Dirty Girl: The Preacher’s Kid

Songs of Solomon 5:15 His legs are as pillars of marble, set upon sockets of fine gold; his countenance is as Lebanon, excellent as the cedars.

She was a preacher’s kid, and like most preacher’s kids, she had a naughty streak, Rebecca did, only her parents didn’t know it. Most people didn’t. To all appearances she was a good Christian girl who did all the right things and never caused her parents a lick of trouble. But underneath the long tresses and proper dresses was the mind and body of a Dirty Girl.

“I’m a Dirty Girl,” she’d sing to herself as she walked down Main Street toward the parsonage, nodding and smiling to all the ladies who said hello, as she helped Mrs. Sunderval up the curb to the beauty parlor and patted the head of the dog sitting outside Lawson’s Feed. The refrain helped her get through the interminable routine that she had lived, day after day, year after year, for all of her 20 years on God’s green Earth.

Three times a week she walked home from the community college at the edge of town in her sensible flats, and three times a week she dropped her books inside the door, then headed up the road that lead past the church to the cemetery. This, too, was part of her routine, and it was the part that added the spring to her step and the color to her cheeks.

The cemetery was her domain, her playground since childhood. People mostly came on weekends, and the graveyard keeper came to mow on Friday mornings, so the rest of the time, it was hers, and hers alone. She’d played leap-frog over the crumbling old headstones with the big round spots of lichen growing on them, played hide and seek with the ghosts around the Pruitt family vault, and sunned herself naked on the cool grass.

Rebecca loved cemeteries the way gay men loved glory holes. Or at least, that’s what she thought. She didn’t know any gay men and she’d never seen a glory hole, but she’d read about them online, oh yes, and she figured she got the same naughty thrill from getting her hole filled in a cemetery as a gay man did getting his mouth filled by anonymous cock.

She cut deeper into the graveyard, toward the oldest section, toward her guardian angel, the larger-that-life sepulchral statue with the muscled torso and legs. He was the epitome of male beauty and in her teens her erotic dreams were filled with him, with images of being swept up into the sky by her guardian angel and feeling the thrust of him inside her with every beat of his wings.

When Rebecca reached the statue, she stripped off her clothes and sat on a sunny patch of grass to wait for her lover. The sun was warm on her skin, and the faint breeze caressed her teasingly. She felt increasingly more languid and eventually stretched out, letting the sun splash her with its heat while the grass cooled her back.

She looked up at the statue towering over her and her fingers crept to her mound, to the hair growing there and the secret pearl nested within. Her fingers slid between the lips of her lightly furred pussy as she spread her legs in the grass. She wanted her lover to find her that way, to come upon her masturbating wantonly, as he had many times before.

Just a few months ago she was rubbing her mound furiously against the angel’s bent knee, her arms wrapped around his neck for balance, when the Professor found her. He must have been surprised to see a naked girl humping a statue, because he made some sort of noise that caused Rebecca to look his way, and she saw him standing there with his hands full of gravestone rubbings and a huge tent in his pants. She recognized him instantly as the dreamy art professor who had recently moved to town, and scrambled down off the statue, using her long hair to cover herself as best she could.

“My my,” he said as he walked toward her with a conspiratorial smile on his face. “Who would have thought the preacher’s kid was such a dirty girl?”

His words pierced her like erotic arrows, making her flesh tingle. The juxtaposition of preacher’s kid and dirty girl were so deliciously shocking they heightened her arousal, and from the moment they registered in her mind, Rebecca was his. His Dirty Girl.


She’d fallen asleep in a sunny patch of grass, her pale skin glowing like the marble of the monuments around her, a heathen wood nymph turned to stone on the sacred ground of the Christian graveyard.

She looked like a blank canvas to him. He wanted to mold her flesh, her lover did. He wanted to shape her with his own hands, trace the curves, make minute adjustments to the perfection of her flesh for the sake of making her his. Marking her as his.

He pulled from his pocket a thick piece of artist’s charcoal, the soft kind that produced a deep black color, and unwrapped it. Today he didn’t need paper. Today, Rebecca would be his tabla rasa, his blank page.

Kneeling, he kissed her forehead, and whispered for her to lie still.

Her eyes fluttered open, hazel green eyes that reminded him of leaves in dappled sunlight, and her drowsy smile was loving. Open. Trusting. She was an innocent, he knew, a very carnal innocent. She took such childlike joy in her body, in the pleasures of the flesh. She knew no shame, no guilt, and she gave of herself with such abandon that it transcended all he’d ever imagined the original Eve to be, before she’d learned the concept of sin.

He took the charcoal between his fingers and drew upon her living flesh. Long sweeps of charcoal for the twining vines and smaller flourishes for leaves and flowers. Symbols, too, from Egypt, from Briton, from Japan, symbols of fertility, of life, of rebirth. Her arms, her breasts, her torso, her belly – all were soon covered in lines that moved hypnotically with each of her breaths.

With the stick he colored her pubis black, and with his fingers he rubbed it in, spreading the fine, velvety softness of the charcoal into the fine, silky softness of her lightly-furred mound, and when her fingers moved to hold herself open he had to grip his cock to keep himself from spending in his pants. Such a contrast, her pale pale fingers holding open the night-black pussy to reveal that pale inner pink that darkened to deeper red.

“Fuck me,” she moaned, her arms opening to him, arms engraved with symbols and spirals, wrists banded in black.

She looked primal and pagan, like a Pictish woman in a fertility rite; and while her face was blurred with lust, her eyes were intent.

“Fuck me,” she said clearly, almost demandingly. “Fuck me, fuck me.”

And then she lay back against the grass and slid her fingers along her pussy, staining them black, smearing the blackness into the pink as she strummed her clitoris.

Hurriedly, he unfastened his pants, shoving down the corduroy and his silk boxers to reveal a raging erection. Already there was precum dripping from the tip. A droplet swung downward to land in the grass on a long, crystalline strand.

She rose then, and pushed him backwards, hands tearing at his pants, and she straddled him, straddled his cock, and thrust herself down on to him, moaning as she did so.

It is impossible to describe the heat of her, the wetness, the suck of her pussy on his cock as she rode him, jockey style, balanced on the balls of her feet, one hand pressed against his chest, the other shoved underneath him, gripping his ass. She heaved and swayed on him like a girl dancing around a May pole, her agile body weaving sinuously when it wasn’t hammering down onto him.

She left charcoal handprints on his shirt, but he didn’t care. His own hands rose to her breasts, tracing the lines he’d drawn there, smudging them, blurring them so that her skin was mottled with gray. He pinched her nipples, those black-tipped points, pinched them hard enough to make her gasp and her legs to fold so that she landed on her knees astride him.

He flipped her then, flipped her onto her back, and shoving her knees up toward her breasts, he penetrated her in one long push. She cried out then, a sound of pain and supplication, and then her rigid body softened and she welcomed him into her.

She cradled her ass in her hands, held it up to him like an offering, and he took it, took what was offered again and again, hungry for her, aching to penetrate the mystery of her, that otherness, that fey-ness that presented itself to him in moments like these, teasing him with the knowledge of her impenetrable spirit.

He would have her, he would make her his this time, truly his dirty girl, his filthy dirty girl laying there, groveling on her back on someone’s grassy grave, begging for him to fuck her, to take her, to make her feel even more alive.

When he came it was with a bellow, a triumphant bellow followed by a series of moans as he emptied into her, his chest pressed against her smudged thighs.

He could tell by her eyes that she had not come, but that she was close, so close, and he knew just the thing to make her come.

“Roll-over,” he commanded, and she did, exposing the pale alabaster curve of her backside interrupted with black smudges that looked like faded bruises.

“Rub your clit,” he instructed, and as she raised her hips to slide her hands into the vee of her thighs, his hand fell hard on her ass.

“Oh!” she cried out, and she began squirming on her fingers, her body rocking as her toes dug into the sod and his hands fell like rain on her ass and thighs.

“That’s it, you dirty girl! Hump your hands!” He watched as her face reddened, watched her luscious mouth open in moaning gasps with each stinging slap of his palm.

“You’re such a dirty girl, Rebecca,” he said, focusing on tormenting her sweet spot. “My filthy dirty little girl.”

He knew she loved being called a dirty girl, knew it was a trigger for her, that it heightened her arousal and so he applied it as liberally. He wanted to watch her come that way, being spanked for being a dirty girl, climaxing because she was being a dirty girl… His Dirty Girl.

His hands were hot and tingly, and his wrists had begun to ache, but he did not stop. He renewed his efforts, his fingers occasionally landing on her slick pussy lips, spanking her tenderest parts. More swats from him, more squirming and gasps from her. Her ass and thighs were painted with pink handprints and black fingerprints. She looked like a crime of passion, writhing there on the grass in her prelude to the Little Death.

“Who would have guessed that the preacher’s daughter was such a dirty girl?” he said knowingly, reproducing with those words what she’d felt the day they’d first met.

When he said those words, Rebecca’s body convulsed. She cried out, her chest raising up off the grass as she wailed her pleasure. It was an intense, encompassing, delirious orgasm witnessed only by cedar trees and stone angels — and the man who had caught her humping a statue and captured her heart by calling her a Dirty Girl.