Preacher's Son: #1 Unbound
Jasinda Wilder
ORLY Press
www.orlypress.com
This is an erotic short story, or episode. Each episode stands alone, like a TV episode, but is part of a larger story.
WARNING: This story contains explicit sex and erotic scenes, M/F. For adults, 18+ only.
1
He was everything I'd never had before. Not just physically, but who he was, inside and out. He was young, strong, kind...and oh my Lord, so innocent.
I met him in church. He was sitting near the back, staring out the window and not really paying attention. He was the first person I saw when I walked in those chipped white doors with their faded brass handles. He was coiled into the pew, his knees drawn up, his back hunched, long fingers tapping his broad thighs. His messy black hair swept across his brow, covering one eye before he brushed it away absently with a thumb. I barely managed to avoid stumbling on a rip in the threadbare carpet when my heel caught. I was so busy taking in the absurd beauty of him that I just about fell flat on my face.
He saw me, then, too, and I think the awe in his eyes is what did it for me. He looked at me like he'd never seen a woman before, he looked at me like a man in a desert looks at a wellspring. I'd never had anyone look at me like that, with a naked desire, unadorned wonder.
The only open seat was at the aisle-end, one row up from him. I took it and sat down just as the white-haired old lady left off her godawful pounding on the poor little tan upright piano. She'd been murdering "Old Rugged Cross" as the congregation took their places, and I was the last one in. Apropos, that was. It was at least ten years since I'd last been in a church—outside of weddings and Christmas—so coming into this little Reformed Baptist chapel was an act of will, a challenge to myself.
I'd fled back to the South after things with Dan went to hell, just packed a couple bags, withdrew all the money in my hidden account and hopped the first plane away from nasty old Atlantic City. I wanted distance, I wanted space, I wanted away. I got off the plane in Atlanta, rented a car and drove West until I hit Jackson, Mississippi, and I spent the night there in a seedy old motel off the freeway, roach-infested, stinking to high-heaven, and oh my Lord, so quiet.
I grew up in the South, a couple of lifetimes ago. Dan had swept me away from Savannah when I was sixteen, lured me north with promises of money and excitement and fun and endless sex, and he'd provided all that for a few years, and then things changed, as things do with men like him. He got bored, I guess. I wasn't exciting anymore, wasn't new and shiny and tempting. All I can do is guess though, 'cause Dan never told me anything. Just flung money at me and left me for his call girls and his whores and his gambling bunnies and who knows what else. I doubt he ever noticed I was gone, probably. He didn't care what I did, and he was so rich from owning the casino that I could siphon off money left and right and he never said a word. I started that about two years in, when I realized he didn't really love me. It took a long time, but eventually I had enough money stashed away that I knew I could make it on my own, and I split.
By then, of course, he never bothered with me. Rarely came home, never spoke to me. I was just the trophy wife, beautiful and pointless. I tried to find satisfaction elsewhere, once, with one of the card dealers, but Dan made it violently clear, to me and to the poor dealer, that he wouldn't stand for it. I never tried that again.
So, I ran off with a couple million dollars and no clue what to do with myself.
I buzzed north from Jackson in my little Audi Quattro, top down, feeling finally free. I'd spent a while in Jackson, maybe a year, a year and a half, just taking time to be me. Then, one day, I up and took a little drive, followed US-49 into this little tiny place in the middle of nowhere, full of nothing. It was slow and sleepy and beautiful in its own way, and I liked it, found an empty house to rent, filled it with new things, moved in, and that was how I ended up in little Yazoo City.
The thing to remember about the South is that in little places like Yazoo, you go to church. You just do. You don't have to believe it, but you pay your dues and pretend, like everyone else.
I picked that church because it was a cute little building, white clapboards and three cracked concrete steps and a steeple with a black iron bell. There was a cemetery out back behind it, all ancient headstones from the civil war and before, surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence. Farther back still was a little knoll crowned by a spreading oak tree, complete with a rope swing. I pictured myself on the swing, just kicking my heels in the humid air, and that was it...that was the church I'd go to.
Oh my Lord, how little did I know what that decision would start.
Sitting there, listening to the pastor's booming, stentorian voice, I felt the dark-haired young man watching me, trying gamely not to stare, and failing. I liked his eyes on me. I felt sexy, just sitting there, with his chocolate eyes straining for a glimpse of my breasts.
He was maybe twenty-one, twenty-two, and he had the tan skin and lean muscle of a man who spends all his time outside, working hard and playing hard. He had a thin white scar along his jaw, and I wondered how he'd gotten it. His hands were toying with the crease in his khaki pants, and I wanted, so badly, to feel those hands on me. That wanting him to touch me, it was a sudden desire, springing up in my belly and taking hold. It was silly, cause I was turning thirty-four in a few weeks, and I'd just gotten shut of a man, yet here I was, wanting this sexy beast of a guy, just out of his teens.
I was twisted in the pew, sitting sideways with my legs crossed, a casual enough position, but one carefully thought-out to let me look at him, and to give him a good eyeful of my thighs and my breasts. I'd dressed in the nicest clothes I had, which I realized as soon as I walked in were too nice, too revealing, too expensive.
The sermon dragged on forever, and the entire time, he and I were making eyes at each other, trading I-wasn't-staring glances away. When the old woman sat down at the piano and dug into a horrific rendition of "Oh What A Friend We Have In Jesus", I bolted. I mean, I nearly ran out of that church. I clicked down the steps in my too-high heels, stretching my legs as far as my too-tight skirt would let me.
He wasn't far behind, although I didn't dare look to see. I could feel him, though. His eyes were on my ass as I climbed the hill, and I gave my hips an extra sway on my way to the swing. The ropes were scratchy, fuzzy, generations-old hemp, the fibers sticking to my palms as I gripped them, and the weathered, gray wooden plank seat was rough, small, and hard under my bottom. I kicked my heels gently, giving me a little momentum. I kept my knees pressed together as he approached, a life-long habit of a woman who's spent her life in skirts.
When he made it up the hill and stood staring at me, mouth open a little as he hunted for words, I let my knees go apart, just a touch. I had to make myself do it though. My mind and my libido wanted me to let him get a glimpse, just a teasing look, but physical habit wanted me to keep my knees together.
My libido won.
His eyes darted to my thighs, to the little triangle of darkness between them. His zipper bulged out slightly, and I let my knees part a bit more. He was still looking for something to say, and I could see his hands shaking a little. Looking at him, then, I realized he wasn't just another congregation member; he had the same jaw and the same long nose as the pastor, the same towering height, although he was still lean and fit, where the pastor was running to two or three spare tires around his middle. This was the pastor's son. The preacher's kid. My own father had been a preacher, before he died of a heart attack the year I left with my Dan. I knew what PK's were like: sheltered, sequestered, kept innocent of the world and its wicked ways. Kept away from women like me.
I took pity on his awkwardness. "Hi," I said, sticking out my hand.
"Hi." His voice didn't break, but it was pitched low, as if he was afraid to talk too loud.
He shook my hand gently, not limp or featherlight, and not crushing, just a gentle, firm touch. His eyes kept wandering to my cleavage, and I found myself arching my back to make my breasts look bigger, to give him a better show.
"I'm Shea," I said. "Shea Harley."
He smiled, a bright, amused grin. "Shea Harley? Wow, that's a cool name." He ducked his head, and a lock of black hair fell across his eye; I was already growing to adore that stray lock of hair and the thumb that brushed it aside. "I'm Tre."
He said it "Tray". I must've given him a curious look, because he shrugged his shoulders and looked embarrassed.
"It's a nickname. My initial are T-R-E: Timothy Robert Evan. I hate my name, so I go by Tre."
I kept swinging, letting my foot brush his leg at each apex. "I like that. Tre. It fits you so much better than Tim. You're not a Tim." He shifted forward, and when I swung forward again, I let my foot slide up his calf to the back of his knee.
It was a first hesitant flirt, just to see how he'd react. He glanced at the offending foot, and then at me, as if wondering what I could mean by it, and what he was supposed to do in return. I could see him thinking, figuring, wondering.
"So, Tre. What do you do?"
He shrugged. "I work at a garage, changing oil and fixing cars and such. Daddy wants me to go to seminary, but I'm just not sure I want to. I ain't decided yet."
"Your dad's the preacher, right?"
"Yep. Although don't let him hear you call him 'Preacher'. He's a pastor, he says. He's got a whole lecture on how a pastor is called to the pulpit and his flock, while anyone can preach."
"And you don't want to be a pastor?" I swung forward again, and this time I caught myself on his legs with my feet, hanging there by my hooked toes, and then swinging free again.
Tre shrugged again, but I could tell there was a lot on his mind, a lot expressed by that nonchalant shrug. "Not really. I just ain't felt the call, you know? I never been outside of Mississippi, and I've barely ever left Yazoo. I just...I don't know. Seems like there might be more out there for me than one little town, one little church, for all my life."
He fell silent, and he seemed embarrassed. I don't think he meant to say all that.
"Well, I think you oughta make your own choices," I said, standing up.
There was only two steps between us, and I took one, so I was just inside his personal space. My breasts were nearly brushing his chest, and he was valiantly trying to keep his eyes on mine.
"You know, you're right about one thing, Tre. There is a whole world out there. You just never know what you might find." I fanned my face with my hand. "It sure is hot out here, isn't it?"
I had my blouse buttoned up to just above my cleavage, and the button at the bulge of my breasts was straining. I met his eyes, held them, and slowly, so slowly let my hand drift up to that button, touched it with my finger. Tre's tongue touched the corner of his lips, and I nearly kissed him then. He knew I was playing a game, so I kept playing it. He was waiting, and I drew the moment out. I circled the little white button with my index finger, then pinched it and pushed it through, tugged my blouse apart so a greater expanse of cleavage was revealed.
It took a lot longer, then, for his burning mocha eyes to return to mine.
"You're hot," he blurted, then closed his eyes in acute embarrassment.
I laughed, shifting forward, closer to him. "Thank you, Tre. I think you're pretty hot, yourself."
He looked confused by this. "You do?"
I nodded. "Mmmmm-hmmm. I do. You're sexy." He blushed scarlet.
He seemed to be trying to come up with something else to say. "No one's ever told me that, before."
"Well, you are. If they all can't see that, well...they're blind." I was pressed up against him, now, not crushed closed like I wanted to be, but close.
He was looking down at me, searching my eyes like they held some inscrutable secret. "Shea, I should probably go. My dad's gonna wonder where I'm at. We usually have lunch after sermon."
"Aww," I said, genuinely disappointed. "I was hoping to talk to you some more."
"You were?" He seemed shocked by that.
"Yeah, I was. Maybe you could come over to my house, sometime, have some sweet tea with me."
He shifted his weight, obviously struggling with the decision. After a long moment, he nodded. "I'm off work all day tomorrow."
I dug in my purse, pulled out an old gas station receipt and scribbled my address on it. He needed something bold, a gesture that'd hint at what I really wanted; I slipped the card into his back pocket, and I left my hand there, not squeezing—although Lord knows I wanted to grope his tight little ass—just resting in his pocket. I kissed him, just for good measure. It was a light thing, a peck on his lips, a lingering touch. He tensed, startled, and then parted his lips against mine, making the kiss into something more.
I pulled away first, and he looked disappointed.
"Why don't you swing by around lunchtime?" I said.
He just nodded, licking his lips, probably still tasting my lipstick. He looked shocked, both at me and at himself.
I hoped he'd show up the next day. I wanted to show him what he'd been missing all his life, and it sure as shit wasn't sweet tea I had in mind.
My own hunger surprised me. Watching him go, I felt a twinge of guilt; I was seducing a preacher's kid.
2
He knocked, rather than ringing the doorbell. It was a light, hesitant knock. He was nervous, I could tell just by that. I went to the door, tugging my yellow sundress down, adjusting my breasts higher. My heart was hammering in my chest. I brushed a lock of my thick black hair back and smoothed my dress over my thighs, opened the door.
He was wearing tight blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt with a thick leather belt. Oh, my Lord. His arms were brawny and bulging with the power of youth, and the shirt clung to his stomach. I felt desire pooling in my belly, turning to fire as his eyes devoured my body.
"You're here," I said.
It felt like a foolish thing to say, but he just nodded and stepped inside, brushing close to me.
"I'm here," he repeated.
I took a deep breath and gathered myself. I wasn't really nervous so much as flushed with anticipation. I closed the door and put my back to it.
"Well, I'm glad you came." I took his hand, leaned in to kiss him.
He kissed me back, clumsy but ardent. I stepped into him, pressing my body up against him. He tensed and pulled away.
"I thought we were having sweet tea?"
I went for broke: "That was just to get you here. I do have sweet tea, but...I had something else in mind."
His eyes darted around the foyer, to the kitchen, and last to the stairs. "You did? What else did you...did you have in mind?"
His confusion was so cute, so innocent. He just didn't want to believe the signals he was obviously receiving in spades. I ran my hands down his chest and back up, touching his cheek. I stared up into his eyes, trying to communicate too much with one little look.
"Well, Tre, it starts with kissing you," I said, and touched my lips to his jaw, then to his ear, then to his neck, still holding one of his hands.
I led that hand to my back and left it there. He took the cue, tentatively exploring my back, daring down my hip, hesitating there. I kept my eyes on his, smiled my encouragement and pushed my breasts against him. He took a deep breath and moved his hand around from my hip to my backside. I curled into his chest, put my hand to the soft thatch of hair at the back of his neck and pulled him down into a kiss, and this time I made it full and deep, putting a promise into it, slipping my tongue between his lips to touch his.
He pulled away and looked down at me. "What are we doing, Shea?"
I knew he was asking a whole bunch of things. His eyes showed the conflict: d
esire and guilt.
"I like you. I want you."
"You want me?" He licked his lips, eyes darting over my face and my eyes. "What do you mean, you want me? And why me?"
I laughed. "Why you? I don't know, other than....I like you. I think you're sexy, and I like kissing you. I want to kiss you more."
His eyebrows dug down, and I saw desire winning the war. I ground my hips into his, felt the hardening length of his penis through his jeans.
"Is it...should we...I mean..."
"Tre, if you don't think you should, then don't. I want you to want me, but if you don't, then you can go, and nobody will know anything different. So the question is, do you want me?"
"I—yeah, I do, but—"
"Do you like kissing me?"
"Well, yeah, I do, but—"
Time for the clincher: "Do you think kissing me is wrong? Is that what you're afraid of?" He nodded. "Don't be afraid, Tre. Remember how we talked about making your own choices?"
He nodded again, thinking. I could feel the decision clicking into place.
"Make this choice for you, for what you want. It's not about your father, or your future. It's just about you and me," I said. "If you want to go, you can. I'll still be your friend, and I won't be mad or anything. But I would like it if you stayed with me."
His hands both moved to my ass, squeezed, caressed, explored, and he kissed me. "I'll stay," he said, his voice husky.
"Good," I said. "I was hoping you would."
"I'm a little nervous," he said.
"That's okay," I told him. "You're allowed to be. But you don't have to be."
I took him by the hand and led him upstairs to my bedroom, let him stop in the French doorway and take in my room, my king size four-poster bed and the wide window overlooking a field of wildflowers. I led him down the three steps and stood in front of him at the foot of the bed.
I turned around and presented my back, pulling my hair over a shoulder. "Why don't you unzip my dress for me?"
He took the zipper with two trembling fingers and drew it downward, slowly. I stood still and let him go at his own pace. When the zipper was at my waist, put his hands on my bare shoulders and pushed the straps off, letting the dress fall to the floor. I turned around and let him look at me.
The Preacher's Son #1: Unbound Page 1
