The setting of this story is a Sunday morning church service. Please use your discretion about reading it if sexual activity in the pew will upset you. We are sure the author intended no offense in sharing this story, nor does MH in publishing it. Loving comments stating your opinion are welcome.
“…husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself…”
I’m going to be honest. This sermon is giving me all kinds of thoughts about you. I’m sure you can tell.
I straighten up in the pew and take a deep breath through my nose, looking straight ahead and stoic, as I casually slide my hand a couple inches further up the bare thigh it’s resting on. Your thigh—smooth skin, giving way to a soft cotton dress that clings just a little too well to your ass and rides up just a little too high when you sit—at least for church.
But no matter. I love you this way, and there’s something about thinking the thoughts I think about you, and thinking them in church, that makes me even hotter for you.
I seriously doubt anyone sees my hand inching its way up your leg, but I can tell you feel it. It’s in the little nuances, isn’t it? The way even a light squeeze, or a two-centimeter journey can signal desire. The way my fingers barely brush your skin. The way your legs barely part. It speaks volumes.
The sermon continues, but my mind is already off of the word and onto my wife. All I can think about is how bad I want to get you home, send the kids out to play with their friends, and then find out exactly what underwear you have on underneath that dress. I’m guessing a thong, judging by the lack of panty lines visible underneath it earlier this morning.
There is nothing—I repeat, nothing—quite like your beautiful curves adorned by a simple little thong.
My cock grows hard at the thought, and I position the well-worn Bible I carry with me at church strategically to avoid anyone else noticing the bulge growing in my pants.
Except for you, that is.
I can see you out of my peripheral vision glancing down at it. For no more than a second at a time. You’re checking in on me, as my fingers check in on you. A couple more inches, sneaking up, moving closer to your inner thigh. You glance, I gently squeeze. This is the dance we do.
God, you’re good. So incognito.
It makes me even harder, sharing this Sunday morning secret with you.
The man up front continues his sermon. He sounds like that teacher from the old Peanuts cartoons, droning on. Except every so often his words came into focus, honing their ageless wisdom in on me like a laser beam.
“For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh…”
God, I want to unite with you. With all that beautiful flesh.
My mind flashes between pretty pictures of you etched deep in my memory. Our bodies, slick with sweat, writhing in passion. Me behind you, buried inside of you as you groan in heat face-down-ass-up in a heap of bedding. Me stopping to pull out of you, dropping to my knees, and feasting on your well-fucked pussy while I stroke myself. My hands groping your beautiful ass as I bathe you with my tongue. Your lips, glossy and red with your Sunday best, wrapped tight around my throbbing cock as it chases your fist up and down my length.
The man circles back now, making the point he warned us he’d be making this Sunday. A controversial sermon—especially in our culture—he had said.
Ephesians 5:24-“Wives should submit to their husbands…in everything.”
I give your leg a firm squeeze, causing you to squirm. You look over at me and for the first time this morning, I think we might be drawing too much attention to ourselves.
“Everything,” I mouth to you. My eyes sparkle with mischief, but by the time you’ve cracked a smile back, I’m no longer joking.
“Everything,” I mouth again. You stare at me for a second, trying to gauge if I am actually serious or not.
There’s only so much a look can convey without words. And I hope in this moment that the whole history of us is enough to show you that there’s only one time, one place, one way, I’d ever pull rank on you: in the bedroom.
And I hope even more that you know, deep in your bones, the only time I ever express my physical male dominance is solely for your pleasure. Like when you ask to cum and I tell you to wait for it—to beg for it. And when I tell you that you’ll be a good girl for me and cum when I tell you to. When I tell you to spread your legs and get comfortable because I just have to taste you, eat you, please you. When I tell you, right here, right now, I want you.
I can see it just before you look away—you understand. Your body relaxes even further, your legs inch open. You place a hand on mine and run your fingers between my fingers. Those little nuances keep happening. The slightest amount of pressure from your palm draws my hand further up your leg. You nonchalantly reach for your coat on the pew next to you and drape it over your lap as if you’re cold.
It’s in this moment that I know that you know: I’m going to finger you right here in church.
In seconds, my hand will be fully inside your skirt, my thong theory confirmed and my fingers slick with your juices.
The notion that I may have started this but you sure as hell escalated it drives me mad with desire. The only regret I have about this situation is that I don’t have one more jacket to throw over my lap. But we both know it won’t do to have me cumming in my slacks. You, on the other hand…
I try to watch you out of my peripheral vision while simultaneously looking like I’m engaged in this sermon. What was he preaching on again? Oh yeah, fleshly submission—or something like that.
I can just barely see your breasts rise and fall behind soft cotton. I want to reach over and squeeze them. Take them one by one out of the scooped neck of your dress and suck on each nipple. What a pairing that would be with what’s going on down below.
My fingers are inside of you, dipping into all that wet pussy juice just so I can take it out and smear it all over your clit.
God, your adorable little clit.
Now it’s swollen and fat. I want to lick it, suck on it, nibble it with my lips. But for now I’ll have to settle for circling it with my fingers, softly pinching it, and stroking it.
Right here in church.
You’ll tell me later how conflicted you were about this whole incident. How embarrassed the thought of being fingered in church made you. Almost ashamed. But how you also couldn’t help yourself. How badly you had wanted it. And how hot it made you that I wanted it for you.
We’ll use this memory in our sex life probably more than any other. During foreplay in bed, me leaning in and reminding you about the time I had my fingers nestled in your sweet little cunt right there in the middle of church. You’ll moan at the thought and practically cum on command. It’s the ultimate mutual masturbation fare, walking you back through it step by step, and the reason I’m writing it down for you now.
There will be times we get close to this again—times we both find ways of feeling each other up in church. But this will be the only time that you will cum. And I think we both know that it’s special that way.
I remember suddenly how it’s customary to lean over and whisper something to one’s spouse in church, especially if it’s a sermon as culturally charged as this one. I use this to my advantage and whisper to you, “I want you so…fucking…bad.”
Your eyes stay straight ahead but one of your hands slips under your jacket to rest again on mine. You show me how you like it now, teaching me how to finish you off by setting the pace on your pussy. I can tell your breath is quickening. I’m nervous about how the orgasm will look—if you’ll be able to bottle all that sexual release up, like stifling the world’s biggest sneeze.
How—I wonder—in the name of all that is holy are you not going to buck clear off of this bench?
You squeeze my hand tightly now, your nails practically breaking through my skin as your legs slowly close together, pinning me between them. I lean in once more and whisper to you, “Oh, my God, baby. Cum for me. Fucking cum for me.”
With that, I feel you submit to it, submit to me. You clench me tighter than you ever have before or probably ever will again. You inhale deeply, your back arching and chest thrust forward, and push my fingers deep inside you. You hold your breath and jerk in quick little movements—stifled as they are—against the crimson and wood seat.
It is still a miracle to me that no one noticed you orgasming all over my fingers.
Or maybe they did. I don’t think we’ll ever know.
We both exhale simultaneously and I leave my fingers inside you, content to let them bask in the warmth of your afterglow. My head still swims with fantasies and memories of you, and I’m lost to the world for the next two hours until we are finally home and safely locked away in our room.
That afternoon, you fuck me like it’s the last sex we’re ever going to have! I cum twice—the first and best being when you immediately corner me against the wall and quickly release two hours worth of my pent up cum all over your hands. A quick unbuckling of the belt and pop of the buttons, then you’re jerking me off and shoving your tongue inside my mouth. I’ll never forget the sound of your moan when you felt me erupt all hot and heavy against your palm.
We don’t talk about the events of the morning then, but we fuck like it’s the only thing we can remember.
It isn’t until next Sunday that we even acknowledge what transpired between us. The pastor, recapping last week’s sermon, strikes a chord and we both look at each other and giggle. Giggle like two kids trying not to laugh in church.
Or, perhaps I should say like two adults trying not cum.