Defrocking
Story Codes: MF, Consensual, Exhibitionism


Defrocking
by Dorla Moorehouse


A bowl of fruit on the table. Figs, dates, apples. Calla holds one of the apples up to his lips.

   “Bite.”

   He crunches his teeth into the apple. He chews, swallows, bites again, taking a larger chunk this
time, giving into the demands of his appetite, refusing to deny himself either nourishment or
pleasure. Bite, chew, bite, chew, until the apple is gone and he is sucking the juice from her fingers,
eager to consume every last drop of liquid, every last particle of sugar.

   When her hand has been licked clean, he kisses her. His hands move into her hair, and hers onto
his neck, and they both begin to work their way down, feeling all of the curves and angles and
planes beneath their clothes.

   “Here, let me guide you,” Calla says, putting his hands directly on her breasts.

   He has never touched a woman's breasts before, never felt their weight, their roundness, their
surprising heaviness. He has never smelled or tasted a woman, nor enjoyed the texture of her skin,
nor discovered how deliciously wet she can become. His hands tremble and he stumbles over the
zipper of her dress, fingers tripping over the slick satin.

   “There is no reason to be so nervous, nor no reason to rush. Here, allow me.”

   Calla undresses him slowly. The first thing she removes is the white neckband in his collar. He
winces.

      “Did I hurt you?” Calla asks, a note of concern rising in her voice. “Are you sure this is what you
want?”

      “You didn’t hurt me,” he answers quickly. “I should have removed it when I left this morning. I’ve
just worn it for so long…Thank you. I needed you to do that for me.”

      “And you’re definitely ready for this?”

      “Yes, I am.”

      He takes the neckband from her fingers and tosses it across the room. Then he grips her face
and brings her lips to his, his teeth sinking into her soft skin.

      They break apart, and she continues to undress him, quickly unbuttoning the black shirt,
unbuckling the belt, sliding his pants down. When he starts to tremble, she raises a questioning
eyebrow, but he smiles and nods.

      “I want this. I want you.”

      She slides his underwear down and he steps away from the pile. Then, she finishes disrobing,
dropping her clothes down around her feet and moving to join him in the middle of the floor.

   Finally, they are naked as Adam and Eve were back in the garden on that first day, and he is
nearly as ignorant as Adam was, and she is just as stubborn and smart and cunning as Eve. Each
lick and suck and stroke and kiss lasts only seconds before his hand and mouth move out to try a
new part of the body, to revisit something only fluttered against minutes before, to feel a new limb or
nook.

   He finds his way down between her legs, his tongue caresses her thighs, and then makes its way
directly between them, tasting each fold, each ridge, sending her closer and closer over the edge
each time.

   “Yes,” she gasps. “Keep going.”

   The trembling in her clitoris becomes so violent that it shoots down her legs, up her belly, causing
her back to arch and her legs to spasm and her voice to make itself heard, though it reveals no
words.

   His own body is pounding with an arousal he’d denied for decades. He pulls Calla over to the bed,
lays her down with a gentle hand, and then positions himself on top of her.

   She holds up a hand. “Wait.”

   Calla reaches for her purse on the bedside table and pulls out a condom.

   “Would you like me to put it on for you?”

   He nods, momentarily ashamed of his ignorance, but when she smiles and runs her fingers up
and down his shaft, the worries melt away.

   Calla rolls the condom on, and his body trembles when she circles a fingertip around his testicles.

   “Now we’re ready.

   With a little effort and confusion, he finally enters her, and he is stunned by the way he feels, the
way her muscles grip tightly to him, the way they might never let him go. For a few moments, he
freezes there, unsure what to do.

   “Don't think too much. Find your own rhythm, let it guide you.”

   Finally, he starts to move, to thrust slowly, and gradually speeds up to the point where he can
barely control himself, and he is almost afraid he is hurting her, but she is making such guttural
moans. He moves faster, faster, until he feels that explosion radiate up and out from his cock, both
out into her and out up through the rest of his body.

   They hold each other, they kiss, and then they doze off, skin to skin, the only warmth they need.
But eventually, it is time for her to go. And no matter how much she has enjoyed him, no matter who
he is, or was, she has to collect her fee.

   She stands up. “My payment.”

   “Of course.” He reaches into his limp money bag and hands her the required coins.

   “It has been an honor to be with you, Father.”

   “The honor is all mine. Go now, and sin no more.”

   They both laugh.


Copyright© 2012

Dorla Moorehouse is a writer living in Austin, Texas, where she shares her home with spouse Ivo
Benengeli and a small menagerie. She enjoys writing about all genders and sexualities, and
feminism is an important component of her work. Her stories have been published in a variety of
print and online venues. Dorla’s erotica has appeared in anthologies from Xcite, Logical-Lust,
Ravenous Romance, Sizzler Editions, and XoXo. Her e-novella,
Behind the Dunes, is available from
Sizzler Editions. She also has a number of short stories for sale on
Smashwords. When she’s not
writing, Dorla’s hobbies include swing dancing and baking, and she funds her writing habit with
various temp jobs. You can read more about her work at
http://dorlamoorehouse.com