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Praying for More

By Alyson Thicke

Copyright © 2018 by Alyson Thicke

Published at Smashwords by Alyson Thicke

All rights reserved by the author.

18+ You must be eighteen years of age or older to read this story. Adult reading material.

The image on the cover is from Pixabay.

Table of Contents

Praying for More


Praying for More

This has been the strangest three months of my life. I moved in with Grace back on September first after answering her ad on a local site. “Well-to-do lady seeks congenial roommate for her two-storey house. Applicant must be neat, presentable, employed, quiet, sincere, wholesome, kitchen-able, tidy, meticulous, female, and young or young at heart. No pets, and absolutely NO RATS! The first three months will be month-to-month, thereafter, if all is well, a six-month lease will be offered the tenant. As I do not need the income, rent is generously negotiable for the right person. Good companionship is essential!”

Companionship?” I've hardly seen hide nor hair of Grace in the three months I've been here. We pass each other in the hallways, the stairway or in the kitchen, and it's always the same sing-song greeting: “Hello-oo Carys, lovely world, isn't it?” I never know what to say to something so over-the-top cheery, so I just reply in the affirmative, mustering as much cheer as I can. Most of the time, though, my voice is strangled by the oppressive sights of her shoulder length blond tresses, Victorian blouses and skirts, and by the pewter cross that's always dangling and bouncing around her buxom chest.

I really shouldn't complain, though. The house is decorated in a tasteful and elegant Edwardian style, and my bedroom is large, warm and nicely furnished in a more modern way. Grace, for that matter, is pretty well-decorated, too. She has the most delicate pale complexion, as though she's never seen the sun, a 1940's pinup girl face, and an extreme hourglass figure with a tiny waist, wide shoulders and ample hips. Her behind is prominent and perky, and she looks quite firm for such a large woman. I'm considered to be quite tall, but Grace has a few inches on me at about six-foot even. The fact is, this church-going lady has fuelled more than a few passionate nights in my bedroom when the lights are out and my fingers begin to dance and swirl their way down to my pussy. I can never tell her though – Grace is a conservative Christian who I'm certain would never tolerate “unholy” emotions from a roommate.

This evening is the big night when Grace and I discuss signing the six-month lease, or agree to part ways. I admit I'm nervous, because at four-hundred and fifty dollars per month, all-in, I'm already financially addicted to living here. Daily Grind, the little coffee shop where I've worked the last three years since high school, is perpetually on the precipice of going under. If I lose that job, I don't know what I'll do. The local economy is stagnant, so I'm glad to finally sock away several hundred dollars each month for a rainy day. I need this lease as much as I need my job, so I will sincerely tell Grace that I love living here, and am eager to sign on the dotted line.

Grace eyes me like a cat ready to pounce when she finishes reading the lease and hands it over to me with a feather pen. The terms all sound so generous, with near-guaranteed safety of housing, no rent increases – and she's dropping the rent to four-hundred a month, all because she says I'm “such a sweet, lovely dear, really!” I sign with the sensation of tingles all over, and as I look up, I spy a fairly hefty biceps muscle on Grace's left arm as she's pushing up her tresses and posing like a starlet. Grace Kelly with muscles is what she looks like, and in my astonishment I can feel the saliva rolling over my bottom lip and the coldness on my eyes as I'm staring at maximum aperture. She preens while looking off in the distance, and I'm transfixed by the sight of her rising and falling biceps. She finally looks over at me as my breaths have grown quick and shallow, and I leave the trance, aware of a thick wetness in my crotch. Looking down, I see that I've drooled on the lease.

Grace pulls a handkerchief from her blouse's pocket and dabs the moisture away with strong, confident pressure. I want to reach out for her pretty pink hand and pull it to my chest, but I can't – she would be certain to flip out and tear up the lease, so I nod instead with gratitude for her gallant cleaning work. Before I look up again, my eyes latch onto clause #8 in the lease: Violence will not be tolerated by either party, and will result in immediate termination of the agreement. So, I'm not only spending at least six months with a world-class muscle beauty, I'm also safe. My eyes are moist as I sputter, “Glass of wine, Grace?”

We spend about half-an-hour celebrating and having our first actual conversation. We cover the bases on background, and I discover that young-looking Grace is forty-seven years-old. “I thought you were thirty, at most, all this time,” I gasp, resisting the urge to give her an up-and-down appraisal.

Why, thank-you, dear, although I'm sure you're flattering me,” Grace replies, rolling her thick, wide shoulders forward in a way I find provocative. “The truth is, I've always been health-conscious, avoided the midday sun, and I use the cheap stuff to keep myself looking young.” She looks down at her hands clasped in her lap, then flits her eyes back up into mine. Her eyes are emerald green, and I just want to take a picture of this most sexy and exotic woman - then, I notice the cross on her bosom again, and I calm myself. “Glycerine is my simple secret, dear. Glycerine soap and glycerine cream are the only things that touch my skin.” I'm amazed, still, that she's twenty-seven years older than I am, and looks like she could be a near-contemporary of mine.

I'm dazzled by her beauty and elegant, sophisticated charms, so my conversation is stream-of-consciousness. After glancing at her crucifix, I ask Grace, “So, religion is a big part of your life?”

She shifts in her comfy chair and crosses her thick, suddenly powerful-looking legs. “Yes, you could say that, Carys. I grew up religious, though I veered into humanism in my twenties – the college influence, you know. I returned to the church when I realized that the secular, quasi-pagan lifestyle is bereft of true power. It is weak, decadent, always uncertain and never able to take over a society in any lasting way. You see, dear, when you live in denial of the Almighty, you are abandoning the greatest power a human being can attain: Faith.”

Drawn into her speech, I feel insulted, or threatened. Rubbing the sleeve on my right arm, pulling Grace's attention to the floral tattoo that bespeaks my “quasi-pagan” lifestyle, I lash out, “Intolerance so often comes with faith, and I've noticed one thing about narrow-minded people, be they religious or not: They have the power of knowing things with too much certainty.” The wine has gotten the best of me. Trying my best to backpedal away from offending Grace, I apologetically finish, “Unless you mean something by 'faith' that I'm not considering....”

Not missing a beat or showing offence, Grace went on, “What I mean, dear, is that I have faith that God smiles on all of us, and in His scheme of things, all of our pride, ego, sinning and committing crimes is just us mere mortals – frail human beings – learning. We are all innocent in His eyes, but He gave us awareness of sin and conscience to help us learn the right path.”

Oh,” I say meekly. What she just said seems so tolerant, enlightened, even liberating, that I feel a warmth in her presence. I also want to feel the warmth of her body, but that doesn't seem likely – or possible, I correct myself. “'re not a biblical literalist?” Her denomination is conservative, so I'm bracing for the answer I don't want to hear.

No, Carys, not at all!” Grace bursts out laughing merrily, with genuine mirth in her tones. “The Bible is ninety-nine per cent fiction, and when you realize that, you can see the beauty of all those ancient scribes trying to puzzle out God's plan. You know, ancient peoples had a blurred distinction between reality and fiction, that is, a fable could be truer than the actual facts. Metaphors, allegories, philosophical musings, all with the writers' visions and prejudices on full display. The only important fact of the Bible or any holy book is that it demonstrates that our search for important truths is eternal – modern visionaries, philosophers and inquisitive people everywhere carry on the tradition that began with Adam and Eve, or Adam and Steve, as the case may be.” Grace now roars out in laughter and thumps the arm of her chair. Her face is suddenly rosy, as a kind of rapture is communicated between us.

I like her very much now, and gladly agree to join her for a Christmas Eve service at her church. She explains that she hasn't any friends in her congregation, and would love it if I went with her on special days. I tell her that I'd like to, and so we end our first intimate talk, Grace going out for a walk, and me going to bed early for a quick and heady fantasy about my new muscular Christian friend, the amazing Grace.

Ever since we signed the lease, I can't stop undressing Grace with my eyes when she's not looking at me. We've spent much more time together, going Christmas shopping one Saturday then taking in a movie at the cinema, and we've been having dinner together at home several times a week.

Tonight, I've had a little too much wine and have had to suppress the urge to flirt with my gorgeous landlady on numerous occasions. Grace is reaching into her handbag beside her comfy chair in the living room after dinner, and she's commenting that today is the solstice. “Pagans are at Stonehenge, the days start getting longer now, and things are looking up, dear,” she says to me. When I return an uncertain expression, she elaborates: “In four days it will be the two-thousandth-odd celebration of Christianity's search for Truth, under the guidance of Jesus' wise teachings. Pray that we can learn to be as tolerant as He!”

Grace hasn't said much about religion since the evening we signed the lease, but I'm so in love – lust with her that I'm happy she's sharing that most important part of her life. She pulls out of her green leather bag two tickets and hands them to me. I look down at them and see that they are pricey – two-hundred and fifty clams apiece, and they are for the midnight service at her church on Christmas Day. I feel so flattered, I don't care right now if she's starting to proselytize to me. “Can we call it a date?” I blurt out in my rising arousal. I want to reach out and put the words right back in my mouth.

Grace roars out in laughter, and I feel like a dim pagan girl for having provoked her apparent rejection. I couldn't help it – this beautiful and charming Christian lady has been cranking up my libido all month, until I spilled the beans about my attraction just now. I look downward, ready for a gentle browbeating and dismissal from Grace. “Oh, dear!” she says mirthfully after her laughter dies down. “I've never felt so attractive as I do right now.” I raise my eyes to see her gazing off in the distance, pushing at her tresses and bouncing her biceps up and down, up and down, and I feel a tear in my eye. She looks just like a movie star with muscles, and the smile on her face is one of half-suppressed joy.

She stops and thrusts her chest out proudly, and looking at me with her emerald eyes, says, “It is a date I'm proposing, Carys, and I want to spend all of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with you.” Perhaps Grace has had too much wine? I can't believe what I'm hearing.

Here,” she says now, pulling an old, worn New Testament from her bag. “I want you to read Luke and Matthew up through the Nativity stories, and then you'll know more of what it is we'll be celebrating.” My head is spinning with delight as I take the book from her, and I realize she's lending me what must be an old and valued volume. I feel loved in Grace's presence now, and the moisture in my crotch and around my breasts feels like a baptism of sorts. I don't think Grace is crazy – she's a rebel, a self-styled Christian, a truly strong individual.

My voice barely above a whisper, I ask her, “How did you become so wise, strong and capable?”

Simply, my dear, it was a good education, faith in a loving Creator, and prayer.” I nod, half-comprehending. Grace rises from her chair now and offers me her hand. She pulls me up into her arms and we embrace for the first time. I've never wanted to kiss a woman so badly, and I've never felt so safe doing so. I'm melting now, fluids flowing freely out of me, and I know I'm deeply in lust - love with this most amazing woman.

After a few minutes, she releases me and my feet come back to the floor. “We'll say goodnight now, dear,” she says to me while stroking my hair back from my face. I want to cry for more from her, and I want to cry for joy. Instead, I back up and nod, letting go of her shoulders, and smiling warmly as I search deep into her eyes, I say with comprehension, “I won't be a rat,” referring to her ad on the local site.

I know you won't, sweetheart, that's why I'm willing to love you.” She's as gentle as a lamb and as powerful as a goddess now in my eyes. We say goodnight, and I go to bed dreaming of the perfect Christmas with Grace, and hoping for the best, most erotic gifts imaginable. 'Hoping -' is that like praying? Maybe I can meet her at least halfway on the religion issue. All I know is that I like what she sees in her faith, and that it makes me love her all the more.

My hands have been on my pussy since I came to bed two minutes ago, and already I'm having a climax like I've never dreamt of – or prayed for. I turn the bedside lamp on, and see my skin blotched in patches of red and purple, and I feel like I'm on the verge of big changes in my life. Grace is everything to me now.

Grace looks incredible in neon leggings, sleeveless orange tee shirt, and her ever-present cross. She's been walking around my bed, blowing kisses, dancing, flexing and doing some earth-shattering strength displays. The effortless one-arm push ups shake me to my core, and now she's reaching into a Christmas stocking and pulling out a coconut. It's like an erotic dream come true as she slides herself over me, pussy tantalizingly close to my face, bulging along the seam of her leggings, and as she's expanding her chest, she cracks the coconut open. It was such a clean, controlled move that I writhe beneath her, and she pours the milk onto my bare chest – now she's licking it off and straightening her legs out. The sensations of sweet coconut milk, Grace's smooth legs gliding along my own, and her lips and tongue teasing at my hard nipples cause me to erupt all over. I look down after to see the red and purple blotches on my skin, and Grace lifts me up into her arms while kneeling, then cradles my head against her breast.

It's alright, Carys,” she coos in my ear. “We have all night after the church service, and all Christmas Day. I'll go shower first and get ready.”

Grace releases me gently back to the bed, and I'm yearning still to see her naked body, even though she looks fantastic walking away in her leggings and tee shirt. I could go for more right now. A huge no-touch orgasm – I've never heard the likes of it – and I'm living with this awe-inspiring lover.

All I need now is some smoke. I close the door, open the window, and lean out puffing on my joint. I wonder what Grace would do if she knew about my daily habit? I suppose I'll be going to church stoned, and maybe that's disrespectful. Too late now – I'm already buzzing.

I don't know what's brought in on, but I'm getting the giggles. It's hilarious to me right now, so I kneel on the bed, look upwards, and in my best sombre manner I say, “Dear God: More. I want more.” I collapse backwards onto my pillows laughing hysterically, though I don't know why it's funny.

End of Book 1 in the Grace and Carys Series

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