Before long the broken down shack north of town that was the home and church of the new preacher was in sight. The man they found bent over the horse trough, heaving out the contents of his stomach was not what Mary envisioned as a man of God. He was unshaven and clearly in need of a bath as much as Mr. Burgstone."Sure, I'll marry you. Just wait 'til I get my breath back," the man answered Patrick's question, "and we'll get right to it." The Reverend Bridgewater took a bucket of clean water sitting next to the trough and turned it upside down over his head. With a shake and a rub he cleared his face of excess water and wiped his dripping hair back out of his way. He straightened up, water running down the chest of his well-worn preacher's black frock coat. "Well, let's do it then."The reek of alcohol covered the man, even after dousing himself. Mary was coming to believe that those who lived outside of civilized cities were ignorant of the existence of soap and hot water. She held. He sat next to me, propping himself up on a few pillows. I straddled him, sinking down onto him snugly and wrapping my arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around me, his hands resting on my backside. I slowly began moving up and down on him, enjoying the sensations, we were in no rush at that point. He helped lift me up and cushion the down stroke so I wouldn’t get bruised against his bony hips. I added a slow grind, in addition to my up-and-down. His grunts and groans filled my ear, now it was my turn to smirk. ‘You like that T’challa?’ I asked quietly, kissing down the side of his neck and rubbing his chest as I continued. ‘Mmm…’ ‘Is that a yes?’ I laughed as I nibbled his earlobe. ‘Mmm…yes baby…’ ‘Good to know.’ I continued my slow, deep strokes, grinding my clit against the base of his dick. His breathing became more ragged, and I could feel him throbbing faster inside of me. I sped up, not much, but enough for him to tighten his hold on me and let out an audible moan. I.
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