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Image for the poem Forbidden Fruit: The Preacher

Forbidden Fruit: The Preacher's Wife

To some, I’m a monster. I’m a well-adjusted, financially independent monster, but a monster nonetheless. I’ve learned to negotiate my way through life using my skill-set to acquire what I want. What I want is what makes me a monster in some circles.  
        
I learned as a young man that I had the qualities to attract the opposite sex. I had intelligence, charm, and self-deprecating humor that young ladies loved. I also had physical characteristics that gave me advantage.  
        
My most useful skills were that of acting and drama. I could play whatever scene spoke to my prey. If she needed stable gentlemen with money, I played the part. If she needed an adventurous gone-rogue edgy man, that is what I became.          
        
My name? I have various aliases, each with their own names and well-rehearsed backstories. Perhaps a better way to convince you I am a monster is to share the story of one of my conquests.  In this story, I played the part of Markus.        
        
I viewed life as an endless buffet spread out with humans of all sorts for my pleasure. Sometimes, what is forbidden brings forth desire. Sometimes it’s the flashy pretty thing. Sometimes it is the commonness of the thing that makes me want it, but in all cases, my wanting means I shall have it. Only rarely has personal rage and the desire for revenge made me desire something. Anger was the motivator in this story.          
        
I read of a funeral disrupted by a church whose pastor denounced the person who’d died because he was a gay man. He led those under his sway to stand across the street from mourners and yell insults at family and friends. They did not respond but entered their church quietly and conducted the service with continued yelling in the background. As I read, I realized my next buffet item would be courtesy of this man if possible.          
        
When I visited the preacher’s website, it displayed a family photo. They were lovely. Four brown-eyed all American looking kids between the ages of around eight to fifteen I thought. My eyes were immediately drawn to his wife. She looked to be in her early-thirties with an innocent round face and broad smile. Her long curling brown hair fell to her waste and she carried just a few extra pounds but nothing to get in a snit about. Her solid color dress was cropped tightly around her neck but female curves shown just below.          
        
I quickly learned she ran the church’s food pantry. I emailed the pantry and said I’d like to drop off a cash donation. The church was a few hundred miles away, so I booked an apartment nearby.          
        
I received an email thanking me for my generosity. The name on the email was Bethany, which I hoped was the preacher’s wife. I emailed back my hope to hand deliver $500 that Friday and said I had plans to make monthly donations for the next six months. Soon a message came saying she looked forward to meeting me at the church. Would 10 a.m. or early afternoon work?          
        
That Friday at 10 a.m., I stood knocking on the church office door. A secretary answered.  “Hi, I’m Markus, and have a donation for the food pantry.”          
        
The middle-aged thin woman smiled sweetly and said Bethany was expecting me. I followed her through the church to the food pantry. Bethany stood quickly and greeted me with a warm smile. “Thank you for your kindness,” she said.          
        
“Of course, I’ve been blessed in life and your food pantry looked like a worthy cause to support. I also remember a time when my own mother depended on assistance to keep us fed,” I said delivering my prepared script as an expert actor.            
        
“Oh my,” she said, “So you understand the ravages of poverty and sin on our world.”          
        
“Yes mam, I certainly do. I’ve not been in the church for some time. Can you tell me about your beliefs.” I hit the right trigger because this beautiful and shapely mother of four launched into an hour-long discussion of religion and her conversion. Listening between the lines I gathered she’d been a little wild in her younger days before conversion.    
      
She wasn’t pushy and seem satisfied that I listened and added my on bits and pieces along the way. She had no clue that, like much of what her husband said, my personal examples were lies. I used my best charm and complimented her heavily on her life story and the work she was now doing. I also praised her lovely family and the benefit they would bring to our world.        
        
I said I was so impressed with their work that I’d rather accelerate my donations. “Could I return the following Friday?”        
        
“Yes, that’s so kind of you. I wish you would attend our services. You’re the kind of person we like to see in our pews.”          
        
I looked for any hint of sarcasm in her face but there was none, just an earnest smile and sparking blue eyes perched above completely covered perky breasts. I had to force my stare away before she noticed.          
        
That week I worked on my story based on what I’d learned from her. She revealed more in our next meeting and I chimed in with my newly crafted fiction. By week three, I thought we were sure to be getting on beautifully. Some things are worth waiting for, especially if they’re from the forbidden portion of life’s buffet.          
    
On Friday number three, I was at the door at 10 a.m. ready to talk. The secretary greeted me and said in measured words, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Brown can’t meet with you this morning.”          
        
“Oh, I hope she and the family are well.”          
        
She paused awkwardly and was silent for a moment.          
        
“Is everything alright?” I said. “I’d really like to hand deliver my donation.”    
   
“Everyone’s fine, but Pastor Brown asked her to not schedule personal meetings at her pantry office.”          
        
I wrinkled and asked, “No meetings, ever?”          
        
“I’m not sure about that,” the now blushing secretary said.          
        
Back in my car, I whipped off a quick email to Bethany on my phone. Within a few seconds I received a response. “I’m sorry we can’t meet. My husband feared we were becoming emotionally involved. The truth is we were. Your story has been such a blessing to me.”          
        
I emailed back, “I had hoped to hear more of your story and see where my journey would lead. I’ll meet you anywhere any time. You can come to my apartment if you don’t want to be seen talking to me.”        
        
I thought, now I’ve screwed up. That’ll slam the door. I didn’t get a response for more than an hour and assumed I’d blown it.          
        
Then a ping on my phone, “What’s the address?”          
        
It was early afternoon when there was a light knock at the door. I answered and Bethany walked quickly and nervously through the door. I handed her the envelope five crisp bills enclosed.          
        
She said, “Thank you for this and thank you for your understanding. My husband is very controlling, not in just our meeting, but in everything.”          
        
Bethany shared examples of the meanness and humiliation she’d endured at the hands of her bigoted, homophobic husband. She now worried that her children would grow up to be like him. She hated the mean things he led the church to do.          
        
“Like demonstrating at a gay person’s funeral?” I asked.          
        
She wiped her tears, “You knew about that?”          
        
“Yes, things make the news.”        
        
Something about the air between Bethany and me changed then. She seemed to soften and I offered her some water.        
        
“Yes, I’d like some water. Do you have any wine?” She’d noticed my wine rack.        
        
I poured us both a glass of my best red wine and we sipped.          
        
Then it happened. I saw an opening in her eyes and leaned toward her knowing I could easily retreat if I misread her. She leaned and our lips met lightly and paused for a moment.          
        
When our lips parted I fully expected her to stand and leave, but she rested her head on my left shoulder.        
        
 “I’ve been a good wife and mother.” Her voice was low and solemn, almost like a confession.          
        
I said, “Yes, you have. You’ve made many sacrifices for them.”          
        
Bethany placed her left hand on my chest and I was immediately warm underneath. I looked down at her slender fingers and her modest diamond wedding ring. Her hand slowly slid up my chest and cupped the side of my face as our lips met again, this time she slipped her tongue to my lips.          
        
I felt inward elation that this forbidden fruit now seemed within reach if I didn’t move too quickly. Thinking of the obligatory sex she must have given her stern husband over the years, I knew I could do better.          
        
There was no hint of hesitation in her. It felt like a gate had opened and we were both walking through without obstacles. I wondered what arguments I could mount if she had sudden thoughts of guilt. I had nothing.          
        
My fingers touched Bethany’s neck as we kissed again. I slid my right hand down slowly, watching for any feeling of resistance. There was none, so my hand continued down feeling the rise of her breast through her blouse. I paused to feel her heat before lowering my hand to her stomach that pouched out slightly. I got very hard thinking about those four beautiful children forming just below where my hand was resting. I marveled that this human being was now within my grasp. Her forbidden flesh was already giving me pleasure. An added thrill was that my pleasure would be at the expense of that hateful husband of hers.          
        
Still sensing no hesitation, I let my hand drift lower and noticed her legs begin to spread. She pulled her long homemade skirt up to her waist. I was elated! It was time for business.          
        
I knelt before her and began to kiss her pussy through her panties. She moaned leaning back on the sofa and raised her center toward me. My lips felt the soft warmth of her. I was burning inside.        
        
I rose up and viewed Bethany’s bare legs for the first time. They were full but shapely and strong. I pulled her panties down and softly kissed her lower stomach noticing the sheen of wetness on thick hairs below.          
        
My pants came off quickly and I was perched for entry when she pressed her palms against my chest. I knew it was too good to be true.          
        
She looked down to where our bodies were poised to join and then into my eyes. “I give myself to you,” she whispered. I noticed tears in the corners of her eyes.          
        
“You would bless me with your greatest treasure?” I asked in reply.          
        
Bethany’s hands moved from my chest down to the sides of my waste and drew me in.
Written by LostViking (Lost Viking)
Published | Edited 9th Feb 2021
Author's Note
The author, who views life as a buffet for fulfilling his pleasures, approaches a preacher's wife with care.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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