Chapter 1
It seemed extremely ironic-and more than a little shamefully titillating-to Dwight Adair that he should have noticed Sirri Stenson for the first time (of all places!) in church. Which is not to say that she had never registered on his consciousness before. After all, he and his wife had been members of St. Alban's all their lives; he'd most likely been in attendance the day infant Sirri had been baptized. But this particular Sunday morning was the first she'd ever registered as a woman-lovely and desirable-as a mind-boiling object of carnal lust.
Sirri's parents were nodding acquaintances; he and Harry Stenson had served as co-chairman upon several fund-raising campaigns, thus it was unavoidable that Sirri had often crossed his path-as tottering child, pubescent adolescent, and now as eminently alluring woman-creature-during the span of the past twenty years. In light of such, it was absolutely unthinkable that he should regard her with lecherous cravings. Sirri was eighteen or nineteen at the most; Dwight Adair was, at 48, certainly old enough to be her father.
And yet it was so; suddenly (Sirri and her mother steaming into church late) his heart hammered with a deafening, erratic roar; he simply couldn't keep his eyes off her. He stared unashamedly, the raw hunger in his eyes there for the entire congregation to see. What has she done to herself? he raged inwardly. Why haven't I noticed her-this way-before? Lovely. Dear God, she's lovely, a veritable vision of taunting, female beauty!
It was her haughty, yet self-consciously bobbing, little-girl walk as she'd hurried up the aisle, one hand holding the charming straw boater to her tempestuous black curls, that had touched him first. As she'd followed her mother into the pew across, had knelt to pray, his eyes had taken in her navy-blue dress, a pseudo-nautical creation, baggy and loose, which hadn't, nevertheless, concealed the ripe, lush voluptuousness of her hips, buttocks and breasts. Like one mesmerized, he'd studied her exquisite profile, had been enthralled by her retrousse nose, her sharp chin, by the aristocratic throat, the impishly-conceited black eyes couched beneath artificial lashes and thin, flaring brows. Sirri's lips slightly parted as she'd looked altarward, her expression rapt, she'd been the ultimate representation of chaste innocence, and Dwight's heart had felt like it was being ripped from its moorings; he'd hated himself, cursed himself for the licentious thoughts that had tumbled in his brain at that moment. It was then that Noreen nudged him for the first time.
She might as well have nudged the retaining pillars of the church itself, for by then Dwight was beyond recall, caught up helplessly in the ruthless grip of an erotic fantasy the likes of which he hadn't known in years. Tirelessly his eyes pored over Sirri Stenson's body, her legs, her enchanting face as she sat during the epistle; he became aware of his fingers convulsively digging into his knees. The stunning beauty of that patrician profile, the almost-alabaster pallor of her flawless complexion as contrasted to her dark mane, to her taunting eyes, her pink, irridescently-glowing lips, seemingly left him breathless, and he knew the most soul-consuming desire to rush to her, actually touch her! If her entire body-those vibrant, pointed breasts, her derriere and inner thighs-were equally as white and unblemished! Again he awoke to find Noreen digging him with her elbow. "Dwight!" she hissed. "You're making a spectacle of yourself."
He was able to keep his snarling lust at bay until it came time for Father Wilkinson to mount the pulpit, where he would deliver his usual lifeless, irrelevant, scripture-clogged sermon. But now as everyone sat, and Dwight saw Sirri cross her legs, he was lost again. In the process her skirts rode high on her white-nyloned legs and thighs, presented him with an almost total view of her excitingly formed limbs, of the cute, black-patent pumps she wore. Another few inches and he'd certainly have seen the shadowed threshold of her panties beneath the panty hose she so-obviously wore. The cheek! he gasped. The unmitigated cheek! And in church too. The little minx knows I'm watching; she's having the time of her life showing off for me!
Seemingly Sirri read Dwight's thoughts for just then she raised her chin in more lovely profile, slowly, deliberately swung her head, stared directly in his direction. A teasing moue formed on her lips as she fleetingly regarded him, a smile that caused Dwight's heart to jam up into his throat, seemingly choking him. Even as she turned away, she demurely reached down, tugged her skirts to as modest a concealment as the mini-skirt would allow. Abruptly Dwight's face felt feverish, his armpits erupted in a sticky flow of perspiration While he simultaneously berated himself for a fool. What's got into you? Have you taken complete leave of your senses? Usually he was content to wait for the after-Communion parade to conduct his avid appraisal of every comely woman's face, breasts, swaying hips and legs, to take in the shoes, dress and accessories each wore. While he supposedly offered up prayers of thanksgiving for the Holy Sacrament, his brain was alive with libidinous thoughts of the most volatile sort; he imagined what Mrs. Holloway looked like beneath her tight linen suit; he speculated on the thickness of Mrs. Lanier's pubic hair as she so saucily swayed down the aisle; he wondered how many cocks the supercilious Mrs. Winston had accommodated in her pouty, made-for-sixty-nine mouth. And where this corrupt pass-in-review had served to breathe life into the stale religious pro cesses previously-Now, just because this teenage tart waves her sexy legs at you-Even before Communion! The scathing self-condemnation went unfinished.
Father Wilkinson still prated gibberish about the unity of the Trinity (or was it the Trinity of the unity; none of it ever made sense to Dwight) as Noreen angrily elbowed him this time. Momentarily Dwight managed to behave himself; he contented himself with speculation upon the availability of Mrs. Donnelly, a pretty, flashily-dressed prick-teaser type of thirty who'd always fulfilled his erotic fantasies before. He fought to imagine himself indoctrinating her into the joys of fellatio, longed for that delightful tightening in his trousers which such reveries had always induced before.
But it was no good; Peggy Donnelly paled into insignificance beside the exquisite Sirri Stenson. Stealthily his eyes framed her again, and he gloried in her beautiful, innocent face, in the pearl-like texture of her skin. She was young, a veritable child, first looking on life through untainted, joyous eyes. In fact, Sirri still possessed faint traces of baby fat at jaw and cheeks, a discovery which entranced Dwight even more, and he couldn't help but compare her beauty to that of Elizabeth Taylor when she'd been Sirri's age, just starting out on her home wrecker career. As he watched, Sirri leaned slightly, gently scratched her right calf, a thing which caused Dwight's guts to knot painfully. Dear Lord, he thought. If only that could be me scratching her, touching her lovely flesh! To caress, to know every square inch of that delectable frame!
Immediately he sank into further trance, and as of that moment Sirri Stenson-totally oblivious to the manifestation, herself-was suddenly divested of her gown and slip; she sat in church dressed in nothing but her brassiere and panties, the white panty hose and stubby-heeled pumps. Before Dwight's mind's-eye the color of her lingerie fleetingly shifted, from white to pink, from pink to pastel-blue, from blue to harlot-red, from red to jetblack. Her undies became plain, severely tailored; they instantly were embellished with lace inserts and overlayers, the panty legs dripped with a frilly hem of lace; the lingerie became patterned, a riot of psychedelic color and design. Dwight Adair trembled helplessly all at once; he was sure great beads of sweat must be standing out on his forehead.
His breath came painfully now, as he shifted gears, methodically went into the second segment of his compulsive daydream. Now he imagined himself divesting Sirri of her scanties. He imagined her bounteous, firm breasts-great, ebullient hemispheres-crowned by stiffened nipples of the most crystalline pink. His fingers grazed her flesh slightly, and he recoiled, actually knew hot pain in his chest, a yearning cry stillborn in his throat. Her sweet, fluttering bowl of belly was envisioned next, and he wanted to sob at the beauty of it where her waist sloped gracefully in from her upper torso, her hips and thighs exploding voluptuously forth in cornucopia of female mystery, giving way to fleshy thighs of the most elegant creaminess and texture. That ivory convexity, lithe yet opulent, was crowned by a diadem of thick, black fur, the contrast of it against her white flesh almost blinding in intensity. Beautiful, beautiful! Beautiful beyond a man's wildest imaginings!
Dwight's eyes glazed at that moment; St. Alban's, Father Wilkinson in his silly pulpit, the other parishioners-all blurred before his eyes. As within his brain Sirri now turned and posed her breathtakingly-lovely body for him, a chance sag of one leg giving him fleeting glimpse of the swollen, fat lip of her coral-toned cunt. The sight assumed proportions of an artistic masterwork, a symphony of ivory and pink, mounted upon a swollen mound of the most silken fur imaginable. The legs clamped coquettishly then, and with a mischievous giggle Sirri pirouetted gracefully, gave him view of her saucy bottom, posed it salaciously in his direction. Dwight started involuntarily in his reverie, thought how delicious it would be to caress those vibrant rondules, how exciting to dig his fingers into her moist, aromatic snatch, to actually invade that oily pussy! To kiss! To lick! To literally suffocate himself, his entire face churning and digging into its dripping convolutions! And how-how would Sirri react to reverences, to worshippings and adorings like that! Had she ever, would she ever know sexual ecstasy of that sort?
But no, Dwight caught himself. Of course not. For Sirri was pure; she was virginal. No man had ever been allowed to touch her in any way approximating intimacy. Not this aloof, regal Madonna! Still the thought tore him up. To conceive of kissing Sirri, embracing and caressing her. What would it be like? Did she have a boy friend? Did she allow him to kiss her, to feel her breasts, to run his fingers along her legs, up under her skirts even? Did she allow him-had she allowed anyone-to-fuck her?
No! he growled in heart-strangling agony. Sirri must be a virgin! No one has ever touched her there!
Frustration crushed Dwight, and he pondered the injustice of the profligate squandering of so rare a female treasure as this. That she would allow some callow, pimple-faced clod to kiss those pristine lips, that she would suffer his pawkish maulings, his clumsy pokings of her most intimate self. Waste, an absolute waste! Pearls before greedy, unappreciative swine. When he could teach her, develop her, bring her to the fullest fruition of her female entity. She deserved better, so much better. She deserved an experienced, sophisticated man, a cultural and sensitive man, a man much like he himself was. She deserved a man who could teach her liberating philisophies, sweep away the musty cobwebs that centuries of Puritan prudery and religious self-interest had inflicted upon the world. He could tutor her, bring her to heights of ecstasy few women realized existed; he could protect her, take care of her, give her luxury, all the pretty things that should normally accrue to a goddess such as she.
Again Dwight Adair was forced to stifle groans of the most acute anguish. And yet she'd fall in love, throw herself away on some athletic cretin who, with his hunting and bowling and Sunday afternoon football games, his beer-can-littered hovel, would never once-in his entire stupid, groundling life-realize what a rare treasure he'd won. The thought was enough to drive a sentient man to mayhem, to cause him to run amok, to flee screaming from the confines of this holy edifice.
His vision cleared gradually. But still, a disturbing chord from his barely-finished reverie reverberated in his brain. And what-? Then it came to him. Luxury. The pretty things he could give her. The pretty things he could dress her in. Once more Sirri stood nakedly before him, in mendicant's pose, her eyes trusting and loving. He smiled, his expression slightly demented. And how would he caparison Sirri this first time? Which shoes, which lingerie ensemble, what color would be appropriate? White, opaque silk? Royal blue nylon, with see-through inserts that would reveal her nipples, the glorious verdancy of her sweet cunt? Or the skin-tight scarlet? The secretly-altered black? Perhaps something patterned; Sirri would look simply beautiful in polka dots. But no. What with her fairness, her majestic virginity, perhaps the white was the more fitting. White, silk hose, white pumps, with white brassiere and panties, perhaps even an abbreviated veil, a Luckily the tedious sermon came to an end at that moment. "In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost," Father Wilkinson intoned. Everyone started up, Dwight included. And blinking like a startled owl, he found his erotic daydreams shattered, the suddenness of his return to reality triggering momentary vertigo within him. Somehow, realizing his folly, despair demolishing him at the futility of his fantasied liaison with Sirri, he was able to keep his eyes off her during what remained of the service; he attended to the Book of Common Prayer intently, booming the responses with a hypocritical vigor that astonished even him.
All his noble resolves to block further visions of Sirri went for naught, however, for Communion time upon them, he and Noreen flinging themselves from their pew, heading toward the altar, Dwight confronted Sirri head-on as she emerged across the aisle. In that brief second she smiled directly at him. her expression sly, almost as if she were clairvoyant, as if she had actually lived through her debauched role in his sick peepshow. Shame-facedly he averted his gaze, knew a clamorous tattoo within his chest. Nevertheless, as they proceeded altarward, he found himself purposely hanging back, the better to appraise Sirri from the back. His eyes devoured the thrilling line of her legs in the strangely-affecting, white hosiery, and he cursed his obviousness when he allowed his gaze to hang on the pistoning protuberences of her buttocks inside her skirt. Once more he dared to dream the most impossible dreams. As the line came to temporary stop, he took in her adorable shoes, the fragile trimness of her ankles; he even went so far as to glory in the faint shadow line of her panty hem where her dress briefly pulled tight against her flanks. He was searching for a similar indication from her brassiere, when the line moved, advanced on the Communion rail itself.
Almost as if performing a contrite penance, Dwight kept his head down once they'd regained their pew; he punished himself by not ogling the re turning female communicants. It was an incredible torture not to steal a last glance at Sirri as the congregation intoned the Thanksgiving together. In fact, he joined in so lustily that Noreen sent him a sarcastic glance for his pains. His resolve held; he did not stare back at the lingering Sirri Stenson, but instead marched resolutely out of St. Alban's. Shaking Father Wilkinson's hand vigorously, he muttered: "A very inspirational sermon, Father."
Then they were out in the church parking lot, and Dwight was handing Noreen into their glittering, black Cadillac. As he started the car, piloted it onto the street, headed in the direction of Mt. Pleasant, the elite suburban development in which they lived, Noreen angrily snapped, "Well, I just hope you're satisfied with yourself! I've never been so mortified in my life!"
Neither of them said another word all the way home.