The Preacher's Son #1: Unbound

Preacher's Son: #1 Unbound

Jasinda Wilder

This is an erotic short story, or
episode
. Each episode stands alone, like a TV episode, but is part of a larger story.

WARNING:
This story contains explicit sex and erotic scenes, M/F. For adults, 18+ only.

He was everything I'd never had before. Not just physically, but who he was, inside and out. He was young, strong, kind...and oh my Lord, so innocent.

I met him in church. He was sitting near the back, staring out the window and not really paying attention. He was the first person I saw when I walked in those chipped white doors with their faded brass handles. He was coiled into the pew, his knees drawn up, his back hunched, long fingers tapping his broad thighs. His messy black hair swept across his brow, covering one eye before he brushed it away absently with a thumb. I barely managed to avoid stumbling on a rip in the threadbare carpet when my heel caught. I was so busy taking in the absurd beauty of him that I just about fell flat on my face. 

He saw me, then, too, and I think the awe in his eyes is what did it for me. He looked at me like he'd never seen a woman before, he looked at me like a man in a desert looks at a wellspring. I'd never had anyone look at me like that, with a naked desire, unadorned wonder. 

The only open seat was at the aisle-end, one row up from him. I took it and sat down just as the white-haired old lady left off her godawful pounding on the poor little tan upright piano. She'd been murdering "Old Rugged Cross" as the congregation took their places, and I was the last one in. Apropos, that was. It was at least ten years since I'd last been in a church—outside of weddings and Christmas—so coming into this little Reformed Baptist chapel was an act of will, a challenge to myself.

I'd fled back to the South after things with Dan went to hell, just packed a couple bags, withdrew all the money in my hidden account and hopped the first plane away from nasty old Atlantic City. I wanted distance, I wanted space, I wanted away. I got off the plane in Atlanta, rented a car and drove West until I hit Jackson, Mississippi, and I spent the night there in a seedy old motel off the freeway, roach-infested, stinking to high-heaven, and oh my Lord, so quiet. 

I grew up in the South, a couple of lifetimes ago. Dan had swept me away from Savannah when I was sixteen, lured me north with promises of money and excitement and fun and endless sex, and he'd provided all that for a few years, and then things changed, as things do with men like him. He got bored, I guess. I wasn't exciting anymore, wasn't new and shiny and tempting. All I can do is guess though, 'cause Dan never told me anything. Just flung money at me and left me for his call girls and his whores and his gambling bunnies and who knows what else. I doubt he ever noticed I was gone, probably. He didn't care what I did, and he was so rich from owning the casino that I could siphon off money left and right and he never said a word. I started that about two years in, when I realized he didn't really love me. It took a long time, but eventually I had enough money stashed away that I knew I could make it on my own, and I split. 

By then, of course, he never bothered with me. Rarely came home, never spoke to me. I was just the trophy wife, beautiful and pointless. I tried to find satisfaction elsewhere, once, with one of the card dealers, but Dan made it violently clear, to me and to the poor dealer, that he wouldn't stand for it. I never tried that again.

So, I ran off with a couple million dollars and no clue what to do with myself. 

I buzzed north from Jackson in my little Audi Quattro, top down, feeling finally free. I'd spent a while in Jackson, maybe a year, a year and a half, just taking time to be me. Then, one day, I up and took a little drive, followed US-49 into this  little tiny place in the middle of nowhere, full of nothing. It was slow and sleepy and beautiful in its own way, and I liked it, found an empty house to rent, filled it with new things, moved in, and that was how I ended up in little Yazoo City. 

The thing to remember about the South is that in little places like Yazoo, you go to church. You just do. You don't have to believe it, but you pay your dues and pretend, like everyone else.

I picked that church because it was a cute little building, white clapboards and three cracked concrete steps and a steeple with a black iron bell. There was a cemetery out back behind it, all ancient headstones from the civil war and before, surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence. Farther back still was a little knoll crowned by a spreading oak tree, complete with a rope swing. I pictured myself on the swing, just kicking my heels in the humid air, and that was it...that was the church I'd go to.

Oh my Lord, how little did I know what that decision would start. 

Sitting there, listening to the pastor's booming, stentorian voice, I felt the dark-haired young man watching me, trying gamely not to stare, and failing. I liked his eyes on me. I felt sexy, just sitting there, with his chocolate eyes straining for a glimpse of my breasts. 

He was maybe twenty-one, twenty-two, and he had the tan skin and lean muscle of a man who spends all his time outside, working hard and playing hard. He had a thin white scar along his jaw, and I wondered how he'd gotten it. His hands were toying with the crease in his khaki pants, and I wanted, so badly, to feel those hands on me. That wanting him to touch me, it was a sudden desire, springing up in my belly and taking hold. It was silly, cause I was turning thirty-four in a few weeks, and I'd just gotten shut of a man, yet here I was, wanting this sexy beast of a guy, just out of his teens. 

I was twisted in the pew, sitting sideways with my legs crossed, a casual enough position, but one carefully thought-out to let me look at him, and to give him a good eyeful of my thighs and my breasts. I'd dressed in the nicest clothes I had, which I realized as soon as I walked in were too nice, too revealing, too expensive. 

The sermon dragged on forever, and the entire time, he and I were making eyes at each other, trading I-wasn't-staring glances away. When the old woman sat down at the piano and dug into a horrific rendition of "Oh What A Friend We Have In Jesus", I bolted. I mean, I nearly ran out of that church. I clicked down the steps in my too-high heels, stretching my legs as far as my too-tight skirt would let me. 

He wasn't far behind, although I didn't dare look to see. I could feel him, though. His eyes were on my ass as I climbed the hill, and I gave my hips an extra sway on my way to the swing. The ropes were scratchy, fuzzy, generations-old hemp, the fibers sticking to my palms as I gripped them, and the weathered, gray wooden plank seat was rough, small, and hard under my bottom. I kicked my heels gently, giving me a little momentum. I kept my knees pressed together as he approached, a life-long habit of a woman who's spent her life in skirts. 

When he made it up the hill and stood staring at me, mouth open a little as he hunted for words, I let my knees go apart, just a touch. I had to make myself do it though. My mind and my libido wanted me to let him get a glimpse, just a teasing look, but physical habit wanted me to keep my knees together.

My libido won. 

His eyes darted to my thighs, to the little triangle of darkness between them. His zipper bulged out slightly, and I let my knees part a bit more. He was still looking for something to say, and I could see his hands shaking a little. Looking at him, then, I realized he wasn't just another congregation member; he had the same jaw and the same long nose as the pastor, the same towering height, although he was still lean and fit, where the pastor was running to two or three spare tires around his middle. This was the pastor's son. The preacher's kid. My own father had been a preacher, before he died of a heart attack the year I left with my Dan. I knew what PK's were like: sheltered, sequestered, kept innocent of the world and its wicked ways. Kept away from women like me.

I took pity on his awkwardness. "Hi," I said, sticking out my hand. 

"Hi." His voice didn't break, but it was pitched low, as if he was afraid to talk too loud. 

He shook my hand gently, not limp or featherlight, and not crushing, just a gentle, firm touch. His eyes kept wandering to my cleavage, and I found myself arching my back to make my breasts look bigger, to give him a better show. 

"I'm Shea," I said. "Shea Harley."

He smiled, a bright, amused grin. "Shea Harley? Wow, that's a cool name." He ducked his head, and a lock of black hair fell across his eye; I was already growing to adore that stray lock of hair and the thumb that brushed it aside. "I'm Tre."

He said it "Tray". I must've given him a curious look, because he shrugged his shoulders and looked embarrassed.

"It's a nickname. My initial are T-R-E: Timothy Robert Evan. I hate my name, so I go by Tre."

I kept swinging, letting my foot brush his leg at each apex. "I like that. Tre. It fits you so much better than Tim. You're not a Tim." He shifted forward, and when I swung forward again, I let my foot slide up his calf to the back of his knee. 

It was a first hesitant flirt, just to see how he'd react. He glanced at the offending foot, and then at me, as if wondering what I could mean by it, and what he was supposed to do in return. I could see him thinking, figuring, wondering. 

"So, Tre. What do you do?"

He shrugged. "I work at a garage, changing oil and fixing cars and such. Daddy wants me to go to seminary, but I'm just not sure I want to. I ain't decided yet."

"Your dad's the preacher, right?"

"Yep. Although don't let him hear you call him 'Preacher'. He's a pastor, he says. He's got a whole lecture on how a pastor is called to the pulpit and his flock, while anyone can preach."

"And you don't want to be a pastor?" I swung forward again, and this time I caught myself on his legs with my feet, hanging there by my hooked toes, and then swinging free again.

Tre shrugged again, but I could tell there was a lot on his mind, a lot expressed by that nonchalant shrug. "Not really. I just ain't felt the call, you know? I never been outside of Mississippi, and I've barely ever left Yazoo. I just...I don't know. Seems like there might be more out there for me than one little town, one little church, for all my life."

He fell silent, and he seemed embarrassed. I don't think he meant to say all that.

"Well, I think you oughta make your own choices," I said, standing up. 

There was only two steps between us, and I took one, so I was just inside his personal space. My breasts were nearly brushing his chest, and he was valiantly trying to keep his eyes on mine. 

"You know, you're right about one thing, Tre. There is a whole world out there. You just never know what you might find." I fanned my face with my hand. "It sure is hot out here, isn't it?"

I had my blouse buttoned up to just above my cleavage, and the button at the bulge of my breasts was straining. I met his eyes, held them, and slowly, so slowly let my hand drift up to that button, touched it with my finger. Tre's tongue touched the corner of his lips, and I nearly kissed him then. He knew I was playing a game, so I kept playing it. He was waiting, and I drew the moment out. I circled the little white button with my index finger, then pinched it and pushed it through, tugged my blouse apart so a greater expanse of cleavage was revealed. 

It took a lot longer, then, for his burning mocha eyes to return to mine.

"You're hot," he blurted, then closed his eyes in acute embarrassment. 

I laughed, shifting forward, closer to him. "Thank you, Tre. I think you're pretty hot, yourself."

He looked confused by this. "You do?"

I nodded. "Mmmmm-hmmm. I do. You're sexy." He blushed scarlet.

He seemed to be trying to come up with something else to say. "No one's ever told me that, before."

"Well, you are. If they all can't see that, well...they're blind." I was pressed up against him, now, not crushed closed like I wanted to be, but close. 

He was looking down at me, searching my eyes like they held some inscrutable secret. "Shea, I should probably go. My dad's gonna wonder where I'm at. We usually have lunch after sermon."