Easy like Saturday Morning

Literotic asexstories – Easy like Saturday Morning by CyranoAndersson,CyranoAndersson
It was my first morning in a newly painted room in a refurbished house. New Shower, new doors and windows and, new floorboards and carpet. This is generally how my mind works – especially on a Saturday morning in a new room with the smell of paint in my nostrils. I did a mental check list: Debts cleared? – finally, after over a decade! Friends? – more than I have ever had in my entire life. Sex life? – Nothing regular, but the ex occasionally summons me for a friends-with-benefits cunt-munch and blow-job. Job? – Going well. I love working in London as a uniformed Officer. Location? – Okay, having been in the area for over a decade and still not tiring of the place. Health? Pretty good. I am off the booze and cigs and losing weight. My erections are harder than they have been in over a decade and I am now brushing my teeth three times a day so I can even taste how good my life is in my spit.

Sooooooooo…why did I feel so empty and bored?

I ran through my options. Imagining it was Chris Tarrant running through the life lines with me and I was a contestant on “WHO WANTS TO BE A MILLIONAIRE?”

ONE: pray. Can’t. I could not pray if my life depended on it…which it did, really.

TWO: surf the net for porn. Naaaaaaaaah, not in the mood and am absolutely disgusted at myself for a lifetime of masturbation, voyeurism, and perverted sex.

THREE: read the Bible. Heck no. I am depressed enough. A friend had once done the random flicking thing and came up with Judas Iscariot’s suicide, then flicked randomly and came up with a line saying “Do it quickly!” Naturally, God has a warped sense of humour too. Just look at the Camel or Giraffe for proof of that!

FOUR: phone a friend. It was 8am in London. My friends in New Zealand and Australia were busy just now, I knew their schedules. My friends in the States were not really sober enough at that hour to talk or even listen coherently. Friends in London were all asleep or had their own issues just now.

FIVE: go to the gymn. Nope, I had not joined after a five day free trial so I guess that would not be an option.

SIX: go for a random walk until you either end up lost and scared or on a bus with sore feet heading home, miles off the radar.

SEVEN: connect the external hard drive and watch an old movie. I did not fancy any of the fifty movies on my hard drive. Seen them all a gazillion times.

“hmmmm,” I thought, “That walk sounds like fun!”

There had been a time when I had walked my arse off through so many nights regularly to get to Horsenden Hill to watch the sunrises. It was already sun-up so I just followed my nose.

Less than ten minutes from my house I saw a church with a sign saying “Open for prayer, please come in!” I live in one of the most secular cities on planet Earth and had passed this place maybe ten times in ten years. I figured it was my subconscious guiding me there…or, maybe, I could say “Fuck Freud, I just feel I need to be here!”

Either way I was walking in without a care in the world for which denomination of Christianity it was. After all I had been to a Roman Catholic Infant School whilst attending a Methodist Sunday School and later went to a Protestant Junior School and then a Senior school with an evangelical Christian Agricultural Science Teacher who regularly brought over Church groups to sing or preach or perform “Skits.”

I had spent from age 21 to 24 vehemently Atheist until, certain events proved beyond reasonable doubt that there is a God and, that I was not Him.

So anyway, here I was on a Saturday morning strolling into a Church to pray.

Prayer can be done anywhere, it’s just some folk feel more INSPIRED to pray in a building constructed and consecrated for worship and instruction. It’s no biggie. I have a, “DO WHAT WORKS!” policy in life.

So I sat there in a pew. I imagined some big fat bastard strolling in and saying “OI, you are in my seat!” But of course this was ridiculous – this was a CHURCH frequented by NICE PEOPLE.

It took a while but eventually I cracked.

The tears streamed down my face. I shook with grief at my own lostness.

I had focussed so much on the human experience and human achievement I had forgotten the simple pleasures of being homeless and fired up for Jesus. I had achieved well in Worldly terms but spiritually a wall had crept up. That wall was my SIN. All my impurity, my lust, my self indulgeance. I was a fucked up human being all-right.

A hand touched my shoulder. I jumped in shock.

A soothing voice apologised. I mentally noted it was female and wiped the tears away before looking up.

She was extremely attractive but with a dog collar on her neck. The lips of Taylor Swift, the eyes of Zooey Deschanel, and the nose of – I don’t know – Elisabeth Perkins? The hair? A Blonde. She could certainly make a Priest kick a hole in a stained glass window. Whatever. I was about to speak to a woman of the cloth. “A layyydeeeee vi-carrrr”, or a “Dibley” to use the colloquial slang of the Brits. Years earlier I had actively protested against the ordination of women priests and vicars. I had been brainwashed into the absolute ideology that the MEN lead the MEN and the WOMEN lead the WOMEN…but of course my old church had failed largely because the men were not leading a damn thing. They would listen to their wives or risk a loss of nookie.

“Are you gonna be okay?” she said.

I grinned at the pure genius of that question.

“You must ask that question a lot.” I responded.

She frowned, “Nope, first time for me. I have never had to deal with a guy crying in a pew on a Saturday morning. ’til now.”

“Well,” I attempted a coherent reply, “I am not an expert at crying in churches having not really visited them that often… I went to a church that met in school buildings mostly.”

“ICoC?” she said, totally flooring me.

She proceeded to explain that she had remembered me from way back.

“I was at your baptism in Queen’s Park, New Year’s Eve 1999!”

My eyes widened, I had not even seen her there. Or maybe I had?

She went on: “I saw you at Alexandra Palace one year. You were late and missed Communion and sat drinking tea with an Irish fella, then went in, and afterwards went ice-skating with some gorgeous girls suggesting you were in with the in crowd at the time.”

I protested that I had a friend at the time who had hooked me up with a friend of hers seeing as I knew how to skate and she did not.

“Well, you certainly seemed like a fun guy to know!”

I blushed, utterly speechless.

“So,” she said, “Do you want to talk through your issues?”

“Issues?” I sighed, “I have the whole magazine subscription!”

She laughed sympathetically and placed a hand on my shoulder again, massaging my neck and even playing with my long hair.

I was invited to follow her to her house behind the church.

We sat ourselves in a large kitchen – farmhouse style, with a breakfast bar in the middle.

She offered me a coffee or tea, I told her I was not especially thirsty but if she wanted to brew up for herself then to go ahead.

“So spill,” she said simply, “Wassup?”

I laughed.

“How long do I have on the clock and what is it going to cost me?”

“I have a Christening at 3pm and will probably need to pee around 11am, but apart from that, I am flexible!” she joked. Then she added as an afterthought, “The cost is negligible. I guess it is your salvation if you do not talk to SOMEONE but I am hoping it is me you talk to.”

“Alriiiighty thennnn,” I replied. So I began.

I told her about my childhood. The messed up situations, the loss of innocence too soon, and the discovery aged fourteen that I could orgasm through wanking.

I checked her face for signs of dis-approval or boredom. She was rivetted. I checked her body for signs of interest. Feet pointing towards me and nipples visibly hard through her formal attire. Result!

I told her about my discovery of a neighbour opposite my bedroom window who liked to masturbate for me in her living room, back when I was living at home with Mum. I told her how for years I would watch her jazzing herself regularly, especially in the summer months.

I told her about various adventures and high-risk escapades, and a few liaisons and random dates that went nowhere fast. I told her everything.

“So, what’s your point?” She growled, after almost an hour.

I apologised and sat there with an icy chill down my spine, afraid I had pissed her off.

“Are you here to brag or confess your sin?” she demanded.

“I dunno. I just wanna get rid of the emptiness and feel connected to Christ again.” I offered her.

“If that was true then you would not be making a point of telling me every detail of your talents at clit-sucking and finger-fucking women!” she said sternly.

I had been BUSTED. Cornered even. I chose not to comment on the fact she had used unwholesome language. My own had been rather colourful.

“Okay,” I told her, “So I figure I have a talent for eating cunt. I figure I cannot marry as that would be utter misery – the thought of eating one cunt for the rest of my life without any way of enjoying the favour being returned because in my experience women cannot suck cock!”

My tirade was met with an icy stare.

“Do me a favour?” she asked, “Use the words fanny, vagina or pussy?”

“Okay, I am so sorry,” I began.

“-It’s okay!” she cut me off, “I just don’t like the C word!”

I told her I understood.

“So,” she chimed in, “you are mostly impotent but love cunnilingus?”

“Yeah,” I told her, “in a nutshell”

“Would it knock your ego to know I was a Gold-Star Lesbian who repented and “got” religion, and found my faith was enough to keep me celibate???”

I replied truthfully. “Nope.” and then added, “I have nothing to prove, least of all to a dyke in a dog collar!”

I realised this was a very offensive line. Thankfully she laughed it off. “So your perversions are somehow less terrible than mine? And you feel the need to put me down to reassure yourself that heterosexual perversions are less sinful than those of the homosexual?”

My facial expression must have been a picture as she laughed.

I attempted to frame an answer.

I finally came out with: “I figure gays are no more messed-up than – say -left-handed people but we live in a right-handed world and God asks us all to play ball or keep out of it!”

“Very well put,” she chuckled, “and that is why I have been celibate for ten years.”

“Wow!” was all I could come out with.

“So, you kinda wimped out in comparison by quitting church to use your talents at clit-sucking and muff-munching!”

“I guess,” I conceded, “but I just could not stop jerking myself off, so staying in church was pointless.”

“Hmmm, so what is the longest you have remained pure?”

I told her truthfully that several times in my life I had lasted twenty-one days without a hand-shandy, and then my body always reacted with an explosion that was actually painful.

“I see,” she gasped, “that’s a big problem.”

“No, actually, it’s only five and a half inches!” I quipped.

She actually laughed and said, “Some women would be more than delighted with that; I have one lady in my congregation who confessed to buying a dildo as her husband only has four inches! She wanted to know if it was a sin, and I had to tell her that if her husband was using the dildo on her as part of their lovemaking then it is not a sin but if she is going solo, then it is.”

“Did she tell her husband about the dildo?” I enquired.

“Oh goodness, I can’t believe I told you that,” she gasped.

“How about that coffee?” I ventured.

She sent me down the road for some biscuits and milk. I got double choc chip cookies and coconut rings. It is a long walk, but I made a point of hurrying. Upon my return, I could hear the sounds of water down the outside drain. I found the kitchen door unlocked and let myself in. I could hear a hair dryer upstairs. I sat myself down. She breezed in seconds later exactly dressed as before but unmistakeably fresher.

“I didn’t hear you come back so soon,” she chirped.

“Did you just take a shower?” I asked plainly.

“Ummm, yes, very quickly.” She blushed.

I raised an eyebrow. I could guess why but she would never admit to it.

She boiled the kettle and began to propose I talk to someone else. Some guy she knew. A Christian Psychologist. She quoted the admonition that there should not even be a hint of immorality in the churches. I bit my tongue, choosing not to complain about being given chapter and verse so late into our time together.

We drank our coffee as the tension built. I had gotten her hot under the collar. That turned me on and she could see it in my jeans. Then a thought occurred to me.

“You know I don’t even know your name?” I said in a low voice.

She chuckled and blushed, and said “I’m Katie, how d’ya do?”

I grinned and told her my name, we even shook hands in a mock formal manner.

I wanted to dig deeper into the reasons how and why she remembered me but I guessed I had better not go there for fear of not liking the answer. Not that I am insecure about my looks but I figure people remember you for being an Adonis or a freak… and I am no Adonis. But then she read my mind. She parted her gorgeous lips to speak, then hesitated with a breath, then began:

“It’s your eyes.”

“Pardon me?”

“The reason I remember you from way back.”

“Wow!” was all I could manage.

“I knew I was gay from a very young age, but sometimes a man can look at me and I just like the way he looks at me. Not in a leering, lustful, animal way but a puppy-dog look of longing. A sweet and innocent look that says, “you are amazing,” or, “you really are beautiful!” you know what I mean?”

I nodded.

“And you looked at me like that a couple of times, it was nice.”

“So, can you honestly tell me you have never been sexually aroused by a man?”

“I hadn’t ever,” she whispered conspiratorially, pausing for full impact, “until today!”

I was rock hard. Here I was with a gorgeous lady Vicar who had never been intimate with a man before and, who was now admitting to having feelings for me.

“You know damned well I am going to totally try and get that Cassock off one way or another and take you upstairs.”

“No, because I am insisting you leave now.”

There was terror in her voice. I reached for her cordless handset and passed it to her.

“Call the Police, coz I don’t want to leave just yet.”

“I am asking you nicely,” she began.

“I am asking YOU nicely!” I retorted.

“I made a vow to God.”

“Based on what you knew at that time in your life. God knows we are weak. That is why there is grace. I would rather face my death having lived a lifetime of honesty, than to die regretting all the opportunities for pleasure I denied myself in the hope of getting a better place in Heaven.”

She shook her head firmly, “This is Satan talking. Eve was fooled by the snake because of her curiousity for knowledge. Some things are best left untouched and unknown.”

“The Real Adam and Eve were African, they would have eaten the snake. It is just a story!” I tried to joke. She did not laugh. I had to repair the damage from that flippant remark: “Okay, sorry, I understand. But the whole point of the Bible is that we cannot be perfect and that is why we need God. God does not wish to deny anyone happiness. God INVENTED sex for OUR pleasure. He invented the orgasm, not Satan. Satan merely gets us addicted to pleasures that should be moderated or confined within the right context.”

“There is this thing called Marriage. A beautiful and holy invention of God’s that I believe in and THAT is the only context within which to enjoy sex!”

“Then we should get married.” I suggested.

“Yeah, right, and that would make me homeless and jobless!”

I looked at her incredulously.

She amazed me even further by actually apologising for that remark.

“What I meant was… look, I don’t quite know how or why I have feelings for you but, I am not willing to throw away my integrity on one impulsive day. I have responsibilities.”

“Yeah, now let’s take a look at those, shall we?” I teased, “Later today you are going to sprinkle water on a baby’s head? That’s not Biblical and you know it! You are in a spiritually dead denominational institution that tolerates every kind of hypocrisy, and does not follow the Bible anyway!”

She conceded that this was true but defended herself admirably, justifying the rituals as being culturally very English, and important to some in identifying themselves as English; and having Englishness. “A christening is a huge big deal to families, and it brings people together so it cannot be a bad thing.” she finished off.

By these arguments I could check the temperature of her faith, her level of wisdom and her genuine Bible knowledge all in one. She could be won over!

“Right,” I nodded, “and sex outside of marriage is indeed wrong but as a lesbian you cannot risk marrying a guy and then finding out you are unable to enjoy sex with him when it is too late. So you keep yourself in a daft Catch 22 situation and then occasionally jazz yourself in the shower? Yup, that sounds like a great way to live your life!”

She looked at me like I had smacked her in the mouth.

I saw the kitchen clock was saying one o’clock. I figured I had no chance of getting into her knickers now. I was about to be proven wrong.

“Kiss me.” she demanded.

I obeyed, applying my lips to hers, massaging them with mine.

She led me upstairs to her bedroom. It contained a single bed and two wardrobes. There was a small desk with a laptop also. Nothing else.

She removed her cassock and collar, revealing only a black sport’s bra and panties underneath. I was amazed. She just stood there, wanting me to do the rest. We were both trembling. I was genuinely terrified but exhilarated.

I kissed her passionately. Hungrily. I wanted her so bad I thought I might simply explode in my jeans.

She sensed my urgency and touched my groin.

“Don’t!” I pleaded. “I want to go down on you. That’s all.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to wank you off first?” she offered.

I figured if I blew my load first it might clear my head so I agreed.

She ordered me to sit on her bed and then thoughtfully, she sat next to me and used her right hand in almost the position I would do myself. Very clever, I thought. Within seconds I was spraying her bedding and carpet with my seed. I let out a groan.

“That didn’t take long, eh?” she said.

I apologised. She told me it was a compliment to her that I was obviously very hot for her.

I kissed her, she reached behind her back and undid her own bra so that when I pulled away it fell to the floor revealing the most perfect tits ever.

She grinned, “you like?”

I nodded and pressed her to the bed, covering her from the neck down with butterfly kisses.

I gently kneaded her boobs and licked the nipples to and fro. I worked out the left was more sensitive than the right so I did the full works on the right one first. Then I teased and licked her left nipple.

She began moaning and placed her own right hand between her legs, a slight rasping sound, like wet fingers on pubic hair.

I pulled away briefly, looked her in the eyes and, kissed my way to her left hip, then across her tummy, yanking her fingers out of her panties and licking them clean.

“You taste delicious!” I growled, and moved up to kiss her lips.

She smiled at the taste of herself.

Sensing her urgency I tugged her panties off and dived in.

Judging by the way she had used her fingers I opted for hard and fast, building up to maximum pressure with my tongue and introducing my fingers as well.

For maybe five minutes or more (you lose track of time) I was concentrating hard on thrusting two fingers up her cunt, pressed against her front wall, whilst licking and sucking her clit in an initially gentle and then gradually harder and rougher fashion. At one point she shouted “That’s it! Like that!” and then: “A bit faster! I beg you!”