Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Dear Reader. This entry in the Summer Lovin’ contest was written as a satire, inspired by recent news events revealing certain high profile “family values” Christian conservatives to be closet sex perverts. If you are offended by such subject matter, please don’t read this story. Thank you for stopping by.
It was a week after the funeral, but Heather was still wearing black at the insistence of her dad, Father Petri. The death of Heather’s mom was devastating, but car wrecks are like that, and Heather had already gotten past the crippling grief that still had Father Petri mired in misery.
Heather always did have an astounding ability to endure, whether it was the tempestuous relationship between her dead mother and Father Petri, or the spankings he had been administering since she was a child. Stiff upper lip was Heather’s coping mechanism, and she was good at it.
Father Petri, on the other hand, was a bit of a lost cause. He was weak when it came to women. All through his first marriage it was a struggle to keep his eyes on the Lord rather than the busts of the women of his congregation. Shortly after his first wife died, he ran across the future Mrs. Petri number two at a homeless shelter. Recognizing her potential as a breeding partner (his first wife had failed at this activity) and mindful of the cost of tattoo removal and the fact that he could get the church to pay for it, he cleaned her up, bought her some hot outfits, and started a family with her.
Since the funeral, Father Petri had taken to the wine, an activity that had been forbidden during Heather’s Mom’s tenure in the household. Even Father Petri knew if a young woman had a propensity for alcohol abuse, keeping the bottle out of reach was a much more effective deterrent than relying on willpower or the benevolence of the Savior. Unfortunately, it was now Father Petri who needed a higher power to temper his alcoholic intake, and that higher power was conspicuously absent.
“Heather!” he bellowed, pushing himself back from the dinner table, “see what you did?”
Heather knew perfectly well what she had done: nothing. It was Father Petri who had knocked over the vase of chrysanthemums, something that happened fairly frequently when he was in an animated conversation with himself railing at the immorality of the “damned liberals” and waving his arms around
“I’m sorry,” she said, hanging her head.
“Shut up! In my study. Now!”
She watched him stagger across the hall and into his dark, musty study. Then she waited, giving him a moment to take off his jacket, roll his padded chair out from behind the desk, and prepare himself for the task at hand. Father Petri was a man of habit, and Heather knew how important it was to not interrupt the precision of his routines — especially his spanking routine.
She entered his study and found him sitting with his left leg crossed over his right, waiting for the weight of her tummy to settle there. She stood before him, said the obligatory “forgive me Father for I have sinned,” and proceeded to bend over his knee. Once she was settled onto his leg, he jerked her hip up tight against his groin and let his fingers settle softly on her backside. She waited. And waited. Finally, his deep voice rumbled through the study like God Himself.
“You know what this spanking is for, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she replied, afraid to look at him, “it’s because of the chrysanthemums.”
“No it is not!” he said emphatically. “It’s because of these!” As he said it, he jerked her black formal dress up to her waist. “Did I give you permission to wear pantyhose? You’re not old enough to wear pantyhose!”
“But… I’m eighteen, Father.”
“Don’t disrespect me, young lady,” he snarled, giving her a swift swat on the rump. “Take those infernal things off this instant.”
“Yes Father,” she sighed, hoping not to rile him up further. She tried to shimmy the pantyhose down her hips, but it was a struggle with his leg in the way. By the time she had inched them down past her butt, she could tell her panties had inched lower too — quite a bit lower — but it was too late to do anything about that.
“You’re useless,!” he snorted, grabbing at the mess of panties and pantyhose and ripping them clear down to her knees. “I’ll teach you, you little pantyhose-wearing slut.”
Heather froze, caught in a rush of adrenaline. Father Petri had never pulled her panties down before. Could this really be happening, or was it just a bad dream? As the sound of the first smack echoed off the walls of the study, she realized it was indeed not a dream.
She waited the split second for the pain response, but this time, it felt different. Perhaps because of the adrenaline, or the embarrassment of baring her bottom, the swat didn’t sting so much as send a surge of energy coursing through her pelvis, giving her a feeling like she had to pee. She let out a startled sob.
“Two,” father Petri announced, izmir escort bayan landing a solid blow to the other cheek. This one was just like the last one, except the pee sensation lasted longer and was more intense.
“Three.” As the blow landed, she let out a quiet squeal, not because it hurt, but because she was trying so hard to not let the pee escape from her bladder. While waiting for the fourth swat it occurred to her that she had just peed ten minutes ago. This eased her mind somewhat, but it didn’t make the urge go away.
“Four.” This time, she tried to relax and absorb the blow, rather than tensing up and deflecting it. Perhaps because of this, Father Petri’s hand remained buried in the softness of her peachy bottom, his fingers digging into her flesh, and down between her legs. This only made the pee sensation last even longer, and an involuntary quiver shook her hips.
“Five!” Her pitiful warble caught in her throat like it does after a fit of crying, and her pelvis felt like it was going to explode. At this point, she didn’t care if she did accidentally pee herself. She just wanted to let it out.
She waited for swat number six. And waited. And waited. She could hear Father Petri’s ragged breathing as his hand slithered around her bare butt, pausing here or there to explore a crease or crevice. The tension was unbearable. She wanted him to finish. She needed him to finish so the pent up feeling between her legs would finally be released.
“Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten! Eleven! Twelve!” It happened so fast, she was totally unprepared for it. The sensation was like a wave crashing through her body, a tingling rushing wave that made her ache all over. But it was a sweet ache, an ache of pleasure streaming out from between her legs. She heard herself sobbing, she felt her body quivering uncontrollably, she imagined a puddle of her pee soaking into his slacks.
It was then that Father Petri grabbed her hip and jammed it even tighter against his body. She just assumed it was his signal that she was not yet allowed to get up. She waited, the wave of release still rolling through her body, and she noticed the wave seemed to be transferring to Father Petri’s body too, creating a similar quivering sensation.
Suddenly, Father Petri gave her a swift shove, sending her sprawling onto the carpet. She just lay there, helpless, her dress still bunched up under her bust line, her panties and pantyhose still down around her knees.
“Be gone, you insolent Jezebel” he sputtered, sending his spittle sailing clear over onto her bare hip. She felt it dribble down into her close-cropped bush. “Be gone and pray for Jesus to save your soul!”
She tried to get up, but she was so weak she had to grab the edge of the desk for support. Struggling to her feet, she noticed there was no pee stain on Father Petri’s leg, but there was a wet spot in his lap, which she assumed was from the wine.
“Cast your eyes away from me!” he demanded, quickly shuffling a newspaper into his lap. Heather complied, hobbling towards the door. It wasn’t till she was out in the hallway that she dared pull her pantyhose back up, and even then, she didn’t pull them all the way up. She felt so sensitive down there, so alive and tingly, she didn’t want to ruin the feeling by covering it up with her underwear.
As she stumbled up the stairs, stopping every couple of steps to grab the railing while her body shuddered, she came to the conclusion that God had something to do with what had just happened. In her prayers that night she thanked God for helping her through the spanking, and she asked God if it would be okay if she slept with no panties, since she was still tingling down there and she didn’t want to ruin it.
After the funeral, the spankings seemed to occur roughly twice a week, depending on what sort of imaginary infraction she had involuntarily committed. The spankings in the middle of the week would usually occur upstairs in her pink bedroom, the spankings on Sunday would take place in his study.
“Heather!” he would say, after his third glass of wine, “do you see the spots on this glass? Your mother never left spots on the wine glasses.”
Heather would hang her head during these humiliating episodes, acting as if she was dreading her punishment, when, in fact, she was now looking forward to it, even relying on it. She had tried — oh how she had tried to replicate the bare-bottomed spankings in her bedroom, but to no avail. She would pull her panties down and whack her bottom, but nothing would happen. She tried it with a rolled up copy of “The Christian News” — nothing. She tried it with a ping pong paddle — nothing. She tried it with a belt — nothing. It was frustrating that the only time she could get relief was when Father Petri did it.
Sometimes, during a very busy week, Father Petri would be too preoccupied with other matters to find fault with his daughter, and it would throw escort izmir her into a mild state of depression. She’d sulk around the house, trying to think of something really naughty to do to rouse his ire, but she was not a naughty girl. Heather was a good hearted soul, totally incapable of manipulation. In fact, unbeknownst to her preacher dad, she was probably closer to Jesus than anyone he had ever known, but this is something he would have to learn over time.
When the spankings finally did occur, she much preferred them to take place in her upstairs bedroom. The main reason was the height of the bed. It was low enough so that rather than dangle over his knee, she could fold herself over his leg and rest her elbows on the floor, which made it much more comfortable. She’d known this all along, but by a simple twist of fate, the floor became a key ingredient in enhancing the pleasure she now depended upon.
It was a hot Wednesday evening, but her nightie was in the laundry, so she was wearing a baggy T-shirt instead. Father Petri marched into her bedroom, sat down on the bed, pulled her panties off, but when she assumed the position over his leg, her loose T-shirt slithered all the way up to her armpits, allowing her bare breasts to dangle free, her stiff nipples just barely grazing the rug.
With every swat of his hand on her bare bottom, her body lurched forward and the tickling of her nipples rubbing the carpet seemed to travel straight down to the place between her legs, that place from which the unimaginable pleasure radiated from. Then, when he was through with her, and he sent her sprawling to the floor, and she instinctively covered her breasts with her hands, she discovered that smashing her nipples prolonged the release. She further discovered that after Father Petri had left the room, if she pinched her nipples in a certain steady rhythm, the sweet ache of release would start up again in earnest.
Curious about where this feeling of release was coming from, she sent her fingers exploring down there one night, and discovered a certain small area, a little bump, if you will, that seemed to act like a switch. If she worked the switch correctly, she could prolong the aching feeling of release, turning a two minute encounter into a twenty minute orgy of pleasure. Unfortunately, through extensive trial and error, she learned this little switch only worked after a spanking, which made Father Petri’s discipline routine absolutely imperative in maintaining her well-being and peace of mind.
Because of Father Petri’s important position with the church, he would invite a fellow pastor from out of town to stop by and have dinner now and then. Depending on who this dignitary was, (or, Heather would soon realize, if he was with his wife) Father Petri would request a certain dress for Heather to wear: “The red satin one,” or “the shimmery blue one.” These were all dresses her mother used to wear, but they were ill-fitting on Heather’s curvy frame. In fact, Heather thought the dresses looked stupid, like in Victorian times, when a woman’s chest was all smooshed up on the verge of escaping from its containment system. She shared her concern with Father Petri, but there was no arguing with the man.
“That dress doesn’t fit me,” she would say softly, so as not to annoy her very persnickety father. “It’s too small, and I’m afraid my bust is going to pop out.”
He would lower his spectacles and look at his daughter adoringly. “We’re honoring you mother’s memory dear. Now run along and get changed, and put on that pretty red lipstick. You’re looking more like your mother every day.”
She had no choice but to do as her father asked, even if she couldn’t wear a bra underneath her Mom’s dresses. She would put the dress on and adjust it so that her nipples weren’t showing, but her nipples were always mere centimeters from revealing themselves. It was nerve-wracking, and she took to having a glass of wine whenever she was required to dress that way.??”Go ahead and refresh Bishop Oglivey’s glass, darling?”
Feeling the comforting buzz of the wine cushioning her every move, she would bend over at the Bishop’s side, her quivering breasts inches from his face, and minister to his needs. ??”You’re such a pretty girl,” the Bishop would say, talking to her breasts instead of her face. “You’re going to make some lucky young man very happy one day.” Then he would lean back in his chair and adjust the napkin in his lap while she refilled his wine or removed his salad plate.
She readily accepted the woman’s role of subservience because it seemed to lead to more attention. She liked having these strange men tracing their fingers across her bare shoulders and along her collarbones, or grabbing her around the waist and plopping her in their laps. It made her feel special, loved even, and wasn’t that what Jesus wanted for us all?
While Father Petri’s taste in dinner dresses was rather liberal, he was not as accommodating izmir escort about swimwear. He would have no part of this new, modern-day trend with women revealing every inch of their sinful bodies in a tiny bikini. He was adamant that Heather was to wear her old red speedo, the one she got during her sophomore year at the Christian Academy she had just recently graduated from.
“But father,” she would say, turning around and showing him her backside, “see how it’s too small? If I take two steps, it rides up between my bum cheeks.” Then she would face him. “And here?” she would say pointing to how her breasts were bulging out like squished water balloons overflowing the top of her suit, “don’t you think it’s too small for me?”
“You look, wonderful dear,” he would say, slipping his finger under the shoulder strap and checking the tension. He didn’t think it was too small, he thought it was perfect, because he thought Heather was perfect, and you can’t blame him for that.
With summer approaching, Heather realized it was time to get serious about trimming “down there.” She was always conscientious about her pubic grooming, but no matter what she did, there was always evidence of unpleasantness showing when she’d don the red speedo. Finally, one night, after she’d had a glass of wine to alleviate the pressure of one of Father Petri’s dinner parties, she took a razor and shaved herself bare.
She immediately regretted it, not because she didn’t like it. She loved it. She loved it so much she spent the next three days shoving her hand down there to feel it whenever she could get away with it. Her regret was the anticipation of Father Petri’s reaction. Would he approve? Would he disapprove? Would he spank her with the ruler? She found out the next night, up in her bedroom, when Father Petri jerked her panties down and gasped.
“Oh my,” he said in a whisper, followed by silence. Heather held her breath, hoping to God he wasn’t mad. Finally, he spoke, tenderly, lovingly. “You look just like your mother.” Tentatively, he let his bony finger explore the new hairless area, delicately caressing her secret folds and crevices that had heretofore been hidden. Heather loved this part of the ritual, the innocent touching, the tender caresses that preceded the spankings. It made her feel beautiful when her Father fawned over her like this, saying things like “such a pretty pretty girl” or “such perfect skin — smooth as glass,” and tonight was no exception.
She was a little startled when he leaned in and brushed his lips across her special place, the place where her switch resided. It wasn’t a kiss so much as a caress with his lips. She giggled, and the giggle made her feel like she needed to pee, but that was normal. Sometimes, just thinking about Father Petri pulling her panties down and spanking her made her feel like peeing, but she accepted it, knowing that at the worst, only a few drops would leak out, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t pee.
With the issue of her hairless area now resolved, Heather was looking forward to pulling on her red speedo and going to the annual pool party up at Jim Clips’ residence in the foothills. Pool parties were one of the few times she was afforded the opportunity to socialize with her peers, and Jim Clips threw the best pool parties in town. He was a well-known local car dealer, a generous donor to local charities, and a pillar of the Republican Party. His guest list included certain church dignitaries and select members of the congregation, as well as several local politicians and a couple of radio DJs from the right wing talk shows he often appeared on.
Jim Clips called his annual pool party “Summer Fling!” The event coincided with his birthday, but the real purpose of these pool parties was to allow the men of the church to show off their pretty daughters — or trophy wives in some cases. (Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.) It was sort of a right of passage for these young lovelies who were preparing to meander off into the world of college, or marriage, or the sweet nothingness of wealth enjoyment.
Swimming was expected, and the pool would be populated almost entirely by gorgeous young women, all of them in one-piece swim suits, since it was important to retain the decorum and dignity expected at a gathering of conservative Christians. Surprisingly absent from the pool area would be the aging wives, who would be shuttled off to a rec room to drink various beverages and play bridge.
Jim Clips liked to have different themes for his annual “Summer Fling!”, but the recurring theme that seemed to be the most popular was “Island Time!”. For an “Island Time!” party, the caterers would prepare Hawaiian food, and the servers would all be dressed up in corny native garb. Heather always thought it was strange that although she was required to wear a stupid one-piece swimsuit, the ladies serving cocktails and horderves would be wearing very low-riding grass skirts with nothing but a tiny string thong underneath, and vinyl coconut bras that would in no way accommodate the physiques of these busty young women, but Heather didn’t question the motives of the church elders. Her task was to learn, not complain.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32