Laura's Dad and Ruth. Episode II
Please read Laura’s Dad and Ruth first.
Laura was conflicted, she had watched her dad with a couple and found herself masturbating. Did she want to replace her dad's lover? Did she want to replace her dad? Did she want to replace her dad's lover's husband who just watched?
Laura chewed the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. The idea had slithered into her brain during Ethics 101—Pastor Ford’s voice droning through her memory about confession and absolution while her professor discussed Kant. Her fingers twitched against her phone screen, pulling up the church directory before she could second-guess herself. Ruth’s contact photo smiled back at her—a headshot from last year’s women’s retreat, her pearl necklace perfectly centered against a navy blazer.
The coffee shop door jingled with forced cheerfulness as Laura shouldered her way inside. Ruth was already seated near the back, her usual thermos replaced by a ceramic mug with the café’s logo. Her posture was textbook perfect—spine straight, hands folded neatly on the table—but Laura noticed the frayed edge of her thumbnail, the way her eyes flicked to the door every thirty-seven seconds exactly.
Laura said to Ruth, "I have a personal problem I'd like to discuss with the Pastor, can you arrange an interview?"
Ruth's fingers tightened around her mug, the porcelain clinking softly against the saucer. Her lips parted—a practiced, pastoral smile already forming—but her eyes darted to Laura’s face with a sharpness that wasn’t there during Sunday school. "Of course," she said, too quickly. The steam from her chamomile tea curled between them like incense. "Is this about your Confirmation classes?"
Laura watched a drop of condensation slide down Ruth’s water glass. "More of a... personal issue."
Ruth’s teacup froze halfway to her lips. Laura watched the tremor in her wrist—the slightest quiver that made the liquid tremble near the rim before Ruth set it down with deliberate care. The café noise around them blurred into white noise, the clatter of spoons and murmur of conversations fading as Ruth’s gaze sharpened. "Personal how?" she asked, her voice low enough that Laura had to lean forward to catch it.
Laura traced a finger along the edge of her own mug, the ceramic still searing from the fresh pour. "I think I'd like to discuss that with Pastor Ford," she murmured, lifting her eyes just enough to catch the way Ruth’s throat moved when she swallowed.
Ruth's hand jerked slightly, sloshing tea onto the saucer. The liquid pooled like spilled sacrament wine. "Pastor Ford is quite busy with the Lenten preparations," she said, her voice smooth as polished pews. But Laura didn't miss the way her thumb rubbed at the gold band on her ring finger—a nervous tic she'd never seen in twelve years of Bible studies.
Laura leaned back, letting the silence stretch until it grew uncomfortable. The café's overhead lights reflected in Ruth's pearl necklace, casting tiny white dots across her collarbone—the same necklace that had swung wildly against sweat-slicked skin in the footage. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important," Laura finally said, watching as Ruth's fingers twitched toward her phone.
Laura watched Ruth's knuckles pale around her phone, the same fingers that had clawed at her father's sheets now tapping out a message with mechanical precision. The screen flashed once—sent—before Ruth tucked the device back into her purse with the brisk efficiency of someone hiding evidence. "Pastor Ford can see you tomorrow after vespers," she said, her voice stripped of its usual honeyed warmth. "His office. Seven-thirty."
The steam from Laura’s untouched coffee curled between them like a question mark. She nodded, her thumbnail digging into the pad of her index finger. "Perfect." The word tasted bitter
Laura arrived a little early and knocked on Pastor Ford's office door.
"Come in, come in."
.
The door creaked open before Laura’s knuckles could make contact a second time. Pastor Ford stood there, his broad frame filling the doorway, his crisp Sunday suit replaced by a rumpled sweater that smelled faintly of incense and something muskier underneath. His smile was warm, practiced—the same one he used when greeting parishioners after service—but his eyes flicked over her shoulder into the empty hallway before ushering her inside.
His office was smaller than she remembered, the bookshelves looming too close, the leather-bound volumes pressing in like silent witnesses. A single desk lamp cast a yellow pool of light across his blotter, illuminating an open Bible and a half-empty glass of what looked like whiskey. Ford followed her gaze and smoothly slid a sermon notebook over the glass. “Late nights,” he said with a chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. “Sermon writing.”
Laura's fingers brushed against the little black camera in her jacket pocket—smaller than a matchbox now, upgraded since the first one—as she took the chair opposite Ford. The leather sighed under her weight, cold through her jeans.
"You look troubled," Ford said, steepling his fingers. The desk lamp caught the silver in his wedding band. "Ruth mentioned this was... personal."
Laura said, "Yes, very personal. I have feelings of a sexual nature for my daddy. I know it's wrong but I can't help my feelings."
Pastor Ford's fingers froze mid-steeple. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the distant hum of the church's HVAC system. Then, very slowly, he leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight like an old pew. "Feelings," he repeated, the word careful and round in his mouth like a communion wafer. His gaze flicked to the door—just once—before settling back on Laura with an intensity that made her pulse jump.
Laura watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, the movement sharp beneath his stubble. The whiskey glass twitched under his sermon notes when he shifted, amber liquid catching the lamplight. "These feelings," he said at last, his voice dropping into the cadence he used for confessional counselling, "have you acted on them?" His thumb rubbed absently at his wedding band, rotating it in a slow circle she'd seen him do during altar calls.
"No, although I have masturbated thinking about it."
Pastor Ford’s exhale was slow—controlled—like a man counting seconds between lightning and thunder. His fingers flexed, then stilled on the desk blotter, leaving faint sweat marks on the paper. "Laura," he said, and the way he lingered on her name made it sound like a prayer and a warning all at once. "This is... serious."
She watched his tongue dart out to wet his lips, a quick, unconscious motion that betrayed his composure. The air between them thickened with the scent of old books, whiskey, and something darker—something that coiled low in her stomach. Laura shifted in the chair, the leather sticking to the backs of her thighs. "I know it is," she whispered. "That's why I came to you."
Laura continued, "I know daddy has lovers but he has been discreet and I don't know who they are. I have also had thoughts of joining in with his lovers in a threesome."
Pastor Ford's knuckles whitened around the edge of his desk blotter, the leather creaking under his grip. He exhaled through his nose—slow, measured—like he was counting beats between verses in a hymn. Laura could see the pulse in his throat jump beneath his collar. "Joining in," he repeated, his voice dropping into that rich timbre he reserved for sermons about temptation. His fingers twitched toward the whiskey glass before curling into a fist. "Have you... fantasized about this?"
"Well, not specifically, when I masturbate it's a part of my fantasy"
Pastor Ford's breath hitched—a tiny, involuntary sound swallowed by the ticking clock on his bookshelf. His fingers twitched toward his collar, loosening it just enough to reveal the flushed skin beneath. "Fantasies are natural," he said carefully, but his voice had taken on a gravelly quality Laura had never heard during Sunday sermons. "But acting on them..." His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered there a second too long.
"Look Pastor Ford, one of the reasons that I have come to you is because of how close you and daddy are through his work with your church. I know how much he respects you and I was hoping you could discuss my problem with him to enable a satisfactory resolution."
Pastor Ford's fingers stilled against his desk blotter, his wedding band catching the lamplight as he rotated it slowly. The silence stretched between them, thick with the scent of old books and the faint tang of whiskey seeping through his sermon notes. When he finally spoke, his voice was low—not the measured cadence of confession, but something rougher, intimate. "Laura," he said, and her name sounded like a sacrament on his tongue. "Your father... he's a complicated man."
Laura leaned forward, her elbows pressing into the leather arms of the chair. The little black camera in her pocket was a cold weight against her thigh. "Complicated how?"
Pastor Ford's fingers traced the rim of his whiskey glass, the crystal ringing with a soft, dissonant note. He leaned back in his chair, the leather groaning as his weight shifted—the sound disturbingly similar to the bedsprings in Laura’s footage. "Your father," he began, then paused to wet his lips again, "has... needs. Spiritual needs." His thumb rubbed slow circles on the glass, smearing the condensation. "The flesh is weak, Laura."
Laura pressed her knees together under the desk, the seam of her jeans digging into her skin. "I know it is," she murmured. The lie came easily—too easily—as she studied the way Ford's fingers trembled around the glass. Not from nerves, she realized, but restraint. "That's why I need guidance."
Pastor Ford's chair groaned again as he leaned forward, the desk lamp casting shadows that hollowed out his cheeks. His fingers steepled once more, but this time they trembled—just slightly—like a preacher fighting the urge to reach for a parishioner's hands during altar call. "Guidance," he echoed, and the word tasted different now, heavier. His gaze flicked to the whiskey glass again, then to the closed door behind Laura.
The clock on Pastor Ford’s bookshelf ticked louder in the silence that followed. Laura watched as his thumb resumed its slow rotation of his wedding band—a nervous tic she’d seen him perform a dozen times during Sunday sermons, though never with this tension coiled in his shoulders. His tongue darted out to wet his lips again, and she caught the faintest tremble in it before he spoke. "Your father," he began, then stopped, his jaw tightening as if the words tasted bitter. "David has... confided in me. About his... struggles."
"Do his struggles include me, Pastor Ford?"
Pastor Ford’s fingers froze around his whiskey glass. The liquid inside trembled, catching the lamplight in jagged amber shards. His throat worked—once, twice—before he set the glass down with deliberate care, aligning it perfectly with the ring of condensation on his sermon notes. "Laura," he said, and her name sounded like it had been dragged through gravel. "That’s not... appropriate for me to discuss."
Laura leaned forward, letting the camera’s weight shift in her pocket. "But you just said he’s confided in you." Her voice dropped to a whisper, fraying at the edges. "Does he... think about me like that?"
"I'll take your silence as a yes, Pastor. You've given me the confidence to tell my daddy that I love him, not just as a daughter but as a woman."
Pastor Ford's breath left him in a rush, as if Laura had punched him in the gut. His hands flattened on the desk blotter, fingers splaying wide like a man bracing against a storm. The lamplight caught the sweat beading along his hairline. "Laura," he said—too loud, then softer, "that's not what I—"
The office door clicked open. Ruth stood framed in the doorway, her pearl necklace perfectly straight against her throat, her hand still on the doorknob. Her gaze darted between them—Ford's flushed face, Laura's calculated slouch—before settling on the whiskey glass half-hidden under Ford's notes. "Am I interrupting?" Her voice was cool, polished, but Laura saw the way her knuckles whitened around the doorknob.
Laura said, "no, the confidential counselling session has finished, I feel so much better, so much happier, so confident for my future."
Ruth’s lips pressed into a thin line, her nostrils flaring slightly as she inhaled through her nose—a tell Laura recognized from years of Sunday school discipline. The click of the door latch snapping shut behind her was unnaturally loud in the strained silence. "Good," Ruth said, her voice honeyed steel. "Pastor Ford’s next appointment is waiting." Her gaze lingered on Ford’s hands, still spread flat on the desk blotter, his wedding band gleaming under the lamplight.
Laura stood slowly, letting her fingers brush the edge of Ford’s desk as she rose. The leather chair released her with a soft sigh. "Thank you, Pastor," she murmured, tilting her head just enough to catch the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when she leaned in slightly. "You’ve been... illuminating."
Laura knew exactly what her next move would be. She knew the time and day that Ruth had arranged to be with daddy. She intended to be home when Pastor Ford and Ruth arrived and after a short time she would walk in naked and join in.
Laura's phone buzzed against her thigh—three short vibrations, then silence. She didn't need to check the screen to know it was the motion alert from the little black camera in her father's bedroom. The sun had barely set, but she could already picture Ruth's pearl necklace gleaming under the dim bedside lamp, Pastor Ford's fingers loosening his collar in that practiced, hungry way.
She timed her arrival perfectly. The house was quiet when she slipped inside, the only sound the distant hum of the air conditioner struggling against the summer heat. Upstairs, the rhythmic creak of bedsprings had already begun—a familiar cadence now, after weeks of surveillance. Laura paused at the foot of the stairs, her fingers tracing the hem of her sundress. The fabric was thin, almost sheer in the fading light. She'd chosen it carefully.
Laura climbed the stairs barefoot, each step measured to avoid creaks. The scent of sandalwood incense—her father's favorite—drifted down the hallway, mingling with the faint musk of sweat and something darker. The bedroom door stood ajar, just enough to reveal a sliver of lamplight cutting through the dimness. She paused there, listening to the wet sounds of mouths meeting, the sharp gasp that followed when Ford's palm connected with Ruth's bare thigh.
Her fingers found the hem of her sundress again, lifting it slowly over her head. The fabric whispered against her skin as it pooled at her feet. Cool air prickled across her bare shoulders, her nipples hardening in the draft from the air vent above. She stepped out of her panties next, leaving them tangled with the dress—a silent offering at the threshold. She looked down and was pleased with what she saw, full, firm breasts not yet beginning to sag, a trimmed pussy and her labia already glistening with moisture in anticipation.
Laura pushed the door open with two fingers, letting it swing inward with deliberate silence. The scene inside froze—Ruth mid-arch against the headboard, Ford's hand tangled in her hair, David's head snapping toward the doorway. The lamplight caught the sweat on their skin, glistening like oil in the dimness.
"Laura—" David started, his voice strangled, but she was already moving forward, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. She saw Ruth's eyes widen, saw Ford's grip tighten reflexively on Ruth's hip—not pushing her away, but holding her in place as if to witness. Laura stepped into the light, letting it trace the curve of her waist, the dip of her hips. She'd practiced this walk in front of her mirror for weeks.
The air thickened with the scent of sandalwood and sex as Laura crossed the threshold, her pulse hammering in her throat. David's mouth hung open, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath Ruth’s outstretched arm—still pinned to the headboard by Ford’s grip. The pastor hadn’t moved, but his fingers flexed against Ruth’s hipbone, his knuckles paling as Laura stepped closer.
Laura climbed onto daddy's bed. She leaned over and kissed Ruth before kissing her dad. "I'd like to join in please."
The bed creaked under Laura's weight, an old familiar sound that now carried a new, electric tension. Ruth's lips were softer than she'd imagined—warm and yielding beneath hers, tasting faintly of peppermint and something darker. When she pulled back, Ruth's pupils were blown wide, her breath coming in shallow hitches against Laura's cheek.
David made a sound low in his throat—half protest, half groan—as Laura turned to him. His hands hovered awkwardly above her bare shoulders, trembling with the effort of restraint. "Laura, you don't—"
Laura silenced him with a kiss—firmer than Ruth’s, deliberate in its insistence. The scratch of his stubble against her lips was foreign yet familiar, like revisiting a distant memory through adult eyes. When she pulled back, his breath was ragged, his fingers now tangled in the sheets instead of her skin.
Pastor Ford hadn’t moved except to tighten his grip on Ruth’s hipbone, his thumb digging into the soft flesh there. Laura watched the tendons in his forearm flex as Ruth arched against him, her pearl necklace swinging wildly—just like in the footage. "Pastor," Laura murmured, trailing a finger down Ruth’s collarbone, "don’t you think it’s time you joined us properly?"
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on—broken only by the wet sound of Ford swallowing hard. Laura watched his Adam's apple bob, his grip on Ruth tightening reflexively as his gaze flickered between Laura's bare thighs and David's frozen expression. The bedside lamp cast long shadows across the sweat-slicked planes of Ford's chest, his clerical collar abandoned somewhere in the tangle of sheets.
Ruth exhaled sharply through her nose, a sound Laura recognized from years of suppressed reactions in the church pews. But now, with Laura's palm pressed flat against her sternum, Ruth's breath hitched audibly—a crack in her perfect composure. "Laura," she began, her voice strained thin, "this isn't—"
Laura leaned down to lick the base of David's cock and Ruth's clit which were in the same place as David was laying with Ruth straddling him. Laura felt Ruth shudder against her tongue while David groaned beneath them, his hands finally moving to grip Laura's hips—not pushing her away, but pulling her to his face with a desperation that made her knees weak.
Ruth's thighs clenched around David's waist, her body seizing as Laura's tongue traced slow circles around the swollen bud of her clit. The taste of salt and arousal flooded Laura's mouth—thick and heady—as Ruth's fingernails bit into her shoulders, dragging her closer. David's groan vibrated through Laura's cunt where it pressed against her daddy's face, his hips bucking upward in a rhythm that forced Ruth to grind harder against Laura's mouth.
Pastor Ford's breath came ragged behind them, the bed dipping as he crawled forward on his knees. Laura glanced up through her lashes to see his hand wrapped around his cock, stroking himself in time with David's thrusts. His gaze was locked on where Laura's lips met Ruth's flesh, his tongue darting out to wet his own lips as if he could taste her through the air.
Laura felt Pastor Ford’s calloused fingers slide into her hair—not pulling, not guiding, just trembling there, as if unsure whether to claim or retreat. His thumb brushed her temple, rough with the same tension that coiled in his voice during altar calls. Ruth arched above her, thighs shaking, the pearls of her necklace clicking against Laura’s forehead with each frantic roll of her hips.
David’s tongue lapped at Laura with desperate, open-mouthed strokes, his beard scraping her inner thighs in a way that sent sharp jolts up her spine. She moaned against Ruth’s clit, the vibration wringing a shattered cry from the older woman’s lips. Ruth’s grip on her shoulders tightened—not the disciplined restraint of Sunday school, but something wilder, needier.
Laura felt Pastor Ford’s fingers tighten in her hair—finally committing—as Ruth’s thighs clamped around her head, muffling her moans against slick flesh. The pearls of Ruth’s necklace broke free, scattering across the sheets like tiny, accusing eyes. David’s grip on Laura’s hips shifted, his thumbs digging into the softness of her inner thighs to spread her wider against his mouth. The wet, obscene sounds of his tongue working her filled the room, syncopated with Ruth’s whimpers and the creak of the bedsprings.
Pastor Ford’s breath hitched behind her. His cock brushed Laura’s lower back—hot, insistent—before he pulled away abruptly. The loss of contact made Laura whine into Ruth’s cunt, her fingers clawing at the older woman’s hips to keep her close. She heard the rustle of fabric, the clink of a belt buckle, then Ford’s knees hitting the mattress as he repositioned himself beside David.
Laura said, "No Pastor, I want daddy to be my first."
Pastor Ford froze mid-movement, his cock glistening inches from Laura’s parted lips. The room seemed to contract around them—Ruth’s breath stuttering against Laura’s temple, David’s hands tightening on her thighs like a drowning man clutching driftwood. The silence was thick enough to taste, metallic and electric, like the air before a lightning strike.
David exhaled sharply through his nose, a tremor running through his arms where they braced beneath Ruth’s shaking thighs. His beard was slick with Laura’s arousal, the scent of her clinging to his flushed skin. “Laura,” he rasped, the word fraying at the edges, “you don’t know what you’re asking.”
"Yes I do, I want you to be my lover"
Ruth looked at Laura and smiled, "I'll move aside for you, what you want is more important than my needs."
Laura felt Ruth shift above her, the older woman’s thighs trembling as she lifted herself off David’s hips. The wet sound of their separation was obscenely loud in the charged silence. Ruth’s pearl necklace—what remained of it—clicked softly as she settled onto the mattress beside them, her fingers trailing down Laura’s spine in a gesture that could have been maternal if not for the way her nails bit into Laura’s skin at the last second.
David’s grip on Laura’s hips loosened, his thumbs tracing slow circles on her inner thighs as if soothing a spooked animal. His beard glistened under the lamplight, dark with her arousal. “Laura,” he said again, his voice raw, “this isn’t—”
"Sssssh Daddy, make me a woman and tell me you love me."
David's fingers flexed against Laura's thighs—not pushing her away, but anchoring himself, as if the bed might dissolve beneath him. His breath hitched when Laura rocked forward, her slick folds dragging against his beard in a slow, deliberate stroke. The sound that escaped him was barely human—half prayer, half surrender—before his hands slid up to grip her waist. "Christ," he choked out, his voice shredded.
Pastor Ford exhaled sharply through his nose and moved off the bed with a creak of springs, his footsteps heavy as he retreated to the corner of the room. Laura caught a glimpse of his reflection in the dresser mirror—his shoulders hunched, his cock still hard and glistening in his fist—but his gaze remained fixed on Laura’s back, on the way David’s thumbs pressed bruises into her hips.
Ruth sat on the bed watching with interest and ready to give support if needed. She was looking forward to her and Laura becoming lovers too.
The sheets whispered as Ruth shifted closer, her fingertips trailing up Laura's spine—a touch simultaneously soothing and electrifying. Laura arched into the contact, her breath hitching when Ruth's nails scraped lightly over her shoulder blades. In the periphery, Pastor Ford's shadow loomed against the wall, his silhouette rigid with tension, his fist still working slowly over his cock.
David's grip on Laura's hips tightened, his thumbs pressing crescent moons into her flesh. He exhaled sharply through his nose, the air warm against Laura's inner thighs. "Laura," he murmured, his voice thick with restraint, "we can't—"
Laura switched positions and impaled herself on her daddy's hard cock. It felt perfect, just the way she had fantasised.
Laura gasped as David’s cock sheathed fully inside her—thick, insistent, stretching her in ways she’d only imagined. Her fingers scrabbled against his chest, nails biting into his skin as she adjusted to the unfamiliar fullness. David groaned beneath her, his hips jerking upward reflexively before he forced himself still, his hands trembling where they gripped her waist.
"Easy," he choked out, sweat beading along his temples. "Jesus, Laura—you’re so tight—"
Laura's breath came in short, jagged bursts as she rocked forward, each movement sending sparks of pleasure-pain up her spine. David's hands slid up to cradle her ribs—his grip reverent now, fingers spread wide as if afraid she might shatter beneath him. The stretch burned deliciously, her inner muscles fluttering around him in involuntary pulses that drew a ragged curse from David's lips.
Ruth's fingers traced the knobs of Laura's spine, her touch feather-light yet electric. "Breathe," she murmured against Laura's shoulder, her lips brushing sweat-damp skin. Laura hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until Ruth's palm pressed flat between her shoulder blades, grounding her. The older woman's other hand slid around Laura's waist, fingers splaying over her trembling abdomen. "That's it. Let him fill you."
Laura's thighs trembled as she lifted herself slightly—just enough to feel the exquisite drag of David's cock against her inner walls—before sinking back down with a choked whimper. The stretch bordered on painful, but the sharpness bled into pleasure as her body adjusted, heat pooling low in her belly. David's hands flexed against her ribs, his breathing ragged. "Christ," he gritted out, his hips twitching upward in tiny, restrained thrusts. "You feel—"
"Perfect," Laura finished for him, rolling her hips experimentally. The motion sent sparks up her spine, her inner muscles clenching around him instinctively. She watched David's face—the way his eyelashes fluttered, the sweat beading along his upper lip—and felt a surge of power. His control was unravelling, thread by thread.
David's hands slid up Laura's ribcage like a drowning man clinging to driftwood—reverent and desperate all at once. His fingertips traced the underside of her breasts with trembling hesitation before settling at the base of her throat, his pulse thundering against her skin where their bodies connected. Laura rolled her hips again, slower this time, relishing the way his pupils dilated as she took him deeper.
Pastor Ford's belt buckle clinked against the dresser as he shifted his weight. Laura caught the reflection of his cock in the mirror—still hard, still dripping—as he palmed himself with rough, distracted strokes. His gaze never left where Laura and David were joined, his lips moving soundlessly as if reciting scripture or curses.
Laura’s thighs burned with the effort of holding herself upright, her muscles quivering as she adjusted to the unfamiliar stretch. David’s hands trembled where they gripped her hips—his fingers flexing and releasing in erratic pulses, as if he couldn’t decide whether to push her away or pull her closer. She rocked forward experimentally, gasping at the sharp burst of pleasure-pain that lanced through her core. David choked out a curse, his hips bucking upward instinctively before he forced himself still, veins standing out along his forearms from the strain.
"You’re—" David’s voice cracked, his thumbs pressing bruises into Laura’s hipbones. "Christ, Laura, you’re so tight—"
David’s hips jerked upward before he could stop himself—a sharp, involuntary thrust that punched a ragged moan from Laura’s throat. Her fingers scrabbled against his chest, nails biting crescent moons into his skin as her body clenched around him. "Daddy—" The word fractured into a gasp as he filled her deeper than before, the stretch bordering on painful.
Pastor Ford’s belt buckle clattered against the dresser as he braced himself against it, his reflection in the mirror a study in tortured restraint. His knuckles whitened around his cock, his gaze locked on where Laura’s thighs trembled against David’s hips. A drop of precum glistened at his tip, quivering before splattering onto the hardwood—the only sound in the room besides Laura’s shallow panting.
Laura had just enjoyed her third orgasm when David could hold back no longer and exploded into her pussy.
The world narrowed to the hot pulse of David’s release inside her—each throb sending electric jolts through Laura’s thighs. She clenched around him instinctively, milking every last drop as his hips jerked erratically beneath her. His fingers dug into her waist hard enough to leave marks, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps against her collarbone.
Ruth’s hands slid around Laura’s trembling shoulders from behind, her nails scoring faint red trails down Laura’s damp skin. “Good girl,” she murmured, her lips brushing the shell of Laura’s ear. The praise shouldn’t have sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between Laura’s legs—but it did.
Ruth motioned to the Pastor, "come and clean this mess up". He moved forward as Ruth turned Laura onto her back and began kissing her.
Pastor Ford moved with the stiff deliberation of a man walking toward his own execution. His shadow loomed over Laura, blocking the lamplight as he knelt between her spread thighs. David's cum glistened on Laura's inner thighs, pearly strands catching the dim light as Ford hesitated—his breath ragged, his fingers twitching above her skin like a penitent reaching for absolution.
Laura arched her back as Ruth's lips trailed down her throat, her teeth scraping lightly over Laura's pulse point. "Pastor," Laura murmured, her voice husky with amusement, "you've spent years telling me what's pure." She hooked one bare leg over Ford's shoulder, her heel pressing into the muscles of his back. "Show me."
And so Laura's initiation as a woman was complete. Her and Ruth became firm friends as well as lovers. Laura moved into David's bed and lived as is wife. Laura and David still enjoyed the weekly visits of Pastor Ford and Ruth although the good Pastor only played a minor role.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: For those who noted that David’s sheets were washed about three times a week, there is a reason. As well as Pastor Ford and Ruth, David had other visitors from his church. Parish secretary Miriam Snape and her twenty one year old daughter, Naomi. There were the twins, Jenny the organist and her brother Dennis both of whom enjoyed men. These churchgoers added to Laura’s sexual education as well and became firm friends.
Laura was conflicted, she had watched her dad with a couple and found herself masturbating. Did she want to replace her dad's lover? Did she want to replace her dad? Did she want to replace her dad's lover's husband who just watched?
Laura chewed the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. The idea had slithered into her brain during Ethics 101—Pastor Ford’s voice droning through her memory about confession and absolution while her professor discussed Kant. Her fingers twitched against her phone screen, pulling up the church directory before she could second-guess herself. Ruth’s contact photo smiled back at her—a headshot from last year’s women’s retreat, her pearl necklace perfectly centered against a navy blazer.
The coffee shop door jingled with forced cheerfulness as Laura shouldered her way inside. Ruth was already seated near the back, her usual thermos replaced by a ceramic mug with the café’s logo. Her posture was textbook perfect—spine straight, hands folded neatly on the table—but Laura noticed the frayed edge of her thumbnail, the way her eyes flicked to the door every thirty-seven seconds exactly.
Laura said to Ruth, "I have a personal problem I'd like to discuss with the Pastor, can you arrange an interview?"
Ruth's fingers tightened around her mug, the porcelain clinking softly against the saucer. Her lips parted—a practiced, pastoral smile already forming—but her eyes darted to Laura’s face with a sharpness that wasn’t there during Sunday school. "Of course," she said, too quickly. The steam from her chamomile tea curled between them like incense. "Is this about your Confirmation classes?"
Laura watched a drop of condensation slide down Ruth’s water glass. "More of a... personal issue."
Ruth’s teacup froze halfway to her lips. Laura watched the tremor in her wrist—the slightest quiver that made the liquid tremble near the rim before Ruth set it down with deliberate care. The café noise around them blurred into white noise, the clatter of spoons and murmur of conversations fading as Ruth’s gaze sharpened. "Personal how?" she asked, her voice low enough that Laura had to lean forward to catch it.
Laura traced a finger along the edge of her own mug, the ceramic still searing from the fresh pour. "I think I'd like to discuss that with Pastor Ford," she murmured, lifting her eyes just enough to catch the way Ruth’s throat moved when she swallowed.
Ruth's hand jerked slightly, sloshing tea onto the saucer. The liquid pooled like spilled sacrament wine. "Pastor Ford is quite busy with the Lenten preparations," she said, her voice smooth as polished pews. But Laura didn't miss the way her thumb rubbed at the gold band on her ring finger—a nervous tic she'd never seen in twelve years of Bible studies.
Laura leaned back, letting the silence stretch until it grew uncomfortable. The café's overhead lights reflected in Ruth's pearl necklace, casting tiny white dots across her collarbone—the same necklace that had swung wildly against sweat-slicked skin in the footage. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important," Laura finally said, watching as Ruth's fingers twitched toward her phone.
Laura watched Ruth's knuckles pale around her phone, the same fingers that had clawed at her father's sheets now tapping out a message with mechanical precision. The screen flashed once—sent—before Ruth tucked the device back into her purse with the brisk efficiency of someone hiding evidence. "Pastor Ford can see you tomorrow after vespers," she said, her voice stripped of its usual honeyed warmth. "His office. Seven-thirty."
The steam from Laura’s untouched coffee curled between them like a question mark. She nodded, her thumbnail digging into the pad of her index finger. "Perfect." The word tasted bitter
Laura arrived a little early and knocked on Pastor Ford's office door.
"Come in, come in."
.
The door creaked open before Laura’s knuckles could make contact a second time. Pastor Ford stood there, his broad frame filling the doorway, his crisp Sunday suit replaced by a rumpled sweater that smelled faintly of incense and something muskier underneath. His smile was warm, practiced—the same one he used when greeting parishioners after service—but his eyes flicked over her shoulder into the empty hallway before ushering her inside.
His office was smaller than she remembered, the bookshelves looming too close, the leather-bound volumes pressing in like silent witnesses. A single desk lamp cast a yellow pool of light across his blotter, illuminating an open Bible and a half-empty glass of what looked like whiskey. Ford followed her gaze and smoothly slid a sermon notebook over the glass. “Late nights,” he said with a chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. “Sermon writing.”
Laura's fingers brushed against the little black camera in her jacket pocket—smaller than a matchbox now, upgraded since the first one—as she took the chair opposite Ford. The leather sighed under her weight, cold through her jeans.
"You look troubled," Ford said, steepling his fingers. The desk lamp caught the silver in his wedding band. "Ruth mentioned this was... personal."
Laura said, "Yes, very personal. I have feelings of a sexual nature for my daddy. I know it's wrong but I can't help my feelings."
Pastor Ford's fingers froze mid-steeple. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the distant hum of the church's HVAC system. Then, very slowly, he leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight like an old pew. "Feelings," he repeated, the word careful and round in his mouth like a communion wafer. His gaze flicked to the door—just once—before settling back on Laura with an intensity that made her pulse jump.
Laura watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, the movement sharp beneath his stubble. The whiskey glass twitched under his sermon notes when he shifted, amber liquid catching the lamplight. "These feelings," he said at last, his voice dropping into the cadence he used for confessional counselling, "have you acted on them?" His thumb rubbed absently at his wedding band, rotating it in a slow circle she'd seen him do during altar calls.
"No, although I have masturbated thinking about it."
Pastor Ford’s exhale was slow—controlled—like a man counting seconds between lightning and thunder. His fingers flexed, then stilled on the desk blotter, leaving faint sweat marks on the paper. "Laura," he said, and the way he lingered on her name made it sound like a prayer and a warning all at once. "This is... serious."
She watched his tongue dart out to wet his lips, a quick, unconscious motion that betrayed his composure. The air between them thickened with the scent of old books, whiskey, and something darker—something that coiled low in her stomach. Laura shifted in the chair, the leather sticking to the backs of her thighs. "I know it is," she whispered. "That's why I came to you."
Laura continued, "I know daddy has lovers but he has been discreet and I don't know who they are. I have also had thoughts of joining in with his lovers in a threesome."
Pastor Ford's knuckles whitened around the edge of his desk blotter, the leather creaking under his grip. He exhaled through his nose—slow, measured—like he was counting beats between verses in a hymn. Laura could see the pulse in his throat jump beneath his collar. "Joining in," he repeated, his voice dropping into that rich timbre he reserved for sermons about temptation. His fingers twitched toward the whiskey glass before curling into a fist. "Have you... fantasized about this?"
"Well, not specifically, when I masturbate it's a part of my fantasy"
Pastor Ford's breath hitched—a tiny, involuntary sound swallowed by the ticking clock on his bookshelf. His fingers twitched toward his collar, loosening it just enough to reveal the flushed skin beneath. "Fantasies are natural," he said carefully, but his voice had taken on a gravelly quality Laura had never heard during Sunday sermons. "But acting on them..." His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered there a second too long.
"Look Pastor Ford, one of the reasons that I have come to you is because of how close you and daddy are through his work with your church. I know how much he respects you and I was hoping you could discuss my problem with him to enable a satisfactory resolution."
Pastor Ford's fingers stilled against his desk blotter, his wedding band catching the lamplight as he rotated it slowly. The silence stretched between them, thick with the scent of old books and the faint tang of whiskey seeping through his sermon notes. When he finally spoke, his voice was low—not the measured cadence of confession, but something rougher, intimate. "Laura," he said, and her name sounded like a sacrament on his tongue. "Your father... he's a complicated man."
Laura leaned forward, her elbows pressing into the leather arms of the chair. The little black camera in her pocket was a cold weight against her thigh. "Complicated how?"
Pastor Ford's fingers traced the rim of his whiskey glass, the crystal ringing with a soft, dissonant note. He leaned back in his chair, the leather groaning as his weight shifted—the sound disturbingly similar to the bedsprings in Laura’s footage. "Your father," he began, then paused to wet his lips again, "has... needs. Spiritual needs." His thumb rubbed slow circles on the glass, smearing the condensation. "The flesh is weak, Laura."
Laura pressed her knees together under the desk, the seam of her jeans digging into her skin. "I know it is," she murmured. The lie came easily—too easily—as she studied the way Ford's fingers trembled around the glass. Not from nerves, she realized, but restraint. "That's why I need guidance."
Pastor Ford's chair groaned again as he leaned forward, the desk lamp casting shadows that hollowed out his cheeks. His fingers steepled once more, but this time they trembled—just slightly—like a preacher fighting the urge to reach for a parishioner's hands during altar call. "Guidance," he echoed, and the word tasted different now, heavier. His gaze flicked to the whiskey glass again, then to the closed door behind Laura.
The clock on Pastor Ford’s bookshelf ticked louder in the silence that followed. Laura watched as his thumb resumed its slow rotation of his wedding band—a nervous tic she’d seen him perform a dozen times during Sunday sermons, though never with this tension coiled in his shoulders. His tongue darted out to wet his lips again, and she caught the faintest tremble in it before he spoke. "Your father," he began, then stopped, his jaw tightening as if the words tasted bitter. "David has... confided in me. About his... struggles."
"Do his struggles include me, Pastor Ford?"
Pastor Ford’s fingers froze around his whiskey glass. The liquid inside trembled, catching the lamplight in jagged amber shards. His throat worked—once, twice—before he set the glass down with deliberate care, aligning it perfectly with the ring of condensation on his sermon notes. "Laura," he said, and her name sounded like it had been dragged through gravel. "That’s not... appropriate for me to discuss."
Laura leaned forward, letting the camera’s weight shift in her pocket. "But you just said he’s confided in you." Her voice dropped to a whisper, fraying at the edges. "Does he... think about me like that?"
"I'll take your silence as a yes, Pastor. You've given me the confidence to tell my daddy that I love him, not just as a daughter but as a woman."
Pastor Ford's breath left him in a rush, as if Laura had punched him in the gut. His hands flattened on the desk blotter, fingers splaying wide like a man bracing against a storm. The lamplight caught the sweat beading along his hairline. "Laura," he said—too loud, then softer, "that's not what I—"
The office door clicked open. Ruth stood framed in the doorway, her pearl necklace perfectly straight against her throat, her hand still on the doorknob. Her gaze darted between them—Ford's flushed face, Laura's calculated slouch—before settling on the whiskey glass half-hidden under Ford's notes. "Am I interrupting?" Her voice was cool, polished, but Laura saw the way her knuckles whitened around the doorknob.
Laura said, "no, the confidential counselling session has finished, I feel so much better, so much happier, so confident for my future."
Ruth’s lips pressed into a thin line, her nostrils flaring slightly as she inhaled through her nose—a tell Laura recognized from years of Sunday school discipline. The click of the door latch snapping shut behind her was unnaturally loud in the strained silence. "Good," Ruth said, her voice honeyed steel. "Pastor Ford’s next appointment is waiting." Her gaze lingered on Ford’s hands, still spread flat on the desk blotter, his wedding band gleaming under the lamplight.
Laura stood slowly, letting her fingers brush the edge of Ford’s desk as she rose. The leather chair released her with a soft sigh. "Thank you, Pastor," she murmured, tilting her head just enough to catch the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when she leaned in slightly. "You’ve been... illuminating."
Laura knew exactly what her next move would be. She knew the time and day that Ruth had arranged to be with daddy. She intended to be home when Pastor Ford and Ruth arrived and after a short time she would walk in naked and join in.
Laura's phone buzzed against her thigh—three short vibrations, then silence. She didn't need to check the screen to know it was the motion alert from the little black camera in her father's bedroom. The sun had barely set, but she could already picture Ruth's pearl necklace gleaming under the dim bedside lamp, Pastor Ford's fingers loosening his collar in that practiced, hungry way.
She timed her arrival perfectly. The house was quiet when she slipped inside, the only sound the distant hum of the air conditioner struggling against the summer heat. Upstairs, the rhythmic creak of bedsprings had already begun—a familiar cadence now, after weeks of surveillance. Laura paused at the foot of the stairs, her fingers tracing the hem of her sundress. The fabric was thin, almost sheer in the fading light. She'd chosen it carefully.
Laura climbed the stairs barefoot, each step measured to avoid creaks. The scent of sandalwood incense—her father's favorite—drifted down the hallway, mingling with the faint musk of sweat and something darker. The bedroom door stood ajar, just enough to reveal a sliver of lamplight cutting through the dimness. She paused there, listening to the wet sounds of mouths meeting, the sharp gasp that followed when Ford's palm connected with Ruth's bare thigh.
Her fingers found the hem of her sundress again, lifting it slowly over her head. The fabric whispered against her skin as it pooled at her feet. Cool air prickled across her bare shoulders, her nipples hardening in the draft from the air vent above. She stepped out of her panties next, leaving them tangled with the dress—a silent offering at the threshold. She looked down and was pleased with what she saw, full, firm breasts not yet beginning to sag, a trimmed pussy and her labia already glistening with moisture in anticipation.
Laura pushed the door open with two fingers, letting it swing inward with deliberate silence. The scene inside froze—Ruth mid-arch against the headboard, Ford's hand tangled in her hair, David's head snapping toward the doorway. The lamplight caught the sweat on their skin, glistening like oil in the dimness.
"Laura—" David started, his voice strangled, but she was already moving forward, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. She saw Ruth's eyes widen, saw Ford's grip tighten reflexively on Ruth's hip—not pushing her away, but holding her in place as if to witness. Laura stepped into the light, letting it trace the curve of her waist, the dip of her hips. She'd practiced this walk in front of her mirror for weeks.
The air thickened with the scent of sandalwood and sex as Laura crossed the threshold, her pulse hammering in her throat. David's mouth hung open, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath Ruth’s outstretched arm—still pinned to the headboard by Ford’s grip. The pastor hadn’t moved, but his fingers flexed against Ruth’s hipbone, his knuckles paling as Laura stepped closer.
Laura climbed onto daddy's bed. She leaned over and kissed Ruth before kissing her dad. "I'd like to join in please."
The bed creaked under Laura's weight, an old familiar sound that now carried a new, electric tension. Ruth's lips were softer than she'd imagined—warm and yielding beneath hers, tasting faintly of peppermint and something darker. When she pulled back, Ruth's pupils were blown wide, her breath coming in shallow hitches against Laura's cheek.
David made a sound low in his throat—half protest, half groan—as Laura turned to him. His hands hovered awkwardly above her bare shoulders, trembling with the effort of restraint. "Laura, you don't—"
Laura silenced him with a kiss—firmer than Ruth’s, deliberate in its insistence. The scratch of his stubble against her lips was foreign yet familiar, like revisiting a distant memory through adult eyes. When she pulled back, his breath was ragged, his fingers now tangled in the sheets instead of her skin.
Pastor Ford hadn’t moved except to tighten his grip on Ruth’s hipbone, his thumb digging into the soft flesh there. Laura watched the tendons in his forearm flex as Ruth arched against him, her pearl necklace swinging wildly—just like in the footage. "Pastor," Laura murmured, trailing a finger down Ruth’s collarbone, "don’t you think it’s time you joined us properly?"
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on—broken only by the wet sound of Ford swallowing hard. Laura watched his Adam's apple bob, his grip on Ruth tightening reflexively as his gaze flickered between Laura's bare thighs and David's frozen expression. The bedside lamp cast long shadows across the sweat-slicked planes of Ford's chest, his clerical collar abandoned somewhere in the tangle of sheets.
Ruth exhaled sharply through her nose, a sound Laura recognized from years of suppressed reactions in the church pews. But now, with Laura's palm pressed flat against her sternum, Ruth's breath hitched audibly—a crack in her perfect composure. "Laura," she began, her voice strained thin, "this isn't—"
Laura leaned down to lick the base of David's cock and Ruth's clit which were in the same place as David was laying with Ruth straddling him. Laura felt Ruth shudder against her tongue while David groaned beneath them, his hands finally moving to grip Laura's hips—not pushing her away, but pulling her to his face with a desperation that made her knees weak.
Ruth's thighs clenched around David's waist, her body seizing as Laura's tongue traced slow circles around the swollen bud of her clit. The taste of salt and arousal flooded Laura's mouth—thick and heady—as Ruth's fingernails bit into her shoulders, dragging her closer. David's groan vibrated through Laura's cunt where it pressed against her daddy's face, his hips bucking upward in a rhythm that forced Ruth to grind harder against Laura's mouth.
Pastor Ford's breath came ragged behind them, the bed dipping as he crawled forward on his knees. Laura glanced up through her lashes to see his hand wrapped around his cock, stroking himself in time with David's thrusts. His gaze was locked on where Laura's lips met Ruth's flesh, his tongue darting out to wet his own lips as if he could taste her through the air.
Laura felt Pastor Ford’s calloused fingers slide into her hair—not pulling, not guiding, just trembling there, as if unsure whether to claim or retreat. His thumb brushed her temple, rough with the same tension that coiled in his voice during altar calls. Ruth arched above her, thighs shaking, the pearls of her necklace clicking against Laura’s forehead with each frantic roll of her hips.
David’s tongue lapped at Laura with desperate, open-mouthed strokes, his beard scraping her inner thighs in a way that sent sharp jolts up her spine. She moaned against Ruth’s clit, the vibration wringing a shattered cry from the older woman’s lips. Ruth’s grip on her shoulders tightened—not the disciplined restraint of Sunday school, but something wilder, needier.
Laura felt Pastor Ford’s fingers tighten in her hair—finally committing—as Ruth’s thighs clamped around her head, muffling her moans against slick flesh. The pearls of Ruth’s necklace broke free, scattering across the sheets like tiny, accusing eyes. David’s grip on Laura’s hips shifted, his thumbs digging into the softness of her inner thighs to spread her wider against his mouth. The wet, obscene sounds of his tongue working her filled the room, syncopated with Ruth’s whimpers and the creak of the bedsprings.
Pastor Ford’s breath hitched behind her. His cock brushed Laura’s lower back—hot, insistent—before he pulled away abruptly. The loss of contact made Laura whine into Ruth’s cunt, her fingers clawing at the older woman’s hips to keep her close. She heard the rustle of fabric, the clink of a belt buckle, then Ford’s knees hitting the mattress as he repositioned himself beside David.
Laura said, "No Pastor, I want daddy to be my first."
Pastor Ford froze mid-movement, his cock glistening inches from Laura’s parted lips. The room seemed to contract around them—Ruth’s breath stuttering against Laura’s temple, David’s hands tightening on her thighs like a drowning man clutching driftwood. The silence was thick enough to taste, metallic and electric, like the air before a lightning strike.
David exhaled sharply through his nose, a tremor running through his arms where they braced beneath Ruth’s shaking thighs. His beard was slick with Laura’s arousal, the scent of her clinging to his flushed skin. “Laura,” he rasped, the word fraying at the edges, “you don’t know what you’re asking.”
"Yes I do, I want you to be my lover"
Ruth looked at Laura and smiled, "I'll move aside for you, what you want is more important than my needs."
Laura felt Ruth shift above her, the older woman’s thighs trembling as she lifted herself off David’s hips. The wet sound of their separation was obscenely loud in the charged silence. Ruth’s pearl necklace—what remained of it—clicked softly as she settled onto the mattress beside them, her fingers trailing down Laura’s spine in a gesture that could have been maternal if not for the way her nails bit into Laura’s skin at the last second.
David’s grip on Laura’s hips loosened, his thumbs tracing slow circles on her inner thighs as if soothing a spooked animal. His beard glistened under the lamplight, dark with her arousal. “Laura,” he said again, his voice raw, “this isn’t—”
"Sssssh Daddy, make me a woman and tell me you love me."
David's fingers flexed against Laura's thighs—not pushing her away, but anchoring himself, as if the bed might dissolve beneath him. His breath hitched when Laura rocked forward, her slick folds dragging against his beard in a slow, deliberate stroke. The sound that escaped him was barely human—half prayer, half surrender—before his hands slid up to grip her waist. "Christ," he choked out, his voice shredded.
Pastor Ford exhaled sharply through his nose and moved off the bed with a creak of springs, his footsteps heavy as he retreated to the corner of the room. Laura caught a glimpse of his reflection in the dresser mirror—his shoulders hunched, his cock still hard and glistening in his fist—but his gaze remained fixed on Laura’s back, on the way David’s thumbs pressed bruises into her hips.
Ruth sat on the bed watching with interest and ready to give support if needed. She was looking forward to her and Laura becoming lovers too.
The sheets whispered as Ruth shifted closer, her fingertips trailing up Laura's spine—a touch simultaneously soothing and electrifying. Laura arched into the contact, her breath hitching when Ruth's nails scraped lightly over her shoulder blades. In the periphery, Pastor Ford's shadow loomed against the wall, his silhouette rigid with tension, his fist still working slowly over his cock.
David's grip on Laura's hips tightened, his thumbs pressing crescent moons into her flesh. He exhaled sharply through his nose, the air warm against Laura's inner thighs. "Laura," he murmured, his voice thick with restraint, "we can't—"
Laura switched positions and impaled herself on her daddy's hard cock. It felt perfect, just the way she had fantasised.
Laura gasped as David’s cock sheathed fully inside her—thick, insistent, stretching her in ways she’d only imagined. Her fingers scrabbled against his chest, nails biting into his skin as she adjusted to the unfamiliar fullness. David groaned beneath her, his hips jerking upward reflexively before he forced himself still, his hands trembling where they gripped her waist.
"Easy," he choked out, sweat beading along his temples. "Jesus, Laura—you’re so tight—"
Laura's breath came in short, jagged bursts as she rocked forward, each movement sending sparks of pleasure-pain up her spine. David's hands slid up to cradle her ribs—his grip reverent now, fingers spread wide as if afraid she might shatter beneath him. The stretch burned deliciously, her inner muscles fluttering around him in involuntary pulses that drew a ragged curse from David's lips.
Ruth's fingers traced the knobs of Laura's spine, her touch feather-light yet electric. "Breathe," she murmured against Laura's shoulder, her lips brushing sweat-damp skin. Laura hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until Ruth's palm pressed flat between her shoulder blades, grounding her. The older woman's other hand slid around Laura's waist, fingers splaying over her trembling abdomen. "That's it. Let him fill you."
Laura's thighs trembled as she lifted herself slightly—just enough to feel the exquisite drag of David's cock against her inner walls—before sinking back down with a choked whimper. The stretch bordered on painful, but the sharpness bled into pleasure as her body adjusted, heat pooling low in her belly. David's hands flexed against her ribs, his breathing ragged. "Christ," he gritted out, his hips twitching upward in tiny, restrained thrusts. "You feel—"
"Perfect," Laura finished for him, rolling her hips experimentally. The motion sent sparks up her spine, her inner muscles clenching around him instinctively. She watched David's face—the way his eyelashes fluttered, the sweat beading along his upper lip—and felt a surge of power. His control was unravelling, thread by thread.
David's hands slid up Laura's ribcage like a drowning man clinging to driftwood—reverent and desperate all at once. His fingertips traced the underside of her breasts with trembling hesitation before settling at the base of her throat, his pulse thundering against her skin where their bodies connected. Laura rolled her hips again, slower this time, relishing the way his pupils dilated as she took him deeper.
Pastor Ford's belt buckle clinked against the dresser as he shifted his weight. Laura caught the reflection of his cock in the mirror—still hard, still dripping—as he palmed himself with rough, distracted strokes. His gaze never left where Laura and David were joined, his lips moving soundlessly as if reciting scripture or curses.
Laura’s thighs burned with the effort of holding herself upright, her muscles quivering as she adjusted to the unfamiliar stretch. David’s hands trembled where they gripped her hips—his fingers flexing and releasing in erratic pulses, as if he couldn’t decide whether to push her away or pull her closer. She rocked forward experimentally, gasping at the sharp burst of pleasure-pain that lanced through her core. David choked out a curse, his hips bucking upward instinctively before he forced himself still, veins standing out along his forearms from the strain.
"You’re—" David’s voice cracked, his thumbs pressing bruises into Laura’s hipbones. "Christ, Laura, you’re so tight—"
David’s hips jerked upward before he could stop himself—a sharp, involuntary thrust that punched a ragged moan from Laura’s throat. Her fingers scrabbled against his chest, nails biting crescent moons into his skin as her body clenched around him. "Daddy—" The word fractured into a gasp as he filled her deeper than before, the stretch bordering on painful.
Pastor Ford’s belt buckle clattered against the dresser as he braced himself against it, his reflection in the mirror a study in tortured restraint. His knuckles whitened around his cock, his gaze locked on where Laura’s thighs trembled against David’s hips. A drop of precum glistened at his tip, quivering before splattering onto the hardwood—the only sound in the room besides Laura’s shallow panting.
Laura had just enjoyed her third orgasm when David could hold back no longer and exploded into her pussy.
The world narrowed to the hot pulse of David’s release inside her—each throb sending electric jolts through Laura’s thighs. She clenched around him instinctively, milking every last drop as his hips jerked erratically beneath her. His fingers dug into her waist hard enough to leave marks, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps against her collarbone.
Ruth’s hands slid around Laura’s trembling shoulders from behind, her nails scoring faint red trails down Laura’s damp skin. “Good girl,” she murmured, her lips brushing the shell of Laura’s ear. The praise shouldn’t have sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between Laura’s legs—but it did.
Ruth motioned to the Pastor, "come and clean this mess up". He moved forward as Ruth turned Laura onto her back and began kissing her.
Pastor Ford moved with the stiff deliberation of a man walking toward his own execution. His shadow loomed over Laura, blocking the lamplight as he knelt between her spread thighs. David's cum glistened on Laura's inner thighs, pearly strands catching the dim light as Ford hesitated—his breath ragged, his fingers twitching above her skin like a penitent reaching for absolution.
Laura arched her back as Ruth's lips trailed down her throat, her teeth scraping lightly over Laura's pulse point. "Pastor," Laura murmured, her voice husky with amusement, "you've spent years telling me what's pure." She hooked one bare leg over Ford's shoulder, her heel pressing into the muscles of his back. "Show me."
And so Laura's initiation as a woman was complete. Her and Ruth became firm friends as well as lovers. Laura moved into David's bed and lived as is wife. Laura and David still enjoyed the weekly visits of Pastor Ford and Ruth although the good Pastor only played a minor role.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: For those who noted that David’s sheets were washed about three times a week, there is a reason. As well as Pastor Ford and Ruth, David had other visitors from his church. Parish secretary Miriam Snape and her twenty one year old daughter, Naomi. There were the twins, Jenny the organist and her brother Dennis both of whom enjoyed men. These churchgoers added to Laura’s sexual education as well and became firm friends.
24日前
