Page 35 of Turn That River Red

I lick along her slit and push my tongue up into her pussy, relishing the way she momentarily stutters and loses her words. But she’s a good girl, and she finds them again, even as I flick my tongue against her swollen clit.

“‘—Better than wine,’” she gasps out, thick thighs trembling beside my head. “‘Th-thine oils have a go’—oooooh.” That last word dissolves into a moan as I kiss her deeper and nudge my nose up against her clit.

“Keep reading,” I say into her drenched pussy, right before I attack her again, devouring her essence. I’ve eaten so many humans in my long life, but nothing compares to this.

“‘Thy name is as oil poured forth. Therefore do the—ah! Therefore do the virgins—love thee!’”

I smile at that, the way she shouts outlove thee, and then fixate on her clit again, strumming it hard with my tongue as she stutters out the rest of the verses. It’s getting harder for her to read; her voice is jagged and shuddery, and she stumbles over her words as much as she pronounces them.

But it just makes me harder, knowing that I’m unraveling her completely.

“‘F-for why sh-should I b-be as one that-that is v-veiled—’” Mercy pants and shakes, legs quaking on either side of my head. I tongue-fuck her in response, lapping up against her inner walls, giving her clit a rest so she can catch her breath. I know Song of Songs by heart, and I’m going to make sure she comes with the final verse.

“‘—be-beside the fl-flocks of thy c-companions? If th-thou know not—oh thou f-fairest’—Ambrose, oh my god, oh my?—”

“Keep going,” I growl after withdrawing my tongue and licking her soft, silky cleft. I bite gently against her inner thigh, making her screech and jolt. “‘Oh, thou fairest among women,’” I recite, peppering her thighs with kisses. “‘Go thy way forth by the footsteps of the flock, and feed thy kids beside the shepherds’ tents.’”

I punctuate the verse by attacking her clit again, flicking my tongue fast against its pulsing heat. Mercy shrieks and thrusts against my face, and I love that wantonness. I bring one hand up and slide a finger into her pussy, gently massaging the pad of flesh that drove her wild the other night. “I don’t hear you fucking reading, Mercy.”

“‘Go thy way forth!’” she shouts, still jerking up against my face. I lick her clit and finger her pussy as she struggles through the rest of the verse. “‘By the footsteps! Of the flock! And feed!’ Feed thyyyy oh my god!”

She’s getting too close to coming, and we’re still only halfway through Song of Songs. I force myself to draw back, denying her the release I know she wants. Her gasps, her moans, her arousal soaking my chin and lips—it tells me everything I need to know.

“Keep going,” I purr, licking her labia—licking everywhere but her clit, the way I know she wants. And my good little Christian girl obeys me again, panting out the next verse:

“‘—feed thy kids beside the shepherds’ tents. I have c-compared thee, oh m-my love, to a-a steed in Pharaoh’s ch-chariots. Thy cheeks?—‘”

I settle into my slow, lazy teasing, relishing both the salty-hot taste of her cunt and her ragged reading of the Bible’s version of erotic poetry. I’ve always liked Song of Songs, with its litany of strange compliments— Pharaoh’s horses and bags of myrrh and eyes like doves. But I’ve never listened to it while buried in a beautiful woman’s pussy, and I have to say, I think this should be the preferred reading.

“‘My beloved,” Mercy whispers, her voice ragged, “is unto me—unto me a c-cluster of henna-flowers?—‘”

We’re almost to the end. Time to reward Mercy for her obedience. As she whimpers outhenna-flowers, I thrum my tongue against her clit, faster and harder than I have before. She bucks in response, her hips slamming up against my face. But God help me, she doesn’t stop her recitation.

“‘Behold, thou art fair!’” she screams. I don’t actually know if she’s reading. I think she might be screaming the verses from memory. “‘My love! Behold—thou art!’ Oh—right there—that feels?—“

I slap the side of her thigh, hard enough to remind her what she’s meant to be doing. And maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear her clit jolts when I smack her. Is it possible my sweet human Mercy is a bit of a pain slut?

I can’t imagine the Reverend Sterling Gunner, prophet of God or not, has any idea what to do with such a treasure.

“‘Thine eyes are as doooooves,’” Mercy moans, thrusting against my mouth. Fucking my face. I barely have to do any of the work at this point—just keep my tongue out so she grinds against it. “Be-behold! Thou art! Fair! My beloved!’”

I think she’s going to spill over before she finishes the passage, but even I’m not cruel enough to pull away. In fact, I shove her thighs open and match my hungry licks with herthrusts, a rocking, perfect rhythm that rolls underneath her recitation of the verses.

“‘The beams! Of our! House are! Cedars!’”

The couch scrapes against the tile. I bury myself deeper in her, dig my nails into her soft creamy flesh. She’s screaming words—are they from Song of Songs? Are they prayers to her god? Blasphemies for her devil? I don’t know—I’m so focused on bringing her over the edge that I can’t register them.

Finally, I swipe one long lick up her her slit, landing hard on her clit, and it happens. Mercy arches her back like she’s possessed. Every muscle in her body vibrates. I keep my tongue pressed against her clit as it flutters furiously, matching the frantic racing of her heart.

And fuck, the sound that comes out of her mouth—a deep, throaty moan, at least two octaves lower than her speaking voice. Her fists beat against the cushions. Her pussy quivers. My face is a glorious fucking mess, and when I’m certain she’s finished coming, I pull away and draw the back of my hand against my mouth, wiping it away—only to lick the flavor off my skin.

Mercy stares at me, a vision of destruction. Her cheeks and lips and chest are all ruddy from excitement, and I can smell the coppery tang of her blood from underneath her skin. Her eyes are as bright as glass. Her hair’s a nest of golden tangles.

Seeing her like that, I know I have to keep desecrating her. I have to mark her.Baptizeher. I am playing the preacher, after all.

“Don’t fucking move,” I say, and then I pull out my cock.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

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