She Saw the Man's Rod and Wham

Chapter 51

Sunday service, late afternoon. Everyone standing for worship, men in suits, women in long skirts and pinned-up hair, 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, excused herself pushing past knees, and disappeared down the side aisle. His mom, the deaconess, usually handled the keys for the upper floors, but she was home, knocked out by 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 sounds thickened behind the double doors. My heart raced to the piano's 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 my 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'd work there.

The choir downstairs vibrated through the walls, a carpet of voices that'd swallow any noise from here. He found the youth room. Slid in a key, turned it. Another. The latch gave with a click. We stepped 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 neat rows, whiteboard, powered-off speaker, slightly crooked faith posters. I touched the wood of the first chair. Smooth. Cold. He pressed up behind me, full body, his heat seeping through my blouse. The keyring clinked on the table. My pulse beat to the distant worship rhythm. I didn't take a deep breath. I waited.

"What the hell are we doing here, you nut? 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 checking 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 off. He stepped back, eyeing me like he was measuring the distance, 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 anger faded. My mouth curved into 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's vibration came up through the floor and my pulse matched it.

I sank 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 taut, with hard veins mapping the path under my fingers. I brought the tip to my mouth. The first kiss was quick, just lips brushing. The second got it wet. My tongue traced the frenulum, where the texture shifted and lightly scraped the roof of my mouth; I slid down the central vein and back up, tasting the faint salt mixed with soap and that musky body scent that lit up my throat. He gasped, leaned harder on the table, fingers in my hair.

I sucked slow, and the throbbing 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 pressed 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 into a tremor in the floor. He groaned low; his hips begged for more. I gave it. Cheeks full, saliva dripping down my fist, the thick scent filling the room and a heat rising from me to my mouth, a lust that felt like it was chewing the air with me.

"Keep going..." he whispered hoarse.

I sped up just enough to hear his belt buckle tap lightly on the wood. It got fully hard, a solid 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, in the short tug.

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

"Easy," I whispered, looking up. "Don't cum on me. I can't go back to the service with cum on my clothes."

I stepped back and hiked my skirt to my waist, twisting the fabric careful until it was almost like a high belt. It hugged tight on my hips, uncomfortable, marking my skin. The panties, big and beige—the so-called "coffee filter"—came off in one 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, babe, please?"

"No. Pussy's for my future husband. We already talked about it. Want it? Marry me first!"

I spit again in my palm, spread it on the head and the vein, feeling it warm under my hand. I pulled him by the base, brought him to the edge of the table. I bent forward, 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 rhythm. He pressed up behind me, the scent of dick in the air. His belt buckle tapped light on my ass. Streetlight cut across my thigh, made the spit on my fingers gleam.

I leaned 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 every 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 braced my forearm on the top, brought my other hand forward, and rubbed myself off 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 thrusting from the other, and me in the center, vibrating. The cool 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, rolling my hips light to adjust the angle. I felt the stretched skin, my asshole pulsing around him, a throb answering 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 saliva; 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's weight shifted, breathing faltered, his hand gripped my hip firm.

"Now," I said low, no doubt.

He spilled hot, deep. I could feel it spread, a heavy warmth in my core, and I clenched inside to hold it, precise, like cupping water in your fist and still keeping some. I kept him there, fitted, until the last spasm.

"Slow," I asked. "Don't pull out quick."

He slid out slow. I held the 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 occupying me, a throbbing reminder with every 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!