Preacher Man
by Tod Connor
Harley’s
congregation had swollen to 5,000 of the faithful,
so he knew he was doing something right. The next
step on his career path was obvious, he needed to
publish a book, a spiritual book.
That’s
why she was there, this rabid lover of the Lord,
a literary agent dropped down from heaven. Taking
her hand, he couldn’t help noticing her
feminine charms – her fresh fragrance, the
moist soulful eyes, the slightly parted lips. She
was a beacon of erotic promise in her smoldering
Christian coolness.
“If you
want us to represent your book,” she said
sweetly, her sophisticated Atlanta accent as soft
as a duck’s ass, “we need to make sure
that your ideas are firmly based in scripture.”
“Oh yes,
absolutely,” he assured her. “But I
assumed you had already read my book.”
“Heavens,
no, only the first fifty pages, but I do like it,
that’s why I’m here.”
“Please,
sit, sit…” He couldn’t help
noticing how beautifully she crossed her long,
shapely, legs. “I believe,” he said,
thoughtfully tapping his fingers together in
front of him, “in simplifying the message so
that faith is accessible to and enjoyable for
everyone. Readers don’t want to work for the
payoff, they don’t want to feel guilty or
ashamed, they simply want to slide into it
effortlessly, like a well lubricated, uh… a
well lubricated…”
“Machine?”
she offered innocently.
“Exactly…
So my job is, first of all, to find that opening,
that place of acceptance, and to lightly
stimulate that warm, soft, uh…”
“…soft
spot?” She smiled sweetly.
“The soft
spot, of course, seeking to excite that soft spot,
you understand, to enflame those sacred passions
by turning on the, the, uh…”
“…light
of truth, perhaps?” Her voice was angelic.
“You must
be an editor as well as an agent,” he said,
laughing awkwardly.
Thankfully she
took over, asking him about his views on heaven,
hell and the afterlife. He barely heard the words,
locked in, as he was, on the gentle rise and fall
of her ample breasts, the mesmerizing movement of
her full, wet lips.
“We’re
not interested in this universal salvation
nonsense,” he heard her say, “no
watered down stuff, right?”
“What?”
He felt brutally assaulted by her question,
suddenly finding himself in free fall, tumbling
down from the soaring heights of his titillating
fantasy.
“Some
people think that a loving God would never send
anyone to hell. You’re not one of those, are
you, pastor Stanton?”
“Oh no,
absolutely not,” he assured her,
“I’m a salvation by faith man through
and through.”
“By faith,
yes, but that faith must be reflected in good
works, right?”
“Of
course…”
“Loving
God is a very serious business.’
“We’re
in total agreement there, Ms Darling.”
“All
right, pastor Stanton,” she said, standing
up and offering her hand. “Nice to meet you,
we’ll be in touch.”
He
couldn’t help thinking that they had an
understanding. It was impossible to think he was
having all of these feelings on his own. There
had to be some kind of mutual attraction going on.
But pinching her bottom as she stepped out of his
office was the mistake of his life.
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