Spread the Seed

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I met Dawn on my first day working at the church. “Reinforcements are here, praise the Lord!” she said, bouncing from her chair in the front office and welcoming me with a tight hug. Not shy. She never would be.

Dawn was the office administrator at Spread the Seed, a mid-sized nondenominational Christian church in my hometown. I’d just returned home to live with my workaholic dad and his new trophy wife, and I needed work. I’d earned a very expensive but at that point fruitless English degree, so all options were on the table. STS didn’t pay much, but it was close to home and didn’t have demanding hours. I figured I’d spend a few months there while I tried to get my Great American Novel off the ground or land a big-city magazine job.

My new stepmom, Caitlin, had circled the listing in the paper and left it for me on kitchen table one morning shortly after I got back. We didn’t discuss it, but then we didn’t have much common ground—she’d been married to my dad for only about year, and I was in college for most of that. Proofing sermon texts and sending emails wasn’t exactly a “writing job,” as she scribbled above the circled ad, but I treated it like a well-meaning gesture. I called the church that morning, had an interview that afternoon, and was hired that evening. I was up-front with the minister about not having much of a religious background and being pretty much agnostic. “That’s fine, son,” he reassured me. “You might find you grow to like being in a faith environment. And not being a member of this congregation keeps you from becoming…entangled.”

I wasn’t sure at that point what entangled meant, and I was afraid to ask. I wasn’t sure if there was a religious protocol about talking about that kind of thing. That first morning, all I knew about how churches operated was Dawn, who proved to be upbeat, kind, and fun to work with.

And, I couldn’t help but notice right away, very sexy. Dawn was curvy with full hips and deep cleavage on a small frame–5’2″, tops. And she wore dresses that showed it off, usually low-cut but classy enough for an office. Her bright silver crucifix had a way of drawing my eyes to her tits. And with her height, I couldn’t help but look down. She had bright green eyes and a sweet smile that was easy to take in as well. Her churchiness, far from making her seem distant, only made her hotter to me.

And her voice. Her first-day-on-the-job guidance was peppered with Southernisms that she expressed in a sweet-tea lilt. “Well don’t that just beat all!” she said, when I was able to fix a paper jam. “Aren’t you just delightful,” she’d say when I thanked her, for anything—bringing me coffee, picking up a ringing phone.

It was just the two of us in the office, but for most of that first week I didn’t get a chance to find out much about her personally. I was still learning the ropes about everything the church office needed. Edits to the newsletter, website, and Sunday sermon slide decks. Stewardship promotional letters, printouts of pledges for congregants, ads in the newspaper, office stuff. And though we were the only front-office staffers, the place could get busy during the week. Deliveries, people looking for NA and AA meetings, and various “church mice”—congregants coming by to clean the kitchen, fix the wiring of the speaker system, and other odd jobs. Sometimes homeless persons would come by and Dawn would draw from a stack of fast-food vouchers or suggest a shelter or other service. (“Now you take care of yourself, you hear? God loves you.”) She was uniformly kind to every person she encountered, which was nice to see—she lived her faith. But it also had the downside of making me feel like nothing special to her. Everybody got that flirty, sweet-tea tone of hers. By the end of that first week, I better understood why envy was a sin.

So I hardly had time to think of her as anybody but a supervisor I hoped to impress, some way or another. But by the end of the day on Friday, finishing my first week on the job, Dawn came into the office with a couple of beers and handed me one. “Congrats, hon, you survived!” she said.

I took the bottle, bemused. “A little odd to be keeping beers around in a church, isn’t it? Where there are AA meetings?”

Dawn laughed sweetly—I came to love that laugh, and even that early on I wanted to chase it. “I keep it strictly locked down with the sacristy wine. And it’s not like we’re drinking in the meeting room. In fact, I know a place that’s much more comfortable. Follow me.”

I carried my beer and followed. Did I watch her ass sway in that yellow-and-purple sundress? I certainly did. Did I have thoughts about what it might be like to pull up that skirt, tug down whatever panties she had on (I imagined something skimpy and silky, a sexy secret she kept to herself) and fuck her silly? Yes. I’d spent a week watching her ass jiggle as she handled office errands. Did being in a church suppress those thoughts? If anything, they were more intense. But I still Anadolu Yakası Escort knew my place—she was my boss, and I didn’t know her relationship situation. She was at least 10 years older than me, grown up in a way that made me figure I was out of her league, emotionally, religiously, whatever.

Dawn tugged open a door and suddenly we were in the sanctuary. Notre Dame it wasn’t, but it felt churchy enough. The STS sanctuary was as big as a junior-high basketball court. Room for maybe 500 parishioners, long padded pews, big projection screens. Behind the altar, a large wooden cross, gently lit from behind.

Dawn took a seat at one of the pews near the back and I sat next to her. “I usually come here at the end of the week with a beer to just decompress and think,” she said. “It’s nice to have some company.”

“‘Drinking buddy in the pews’ wasn’t on the list of assigned tasks for the week, but it works for me,” I said. Dawn laughed that laugh of hers.

She pried a lot of information out of me—my college studies, my aspirations, my returning home, my parents’ divorce, my new stepmom. Dad traveled a lot for work, so being “home” meant spending a lot of time around a woman I didn’t know very well. No girlfriend—I’d broken up with the one I had shortly before graduation, when she landed a job as a publicity assistant at a publisher in New York and I couldn’t even pretend to have a prospect that would allow me to follow her.

“Oh, that’s a heartbreaker, dear,” Dawn said, patting my knee softly.

“We weren’t super close. More like college friends. How about you?” I thought about appending one those terms of endearment she like to use—hon, dear, sweetie. It wouldn’t have been appropriate for me to do that as her employee, and it would’ve been awkward as a non-Southerner. But I wanted to.

Her back straightened, her face took on a teasing, flirty look. She seemed to be testing me about how inquisitive I was willing to be. “What about me, hon?”

“Boyfriend? Husband? What brought you to this church? What do you want to do with the rest of your life?”

“I don’t get asked very often. Big questions.” She pulled on her beer.

I looked up, waved the bottle around me. “We’re in the place for it.”

She smiled and patted my knee again. Then she unspooled some personal details. She was married for five years—at STS—but things “fell apart” and she divorced her husband two years ago. Came out well in the divorce, no kids, but didn’t like dating. For a time she’d worked as an admin at a big tech firm, but wanted something simpler, so she took a job in the church. “You meet all sorts of people trying to do good things, every day,” she said. “Not every place can say that. Besides, you learn all sorts of interesting gossip.”

“Oh? Like what?”

She paused, as if sizing me up. “You’ll find out in due time, I’m sure.”

After a little more small talk, we rose to go. At the front door, Dawn gave me a sweet, tight hug. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, her eyes a little more sparkly from the beer. She took my bottle from my hand and downed the last half-inch in the bottle. “I think you’re going to like it here.”

My cock hardened in the sanctuary as I thought the same thing, and tried to keep it from pressing against her thigh. Dawn was sweet to everybody, I knew, but her kind words at that moment were meant just for me. A note you’d keep in your pocket and never share with anybody because it was a secret so good you wanted to have it on you at all times.


You’re not here to read a story about religion, so rest easy: Working in a church didn’t deliver me into the loving arms of Jesus. But I did spend the weekend after my first week at STS thinking about sin.

I’d jacked off a few times thinking about Dawn: I stroked my uncut cock thinking about her cleavage and the way her crucifix drew me to it. I imagined her round ass and how it would feel while she rode me in the sanctuary. I imagined her whispering in her sweet-tea voice about how much she needed my cock, sucking me off in the pews, hiking up her dress and letting me fill her pussy, telling me how much better I was at fucking then her ex-husband.

One time I came as I fantasized about telling her that I wanted to marry her. I wasn’t sure where that came from. I’d never had an urge to get married, have kids, any of that. Maybe I sensed that if I was going to be fucking Dawn, then I needed to sanctify it, make it church-appropriate. That I could escape sin by fucking her in wedlock. No condoms. Baby-making fucking. Being fruitful and multiplying. Regardless, the idea of doing such sinful things in a church was an enormous turn-on. But Dawn alone was plenty by herself.

The other thing about sin involved my new stepmom. In some ways, Caitlin was Dawn’s opposite—lithe, with smallish breasts, tall, her blonde hair in a short stylish cut, a contrast to Dawn’s long brunette curls. Icier, too. No sweet tea in her voice; Pendik Escort she was a Wasp-y northerner, her words all hard, common-sense lines.

Dad was out of town that weekend, and we didn’t talk much—just some stuff about her wanting to improve the lighting fixtures in the house before either working out in the basement or heading out to “work,” which sounded a lot more like a wine-mom social circle. But I didn’t’ judge. Caitlin was in her early 30s with no kids—a total trophy wife—so she was fumbling to figure out what kind of role she had to play as her “mom.” And I was just as confused about what it meant to be her “son.” Having no pressure from dad to sort it out—no forced family gatherings or anything like that—I mostly stayed in my room, pecking out my fiction, Facebooking with college friends, or indulging my increasingly needy cock.

As a gesture toward sociability and pulling my weight around the house, I made dinner for the two of us on Sunday night. Caitlin seemed pleased—happy, even. She smiled easily, asked questions, complimented me on the meal. At the table, she spent a long moment looking at my arms, then suggested I join her in the basement gym sometime to “keep those arms looking good.” I wasn’t sure what had inspired her to be so kind, even flirty. But I didn’t complain.

She even stood close to me while we did the dishes—I washed, she dried. Out of the blue, she said, “So, do you like me? Do you think I’m nice?”

“Sure, Caitlin, I think you’re nice. I mean, we haven’t really gotten to know each other, but I think you’re nice.”

“Cait. You can call me Cait.”


She paused for a moment, as if reminding herself of something. “I mean, I just want to make sure that we figure out how to get along. I know it’s kind of weird. Maybe it was stupid of me to suggest you take that church job. Your dad just said I should encourage you to get out of the house, so that’s what I did. It probably doesn’t pay much and you’re a lot smarter than that.”

“Hey, it’s fine, Caitlin. Cait. I got the job, it keeps me busy. It’s not a career, but it’s fine for now. It was nice of you to do it.”

She smiled, a little off kilter, as if nobody had paid ever her a compliment before for something beside her looks. She ran her hand across my back, my shoulders. “You’re sweet. I think I’m going to head up to bed.”

It was early, but I didn’t mention that—who was I to say what her schedule should be? I went up to my own room for a bit to hack away at my bad novel. After about an hour, though, I noticed a slight whiff of weed. I’d smoked at enough college parties to know. I left my room and padded down the hallway toward my parents’ bedroom.

The door was ajar, just enough for me to see Cait, naked, sitting against the headboard of her bed. She was in the middle of lighting a pot pipe, taking a deep draw and exhaling. Holding the pipe in one hand, she put down the lighter, and lazily fingered herself as the last wisps of smoke escaped her full lips. I watched my stepmother smoke and masturbate, taking more hits until her body shuddered, a sweet lovely squeak of an orgasm escaping her. Another sinful thing to see: Plainly she was stoned all through dinner, high while complimenting me, then escaping to her room to get even more stoned and get her needs met. Maybe she had lots of them, and maybe I could discover them.


I tried to focus on work Monday morning, to put away my thoughts about Dawn and what I’d witnessed the night before. I was ready for the drudgery of filing, spreadsheeting, guiding the church mice. But two things upended the morning. First was Dawn, who came to work wearing black slacks that hugged her ass delectably tight, topped by a flowing blouse that offered a glimpse not just of her cleavage, but, when she leaned toward me, a hint of the cups and straps of her electric blue bra. She was as sweet as ever, as complimentary as ever. I emailed her some files and she gushed that “I was so amazing that I’m top of everything.” I was temped to jack off in the church bathroom.

The second thing that happened was that Jill arrived.

I’d learn her name later—at that moment she was just the woman who came into the office in tears. Mid-30s, dirty blonde hair, curvy, plainly attractive even through her miserable drawn face. Dawn sprung out of her chair immediately to comfort her, as if she knew the trouble instantaneously. They went into a hallway between the office and the sanctuary. I caught only snippets of their conversation, Jill tearfully bits of anguished complaints:

“…he says we’ve tried long enough…”

“…I just…I just want another chance….”

“…I’m such a failure…”

And Dawn offering comfort:

“Oh, hon, God’s nowhere near done with you…”

“…you have a good heart and there’s still time…”

“I know it’s so hard to be patient…”

And then Dawn’s voice got quieter, saying things I couldn’t catch but which Kurtköy Escort made Jill’s tears subside. “Really?” I could hear her say, her wrecked voice a touch hopeful now. “You would? It would be OK?”

Then Dawn, clearly: “Sweetheart, that’s what I’m here for.”

I figured that Dawn would want to hustle her out of the church and make sure that Jill’s crying fit didn’t have another witness. But to my surprise, Dawn not only stopped with her in the office but introduced her. “Hon, this is Jill, one of our loveliest young parishioners. Jill, this is Blake, the smartest and most attractive office assistant this lil ol’ church has ever had.” I stood up and shook her hand and gave her a kind look. Dawn was suddenly by my side and leaning against me.

“I hope you’re feeling OK,” I said.

“Oh, I am. I’m sorry to be such a mess. Dawn makes everything so much better.”

I smiled at Dawn. “Yes, she does.” She put her arm around my back and leaned her head against my shoulder. I could feel the curve of her hip against my thigh. She’s like this with everybody, I insisted to myself, to keep my cock down. But I love it when she’s this way with me, my cock argued back.

Later, Dawn offered to take me out for lunch, but she was unusually serious. “We have to talk about a few things,” she said. Though the mood was sober, I still loved watching her climb into her SUV—a large, roomy vehicle for such a small woman—and pull the seat belt tight across her tits. On the drive to a Mediterranean restaurant she recommended, she told me Jill’s story.

“It’s so sad and so common—she’s struggling to get pregnant. And her husband blames her for it, even though he refuses to go to a doctor and see what his sperm count is like. Ninety percent of the time, the man is the problem. He’s making her miserable, saying he’s just going to stop fucking her. Can you believe that? It’s…unloving.”

Dawn saying fucking stopped me cold. It was something, hearing that come out of her mouth.

“It’s interesting that Jill came to you about it. Didn’t go to the pastor.”

“Well, that’s kind of my role around here. I don’t do the doctrine and theological stuff—I’m at my best when I’m just being a happy little helper.”

“You really are, Dawn. I love seeing you in action.” We were at a stoplight. She turned and looked at me softly. As traffic moved again, she turned into an industrial park that was half-empty. She parked the SUV in a lot where nobody else around and turned off the engine.

“Sweetheart, can you keep a secret?”

“Of course. I have nobody here to tell anything to.”

“Jill wants a baby.”

“I know. You told me.”

“Her husband is refusing to give her one.”


“It’s not Christian.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I just looked at her.

“Jill wants a baby, Blake.”

My eyes widened, realizing what she was suggesting. “You mean, you want me to…”

“Did you think Jill was pretty?”

“Well, yes….”

“And you’re not married? All of your equipment in proper working order?”

My cock was straining, and I could see Dawn looking at the bulge in my slacks. A more open, brazen Dawn was revealing herself. “Yes. Definitely.”

“I need to confirm that, sweetheart,” she said. She unbuckled her seatbelt and turned toward me. “So, the person who had your job previously,” she said, unbuttoning her top, “didn’t just help with the filing.” She caressed her tits in her electric blue bra, encouraging my gaze, coaxing a stiffer hardon from me, then unbuckled my seat belt. “We get a lot of couples who want to start families, and some of them”—she rested her hand against my swollen cock, pressing against my slack—“need help.”

“You want me to impregnate the parishioners?” I stammered.

“I want you to help the women who are struggling,” she cooed. Leaning over, she unzipped my pants and expertly fished out my cock. It was almost painfully hard, the head already slick with precum. “Oh, goodness you have a nice one,” she said, then began licking and sucking it.

I had a million questions racing in my head. How many women needed this kind of help? How was it un-Christian for a husband not to knock up his wife, but Christian for another man to do the job? What was my responsibility in this? Father, sperm donor? But Jill’s expert cocksucking pushed all those thoughts out of my head for the moment. I just luxuriated in her expert attention, running my hands through her hair, feeling her full tits press against my thigh as she sucked.

She released my cock with a slick popping sound. “Cum in momma’s mouth, baby. I want to know how big your loads are.”

That momma triggered me. I didn’t last much longer. “Yes, momma,” I groaned, then shot and shot and shot in my busty boss’ mouth, tensing and holding her head firm while I blew what felt like a gallon of cum in her. When I was done, Dawn looked up at me, and kissed me hard with her cum filled mouth.

I just looked at her, stunned.

“I’m impressed you came so much,” she said, drawing her seatbelt across her tits again. “You’re going to be amazing, honey. Let’s get lunch.” She put the car in drive, as if she’d finished one errand and was pleasantly heading off to the next.

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