("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._
                     `6_ 6  )   `-.  (     ).`-.__.`)
                     (_Y_.)'  ._   )  `._ `. ``-..-'
                    _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,'
                   ((('   (((-(((''  ((((
                 K R I S T E N' S    C O L L E C T I O N
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Pursuant to the Berne Convention, is copyrighted with 
all rights reserved by its author, Copyrigyht © Fowler
Gray, unless explicitly indicated. Reproduction except 
for personal use and reposting without the author's 
written permission is prohibited. This story may not be 
reproduced on any commercial site.
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Give Me That Old Time Religion: 
The First Plainsong: Prepare the Way
by Fowler Gray (folwergray@yahoo.com)

***

Set in the late Sixties "Give Me That Old Time 
Religion," or OTR for short, tells the story of how 
joining the Agapemone Bethel changes young Jake 
Gledhill's life. (MF-teens, M-solo, mast)

***

Author Notes: To quench any flames before they start 
raging, this is a work of fiction. The author does not 
espouse the pseudo-theology contained in this story nor 
is he an adherent to its practices. Please pay 
attention to the story codes because they may change 
with each Plainsong.

Finally, remember Celeste's Blow Job Principle which 
states "If a person expects to get a second blow job, 
the recipient should make the giver glad to have 
performed the first." Think of this story, or any story 
on this site, as the written equivalent of the author 
giving you head (a handy, gender-neutral phrase 
encompassing both cunnilingus and fellatio) and be sure 
to say thank you. 

Thank yous for and comments on Gimme That Old Time 
Religion can be sent to this email address: 
fowlergray@yahoo.com 

***

Give Me That Old Time Religion: 
An Oratorio In Several Plainsongs 
By Fowler Gray

The First Plainsong: Prepare the Way


I came of age in a "different" sort of family.

A high school dropout, my father Leonard Gledhill 
worked as a jack-of-all-trades handyman at a local 
repair shop. Even today I can barely repair burnt toast 
by scraping the black stuff off; give Dad a hammer, 
pliers, a screwdriver and some scrap metal and he could 
fix anything. And it would stay fixed.

My mother Mary Anne quit waiting on tables after she 
had me and dedicated herself to taking care of her 
family. Besides the usual housekeeping, this also meant 
gardening. Not flower gardening, although Mom had a few 
patches of posies scattered around the house, 
sustenance gardening designed to put food on the table. 

Our small house was the ultimate fixer-upper, patched 
and repaired until it was as trim and fresh as a 
birthday cake; the inside full of second-hand furniture 
and appliances Dad had refurbished. The furnace wheezed 
like an asthmatic when it kicked on but the place 
stayed warm. When something did break down, usually 
late at night, I could always count on learning one or 
two new and inventive phrases I could use to impress my 
friends.

Dad's job didn't pay all that much and, even with the 
odd jobs he picked up along the way, we didn't have 
many frills. I never had a new bike as a kid, but the 
discarded bikes Dad overhauled were as good as new. As 
for a car, well Dad promised once we'd gotten just a 
little more ahead of the monthly bills, we'd go to the 
junkyard and pick out an old clunker to work on 
together; we just never seemed to get far enough ahead 
to make that visit. 

It's not that we were poor. We never lacked for any of 
the essentials or even a few nonessentials, but we 
weren't wealthy either, sort of lower middle-class. Our 
clothes weren't stylish but they were always clean and 
in good repair. Our meals were plain but nutritious. 
The meat Mom bought on sale might be a little off-color 
but after she added a few spices it tasted just fine 
and anyway Mom's scrumptious home-baked bread was 
always the highlight of any meal.

Dad was always trying to earn enough to keep the 
household accounts in the black but still spend as much 
time with me as he could. Our entertainments were also 
inexpensive but no less enjoyable for their low cost. 
At least one Saturday a month we'd pile into the family 
car and go for a ride around the countryside. Sometimes 
we'd pull off the road to picnic in a field or glade or 
go fishing or swimming in a local creek. A stop for ice 
cream along the way was always a favorite and, every 
once in a while, Dad would splurge we'd get a sack of 
burgers from the White Tower in McCutchen.

Five, maybe six times a year, we'd go "visiting," 
spending a weekend at someone else's house. The days 
were when we kids played, moving at warp speed, never 
still always noisy until all our energy slipped away 
like sawdust spilling from a cheap stuffed animal, 
leaving us limp as we slipped into bed only to begin 
our frantic activities all over again in the morning.

The nights were when the adults played; gathering 
around the kitchen table bottles and glasses outlining 
its edge, the ever present deck of cards sitting in the 
middle waiting for the first shuffle. We'd drift off to 
sleep with to the muted sounds of "pass, pass, pick it 
up" drifting our from the endless euchre games 
punctuated by the clink of a bottle tapping against a 
glass and the occasional heartfelt "son of a bitch" 
from one of the fathers as a bid went astray.

The big event was our annual vacation, a week spent at 
Winslow Lake with two other families. Part of what made 
it exciting for me was that I could never be sure who 
the other two families would be. Sometimes it would be 
friends we'd stayed with before, other times there'd be 
a new family added to the mix, someone I'd never met 
before.

The other neat thing was the sleeping arrangements. We 
always rented the same two cottages at Thistledown 
Resort. The adults stayed in the Boathouse, which was 
the larger of the two, sitting perched right on the 
edge of the water. Kids got to stay in the Bunkhouse 
about four cottages inland from the Boathouse. It 
wasn't near the water; instead it was by the playground 
and ball field, surrounded by a small grove of trees, 
letting us pretend we were living in Sherwood Forest.

Calling these cottages makes them sound more fancy than 
they were. Essentially they were old two-room cabins, 
each with a small bathroom and a large common area. The 
common area in the Boathouse had a refrigerator, a 
small gas stove, a sink with cupboards above it, two 
double beds, a sleeper couch and a kitchen table with 
chairs. The Bunkhouse had a smaller refrigerator and a 
sink but no cooking facilities. In place of regular 
beds there were three bunk beds and the only table in 
the room had board games built into its top.

Except for breakfast, almost all of our meals were 
cooked on the grill outside the Boathouse, each family 
taking a different day to roast hot dogs and hamburgers 
for everyone. Meals were eaten on an old warped picnic 
table on the lakeshore. You had to be very careful 
where you sat if you didn't want to wind up with a butt 
full of splinters.

The fact the cottages were separated from each other 
gave us youngsters the chance to stay up far later into 
the night than we were usually allowed. Sure, lights 
were to be out at 10 but it didn't take us long to 
figure out we could hang blankets over the windows and 
keep the lamps glowing without anyone in the Boathouse 
being able to see them. Of course, in the morning we 
were just as tired as the adults were from their late 
night activities and, while we didn't have the magic of 
coffee to perk us up again, we did have the resiliency 
of innocent youth.

Working together was another way Dad found to spend 
time with me, despite the fact I was downright clumsy. 
Of course, it was also his way of educating me and 
making sure I pulled my own weight in the family. I 
always worked for my allowance and, when I turned 11, 
Dad arranged for me to start putting in a couple of 
hours a week at the hardware store in town, sweeping 
the place out and doing other small chores, a role that 
grew as I grew older. Half my dollar an hour pay went 
into the money jar at home, the other fifty cents I got 
to keep.

"No free rides for my son by god. I'm not raising any 
pampered sissy, a little hard work will help make a man 
out of you Jake, get you ready for the real world," he 
would tell me whenever I groused about having to 
kickback half my earnings.

Getting ready for the real world was a big thing for my 
Dad. So was being a real man. So was "doing better than 
your old man did." 

At the mercy of too many forces he couldn't control, 
Dad wanted things be done his way at his house. Dinner 
would be what he wanted when he wanted it. He worked 
and brought home a paycheck. Mom was to clean, cook and 
do whatever else Dad told her to do. It's not that Dad 
was a tyrant, far from it. But he was the boss and 
expected to be treated that way.

My mother was a deferential and dutiful wife, following 
my dad's orders to a "T." I don't think it ever 
occurred to her to do otherwise. In fact, once I 
entered my teenage years she had even begun to well, 
not follow my orders exactly, but something close to 
that. 

"Mary Anne, the boy's 13, he's on his way to being a 
man, it's time you started listening to him a little 
better," Dad instructed her one day. That's when I got 
to start telling Mom what I wanted for lunch, what I 
wanted to wear, that sort of thing. The older I got the 
more deferential Mom got to me.

My mom's social life was a limited one. What didn't 
revolve around her family involved her church, the 
Agapemone Bethel.

Every Sunday Mom would go to services at the bethel. 
Since he was a practicing agnostic who scoffed at any 
organized religion, Dad didn't go with her. That didn't 
stop Mom from dragging me along a few times.

I didn't go that often, maybe once every six weeks just 
to make Mom happy. When I did go I always found it a 
strange experience. For one thing, women weren't 
permitted to talk during the service. Timothy's 
admonition "During instruction a woman should be quiet 
and respectful," was the order of the day. The only 
time you could hear their voices was during the 
plainsongs, which were chanted, not sung, because music 
wasn't allowed in the bethel. Stranger still, it always 
seemed that tucked away somewhere in every sermon was a 
little lecture on the need of a wife to "hold fast to 
her husband and cheerfully obey him in all ways," or on 
"the virtues of submission, because when a wife rebels 
against her husband she rebels against God," sentiments 
that had most of the women in the congregation nodding 
along in agreement as though they came directly from 
Stepford.

The older I got the more this bothered me. With woman's 
lib all the rage, this just seemed so sexist and 
dismissive of women that I couldn't believe my mother 
was buying all this stuff. It finally got to the point 
that, when we stopped for ice cream at Couf's Dairy on 
the way home from services I decided to ask Mom about 
the sermons. 

Hermann and Magda Couf were part of a large German 
farming family that had branched out into a number of 
businesses. Herman bought his milk and cream from his 
brother Heinz's farm. Magda, their two daughters and an 
indeterminate number of nieces and nephews transformed 
it into the best ice cream I've ever had.

There were never any more than five flavors available 
at Couf's at any one time and the only one that was 
always available was vanilla. One that was never 
available was chocolate. Magda hated chocolate and, 
being a stubborn German, refused to make it.

"Those what want chocolate ice cream can go down to the 
Tastee-Freeze. I won't have that scheisse in my 
parlor." 

The other four varieties changed with the harvest 
seasons as Magda took advantage of the locally 
available fruits and berries to produce her 
confections. Even today, I'd kill for another taste of 
her Wild Blackberry Roly-Poly, all the joys of summer 
distilled into a single bite.

While the flavor board at Couf's was eclectic, the 
decor was standard ice cream shop with an emphasis on 
red, white and pink. The walls were lined with high-
back booths, the center with twisted metal tables 
painted white; the back of the dairy had a single long 
formica-topped counter with red topped swiveling 
stools. Even during the winter Couf's was a local 
gathering place, a location to have a bite to eat, 
catch up on town gossip and, on that day, receive 
religious instruction.

"Jake," my mom told me in repose to my questioning, her 
lips shiny with whipped cream from the banana split she 
was eating, "I certainly do believe in the teachings of 
the Bible. God made Eve from the rib of Adam to be his 
partner, equal in all things. But Eve listened to the 
serpent and betrayed Adam, made him fall from grace. It 
was woman who was responsible for the expulsion from 
the Garden. Every woman has to seek redemption for that 
original sin. We do it through obedience to our men as 
Eve should have."

"But Mom, what if Dad wanted you to do something that 
was wrong? If he asked you to rob a bank would you?"

"Now you're being silly. Your father would never ask me 
to rob a bank."

"Alright but suppose he asks you to tell a lie. Telling 
a lie is a sin isn't it?"

"Some lies are."

"OK, so would you sin if Dad asked you to?"

Mom put the spoon down next to her dish. Reaching 
across the table she took both my hands in hers 
capturing my eyes with hers.

"I know you're growing up Jacob but even at 17 I don't 
know if you're old enough to understand what I'm going 
to tell you."

"Mom, please quit treating me like a little kid." 

"As you wish Jacob, just remember I'm speaking to you 
as a man now, a young man but a man all the same. Yes, 
I would sin if your father commanded it."

My mother's admission stunned me. My face must have 
shown it because she gave my hands a tender reassuring 
squeeze. 

"Understand me Jake. Your father is my Lord and Master. 
As such God expects me to follow your father's 
commands. That's God's will. There is no sin in doing 
God's will. If you'd go to bethel more with me you'd 
understand."

Fat chance of that, I thought, hoping that no one was 
overhearing this conversation. I'd die if my friends 
knew my Mom was saying these things. Thank goodness we 
were sitting in a booth against the wall. The high back 
gave us some privacy unlike the tables in the center of 
the dairy.

"Your great grandmother Massie grew up in West 
Virginia, Jake. She was a 'sin eater.' People then 
believed that you couldn't go to heaven until all of 
your sins were forgiven. If you died unshriven, you 
went to hell.

"Gramma Massie would be paid to 'eat' the dead person's 
sins. She'd go to the house where the body was laid 
out, usually on a table, a plate of food resting on 
their chest. Your great grandmother would eat that food 
and the sins of the deceased along with it. That's what 
sin eaters did. As they ate the food they took that 
person's sins on to themselves so the person could go 
to heaven.

"For any woman, being a submissive spouse is just like 
being a sin eater. By our subservience to our men, we 
redeem Eve's sin in Eden when she disobeyed the 
Heavenly Father. Our willingness to make this sacrifice 
preserves our souls and our place in the kingdom. I 
feel sorry for those women who talk about woman's 
liberation, independence, equality but I feel sorrier 
for those young girls they're misleading. They're 
perpetuating Eve's error and bringing great unhappiness 
on themselves."

Until then I'd never thought of Mom as a religious 
fanatic but even to my 17-year old mind, there was no 
question she had serious issues. Being old-fashioned 
was one thing; this, this was another. I looked for 
flecks of spittle on her face; in all the books I read 
crazy people always foamed at the mouth. All I could 
see were stray smears of cream the split had left 
behind at the corners of her mouth. 

Oblivious to my growing unease and embarrassment, the 
words gushed out of Mom like water rushing over a 
cataract of a river. How woman was created to follow, 
not lead. That only through fulfilling her role as God 
had intended could a woman realize true inner peace and 
salvation. The joy she felt when she obeyed Dad's 
commands. I wasn't so much listening to her talk as I 
was watching her mouth move. Then she said something 
that brought me to attention like a recruit at 
reveille.

"... and I can only hope and pray Jake that when you 
start getting involved with a girl it'll be some one 
from the bethel who will be as respectful of you as I 
am of your father. You know," she said with a 
calculating look in her eye, "Mrs. Brewster told me her 
daughter Alice thinks you're cute, maybe you should pay 
a little attention to her the next time you go to 
bethel with me."

Alice Brewster looked like a constipated hamster. No 
way was I going out with her, no matter how cute she 
thought I was. But the idea of having a girlfriend who 
would listen to me and treat a nerd like me as if I was 
something special took root pretty quickly. Maybe there 
really was something to the song about wanting a girl 
just like the girl that married dear old dad.

After that, I went to bethel with Mom more often, not 
to listen to the preacher or to get religion but to 
check out the girls. As one of only six bethels in the 
state, Mom's drew people from all over, just not a lot 
of them. The flock was small and there weren't very 
many girls to check out. The ones that weren't spazes 
or sweat hogs pretty much all had boyfriends, except 
for Eleanor Hunter.

Elle was just on the pleasant side of skinny with a 
narrow triangular face and long silky chestnut hair she 
wore in a classic pullback with a French twist. Set 
above a pointy, almost beaky nose, her hazel eyes were 
hypnotic, twinkling with some inner amusement as though 
Elle knew a joke too good to share with the rest of the 
world. She was one of those girls who were "handsome" 
rather than pretty.

Her attire for worship was plain and simple, all one 
color, usually black or midnight blue with only a 
modest portion of her long legs revealed to public view 
beneath the hem of her dress. More sack-like than 
clinging, even the least form fitting of her Sunday 
outfits couldn't hide the protruding mounds of her 
breasts, so out of proportion to the leanness of the 
rest of her body.

To a young boy, noticeable tits of any size attract our 
attention like toys in a shop front; major leaguers 
like Eleanor Hunter had made you want to press your 
face against the shop window. Even before Mom had 
started me thinking about the girls in the bethel, I'd 
checked Elle out on more than one occasion. So, with 
the most impure of intentions, I began to try to figure 
out how to get close to Elle.

Her being a year older wasn't a concern at least to me; 
I didn't know how Elle would feel. Being five years 
older than Dad, Mom was always being teased about being 
a "cradle robber." I figured I was just carrying on the 
family tradition of being the "younger man."

The dilemma was that Elle didn't go to my school; she 
went to school two counties away. At 17, even though I 
could drive, I had no car, and little chance of using 
the family chariot for dating. It was one thing for her 
to be seen with someone a year younger than her even 
though we were both in the same grade, one of the nicer 
effects of my starting kindergarten early. It'd be 
another thing for us to be chauffeured around by our 
parents or so I thought.

Still that was a complication that could be solved 
later. Of more immediate importance was getting Elle to 
notice me, a difficult task since the only time we 
spent together was a few minutes before and after each 
service.

Whenever possible I maneuvered Mom into sitting either 
directly in front of or behind Mr. and Mrs. Hunter and 
their daughter, a position that allowed me to take 
advantage of the blessing of peace and understanding at 
the end of each service. I preferred sitting behind and 
a little to the side of Elle since then I got to look 
at her throughout the entire proceedings. Sometimes, as 
she moved, I could see her breasts sway from side-to-
side, offering a nice distraction from the preacher's 
droning.

After a couple of weeks, Elle and I began to talk with 
each other in the parking lot outside of the bethel. 
Nothing heavy, just the inconsequential exchanges you 
get between any two teens. Our discussions were polite 
and perfunctory, tinged with an awkward formality by 
the knowledge our every move was being monitored and 
evaluated by the maternal pair hovering just at the far 
range of earshot, ready to step in and thwart the 
slight hint of any improper activities.

Even with the constant surveillance, it didn't take 
long for me to reach the point where I was becoming 
infatuated with Elle. Just the sight of the corners of 
her mouth rising toward her ears in response to 
something I'd said made me feel like I'd won first 
place at a track meet. 

I liked making Elle smile, her grin as wide as a 
pumpkin's, the flat of her pink tongue visible between 
even rows of sparkling white teeth. I liked Elle's 
laugh, a bright chirpy sound and the way she tilted her 
head back when it escaped from her vocal cords. I think 
I even liked Elle.

What made it hard to say for sure was that I really 
didn't know Elle and Elle really didn't know me. We 
were strangers to each other despite the surface 
courtesies we engaged in every Sunday. The after-bethel 
ritual may have satisfied the proprieties but it really 
only allowed us to become familiar with each other on 
the basest of levels, our physical appearances.

When I talked with her, I was careful to follow Dad's 
advice to keep my eyes focused on hers and "... never, 
never eyeball her tits even when you think you can get 
away with it. She'll know what you're after but you 
don't have to advertise it. Deep down inside she wants 
to give it to you, it's just you have to play the game 
to get it from 'respectable' girls."

"Eyeballing her tits" may have been forbidden when we 
talked but they were front and center in my fantasies. 
There Elle would be nude, stretched out on her back in 
my bed, her eyes closed tight, her hands cupping her 
bold round breasts and pushing them up to my waiting 
mouth, uplifted nipples erect and cherry red against 
her French vanilla skin with its sprinkling of 
freckles. 

That creamy skin would be shiny from sweat, sweat that 
would be covering her body, dripping down her ribcage; 
moistening the sheet underneath and making it wrinkle 
as she began to writhe. I'd lick my way from her tits 
down her squirming stomach, savoring the salty tang of 
her young flesh. When I arrived between her legs, I'd 
toy with her, blowing lightly against her pussy, 
bestowing just the softest glancing caresses with my 
tongue. And then, only after I had reduced Eleanor to a 
quivering supplicant begging for my cock, would I 
thrust into her wet, warm cunt and listen to her cries 
of ecstasy as I brought her to orgasm after thundering 
orgasm.

So I was a sex-crazed teenager. So sue me.

My favorite fantasy came out of one the skin magazines 
Dad gave me. That's right, that my dad gave me. Mom was 
big on providing "hands on" help with my schoolwork. 
Dad liked to offer what he called " special rewards" 
for good scholastic performance, "but don't let your 
mom know." He felt it met two of his three goals, since 
it helped me not only to do better than he did in 
school, it also moved me further down the road to being 
a real man.

There was a definite hierarchy to Dad's bribes. 
Gradewise C's got me old Adams and Playboys. B's were 
good for softcore porn. My rare A's got me the real 
thing, hardcore action, some of it pretty kinky. 

The other side of this was that poor grades got things 
taken away at double the rate they were awarded. He 
always knew just the ones to take away, the ones that 
were the most worn or had the most spots on them.

In my number one scenario Elle is again nude. But this 
time she is knelling in the middle of my room waiting 
for me. I enter the room fully clothed and walk up to 
her. She begins to massage my dick through my jeans 
with one hand while raising the gray T-shirt I'm 
wearing with the other. Before my cock gets too hard to 
move easily she undoes my pants spreading them open 
into a "v" and pulling them down along with my boxers 
until the bottom of the zipper rests just below my 
balls, my dick now flat against my stomach.

Elle leans into me and begins to lick up and down my 
prick; her saliva tickling my balls as it flows across 
their wrinkled container. At the top of a stroke, she 
opens her mouth and engulfs my dick, welcoming it into 
her warm, wet oral cavity as an alcoholic would a 
drink. Her chestnut hair becomes tossed and tangled as 
she rotates around my shaft, bobbing up and down and 
sucking until I feel I'm being pulled inside out.

As I near my climax, I reach down and still the motions 
of her head with my hands, a loud, sloppy slurp marking 
the exit of my cock from between her lips. As I begin 
to shoot, Elle leans back and rises up offering her 
tits as the target for my outpouring. Thick gobs of 
sperm puddle on their upper reaches while the thinner 
less energetic spurts ooze slowly down her mammerial 
slopes until they drip from her nipples like melting 
snow from a roof.

While I watch, Elle bends her head down as far as it 
will go, her protruding tongue transporting my 
spendings into her hungry mouth. What her tongue can't 
reach her fingers can; fingers that act as tiny pseudo-
cocks complete with a serving of warm, fresh cum. It's 
an erotic vision that never failed to stimulate me.

It sure didn't on the night my mother walked into my 
bedroom just as her son was shooting his wad all over 
his stomach.

There I was, fist racing up and down on my stiff dick, 
Rosy Palm and her five sisters doing the line dance 
when the door shot open and the light snapped on. No 
time to roll over, pull up the covers, do anything to 
hide my onanistic fervor. I was trapped by the sudden 
illumination of my self-abuse. All I could do was stare 
in horror at my mother as the tip of my prick erupted, 
a geyser of white jetting into the air only to fall 
back in accordance with the Newton's law of universal 
gravitation, drenching me with sperm and shame at the 
same time.

For a moment, it was as though Mom and I were posed 
subjects in an old-fashioned daguerreotype, unable to 
stir even a fraction of an inch without ruining the 
plate. I don't know how I looked to her but Mom's mouth 
was hanging open like a bright red ribbon; her startled 
eyes focused on my crotch until she broke our gridlock 
by taking a half step toward the bed.

Her halting movement freed me from my captivity, 
allowing me to turn away from the door and conceal 
myself and my humiliation beneath the bedspread. For 
almost a minute, the only sounds reaching my ears were 
those of Mom's labored breathing and the creaking of 
the floor beneath her as she rocked back and forth. 
Then, expelling a large sigh, Mom left the room softly 
closing the door behind her.

I'm not sure how long I laid alone in the dark berating 
myself for exposing my own mother to my moral 
deficiencies. It could have been ten minutes; it could 
have been an hour. The only thing keeping me company 
besides my own misery was the faint intonations of a 
conversation taking place down the hall. The fact that 
I could hear it at all, even if I couldn't make out 
what was being said, told me that the discussion was a 
heated one.

When footsteps came my way, I began to shiver, knowing 
that Dad had his belt in his hand ready to administer 
the punishment I deserved for my actions. Well, I had 
earned my chastisement and I was going to take it like 
a man. I just hoped he would leave some skin on my 
buttocks. At least it was Friday night and I'd have the 
weekend to recover before I had to spend the day 
sitting down in school - unless I had to do extra 
penance at the bethel.

The gentle knock on the door brought me up short. 
"Jacob, it's your mother. May I please come in and talk 
with you?" I didn't know what to say.

"Son, I really would like to talk with you if you'll 
let me." I must have made some sound Mom took for 
consent because she opened the door and came in.

"Jacob, may I on turn the light?" From under the 
covers, I issued a muffled "Yes."

"Please come out from under there Jacob. There's no 
reason for you to be ashamed and you need to see me 
while we talk."

No reason to be ashamed? My mom walks into my room 
while I'm spanking the monkey; I spray jizz all over 
myself while she's watching and I don't have any reason 
to be ashamed? The sheer novelty of Mom's approach was 
enough to make me leave my cotton cocoon.

As my head cleared the covers I saw my mother on her 
knees in the middle of the floor, her head bowed, her 
long silver-blonde hair hanging forward over her 
shoulders.

"Jacob, it was wrong of me to enter your room when your 
door was closed without your permission. I apologize 
for my failure to respect your privacy and I beg for 
your forgiveness."

Unsure of why she was asking for my forgiveness when it 
should have been the other way around, I simply stared 
at her.

"May I have your pardon, Jacob," she asked again.

"Mom, you didn't do anything to apologize for. I'm the 
one who's sorry."

Acting as though I hadn't spoken my mother formally 
asked for absolution a third time. "Son, please gift me 
with your forgiveness." Not knowing what else to do I 
told her she was forgiven.

After the last words of dispensation exited my mouth my 
mother lifted her head and, for the first time since 
she reentered the room, looked me in the eye. "Thank 
you Jacob for your pardon. May I rise now?" I nodded 
yes, still stunned by my mother's behavior.

Apparently, my little wag of the head did the trick 
because the woman who uncoiled herself from my floor 
was again my mother, not the sorrowful penitent of 
earlier.

"Jake, I didn't think you were ever going to accept my 
apology," she said moving a chair away from my desk to 
sit on. "I'm glad you finally did because that floor is 
hard and my knees were really starting to ache. At 
least when your father's angry with me he usually lets 
me kneel on a pillow."

"Mom, I wasn't angry, honest."

"Honey, it's fine if you were. It's a hard thing 
watching your son grow up into a man, harder yet to 
judge what stage he's reached. I knew you were 
interested in sex and I knew you've been masturbating. 
I've seen the stains on your sheets for months now. 
What I should have known was to not open your door 
without knocking and being told it's alright."

Take the ruddiest red you've ever seen and multiply it 
tenfold. I was blushing so hard my face felt hotter 
than molten steel at a rolling mill.

Mom actually laughed as she tussled my hair. "It's 
nothing to be embarrassed about Jake. Masturbation is a 
normal outlet for sexual urges. Everyone does it, you, 
your father, even me sometimes."

It was freaky lying in bed, sticky cum crusting on my 
chest, listening to my mother talk about how she 
masturbated too. I didn't know what to make of it.

"But Jake, I really was wrong to barge into your room 
the way I did and I am sorry. I hope your forgiveness 
is real and not just something you said because you 
thought you had to. From now on whenever your door is 
shut, I'll knock and wait for you to tell me I can come 
in. That's a promise, hon."

"Thanks," I said the flush on my face lowering its 
intensity to a mere fire engine red. "I'm really not 
mad Mom. It was just so embarrassing. I didn't know 
what to do."

"Well, maybe a good place to start right now is 
cleaning yourself up. Wait a minute," Mom said as she 
walked out of the room only to return in a few moments 
with a warm washcloth in her hand.

"Go ahead Jacob, wash off before it gets dry and 
itchy," she said handing me the cloth. "I'll turn 
around," she said matching her actions to her 
statement.

Mollified, I threw the covers off and began to scrub 
the remains of my orgasm from my body. It was only as I 
sat up to wipe my thighs that I looked into the mirror 
over my dresser. There, reflected fully in the looking 
glass, was my mother, a mysterious half-smile on her 
face like a cat dreaming of a fat, slow mouse.

The next day my mother rearranged my bedroom furniture. 
A small pine chest had replaced the battered nightstand 
next to my bed, a round, short metal wastebasket wedged 
in between the bed and the chest. The drawers of the 
chest contained my collection of pornography, the same 
magazines and photos I kept in a box on the shelf in 
the back of my closet. On the top of the chest sat a 
new box of facial tissues with a note attached.

"Jake," the note read in my mother's swooping 
handwriting, "please use these to save on my having to 
wash your sheets twice a week. Love Mom."

From that point on, Mom treated me differently. Not 
only was she even more deferential to me, she was also 
more open and outgoing showing me facets of her 
personality she had kept hidden before.

For one thing, Mom had a wicked sense of humor and a 
sharp tongue. One night when I mentioned Elle at the 
Sunday dinner table Dad told me "Jake, never forget, 
men are fire and women are the wood put on earth for us 
to consume," only to have Mom shoot right back "Yeah 
and Smokey The Bear's never around when you need him." 

For another, she wasn't as uncritical and accepting of 
Dad as she seemed. Disagreements, they were too mild to 
be called arguments, which had taken place behind 
closed doors now were conducted in the open. But once 
Dad gave a command, she obeyed.

It seemed the bethel didn't demand meekness from a 
woman in all things, only that they honor their man's 
commands fully and faithfully. According to Mom, she 
had the weight of scriptural authority behind her in 
any "disputations" she had with my father provided she 
was obedient to his decision once it was made. 

The biggest change in my mother was her willingness to 
talk about some personal matters that had been off-
limits before. Like why she and dad married when they 
did.

Their wedding photo is a study in contrasts. It depicts 
a barrel-chested, bantam of a young man whose light 
brown buzzcut is trimmed close to his scalp. A stunned 
smile bisects his flat face as though he had just won 
the big lottery on a ticket he found in someone else's 
clothes. Not all that impossible since his tuxedo seems 
to be made out of mismatched parts, the arms a smidgen 
too long while the truncated pants legs stop shy of his 
ankles, revealing a pair of white gym socks inside his 
loafers. He stands as poised and taunt, a diver on the 
high board ready to plunge into unknown waters, his 
eyes looking straight ahead at the photographer. For 
once the omnipresent wooden match is absent from the 
corner of his mouth.

Standing across from him is a well-formed woman for 
whom the word "resplendent" seemed to have been coined. 
Taller than her new spouse, and full-bodied, her blonde 
hair is arranged in a towering beehive hairdo, its 
artificial height adding to the image of the couple as 
Mutt and Jeff. She holds a bouquet of daffodils and 
tulips in her arms, cradling them like a newborn. Her 
face glows with contentment, her smile with jubilation. 
Her plain cream wedding dress is tight on her, its 
constriction dividing her buxom breasts into two firm 
hemispheres. 

"That's your Dad, that's me and that," she said, a 
crimson-tipped nail tapping against a small bulge at 
her midriff, "is you,"

I knew the story about how Dad met Mom while she was 
waitressing; it was one of Dad's favorites and I must 
have heard it a hundred times growing up but he never 
mentioned he had to marry Mom.

"I was just starting to show when we got married. I 
could have worn a girdle and not have shown at all but 
your Dad and I figured it was nothing to be ashamed of. 
We weren't exactly the first couple in these parts to 
jump offsides before the snap; doubtless we won't be 
the last," she told me her voice even and collected as 
she filled me in on the family history.

Mom was scared when she found out she was pregnant; 
afraid that Dad would think she'd tried to trap him, 
fearful that he'd deny her "... after all even Peter 
denied Jesus..." terrified that she'd be left alone to 
deal with everything by herself. "When I wasn't 
throwing up because of morning sickness, I was puking 
my guts out worrying about what was going to happen."

It took a month for her to work up the courage to tell 
Dad, a month in which every bad scenario she could 
dream up played itself out in her head.

When she finally told my Dad his reaction was to yank 
her up off her feet and swing her around in the air, 
yelling like a fool. Then he returned her to the 
ground, got down on one knee and asked her to marry 
him.

"Remember that one winter when the blizzard hit and our 
power went out? How cold and dark it was and the 
temperature kept dropping until it was below zero 
outside," my mother asked me. "How we waited for hours 
for it to come back on but it didn't. How worried we 
were we might have to pack up and leave for some place 
else. We didn't know where, just some place that had 
heat and lights and we could be warm and safe. Remember 
that Jake?" 

I nodded yes, while I wondered what Mom was getting at. 
Nobody had predicted the storm that hit us. We were 
only supposed to get a couple of inches of snow. We got 
over two feet along with winds that snapped massive 
limbs off 100-year old trees. The snowdrifts were so 
deep the hood of the car was buried; we were going to 
have to use the tractor and the wagon to get out of 
there. 

"You remember what happened next? How you and I were 
outside putting our suitcases on the wagon bed when 
every lamp and bulb in the house went on at the same 
time and the furnace made that 'kerummph' noise as it 
started up again. What it felt like when you knew 
everything was going to work out OK, that we wouldn't 
have to leave and go somewhere else?"

Sure I remembered. I was worried about a Siamese 
Fighting Fish I was taking care of for my friend Ben. 
Ben's grandfather had given it to him that summer, the 
same grandfather whose funeral he was at in Mississippi 
when the storm hit. Ben made me swear on a stack of 
Marvel comics, as good as swearing on a bible for nine 
year-olds, that I'd take good care of it while he was 
gone. 

Dad had set up the Coleman camping stove and I was 
using that to warm water for Ben's fish. I knew even as 
the water heated we couldn't take the fish with us. It 
was going to freeze in the bowl after we left. Ben's 
fish would be dead just like his grandfather and it 
would be my fault. Then dad got the old generator 
running.

"Well, multiply what you felt about a hundred times and 
you'll know how I felt. When your Dad asked me to marry 
him it was like every lamp in the world started to glow 
and every furnace in the universe kicked in. I didn't 
have to huddle alone in the dark and the cold worrying 
about what was going to happen any longer. Your dad 
loved me and he was going to take care of me and I'd do 
anything he wanted to return his love and make him 
happy."

Having set the stage with her story, Mom made me an 
offer. "If you'd like me to son, I'll talk with Mrs. 
Hunter on your behalf. It's time Elle got started on a 
covenant courtship anyhow and, at the rate you're going 
through tissues, I think you're ready too."

Now I knew what she was getting at. Mom was 
matchmaking.

I wanted to find out more about Elle and this "covenant 
courtship" thing. But, even though I'd taken nightly 
advantage of the tissue box Mom had put there for me, 
the embarrassment from my involuntary masturbatory 
exhibition still lingered. She might find it natural 
and easy to talk and joke about, I didn't. I still felt 
like a puppy caught rolling in its own piss.

Trying to creep up on the subject, I used the 
magician's ploy of misdirection to hide my real intent. 
I shouldn't have bothered. Before the second question 
was out of my mouth, my mother's face was bright with 
amusement.

"Honey, you're just circling around what you want to 
talk about. I know you like Elle. But a covenant 
courtship is a lot more than just dating; it's a very 
complex and regulated set of courtship rituals intended 
end in marriage. Not right way," she explained at the 
sight of panic washing across my face. "You and Elle 
are still too young for that but, if a match is made, 
it will be expected for the two of you to get married 
in the bethel and sooner rather than later."

Which brought Mom to the start of her explanation. The 
bethel encouraged relationships to start at a young 
age, "because it's better for everyone involved when 
you bond with another person who believes within the 
bethel as you do." Mom had broken the rules with Dad 
and, even though she loved him, "I probably would have 
wed inside the bethel if I hadn't gotten pregnant."

Because of her marriage to my Dad, before Mom could 
even approach the Hunters on my behalf, I would have to 
become a true member of the bethel, not just a visitor. 
It wouldn't be enough to be anointed and attend 
regularly, I'd have to be examined and sanctioned by 
the Oblate Council before the courtship could begin.

At first, Elle and I would be closely chaperoned by one 
of our parents, never out of their sight or hearing. 
Then, when the parents judged it was time, those duties 
would be taken over by a bethel volunteer called a 
shadow protector who'd give Elle and I a little more 
privacy and freedom, "but not a lot, not as much as 
you'd expect on a regular date."

Mom was pretty vague about how long we'd be shadowed, 
said it depended on many things. "Eventually the Oblate 
Council will decide if you and Elle are ready to 
receive the blessing of the bethel and can enjoy 
theopathy."

None of this was sounding like a very good deal. I'd 
have to become a serious bethelgoer, pass some sort of 
religious examination and then I'd be allowed to date 
Elle with a chaperon on every date. I'd be lucky to get 
her to hold my hand in the movies, let alone act out 
even the mildest of my fantasies.

"If you and Elle aren't right for each other, well, we 
can look at the covenant directory from other bethels. 
Setting up a fostering arrangement isn't unheard of. 
But before we go to those extremes, we'll see how you 
and Eleanor do together."

Biting the bullet, I voiced my concern.

"Mom, I like Elle and everything but I'm not sure about 
this."

"About going out with Elle?"

"No, I want to go out with Elle. It's all the other 
stuff, being a bethel member and getting the OK from 
the Council and being watched everywhere we go. I just 
don't know."

Mom gave me a careful look. "Jake, if you want to go 
out with Elle, this is the only way. Mr. and Mrs. 
Hunter will never allow her to go out with someone who 
isn't a member of the bethel. Believe me, I've talked 
with Mrs. Hunter about this." 

"Mom." I whined in protest, "you didn't?"

"Jacob Devin Gledhill, I most certainly did," she said 
her jade eyes regarding me with open fondness and 
exasperation. "Neither Mrs. Hunter or I are blind you 
know. We've seen the way you two look at each other 
after bethel. You've certainly caught Eleanor's 
interest. If it makes you feel better, Irene approached 
me first. Elle has asked her a lot of questions about 
you and her parents don't want this to go any farther 
without the sanction of the bethel. 

I agree with them. So, you have a choice, either get 
on-board the train or watch it pull out without you. 
There's no halfway here son. Say no and we won't even 
be sitting by the Hunters anymore. It's not fair to 
Elle to let her waste her time and affection on you 
when she has to marry within the bethel."

Stunned by my mother's bluntness, I sat back at the 
kitchen table, my thoughts circling like a gerbil on an 
exercise wheel. Sure I liked Elle, but there'd be other 
girls. I was only 17 after all. It sounded like I'd be 
signing my life away and all for a few dates where I 
couldn't even get a handjob from my girlfriend. Nope, 
this wasn't for me.

My decision must have shown on my face because my 
mother got up from the table and began massaging my 
shoulders, her strong hands kneading the tenseness from 
my muscles. It felt good.

"Honey, I know this is a big decision for you. Why 
don't you sleep on it before you make up your mind? You 
can tell me in the morning what you want to do. OK?"

"OK Mom. Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did but I'll let you ask another one, maybe 
even another two if you're good."

"I don't want to sound dumb but what's theopathy and 
what's it got to do with me and Elle?"

Her silvery laugh filled my ears. "Ah Jake, that's why 
you need to learn more about the bethel. I'll bet you 
don't even know that Agapemone means "Abode of Love." I 
shook my head no. "Well, theopathy is the stage in a 
covenant courtship where the young couple are allowed 
to experience religious ecstasy."

"Huh?"

Mom's hands didn't stop working as she gave me an 
explanation.

"Have you ever heard of 'bundling'?"

Again I shook my head no, marveling at the feeling of 
my mother's fingers digging deep into my flesh.

"In colonial days, a couple that were courting were 
allowed to sleep together. The woman's legs were bound 
tight against each other in a bundling stocking, which 
fit like a glove. That's all she would wear. So while 
they couldn't have normal sex, the couple could do 
other things to their hearts content."

"You mean," I started to say my voice husky as I 
thought about what Mom was telling me.

"Yep, theopathy is my bethel's version of bundling 
except there's no bundling stocking involved. Once the 
Oblate Council has approved a covenant courtship we 
believe the couple is mature enough to avoid 
reproductive sex. The girl has to stay a virgin until 
they are married. Other than that the bethel encourages 
the couple to enjoy each other's bodies as long as they 
offer their ecstasy up to the Lord."

As she bent over to whisper in my ear I could feel my 
mother's breasts pressing against my back. I imagined I 
could even feel the rock hard nubs of her nipples 
through our clothes.

"Elle and I don't belong to a typical religion. Our 
bethel believes sex in all its forms is a sacrament 
given to us by the Lord, one meant to be shared and 
enjoyed with others. If you enter into a covenant 
courtship with Elle and if the two of you get the 
bethel's approval, well let's just say I won't need to 
buy as many boxes of tissues as I have been. 

"But Jake," my mother told me, her lips now brushing 
against the side of my neck, her breath hot against my 
skin, "the pleasure of theopathy is reserved for 
members of the bethel. And, unless you join, honestly, 
sincerely and without reservation, Elle will be 
practicing theopathy with someone else who is a bethel 
member."

My dick was as hard as the cast-off rebar my dad stores 
in the shed. It was all laid out clearly in my mind. 
Elle would have sex with me, not just in my fantasies 
but for real, and all I had to do was join the bethel.

With a final lingering kiss of my cheek, my mother made 
her way from the room, pausing just before leaving to 
throw another comment over her shoulder.

"Pleasant dreams son, there's extra tissues in the hall 
closet if you need them."

My fantasies that night featured Elle in the starring 
role but, as weird as it seems, once or twice, Mary 
Anne Gledhill slipped in as a shadow in the background.

I started my religious education classes the very next 
week.

END

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 46