Sister Missionary Surprise

*** 1 -- My First Vision ***

The number one question I get when people read my stories is:

"Can you really drive a six-inch nail through a board with your dick?"

Close second:

"Did you ever bang a sister missionary?"

Answers?

Kind of. To both.

I've got pages on Sarah. Screenshots. Notes. Memory dumps. This version? Cleaned up for readability. Same framework though.

No lies.

Names changed? Maybe.

Timeline compressed? Absolutely.

And for modesty's sake, I'm rounding my dick down to a humble 14.5 inches.

You're welcome.

I don't do fluff. If it's not essential to the arc, it's out. If things seem implausibly fast--good. That means I cut the boring parts.

That being said, we can start where I first met her.

++

"They don't make 'em like they used to," I said.

"You Mormons even allowed to grow 'em that big?" Mark said, nodding at the new sister missionary.

"The church is always growing," I told him.

He snorted. "Send more out like that, you'll baptize every cock in the state."

I forced myself to look away. Couldn't let the ward see me ogling the fresh meat.

"We'll always have you, buddy," I said, patting his shoulder, steering him toward the exit.

Later, I handed him twenty bucks in the parking lot. Monthly payment for church appearances. My wife Claire calls it "doing missionary work." Keeps her happy.

But when that pair of tits walked out beside me? Yeah. I re-evaluated my stance on Sisters.

Briefly.

Trying to seduce a sister missionary in her own area? Fantasy shit. That only happens in budget smut or the Bible.  Still... those tits were worthy of worship.

Turns out worship doesn't stay in the past. A few years later, there they were again--attached to a woman I almost didn't recognize.

And then I realized--shit. It was her

Sister Pease.

Nametag gone. Blouse and skirt downgraded to a grease-stained tee and khakis from the tent section. Minecraft silhouette. No pride.

Didn't matter. I never forget a breast. Same nipples. Same pull. Just older, dragged down by gravity and bad lighting.

Journal check confirmed it: two years for me, maybe one for her. Back then she lit up our house at dinner. Now? A black hole with tits.

Rain tapped on the bookstore skylight, lazy and dull. Fit the mood.

I let the person behind me go first, just to land in her lane.

Name tag: Sarah.

No rings. No tan lines.

No eye contact. Not shy--just numb.

Hair oily at the scalp, dandruff sparking under the fluorescents. Cheap foundation caked at the corners of her nose. The smell of dry shampoo and burnt muffins clung to her like rancid perfume.

With a spa day. Better clothes. She could look like someone again. Someone I could stand to watch while she gagged on me. Porn's an option, sure--but Claire hates that, and I respect her boundaries. Which leaves me Sarah.

Too many layers to judge her body. Besides the reality-bending tits, it was guesswork. But I couldn't stop picturing those things bouncing while I pinned her missionary-style--fitting, right?

She didn't look up for weeks. When she finally did, her eyes crawled upward like her skull was full of lead.

Still no spark of recognition. Even better.

Blank canvas.

"Doing a return?" she asked. Voice once bubbly, now flat as a dial tone.

"Yeah," I said. "Got the receipt."

She took it without looking. Tossed it. "Refund or store credit?"

"Store credit. Just grabbing another."

It was Claire's white noise machine. Played hymns. It died last week. God bless it.

I pointed at her like I'd solved a puzzle. "Sister... Pease?"

She tilted her head. "Yeah?"

"It's you!"

She squinted. "Umm..."

"It's fine if you don't remember. I wasn't exactly in a good place back then."

I gave her my name. Dropped Claire and my daughter into the mix. That snapped her posture right up.

"Oh. Ohhh. I remember now."

Small talk while she rang up my replacement speaker. How's the ward. How's Claire. Is my daughter planning a mission?

She hadn't shaken the cloud, but for a second, something flickered. She missed who she used to be.

Perfect.

Time to press.

"This'll sound creepy," I said, sliding my card across.

She hesitated. Looked up.

"That last talk you gave... it stuck with me. More than you know."

I made my eyes shine. Even squeezed out a tear. I've had practice.

"I didn't think anyone cared back then. But you did. That saved me."

Good thing she didn't ask what she'd said. I had no clue. Just knew missionaries always give a farewell talk. Right lie, right time.

She smiled awkwardly. "That's just what missionaries do. But... I'm glad it helped."

She didn't like being singled out. But she loved being remembered.

I leaned in, voice soft.

"No. You weren't just doing a job. You cared enough to waste your youth knocking doors for God. That's why it worked."

And there it was--the blush. Crawling up her neck into her cheeks. Beautiful.

"It's the Lord who saves," she mumbled. "I was just the speaker."

I grinned. Not for the reason she thought.

Held up the broken machine.

"If there's no speaker, what good is power?"

That earned a real smile. A flare of the old light.

It stung. I wanted it. Needed it.

I'd make her shine again.

Just so I could be the one to snuff it out.

At the door, I threw one more line.

"You wouldn't wanna come to dinner with me and the missus sometime, would you?"

Her cloud returned. "Don't really have time. This place takes it all."

Strike one.

I pivoted.

"Busy's not always the same as living," I said.

She gave a vague nod, already waving the next customer forward.

She thought I was being polite.

She was wrong.

*** 2 -- Claire's Rules ***

Claire doesn't know I pay Mark twenty bucks to show up at church once a month. She calls it "missionary work." Keeps her smiling, keeps her from asking questions. That's marriage--maintenance fees.

She does have rules, though. Real strict ones.

No porn.

No secrets.

No lying.

Which is funny, considering I break all three before breakfast.

I never tell her that, of course. I kiss her cheek, nod along, promise her I'll be a good boy. And then I spend the drive to work picturing Sarah on her knees, tits pressed to the bookstore counter, hymns buzzing out of that shitty white-noise machine while she gags on me.

But Claire? Claire wants eye contact. She wants gentle. She wants "making love."

So I give her that, too.

Last night I slid in slow, missionary-style. Her favorite. (The only choice).  She closed her eyes and whispered my name like a prayer. And the whole time I kept mine open, staring over her shoulder, not at Claire's face but at the memory of Sarah's tits bouncing under a sweat-darkened tee.

At least I think she did.  The lights were off.  They're always off.

That's what Claire doesn't get. Love isn't about truth. It's about performance.

"Stay with me, body and spirit?" she asked, breath catching as I moved inside her.

"Every breath." I said. The easiest lie in the world.

When we finished, she curled into me, sweaty hair damp against my chest. She thought the silence meant afterglow. She didn't notice me staring at the ceiling, tracing invisible outlines of Sarah's name tag, imagining how her lips would look with my cock between them instead of polite sentences.

Claire drifted to sleep. I stayed awake, hard again.

Rules or not, I was already planning my next "return" to the bookstore.

*** 3 - Bait Master ***

I went back two days later with another broken speaker. Claire didn't even ask why. Let her think I'm careless--it's easier than telling her I'm plotting a seduction in the self help aisle.

Sarah was at her register again, same dull uniform, same dead posture. Scanning items like she was clocking time in purgatory.

"Back so soon?" she asked without looking up.

"Guess I'm hard on my equipment," I said.

Her lips twitched--almost a smile--then flattened. A crack.

She scanned the box, hands white on the keys. Hair pulled back too tight, scalp flashing pale. Every detail screamed forgotten.

I leaned on the counter, close enough she had to feel me watching. "You ever think about doing something else?"

Her eyes flicked up, flat but defensive. "This is fine."

"No," I said softly. "This is a graveyard. You don't belong in one."

Her throat bobbed. Silence.

"You've got a degree, right?" I pressed.

She hesitated. "Yeah. Associates. Science." She gave a bitter laugh. "Worthless."

I let the pause hang, then tilted my head. "Planning on engineering?"

Her lips parted. A beat. "I was. Once."

"Then let me talk to a friend," I said. "Get you out of here."

Her hand flexed on the counter, torn between pride and relief. "Why would you do that?"

I leaned in, teeth in my smile. "Because you once gave me something for free. Now I owe you."

The register beeped impatient. She shoved the bag across the counter. "Think about it," I told her, voice meant for her alone.

As I walked away, I could feel her eyes on my back. Not hostile. Not grateful. Just wondering.

Perfect.

*** 4 -- The Bridge ***

The next day, I didn't buy a thing. Just drifted past her register, watching. Waiting.

Her lips twitched when she saw me. "Hey."

I grinned, leaned on the counter, held up the line until people shifted and sighed behind me. "What can I say? Hard to stay away."

I had an entire script ready to deploy, but that's when it happened.

Some manager--fat tie, sweaty pits, voice like a broken intercom, called her off the register. He chewed her out right there in the aisle. Loud enough for the whole store.

"Sarah, these end caps look like hell. Didn't I tell you--straighten, restock, rotate? It's not complicated."

She muttered something I couldn't hear. Head down, shoulders hunched.

"Don't mumble," he barked. "And fix your shirt--it looks unprofessional."

Her blush crawled up her neck, hot and raw. She nodded, robotic, moving to fix the display.

I sauntered closer, just enough for her to know I'd seen. Her humiliation. Her silence. Her boss stormed off, and she caught me watching.

"You didn't hear that," she said, tight and brittle.

I smiled. "Didn't hear what?"

Her lips twitched again--half embarrassed, half relieved.

I let the moment breathe, then dropped my voice. "You're done here. Tomorrow. I'll pick you up at eight."

She opened her mouth like she might refuse. But nothing came out. Just that pause, swollen and awkward, her pride wrestling with her need.

Finally: "Okay."

Hook set.

*** 6 -- The Ride ***

Sarah agreed to the job faster than I expected, so the next morning, she slid into the passenger seat of my car. Khakis wrinkled, blouse a size too big, hair pinned back like she was trying to hide from the world. The tits betrayed her anyway. They always would.

"Thanks for the ride," she mumbled, clutching her bag like a shield.

"Least I can do," I said, pulling out of the lot. "You're bailing me out, remember? Claire thinks I'm a saint for helping you."

Her eyes flicked toward me, curious. "Does she know?"

"That I'm driving you? Yeah. That you used to be Sister Pease, savior of lost souls? No. That's my secret."

Her mouth tightened, like she didn't know whether to laugh or scold me. Perfect. Keep her off balance.

The wipers dragged across the glass, squeaking like bed springs. Rain blurred the world into gray smears. Inside, the truck smelled like leather, imitation strawberry and a faint trace of Claire's perfume. Sarah shifted uncomfortably, pressing herself closer to the door.

"You okay?" I asked.

She nodded too quickly. "Just feels weird. You know. Accepting help."

I let the silence hang. Let her feel it. Then: "Help isn't charity. It's investment."

Her head turned, eyes narrowing. "Investment?"

"Sure. You're smart. Capable. You just need someone to open a door. You walk through it, you make me look good. Everybody wins."

She chewed her lip. Didn't answer. The blush creeping up her neck did it for her.

I leaned one arm on the wheel, casual. "You miss it?"

"Miss what?"

"The light. The way people looked at you. Back when you were Sister Pease."

Her breath caught, sharp enough I almost heard it over the rain. She turned to the window, watching water streak the glass.

"I don't know," she said finally. "That feels like someone else's life."

I smiled. "Doesn't have to be. You still have the spark. I saw it when you smiled at me in the store."

"That was nothing."

"Nothing?" I chuckled. "Sweetheart, people don't blush over nothing."

She made a sound, half scoff, half laugh. That was the first crack. The first hint of heat in her voice.

Traffic slowed. Red lights stretched the ride longer than it should have been. Good. Time was my ally.

When I pulled into the lot, she reached for the handle like the seat was on fire.

"Thanks again," she said quickly.

"Anytime. That's what investments are for."

Her eyes lingered a second too long before she escaped into the rain.

I watched her go. The sway wasn't practiced, wasn't intentional. But the tits bounced all the same.

This was going to be easy.

*** 7 -- Strings Attached ***

Sarah showed up the next morning with damp hair and a faint Diet Coke stain on her blouse. The kind of slip she used to think angels marked down in their little celestial scorebooks. Now it looked less like a stain and more like a badge:

"Hello, I'm sister Fallen."

All I could picture was peeling that blouse open, tugging her garments down, and letting her wear the real scarlet letter--my cum spread across her chest.

"Rough morning?" I asked, unlocking the car.

She sighed. "Alarm didn't go off. Neighbor borrowed my iron again. And some kid at the gas station dumped his soda all over me."

I grinned. "Guess it's a good thing you've got me."

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched. That twitch mattered. More than the stain.

The drive was quiet except for the wipers dragging against the glass. She fidgeted, tugged at the hem of her blouse where her garments peeked just enough to remind her of who she was supposed to be. Finally, she blurted: "You don't have to do this."

"Do what?"

"Help me. Drive me. Be... nice. Whatever this is."

I let that sit. Then: "Sure I do. You're an investment. You think I waste gas on bad stock?"

She laughed, sharp and nervous. "That's awful."

"Yeah, but you smiled. And that's progress."

Her blush betrayed her. Again.

At the stoplight, I leaned on the wheel, casual. "What's weighing you down, Sarah? I can see it on your shoulders."

She hesitated. Then, softer: "Debt. School. Life. All of it. I screwed up. I got stuck selling scripture-themed puzzles to old ladies. Until you came along anyway."

And there it was. The treasure chest cracked open--her shame spilling out like gold. All I had to do now was take it, pirate-style, and fuck her until she begged me to hoist the sails.

I didn't touch her. Not yet. But I let my voice dip low. "That's not a life. That's a holding pattern. And I don't let people I care about circle the drain."

Her eyes flicked to me, startled by the word: care. Then she looked away, throat tight.

I didn't push further. Not today. I wanted her to sit in that silence, stew in the idea that I could be the one to cut her chains.

Because tomorrow, I would.

*** 8 -- Charity Always Follows ***

I make it a rule not to spend money on women I pursue. Feels like cheating. If I wanted to pay for sex, there's a whole industry for that.

But Sarah wasn't a purchase. She was a restoration project. And restorations take parts.

Turns out the reason school spat her out wasn't a flunked class--it was a balance. Six hundred fifty dollars and change. The kind of number that isn't large enough to be tragic, just humiliating.

Admissions was easy. The clerk wore a cardigan fit for Relief Society and a wedding band with a temple glint. Bishop's wife, if I had to guess. I didn't need to guess long. Two minutes of small talk and a soft-voiced favor later, the ledger flipped from red to white. I paid ahead for a part-time load, too. No sense loosening the knot if you don't cut it clean.

I left the receipt folded in my pocket like a love note I'd never write.

---

She was waiting on the curb when I pulled up--hoodie, thick denim, garments peeking at the waist. A bundle of modesty glued together by nerves.

"Morning," I said. "Hop in."

She did, clutching her bag like a shield. Her hair was pinned back wrong. The kind of wrong that says you did it with your fingers and a prayer in a bathroom mirror.

"I checked on classes," I said, pulling away from the apartment complex. "They'll let you register today."

Her voice was small. "I can't. There's... a balance."

"Was," I said.

She blinked. "What?"

"It's gone." I kept my tone soft, businesslike. Not heroic. "You'll start with two classes. Math you hate, physics you pretend to. MWF. I set the schedule around work."

She stared at me. The silence wasn't empty this time; it was heavy, full of panic and relief wrestling for top billing.

"Why?" she whispered. "I don't deserve this. I don't."

"I say you do." I let quiet fill the car. Let it bloom until she had to breathe.

"I almost left," I said finally.

Her head snapped toward me. "Left what?"

"Back then." I kept my eyes on the road. "That day a sister stood in our chapel and bared her soul. I almost left my wife. My kids. My job. The Church. Everything."

Nothing but windshield and wipers and a man telling the truth like a liar. Or is that the other way around?

"I didn't matter," I said. "Didn't want to wake up. Didn't want to try. Felt like I could cure cancer on my way to Mars in a ship made of toothpicks and nobody would care."

Her breath hitched. She was listening with her whole body.

"But then you spoke."

I gave her a small smile. The kind you offer a child you're about to hand a match.

"You said, 'Be yourself. Let God handle the rest.' That we'll never be perfect. Not the smartest, the fastest, the thinnest, or the most righteous. Just be yourself and pray it's enough."

All fiction. But nobody remembers their farewell talk three years later.

We rolled to a stoplight. I laid my hand, palm-down, on the console. The scar along my wrist caught the gray morning and turned it into a question. (Got tangled in barbed wire, but she didn't need to know that.)

Her eyes widened. She reached--then recoiled like it burned.

"It's okay," I said, voice low.

She placed two fingers on mine. Electricity. The first arc across a dark room. Probably the first time she'd touched a man like that without a set of rules between them.

I made a show of relaxing. Turned my hand over, one finger at a time, until it was palm up.

She kept her fingers resting there. One second. Maybe two. Then she let her hand fall into mine.

I closed around it gently. A test squeeze. Enough to say chosen, not enough to say owned. Yet.

She started to cry. Not the loud, broken kind. The Mormon kind--polite, controlled, like the ward might be watching from the next lane.

"I don't know how to pay you back," she whispered.

"You don't." I let my thumb trace the ridge of her knuckle. "You just don't waste it."

She nodded, breath shivering, eyes on our hands as if the contact itself were a blessing she'd accidentally earned.

I let go first. Timing is everything. You give, you take, you let the lack ache.

First touch. Rarely perfect. But it had begun.

*** 9 -- Charity Always Bends ***

Time didn't sprint after the debt got erased. It drove the speed limit, flicked its blinker, and let every oncoming car pass. Weeks slid into place like hymn verses--predictable, memorized, and still somehow heavy.