Chapter 5: Sunday Service

Sunday, September 15th, 2013 – Paris, Texas

The joyful noise bled through the walls of the tent—the home of the Paris Revival for Christ.

I think they were an offshoot of the Pentecostals. My pa, a fire-and-brimstone Baptist preacher, never respected the Pentecostals. "They lack decorum, boy," he would say. "No restraint. Always shoutin' and carryin' on like a bunch of hellbound fools." And from what I've heard, the Revival for Christ makes regular Pentecostals seem as staid as any Baptist matron.

The Revival met in a tent – large, striped red and yellow; the type of tent you'd see at a circus – pitched on an empty lot at the outskirts of town. Its been there for the last five years—an ugly eyesore to the expensive neighborhood built up the street. A sign out front read:

Paris Revival for Christ
Reverend Merrywether Roberts
First Lady Happy Roberts

I fixated on Happy Roberts name—the Reverend's prudish wife. She once tried to get me banned from the library for surfing some harmless porn. The prissy bitch didn't give one fig about my Constitutional rights to free speech in a public building. It was time to teach her a lesson.

I gave my pecker a few strokes, picturing the look on her face as my slab of iron teaches her a lesson. Happy Roberts was horribly misnamed—I reckon she's never had a smile on her face before. Probably because of the stick up her ass. Maybe I could change that; pull that stick from her ass and replace it with my cock, and give her a nice, hard cum.

I very much doubt even the world's greatest cum could put a smile on her face.

I slipped into the canvas tent; the joyful noise washed over me like a heavy surf. There were maybe fifty or sixty people filling the tent, all standing up in a circle around the Reverend, who stood on a raised platform. He was an iron-faced man in black robes, his arms held high, leading them in song. They clapped and jumped and shook like the Holy Spirit was upon them. Some babbled incoherently. I reckoned they were speaking in tongues, though it sounded like horseshit to me.

I spotted Happy, curly, dark-brown hair swaying about her shoulders as she moved to the music, a look of worshipful ecstasy painted on her face. Imagine that, the prude could smile. Her face was actually pretty when she wasn't frowning. She looked a youthful thirty, her figure sleek beneath a long, floral skirt and modest white blouse.

I pushed my way through the crowd. None seemed to notice – or maybe they didn't care, chalking it up to 'God' – that an invisible force pushed them to the side. I reached Happy, perspiration dotting her face. It was sweltering in the tent; the pathetic AC chugging away didn't seem to do a damned thing. The Reverend launched into another hymn, one I vaguely remembered from my childhood sitting in my pa's church bored as a coonhound too old to hunt. 'Come All Ye Faithful, ' I reckoned the song was called.

"O come, let us adore you," sang the congregation. I smirked; someone was definitely going to cum.

I knelt before her, pushing up her skirt and scooching between her legs. She froze, feeling my hands on her thighs, stroking her slightly. I loved panties. Wondering what kind a girl wore, then seeing up her skirt is one of my great passions, and I was excited to see what sort of panties a prude like Happy would wear. Probably boring granny-panties, ugly and baggy. It was dark beneath her skirt, but enough light passed through her skirt to make out dark panties, bikini-cut, and trimmed in lace.

How naughty.

I nuzzled against the crotch of her panties, inhaling her musk. "Oh sing, all ye citizens of heaven above!" sang the church. Happy's crotch wasn't heaven, but it sure smelled heavenly.

"The Holy Ghost has come upon me!" I heard her shout, barely above the singing. "Sweet Jesus, thank you!"

I chuckled; I liked to think of myself as a ghost since I sold my soul for the power of invisibility, but I definitely wasn't holy. There was nothing holy about what I planned to do to Happy. I pulled the gusset of her panties to the side, exposing a dark bush. I licked through her slit, tasting her spicy musk; her body spasmed as a low, throaty moan escaped her lips.

"Thank you, God, for sendin' your Holy Ghost to me!" gasped Happy. "Amen!"

I didn't have a lot of experience munching on a woman's carpet, but I've watched enough porn to know my way around. I lapped up her slit, letting my tongue flick against her hard clit; her thick bush tickled my cheeks. Her hips shook, writhing on my face, and she moaned louder and louder as I really dug my tongue into her hole. The singing died down, until only Happy's passionate moans echoed through the tent.

"Oh, yes! The Holy Ghost is fillin' me with God's Love!" she moaned. "Oh, Sweet Jesus, yes! Keep touchin' me! Oh, praise the Lord!"

"Amens!" and, "Praise the Lords!" sounded through the tent.

Her juices poured into my mouth, and I slipped a finger up her moist cooch, enjoying the feel of her velvety depths. My lips were wrapped around her nub, sucking on her clit as she fucked my face. I could feel the pleasure trembling through her as she neared her cum.

"Fill me up more!" she moaned, so I obliged her by slipping a second finger inside her. "Oh, yes! The Holy Ghost is fillin' me up! Umm, keep feelin' me up, Lord! I'm so close to bein' one with you! Just a little more!"

"Fill her up, Lord!" someone shouted encouragingly.

"Praise Jesus!" she screamed. I slipped a third finger inside her cooch. She came, and gave a low moan, juices flooding my hand as her cunt spasmed on my fingers. "Yes, yes! Praise the Lord! Hallelujah, Praise Jesus!"

"Praise the Lords!" and, "Hallelujahs!" chorused throughout the tent.

I slipped out from under her skirt. The congregation had formed a circle around us, watching her with awe. Happy was flushed, her hair damply clinging to her temples, a huge, shit-eating grin plastered on her face.

"God is with us!" her husband called out. "Amens!" and, "Praise the Lords!" answered him. He raised his hands up high, exulting, "Sister Happy has been blessed with His presence!"