. "It's up to YOU to finish me off." With her arms akimbo and her hands on her hips, she jutted her juicing camel-toe forward. "Of course, you may start where you like," she whispered breathily, as she picked up the priest's left hand and traced her cunny's outline with his fingertips. "But I'm VERY itchy... right... HERE."

Bryce felt very hot. So, too, did Mary's little cunt. He drug his index finger the length of its short spreading lips behind its rayon shield. Her lubricants oozed up through the transparent wet material and coated him. Wordlessly, he raised both his hands to her waist and pulled down the underwear, exposing the scant translucently pale curls nestling above her excited stiff clit. He leaned forward in his chair. Mary pushed her panties below her knees, then writhed until they bunched loosely at her ankles.

Losing patience with the chase, Mary barked admonishment at her quarry. "Oh, DO get ON with it!" She reached out, pulled his head the final three inches toward her and face-planted the priest against her pussy. Snapping out of his stupor, Bryce latched onto her little bald man and gripped Mary's quivering bottom with his strong hands. "Uhnnnn! F-Fine-ally, uhnnnn, YESS! Oh GOD, YES!" She shuddered with joy as Logan's lips and tongue took her to task.

While Bryce bulldozed Mary's tremulous trench, she climbed, on her knees, onto the black leather chair cushion. Forced once again to sit back, Father Logan tenaciously sucked and slurped the slurry sluicing in Mary's slit. The chair tilted perilously, prevented from tipping over only by the oak bookshelves behind the desk. Bryce bumped the top of his head on the leather-bound spine of Virgil's 'Aeneid'. Mary yipped with the jolt, as he nipped her tender button.

Sliding down his body, Mary substituted her mouth for her cunt and smashed her lips against Logan's teeth. He scarcely missed a beat as he exchanged her clitoris for her tongue. Whimpering into his maw, Mary furiously worked her fingers on the uppermost of the priest's thirty-three cassock buttons. While she attacked his soutane, and he continued his oral assault, Logan clawed Mary's back. Her bra strap burst under his crimping nails. Her mature full breasts settled onto his exposed T-shirt, carrying their weight and heat through his chest as she collapsed against him.

Inspired, Logan launched himself from his chair, carrying Mary with him. Finding their feet only momentarily, the couple continued past the top of their natural arc. Bryce intuitively broke their kiss in mid-air and Mary's breath escaped with a whoosh as her back whomped onto the cleared desk's blotter. Her legs flew up, embracing Logan's back as he hunched in an 'L' over her.

With a single glorious swinging stroke, Father Logan entered Mary with his remarkably renewed rosy-nosed ramrod. She gasped, then sighed and hugged her Godsend as his charging champion filled her fully. Hard as a rock, and spiritually revived, Bryce was nonetheless still systemically depleted; both by Mary's blowjob and Greta's after-breakfast fuck. Like a machine, however, he rocked on. His piston pounded into Mary with deep tireless thrusts. He grinned with the feeling of absolute control.

Mary squealed and squeaked as he shredded her every nerve. She beat upon his back with her fists, curled her toes and hyperventilated. Her orgasmic paroxysms were unrelenting. Dizzy from ecstatically rolling her head on the desk, Mary bleated as she came continuously, "Yes, YES, Father! OH GOD! Fuck me, Father, FUCK ME!"

Between his grunts and her yelps, the priest chanted responsively, "YES, my child. Come unto me. COME! COME unto ME!" Grimly supervising her penance, Father Logan remorselessly rammed Mary until she lay destroyed. Her flushed brow was beaded with sweat. Her lank hair splayed out upon the blotter. Her eyes were closed. Only her heaving breasts, running rife with her perspiration, gave any sign of her life force.

Bryce, also exhausted, withdrew his stem from Mary's peach. Sensing it was no longer useful, his prick promptly wilted. He leaned over his prostrated parishioner and whispered softly into her ear, "Come to me anytime, Mrs. Trotter... I'm here to serve my flock."