Chapter Two Daddy kept the church off TV because he thought that sort of thing contaminated the church in America. He said he didn't want the church replaced by show business. Still, he was invited by churches all over the country to lead revivals, and he travelled a lot to promote the Jonathan Barrett Bible College. Since I had the summer off before starting college, I went with him when he was invited to lead a crusade in New Orleans. He had not wanted to go because the crusade was sponsored by a consortium of churches which always televised its campaigns for souls. Since the consortium sent many young people to our college, though, he had agreed to do it. My story would be radically different if he hadn't. I decided to skip the services Sunday morning and explore the fabled city where jazz was born and they still dance on the sidewalks. Because I stand out in any crowd, I was soon invited to dance by a little group jamming and jiving and preaching the gospel on a side street in front of a row of bars. Not your standard church service. That's where I first saw Darlene Maynard. Smiling widely, clapping her hands to the music, a woman in her mid thirties wearing a nondescript dress that fit her in the right places and whirlpooled first one way and then the other around her bare legs as she swayed and twisted to the beat, high heeled open shoes that practically screamed fuck me, she exuded a sort of dignified lewdness that made me nervous. "You were great," she said when my little show was done. "So were you. There were as many people watching you as were watching me. Are you from around here?" "I am right now. I'm from wherever my work takes me." We had begun walking together as though we had continued a stroll started earlier. People gawked at us, and it occurred to me she was as used to it as I was. "What kind of work do you do?" I asked her. "I'm a whore." My mouth fell open and I must have looked like somebody had just jerked a hair out of my nose. She laughed. I swallowed and regained my composure. "I'm walking the streets of New Orleans with a prostitute." "Don't they have any prostitutes where you're from?" "You kidding? It's legal in some counties. I'm from Reno." Her smile faded and she had an oddly thoughtful look for a moment. I figured she was tossing around the prospect of relocating to a place where she could earn a living without being arrested for it. "Of course it's not legal in the big gambling cities because it would interfere with the economy," I chattered on like an expert, "and it's all in houses instead of on the streets." I didn't know what I was talking about, but I felt a nervous need to pretend I wasn't thrown by her frankness. "Houses. I'd rather work for myself." "Don't you have a pimp?" "I don't need one. And I don't work the streets, either. Right now, for example, I'm working a national convention of judges at The Fontaine." "There's a big Christian crusade in town right now," I blurted out, feeling stupid as soon as I did. Her face got hard. "I don't fuck preachers." She spit the words out bitterly, and I felt like I must have violated some moral code in her profession. But I held my ground. "I do." She needed to change the subject for some private reason I was to learn later, but I thought her next words were just an attempt to one-up me. "Listen, would you like to watch me work? I have a trick meeting me in my room this morning." "What's he going to think about my being there -- hey, listen just a minute!" "First of all, it's not a he, and second of all, she will pay twice as much for the humiliation of it. You can join in or just watch." She had raised the stakes in the game I thought we were playing, so I called her. "Sure, ok," I said as though it were nothing. Big time sophisticated street person me. Off Bourbon Street in the heart of the French Quarter stands The Fontaine Hotel, holding its nose in ornate dignity above the stench of street garbage and gumbo. It prides itself on its Louis Quatorze decor and its fine cuisine, if anything that smells like fish can be properly so called. Most of its rooms are clean. Old clean, not the bright new clean of modern resort hotels. Slightly musty. You know everything is clean, but you feel the history of other people's feet on the carpet and of their bodies on the beds. The covers have memories. Darlene Maynard, her lewd body glistening, was making her contribution to the room's history. She would be a part of its felt memories for future guests. It had been a profitable convention week for her. She had averaged half a dozen men a day -- and this girl, daughter of a big time judge from Minneapolis. Picked her up at the swimming pool. Darlene's room was ten floors above the street, but the buildings nearby created an amphitheater effect that made raucous speech sound as though it were in the room with you. A siren pierced straight into the brain, and a truck rattled the windows. It was a single room. I wondered why single rooms always had two beds as I lay on one of them, watching. She had moved the small armchair between the beds. She was leaning back with her ass on the edge of the chair and one foot on each bed. Very comfortable for her and ideal for the college freshman on her knees sucking between her legs. The large cabinet directly in front of her opened its doors to a TV set so she wouldn't be bored. Sunday morning. Nothing on but preachers. Some of them were pretty good. Darlene touched the tender place between her leg and her pussy. The girl swooned and nuzzled her face under Darlene's hand and kissed with open mouth. Darlene took a drag off her cigarette and tapped it in the ashtray on the bed. She looked down the length of her long, lewd body at the young girl sucking between her legs. She took a handful of the teenager's hair. "Eat it," she snarled. She knew it turned the girl on. She had known what the judge's daughter was all about almost as soon as she had strolled by her at the pool, she told me. "Suck it up. Hurry it up, Stupid. I got paying customers waiting. Your father, for one. Hey! How 'bout your mother? I bet she'd go for my tasty juice, wouldn't she? Wouldn't she?" she growled as she pulled the girl's face roughly into her hot, wet cunt. "Umph, mumph, umm." "Drink. Swallow it." The girl let out a pitiable little whine, feeling Darlene's legs while she sucked eagerly between them, moving her face in it and swooning. Darlene relaxed and watched her feast on female sex sweat and cunt slime, getting it in her eyes and all over her face. She watched the teenager wipe her face on her slick legs and slide back down to suck up some more woman fuck. She was going to cum in the girl's mouth, and there was no way to hold it back much longer. Her breathing became more labored and shortly started coming in gasps. I watched her stomach pump the air and knew she could not control the reflexive fuck movements as old as nature itself. I listened to her grunting groans, every breath voicing a moan of pleasurable agony with the ineluctable approach of her orgasm. She screamed. Her legs gripped the girl's face in a vice of thighs and her hands clutched the girl's head. The merciless violence of her orgasm punished the teenager's face as Darlene's legs slammed the helpless victim of her temporary insanity. I relived my experience with James as I watched. Her feet slammed down on the girl's back, and she knew but could not care that she was brutalizing the unsuspecting source of her throes of ecstasy. It lasted forever. She had jerked herself senseless. The girl had become a rag doll and was barely holding on to consciousness. Darlene lifted her legs high and swung them down hard, catapulting her out of the chair to her feet. The girl hung on for dear life and fastened her mouth up in Darlene's cummy hole. Near collapse, her cunt sore, and her crank case drained, Darlene could only stand and let the girl suck. She had to catch her breath to have the strength to shove her away. She brought her hand down hard against the teenager's face and heard her high-pitched grunt of pain. Again she hit her. Again, and again. The girl loosened her bear hug from around Darlene's hips and legs, and her face sagged in Darlene's sex pit. Darlene pulled the teenager's head back by her hair, prying her loose, then kneed her viciously, sending her crashing backwards to the floor. I had to remind myself the girl had paid her to treat her this way; I was there when she told Darlene what she wanted. I grabbed myself between my legs and starting pumping myself slowly. The girl lay there on the floor stunned, trying to breathe, her eyes crossing and glazing. Darlene planted one bare foot on her hair and the other on her face. She looked down at her and let herself return to normal. "Play with yourself, queer," she ordered the girl, and stood there with her foot in her face as the girl obeyed. The television preacher was saying, "I feel somebody out there in pain." "Huh! You ain't said shit, Preacher," Darlene answered back. She looked at the TV, refocusing her eyes, adjusting her foot on the masturbating teenager's face. "I feel your pain. I know your pain," the handsome blond minister of the gospel said. Darlene told me later she thought she was seeing things, that the unrelenting intensity of her orgasm must have scrambled her brains. Take away the age, and the preacher was an exact replica of the grinning young preacher boy who had burned the symbol of Christianity into her tender flesh almost two decades ago. History. Memories. The brand of the cross. The laughing monster who had burned it there while the other boys watched. Preacher boys. A cross exactly like mine in exactly the same place, as I would soon see, burned there by the same man. She ground her foot into the girl's face, and her eyes shot fire at the televised image. "It couldn't be," she whispered. She watched. Yes. Yes, yes, yes! It was! Twenty years of hate seethed within her as she relived the humiliation at the hands of a boy she thought loved her as she had loved him. She watched. She watched Jonathan Barrett, knowing my daddy's future. I won't take you through our shock and emotions after the girl left. Darlene saw it first. I was still jerking off, and she started feeling my legs. I felt her jerk back abruptly, and she scared the shit right out of me when she screamed "NO!" at the top of her lungs. I got what I thought was the full story that morning and afternoon. We sat in silence for a good part of the time, stunned by the incredible coincidence of our meeting on a street in New Orleans and the further unlikelihood of our ending up staring at each others crotches in a hotel room to whose musty smell we had added the unmistakable scent of girl funk. But I didn't know the whole story. As stunned as I was, I could not at that moment have been persuaded to do to Daddy what I was later persuaded to do. That took another revelation, one that made it impossible to pass off Daddy's branding young women as a strange but forgivable fetish. Besides, although Darlene's branding had been traumatic for her, I had accepted my own branding on my eighteenth birthday as an initiation rite upon coming of age as a woman. It is truly amazing the twists and turns a girl forces her mind to take to keep loving her daddy. But I did not yet know the whole story, and in my naivete I could not have fathomed the depth of long-term hatred I would later discover in Darlene Maynard and what such ingrained loathing can drive people to do. And furthest from my bewildered mind was the possibility that fewer coincidences exist in this world than can be suspected by an eighteen-year-old girl. And would you believe it? I had sex with Daddy that same night. Ah, youth. I do miss it so. Midst all that had happened, my pussy kept its own agenda, caring not for the silly meandering of human foibles and concerns. I had taken a mental picture of Darlene standing in front of that college girl holding her by the head and fucking her in the mouth. It was burned into my visual cortex as vividly as the brand in my crotch. I pictured her legs with their incomparable interplay of sinew and flesh, the creation and subtle evolution of indentations and feminine mounds of muscle as she moved. I wanted to see myself like that, to watch my own younger and prettier legs and my beautiful naked body create those magnificent visual effects. I wanted to lust on myself, and I needed Daddy as a sex object. I sang in the choir in the evening service, and Daddy gave a beautiful message on Mary Magdalene. He is so moving when appealing to the downtrodden and hated members of society who are people to him with needs and hopes and wishes just like the rest of us. Our hotel was a total contrast from The Fontaine. Bright and new with blond furniture, indirect lighting that could be adjusted to any brightness you wanted, and polished mirrors that covered two walls. Our adjacent rooms had a connecting set of doors which we only shut when we weren't going to be there. Daddy was in the shower, and I sat naked on the bed waiting for him. When he came out, he was wearing a white cloth robe and had a white towel over his head with the ends tucked into the robe at his neck. It gave me a brilliant idea for role playing. I pulled the blanket off the bed and draped it over my hair and slung it dramatically around my body. He stood there with a slight smile on his face watching me. I positioned myself so I could see everything I needed to in the adjoining wall-sized mirrors. Jesus Daddy came to his Mary Magdalene daughter. "Mary," he whispered. "Kneel to me, Jesus." He knelt humbly before me with his head bowed. I opened my blanket and let it fall behind me and stood magnificently over him looking down on him haughtily. I pulled the towel off his head and tossed it across the room. "Divest thyself of thy raiment and bow before me in thy nakedness." He did. I put my foot on the nape of his neck and beheld the wondrous sight reflected in full in the mirror. God, I loved it! Power and lust commingled in my womanly majesty, and my loins stirred with devilish greediness. "Kiss my feet, Nazarene." He began to giggle. "Oh, Daddy! I was really getting into it." "I'm sorry, Sweetheart. I couldn't help it." "I'll show you 'couldn't help it.'" I reached down and took his face in both hands and pulled it snugly up into my crotch and started fucking. "Eat me, Daddy. Suck it up. Drink it. Swallow it." I looked at us in the mirror, and that did it. I went off like a bomb, hunching and fucking Daddy's face and mouth and watching the whole scene. In it and watching it at the same time. What a fantastic turn on! "Suck me off!" I snarled just like Darlene had, and I cum in Daddy's mouth uninhibitedly at the same time the mirror goddess cum in her man's mouth. The mirror goddess and I communed spiritually as we cum in our mortal slaves' hungry faces. Then came the damndest feeling I've ever had. As the mirror goddess and I stood in the relative calmness of afterglow, looking at each other in curious bonding, we began to rise! Float right up into the air! It took deliberate effort on my part to come out of the near hallucinatory fantasy and realize Daddy was rising to his feet with me on his face. I caught my balance and wrapped my legs around his face and held on to his head as he walked blindly toward the huge bed. Running his hands up my back when his knees touched the bed, he bent over and deposited me gracefully thereon. I released him from the head scissors, and he crawled up my body face first, sliding through the perspiration on my belly and stomach, pausing at my tits and sucking tenderly, and entering me gently but firmly as our open mouths joined like perfectly fitting suction cups of soft, moist flesh. I smelled myself on his warm breath and tasted my woman goo in his mouth, but it was the stuff and smell of the woman in the mirror. I wanted her hot, wet sex in my mouth and her legs and crotch in my face, and I sucked at Daddy's mouth gluttonously for it as he fucked me. I cum again, and again I cum, sucking the woman in the mirror and fucking my daddy in a glorious melange of images and feelings, veritably transported into a surrealistic netherworld where delusion copulates with primitive archetype. My orgasm pervaded the universe and transcended time, place, and dimension. Daddy exploded inside me, his thick cream of male essence lapped up and swallowed by my thundering, pulsating, sucking pussy. I cum again, and lapsed gratefully into unconsciousness at the peak of my orgasm. I could not have taken another minute of this rampant phantasmagoria of all-consuming psychotic lust. New Orleans had its spiritual experience, and I had mine. Daddy and I fucked every single day and sometimes more for two spectacular weeks. In part, I think I was trying to fuck Darlene Maynard out of my thoughts. I did not miss another service, either. I knew if I wasn't in church or fucking Daddy, I'd run straight to The Fontaine Hotel, and there would be no predicting where I'd go from there. So I fucked and went to the crusade. Our role playing was a riot, and we sometimes ended up rolling on the floor laughing instead of cumming. "Can I blow your trumpet, Joshua?" That destroyed one skit. I rode him into Egypt one night, and he rode me in a triumphal entry into Jerusalem another. I went psychotic again in another mind-bender when I played the Virgin Mary fucking the Holy Ghost. I was the woman at the well and sucked him off as payment for telling my fortune. I won't tell you how we conducted Communion, but it wasn't with crackers and grape juice, and our version of the Last Supper was in the bathtub with biscuits and gravy. But mostly we just made wonderful, unforgettable love with each other. My Daddy. My darling, wonderful Daddy. There would never be anyone like him. --end Chapter 2--