Encontrando um tarado por calcinhas – Bible Quest – Parte 3

Title: The Sinful Symphony of Silks – A Blowjob Bible Tale, Part 3

The Rev. Jeremiah Honeydew, a man of the cloth with a wicked pulse fluttering beneath his dog collar, had a weakness – an unbridled, all-consuming obsession with ladies’ intimate apparel. Especially those flimsy, tantalizing morsels known as panties. In part three of our saucy saga, the good padre’s pious pretense crumbles like Communion crackers as he succumbs to his carnal cravings.

Our story unfurls on a hot, humid Sunday. Jeremiah has just delivered an impassioned sermon on temperance and chastity, his piercing blue eyes boring into each and every soul in the pews. But as he disrobes in the sacristy, the sight of his own scandalous secret – a drawer crammed with pilfered panties – makes his pious pretense melt like icicles in hell.

He selects a particularly flimsy pair, silken synthetic peach with a frilly pink lace trim, and raises them to his nose. The sinful scent flooding his nostrils galvanizes his groin, a surge of biblical badness coursing through his veins like wine at the Last Supper.

Jeremiah knows the neighborhood’s finest lingerie laundered in that very church – the altar’s altar, if you will. Flushed with forbidden fruit frustration, he creeps toward the rectory’s rear quarters, determined to satisfy his brazen basest urges.

Betsy Buxomarch, the statuesque silk stockinged widow next door, is beating a mountainous pile of undies in the scullery. Her massive, melon-like mammaries bust from her blouse with each pump of the vintage washboard. Jeremiah spies the sinful sight through a cracked windowpane and mouths a lascivious “Oh my God.” His manhood stirs as if receiving grace from the heavens themselves.

Suddenly, Betsy considers the bubbling suds and pronounces “Time for the spin cycle!” She hefts the hefty daisy-fresh delicates into the old wringer washer. Jeremiah notices a pair of frilly black satin bloomers, sporting a bold red heart decorating the matchlessly misshapen rear.

“Those are Mrs. Appleby’s bloomers,” Jeremiah mutters, “I snacked on ’em just last night.”

Betsy twists the wringer windlass with deft dexterity, and the delicate dentures divest their moisture. Jeremiah, stimulated beyond reason, wriggles out of his brotherly black bottoms and releases his restrained refractory resources.

“Hail Mary full of grace,” he mutters, “here I come to praise caaaaa…!”

Free at last, the padre examines his pulsing, purple, pious prehensile apparatus, marveling at its prodigious size. Betsy bends to retrieve the washed garters, giving the padre the eye-popping perspective of her barely-covered bottom.

“Oops, dropped a pair of bloomers,” she giggles. Jeremiah’s all in, his preachy pole pounding, ready to bless this bodacious babe.

Striding spryly to the scullery door, Jeremiah declares “I’m here to collect the neighborhood’s divine delicates.” Betsy cranes her gartered gams, flashing the frock-wearing flagpole a flirty fringe of lace.

“Well then, good reverend, why don’t you hang around and help me inspect these undergarments?” she purrs.

He slides his slithering sausage into the spin cycle with her. She gasps, her gargantuan glands grappling with him, as he pulls out the purple preacherly baton he’s been hiding in his habit.

“Not so fast, Mr. Honeydew,” she admonishes. “You best pray these panties are pretty damn powerful before you pull that.”

He fumbles for the frilly undergarments in the washer, emerging with a pair of pretty purple lace panties, doily-like and decorated with a red lipstick-rouged kiss emblazoned upon the drawstring.

Jeremiah hoists them to his nose, inhaling deeply of the bouquet of forbidden fruit. Betsy seizes his beloved boner, running her fingers along the bark of his battering-ram builder.

“Well, Reverend, you appear to be all the more holy than I originally assumed,” she states seductively. “But how can you prove it?”

Without missing a beat, he whips out his holy host, that great hefty penile pillar, and proffers the panties. Betsy gasps, but wastes no time in vanishing the velvet-purple vestment between her jaws.

Jeremiah mutters a impassioned prayer as Betsy begins to blow, her unbelievable bust thrust forth as she pumps his pole.

“Oh, holy father, forgive me for what I’m about to receive. Amen.”

Betsy, glassy-eyed and”Yes, Jesus”-giggling, sucks him to satisfaction as his holy hose throbs and pulses.

An instant later, the padre pops, his pearly proclamation shooting straight down Betsy’s gullet. The widow gulps it back and grins.

“Well, that’s one sin stipulated and rectified, Father Jeremiah. Perhaps next Sunday, during your sermon, you can share some personal experiences that will lead to deeper, more profound spiritual invocations by your parishioners, hmm?”

“With the Lord as my witness,” Jeremiah says with a sheepish smirk, “You can count on it.”|/im_end|>