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Graduation Party.

Adding to her allure was her reputation. Camille was no chaste flower. She had tasted pleasures of the flesh and found them good. As much as her sexuality, it was her aura of being open to a man's suggestion that made her almost irresistible.

Members of the congregation would have been shocked to know that their own pastor, Reverend Trent, watched and desired Camille no less than the other men there. As the warm afternoon passed, he gave thanks that there were other people around. Thanks for any respite from the thoughts that came to mind when he glanced at Camille.

It would not be a picnic without some child getting lost. As the sun neared the western horizon, little Jeremy Atkins wandered away. A search was launched, led by Reverend Trent. Finding himself alone after walking for a few minutes, the man saw a small hay barn at the edge of the park. Just the sort of place a kid would like to explore, he thought. He entered and began to climb a ladder to the loft, calling Jeremy's name as he went.

He had reached the top when faraway voices called out, "We found him! He's safe, everyone!" But Reverend Trent scarcely noticed. He gazed spellbound at the vision before him. Camille was in the hayloft, sitting in the loose hay. She leaned back slightly, supported by her arms. Her bare legs, bent at the knees, were spread open and pointing toward him.

"Hello, reverend," she said in a low voice that was silky smooth and as sweet as honey.

He gazed in awe at the scene, which seemed the essence of every erotic daydream a man may have. Golden light shone through the cracks in the boards and the bay of the loft. Every sunbeam seemed to light up Camille's young body, as if she too were gold. She drew her tongue across full pink lips that waited to be kissed.

The heady aroma of fresh hay filled the man's nostrils. "They've found the little boy," he managed to say. "We'd better go."

"No," murmured Camille. "Soon everyone will leave. No one will miss us. We have this hayloft and each other, reverend. What more do we need?" As she spoke she unbuttoned the blouse and let it fall open. She then unsnapped her bra in the front. With one motion Camille drew both garments back and off her. Now she was nude from the waist up.

The man gave a faint moan at what he saw. Camille's breasts seemed too lovely to be real. Ripe and jutting straight out, the flesh at the apex was formed into a perfect cone of amaranth pink, with faint rosebud nipples at the tips.

"Come to me," said the girl in a throaty voice. "I want you now, reverend. Oh please hold me, love me, don't make me wait!"

There could be no disobeying her, Reverend Trent knew that. Any man would do the same. In two steps he went to her and knelt and took her warm naked body in his arms and kissed her passionately. He pressed his lips to hers, met her tongue eagerly; relished the feel of bare breasts nearly flat against his chest.

He drank deeply of the girl, slaking the thirst that had come to him during all those lonely nights. He then kissed her cheeks, her neck, but soon came back to her warm wet lips.

Camille moaned with pleasure when he moved down to kiss her chest, sighing, "Ah yes, you fought the good fight, reverend, but you're mine now. At last, you are truly mine." She pushed him further down to her waiting breasts.

And Reverend Trent surrendered completely, somehow relieved that he no longer had to worry and struggle and pray. Now he was free. Free to enjoy pleasures beyond imagining; pleasures that every man dreams of in the still of the night.

He buried himself in Camille's bosom, kissing and sucking her nipples, now rubbing his face over the exquisite softness of her breasts. He savored this woman, intoxicated by her sweet musky aroma and the taste of her supple flesh.

The last words she had spoken began to resonate in his mind.

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