Summoned To Worship: St Barney’s Continued

If you’ve read St Barney’s Women,you’ll know about this very irregular church of which I was a member on the outskirts of Georgetown, Guyana. The women were wonderful: it was an almost unbearably tempting buffet of succulent specimens of choice with dark skin of the human female.

There was Mollie, with whom I fell in love, but she was ultra-respectable and private, so our relationship was slowly developing in the shady conditions of my car when I brought her home after church, with messages sometimes closely coded via Facebook.

There was my rival, Alannah: a rival not for Mollie, but for a position of prominence in the church itself. Because he was too small to support a full-time minister, we were visited once a month by a priest from another church, and in his absence, either Alannah or I would lead the service. She was a local woman, born and raised a stone throw from the church. It was large and well built and, above all, black.

I, on the other hand, was an intruder, a white English smartass who had been there five minutes and had already been given responsibilities just because I looked experienced and respectable.

I luxued after Alannah because she was gorgeous and sculptural. She invited him, with his very inappropriate Facebook photos, posing and pouting with whore written on it.

Alannah’s sidekick was even more handsome and much less intimidating. Jennifer had a range of elegant, sleeveless dresses and a shapely body to fill them.

Then there was Jean, a thinner and rather shaky older woman who had passed her best, but still very attractive, at least for me.

But I had not had any of these women. I had spent a very nice afternoon in bed with Sybil, a minor member of the support cast who had apparently chosen me because she needed a fuck and I was sitting next to her that morning.

Now the news had returned to Alannah and I had been summoned to a meeting at the church on Tuesday night.

Alannah was sitting at the desk in the small back desk. She was dressed like an African queen in a long blue and green silk dress in bright colors and a matching scarf. It looked like the most expensive gift in the world, wrapped and ready. But what’s the point?

“Sybil?” he asked. “Did you have Sybil?”

I deleted a snigger, then a wave of fear swept me away. It was Alannah’s territory and if I had upset her, I had no idea who was hiding in the rest of the building.

“You don’t fuck the congregation,” she said sternly. “What if the bishop heard about this? Then your plan of domination would ignite, wouldn’t it?

“I don’t have such a plan,” I protested, “but she screwed me up.”

“Mr. Englishman,” she said sarcastically. “I know what you want. I know all about you. I know about Mollie. I know Jean, I know…”

“What about John?” I broke down. “I did nothing but be friendly with her.”

“And she’s in love with you,” said Alannah, with a slow smile.

It was news to me. John had been married for thirty years to a man who was an active member of the church, but who never left the house again. John’s world was shrinking and his life seemed in danger of coming to an end. She always seemed happy to see me and gave me a hug every time we met. But that was it, it seemed to me.

“We’re going to put things right,” Alannah says quietly, eyes in her eyes. “Jennifer and I have designed a rite and you’re going to run it with us.”

At that moment, a low and strange song began in the church and Alannah led me by the hand. The altar had been projected and in front of him, on an artist’s easel, stood a painting of a substantial and elegant black woman with a white snake with grey patterns wrapped around her, circling her breasts and emerging between her legs, her head that flashes the tongue resting on its side. A portrait of Alannah, the high priestess.

On one side of the bridge was a bench, strewn with cushions.

“Tonight is not a church,” says Alannah firmly. “I would never allow debauchery in a holy place. But a church is its people, not the building, and tonight it is a temple. My temple. Don’t look so sanctimonious. You loved it at the minor shrine in Sybil’s rear passage. Tonight, you’ll love it and dedicate yourself to mine.

I looked at her for a smile, but there was none.

“But first,” said Alannah, with Grandpa. “My maids.”

From behind the screen came Jennifer and Jean, dressed in simple but fluid white dresses. Ebony angels. Jennifer looked me in the eye, but John stared at the floor.

“Jennifer!” Alannah was in charge. I said, “If you like.”

Jennifer moved to the bench, turned her back on us and lifted her skirt. Then she knelt on the cushions, her bare buttocks gleaming in the candle.

“You will lick my maid Jennifer,” Alannah said. “Start low, in the hair under his lips.”

I knelt on the dark red carpet and put my head behind Jennifer’s rump. She just had a little pubic fuzz that, in that position, was below her split. I touched the hair with my tongue and she was gasping. Then my tongue moved to her clitoris and she moaned a little. She felt clean – almost too clean, as if she had been ordered to be odorless for this occasion, this ceremony.

My nose was between his lips, in a place of total privilege, and yet I understood that I must have felt belittled.

I licked Jennifer’s vagina, but before I could really get stuck, Alannah’s voice rang.

“Up, up, up. Between her buttocks.

I got up a few inches as indicated and started licking Jennifer’s.

Again, before I could really go, Alannah’s voice sounded like a wake-up call.

“Enough! Stand up.

I stood back and looked at Jennifer sitting cross-legged on the floor, her skirt up to her waist and her open clamoring at me.

Alannah walked to the bench, turned her back and took off her helmet, shaking her long ironed hair. Then she slipped the dress off her shoulders and cascaded it over the floor. John stepped forward, took him and put him on a chair.

Alannah took the kneeling position on the bench.

“Take off your clothes and kneel behind me,” she said, turning her head to observe my hasty stripping.

“Good,” she says. “An erection.”

I was actually quietly surprised, because the situation was a strange mixture of eroticism and scary. But I was proud that my boyfriend, who had been with me through so many adventures, was ready and able, standing to attention, ready for anything that awaited us.

“You’re going to lick my bottom,” said Alannah more calmly. “You won’t touch my vagina. Understand?

“Yes,” I murmured.

“You will address me as Your Highness,” she said.

“Yes, Your Highness,” I replied conscientiously.

“What part of me are you going to lick?”

“Your bottom, Your Highness.”

“And only my bottom,” she concluded. “And you’ll give me an orgasm.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Do it,” she says.

I knelt behind her and put my hands on her hips to stabilize me, then pulled her buttocks apart and entered her inner sanctuary.

Unlike Jennifer, she had not deodorized meticulously. She felt like a woman smells if you catch her unconscious. From her vagina, this forbidden area, I caught streams of salt and vinegar. Not unpleasant for a man of my inclinations, but enough to put off some men.

Its background, too, was in a natural state, clean enough to spare us both all embarrassment, but with a definite aroma of its natural oils. The kind of smell that leaves no doubt that you lick a woman’s, this noble vocation to which only a few respond.

And all the more so for us, I say.

I licked Alannah’s with impatience, sensually and bottom. I licked the sides, the inside of her buttocks. I lapped her to her little hole and stung my tongue into it as much as I could. And I licked it with love.

Normally, when visiting this area, there is no time – or even reason – for tourism, but I knew we were being watched.

In the corner of my eye, I saw Jennifer, still cross-legged, but now playing with herself, her head tilted back and her eyes rolling. Beside her, Jean stood wisely, but with his right hand pressed into her pubic-height dress, stimulating herself discreetly.

Alannah began to come to a boil like a kettle, with a faint rumble that turned into a growl and continued to rise as my tongue begged her at the climax. I could feel the energy growing inside her as I licked her wonderful. And then she was an octave higher, crooner in anticipation.

And finally, just like the vfrightened made the kettle whistle, she sang with ecstasy.

“Aaah!” he cried. “I’m coming. Don’t stop. Aaah, aaah, oh my God. Aaaaah!

Her body relaxed as the orgasm subsided and she leaned over the back of the bench, panting and trying to speak consistently.

“Wait there,” she said, patting my arm in a more friendly and less authoritarian manner. “John, come here,” she said, and the older woman stepped forward.

“On your knees,” said Alannah. “Your time has come.”

John knelt next to the bench. Alannah slapped me in the arm.

“Get up and stick in her mouth,” she said.

I got up, a little consciously, and stood in front of John. She looked at me, nervous, but the light of love in her eyes, and I knew she knew her role in all this and was happy about it.

Jennifer had stopped masturbating, but her finger hovered over her clitoris, ready to restart when the final act began.

“I am going into John’s mouth,” said Alannah, sitting on the bench, her own right hand between her legs. “Not on his face, in his mouth.

I stepped forward a little bit and put myself in position in front of John’s face. His mouth was slightly open. I was electrified with lust as I rubbed my lamp and called the genius of my own orgasm.

It took a few seconds before my knees started to buckle as my rushed up. I lined up even closer to Jean and she opened her mouth, then he squeezed around my cock as I pumped my cum into it. I stroked her head and enjoyed the light but distinct feeling as she rubbed her breasts against my legs.

Jennifer screamed as her orgasm gripped and Alannah gave a faint groan of deep satisfaction as she came for the second time in just over a minute.

Moments later, Alannah fired me.

“You can go. You did the right thing.

As I left through the back door, she called me.

“You’re reading Sunday’s lesson. I’m going to send you a message.

This story is protected by international copyright law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found displayed anywhere other than with this attached note, it was displayed without my permission.


Summoned to love: St Barney’s Continued