The first thing he noticed was her long, blond hair, then her rounded hips. And then—but a minister wasn’t supposed to notice—that her jiggling breasts and protruding nipples were outlined by the thin material of her dress, a very short dress which revealed plump thighs almost up to ... well, a preacher wasn’t supposed to be looking there either.

The good reverend raised his focus and noticed that her young, pretty face was frowning slightly as if under a strain of some kind. She pursed her lips as if releasing her breath, then her mouth opened in a gasp. She seemed to be going through contortions, but attempting to conceal them while making her way down the street, occasionally pressing one hand to her lower belly as if trying to keep her dress from rising in the wind. No one seemed to be paying her any attention.

She stopped to grab a lamppost for support, and looked up with hooded eyes as a big blue Cadillac pulled to a stop along the curb beside her. Inside she could see a good-looking black dude leaning across from the driver’s seat as the window opened. He had curly black hair, and a gold tooth sparkled in his mouth as he smiled.

“Need a hand?” he asked.

“You can say that again,” she said.

“Well,” said the preacher, “perhaps I can help you. Get in.”

He opened the door. As she got in, her short dress slid high on her thighs as she settled into the plush upholstery. Again the good reverend had to remind himself...

“I’m Reverend Thomas Parker,” he said. “What kind of problem are you having?”

“Hi,” she said, “I’m Amanda Jacobs. It’s the wind. God, I didn’t know it would be blowing so hard.”

“It is a little chilly,” he said.

“Chilly?” she gasped. “Have you ever worn a mini-dress in January?”

“Well, uh,” the preacher faltered, “as a matter of fact, I don’t believe I...”

“Well, after all, you’re a man,” she said. “How would you know how it feels with the wind blowing under your dress?”

“I can see you’re getting goose bumps,” he said, glancing at her bare thighs pressed together as she sat half facing him on the seat.

“Am I?” she asked. “It wouldn’t be so bad if ... gosh, if I had worn some ... that is ... uh ... ummmffff ... god ... at least here I can ... oooohhh...”

The good reverend knew that it was wrong for him to notice that the unfortunate young woman’s dress was rising higher as she squirmed and twisted her hips on the seat. He looked up, only to see her jiggling breasts and her nipples protruding stiffly against the thin material covering them. Gosh, he shouldn’t notice that either.

“What happened?” The preacher asked. Gosh, should he remind her that her hem was going much too high? After all, he was a minister of the...

“I was in such a hurry,” she said. She wondered if he could see how difficult it was for her to keep her plump thighs together. “And when I found I didn’t have any clean undies, I thought it wouldn’t matter and no one would notice, so I just went without.

“Uh, I see,” said the reverend. Did she say no undies?

“Oh, do you?” she said. “I was trying to keep my legs together. I didn’t mean to act like a ... I mean, I don’t want you to think I’m a...”

“Well, I...” he stammered. “I’m a minister of the...”

“It’s just that the wind was so cold and I could feel it up my thighs and then between my lips, and I lubricate so easily. And I don’t have any hair, so I’m all smooth and slick, and maybe I could ... but ... oooohh ... do you mind if I ... if I could just rub my ... uuuuuh ... my thighs together a little...

“Well, I...” the preacher repeated...

“Would you like for me to raise my dress?” She asked, suddenly a little shy, grasping the hem of her dress where it lay on her dimpled thighs just below the curve of her lower belly.

“Uh...” the reverend grunted, glancing around to make sure no one he knew was ... Gosh, a preacher wasn’t supposed to...”Raise your ... gee.”

“Did you say you are a minister?” she asked, the edge of her skirt now barely concealing what lay beneath.

“Uh, yes,” said the black preacher. “I’m a minister of the gospel.

“Oh, I’m glad,” she said. “That would make it all right then, wouldn’t it? I mean, you can help me with my problem. I can show you if you want. You could take a look at me and see if there is something wrong that makes me get so wet and have a climax walking down the...

“Uh, I don’t know,” said the good preacher. Geeze, suppose one of the deacons walked by? There weren’t many blue Cadillacs like this in town. But just look at those pretty white thighs, and she wants to raise her dress, but if she’s a lady in a dress, then “Uh, if you really want to.”

Did he actually say that? Did he really tell a woman—a white woman—she could raise her dress in his car, and he was a minister of the.

She lay back on the seat. “There’s really not much to lift,” she said. The good black preacher was watching. She raised the hem up onto her white abdomen. She knew that he could see the puffy pink lips of her hairless pubic mound. She was showing her unpantied underside to a black man. “Isn’t it awful how wet I am?” she said, trailing first one finger, then two, between the exposed labia. The good reverend could see the shiny meatus of her erect clitoris.

“Gosh, did I tell you I lubricate so easily? But it’s not my fault. It’s because of the wind, all up under my dress and between my lips, and I guess you can see my clitoris is stiff, and there wasn’t much I could do walking down the street, but I guess you don’t know how it feels to have on just a little dress and nothing underneath, and the cold wind between your lips and rubbing together because my thighs are a little plump, as I guess you can see, although some people call them fat, only I don’t think I’m fat, and I guess I had a climax, and it was hard not to show it on my face, and I didn’t want everyone to know that there I was walking down the street having a climax and ... and not wearing any panties, and I wonder if something is wrong with me, but maybe if ... that is ... it would help if I ... that is, if you ... I mean ... uh ... do you want to look closer and see if everything ... uh ... if anything...”

The good reverend slid closer. She spread her plump thighs on each side of his and lowered her buttocks into his lap with her dress up around her hips and belly. The preacher bent low to look at her pouting pubic lips and inhaled the musky aroma between her legs. Damn, he thought, first time I’ve seen white pussy this close up.

“Nothing wrong that I can see,” he said. Now maybe she would pull down her dress. After all, he was a minister of the...

“But maybe you could give me something,” she said, “just so I can get to work. I mean, uh, if I could have something really big, maybe I could get through the rest of the...?

“Something big?” he asked dumbly, hoping again that none of his congregation would come by and see him, in the Fleetwood Brougham his church had bought for him, looking under a white woman’s dress. What would Deacon Wells say? What would Sister Alice say? God, they would throw him out of the church.

“A really big climax, I mean. One that would really drain me and finish what the wind started. These little ones just make me want another, and it looks so awful when I have to rub myself in public. And I can see you’ve got a big one too, even if you are a minister. I mean, unless that’s a banana in your pocket.”

The reverend followed her gaze to the long bulge extending down his left trouser leg. A banana? “No,” he said, “It’s just the weakness of the flesh. I’m a minister of the gospel. Uh, maybe you should pull down your ... that is ... uh ... what if somebody in my congregation comes by...”

“Well, ain’t that something? Worrying about your congregation. And you got the biggest black dick I ever seen. At least judging from the bulge in your pants, and you’re going to turn down the best white pussy in town? Because you’re a minister of the ... damn ... don’t you like my pretty white thighs? Uhhhh,” she grunted, “Look how I can swallow my fingers ... but they’re too small ... oooohh, God ... don’t you want to give me something bigger?”

“But I’m a minister,” he said, a minister of the...”

“Geeze,” she whispered as the good reverend adjusted himself to ease the pressure of the growing bulge in his pants, “did I say ten inches? Well, if I didn’t, I was thinking it. That thing must be a foot if it’s an inch. Is it like that because of me? Because I’m sitting here in front of you with my dress up? And you’re gonna tell me you don’t like white pussy?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like ... that is...”

“Ain’t never seen a nigger didn’t like white pussy,” she said, then realized her error. “Uh, I mean African American. Geeze, I’m not prejudiced. Here, let me see if you don’t want some of what’s under my dress.” She moved closer to the black preacher as he sat behind the wheel, pulling one leg up against the dash, the other against the back of the seat so that her dimpled white thighs were fully open in front of the black minister.

People walked by on the sidewalk and paid them no attention. As he blinked at the saucy display under her dress, with nimble fingers she unzipped his trousers, reached down the left leg, and with some effort pulled out at least twelve inches of hard black dick.

“Jesus,” she whispered in awe as it straightened up in front of her, “What’s a preacher need with this? Just look at the size of this thing. Geeze, Rev, you could raise you some money for the church with this. I can’t even get my fingers around it.” Just look at how black it is, she thought to herself. She shivered at the unholy contrast between her delicate white fingers and the preacher’s ebony pole.

“It’s the size of my forearm,” she whispered, “It’ll be like swallowing a fire hydrant. I wonder how it’ll look going up in my belly. But I need a little space. I want to get up on it. I want to ride it. I need some space to straddle it. God, I need me some black dick. That steering wheel is in the way.” At her urging, the preacher reluctantly moved from behind the wheel to the center of the seat.

“It’s the weakness of the flesh,” he said. “Perhaps an inch would be okay.”

“How much? How much did you say I can have?” she asked.

“Maybe just an inch,” he said.

“An inch?” said the woman. “How about two?”

“Well, all right then, maybe two,” said the reverend. “But you’ll have to be careful.”

“Careful? Why? I feel loose enough to take the trans-Alaska pipeline.”

“So did a little lady one time in Georgia,” said the minister.

“In Georgia?” she asked. “You had a girl in Georgia?”

“That was before I got religion.”

“Yeah, okay, before you got relig-- but was she a ... that is, was she...”

“White? Yes. But it really wasn’t my fault. I mean, it wasn’t like I seduced her or anything.”

“It’s all right with me if she was white,” said the girl, still rubbing her slick lower lips as she rotated her hips on the seat. “Don’t think I’m prejudiced.”

“Well, it wasn’t my fault. Like I said, that was back before I got religion. The police picked me up for speeding, and I didn’t have my license, so they put me in a cell for the night. The deputy got drunk, and they brought in this white girl. I guess they didn’t notice they put her in the cell with me. When I asked what she was in for, she told me it was for not wearing any panties, and that was against the law in that county. And she pulled up her dress to show me, and I guess I got a, you know.