So the memoir of my sacred pleasure continues. Be sure to catch up on the story by reading here.
When I graduated from college, really I just got my MRS. degree. I married Donny Blumfield who I met at Sunday mass my last semester. He had inherited his family’s Blumfield funeral home in Jacksonville.
He switched to law when he heard that the law firm Goldman & McGee next door to the mortuary was available because the couple retired their estate planning business and took up alligator farming in New Smyrna Beach.
We had had the huge, Catholic wedding, replete with buxom women who sat together chatting in the back pews gazing and waving at Father who was out on parole. He turned , smiled and gazed back at them occasionally, like a rooster checking on his hens.
All three of my wild, sexual sisters came. Twins Regina and Bettina, and Vivian. I made them promise to behave. They said they would as long as they could invite their top five clientele who said they were just dying to see them look like good, little girls in a Catholic Church instead of the stripper and whores they knew them as at their club and salon. They each paid them $5k to witness the act and then take turns fucking them both afterwards at the Motel Sherman.
Naturally for years, Donny and I kept our sex under tight wraps and cool hymns. Sex was only for conception, and I dutifully bore our dear only daughter, Bernadette. I then settled into volunteering with Catholic Services, helping to place Burmese orphans with local families.
But I would always hear groans in the bathroom Donny locked himself in for an hour-and-a-half every Sunday afternoon. I could hear a whipping sound, more moans and a mess of toilet paper stained with blood stuffed at the bottom of the trash can.
I kept silent and I never put together his bathroom episodes with the scars on his back until years later that I discovered in a box behind a brick in the bathroom wall his secret diary along with hundreds of antique postcards of nude dance hall girls. In it he confessed his desires to be a Penitent and his hours and hours of masturbation.
As my daughter grew into adolescence and started budding sexually, well I guess that was my rise and shine call too for a second coming. For I noticed that my dear Bernadette was being called, “Bernie” by all her girlfriends. She didn’t have many boy friends by the time she was 15.
She kept her brown hair cropped short and wore only pants and long-sleeved shirts after school or weekends, even though her best friends, Teresa and Catherine, wore lovely dark stockings, heels and flowing dresses and wore flawless makeup that included false eyelashes while Bernadette wore none. They were also on the cheerleading team, but Bernadette was in the Jazz band on bass.
It was her 18th birthday party that did it finally. We threw a big party and Bernadette invited the whole Catholic high school. It must have been that I was exhausted from the late August heat and humidity, so I drank a little more wine than I should have.
While the party raged in the backyard lined with palmettos under the night sky and Metallica music raged, I sat down at the kitchen table to rest while Donny excused himself in the bathroom again. I watched the shadows of young, virile men who had given me the up and down look with bawdy smiles on their faces when they arrived, their clothes heavy with the scent of marijuana. I said nothing. I just smiled and as always just kept everything under wraps.
Just then, a young man named Steve, who I know from Bernadette’s drama club, came and pulled up a chair at the kitchen table and sit down next to me. As I watched as his fine, smooth skin and hard muscles I felt a shock of fever erupt in my pussy. I had been so good all these years keeping it down, but tonight it was different with this young, young man next to me. Like I could smell his hormones and desire.
I rubbed my thighs together in surprise. His piercing blue-eyes gazed at my thighs that were exposed from my bunched up seersucker skirt, and it made my body lurch in an almost orgasm, so I jumped up to go to the refrigerator and cool down.
“Mrs. Blumfield,” he said in a low voice with a soft Southern drawl. “I just have to tell you, I think you are a really cool mom.” I stood stunned holding the refrigerator door as I gazed at his firm, smooth biceps and pectorals peeping through his soft, blue shirt. I was even more stunned at how wet and sticky my panties were at that moment and my knees gave in a little.
“You and I, you know, we have a lot in common,” he said. “We hold things back, but I just can’t anymore.”
His smile was as if the Cheshire Cat was incarnate as a hard-bodied young man. It ripped open a tiny opening of carnal lust that came trickling out of my dammed up libido for 35 years. I saw his hard on bulging through his jeans. I gasped.
“I think you’re beautiful,” he said as he stood up, then brought his cheek close to mine. “And one of the hottest MILF’s I’ve ever laid eyes on.” Just then, the waters of my desire rippled the hole inside my loins wider until I could barely stand as my muscles started contracting. I started gushing, gushing, gushing and gushing. Amrita, they call it I learned later, female ejaculation.
I moaned and squirmed as I came and came and came. I couldn’t control my body, the orgasms bottled up for years, years my desire withheld, came bursting forth in massive orgasm out from between my legs. Steve caught me before I feel to the floor. I couldn’t stop my heavy breathing and moaning like someone possessed. I couldn’t help it because my body seemed to have been seized by Eros, by some mysterious, overwhelming power, something that had been kept under wraps for too long.
I was no longer Veronica Blumfield, as if her mind had been banished from her body and left with just raw carnal flesh to confront – heaving breasts whose nipples were piercing through the white blouse now stained with sweat, an open red-lipsticked mouth, quivering thighs and trembling hands that started grabbing for a throbbing clit. It narrowed my eyes into slits that were gateways to another world.
I was pitched out of ordinary time into eternal time. There was nothing but desire. Nothing but passion. I had tasted orgasm and fulfillment, and that desire and passion for more of it had to be satisfied again and again and again – and fast.
Steve sat there holding me on the kitchen floor as I quivered in orgasm and felt his hard cock in jeans press against my body. It was as if he had received a psychic transmission. The same jolt of energy I was struck with, because he then heaved to his feet to help me stand up. He held his arm close around me as he led me out the door and into the sultry night.
I didn’t even get my purse and I can’t even remember anything much else except that we were kissing and grabbing at each other’s clothing on the front lawn, stumbling toward his Mustang as the sound of teenagers and loud music in the backyard faded into the distance.
He peeled out, and burning rubber filled the air as I fumbled at his belt buckle, ripped open his zipper and pulled out his stone hard cock, erect like a monument to Zeus. A thunderbolt of the sheer power of licentiousness. He fondled my breasts or reached under my skirt to fondle my soaking cunt with his right hand as he drove, and I plowed my mouth all over his cock, sucking and licking while he screamed out the window, “Hot fucking Jesus! Yeah!”
He didn’t stop driving until he parked near the swampy shores of the St. John’s River, the darkness roaring against the chorus of crickets and katydids. “A secret spot,” he said. We lept into the back seat, his blond hair tumbling all around. My white underwear – long ago soaked and peeled off – flew out the window. I ripped off his shirt ripped to reveal his gleaning, hard skin and youthful virility. His mouth plunged into my pussy, sucked on my clit forever, viciously sucking and licking it as if I were the creme frosting on fresh red velvet cake.
I gushed. I moaned. I watched my breasts bare in the darkness and smelled the vinyl of his car mingled with our sweat dripping from us, panting, trembling.
My orgasms rippled through my body like Bach on an organ at Christmas, shattering the night and only matched by an explosive “Veronica!” as he arched his back, came and collapsed on my chest.
He assured me that drama class taught him well, as he smoothly explained that he noticed I was looking piqued in the heat and wasted no time to take me to the hospital. That was the official explanation back at the party two hours later. Bernadette raised a well groomed, arched eyebrow and looked gorgeous in her tuxedo, but turned back to her crepe-dressed doting girlfriends and stoned guests.
I spent all night touching myself, still convulsing under the sheets next to Donny who must have psychically sensed the sexual frenzy and climbed on top of me, penetrating me, but only lasting a little while before he squeaked, came and then rolled over to sleep.
Next morning that Saturday, Steve drove me to meet his older cousins, Zach and Buck who had rented a room at Motel Sherman.
All I can say is that it was very hot and steamy, fast and furious, fucking those two young men in every conceivable position. I cried out, “Ave Maria!” as I came over and over and over again while the air conditioner churned overtime to cool our heated bodies that soaked the sheets with sweat and cum. We sat smoking pot afterwards and drinking bourbon as the neon lights outside flashed against the night sky. That was when I confessed to them, “I can’t go back. I like this too much. I need to be fucked. And a lot.” Then we’d start fucking all over again.
So much to say, but I can tell you for the first week I based myself out of that hotel room. Called Donny and said to take care of Bernadette. Steve’s cousins brought more friends, young men with hot, hard bodies and great pot. For two weeks we roamed the countryside, fucking in the back of cars or in barns and his crew of friends. You can use your imagination, darlings.
Lots of tongue, cock, pussy – an orgiastic frenzy of a dozen or so men among female ejaculation while those boys mounted me one after another from behind. And I like it from behind. Brings out the animal in me – too much heaven for so long – I needed earth. Plus it made me scream, and I like screaming as I get fucked. But I screamed so loud that they started to have to bind my mouth with a gag and that made me come even harder as they took turns pounding their cocks in me.
I must stop here, my dear reader and wind this down now. I have so much more to say about the memoir of my sacred pleasure. This is really just the beginning still. Eventually somebody talked. Word got out about the orgiastic rituals with Steve and his boys, spreading like storm surge during a hurricane, engulfing the church in scandal and washing everything of my old life way.
My divorce was quick. Bernadette would go to college and became a lesbian poet in Paris. I wouldn’t see her again until years later. But back then I set out on my own with a suitcase full of and high heels and hot new clothes that my twin sisters, Regina and Bettina, made special for me when they got the news of my rebirth.
Then I got on a bus to far, far away, disappearing and dying to my innocent and saintly old life – letting my sexual instincts long-neglected, buried and forgotten get to know me as I began the long journey of my sacred pleasure.
And I let my pussy lead the way.
Until next time, dear reader.