"You may be seated."
We all mechanically, like a herd of obedient sheep, dropped to our creaking pews. Everyone in attendance settled in as comfortably as they could onto the wooden benches, preparing for the long sit through Pastor John's sermon; that is, everyone but me.
I was riveted, perched on the edge of my seat. My eyes darted to the stairs leading to the stage where he would appear and pull the air straight from my lungs. His movements were always so graceful, strong, and self-assured that his entire congregation could not help but feel calmed and reassured just by his very presence.
Again, I must exclude myself.
Since the moment I hit puberty, Pastor John had the exact opposite effect on me; his self-assurance (which I now perceived as nothing less than raw masculinity) made me feel nervous and exposed. His steadfast stare always pinned me to the spot, and this morning was no exception.
I watched him climb the stairs leading to the pulpit, hulk over it, and meet my gaze once again. The air finally left my lungs after its painful imprisonment.
"Come broken before the Lord," his strong voice rang out.
I shivered.
"For God does not want your pride or ego or independence." He paused and I swear he looked at me, shaking at the edge of my seat
"He wants you on your knees."
Fuck...
Pastor John continued his sermon on humbling yourself before God with his usual bravado and commanding presence while I sat back, nestled between my mother and father, and silently soaked my white panties.
Images of the well kempt, community beacon flashed through my head at every reference to kneeling and submitting before the almighty. Did the man (or anyone else in the congregation for that matter) not see the glaring implication? I looked out over the vacant faces of the service and assumed that I must be the only one fighting a strong urge to slip a hand under her lovely Sunday dress.
"And as you go into the world this week, know that the Lord gives you trials and tribulations not because he has abandoned you, no! But because he, in his infinite wisdom, knows what his servant needs. As we come to communion, find your way to your knees once again."
People began to rise and make a line towards the front of the sanctuary to receive communion. I rose on my wobbly knees and straightened my dress, following behind my parents as we shuffled forward.
As I neared the front, I saw Pastor John place the body of Christ into each person's mouth and silently prayed I would be able to keep my cool.
"This is the body of Christ, broken for you," he said as he placed the cracker in father's mouth. Father then moved onto the next station where Pastor John's wife administered the wine to the congregants.
My turn.
I approached, head bowed, and when my doe eyes met Pastor John's I thought I would faint. He neither smiled nor welcomed me like he had my mother and father.
"Open your mouth," he instructed.
My mouth fell open in shock and obedience, my pink tongue peaking out above my full bottom lip.
"This is the body of Christ, broken for you." Our eyes never broke as he placed the cracker in my mouth. Except there was something more. Something much more.
Pastor John had also placed one of his large, masculine fingers in my mouth. Almost on instinct I closed my mouth around the finger, for what else was I to do? My damp lips made a small ring around the phallic digit and I grew bold.
Do I dare?
I ran the tip of my tongue in a few circles around the tip of the finger, keeping my eyes on his for a reaction. Would he cast me out? Tell my parents? A wave of pleasure went through my body as I realized I had part of him inside of me.
His eyes darkened several shades as his finger pushed ever so slightly further into my mouth, but he neither smiled nor frowned as he towered over me. He then abruptly pulled his finger from my mouth and I involuntarily began to chew the cracker and mumbled the old adage, "Thanks be to God."
I shuffled to his oblivious wife at the next station and receive the blood of Christ. I then knelt at the alter for prayer, following the motion of years of repetition. Keeping my head bowed and eyes closed, I rocked gently to try and slow my breathing. I tried to think about anything else: school, puppies, state capitals, bones in the body...
Pastor John has a bone I'd like to see...
"Fuuuuck..." I whispered so quietly, rocking into my heals just a little harder. Even though the finger was probably just an accident, I felt the slightest glimmer of hope. Did he want me as much as I wanted him? Could he use my body like a proper patriarch? Would he punish me for my sins?
I bolted up and nearly sprinted to my seat.
As the service ended, people began filing out of the church. Two girls stopped to talk to me and I barely heard a word they said (something about not looking forward to finals next week?); I was too busy hoping my cum wouldn't drip past the hemline of my dress...
