ACT THREE, SCENE ONE

“Well, you’ve got some fucking gall, turning up now, after all these years!” Riley spat the words out with contempt – but some indecision, which was evident in the way her accent wavered: part of her felt determined to be profoundly chavvy, so as to identify unequivocally with her mother, her mother who, she felt certain, has been so wronged by this man all those years ago; but part of her wanted to display her own moral and intellectual superiority, to show herself his equal, despite his rather stiff Henley-on-Thames Church of England demeanour.

“I must seem a terrible person to you, Riley,” Eddie replied. They were walking, rather aimlessly, through the back streets north of Kings Cock Station, Eddie having been summarily refused admittance to the flat by Olive, and Riley having been told that if she wanted to talk to the “dickhead” she should kindly leave with him, thank you very much.

Riley waited for the corollary to Eddie’s first sentence, but it didn’t come. “Yeah – and?” she pressed him. It was a long summer evening, but the light was failing, and she was finding it hard to read the expression on his face.

Eddie looked her in the eye. “There is no ‘and’, Riley. At least, I have no excuse for what I did; I can’t tell you, or myself, that I did the right thing. I did the cowardly thing – and I’m sorry.” They turned a corner into a large square with a central gated garden, where a small group of drunken youths were noisily fucking on the grass in a clumsy jumble of limbs, tongues, and genitals.

Riley paused. Deep down, she felt moved by this strange man’s confession and his lack of self-protectiveness. But she had spent the best part of thirty years listening to her mother’s anger and contempt at him – and she wanted to make him suffer. “Well, so why have you come back now?” she retorted.

“Because I am nearing the age at which, as an ideological ‘Undesirable’, I won’t ever be able to visit this country again, for fear of culling. And I wanted to meet my only child, for the first and probably the last time in my life. And – and I hope this doesn’t sound too patronising, Riley – I’m very proud of you: married, with such a successful career. You’ve done well.”

“Come on, Kyle, whatcha waitin’ for?” one of the revellers called out in the distance. “Fuck ‘er arse, go on!” Eddie rolled his eyes as he and Riley continued on their way along the path round the central lawn.

“Can’t: Loulou ain’t got no fuckin’ lube!” Kyle replied – whereupon the rest of the party, already busy fucking and sucking, burst into raucous laughter, chanting: “No lube Loulou, no lube Loulou…”

But Riley, unusually for her, was undistracted by these distant drunken anal complications – for the phrase “only child” had hit her hard in the stomach. She stopped. “No other kids, then? Second family? Wife?”

“No… no…” The man was clearly struggling to know what best to say – but after a pause, he continued: “I’ve never met anyone I loved as much as your mum.”

“Oh puh-lease!” Riley halted, anger bursting out. “Loved her? Then abandoned her to a life of poverty and ‘prostitution’, in 2030s London? Couldn’t you have taken her with you – taken us with you?” The last clause was significant: Riley was beginning to realise that she was at least as angry and resentful for herself as for her mother.

“Oh! Did Olive never tell you?”

“What?”

Eddie paused again – partly to take in the information, but also because the drunken Loulou had called out in their direction, “‘Ey, m’ pussy guys – d’ya ‘ave any anal lube on ya?”

Eddie grimaced in embarrassment, but Riley, unfazed, called out, “Yeah, I fink I got some in me ‘andbag, love: ‘ere, come get it.”

“Aw, fucking!” called out Loulou. “Kyle, go an’ get it from the lidy!” Kyle duly got up and tottered across the grass toward Riley, his stiff cock waggling as he came.

“‘Ere, keep the whole tube,” said Riley, as she tossed it towards Kyle. Kyle was too drunk to catch, but dropped it and stumbled, in the process scratching the head of his cock on a rose bush and yelping in pain. The rest of his friends roared with laughter, “Clumsy cock! Clumsy cock!” as Kyle tottered back to them.

Eddie rolled his eyes again, before continuing his explanation: “I wanted to take your mum with me, but she didn’t want to come. She wanted to stay here, in an ‘Enlightened’ country.” Eddie gestured witheringly at the revellers on the lawn, fucking and fumbling in equal measure. “She saw that things were changing, thought that maybe with all this free sex craze which was sweeping the country, her life might be better, that people might treat her with more respect.”

“And why didn’t you stay?” pressed Riley.

“I was a Christian minister, Riley. And in those days, that was not compatible with the growing ‘Enlightenment’ mindset. I know you’ll find it hard to appreciate just how horrifying the new ideology was: everything I thought I stood for – fidelity, constancy, commitment, even love – all swept away under this terrifying barrage of lust, amorality, self-indulgence. I saw it as – well, no, it damn well was, and still is – wrong, just plain wrong!” Even in the dying evening light, Riley saw the man’s face etched with pain. “I had to choose, Riley – between the woman I loved, and the vocation to which I had decided to devote my life. I will never know if I made the right choice.”

They had reached the other side of the square now, and Riley continued to look hard into her father’s anguished eyes. In the distance the drunken party were chanting, “Too drunk to fuck! Too drunk to fuck!” as the hapless Kyle fumbled, trying to staunch his bleeding glans at the same time as spreading lube on his cock, all the while stroking it vigorously in a vain attempt to stop it going flaccid from pain, embarrassment, and too much alcohol.

But then: “Oh fuck, I’m gonna puke,” moaned Kyle.

“Chunder! Chunder!” sang his companions, before bursting into raucous laughter.

Eddie groaned in disgust, as he ushered his daughter out through the gate at the other end of the garden, pursued by the sound of splattering vomit. “Riley, may I tell you about how your mum and I met? Maybe that will help you to understand…”

… cue those arpeggios again,
but this time fading into a slightly ecclesiastical, though studiously middle-class mood:
perhaps a bit of quiet organ music…

ACT THREE, SCENE TWO

… for we are now in a carpeted theological library
in a student chaplaincy building in central London,
and it is now Sunday 16th May 2032,
in other words, about three and a half years after our last flashback.

She caught everyone’s attention the moment she walked in. Dressed in high heels, a short leather skirt which left very little to the imagination, a tight crop top and a slightly undersized leather jacket which barely concealed her large jiggling breasts, wearing what seemed to everyone else in the room to be far too much makeup, and ridiculously long false eyelashes – she could not have made a greater contrast with the half a dozen or so sincere university students hunched over their Bibles on the sofas of the C. S. Lewis Reading Room in the University of London Anglican Chaplaincy, surrounded by wall-to-wall bookshelves.

“Can I help you?” asked the Reverend Edward Turner. He felt sure the newcomer must have taken a wrong turning somewhere. The undergraduates in his Bible study group shifted awkwardly on their dusty cushions. The young ladies in particular, dressed mainly in long skirts, buttoned blouses and cardigans, scowled suspiciously at the new arrival; whilst the males in the group looked gobsmacked.

The interloper smiled hesitantly, clearing her long straight dark hair out of her face to reveal a winning smile. “Hi, I’m Olive. They said at the desk that there was a talk going on in here. Can I sit in?”

“Oh… oh, of course,” flustered the young curate. “Do sit down. I’m Eddie. Everyone, make room for Olive, won’t you?” The others shuffled about so as to create a very wide berth for the newcomer. “Which college are you from, Olive?” asked Eddie, intrigued.

“Oh, I’m not from no college, Sir,” replied Olive. “I was just walkin’ home from work, and I was feelin’ pretty bad about meself, and I saw the sign on the door, you know, ‘Anglican Chaplaincy’, and thought maybe I could get some help here, some spiritual advice, ya know? And the lady at the desk told me there was somefink going on in here…”

“Why of course!” exclaimed Eddie, pleased to have a chance at some proper evangelism, and a change from the ranks of repressed cradle-born churchgoers he normally had to deal with. “We’re just in the middle of our Bible study at the moment, Olive, but if you don’t mind joining us for our last quarter of an hour or so, then you can stay on afterwards and we can have a proper chat!”

Olive sat down, sliding along the settee so as to peer over the shoulder of blond becardiganed Samantha from SOAS, at her open Bible. The male students’ eyes were inevitably drawn to Olive’s long bare legs and the unseen but imagined space behind her short skirt – but Eddie made the effort not to be distracted. “Samantha,” he asked, “could you pick up where we left off?” Samantha, crinkling her nose at the smell of perfume and strawberry vape breath wafting at her from her new neighbour, adjusted her glasses and read:

One evening David got up from his bed and walked around on the roof of the palace. From the roof he saw a woman bathing. The woman was very beautiful, and David sent someone to find out about her. The man said, “She is Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam and the wife of Uriah the Hittite.” Then David sent messengers to get her. She came to him, and he slept with her. Then she went back home. The woman conceived and sent word to David, saying, “I am pregnant.”

“Hang on a minute,” interrupted Olive – much to the annoyance of Samantha. “This David, he just went and, like, took this bloke’s wife and fucked her, just like that?”

There was a sharp shocked intake of breath from the other girls – no more so than from Samantha, who looked as if she wanted to be sick. The boys smirked, clearly delighted and fascinated by this sluttishly dressed foul-mouthed newcomer; a couple of them shifted awkwardly on their seats as they attempted to surreptitiously rearrange the contents of their trousers. But Eddie maintained his professional cool, replying with careful charm, “Yes, that’s right, Olive. David was the king, so he could more or less do as he pleased.”

“And he didn’t get stopped or nuffink? I mean, I get fucked by loads of guys – but like, I get paid for it, I do…” There was another sharp intake of breath from the girls, and Samantha squealed in alarm – whilst the boys, mouths agape, fiddled inside their pockets to rearrange their growing erections without, they hoped in vain, being noticed.

“Perhaps if you’d let Samantha finish the reading, Olive? suggested Eddie.

“Oh yeah, sorry, yeah, sorry Sam, go on, yeah…” muttered Olive.

Samantha was not pleased at having her name abbreviated by so evidently loose a woman, but, stuttering, she continued: “In… in…

In the morning David wrote a letter to Joab and sent it with Uriah. In it he wrote, “Put Uriah out in front where the fighting is fiercest. Then withdraw from him so he will be struck down and die.” So while Joab had the city under siege, he put Uriah at a place where he knew the strongest defenders were. When the men of the city came out and fought against Joab, Uriah the Hittite died.

When Uriah’s wife heard that her husband was dead, she mourned for him. After the time of mourning was over, David had her brought to his house, and she became his wife and bore him a son. But the thing David had done displeased the Lord.

“So hang on,” Olive interjected again. “What ‘displeased the Lord’ then? The fact David knocked her up wivout so much as an ‘if you please’, or the fact he done her husband in – or what?”

Samantha had had enough. Eyes flashing, the blonde slammed her Bible down on the pew. “Have you no shame at all?” she hissed at Olive through her perfectly aligned teeth. “Don’t you think Bathsheba had some part in this? What was she doing bathing naked where others could see her anyway?”

“Hang on, Sam,” responded Olive. “It wasn’t her fault David was ogling her. I mean, she prob’ly had nice tits an’ all, no wonder he –”

“She was a temptress – just like you!” interrupted Samantha.

Olive fixed Samantha with a steely glare. “OK, Sam, so what if she was a temptress? She’s not the one God was displeased with, was she? And I bet God wasn’t displeased with David just for fuckin’ around: he prob’ly did loads o’ that! No, He was displeased with him for abusin’ his power – for takin’ a woman that wasn’t his to take, for killin’ her husband. It’s power wot makes people do bad fings, not fuckin’ sex.”

“Oh, really?!” screeched Samantha. “You think you’re so clever coming in here, flaunting yourself like that, pretending you ‘feel bad’ and need some spiritual advice, and then proceeding to tell us – us! – what the Bible means. You’re just like Bathsheba: an amoral interloper from outside the Palace. If you really want some religious counsel, leave your ‘Enlightenment’ nonsense out on the scrap heap where it belongs!”

There was uproar, and everyone in the room piled in with their opinions. Eddie tried to calm things down with a well-meaning “Now now, let’s all try to be charitable, shall we?” – to no avail. Ironically, it was Olive who managed to silence the uproar, by suddenly pulling up her crop top to reveal her breasts – large, natural, swaying and jiggling in all their youthful glory. The girls froze in horror; the boys gawped, their eyes suddenly as wide as Olive’s areolas, their tongues drooling. Eddie groaned and held his head in his hands.

“See, Sam?” smirked Olive. “All your self-righteous talk can’t grab people’s attention, but one glimpse of me tits can. It was tits wot King David wanted: tits and pussy and arse – and God didn’t blame him for that! Ya know what I do for a livin’, Sam? Guys pay me money to show them me tits, and me arse, and me wet cunt – ‘coz that’s what they want. And if they pay me extra, I let them fuck me! That’s what guys have always wanted – so don’t you be so hypocritical as to blame me for givin’ ‘em what they want. The world is changing, Sam: the Enlightenment is here, the Fuckers Party is in control, this country is turning itself over to Pleasure – and self-righteous hypocrites like you are on the way out!”

Samantha’s pale skin had turned bright red, her perfect teeth bared in rage and humiliation, and her blond hair clinging to her now sweaty face as she screeched, “No! I will not be driven out of my home by the likes of you! I am no hypocrite for believing in something greater, something wiser, something more meaningful and lasting than your filthy unrestrained Pleasure. You think you’re special because you have this mad ‘Enlightenment’ craze on your side – but you and your kind are the ones abusing your power now. You think you can take over this country, and maybe you will – but at the end of the day, Olive, you’re nothing but a SICK, PERVERTED, FILTHY…” – Samantha hesitated briefly, as if on the precipice of something quite dangerous – “FUCKING WHORE!!!”

Samantha clasped her hands over her mouth – her mouth which had never uttered such obscenities before, but had been goaded into it by her despised interlocutor. And then she screamed – a desperate, inchoate, terrified screech which harnessed all the fear and humiliation she felt, not just at Olive, but everything she represented, which Samantha feared – nay, knew – was taking over her world and which threatened to make her a stranger, an Undesirable, in her own land. Now, even her precious biblical safe space was sullied, invaded: nowhere would be safe anymore. As so she dropped her Bible, turned, and ran, slamming the door behind her.

The other girls followed, some out of sympathy, others out of similar fear and desperation, and some out of sheer confusion. The boys lingered a bit longer, their eyes fixed on Olive’s full breasts and wide luscious areolas, which continued to jiggle and sway irresistibly – until she pulled her top down again, and they realised that they too, like King David, were voyeurs, cowards and hypocrites. Eddie gestured to them to leave – and they did, closing the door quietly behind them.

The C. S. Lewis Reading Room was empty – except for Olive and Eddie. There was a long silence as they both took several deep breaths, and Olive sat down again.

“Oh shit.” Olive spoke first. “I’m sorry. I’ve kinda fucked up your Bible study, haven’t I, Eddie?” She looked sheepish. “You must hate me…”

Eddie laughed nervously. “Um… yes, I suppose you have, Olive. But no, of course I don’t hate you: it’s not been this exciting here for a long time…”

“I guess you won’t be too keen on that ‘proper chat’ now, will you?”

“Oh, Olive, I’m not going to hold anything against you. But we don’t often get people like you in here!” Eddie chuckled.

“‘People like me’? Like what? ‘Sick, perverted, filthy fucking whores’?” There was a hint of scorn in her voice.

“Oh… I didn’t mean that,” replied the curate reassuringly. “We are all sick in our different ways, Olive – and a lot less pristine than we would like to pretend. You are just more open about it than most people. But you were right about Kind David: Bathsheba was not the problem, and the man had many other concubines and wives. God was displeased with him, as you say, principally for abusing his power, and for murder – not for what you call ‘fucking around’.”

Olive raised an eyebrow. “Ooh, have I made the churchman say a naughty word?” She giggled.

“These days, Olive, ‘naughty words’ are two a penny. Now that the country is coming under the control of the ‘Fuckers Party’, maybe we churchmen have bigger things to worry about!”

Olive laughed. “OK, well, I’ll stop teasin’ you about it, then!”

“But tell me, Olive,” Eddie continued, “what did you mean about ‘feeling bad’ about yourself? Can I help you in any way?”

“Oh well, I guess I’ve spilt the beans already, haven’t I? I work in Soho. I strip for a livin’, I do a bit of camwhorin’, sometimes I fuck guys for money, I’ve made a couple of mucky videos, showing me pussy – that’s not much to feel good about, is it?”

“Well, no – but, as you said, times are changing. At the rate we’re going, all that ‘whoring’ is going to make you a pillar of the establishment!”

Olive laughed. “And what about you? Aren’t you all ‘establishment’?”

“Ha! Once upon a time maybe – but no longer,” answered Eddie. “Samantha was right too, you know. Her time, our time is coming to an end. It’s a long while since religious people have been able to speak freely in this country; for years having the wrong beliefs has caused people to lose their jobs, or get kicked off their university courses – but now the government is talking about ‘reforming’ the Church, making us embrace all this ‘fucking’ craze in its entirety. Now, I could tolerate that if it was genuinely going to be a free choice. But no, just like with King David, power is too tempting. The Fuckers Party want power, total power. What’s her name – ‘Cuntslicker’ – is not too bad: all she seems to want is to liberalise sex. But the other one, the German one – I fear she’s dangerous. If she has her way, what I’m doing here will be outlawed. They’re wanting to force us all into a ‘Church of the Enlightenment’, where we will have no choice but to preach their ‘free-fucking’ gospel. They’re even talking about outlawing this book!” He picked up his Bible, which looked suddenly rather forlorn in his hand.

“I’ve not thought about it that way before,” replied Olive pensively.

Eddie smiled. “Most people don’t, Olive. They see sexual liberalisation, tolerance, non-judgmentalism – and it all seems great. For someone like you, it may well be great: you’ll be able to ply your trade without fear of reprimand or scorn, maybe even with official approval and support. But the Enlightenment is only tolerant of those who agree with them; others, like me, like poor Samantha and her friends, are all being slowly crushed. It won’t be long before we can’t live here anymore.”

Olive paused, looking troubled. “Oh… I guess I was a bit of a bitch to Sam, eh?”

“Just a bit,” Eddie nodded. “Best not to kick a person when they’re down, Olive. And people like Samantha, who have never sought anything worse than try to live a virtuous life, but who now find themselves facing exile for their beliefs… well…” Eddie’s train of thought ran dry, and his faced looked deeply troubled.

“You’re not talkin’ about just Samantha, are you, Eddie?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re the man who’s down. You’re scared. You’re watchin’ your whole life fall apart because of this Enlightenment fing that I’m so enthusiastic about.”

Eddie nodded. And then, to the surprise of both of them, he began to cry – softly, just softly. His body shook in distress, as he wiped a couple of tears from his eyes and looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry, Olive. You came in here for some spiritual advice. But all I can tell you is that it’s over. For me anyway. Ever since my teens all I’ve wanted to do is to help people discover God’s love for them. But now even talking about love is risky – never mind God! For you there’s still a future here: you can embrace all this ‘fucking’ stuff and make the most of it. But for me…” He snorted derisively. “Ha! Not much of a religious counsellor, am I?”

Eddie felt a touch on his shoulder, and looked up to find Olive standing above him, looking down in pity. “Sorry, Eddie,” she said.

“Ah, not your fault, Olive. Don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

“Want me to make you feel better?”

“What?” Eddie looked up, puzzled.

“Well, that’s me job, innit?” There was a twinkle in her eye – but Eddie still didn’t catch on, so Olive continued: “I spend me life making men feel better. Lonely men, frustrated men, sad men, scared men, men who fink they’re failures. Sometimes all it takes is a flash of me tits and they’re smiling again… but,” she giggled, “sometimes it takes a bit more…”

“Oh!” exclaimed Eddie. “You mean…?” His heart was suddenly beating very fast.

“If you like,” replied Olive. “You do like girls, don'tcha?”

“I…” Eddie fumbled. “I mean, yes, but I’ve only… that is to say, only a couple of times… I mean, it’s been a while, and I shouldn’t really, but… Oh God, are you serious?” Olive nodded, grinning. He laughed nervously. “But I’m really out of practice!”

“Here, I’ll help ya,” said Olive, taking one of Eddie’s hands in her own. “Want me to show ya what to do?”

Eddie trembled – and nodded. Olive took off her jacket and slung it over the back of one of the armchairs, before removing her top completely, revealing again her large, luscious, swaying breasts. “Here,” she crooned reassuringly, placing Eddie’s hand where she wanted it, “d’ya like the feel of that?”

Eddie nodded, gently kneading, cupping, lifting, feeling her soft flesh yield and flow at his touch. “Oh, these are lovely!” he grinned nervously. “Your breasts are like twin fawns of a gazelle that browse among the lilies!”

Olive burst out laughing. “‘Twin fawns of a gazelle’? No wonder you’ve only fucked a couple of girls, if that’s your normal pick-up line!”

Eddie laughed too. “No no, that’s a poem by Solomon – King David’s son. It’s called –”

“Oh, so he inherited his dad’s taste in tits, then?”

Eddie laughed. “Quite so.” Now both his hands were on Olive’s breasts, glorying in their flexible flowing beauty as he cupped and kneaded.

“Well, why don’tcha have a taste of Bathsheba’s tits, then, Yer Majesty?” teased Olive. “Go on.” She gently lifted Eddie’s hands away and moved forward, brushing her right nipple against Eddie’s lips.

Any restraint Eddie may have been harbouring till now crumbled in an instant. Close up, Olive’s breasts were a vision of perfect beauty: her nipples large and firm, ever so slightly crinkled, inviting his lips to kiss them; her areolas wide, round and slightly puffy, jiggling and shifting at his touch, one solitary nipple-hair cheekily tickling his nose. Eddie’s mouth closed over one breast, at first tentatively; then, feeling her flesh yield and flow against his lips, more passionately. Soon he was sucking, licking, moaning with joy, his hands still kneading and cupping and weighing her breasts as he gave himself up to such pleasure as he had rarely, if ever, experienced. “Oh God!” he moaned, voice a-quiver. “I will climb the palm tree; I will take hold of its fruit. May your breasts be like clusters of grapes on the vine, and your mouth like the best wine!”

“Ooh, better, Your Majesty!” giggled Olive, as she felt her nipples begin to tingle and twitch at Eddie’s oral ministrations. “Want a taste of ‘the best wine’ then?” She removed her breast from his mouth and leaned over with parted lips, inviting Eddie to kiss her. Soon she was on his lap facing him, their tongues tangling, lips sucking, faces mashed passionately against each other.

Eddie moaned with joy and wonder, as he felt himself, soul and body, rejoice in the sensual beauty of the woman in his arms; her naked breasts squashed against his chest, her long sleek hair parting at the touch of his hands, her lips – Oh God, her lips! – soft and sweet and yielding, despite the lingering taste of strawberry vape. “How beautiful you are, my darling,” he exclaimed. “Your lips are like a scarlet ribbon; your mouth is lovely. You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you.”

Olive giggled. She had had many men before – some weak and pathetic, some idiotically lustful, some abusive, a few violent; but even her own cynical heart felt touched by this strange awkward fellow, who praised God with his lips even as his erection throbbed and pressed against her crotch, who found himself poised in fear between the ideals he so lovingly espoused and the new fucking-ruled order which threatened to destroy everything he believed in. It was not long before Olive was naked, perched on the back of Eddie’s sofa, her legs spread and her lightly-thatched pussy gently lowering itself toward Eddie’s upturned face. “I will go to the mountain of myrrh and to the hill of incense,” exclaimed Eddie, “a mound of wheat encircled by lilies!”

Olive burst out in a fit of giggles. “Ooh, very nice, Yer Majesty! Most of my other clients limit themselves to ‘look at that hot fuckin’ cunt!’ No wonder Bathsheba fell for him. Bet Uriah the Heap or whatever his name was didn’t talk to her like that! Here, Eddie, have a taste of me ‘mound of wheat’!” Olive lowered her crotch down, so that Eddie’s tongue could slip between her sweet fragrant pussy lips. Soon he was tongue-fucking her wildly, probing deep between her dangling flip-flapping fuck-folds, letting the heavenly mélange of saliva and cunt-nectar smear across his hooked nose and cheeks, and dribble down his chin.

“Your wips dwop sweetness as the honeycomb, my bwide,” exclaimed Eddie, as best as he could with his nose buried deep in Olive’s juicy gaping gash, as his tongue slobbered up and down her perineum, coating her tight puckered anus with spit and cunt-cream. “Miwk and honey are under your tongue. You are a garden fountain, a well stweaming down from Lebanon!”

“Oh fuck!” squealed Olive – not, this time, in reaction to King Solomon’s poetry, but to the shivers of pleasure Eddie’s tongue and lips were transmitting through her body. “Shit, Eddie, maybe you’ve only fucked a couple of girls in your time, but you ain’t forgotten how to eat pussy, have ya?”

“Like widing a bicycyle,” came Eddie’s muffled voice from deep between Olive’s thighs, “some things you never for–”

“Jesus, Eddie, enough pussy-licking for now!” interrupted Olive. “Shut the fuck up and fuck me! Come on, King David, you’ve got your Bathsheba all horny, got her cunt slime all over yer face. Now it’s time to fill her up with the royal dick!” She lifted herself off Eddie’s face, dropped to her knees, and started to pull his trousers down. “Come on, Yer Majesty, let’s see what you’ve got. You gonna make it worth Bathsheba’s while? Have ya got a big hard – MOTHERFUCK!”

Olive stopped in shock as she pulled Eddie’s underpants down. “Look at that huge fuckin’ dick!”

There was something almost comical about the sight, Olive thought, for sprouting from the crotch of this small, slim, awkward Anglican curate was the biggest penis she had ever seen. It was, quite simply, huge: thick as her wrist, some eight inches long, with a massive throbbing purple head poking out from its capacious foreskin, a little dribble of pre-cum glistening on the tip of the glans. It twitched in anticipation, and so did Olive. “Shit,” she muttered, “that’s fuckin’ amazing! Lemme sit on that!” She lifted herself back onto Eddie’s lap and lowered herself onto his huge throbbing shaft. “Oh fuck!” she exclaimed, as she felt her damp cunt fill up, felt the huge glans press against her cervix, felt her clit rub against the base of Eddie’s stiff flesh.

Eddie was happy – happier than he had been for a long time. He loved his vocation, loved his God, but this girl was sexy, and funny, and endearing, and clever, and wry – and she even laughed at the way he recited Scripture while fucking. “I have come into my garden, my sister, my bride; I have gathered my myrrh with my spice,” he cried out loud, as he felt her hot cunt bounce up and down on his thick shaft, felt her gorgeous warm fuck-slime lubricate his way in and out of her heavenly depths.

Olive was enjoying herself too. “I’m gonna come, Eddie. I’m gonna fuckin’ come on that big dick of yours. Oh, you’re so good, Eddie: you know that? You’re a good church fucker, you are, the perfect Christian counsellor. Not feeling bad about meself no more, Eddie: your dick’s done that to me, you’re… oh fuck, oh fuck, oh FUUUUCK!”

“Come with me from Lebanon, my bride, come with me!” cried Eddie, as they both climaxed. He felt Olive’s cunt spasming around his cock, just as he exploded and his seed shot upwards and inwards at her cervix. Olive kept bouncing up and down on Eddie’s lap, prolonging her pleasure, squeezing the last globs from his dick, so that cunt-cream and semen swashed and squidged together joyously in their shared cum-space.

As their climaxes subsided, Eddie and Olive held each other tight, feeling each other’s bodies revel in their joint ecstasy. Then Olive laughed first, a long, silly giggle which began quietly but developed into a belly-laugh which didn’t stop.

“What?” asked Eddie, worried. Confusion washed over him as he realised the awkwardness of his situation: an Anglican curate who really oughtn’t to be consorting with prostitutes, certainly not in the C. S. Lewis Reading Room – and yet, it felt so enjoyable, so genuine, and so… Oh, surely not! mused Eddie to himself, but he felt so safe, so reassured in the embrace of this strange, funny, tart-with-a-heart, that he barely hesitated before declaring: “You have stolen my heart, my sister, my bride; you have stolen my heart with one glance of your eyes, with one jewel of your necklace. How delightful is your love, my sister…

“… my bride…”

It must have been the evident sincerity with which he said it, for Olive knew instinctively that this was not just lust, and not just poetry. She looked deep into his eyes, studied him, looked deeper still, past his face and his words, and knew, somehow, that he meant it. And so, “I like you too, Eddie,” she said.

“Really?” he replied.

“Yes.” She did not move, her pussy still wrapped around his softening dick, semen leaking slowly out of her fuck-lips onto his large balls – but what she felt most was something emanating from his soul, which she knew to be truer than anything she had ever felt from any other man before.

Promptly, however, habit reasserted itself, and she snapped out of it. “Just as well,” she joked, “otherwise I’d be charging you for this, at me hourly rate!”

And they both burst into long happy laughter.

Neither of them noticed that the door was open just a crack, and that through that crack, from the darkened corridor outside, Samantha from SOAS had been watching, her skirt rucked up to her waist, her right hand between her legs. As Eddie’s cum had exploded into Olive’s slut cunt, Samantha had climaxed, her whole body shaking in an ecstasy she had never known before. Now she wept in silent fascination, her fingers still wet with her own holy slime, shameful tears coursing down her cheeks.

To be continued…