Sunday Sacrilege - I'm not the only one

See, I'm not the only one....

She was at services on Sunday, sitting near the front in the family pew, waiting for the Pastor to enter and make his salutations.  She seemed distracted by her young ones, usually the model of perfect behavior, but I felt a little more simmering under her wide brimmed winter hat.

She should have played Little Red Riding Hood, or Snow White, I told myself.  I was becoming obsessed with her, I could feel it, I can always feel it when my feelings go from admiration to want, to desire, to need.  I was beginning to need her, to see her, to smell her as she walked by.  I made an extra large donation at Christmas to move up closer to her family's traditional pew.  No one "owned" their bench, but her family had been sitting in the front left corner, at the feet of the pastor, for many years.  Rumor had it that her grandfather funded most of the building fund anonymously, but that wasn't good enough for her father, or aunt.  They wanted it to be known that this House of worship belonged to God, but they held the mortgage.

She reached her breaking point with her kids and waited until the next hymn finished and scurried out with misbehaving kids in tow.  I waited until the Deacons stood with their baskets, crossed myself, and walked out a different door.  I circled back through the Rec Hall and found her in the Children's chapel.  I have never seen her smoke, but she looked like a woman who could use a long drag on a Virginia Slims.  She stood with her back against the pillar as her kids burned off steam in the smaller, more modern chapel.  The door clicked shut behind me and she looked up, embarrassed over her noisy kids, chagrined at the lack of perfection, this crack in her personna.

I smiled quietly and made it clear that conversation was not required.  I sat on the bench as the kids tore in to the toys in the adjacent nursery.  She walked over to my pew, her $400 shoes clicking softly on the hardwood floor.  Though the bench was empty, save for me, I scooted over a few inches in invitation, and she sat.  her head rested on my shoulder as she unpinned her had and tossed it to the bench behind us.  My arm enveloped her and she closed her eyes and, in one motion, lifted her feet up and slid her head down, until she rested like a child.

"It's so fucking tiring." she whispered, her crude word taking me by surprise.  "So tiring."


She reached up and took my wrist in her hand and pulled it down between her legs, hitching up her skirt with the other until my fingers were placed firmly on the patch of wet silk.  With a small motion she started my fingers moving in soft caressing circles.

"There is the women's tea and the junior bake sale....."

I felt her legs opening to me as her knees rested on parallel pews.  I became bolder.

".....and don't get me started on the leadership conference, they are just...."

Her hips moved in time with my fingers as they slid the silk to the side and entered her.

".....so of course I have to attend, but who's going to take care of the Easter banners....."

Nothing moved except my fingers and her hips.  Her voice dripped with loneliness and complaint as she spoke of service and activity.   She reached her orgasm as my thumb found her clit and crushed it against her pelvic bones, her cunt sopping wet and dripping on to her beautiful silk dress.  Her complaining stopped as she arched and clenched and stiffled an hundred cries.

She convulsed again and again and closed her legs softly around my hands and rested.  Her eyes opened as I looked down on her and she smiled, but a single tear drop glistened with the exquisite beauty of fine stained glass.  She righted herself, sat up, adjusted her panties as I watched.  She showed not a sign of embarrasement now, but stood, collected her hat from the empty row behind us, and leaned in, kissing me on the forehead.

"You are a dear." she said.

Her over-priced shoes again clicked quietly across the hardwood floor as she entered the nursery and collected her now quiet children.