Pursuing Mrs. Nekola’s Secret Needs

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[Here’s another story in my Bohemian church series. While this can be read as a stand-alone, you will likely gain more pleasure by reading the stories that precede it first. All characters are 18 or older. This story involves bodily fluids and an elderly widow, so if either are a turn-off for you, please look for another story more to your liking. The ending of this story is open to more than one interpretation and was intentionally left ambiguous.]

It had been nearly six months since I had joined the Bohemian Church’s parish in northern Ohio’s rust belt as a catechumen and lay server to the congregation and their clergy. Father Viktor had put me on an accelerated training which consisted of home visits to “needy” church members, mostly elderly Czech widows, as well as daily instruction in the customs and traditions of the Bohemian “old ways” which the parish struggled to preserve amidst the upheaval and strains of the late Sixties’ eruption of sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll.

I was close to completing my catechumenate, which would grant me full membership in the parish, and unimpeded access to all of its many sacraments, which included not only Communion, but the numerous rituals of the old ways, which celebrated the natural human body in all its hairy glory, as well as the body’s odors, secretions, excretions, and erogenous zones, especially those associated with its anal aperture and bowels, which the congregation honored as the Altar of the Open Heart.

My mentor, Father Viktor, had me move into the church Rectory, where he and the other clergy systematically acquainted me with the old ways, which served me well as I, in turn, served the needs of the congregation.

* * *

On this particular morning, I was seated in the Good Father’s office, while he prepared me for today’s home visits. He was particularly concerned that I successfully meet the challenge of serving Mrs. Ludmila Nekola, whom he described as “a tough nut to crack”.

“I have to confess, my boy, that I’ve saved Mrs. Nekola for nearly the last of your training visits, as she has managed to defeat me in all my attempts to understand her psychological disposition and fulfill her needs. There is no question that she has deeply held needs — she practically radiates their hidden presence — but, try as I might, I’ve been unable to pry them out of her, and I’ve tried for years, ever since her husband passed away and she retreated into a solitary existence, largely shunning the church.”

“But, Father Viktor, what makes you think that I can succeed where you have, er, failed? I’m still just eighteen and barely starting out, while you have decades of experience.”

“True enough, Brother Jack, but I believe you have a God-given gift for solving tough cases, as you’ve shown time after time. No matter who we’ve directed you to help: Dame Taborova with her “advanced needs”, shy Sister Katka, poor blind Sister Pavla, the demanding Agata Zelenkova, heavens, even Mother Magdalene at her neediest, you’ve come through with flying colors.

“I wouldn’t dare send you to visit Mrs. Nekola, if I didn’t think you had a fighting chance to overcome all her defenses and help her open her heart once again. She used to be such a vibrant member of our parish, but I fear that her husband’s death sent her into an emotional tail-spin from which she has yet to recover.”

This still sounded kind of dubious to me, though I had to admit to myself that I was rather intrigued by the challenge. I just needed to get a few more questions answered and then I’d give it a shot.

“I do appreciate your confidence in me, Father Viktor, but things might go better if I had some idea of the needs that you say she seems to ‘radiate’.”

“That’s the exasperating part, Jack, my lad. It’s as if she produces a strong magnetic field that pulls you toward her, but then if you get too close, the same force repels you and pushes you away. Does that make any sense? No? Hmm.

“Let’s see if I can put it another way. When you first meet her, you are almost overcome with how attractive she is — though it’s not that she is a real ‘looker’. Not at all. She’s merely pleasant-looking, at best. But there’s something about her that makes you want to get close and personal. You can sense a great hunger in her that you want to satisfy. And then…”

Father Viktor paused and gave me a confounded expression.

“And then, it’s as if a switch is flipped, and you get the feeling that she is pushing you away and you had better keep your hands to yourself. It’s strange. It’s not a personal rejection, exactly. And it isn’t even necessarily her doing it. It’s more like you got too close to a sensor, and a force field springs up and you watch helplessly as she recedes away into the distance, with the hunger still showing in her eyes.”

The Good Father gave a great sigh, and his shoulders sank in defeat. I didn’t often feel sorry for Father Viktor — he usually impressed me with his charisma and self-confidence — but in this instance, I felt kaçak iddaa like he was reluctantly passing on a sputtering torch to me, with the hope that I could run with it to the finish-line in his stead.

I was still left with one lingering question that I put to him before I went out to make my rounds.

“Was it Mrs. Nekola’s idea for me to come visit today? I mean, did she make the appointment, or…?”

Father Viktor grinned sheepishly and dropped his gaze. He sighed again.

“To be perfectly honest, Brother Jack, it was my idea. It was time for my twice-yearly pastoral visit, and I thought that a new face at her door might brighten her day and open up new possibilities. I hope you don’t mind. Let’s let it be our little surprise for her. It might do her a world of good.”

* * *

As luck would have it, Mrs. Nekola’s house was just a short bus ride away on the 26 line. The Rectory office had confirmed a visit for 10:30 in the morning, and I was there right on the button. I prided myself in being punctual and not keeping anyone waiting, though in the case of Mrs. Nekola I had no idea whether a visit was something she was waiting for. If she had spent recent years in shunning the Church, my turning up might not be exactly welcome. I tried to prepare myself for the possibility of having the door slammed in my face.

As it was, once I rang her doorbell, there was no rush to answer the door, and when it opened, slowly and reluctantly, it was for only an inch or two, with the chain still in place. An ancient eye in the shadows, about on level with my chin, gave me the once over and a querulous voice hissed “No Solicitors!”

“Please, Mrs. Nekola, I’m not selling anything. I’m Brother Jack from the parish, just making a friendly visit to see how you’re doing.”

I stepped back a foot or two, to allow her to get a good view of me, and I was pleased to hear her make an approving sound, like a grumble trailing into an interested “Well!” Her door closed briefly as she unlatched the chain and then she opened it slowly, while concealing herself behind it. Once I stepped inside, she hastily pushed the door shut and I was engulfed in almost total darkness, with only a dim lightbulb allowing me a view of a short woman in her seventies with long gray hair draped rather carelessly round her shoulders. She was wearing a nondescript flower-print housecoat that reached to her mid-shins, her feet embedded in fluffy pink slippers. She was not unfriendly, if a bit brusk, and after locking her door behind us, she brushed against me in passing as she led the way to her living room.

“Sorry, young man, Jack was it? I wasn’t expecting anyone, so please forgive my appearance. If you’ll just relax in this chair here, allow me to get properly dressed and then make us some tea. It’s not every day I get a surprise visit from a handsome young man, especially from the Church.”

By now, she was definitely warming up to the idea of my visit, and giving me a warm friendly smile, which if not exactly magnetic, was welcoming at the very least, with perhaps a mischievous twinkle. She made a brisk 180-degree turn and padded off down a hall to what I assumed was her bedroom. I could hear her distantly rustling around in drawers and closets, walking across the hall to a bathroom, I assumed, and finally emerging back into the gloomy living room, looking almost like a different person. Her hair was brushed and fixed up in a bun, she had applied a touch of lipstick and rouge, and she was wrapped in a snug black satin knee-length dress that showcased surprisingly shapely legs encased in seamed nylon stockings wedged into black polished pumps.

Almost without thinking, I rose from my chair in a show of respect, though she bade me sit down again, after a few seconds’ pause to enjoy my polite gesture.

“So, some tea? Or are you a coffee man?”

I indicated that I’d have what she was having, which seemed to please her, and she trotted off crisply to the kitchen, the sharp sounds of her heels contrasting with the muffled sound her slippers had made before. The swinging motion of her sizable rump was quite fetching, and I got the impression that she knew that and was giving it a little extra umph.

“Ah, the old gals,” I thought to myself. “They still have it, when they want to.” I couldn’t keep myself from wondering whether her seamed nylons were thigh-highs or held up by suspenders attached to a garter belt. Despite myself, I was getting a little buzz of erotic stimulation that forced me to shift around in my trousers to try to rearrange my growing meat-snake.

Before I knew it, she was back again with a small tray bearing two cups of tea, with a china creamer in the shape of a cow. There was a small plate of chocolate cookies and a couple of decorative napkins as well. Not bad for an impromptu morning tea.

After turning on a rather dusty floor-lamp, which couldn’t have been brighter than 25 watts, she set out our tea and cookies on a coffee table, sat down on the settee opposite kaçak bahis my chair, and raised her teacup in a mock toast. Then she began to grill me.

“Strange, but I don’t recall seeing you before at the Church. Not that I’ve been around much, mind you. Are you new?”

“Yes, Ma’m. I’ve only been a lay server for six months, and I’m still learning the Bohemian ways.”

Ludmila Nekola reached over to fetch a cookie for herself, giving me a clear view of her deep cleavage nestled within the top of her low-cut dress. Then she sat back and re-crossed her legs, allowing her skirt to ride up, giving me a glimpse of her cocoa brown stocking tops. I was beginning to feel that magnetic tug that Father Viktor had referred to. I wanted nothing so much as to move closer and bury my face in her generous bosom, while stroking her plump thighs.

“I thought you didn’t look Czech, if I may say so. How did you learn about our Church? It’s quite unusual for young people to want anything to do with us.”

As swiftly as possible, I tried to explain my friendship with Mrs. Tupa, my introduction to Father Viktor and Mother Magdalene, my sense of being called to serve the parish, and my growing acquaintance with the congregation. Mrs. Nekola nodded and smiled all the while, recrossing her legs yet again, until they were positioned in such a way that I had a full, if shadowy, view of her crotch.

To my astonishment, Ludmila Nekola was not wearing any underpants and she was casually displaying her soft forest of graying pubic hairs that clustered around her fat and fragrant labia.

Her magnetic field was in full force, almost physically pulling my body toward hers, while causing my blood-engorged member to twitch and tent up the front of my pants. I hastily put down my teacup and squirmed in my chair, unsure if I should get up and rush to her or stay put and enjoy the shadowy view. Mrs. Nekola was pretending to be oblivious to my state, but the smug grin she allowed herself tipped me off that she was well aware that she had me in her clutches, like a fly in a spider’s web.

“And so, Brother Jack, what brings you here today? Surely a handsome young man such as you would rather be out at the ball park, or perhaps riding around town on his motorcycle? Visiting the elderly widows of our parish must be about as dull as it can get, no?”

“No!,” I almost shouted. “Not at all! I’d like nothing better than to satisfy whatever needs you may have. Please! I am at your service, just tell me what to do.”

I could stand it no longer. I sprang from my seat and unzipped my fly in a single yank. My rigid prick pushed its way out, over the elastic band of my briefs, and waved about like the branch of a tree in the breeze. I stood before her, at a loss for words, hoping that this display of my excitement would cause her to somehow lower her guard and push things through to the next level.

“Oh my!” she exclaimed. “Aren’t you the impetuous one. Don’t tell me you visit all the parish ladies, just so you can expose yourself like a pervert in the park. Surely Father Viktor doesn’t condone this kind of behavior, does he?”

Mrs. Nekola spoke in a disapproving tone, as if I had violated the most elementary rules of etiquette. She fixed me with a pointed stare that radiated indignation and disgust.

Ludmila Nekola had me in a blind panic. Was this her flipping the switch and suddenly pushing me away, like Father Viktor had described? I must have looked crestfallen, as I froze in place while my penis drooped and then almost shrank within itself. I felt on the verge of crying, my disappointment was so overwhelming. Had I really misjudged the situation so badly? God, I was such a fool!

My anguish was suddenly punctured by the high sound of her peals of laughter, as she lifted herself off the settee and came over to me with her ancient arms outstretched. She hugged me to her and pressed her bosom against my chest, still chuckling at my naivete.

“Oh, my dear, dear child, please forgive me. That was too cruel of me. But you were so eager, I just couldn’t resist. You’ll have to punish me, of course. There is no greater sin than to take advantage of a pure and open heart, and I’m afraid I’ve done just that. Here, let’s sit down together on my couch and we can set things straight. Let’s make this a day that we’ll both cherish and remember for a long long time.”

* * *

Despite Mrs. Nekola’s apology, I was still somewhat irked by the prank she had played upon me. I should have seen it coming, I suppose, but I was also mad at myself for not having done so. By falling for it, I was an accomplice in my own embarrassment, which was a real blow to my pride.

Not yet nineteen, I was proud of having served and satisfied dozens of the ladies in our parish. Even Father Viktor had praised my success with the most challenging cases, and I was hoping to succeed with Ludmila Nekola, where he had failed. But pride goeth before a fall, as the saying goes, and I realized that pouting over Ludmila’s illegal bahis gentle yanking of my chain was childish and counter-productive.

Here she was, sitting beside me and gently petting my inner thigh, trying to make things better. I resolved to take a deep breath, forgive her, and pet her in return. I still felt that magnetic attraction for her, and decided that the best defense was a good offense.

I placed my left hand behind her lower back, slid my right hand and forearm beneath her thighs, and flipped her over my lap, in position for a good spanking. She was startled, but not resistant, and in fact she made herself quickly at home, as if this outcome had been part of her plan from the very beginning. I briefly entertained the notion that perhaps Father Viktor, in his prior visits, had misread her efforts to provoke an aggressive response. If she thought she deserved a punishment, I would be quite happy to provide it. Perhaps that was one of her elusive “needs”. I was determined to find out.

* * *

With Mrs. Nekola draped over my lap, her bum was well in reach of my right hand, her bust fell past my left thigh, while I held her in place with my left forearm passing under her sternum and gripping her right shoulder. I pulled up the back of her skirt, exposing her big bare bottom. I guessed that she must have powdered it when changing her outfit after my arrival, as it was smooth as silk and had a light floral aroma that invited me to slide my palm all over its expanse. She enjoyed this as much as I did, but she had given me a sterner task to fulfill.

I took a deep breath, raised my hand as high as I could and slammed it down onto her left buttock. It made a sharp smack and she emitted a surprised yelp which encouraged me to do the same to her right buttock. I paused a moment to let the slaps sink in, before I repeated the sequence again, and then again. She began to moan as I picked up steam and really got into the spirit of her punishment. I did not consider myself to be cruel, nor did I do this in a fit of sadism. This was something that she had craved and it was clearly something that she enjoyed. Yes, it was painful at first, but I could tell from her moans that it began to shift into a kind of ecstatic suffering, leading her ever closer to the threshold of release.

She was riding an endorphin high, amplified by an adrenaline rush, and when I gave her a final spank with the loudest smack of all, she just let go and surrendered to an impressive orgasm, her body suddenly rigid, before yielding to a series of twitches, and finally loose and limp as her body relaxed. After a moment’s pause, she gave out a long sigh of satisfaction.

I half expected her to scramble up and brush her skirt back down and resume our tea, but she showed no such inclination. She was settled into my lap, like a large furry cat, kneading my left thigh with her red painted nails, while she was rubbing her pubic mound against my right thigh.

“Does Pussy want a petting?” I asked in a teasing tone. She purred in response, again digging her nails into my trouser leg. I contemplated her bright red buns, which were still radiating warmth like a space heater. Below the florid crack of her rump, her grey hairy twat peeked out, beads of moisture glistening on her large labial lips, daring me to fondle and toy with them. Almost out of sight, I could make out her moistened clitoris poking its sleepy head out of its hood, as if woken from a deep sleep. I needed no further encouragement. Ludmila was just getting started, it would seem.

* * *

As far as my usual home visits went, this one was definitely a hot mess. The usual Bohemian welcoming rituals of an Embrace of Eden, the Sharing of Pee and Poop, and even the Kiss of Peace were all cast aside as Mrs. Nekola served tea and teases, and then shifted right into getting spanked and fingered. This got no complaints from me, as I was beginning to find the predictable repetition of the Bohemian social rituals a mite tedious. They might still ring the bells of a shut-in widow who only got to enjoy them once a month during one of my home visits, but I was performing them daily — sometimes twice a day — and I was beginning to feel in a bit of a rut.

Don’t get me wrong. I was not thinking of shunning the old ways, as Mrs. Nekola would seem to be doing. I was just welcoming intimate encounters that were not channeled into rituals enforced by social convention. However a playful vaginal fingering following a mortification of the flesh had — perhaps surprisingly — never been formalized into a Bohemian church ritual, so I proceeded with unmuted enthusiasm.

As Ludmila Nekola’s naughty bits peeped out at me, I poked around in her hairy pelt, which was warm and squishy and gave off a strong odor of an aroused animal. Her swollen slit received my fingers like a slippery pouch filled with juice, a concoction that I drew out by the scoopful and slathered all over her smarting buns, like a soothing ointment naturally expressed by her auto-immune system. Then my fingers dove back in and fondled and tickled her sensitive lining, while she pushed her love nest back at me, daring me to fuck her with as much of my hand as I could squeeze inside.

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