Unholy SeXStoRY

I don't know when I first picked up the signal that Rosemary the young cleaner was more churchy than most teenagers. It could have been that silver-cross pendant she always wore. Certainly the boss had mentioned that the two of them had got to know each other at church, and I knew the boss was a devout Roman Catholic. She ran a chain of cookery schools from her luxury house in the suburbs, where I was part-time manager, often left alone while she toured the country on business. And if either of them worried that a teenage cleaning girl might be in danger from a guy like me, it looked like a pretty small risk in her case. A dull, plodding female of no interest, just having to be let into the house, like a dog or cat. I'd be surprised if she was earning anything more than the national minimum - possibly less, if I knew our more-than-somewhat frugal employer. Bottom of the heap, then. Very much so. And I soon judged that Rosemary needed religion as a defence against her wretchedly humble status. One glance at her - the way she looked, the way she moved, the way she spoke - just said it all. Low self-esteem. She must have been at least six foot, and clearly trying to hide it with a stoop, which killed any chance of an attractive, confident walk. The cheap round glasses just made her look goofy. And an unmissable flush of acne told its own story about her emotional landscape. Obviously and miserably a virgin. Presently this began to register on me more sharply - the first time I'd ever been left alone, for hours at a time, with a virgin. It was strange the effect it had on me. After a while, I couldn't look at her without thinking first of her virginity and how she might lose it, mentally undressing her and visualising little scenarios of seduction - transforming this inert, passive, unawakened creature into a thing of wild, reckless passions. And I was beginning to feel curiously stirred by it. A couple of times, when she was looking even unhappier than usual, I asked her what was wrong. She just shook her head, but I could tell from the blush of embarrassment that it was something serious. Then came the morning when she just suddenly broke down in tears, during her tea-break. I decided to be firm with her. "Rosemary, you're in a bad way. There's something you need to confide, isn't there?" Normally, this would be woman-talk - probably not ideal that she was being asked the question by a man. But there was no-one else around. And she definitely needed to relieve the pressure by talking. I looked her in the eye. "Is it man-trouble?" After a pause, she nodded through the tears. "One particular man?" Another nod. "Are you close with him?" "Yes. We've been going out together for four months." "So tell me what's wrong." Slowly it came out, rather disjointedly, that he was pressing her for sex, but she was holding out for marriage, and she was adamant that she must reach the altar in a state of grace. Grace, eh? That wasn't how I saw her state at the moment. "Rosemary... after four months, do you think he's going to change his mind?" She shook her head. "And you? Might you change your mind?" Miserably she shook her head again, sobbing quietly, and then in a tragic whisper. "There's just no way round." For the first time, I took her hand and whispered back. "Your problem is nothing new. There's a way round, believe me." And I went back to my desk, distinctly aroused, not able to concentrate on work for at least twenty minutes, I was so distracted by this feminine presence, so utterly different from any other fantasy-figure that I had ever daydreamed of. To my surprise, she approached the subject in quite a matter-of-fact way, the next time we spoke. "I want to know what you meant - that there's a way round." She was looking directly at me, with no emotive charge, and I couldn't tell how far I was allowed to go in explaining such delicate matters. I decided it was the moment to put things rather graphically. "Rosemary, there are actually two ways round. It's quite simple really. You're keeping your virginity for him. But you do have two other holes, and an awful lot of women find satisfaction in having them explored - with love." I was still coming to terms with this new fascination for an immature plain-jane, totally lacking in feminine wiles. By now I was straining to conceal my stiffness, but it was impossible, and she must have known. I stood up, close beside her, giving her the option of touching my lust. Apparently tempted, she moved her hand slowly almost to the spot, but then sharply away again, her mood suddenly broken. "No, that's disgusting, what you're saying." "You mean it's... unholy." She looked down in embarrassment, but clearly not wanting to walk away. "My dear, I can tell you're very good at being good. But you're not very good at being bad." "What do you mean?" I wondered how to put it. "It's as though you're still at Sunday School. Everything has to be "Don't". That's all about sins of commission. But by your age, you ought to understand about sins of omission." "Go on." Yes, she was definitely becoming intrigued. Abruptly I gripped her shoulder and lifted her chin, turning her face directly towards mine. "Say fuck" "Certainly not. We don't talk that way..." "That's just the trouble. It's the sweetest word in the language, and it's time you learned to say it, when the moment is right. Go on. And try and say it nicely. Linger over it." "F... Look, I really can't. It's no good. I've got to go." And she ran off on an imaginary errand in the back dining-room. The next couple of visits, she was clearly in denial, wanting to put the clock back and erase every word we'd ever exchanged. It wasn't anything she said. It was just the frozen look on her face. While she was in that mood, there was no point trying to help... if helping her was still my real aim. But I was getting a bit more addicted every day (and night), and it might be more honest to say I wanted to help myself to her. Then, late one afternoon, she took a call on her mobile and I heard the sounds of a long and emotive argument. Soon it had turned to loud weeping, and I went through to the kitchen to investigate. For a minute or two, she couldn't speak through the sobbing, but accepted my arm round her and presently took my hand. When she spoke, it was a different Rosemary, talking with anger and passion for the first time. "He's dumped me. He's gone off with the only girl who'll let him fuck her." "Rosemary - you said it! You said the word!" I looked in her eyes. "Say it again. Slowly." And this time, out came the loveliest word in the language, tingling with meaning. Now there were no scruples about moving her hand to where it wanted to be, and it was a glorious thing to see her face erupting in heartfelt joy. It was she, not me, that rummaged in my trousers and brought out the first prick she had ever touched - more excited now than when it had been fingered by far more glamorous ladies. Hungrily she hugged it to her mouth and played it instinctively, like a whore, while my hand started to navigate her from behind. When I was in danger of climaxing, I withdrew and told her to peel off, while I performed an essential search. If there is one thing you'll always find in a gourmet kitchen, it's extra-fine olive oil. Now I laid her down on her front and slid my tongue up her sweet arse - and ye Gods, I have never heard such a gasp of wonder. For the first time, she was experiencing the supreme intimacy of all. After a few minutes of sucking at her juices, I was ready to lubricate her little virgin back-passage for the big invasion. "Now say Fuck my Shit" "Fuck my shit!" she called out with glorious abandon. I expected to take it gingerly, but she was hungry for it, even knowing that there would be pain mixed-in with the pleasure. And we both knew that this was nothing less than a religious communion, and she loved my worship of her shit - the true sacrament. Suddenly years of inhibition were being turned gloriously on their head, and she had become a shameless, roaring slut, as I finally shot my eager juice into her forbidden holy-of-holies. I turned her head to face me as her breathing eased, and I knew I was looking at a new woman. "And you're still a virgin" I teased.