Chapter Eight Delbert's father was head of the Jonathan Barrett Bible College and one of Daddy's closest advisors and friends. At fifty-eight, old man Atkins was also the closest thing to a father-figure Daddy had, and I had always thought of him as my adopted grandfather. Indeed, among intimates, I called him Grandpa. Even when I played a sexy Bathsheba in a church play and Mr. Atkins couldn't stop looking at me, I took it as disapproval from an elder. I saw him pretty much as Daddy saw him: a wise and kindly old gentleman. And that's what he was. I don't intend to demean him just because he also turned out to be a human being. Perhaps the hardest lesson I learned in life was that great personages remain great personages for mature people even when we discover they are normal. They eat, shit, have sex, feel, cry, laugh, fart, dream dreams, experience disappointment, work, play, get hiccups, and do everything the rest of us do. But I was barely nineteen that April, and I did not have the maturity to appreciate this principle when I discovered my grandfather figure was also a man. Like Moses at an advanced age, his eye was not dimmed nor his natural force abated. So I thought nothing of bouncing into Mr. Atkins's office in my ragged jean shorts with the slit in one leg, and interrupting his meeting with Daddy. Daddy and I were going fishing, after all, not to a White House reception. After the usual bright greetings and kisses, Daddy said he and Mr. Atkins would be another hour, so I plopped down on the soft leather couch with a magazine. I laid my head back on the arm and threw one leg over the back of the couch and started to read. Daddy cleared his throat after an embarrassing silence. "Uh, sweetheart, we're actually in a meeting. Why don't you wait for me in the coffee shop?" I slapped the magazine against the floor and gave out a breath of exasperation. "Let her stay, Jonathan. Indeed, she may have some insights into the problem." I looked at him with delight, but his eyes were glued to my legs. "What problem?" I asked. He grazed his way up my legs as he spoke, nibbled over my bare midriff, crawled over my bulging halter, paused briefly on my lips, and finally made eye contact. "We were discussing a change we think we detect in our people, Trinity," he said to the exposed flesh of my inner thigh. "A preoccupation of some sort that has made our fellowship with the saints feel distant and strained," he explained to my crotch and belly. "It is as though, uhhh --" he searched for his words in the dimples on my stomach -- "as though a spirit is at work contrary to the interests of God's people." The jutting mounds of my breasts expanded with the knowledge he imparted to them. When he made it to my lips, I couldn't keep myself from getting playful with the old man. I licked them sensually. "Uhhhhh . . .." He lost his train of thought and journeyed hopefully on to my twinkling eyes. I looked casually at Daddy who knew exactly what I was doing. He gave me a scolding look that feigned disapproval. "How does it show up, exactly?" I asked Mr. Atkins. "A very perceptive question. It shows up as eyes averted that used to make contact, tension in families where peace had been, absenteeism among formerly faithful staff members, teachers not attending to routine, a subtle demoralization in our community. My own personal heartbreak was my son's behavior and his arrest, behavior which I believe is symptomatic of this problem we must resolve." He was right. I did have some insight into the problem. "And then there are certain accounting anomalies." He checked with Daddy to be sure it was ok. Daddy nodded his assent. "Funds are being shuffled according to the auditor, Trinity. A most disturbing thing. There are expenditures for items we cannot seem to find. The paper trail for many of our functions seems to be, let's say, less careful than it used to be." "Wow," I summarized insightfully. What's going on?" "Satan," Daddy answered. "We've done something that has allowed Satan to bend the saints to his purpose. I feared a diminution of our purity of purpose when we expanded to a national television ministry. I should have heeded your admonition, Emmett, and vetoed the Board." The secretary stuck her head in the door. "Jonathan? Did you want to see Junior Moreland? He's waiting for you in your office at the Tabernacle." "Oh, shoot! I forgot all about Junior! Gee, Sweetheart, we may not get to go fishing after all." "Nonsense," Mr. Atkins said. "You go keep your appointment with Junior, and I'll entertain Trinity until you get back. The fish won't know you're late." Uh-oh. Oh, well. If Grandpa wants to play, I'm game. Why should he be any different from anybody else? Daddy left. "Put your legs down, young woman," Mr. Atkins said firmly. "You and I are about to have a frank conversation." I rose to the challenge. "My, Grandpa, what big teeth you have all of a sudden." I decided to push him to the brink. As you've seen, it was a reflex for me. I moved off the couch and walked around his huge desk and leaned the cheeks of my ass against it and braced myself on it with both hands behind me. It made my breasts prominent. I looked down on him as I had his son. He took his time raising his gaze from my legs to my eyes. "So. What's on your mind, old man?" "My son. He confessed his sins to me. He described his 'Goddess' in embarrassing detail, Trinity. When he mentioned the robe this young woman wore, I remembered your Bathsheba. It was you, wasn't it?" We studied each other's eyes. I was in need. This wise and kind old man might be the balm my disturbed soul needed. I confessed. "Yeah. It was me, Grandpa." "Trinity. Will you let me kiss your legs?" Well, shit! I should've known. Here I was thinking I may have found a much-needed spiritual advisor, and he turns out to be an old fool lecher. I pushed myself away from the desk and raised my leg high, placing my dirty sneaker on the back of his high-backed leather chair next to his face. "Kiss them, Grandpa." He rolled his head to one side and kissed my ankle passionately. I saw the tension leave his body. He kissed slowly up to my calf. I reached down and ran my fingers through his gray hair. A dignified hair style just didn't fit what he was doing. I messed it up for him and caressed his head tenderly as he kissed. I felt sorry for him. A decent old man with a decent old need. "I understand, Grandpa." He looked up at me, surprised, grateful for my saying it. "Thank you, Trinity. You can't know how much it means to hear you say that, given who we are and what I'm doing." "You're still the same wise and lovely old Grandpa you were before. I don't think any less of you for having needs like this. You shouldn't think yourself to be less than you are, either." I touched his face and guided it gently to my inner thigh stretched out boldly in my brazen position. "Enjoy it. Don't think about sin or pride or shame or anything of the sort. Just think about kissing Trinity's legs as you've wanted to do for a year. Poor Grandpa. I had no idea. If I had known, I would have let you a long time ago." He kissed. He pushed his face into the flesh of my leg, and I helped him by pressing my leg against his face and moving his head back and forth with my hand. He kissed under my leg, he kissed my inner leg, he ran his mouth along my spacious thigh. He was feeling the muscles of my other leg, tenderly and unhurriedly feeling me, letting his hand know joy as he squeezed my taut, flaring calf, running his hand up the back of my standing leg while nuzzling his mouth and nose in the softness between my raised leg and the womanhood he knew was hidden in my jeans. He slid out of his chair to the floor, and I put my leg over his shoulder, my foot on the seat of the chair. He pushed his face into my crotch and inhaled through my jeans. I cupped his head at the nape of his neck and pulled his face deep into me, rubbing my leg on his face. He wrapped both arms around my standing leg as he rooted, and I pulled on him and hunched for him. It occurred to me that he was awfully old and that I might break something. I straightened up and took my leg off him, pushing him gently back so his head rested on the chair. He felt my legs now with both hands, and I let him. I wondered what a man his age who had spent his life in Christian work knew about sex. I was starting to need my pussy sucked, but I didn't want to upset him by making him do something that might never have occurred to him was something anybody ever did. So I just stood there in front of him and let him feel me and look at me. Being careful was not something I was used to. But then, I also wasn't used to letting my adopted Grandpa, a treasured old family friend, sit beneath me and lust on me. If I let me be myself, I was afraid it would scare him into a heart attack or repulse him. But I had to do something besides just stand there, so I started making slow fuck movements like a shy belly dancer. They got bolder and bolder but I kept them slow. Obviously, the old man had an innate understanding of real sensuality, and sensuality is slow and fluid. Yes, he was practically drooling. Beautiful young Trinity Barrett, his favorite and probably only fantasy, actually standing bare legged over him slow fucking the air he breathed while he kept his hands on her calves. "Trinity," he said softly, confirming my hypothesis that he was down there living a dream of me. "You didn't think in your wildest imagination that this could ever happen, did you, Grandpa. Trinity Barrett. It's really me, old man. Look at me. I'm real. I'm the only reality on earth that's better than the fantasy. Lust Grandpa." I added heavy rhythmic breathing to my obscene hunching over his unbelieving face. I reached behind me and undid the clasp of my halter and freed my perfect young thirty-eights. They frolicked in their unique dance to the pulse of my body's erotic undulation. The old man lusted on my body as I have never been lusted on. His lust was draining his strength, and I smiled compassionately down on him, glad to be his dream come true and glad to be giving him a gift he so earnestly wanted. But I was indeed Trinity Barrett, and I was not one to go long without getting my own needs satisfied. I unbuttoned my jeans and pulled the zipper down slowly. "I hope you're ready for this, Grandpa, because I don't think I'm going to give you any choice." He showed his readiness for what I was obviously going to do to him by helping me get my jean shorts off. I reminded myself to take it easy and not hurt the old man, then I took his face and head in both hands and pulled him to me. He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, and I let him lick the hairs out of the way and lick my pussy lips open. I hunched. He fastened his open mouth in my cunt and started sucking. He sucked and I fucked, holding his head and face and humped-up in the classic suck-me-off posture. It was slow and maddeningly sexy for me. I entered an indescribable dimension of almost unbearable prurience, a deep and unsatisfiable loin lust in the very process of being satisfied. It is that impassioned predicament when your sexual being reaches critical mass that typically launches a young person into orbit at the expense of sensuality -- not to mention at the expense of the partner who momentarily ceases to possess a personality or an identity. So I endured the torturous rapture because I did not want it squandered in the mindless tyranny of orgasmic chaos. "Truh hnh uh," I heard him chant. A mantra? No, it's how my name is pronounced when spoken into a gooey mask. Ok, so it could have been a mantra for the old guy, a chanting of the name that had acquired such meaning and magnitude for him through its forbidden nature and its having had to remain a secret in his needy soul. I had secured a higher and more forthright status, deeper and more honest, in the mind of this beautiful old man of sincere integrity than I had in the sleazy little mind of his wimp pervert of a son who prayed to me as Goddess. He was losing it down there, mild muscle spasms increasing to trembling and then to vibrating and finally to violent shaking of his whole body. My God! What if he had false teeth and I was fucking them down his throat? I eased up to give him a chance to pull away if he needed to. He didn't. What was happening, of course, was that he was cumming in his pants. I didn't know how much a man of fifty-eight cum, but it obviously felt the same way to him as it did to me. He was having a wild orgasm with the girl of his most secret desires doing to him what he, uh, most secretly desired. I let him finish and felt him sag. His arms lost their strength, and his hands slid weakly down my legs and fell limp at his sides. "My turn, old man." I stepped one leg at a time over his shoulders and tucked his face up in my crotch. I held him tight because I knew it wouldn't take long. I would cum and let him loose long before he could suffocate or drown. I gave myself over to the natural workings of my body, still humping him sanely and with the sensuality of a mesmerizing snake. He summoned up a momentary surge of vigor that enabled him to stick his tongue up inside me while holding his mouth open wide. I went off like a shaken bottle of hot champagne with a weak cork. Even as I cum deliriously, I thought of how wonderful the experience must be for him. My legs he had only been allowed to look at from a respectable distance for so long now squeezing his face, my body glistening with sweat, my titties bouncing, the feel of me all over him, drinking sex juice from a girl he had craved and fantasized for who knows how long. I got as much pleasure out of doing it for him as I got out of doing it to him. When I was done in his mouth and face, I just straightened up and let my arms hang at my sides. I worked my leg muscles on his face without moving them. I figured he knew the scene was ending, and I didn't want to just get off him abruptly like a cold whore hollering "next." This was the most important day of his life, and I wasn't about to rob him of the chance to take mental and tactual pictures he could enjoy in his head for the rest of his life. Well, I have to admit it was certainly a surprise day for me. I never would have guessed old Mr. Atkins, Grandpa, my father's mentor, a dignified man of wisdom and integrity who had known me all my life, had come to see me as a woman and had found himself involuntarily lusting on me. He told me he never would have made a play for me, out of respect for Jonathan and our history, if I had not gone around his desk and deliberately, brazenly made it impossible not to. In fact, when he had said "Can I kiss your legs, Trinity," he was talking from a state of total confusion I created in him by my bold presentation and readiness. He had said those words in his head so many times in the last year that, in the jolting confusion of having my legs so close and my attitude so compromising, he barely knew he was saying them aloud. You know, we never did get around to discussing what I had done to Junior. Also, we never got around to discussing what was happening in the church, the "demoralizing" of the saints by Satan through some unseen hand. I had a feeling old Emmett Atkins knew I was that unseen hand, and for reasons of his own didn't want the full truth. He preferred his fantasy. After this day, he preferred the reality of Trinity Barrett and the memories I gave him. Loving old Mr. Atkins as a grandpa, even though I often let him feel me or kiss me on the legs after that, made it hard to continue doing what I was doing. But I did. --end Chapter 8--