Chapter 51

Sunday service, late afternoon. Everyone standing for worship, guys in suits, women in long skirts and hair tied back, hymnals open in their hands. In the middle of the chorus, a woman squeezed through our row, touched my boyfriend’s shoulder — my future husband — and whispered quick:

“I locked everything upstairs. No one was there. Give the keys to your mom, okay? Thank her for the trust.”

She smiled, asked to be excused pushing past knees, and vanished down the side aisle. His mom, the deaconess, usually handled the keys for the upper floors, but she was home laid out with the flu. The other woman was in charge of opening and locking the rooms. The keyring weighed heavy in his hand. I saw the discomfort. I saw the idea spark behind his fixed stare.

“Slip out quietly,” he said, barely moving his lips.

I didn’t question it. I let the music swallow the sound of my steps, faked some urgency, and slid out of the row like I was heading to the bathroom. He went first. I counted three beats. Four. Then I followed. In the hallway, smell of polished wood and damp cloth. The worship sound thickened behind the double doors. My heart raced to the piano rhythm.

The stairs to the second floor were empty. No one looked. I climbed slow, feeling the hem of my skirt brush my legs, the fabric warm where it touched skin. I stepped rung by rung. Up top, the air was cooler, smelled like old paper, chalk, marked-up Bibles. He waited in the dim light, the emergency bulb drawing a pale halo on his face.

“Come on,” he held up the keys, picking the one that would work.

The choir downstairs vibrated through the walls, a carpet of voices that would swallow any noise from here. He found the youth room. Slid in a key, turned it. Another. The latch gave with a click. We went in. The door shut. Another key turned from inside. The service went on without us.

The silence up there had a different weight. Desks in rows, whiteboard, speaker box off, faith posters a bit crooked. I touched the wood of the first chair. Smooth. Cold. He pressed up behind me, full body, his heat cutting through my blouse. The keyring jingled on the table. My pulse beat to the distant worship beat. I didn’t take a deep breath. I waited.

“What the hell are we doing here, crazy? If they catch us alone, our names are gonna be up on the pulpit at the next assembly.”

“Relax. No one’s coming.”

He hugged me and tried to kiss me. I turned my face, pushed his chest without much force.

“I only came to keep you company. I thought you were just gonna check the doors and that’s it.”

Light from the hall leaked through the cracks, making the room bright enough. I crossed my arms, chin set, playing pissed. He stepped back, eyeing me like he was measuring distances, and unbuckled his belt. The metal hit soft on the buckle. He unbuttoned his pants. I still had the mad look on my face when he dropped his boxers and pulled out his cock. Even half-soft, it hung heavy and nice in his hand. The mad faded. My mouth opened in a smile I tried to hide by pressing my tongue to my teeth.

“You’re impossible,” I whispered, but I didn’t look away.

He leaned back against the table, body on offer, his breathing louder than the choir downstairs. I took a step, then another. The hem of my skirt brushed my knees. I reached out, no rush, and felt the warmth of his skin against my palm. The piano vibration came through the floor and my pulse matched it.

I dropped to my knees. The skirt hem hit the ground. Window light streaked my face. I gripped the base, hot and heavy, feeling the real weight in my hand like it was alive. The skin was smooth and tight, veins hard under my fingers. I brought the tip to my mouth. The first kiss was quick, just the brush of lips. The second got wet. My tongue traced the frenulum, where the texture changed and scraped light on the roof of my mouth; I went down the central vein and back up, tasting the fine salt mixed with soap and a body scent that lit up my throat. He gasped, leaned harder on the table, fingers in my hair.

I sucked slow, and the throb hit my tongue like an inner bell. I took in half, feeling the thickness stretch my mouth, then a bit more until the gag edge warned hot. I stopped an inch short, breathed through my nose, and went back down, gentle, holding what wouldn’t fit with my hand. With each push, the head bumped the roof of my mouth with a wet smack; the skin heated on my lips; the taste got thicker, more mine. The worship downstairs turned to a tremor in the floor. He groaned low; his hips asked for more. I gave it. Cheeks full, spit running down my fist, the thick scent in the room, and a heat rising from me to my mouth, a horniness that seemed to chew the air with me.

“Keep going…” he whispered hoarse.

I sped up just enough to hear his belt buckle tap light on the wood. The hardness filled out, a firm weight pulsing against my fingers and vibrating on my tongue. His breathing hitched. The skin stretched another notch. The throbbing got urgent. I felt the warning in how he grabbed my hair, the short tug.

I pulled off with a pop and squeezed the base, quick, wet with spit, setting the rhythm with my hand.

“Easy,” I whispered, looking up. “Don’t cum on me. I can’t go back to service with cum on my clothes.”

I stepped back and hiked my skirt to my waist, twisting the fabric careful until it was almost a high belt. It hugged tight on my hips, uncomfortable, marking the skin. The panties, big and beige — the so-called “coffee filter” — came off in a quick move and landed on the table. I looked at him. He was gripping his own cock, trying to hold back. I spit on my fingers and reached back. He got it.

“Pussy, baby, please?”

“No. Pussy’s for my future husband. We’ve talked about this. Want it? Marry me first!”

I spit again in my palm, spread it on the head and the vein, feeling it heat under my hand. I pulled him by the base, brought him to the table corner. I bent at the waist, legs spread, belly brushing the cold edge. The whiteboard reflected me in pieces; crooked posters saw it all. I braced my hands on the smooth wood, shoulders opening, nape prickling.

I stroked his cock again, firm, thumb circling the frenulum, the rest of my hand setting the pace. He pressed up behind me, the scent of dick in the air. His belt buckle tapped light on my ass. Street light cut my thigh, made the spit on my fingers shine.

I braced on the table and lined it up, guiding the tip with my hand. I breathed deep through my nose and relaxed my ring to let him in. When he entered, I felt the heat spread around, an inner hug, tight and good. It didn’t hurt. It burned in that way that ignites. With each inch, my body recognized the shape and gave way. When he was fully seated, heavy, I let out a short moan and let my hips ask for more.

I rested my forearm on the top, brought my other hand forward, and rubbed my clit without fanfare. Two fingers in circles, firm pressure. His cock filled me from behind in a rhythm that pushed my clit against my own fingers. It was like the pleasure met in the middle: my hand pulling from one side, him pushing from the other, and me in the center, vibrating. The cold varnish of the table on my belly skin, the smell of polished cloth, his hot breath on my nape, it all turned to fuel.

“Like that,” I asked, grinding light to adjust the angle. I felt the stretched skin, my asshole pulsing around him, a throb that answered each thrust. I clenched my perineum on purpose and released, feeling the whole outline, the head sweeping inside, stretching and retreating, stretching and retreating. My mouth filled with spit; my knee shook; my hand sped up.

The orgasm came in short waves. First a snap at the base of my belly, then a current climbing my spine and bursting behind my eyes. I bit my lip to not draw attention and let my body vibrate open, squeezing him inside, welcoming each pulse like milking. I kept touching myself, lighter, to keep the ember lit.

“Don’t stop,” I whispered. “Use me.”

He filled the motion, cock hard, veins rubbing my walls. I felt when he hit the edge: his body weight shifted, breathing faltered, his hand gripped my hip.

“Now,” I said low, no doubt.

He spilled hot, deep. I could feel it spread, a heavy heat in my core, and I clenched inside to hold it, precise, like closing a hand around water and still keeping some. I kept him there, plugged, until the last spasm.

“Slow,” I asked. “Don’t pull out quick.”

He slid out slow. I held his seed. I grabbed a pad from my purse, fitted it tight between my legs, secured it with the panties, and dropped the skirt. I felt the warm weight filling me, a throbbing reminder with each step. I fixed my hair, looked at him still panting.

“Let’s go. I want to feel you inside me all night long.”

Let’s praise God happy!