Letter 23 - From the Lost Letter Bin at Everheart, North Dakota
Reverend Amos Handenpantz
First Purgatorian Church
5521 Cowherd Street
Dear Reverend Handenpantz:
I would like to thank you very much for your recent pastoral visit to my home after the unexpected death of my husband, Walter Ferguson. I had a wonderful life with Walter, and his tragic death had left me empty inside. Without the support of my church and my community, I do not know how I would survive.
When we were in my kitchen, and I was bending over to take that apple pie from the oven, and then felt you behind me lifting my dress, sliding your hand inside my panties, and cupping my vagina in your hand, it was almost as if Walter was back with me. He had done that a thousand times, and being there again, bent over in the kitchen with a man’s hand in my panties, told me that life does go on.
When we knelt to pray in the living room and you put your arm around me and then put your hand inside my blouse and fondled my breasts, it took me back to when I first met Walter and he used to feel me up like that in the hayloft on the farm. You rose from prayer, and I stayed on my knees, and I asked if I could suck your dick the way I used to do to Walter and you agreed, and having a cock in my mouth again for the few minutes it took to get you off, made my loneliness bearable.
After coming in my mouth, you pulled off my panties, put me in Walter’s La-Z-Boy, and buried your face in my private place, and for just a moment I was free of grief. Walter used to do me that way until I writhed like a fresh-caught trout on the bottom of a boat and you were every bit his equal. Even today, days later, the very thought of your tongue down there makes me tingle.
Walter had always said that if he died first, I should see other men, but I wouldn’t think about it and told him not to say things like that. But when you took me to the bedroom, laid me naked on the bed, and climbed between my legs, I could only think that Walter was watching with approval from heaven. And as I held my ankles in my hands, my legs spread, while you pounded me so hard that the bed shook and the sound of our bodies slapping together scared the dog, I felt that Walter was with God, masturbating as he watched you do me. I shouted “Good Lord, Reverend,” and you exclaimed, “Oh God, Agnes” and I felt Walter had sent you to me and was using your fine body to give me what he could no longer give me with his.
When you left that day, you haltingly expressed some doubt whether the pastoral counseling you provided me was fully consistent with church policies. Please do not worry. Several local pastors have visited me since Walter’s death. It seems to me that all the local churches employ approximately the same procedure for comforting widows, but I want you to know that your counseling was more energetic, lasted longer, and gave me more Godly shivers than any of your brethren. You need to be proud of the difficult work you do.
Please don’t counsel me and then forget me. Walter is still gone and I am still a lonely widow in need of regular pastoral attention. Come over any time. I will have an apple pie in the oven.