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Literary Smut

The Preacher and the Worm

Myra Tompkins shifted in the oversized armchair, away from the slash of late afternoon sunlight that had begun to fall across its soiled arm. Faint overtones of sweet cardamom wafted from her, masking for a moment the mustiness of the little room. I had no idea why she had come.

Then she began speaking softly in a wavering, upset child's voice. "You can't possibly realize what it's like to be me, to be inside here. It's like a transparent prison has been erected around me, a sort of frozen crystal monument. But inside there's a tug of war going on between virtue and vice--one that doesn't matter because what's inside is as good as dead--like in any prison, like any fly captured in amber." She paused to scratch a fingernail over the corner of her lips before continuing.

"My clothes, for example are a uniform. It's hot--we'll agree on that, but I've got on hose! They expect that! My concession to the heat is that they're only thigh high, and held up--you're going to laugh--with old-fashioned garters."

I didn't laugh. But I did use the implicit permission provided by her shift in focus to stare at the intersection between her knees, the damp flesh shrouded in darkness.

"They couldn't imagine me bare-legged and neither can I for that matter. Sometimes, you know, on a hot, still night I just want to beat the oppressive heat by flopping my legs wildly," her voice had risen to a hoarse crescendo, "I want them to hear the flesh of my thighs slap together like a wild cricket call--'This is my flesh!'"

She slumped back in her chair and wedged her hands between her knees as if they were cold. After a while she withdrew one and began palming the sweat-slick flesh of her thigh with the other.

"Sticky hot," she whispered nervously, pulling her hand out and wiping it on the upholstered arm of the chair.

"Tell me what you want from me."

She wound a strand of auburn hair around a finger, twirling it into a thin rope. She fed the tip of it gently into the corner of her mouth, wetting it like an artist moistens a detail brush.

Then, seeming to come to her senses all at once, she quickly spat out the rope of hair and swatted it away. Her face had reddened to the color of boiled shrimp.

"Sorry," she said, bouncing a little in the chair.

I couldn't help smiling. Innocence was very appealing.

I arose from the couch to tug at the blind-string. The slats rustled as the little room fell into still dimness. I padded across the carpet to the couch immediately opposite her, but not before letting my fingertips graze over her tightly-clasped knees.

She shivered at my touch.

"What, then?" I asked as I settled into the couch.

"Um, you're a storyteller, no?"

"Of sorts."

"Then you know how to release me from this bondage. Set me on fire. Fill me," she said. She was almost panting.

I was, as I understood it, to worm my way inside her. To fill her with something hot and new. Like a spirit or perhaps a computer virus. Yes, that was it. To push aside all the old data, the dusty baggage. To clear the buffers. Reformat.

I'd give it my best shot.

I moved to kneel in front of her, cupping her knees with my palms. "You must trust me," I said.

"Yes, of course." She wasn't entirely sure: I felt her distrust as an tiny tremor in her knees, too sudden to be voluntary.

I slouched a little, resting back on my haunches. I had begun to smell the real Myra over the fragrant powders of the merchant.

I rested my cheek against her knee for a second, feeling the heat radiating from her, then began. "Most of the time I tell very nice little stories, of young women and their dutiful lovers. They love everything they do. The characters are cut from the same commercial cloth you see, a dull color that goes with everything. But this is a different case. I want to tell you a story which is, for the better part of it at least, true. Not to mention a bit dark.

"I was in a hospital room, visiting my father whose body was discovered to be, as it turned out, riddled with cancer. He shared a room with a man black as night, thin as a rail--a small bundle of tar-covered bones whose coughing jags kept him awake. The man was, or rather had used to be, a coal miner. Every day doctors sucked liquid from his lungs. Every day he got weaker and bonier. And I found out why.

"When they brought his lunch he pushed it aside. He does this every day, the older nurse who had brought the tray of unappealing hospital food told me.

"She went on 'He lives in a shack, really. With a single hotplate to cook on. Heaven knows what his kind eat,' she muttered, whipping the tray full of untouched food off the nightstand and turning to leave.

"I was young. At least it was my only excuse. By the time I had managed to squeak out the words 'did you ever think of asking?' she was gone and I was left with the sickening stench of her cheap perfume trailing her like warmed-over death. I would live to regret my silence.

"My father told me that the man was crazy for chocolate, so I went down to the machine and purchased an armful of those cakes stuffed with that white crap they have. The guy couldn't manage the strength to break open the plastic so I had to do it. He ate voraciously. Then he began to tell stories.

"I could hardly make out what he was saying so I had to sit real close. He wreaked of rot and death. After a moment of acclimation, I was able to extract words from his labored breathing. Such fabulous words! Stories of hardship, valor, and true heroism croaked from him.

"He had wandered the country as part of a motorcycle club on a hand-build cycle made from junkyard stuff, stuff people had tossed. He was exhilarated and free! Except, of course, he couldn't eat where the rest of the club ate because of his skin color. Then there was the time he rescued a white woman who was cornered by a lion that had escaped from the zoo. He couldn't tell anyone it was him who saved her though, because they'd have thought he was trying to get favors from a white woman. They went on and on these heroic stories, far into the night. Too many, really, to remember.

"When I finally looked up, weary from picking his words out of the gurgle of his troubled lungs, I saw a young nurse leaning against the door jamb. She was looking at me. In fact, she seemed to be waiting for me.

"The man had slowly drifted into a wheezing sleep so I got up to leave. When I emerged into the light I could see that the young nurse had been crying. Without saying a word, she slipped her arm around mine and led me into this little closet full of brooms and bottles, latching the door behind. She jumped up on a little table they had put right in the center of the room and motioned me to come to her. When I approached she wrapped her legs around me like a python locks in its prey, pulling me close. Our noses banged together embarrassingly. She was beautiful close up, her skin almost translucent. She pulled my face hard into her and my cheeks slid against the hot, salty wetness of hers. She whispered, 'I want you to fuck me. Hard.'

"I backed away, more than a little shocked. Then she kept repeating over and over, her face reddening with every repetition 'just fuck me fuck me fuck me. Fuck foreplay fuck propriety fuck pecking order fuck everything fuck me.'

"She was holding my ears tightly during all this, drawing my face close to her and then away and just repeating this stuff over and over, her eyes huge half-moons chock full of madness. I remember reaching for the top button of her uniform when she covered my hand with hers and together we ripped it. Buttons pinged against the walls.

"Eventually her energy seemed to transfer into me and like a man possessed I ripped off those hideous white pantyhose they make nurses wear. As soon as I had freed them from her ankles she jumped down from the table and stripped me of my belt, tugging my trousers down and in a single motion sucking my cock deep into her mouth. She didn't play with it, she just sucked it in. I could feel the wetness of her forehead poking me in the belly with each hungry stroke. She was certainly possessed.

"When my cock could take no more she hopped up onto the table, sitting on the edge and looking into her crotch, meditating over it, waiting for me. I lunged toward her, burying my hard cock deep inside. I couldn't care about anything so trivial as simultaneous orgasm--la de da! I pounded her until every bottle in the little room rang against each other like church bells.

"My cock was the lethal end of a jackhammer. The room quickly became saturated with sex; the hot, musky smell of sex, the coarse breathing, the tortured gasps, the pounding rhythm of sex. I lost track of time and place. I was neither fucking her or she fucking me, or maybe she was fucking and I was fucking or we both were fucking ourselves or each other but we couldn't tell. We were a dripping, squirming mass under a bare bulb lying on a table like specimens loosing themselves in frantic fucking while someone pounded a throbbing rat-a-tat on the door.

"I became aware of her cunt, of wanting to become part of her cunt, of wanting to wedge my head in and lick and smell and suck folds of soft moist flesh between my lips and just let them remain still while I traced their contours with the tip of my tongue until I could know them like a blind man knows faces of the people he loves. Then I would draw my dreams and visions vaguely in manganese strokes on the dripping walls of that glorious cunt. As I stared into her beautiful face, wet with exertion, wet with the injustice that was our pathetic shared silence, I wanted to pound it all into a blur, an soft Gaussian blur that would make it all beautiful in this harsh light of our own making. And for one shining moment, when her teeth clenched and she clawed at the surface of the table like the not-quite-dead claw at the tops of their coffins and I felt the folds of her cunt claw at my cock urging it to spasm into her, urging it to unleash its pathetic sputtering teaspoonful of squirming life into that cunt I wanted to be part of, I felt my mind empty and the searing hot stream pore from me. And I saw a blinding light. And it sounds funny but also I saw horsemen, riding through a rocky valley.

"But the clatter of hooves melted into the pounding on the door. By the time we got dressed and opened it--and for her it was a stretch to call it 'dressed'--there were people outside ready to lynch us. We managed to claw our way through the mob but it was too late, the coal miner was surrounded by a clutch of men in green coveralls and a tangle of wires and machines. The machines were being unplugged."

I realized I had been dragging my cheek over Myra's stocking-rough knee. She had slumped in the chair, her legs haphazardly apart. I could hear her weeping softly.

I twisted to kiss the inside of her thigh. He legs fell apart with the slightest of pressure. It was as if she had relinquished--or lost--control of them.

Hot, musky odors boiled off the bare sections of leg. Driven by them, I wedged my head deeper beneath her burgundy skirt, kissing the steaming flesh hungrily as I went.

I rose on my knees, inching my tongue toward the moist crotch of her panties. She looped a leg over the arm of the chair and I touched the hollow where leg becomes cunt, where elastic grapples with contour, where moisture turns oily. I pushed away the elastic just a little with the sides of my tongue. Soft puckery cuntflesh, I could feel it with my tongue sliding through the bristly soft understory, a lily among brambles.

I jabbed a bit but couldn't reach her clit. Then, suddenly, she ended it, pushing my face away.

"Please," she said, motioning me away from her with a flick of her hand.

She got up, smoothing her skirt.

I thought it was all over. I hadn't been good enough. But then she started, slowly, to unbutton the long line of buttons running down the front of her skirt until it slid from her and she stepped out of it. She hesitated before looping her fingers around the waistband of her panties and pulling them down. But there they were, lying on the heap of burgundy skirt.

She threw herself back into the chair and stared at me as if she didn't know what to do next.

I didn't know what to do either so I just repeated her words, "This is my flesh."

She stirred, looping her legs around the arms of the chair. "This is my flesh," she repeated, running her hands over her slick thighs.

I walked over to the blinds and opened them just a bit so that pencil-thin lines of light blanketed her body, then approached her chanting softly, "this is my flesh, this is my flesh," over and over.

Her fingers eventually reached the narrow cleft of her cunt. She began circling her clit with a single finger. Her breathing had become rapid and shallow, but still she kept chanting. Finally, she palmed her sex, and eventually her hand turned into a blur.

Like this the good Reverend and I masturbated together joyfully, chanting the whole time.

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