The Pastor's Wife and Daughter

I was reading a story posted here anonymously, and it reminded me of this one. Life sometimes puts you in situations you wouldn’t even see in Hollywood movies. This story goes back to when I was 18, still living in Maturín, in the heart of a super religious family. My old man is a pastor of the Luz del Mundo church, and I, although I never bought into that tale, was raised among hymns and sermons. I knew everyone, and everyone knew me as the pastor’s son.

In that congregation, there was another pastor, Brother Miguel, a serious guy, one of those who seems like they’ve never laughed in their life. But the issue wasn’t with him, but with his family. His wife, Sister Marisol, would have been in her 40s at the time, and his daughter, Emilly, who was 19, like me. We had known each other our whole lives, we were like distant cousins, raised together in the church hallways. Emilly wasn’t a goddess, but she had a little body that was starting to promise. Thin, but with round little buttocks and tits that were noticeable even under the long, modest dresses she wore.

One Saturday afternoon, my dad sent me to Pastor Miguel’s house to deliver some documents. I arrived and Emilly was the one who opened the door. “Hello, Jhonatan, come in. My parents aren’t here, they went to a church meeting in Caripito, I think they’ll be back tonight.” She told me this with a smile I knew well, that mischievous smile she had always flashed me. I went in and we started watching TV in the living room, some soap opera or another. The house was humble, one of those unfinished block houses, with wooden partitions and curtains instead of doors.

Emilly sat very close to me on the sofa. She started with her games, as always. She’d give me soft pinches on my arm, laugh, brush against me with her leg. Me, by that age I had already discovered what a dick was and what it was for, so I played along. Until at one point, after a hot scene in the soap opera, she pinched me not on the arm, but on the buttock. It was a direct pinch, with intent. She looked at me and her eyes said it all. “So, Jhonatan? Always so serious?” she said, sliding a hand over my thigh.

That was the spark. I grabbed her by the waist and kissed her. It was a hungry kiss, with tongue, the kind that takes your breath away. She responded with the same intensity, putting her hand down my pants and grabbing my dick, which was already hard as a rock. “Let’s go to my room,” she panted, and led me by the hand. Her room was the typical one for a young girl, with posters of artists on the wall, but what mattered was the bed, with a thin mattress on a plank. And the entrance, man, was an old floral curtain, no door at all.

There, without preamble, we undressed. When she took off her clothes, I could see her completely. She was skinny, as I said, but with a fat, hairy, well-grown bush, and armpits that also had a good amount of hair. It might put some people off, but at that moment it turned me on more. It was real, she was a real woman, not some girl shaved like a baby. She lay down on the bed and opened her legs. Her pussy was dark, fleshy, and already shiny and wet.

I got on top and pushed into her in one go. She wasn’t a virgin, luckily, so it went in without much problem. We started fucking, and she was a gymnast, man. She moved, moaned loudly, said things to me I didn’t expect from the pastor’s daughter. “Harder, Jhonatan, yes, like that, break this pussy.” Me, turned on, gave it to her with all my energy, grabbing her buttocks, biting her nipples. The sound of the bed hitting the wall and her moans filled the room. We were so engrossed that we didn’t hear anything else.

And it turns out, as I found out later, Sister Marisol, the mother, hadn’t gone to Caripito. She had come back earlier because the meeting was canceled. She arrived at the house, heard the moans, and instead of shouting or anything, she peeked through the curtain and saw us. She saw me, on top of her daughter, fucking her like an animal, with Emilly screaming in pleasure. And the son of a bitch, instead of interrupting, stood there watching for a good while, and then went quietly to the kitchen, as if nothing happened.

About an hour later, Emilly and I came out of the room, dressed, sweaty, but trying to act normal. Marisol was in the kitchen, peeling potatoes. “Hi, mom, when did you get back?” asked Emilly, her voice a little hoarse. “A while ago, daughter. Jhonatan, would you like a soda?” she offered, with a calmness that seemed really weird to me. I said no, that I had to go, and I said goodbye.

As I was about to go out the main door, Marisol said to me: “Jhonatan, just a moment, please.” She took me to a little room they used as a pantry, closed with a real door, and there, in the gloom, she dropped the bomb. “I saw you,” she said, without beating around the bush. “I saw you fucking my daughter.” My blood ran cold. I thought: “This is the end, my dad is going to find out and he’ll kill me.”

But then, she moved closer, and I could see her face clearly. She wasn’t angry. Her eyes were bright, with a mix of lust and curiosity. “She moans really loud, doesn’t she? My husband has never made me moan like that.” She bit her lip. “Miguel is a saint in the pulpit, but in bed he’s a pain. Quick, boring, and with a dick that’s not even enough to get started.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Sister Marisol, the pastor’s wife, talking to me like that. “Look, Jhonatan,” she continued, lowering her voice. “I’ll make you a deal. What happened with Emilly stays between us. I won’t tell your dad, I won’t tell anyone. But…” She made a dramatic pause. “But you have to give me the same. You have to fuck me, and harder than you fucked her. Or else, your dad finds out about everything.”

Man, what a situation. My head was spinning. On one hand, the fear of my old man finding out. On the other, the image of Marisol. In her 40s, she was still good-looking. A bit fuller than her daughter, with big tits and an ass that was noticeable even under those loose church dresses. And the thrill, man, the thrill of fucking the mother right after I’d fucked the daughter.

“Okay,” I said, my throat dry. “When?”

She smiled, a victorious smile. “Now. Emilly went to a friend’s house, she won’t be back for hours. And Miguel is at the church with your dad, in a pastors’ meeting.”

She took me to her room, the one she shared with Pastor Miguel. There, with the matrimonial bed and a photo of them on the nightstand, she undressed. Her body was different from Emilly’s. More mature, with stretch marks, but with curves that spoke of experience. Her pussy was even darker, hairy, and it smelled like a real woman, like years of boring marriage. “You see what I have to put up with?” she said, pointing at the photo with disdain.

No more was needed. I threw her on the bed and fucked her. And she wasn’t lying, man. She moaned twice as loud as her daughter. She screamed, cursed, said things to me that made my dick even harder. “Yes, like that, daddy, break this pussy that Miguel has neglected.” I gave it to her hard, from behind, from the front, grabbing her tits, biting her neck. She was a whirlwind, she moved like a teenager, but with the skill of a woman who knows what she wants.

After about half an hour, I came inside her, because I didn’t have a condom and at that moment I didn’t give a damn. She had an orgasm that I think the neighbors heard. She was left panting, her eyes rolling back. “Damn, Jhonatan, no one has ever given it to me like that.”

I got dressed quickly, feeling a mix of guilt, fear, and an excitement that wouldn’t go down. “We’re even,” I said. She nodded, with a satisfied smile. “For now. Who knows, maybe we’ll repeat.”

I left that house trembling, man. I couldn’t believe what had happened. In less than two hours, I had fucked the daughter and the mother, in the same house, with the pastor and my dad just a few blocks away. And the mother, the total slut, turned out to be hornier than the daughter.

Some time later, Emilly and her family moved to another state, and I never heard from them again. But that afternoon, man, that afternoon in Maturín, confirmed one thing for me: behind all that church sanctimony, there’s a hidden lust that, when it comes out, is more intense than anyone else’s. And I, without knowing it, became the secret release for the pastor’s wife and daughter. Crazy, right?