I don’t know exactly what I expected.

I called the number Richard had given me at the adult arcade and reached his voice mail. I left a vague message. It was now Sunday, three days later and Richard hadn’t returned my call.

Chalk it up to just another “Rich guy fucks a trailer trash skank and then jokes about it at the club.”

I sighed, then took a sip of my Earl Grey Breakfast tea. What had happened to my life?

I loved my pastor husband and I understood a conservative approach to any and all facets of his life was to be expected, but was there not a way we could change it up at least a smidgen in the bedroom?

I had previously considered and tried unsuccessfully the provocative garment approach. What came to mind again was the cliche of the sexy black teddy.

I fantasized about Paul following his usual nightly routine. After I had donned my 1950’s Wally and the Beaver-style long-sleeve top and long-leg bottoms, I’d crawl into bed. Ten minutes later, Paul would walk in and grab a pair of similar pajamas from the bottom drawer of his chest. He’d walk into the bathroom and close the door behind him. After the sounds of the toilet flushing and the sink running, he’d emerge. Paul would robotically first turn off the vanity light, then the lamp sitting on his bedside table and finally get into bed.

No “Good night”, no kiss, no nothing.

But, then I would work my magic.

My fantasy dictated I quietly slip out of bed and tiptoe to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. In the dim luminescence of the nightlight, I’d retrieve the lacy black teddy and tube of Astroglide that I had hidden under a stack of towels in the linen closet.

After removing my oversized PJs, I’d squeeze a liberal blob of lube onto my right, long finger, take a deep breath through my open mouth and slide the social digit from top to bottom of my lady slit. My finger would linger over my hardening clit. I would be tempted to pleasure myself then and there. It would take willpower, but I’d bite my lower lip and remind myself that all this preparation was for Paul.

I would remove most of the remaining Astroglide from my finger by running it between my asscheeks, lingering momentarily over my rosebud. I’d lightly touch it and enjoy the shiver as it involuntarily puckered. I would take another deep breath and again remind myself that this orifice was reserved for my husband.

I would step into the crotchless teddy and open the door.

In my fantasy, I would reach for the light switch and assume the pose I had practiced earlier in the day. My right elbow would rest against the jamb, my left hand on my jutted-out hip. This would telegraph a Mae West “Why don't you come up and see me sometime?” message.

I shook my head and blinked, breaking my trance. Who was I kidding? Paul would just grumpily tell me to turn off the light, roll over and go back to sleep.

I finished the now tepid tea and headed into the bedroom.

Laid out on the bed was an ankle-length calico dress, Hanes cotton granny underwear and a boring white bra from Warner. I sighed at this church lady's outfit.

I kicked off my fuzzy slippers, propelling them into the open closet. “Ole! She scores,” I said to myself. I let my robe fall to the floor and for the hundredth time surveyed my now-naked body in the mirrored door.

I was far from conceited, but I knew my body would be the envy of most high school cheerleaders. Their boyfriends would be lining up under the bleachers to suck my tits and eat my pussy.

I cupped my boobs and directed the crinkled Hershey Kiss areolae and nipples up toward my mouth. Although my mams were far from pendulous or floppy, I was still able to lick and suck each nipple due to their star-gazing position a good two inches above the equator.

I closed my eyes and imagined the head of a beautiful young cock slipping past my lips and over my tongue. A second and third prick stretched my vagina and violated my back door. I needed to cum.

More specifically, I needed to cum before donning my Little House on the Prairie dress and heading off to church.

I hated to release my tits, but time was of the essence. I folded and returned my cotton undies and bra to their respective drawers and dug into the very bottom of my jewelry box. After a minor amount of fiddling, I found and extracted the tasseled nipple clips I had purchased at the adult bookstore the week before. I momentarily recalled the subsequent half-hour I had spent in the back arcade, kneeling on the filthy concrete floor while pleasuring a grateful senior citizen.

These thoughts were certainly memorable, but will be relegated to a future tale.

I assuaged the initial sting of tightening the clips around my aroused nipples by thinking of what was to come: a body-shuddering orgasm.

I returned to the mirror and assumed a Wonder Woman stance with my legs spread and doubled fists on my hips. The feathers of my nipple clips hung loosely toward the carpeted floor.

There was little doubt. I was one hot bitch.

I tugged on each nipple clip with my left hand, them lowered it to my pouty outer pussy lips. I formed a V with my fingers and spread them to expose my hardening clit and lacy, pink inner folds.

I closed my eyes and sucked my right index and long fingers into my mouth, then out, then back in. With each pass, I added more saliva and with each pass, I face-fucked myself deeper to the point of gagging. On the third and final penetration, I left the cock surrogate in place, the long finger’s tip just past the uvula in a Linda Lovelace position.

Much as I enjoyed the sensation of being deep-throated by a long, stiff cock; I yearned for orgasm more.

I pulled my fingers from my mouth, gagging once again, then transferred the dripping spit to my clit and lady fronds. I closed my eyes and resurrected a favorite fantasy: the captain of the football team devouring the head cheerleader’s virgin pussy.

I worked my lubricated fingers up and down what felt like the butt end of a number two pencil, giving extra attention to its pink eraser.

I envisioned running my fingers through the curly blond hair of the quarterback, pulling his face more aggressively under my short, pleated skirt. Through my clenched teeth, I encouraged him to bring me to the edge.

“That’s it, Biff. Lick my pussy. Harder, Baby. Oh, yeah. Right there. That's it. That's it!”

I held my breath and slowed my masturbation. One stroke, a second stroke, then an involuntary “Uggghhh,” as I collapsed forward into a standing fetal position. My thighs squeezed together and internally rotated, trapping my hands against my now sensitive vaginal entrance.

I looked toward the mirror. My mouth was open, teeth exposed, drooling onto the shag rug like the bitch I’d become.

The drive to the church was pretty uneventful. I parked our old Prius in the farthest row from the Youth Center door, the last slot. I wanted my post-orgasm flush to further abate and I could use the exercise anyway.

As I skirted the other vehicles, small bits of crushed rock began to lodge between my toes and the soles of my flirty sandals. I knew Paul would frown on my shoe choice, but I had stopped wearing the seemingly regulation white New Balance knockoffs from Walmart months before.

Just before entering the building, I adjusted the short sleeves into a demure off-the-shoulder position, transforming the frock into a more attractive peasant dress.

I stepped across the threshold and hit a wall of conditioned frigid air. Goose flesh covered my arms and the aureolae of my already perky breasts puckered tightly. I felt the pleasurable hardening and elongation of my nipples, each trying to escape the constriction of the feathered clips.

I took a deep breath. The devil on my right shoulder whispered in my ear, “Screw the pancake breakfast. Hit the restroom, lock the door and rub out an orgasm.”

The angel on my left shoulder countered, “You’re the pastor’s wife. Control yourself. Besides, you love maple syrup.”

I sighed and headed down the steps to the cafeteria.

I only got halfway down the stairs before I spied a table for eight occupied by the women’s Wednesday Bible Study Club. The founding member and supreme witch turned and momentarily eyed me up and down. She rotated back to the group and seemed to share her assessment with the group. No doubt, she disapproved of my rhinestoned, black patent leather sandals.

I smiled to myself. If only she knew that I was braless, sporting only nipple clips and a tiny thong that matched my sandals. I did a Kegel and felt the elastic taint-strap bowstringing between my lady lips and across my rosebud. I took satisfaction in knowing that all eight of the old bags were likely sporting cotton granny pants pulled well above their navels.

My calico ankle-length shift probably passed muster, but my hair was another issue. I had recently cut my dark red hair bluntly just above the shoulder. It was thick and well-conditioned. It was nothing like the dull, frizzy gray mops of the church ladies. With few exceptions, their hair was waist-length, some bunched up into weird poofs above their foreheads.

I descended the bottom five or six steps and then proceeded to fulfill my pastor spouse's duty of making the rounds and shaking hands. I headed over to the cafeteria line, ultimately opting for two buttermilk pancakes and a single sausage link. A girl’s got to maintain her figure, right?

I rotated at the end of the service line and spied Paul’s raised hand, directing me over to his table of ten. As I approached, he rose and pulled out the adjacent chair. I sat, primly adjusted my napkin and greeted the other diners. To my right were Deacon Timothy, his wife Nan, and twin eight-year old daughters. Directly across from Paul sat eighty year old Deacon Joseph, his sourpuss wife Margaret and grandson David.

I couldn’t help, but stare at David. In the year and a half since I had last seen him, he had blossomed into a handsome young man, very handsome. He was tan, his blond hair was cut into a short alpaca style and his smile made my nipples tingle.

Pretty much the entire church knew David had a full scholarship to the U for water polo. I mentally undressed him, expecting to reveal a swimmer’s Greek god's physic. I couldn't help but wonder what might lie beneath his fig leaves.

The spell was broken when Paul asked me to pass the syrup.

The diners returned to their breakfasts, chitchatting in between bites.

I picked up the sausage link and nibbled slightly through the casing. There was a satisfying release of gamy-sweet juice over my tongue. I closed my eyes and envisioned Kurt or Sean or Richard spewing hot cum into my mouth as I serviced their throbbing cocks.

I opened my eyes, realizing the sausage was now nearly 3/4s back toward my throat. I hoped that I hadn't been face-fucking myself in front of the deacon’s wife. I took a full bite while shifting my gaze to David. As our eyes met, his cheeks flushed. He embarrassingly looked down toward his plate, as if he had been caught with his fingers in the cookie jar.

I smiled to myself, enjoying the wetness that was forming between my lady folds. I longed for David’s fingers to jack my clitoris and probe my pussy. It took all of my willpower to keep from hiking up my frock and finger fucking my twat.

I took a deep breath, gritted my teeth, and tightly crossed my legs.

I added a liberal amount of syrup to my hotcakes and began sampling them in between small talk with the other diners. At one point I leaned far forward and rotated to the right around Tim and Nan to address the twin girls. I knew this would expose the upper third of my cleavage and the tops of my own freckled twins.

Sure enough, when I tilted my head to the left, I caught David with his fork suspended in mid-air. His mouth was open, his eyes fixated on my creamy tits.

I smiled to myself and returned to my pancakes.

I knew, at his young age, that David must have a raging boner. I fantasized it escaping out of tartan-plaid boxers, extending halfway down his muscular thigh. Precum would be puddling at the tip of his purple glanz, likely forming an expanding wet spot on his khakis.

I realized I was now pumping my crossed leg, my thighs internally rotated and squeezed together. With each pump, the sopping-wet G-string twanged across my erect clit and bit into my constricting pucker.

I was powerless to stop.

I dipped my index finger into the pool of sticky syrup and sucked the very tip.

I savored the sweetness and closed my eyes.

My fantasy became more vivid. I imagined ducking under the tablecloth and crawling toward David. He would have sensed my arrival, unzipping his trousers and folding out his manhood like a thick kielbasa. I’d inch closer and rest my forearms on the tops of his thighs.

David would release his meat and allow it to bob up and down in a teasing manner, its violaceous head mere inches from my mouth.

I would resist the urge to forcefully fist his prick and cram it past my lips. Instead, I would slowly extend my tongue and with the very tip, sample the droplet of glistening precum. I’d flick my tongue up to his pee slit, then down to the frenulum, then back again. Only when he’d place his hand on my head, would I part my lips and allow him to penetrate my mouth with his manhood.

But then I was abruptly brought back to reality. I simultaneously heaved forward, gagging on my finger and spasming into a very poorly timed and unwanted orgasm.

Paul whacked me on the back. “Are you OK? Do you need a drink of water? Heimlich?”

I shooed him away with a flick of my wrist. I laughed, “I just need to take smaller bites!”